wanted, a young woman to do housework business principles applied to housework by c. hÉlÈne barker author of _automobile french_ new york moffat, yard & company preface this little book is not a treatise on domestic science. the vacuum cleaner and the fireless cooker are not even mentioned. the efficient kitchen devised in such an interesting and clever way has no place in it. its exclusive object is to suggest a satisfactory and workable solution along modern lines of how to get one's housework efficiently performed without doing it one's self. if the propositions that she advances seem at first startling, the writer begs only for a patient hearing, for she is convinced by strong reasons and abundant experience, that liberty in the household, like social and political liberty, can never come except from obedience to just law. c.h.b. contents part i causes of the present unsatisfactory condition of domestic labor ignorance and inefficiency in the home difficulty of obtaining women to do housework the disadvantages of housework compared with work in factories, stores, and offices part ii business principles applied to housework living outside place of employment housework limited to hours a day housework limited to days a week the observance of legal holidays extra pay for overtime part iii eight hour schedules in the home eight hour schedules for one employee eight hour schedules for two employees eight hour schedules for three employees part i causes of the present unsatisfactory condition of domestic labor ignorance and inefficiency in the home. difficulty of obtaining women to do housework. the disadvantages connected with housework compared with work in factories, stores, and offices. ignorance and inefficiency in the home the twentieth-century woman, in spite of her progressive and ambitious theories about woman's sphere of activity, has allowed her housekeeping methods to remain almost stationary, while other professions and industries have moved forward with gigantic strides. she does not hesitate to blazon abroad with banners and pennants her desire to share with man the responsibility for the administration of the state, but she overlooks the disquieting fact that in the management of her own household, where her authority is absolute, she has failed to convince the world of her power to govern. when confronted with this accusation, she asserts that the maintenance of a home is neither a business nor a profession, and that in consequence it ought not to be compared with them nor be judged by the same standards. is it not due perhaps to this erroneous idea that housekeeping is a failure to-day? for the fact that it is a failure cannot be hidden, and that it has been a failure for many years past is equally true. recent inventions, and labor saving utensils, have greatly facilitated housework, yet housekeeping is still accompanied with much dissatisfaction on the part of the employer and the employee. there are only a few women to-day who regard domestic science in the light of a profession, or a business, although in reality it is both. for what is a profession if it be not the application of science to life? and does not work which one follows regularly constitute a business? many women, however, do not regard housekeeping even as a serious occupation, and few have devoted as much time, thought, and energy to mastering the principles of domestic economy as of late years women of all classes of society have willingly given to the study of the rules and ever changing intricacies of auction bridge. some consider their time too valuable to devote to domestic and culinary matters, and openly boast of their ignorance. outside engagements, pleasures, philanthropic schemes, or work, monopolize their days, and the conduct of the house devolves upon their employees. the result is rarely satisfactory. it is essential that the woman who is at the head of any concern, be it a business, a profession, or a home, should not only thoroughly understand its every detail, but in order to make it a success she must give it her personal attention each day for at least a portion of her time. it is a popular impression that the knowledge of good housekeeping, and of the proper care of children, comes naturally to a woman, who, though she had no previous training or preparation for these duties, suddenly finds them thrust upon her. but how many women can really look back with joy to the first years of their housekeeping? do they not remember them more with a feeling of dismay than pleasure? how many foolish mistakes occurred entailing repentance and discomfort! and how many heart-burnings were caused, and even tears shed, because in spite of the best intentions, everything seemed to go wrong? and why? simply because of ignorance and inefficiency in the home, not only of the employee, but of the employer also. that an employee is ignorant and unskilled in her work is often excusable, but there is absolutely no excuse for a woman who has time and money at her command, to be ignorant of domestic science, when of her own free will she undertakes the responsibilities of housekeeping. nearly all women take interest in the furnishing of their homes, and give their personal attention to it with the result that as a rule they excel in household decoration, and often produce marvels of beauty and taste with the expenditure of relatively small amounts of money. marketing is also very generally attended to in person by the housewife, but she is using the telephone more and more frequently as a substitute for a personal visit to butcher and grocer, and this is greatly to her disadvantage. the telephone is a very convenient instrument, especially in emergency, or for ordering things that do not vary in price. but when prices depend upon the fluctuations of the market, or when the articles to be purchased are of a perishable nature, it must be remembered that the telephone is also a very convenient instrument for the merchant who is anxious to get rid of his bad stock. the remaining branches of housekeeping apparently do not interest the modern housewife. she entrusts them very generally to her employees, upon whose skill and knowledge she blindly relies. unfortunately skill and knowledge are very rare qualities, and if the housewife herself be ignorant of the proper way of doing the work in her own home, how can she be fitted to direct those she places in charge of it, or to make a wise choice when she has to select a new employee? too often she engages women and young girls without investigating their references of character or capability, and when time proves what an imprudent proceeding she has been party to, she simply attributes the consequent troubles to causes beyond her control. if the housewife were really worthy of her name she would be able not only to pick out better employees, but to insist upon their work being properly done. to-day she is almost afraid to ask her cook to prepare all the dishes for the family meals, nor does she always find some one willing to do the family washing. she is obliged to buy food already cooked from the caterer or baker, because her so-called "cook" was not accustomed to bake bread and rolls, or to make pies and cakes, or ice cream, for previous employers, from whom nevertheless she received an excellent reference as cook. of course in cities it is easy to buy food already cooked or canned and to send all the washing to the laundry, but it helps to raise the "high cost of living" to alarming proportions, and it also encourages ignorance in the most important branches of domestic economy. in spite of the "rush of modern life," a woman who has a home ought to be willing to give some part of her time to its daily supervision. eternal vigilance is the price of everything worth having. if she gave this she would not have so many tales of woe to relate about the laziness, neglectfulness, and stupidity of her cook and housemaids. there is not a single housewife to-day who has not had many bitter experiences. one who desires information upon this subject has only to call on the nearest friend. to the uninterested person, to the onlooker, the helplessness of the woman who is at the head of the home, her inability to cope with her domestic difficulties, is often comic, sometimes pathetic, sometimes almost tragic. the publications of the day have caricatured the situation until it has become an outworn jest. the present system of housekeeping can no longer stand. one of two things must occur. either the housewife must adopt business principles in ruling her household, or she will find before many more years elapse there will be no longer any woman willing to place her neck under the domestic yoke. if the principles set forth in the following pages can be popularized in a comprehensive plan of which all the parts can be thoroughly understood both by the housewife and her employee, ignorance and inefficiency in the home will be presently abolished. difficulty of obtaining women to do housework the present unsatisfactory condition of domestic labor in private houses is not confined to any special city or country; it is universal. each year the difficulty of obtaining women to do housework seems to increase and the demand is so much greater than the supply, that ignorant and inefficient employees are retained simply because it is impossible to find others more competent to replace them. there is hardly a home to-day where, at one time or another, the housewife has not gone through the unenviable experience of being financially able and perfectly willing to pay for the services of some one to help her in her housekeeping duties, and yet found it almost impossible to get a really competent and intelligent employee. as a rule, those who apply for positions in housework are grossly ignorant of the duties they profess to perform, and the well trained, clever, and experienced workers are sadly in the minority. women and young girls who face the necessity of self support, or who wish to lead a life of independence, no longer choose housework as a means of earning a livelihood. it is evident that there is a reason, and a very potent one, that decides them to accept any kind of employment in preference to the work offered them in a private home. wages, apparently, have little to do with their decision, nor other considerations which must add very much to their material welfare, such as good food in abundance, and clean, well ventilated sleeping accommodations, for these two important items are generally included at present in the salaries of household employees. concessions, too, are frequently made, and favors bestowed upon them by many of their employers, yet few young girls, and still fewer women are content to work in private families. it is a deplorable state of affairs, and women seem to be gradually losing their courage to battle with this increasingly difficult question: how to obtain and retain one's domestic employees? the peace of the family and the joy and comfort of one's home should be a great enough incentive to awaken the housewife to the realization that something must be wrong in her present methods. it is in vain that she complains bitterly, on all occasions, of the scarcity of good servants, asserting that it is beyond her comprehension why work in factories, stores, and offices, should be preferred to the work she offers. is it beyond her comprehension? or has she never considered in what way the work she offers differs from the work so eagerly accepted? does she not realize that the present laws of labor adopted in business are very different from those she still enforces in her own home? why does she not compare housework with all other work in which women are employed, and find out why housework is disdained by nearly all self supporting women? instead of doing this, she sometimes avoids the trouble of trying to keep house with incompetent employees by living in hotels, or non-housekeeping apartments; but for the housewife who does not possess the financial means to indulge herself thus, or who still prefers home life with all its trials to hotel life, the only alternative is to submit to pay high wages for very poor work or to do a great part of the housework herself. in both cases the result is bad, for in neither does the family enjoy the full benefit of home, nor is the vexatious problem, so often designated as the "servant question," brought any nearer to a solution. the careful study of any form of labor invariably reveals some need of amelioration, but in none is there a more urgent need of reform than in domestic labor in private homes. it is more for the sake of the housewife than for her employee that a reform is to be desired. the latter is solving her problem by finding work outside the home, while the former is still unduly harassed by household troubles. with a few notable exceptions, only those who are unqualified to compete with the business woman are left to help the householder, and the problem confronting her to-day is not so much how to change inefficient to efficient help, but how to obtain any help at all. the spirit of independence has so deeply entered into the lives of women of all classes, that until housework be regulated in such a way as to give to those engaged in it the same rights and privileges as are granted to them in other forms of labor, the best workers will naturally seek employment elsewhere. the disadvantages of housework compared with work in factories, stores, and offices housework, when carefully compared with work performed by women in factories, stores, and offices, shows to a remarkable degree how many old fashioned ways of conducting her household still cling to the modern housewife. the methods that made housekeeping a success in the time of our ancestors are not adapted to the present needs of a society in which women who earn their own living are occupying so much more important positions than formerly. large stores and factories, requiring the coöperation of many employees, have done more to open new avenues of work for women than could have been dreamed of in former times, when it was the custom for each family to produce at home as much as possible, if not all, that was necessary for its own consumption. women, as a rule, are not taught self reliance, and many who hesitate to leave their homes to earn a livelihood, find that by doing work in stores, factories, or offices, they are not utterly separated from their families. the work may be harder than they anticipated and the pay small, but there is always the hope of promotion and of a corresponding increase of wages. business hours are frequently long, but they are limited, and after the day's work is over, the remainder of the twenty-four hours is at the disposal of the employees, who can still enjoy the happiness and freedom associated with the life of their own social circle. besides they have one day out of seven as a day of rest, and many legal holidays come annually to relieve the overstrain. with housework it is very different. the woman who accepts the position of a household employee in a private home must usually make up her mind to leave her family, to detach herself from all home ties, and to take up her abode in her employer's house. it is only occasionally, about once a week for a few hours at a time, that she is allowed to make her escape. it is a recognized fact that a change of environment has a beneficial effect upon every one, but a domestic employee must forego this daily renewal of thought and atmosphere. even if she does not know that she needs it in order to keep her mental activities alive, the result is inevitable: to one who does nothing but the same work from early morning until late at night and who never comes in contact with the outside world except four times a month, the work soon sinks to mere drudgery. as to promotion in housework it seems to be almost unknown. considering the many responsible positions waiting to be filled in private families, nothing could be more desirable than to instil into one's employees the ambition to rise. an employee who has passed through all the different branches of domestic science, from the lowest to the highest in one family, must be far better fitted to occupy the highest position in that family than one who applies for the position with the training and experience gained only in other families where the mode of living may be very different. since there is no chance of promotion and in consequence of receiving better pay, the domestic employee is often tempted to seek higher wages elsewhere, and thus the desire "to make a change," so disastrous to the peace of mind of the housewife, is engendered in her employees. in domestic labor the hours of work are longer than in any other form of employment, for they are unlimited. moreover, instead of having one day out of seven as a day of rest, only half a day is granted beginning usually about three o'clock in the afternoon, or even later. and legal holidays bring no relief, for they are practically unknown to the household employee. the only way women engaged in housework in private families can obtain a real holiday is by being suddenly called away "to take care of a sick aunt." there is an old saying containing certain words of wisdom about "all work and no play" that perhaps explains the dullness so often met with in domestic help. the hardest thing to submit to, however, from the point of view of the woman employed in housework, is the lack of freedom outside of working hours. this prevents her from taking part in her former social life. she is not allowed to go out even for an hour or two every day to see her relatives and friends. to ask them to visit her in her employer's kitchen is not a very agreeable alternative either to herself or her employer, and even then she is obliged to be on duty, for she must still wear her uniform and hold herself in readiness to answer the bell until the family for whom she works retires for the night. with such restrictions it is not surprising that the majority of women feel that they are losing "caste" if they accept positions in private families. there are two more causes to which this feeling of the loss of caste may be attributed. one is the habit of calling household employees by their first name or by their surname without the prefix of "miss"; the other is the custom of making them eat in their employer's kitchen. these are minor details, perhaps, but nevertheless they count for much in the lives of women who earn their own living, and anything, however small, that tends to raise one's self respect, is worthy of consideration. perhaps, too, while the word "servant" (a noble word enough in its history and its moral connotation) carries with it a stigma, a sense of degradation, among the working women, it should be avoided. briefly summed up, then, the present disadvantages of housework compared with work in factories, stores, and offices, are as follows: enforced separation from one's family. loss of personal freedom. lack of promotion. unlimited hours of work. no day of rest each week. non-observance of legal holidays. loss of caste. in the present comparison of housework with work in factories, stores, and offices, a recital of the advantages of domestic service, even under the present method of housekeeping, must not be omitted, for such advantages are important, although unfortunately they do not outweigh the present disadvantages. to the woman whose home ties have been disrupted by death or discord, and to the newly arrived immigrant especially, housework is a great boon, inasmuch as besides good wages, all meals and a room to sleep in are given her. moreover housework is the only form of labor where unskilled work can command high wages. this, however, is much more fortunate for the employee than for her employer. housework in itself is certainly _not worse_ than any other kind of manual work in which women are engaged; it is often more interesting and less fatiguing. it also helps a woman more than any other occupation to prepare herself for her natural sphere of life:--that of the home maker. a girl who has spent several years in a well ordered family helping to do the housework, is far better fitted to run her own home intelligently and on economic lines than a girl who has spent the same number of years behind a counter, or working in a factory or an office. again, work in a private house is infinitely more desirable, from the point of view of the influence of one's surroundings, than daily labor in a factory or store. the variety of domestic duties, the freedom of moving about from one room to another, of sitting or standing to do one's work, are much to be preferred to the work that compels the worker to stand or sit in one place all day long. if it be admitted, then, that housework is in itself a desirable and suitable occupation for women who must earn their living by manual labor, it can not be the work itself, but the conditions surrounding it that make it so distasteful to the modern working woman. part ii business principles applied to housework living outside place of employment. housework limited to eight hours a day. housework limited to six days a week. the observance of legal holidays. extra pay for overtime. living outside place of employment there are many housewives who are very much opposed to the adoption of a plan enabling household employees to live outside their place of employment. they claim that it is wiser to keep them under constant supervision day and night in order to prevent the introduction of disease or the acquisition of bad habits. there is more risk of disease being introduced into the home, and of bad habits being contracted by allowing one's children to associate with other children in schools, public or private, and by letting them play in the streets and public parks, where they mingle with more or less undesirable companions, than by having the housework performed by employees who come each day to their work and return to their homes at night when their duties are over. nevertheless no sensible parents would keep their children shut up in the house, only allowing them to go out of doors for a few hours once a week, for fear of contagion or contamination, and yet this is just what the housewife has been doing for years with her household employees under the firm impression that she was protecting them as well as herself. present statistics, however, upon the morality and immorality of women who belong to what is at present termed the "servant class," prove only too clearly that the "protection" provided by the employer's home does not protect. the shelter thus given serves too often to encourage a life of deception, especially as in reality the housewife knows but little of what takes place "below stairs." the "servants' quarters" are, as a rule, far enough away from the other rooms of the house for much to transpire there without the knowledge of the "mistress of the house," but who has not heard her complain of the misconduct of her employees? startling discoveries have been made at the most unexpected times and from the most unexpected quarters. one lady found her maid was in the habit of going out at night after the family had retired, and leaving the front door unlocked in order to regain admittance in the early morning without arousing the family. another housewife discovered one day that her cook's husband, whose existence until then was unknown, had been coming for several months to her house for his dinner. every householder finds that in the late evening her "servants" entertain their numerous "cousins" and friends at her expense. moreover, they do not hesitate to use the best china, glass, and silver for special parties and draw upon the household supplies for the choicest meats and wines. and because they cannot go out in the day time, it is not unusual to find some friend or relative comes to spend the entire day with them, and in consequence the housewife not only feeds her "help" but a string of hangers-on as well. why should she be surprised that she does not get an adequate return for the amount of money she spends? and these things take place, not only during the temporary absence of the employer, but even while she is sitting peacefully in the library and listening to a parlor lecture on the relations of capital and labor. women say tearfully or bravely on such occasions: "what can be done to make servants better? they are getting worse every day." and the housewife (one might almost call her by samuel pepys's pleasing phrase, "the poor wretch") then pours out to any sympathetic ear endless recitals of aggravating, worrying, nerve-racking experiences. instead of putting an end to such a regrettable state of affairs that would never be tolerated by any business employer, she seems content to bewail her fate and clings still more steadfastly to obsolete methods. why does she not adopt the methods of the business man in dealing with his employees? the advisability of having household employees live outside their place of employment is so apparent that it ought to appeal to every one. there would be no longer the necessity of putting aside and of furnishing certain rooms of the house for their accommodation: a practice which in the majority of families is quite a serious inconvenience and always an expense. in small homes where only one maid is kept, it may not make much difference to give up one room to her, but where several employees are needed, it means very often that many rooms must be used as sleeping apartments for them, frequently too a sitting room or a special dining room is given them. this is not all, for the rooms must be furnished and kept clean and warm, and supplied with an unlimited amount of gas and electricity. in many families the boarding and lodging of household employees cause as much anxiety and expense to the housewife as to provide for her own family. and why does she do it? why does she consent to take upon herself so much extra trouble for nothing? for, although she offers good food and a bed besides excellent wages to all who work for her, she is the most poorly served of all employers to-day. in the great feudal castles of the middle ages it was not deemed safe for women to venture forth alone, even in the daytime, and so those engaged in housework were naturally compelled to live under their master's roof, eating at his table and sitting "below the salt." but the master and the serf of feudal times disappeared long ago, only the mistress and her "servants" remain. to-day, however, "servants" no longer sit at their employer's table; they remain in the kitchen, where as a rule they are given to eat what is left from the family meals. some housewives, from motives of kindness and consideration for the welfare of those in their employ, have special meals prepared for them and served in a dining-room of their own at hours which do not conflict with the meals of the family. but this does not always meet with gratitude or even due appreciation; the disdainful way in which bridget often complains of the food too generously provided for her is well known. a chambermaid came one day to her employer and said she did not wish to complain but thought it better to say frankly that she was not satisfied with what she was getting to eat in her house: she wanted to have roast beef for dinner more often, at least three or four times a week, for she did not care to eat mutton, nor steak, and never ate pork, nor could she, to quote her own words "fill up on bread and vegetables as the other girls did in the kitchen." then, and only then, did her employer wake up with a start to the realization of the true position every housewife occupies in the eyes of her household employees. they evidently regard her in the light of a caterer; she does the marketing not only for her family but for them too. she pays a cook high wages, not only to cook meals for herself and family, but for her employees also. for the first time in her life, this housewife asked herself the following questions: why should she allow her household employees to live in her house? why should she consent to board them at her expense? why should she continue to place at their disposal a bedroom each, a private bathroom, a sitting room or a dining room? why should she allow them to make use of her kitchen and laundry to do their own personal washing, even providing them with soap and starch, irons and an ironing board, fuel and gas? why should she do all this for them when no business employer, man or woman, ever does it? was it simply because her mother, her grandmother, her great-grandmother had been in the habit of doing it? this awakening was the beginning of the end of all the trouble and expense which she had endured for so many years in connection with the boarding and lodging of her "servants." to-day she has no "servants"; she has household employees who come to her house each day, just as other employees go each day to their place of employment. they take no meals in her house, and her housekeeping expenses have diminished as much as her own comfort has increased. her employees are better and more efficient than any she ever had under the old régime, and nothing could persuade her to return to her former methods of housekeeping. the cost of providing meals for domestic employees varies according to the mode of living of each individual family, and of late it has been the subject of much discussion. some important details, however, seem to be generally overlooked, for the cost of the food is the only thing usually considered by the average housewife. to this first expense must be added the cost of pots and pans for cooking purposes; even under careful management, kitchen utensils are bound to wear out and must be replaced. then there is the cost of the extra fuel or gas or electricity required to cook the food, nor must one forget to count the extra work of the cook to prepare the meals, and of the kitchen maid or of some other maid to wash up the dishes after each meal served to employees. there is also the expense of buying kitchen plates and dishes, glasses, cups and saucers, knives and forks, etc. every housewife is in the habit of providing kitchenware for the use of her employees. the total sum of all these items would astonish those who think that the actual expense of giving meals to household employees is not a very great one and is limited to the cost of the food they eat; even this last expense is considerably augmented by the careless and wasteful way in which provisions are generally handled by those who do not have to pay for them. when ways and means are discussed among housewives to reduce the present "high cost of living," it would be well to advise all women to try the experiment of having their household employees live outside their place of employment. the result from an economic point of view alone is amazing, and the relief it brings the housewife who is no longer obliged to provide food and sleeping accommodations for her employees is so great that one wonders why she has been willing to burden herself with these responsibilities for so many years. there was once a time when women did not go out alone to eat in a restaurant, but to-day one sees about as many women as men eating their midday meal in public. if women engaged in general business prove themselves thus capable of self care, there seems to be no reason why household employees, who often receive higher wages than shop girls and stenographers, should not be able to do the same. they would enjoy their meals more outside, albeit the food given them in their employer's house is undoubtedly of a better quality; the change of surroundings and the opportunity of meeting friends, of leaving their work behind them, would compensate them. in any event, it is clearly proved by the scarcity of women applying for positions in private houses that these two advantages only to be obtained in domestic labor--board and lodging--do not attract the working woman of the present day. the joy of eating the bread of independence is an old and deeply rooted feeling. there is an ancient fable of Æsop about the dog and the wolf which portrays this sentiment in a very quaint and delightful manner. (sir roger l'estrange's translation.) the dog and the wolf there was a hagged carrion of a _wolf_, and a jolly sort of a gentile _dog_, with good flesh upon's back, that fell into company together upon the king's high-way. the _wolf_ was wonderfully pleas'd with his companion, and as inquisitive to learn how be brought himself to that blessed state of body. why, says the _dog_, i keep my master's house from thieves, and i have very good meat, drink, and lodging for my pains. now if you'll go along with me, and do as i do, you may fare as i fare. the _wolf_ struck up the bargain, and so away they trotted together: but as they were jogging on, the _wolf_ spy'd a bare place about the _dog's_ neck where the hair was worn off. brother (says he) how comes this i prethee? oh, that's nothing, says the _dog_, but the fretting of my _collar_ a little. nay, says t'other, if there be a _collar_ in the case, i know better things than to sell my liberty for a crust. the moral ...'tis a comfort to have good meat and drink at command, and warm lodging: but he that sells his freedom for the cramming of his belly, has but a hard bargain of it. in modern business enterprises, there is hardly a single instance of an employer who is willing to board his employees, nor would he consider for a moment the proposition of allowing them to remain at their place of employment all night and of providing sleeping accommodations for them. neither in consideration of benefiting them, nor with the view of benefiting himself by thus making sure of having them on hand for work early the next morning, would he ever consent to such an arrangement. when he needs some one to watch over his interests in the night time, he engages a night watchman, a very much more economical plan than to provide lodging for all his employees. why should the housewife be the only employer to assume the burden of a double responsibility toward her employees? perhaps in the country, where it might be impossible for them to live outside her home, such a necessity might arise, but in cities and suburban towns, there is absolutely no valid reason why household employees should sleep, eat, and live under their employer's roof. it is a custom only, and truly a custom that would be "more honored in the breach than in the observance." housework limited to eight hours a day in the home woman's work is said to be never ended. if this be true, it is the fault of the woman who plans the work, for in all the positions of life, work can be carried on indefinitely if badly planned. it is the essential thesis of this little volume that the domestic labor of women should be limited to a fixed number of hours per day in private houses. it is not unusual at the present day for a woman to work twelve, or fourteen hours a day, or even longer, when she earns her living as a household employee. a man's mental and physical forces begin to wane at the end of eight, nine, or ten hours of constant application to the same work, and a woman's strength is not greater than a man's. the truth of the proposition, abstractly considered, has been long acknowledged and nowadays requires no argument. when a woman accepts a position in business, she is told exactly how many hours a day she must work, but when a woman is engaged to fill a domestic position in a family, the number of hours she is expected to give her employer is never specified. she is simply told that she must be on duty early in the morning before the family arises, and that she may consider herself off duty as soon as the family for whom she is working has withdrawn for the night. is it surprising that under such conditions working women are not very enthusiastic over the domestic proposition to-day? a household employee ought to have her hours of work as clearly defined as if she were a business employee, and there is no reason why the eight-hour labor law could not be applied as successfully to housework as to any other enterprise. work in business is generally divided into two periods. yet this division can not always be effected, and in railroad and steamship positions, in post offices, upon trolley lines, in hotels, in hospitals, and in other cases too numerous to mention, where work must follow a continuous round, the working hours are divided into more than two periods, according to the nature of the work and the interests of the employer, not however exceeding a fixed number of hours per day or per week. it would be far better for the housewife as well as for her employees, if the housework were limited in a similar way. but with the introduction of the eight-hour law in the home, certain new conditions would have to be rigidly enforced in order to ensure success. firstly, the employee should be made to understand that during the eight hours of work agreed upon, she must be engaged in actual work for her employer. secondly, when an employee is off duty, she should not be allowed to remain with or to talk to the other employee or employees who are still on duty. when her work is finished, she ought to leave her employer's house. the non-observance of either of these two points produces a demoralizing effect. thirdly, a general knowledge of cooking, and serving meals, of cleaning and taking proper care of the rooms of a house, of attending correctly to the telephone and the door bell, of sewing, of washing and ironing, and of taking care of children, should be insisted upon from all household employees. there are many housewives who will state that this last condition is impossible, that it is asking too much from one employee; and since it is hard to-day to find a good cook, it will be still harder to find one who understands other household work as well. but those who jump to these conclusions have never tried the experiment. it is not only possible but practicable. judging from the ordinary intelligence displayed by the average cook and housemaid in the majority of private homes to-day, it ought not to seem incredible that the duties of both could be easily mastered by young women of ordinary ability. a woman who knows how to prepare and cook a meal, may easily learn the correct way of serving it, and the possession of this knowledge ought not to prevent her from being capable of sweeping a room, or making a bed, or taking care of children. it is above all in families where only a few employees are kept, that the housewife will quickly realize how much it is to her immediate advantage to employ women who know how to do all kinds of housework, instead of having those who make a specialty of one particular branch. the specialization of work in private houses has been carried to such an extreme that it has become one of the greatest drawbacks to successful housekeeping in small families. under this system of specialization, a household employee is not capable in emergency of taking up satisfactorily the work of another. even if she be able to do it, she often professes ignorance for fear it may prolong her own hours of labor, or because, as she sometimes frankly admits, she does not consider it "her place." the chambermaid does not know how to cook, the cook does not know how to do the chamberwork, the waitress, in her turn, can do neither cooking nor chamberwork, and the annoyance to the whole family caused by the temporary absence of one of its regular employees is enough to spoil for the time being all the traditional comforts of home. in hotels and public institutions, and in large private establishments, where the work demands a numerous staff of employees, the specialization of the work is the only means for its successful accomplishment, but in the average home requiring from one to four or five employees no system could be worse from an economic point of view, nor less conducive to the comfort of the family. specialization produces another bad effect, for it prevents the existence of the feeling of equality among employees in the same house. each "specialist" speaks rather disparagingly of the other's work, regardless of the relative position her own special "art" may occupy to the unprejudiced mind. an amusing instance of this was recently shown at a country place near new york, when "the lady of the manor" asked a friend to send some one down from the city to help with the housework during the temporary absence of her maid. the friend could not find any one at the domestic employment agencies willing to go, but at last through the charity organization society, she heard of a woman temporarily out of employment, who had been frequently employed as scrubwoman on the vacation piers. when the work was offered her, she accepted it immediately. arriving at her new employer's house, she began at once to scrub the floors, and when the work was completed, she sat on a chair and took no further notice of anything. the next day, having no more floors to scrub, the same general lack of interest was manifested. she was asked to wash the dishes after dinner. she replied that she was not used to "dishwashing," and did not know how to do it. she was persuaded, however, to make the attempt, but performed her new task very reluctantly. the following morning she said she felt "lonely" and would return at once to the city. as the train came in sight to bear her back to her accustomed surroundings, she gave a snort of relief, and exclaimed: "i'm a scrubwoman, i am. i ain't going to do no fancy dishwashing, no, not for no one; i'm a scrubwoman." and she clambered up into the train with the alacrity of a woman whose dignity had received a hard blow. the above illustration is typical of the spirit subjected to the system of specialization, and shows how unwise it is to encourage it in the home where all branches of housework could be easily made interchangeable. under the new system of limiting housework to eight hours a day, the housewife must insist that all applicants be willing and able to perform any part of the housework she may assign, and their duties ought not to be specified otherwise than by the term housework. the employee who refuses to wait on the table during the absence of the waitress, or to cook, or to do the laundry work, or to answer the telephone, or to carry packages from her employer's automobile to the library, because she does not consider it "her place to do these things," should be instantly discharged. these very important conditions being understood and conceded, the choice and arrangement of the eight hours' work must necessarily lie with each individual housewife. each family is different and has different claims upon its time. the "rush hours" of social life are sometimes in the evening, and sometimes in the afternoon, and again in some families, especially where there are small children, the breakfast hour seems the most complicated of the day. all these details have to be carefully thought of when making an eight hour schedule. at the end of this book a set of schedules is placed. any intelligent housewife can understand them, imitate them, and in many instances improve them. they are merely given as elementary examples. according to the number of employees she engages, the housewife will have eight, sixteen, or twenty-four hours of work to distribute among them, and to meet her peculiar needs she will find it necessary at the outset to devote some hours to a satisfactory scheme. after testing several, she will probably have to begin all over again before she finally succeeds in evolving one that is available. but the problem is interesting in itself, and always admits of a solution. it may not be amiss to make this final suggestion for the woman who is willing to give the new plan a fair trial: she should follow the example of the business man when he is in need of new employees, and advertise for help, stating hours of work, and requesting that all applications be made by letter. this disposes rapidly of the illiterate, and in the majority of cases, a woman who writes a good, legible, and accurate hand, is more apt to be efficient in her work than one who sends in a dirty, careless, ill-expressed and badly spelled application. through advertising one comes into touch with many women it would be impossible to reach otherwise. it is also the most advantageous way of bringing the employer and employee together, inasmuch as it dispenses entirely with the services of a third person, who, naturally can not be expected to offer gratuitous service. the plan of limiting housework to eight hours a day is not an idle theory; it has been in successful operation for several years. yet it is not easy to change the habit of years. there are many housewives who would loudly declare it impossible to conform to such business rules in the household; and many of the older generation of cooks and housemaids would agree. but when such a plan has been generally adopted, the domestic labor problem will be solved, and it does not appear that in the present state of social organization, it can be solved in any other way. housework limited to six days a week under the present system of housekeeping, there is not one day out of the three hundred and sixty-five that a domestic employee has the right to claim as a day of rest, not even a legal holiday. it is remarkable that this fact, showing so forcibly one of the greatest disadvantages connected with housework, should attract so little attention. no one seems to care about the fate of the "servant girl," as she is so often disdainfully called. during six days of the week she works on the average fourteen hours a day, but no one stops to notice that she is tired. on the seventh day, instead of resting as every other employee has the right to do, her work is merely reduced to nine, eight, or perhaps seven hours; and yet she needs a day of rest as much as every other woman who earns her bread. the rights of the domestic employee are ignored on all sides apparently. in public demonstrations of dissatisfaction between employers and employees the most oppressed class of the working people--the women who do housework--has never yet been represented. this is probably due to two causes: the first is because women dissatisfied with housework are rapidly finding positions in business where they enjoy rights and privileges denied them in domestic labor; and the second is because the great majority of women engaged in housework are foreign-born. these women learn quickly to understand and speak english, but they do not often read and write it, and as they are kept in close confinement in their employer's house, they have rarely the opportunity of hearing about the emancipation of the modern working woman. most of them are of a very humble origin, and being debarred from business positions on account of their ignorance and inexperience, they are thankful to earn money in any kind of employment regardless of the length of working hours. their children, however, who are american born and enjoy better educational advantages, do not follow in their footsteps when the time comes for them to earn their living. they become stenographers, typewriters, dressmakers, milliners, shirt waist makers, cash-girls, saleswomen, etc.; in fact any occupation where work is limited to a fixed number of hours a day and confined to six days a week, is considered more desirable than housework. the result is that the housewife is compelled to take for her employees only those who are rejected by every other employer; the capable, independent, intelligent american woman is hardly ever seen in domestic service. in washington, d.c., a law (the la follette eight hour law for women in the district of columbia) was recently passed limiting to eight hours a day and six days a week practically all work in which women are industrially employed; "hotel servants" are included under the provisions of this law, but "domestic servants in private homes" are expressly excluded. if this new law be considered a just and humane measure for women who are business employees, and if business houses be compelled to observe it, one naturally wonders why it should not prove to be an equally just and humane law for women who work in private families, and why should not the home be compelled to observe it too? instead of being a barrier to progress, the home ought to coöperate with the state in the enforcement of laws for the amelioration of the condition of working women. the home, being presided over by a woman, presumably of some education and intelligence, should be a most fitting place in which to apply a law designed to protect women against excessive hours of labor. why should housework in private homes be an exception to all other work? is it because some housewives say, in self justification and frequently without an accurate knowledge of what it is to do housework week after week without one day's release, that housework is easier than other work? is it easier? is it not sometimes harder? however, it is not a question of housework being harder or easier than other work, but of the desirability of having it limited to eight hours a day and six days a week. why should the housewife be allowed to remain in such a state of apathy in regard to the physical welfare of her household employees? "six days shalt thou labor" has all the sanction of scripture, of morals, and of common experience. it is only fair that women who work in private families should have one day out of seven as a day of rest, even as their more fortunate sisters in the business world. if by adopting such a law in the home the housewife found that her work was performed far more efficiently and willingly than at present, would it not be as much to her advantage as to the advantage of those she employs to limit the hours of household labor to six days a week? many housewives may object to this proposition inasmuch as the work in a home can not be suspended even for a day. but when two or more employees work in a private home, it is very easy to plan the housework so that each employee may have a different day of the week as a "day of rest," without the comfort of the family being disturbed by the temporary absence of one of the employees. it is only in families where one employee is kept that it may make a very serious difference to the housewife when her "maid-of-all-work" is away for one entire day each week. nevertheless the comfort of an employer ought not to outweigh justice to an employee. there are many ways of regulating the housework, as will be seen in the schedules at the end of this book, in order to give one day of freedom each week to household employees without causing much inconvenience to the housewife. by continuing to refuse this privilege to women employed in domestic labor, housekeeping is becoming more and more complicated. already it is such a common occurrence in some cities and in many parts of the country, not to find any woman willing to do housework, that many housewives are beginning to think that their future comfort in all household matters will depend entirely upon new labor saving devices and upon the help of the community rather than upon the increased knowledge and skill of domestic employees. there exists a prevailing impression, too, that housework has lost its dignity, and that at this period of the world's social history, it is impossible to restore it for women have stepped above it. but this is not true. the fact is that housework has remained stationary while other work has gained in freedom and dignity. without noisy protestations, or indignant speeches delivered in public, women have slowly and silently, one by one, deserted housework as a career on account of the narrowing, servile, and unjust conditions inseparable from it at the present day. let these conditions be removed and new regulations based upon modern business principles take their place, and then it will be seen that housework has never lost its dignity, and the very women who abandoned it will be the first to choose it again as a means of earning their livelihood. as a proof of this, the following experience may be cited of a new work woman who wished to obtain a domestic employee for general housework. she went to several employment agencies and at the end of a week she had seen four applicants; three were foreigners and spoke english so brokenly that they could never have been left in charge of a telephone. not one of the four was worth considering after investigating their references, and these were the only women she could find willing to do general housework. upon the advice of a friend, the perplexed housewife advertised in one of the daily newspapers, but only a few women applied for the position and these were far from being satisfactory. she then inserted another advertisement expressed in the following words: "wanted: a young woman to help with housework, eight hours a day, six days a week, sleep home. apply by letter only." this last clause was added to prevent any one from applying for the position who could not write english, as it was absolutely necessary that the person engaged to do the housework should be capable of attending correctly to the telephone. on the same day the advertisement appeared, eighty-five applications by letter were received, and twenty more came the following day. all who wrote expressed their willingness to fill the position of a domestic employee and to do anything in the way of housework under the new conditions specified in the advertisement. only one stated she would do no washing. many who replied to this advertisement had occupied positions, which according to the present standard, were far superior to housework; many, too, were married women, experienced in all household work, and most anxious to accept a position in a private family, a position that did not break up their own home life. the housewife was bewildered by the unexpected result of her advertisement: the tables were turned at last. instead of being one of many looking in vain for a good domestic employee, she found that she had now the advantage of being able to choose from more than a hundred applicants one who would best suit her own peculiar needs. the same advertisement has been inserted at different times and has always brought the same remarkable result: from one hundred to one hundred and sixty answers each time. it is true that all who present themselves may not be efficient, but efficiency speedily comes to the front when upon it alone depends a desirable position. two very important facts came to light through the help of this advertisement; one was to find so many women eager to do housework when it was limited to eight hours a day and six days a week, and the other was to hear that they were willing to board and lodge themselves, as well as work, for the same wages that "servants" are accustomed to receive, although to the latter the housewife invariably gives gratis all food and sleeping accommodations. these two facts alone prove beyond a doubt that by applying business principles to housework all objections to it as a means of earning a livelihood are removed. it is quite likely that for a time the old fashioned "mistress," and the old fashioned "servant" will continue to cling to past customs; but once it is proved that domestic labor limited to eight hours a day and six days a week, brings a better, more intelligent, more efficient class of employees to the home, the most obdurate employer will change her mind. no legislation is needed. if all who are trying to solve the "servant question" will begin to practice the new plan in their own homes, the future will take care of itself and the old ways will die a natural death. the observance of legal holidays in the home the pleasure brought by the advent of a holiday into the lives of the working people can hardly be overestimated, and it is doubtful if holidays would ever have become legalized had they not proved of distinct value to the masses. to have one day each week free from the steady grind of one's dally work is a great relief, but to have a holiday is something still better, for it usually means a day set apart for general rejoicing. why do all housewives persistently disregard the right of the household employee to have legal holidays? the reason generally brought forward is that many families need their employees more on a holiday than on any other day. in many cases this is quite true on account of family reunions or the entertaining of friends, but very often the housewife could easily dispense with the services of her employees on a holiday. she does not do it, however, or only occasionally, because it is not the custom to grant holidays to women who work in private homes. if it be impossible, on account of the exigencies of home life, to grant all legal holidays to household employees, there are many different ways of planning the housework so that other days may be given instead. sometimes the day before or the day after a holiday will give as much pleasure as the day itself. a woman who is at the head of a home has many opportunities of coming into close contact with her employees; she can easily ascertain their wishes in this respect and act accordingly. it is more the fact of being entitled to a holiday than to have it on a certain day that ought to be emphasized. domestic employees would be benefited by having these extra days of liberty, just as much as all other employees. a trial is all that is necessary to show how much better a household employee will work after having a holiday. she returns to her duties with renewed strength and the knowledge that she is no longer forced to play the rôle of cinderella gives her a fresh interest in life. unfortunately the housewife has been accustomed for so many years to have her "servants" work for her all day long on every day of the week, with only a few hours off duty "on every other sunday and on every other thursday," that she is rather inclined to resent such an innovation as the observance of legal holidays in domestic labor. she fails to perceive that by her present attitude she shows herself in a very unfavorable light as an employer, for the lack of holidays is decidedly one of the reasons for which housework is shunned to-day. business men have evolved a satisfactory and workable plan by which their employees are neither overworked nor deprived of all legal holidays, although frequently the work they are engaged in can not be suspended day or night even for an hour. it remains for women of the leisure class, and to this class belong all those who can afford to pay to have their housework done for them, to adopt a similar plan in their homes. extra pay for overtime when the plan for limiting housework to eight hours a day is discussed for the first time, the following question invariably arises: what is to be done when anything unusual happens to break the routine of the regular work, as for instance, when sickness occurs, when friends arrive unexpectedly, when a dinner party is given? sickness, of course, is unavoidable, but as a rule a trained nurse or an extra household assistant is called in to help. many times, however, this is not absolutely necessary, or perhaps the family can not afford to have outside help, and the extra work caused by sickness usually falls upon the domestic employee whose hours of labor are more or less prolonged in consequence. what ought to be done in such an event? there is but one answer: work that can not be accomplished within the regular working hours already agreed upon should be paid for as "overtime." when it is a question of work being prolonged beyond the eight hours a day by the entertaining of friends, one can only say that this ought not to happen if the housewife planned her working schedule carefully. she alone is responsible for her social engagements; she alone can make a schedule that will enable her to have her friends come to luncheon or dinner without prolonging the day's work beyond the hours agreed upon between herself and her employees. when friends arrive unexpectedly, however, or when a dinner party or a big social function takes place in the home, an eight hour schedule may be the cause of great inconvenience, unless a previous agreement has been made to meet just such occasions. it is certain that some compensation is due to all domestic employees for the extra long hours of work caused by unusual events in the home life of their employers, and many ways have been devised already to remunerate them. in modern social life a custom of long standing still exists which makes it almost compulsory for this remuneration to come out of the pocket, not of the hostess, but of her guests. the unfortunate custom of giving "tips" is not generally criticised very openly, but when viewed in the light of reason and justice, it seems to be a very poor way of trying to remove one of the present hardships connected with domestic labor. why should the housewife depend upon the generosity of her guests to help her pay her household employees? she never demurs at the extra expense entailed in giving luncheons and dinners in her friends' honor, nor in taking them to places of interest and amusement. why then should she object to giving a little more money to her household employees upon whose work the success of her hospitality so largely depends? there are many women who entertain extensively, but they never recompense a household employee for any extra work that may be demanded from her on that account. they consider themselves fully justified in exacting extra long hours of work because of the high wages they pay, especially as it frequently happens that while the work is more on some days, it is less on others, and they think in consequence that their employees have no cause for complaint. it is a mistake, however, to think that an employee who is obliged to be on duty and has little or nothing to do on one day, is really compensated for the extra hours of work she has been compelled to give on other days. a saleswoman who on certain days has no customers or only a few, is just as much "on duty" as if her work filled all her time, and it is the same with a domestic employee. indeed it is generally conceded to be more irksome to remain idle at one's post than to be actively engaged in work. but on the other hand, there are many housewives who feel that they ought to give their employees more pay for extra work especially when it is connected with the entertaining of friends, and the following ways of rewarding them have been tried with more or less success. one plan that gained favor with several families was to give ten cents to the cook and ten cents to the waitress every time a guest was invited to a meal: ten cents for each guest. at the end of a month the ten cent pieces had amounted to quite a sum of money. another plan that was tried in a small family was to give fifty cents to the cook and fifty cents to each of the two waitresses for every dinner party that took place, regardless of the number of guests. still another plan was to give at the end of the month, a two dollar, five dollar, or ten dollar bill to an employee who had given many extra hours of satisfactory work to her employer. all these plans are good in a certain sense, inasmuch as they show that women are awakening to the realization that some compensation is due to household employees for the extra long hours of work frequently unavoidable in family life. but unfortunately these plans lack stability, for they depend altogether upon the generosity and kindness of different employers, instead of upon a just and firmly established business principle. and now comes the question: what method of payment for overtime will produce a permanently satisfactory result? the only one that appears just and is applicable to all cases is to pay each employee one and a half times as much per hour for extra work as for regular work. in this way each employee is paid for overtime in just proportion to the value of her regular services. for instance, when a household employee receives $ , $ , or $ per month, that is to say $ , $ . , or $ per week, for working eight hours a day and six days a week, she is receiving approximately , , or cents per hour for her regular work. by giving her one and one half times as much for extra work, she ought to receive , - / , or cents per hour for every hour she works for her employer after the completion of her regular eight hours' work. this plan has never failed to bring satisfaction, and it has the advantage of placing the employer and the employee on an equally delightful footing of independence. the performance of extra work is no longer regarded as a matter of obligation on one side, and of concession on the other, but as a purely business transaction. some housewives fear that the regular work would be intentionally prolonged beyond all measure if it became an established rule to pay extra for work performed overtime. this could be easily checked, however, by paying extra only for work that was necessitated by unusual events in the family life. in families where only one employee is kept, naturally the occasions for asking her to work overtime arise more frequently than in families where there are two or more employees, especially if there be small children in the family. yet these occasions need not come very often, if the housewife bears in mind that even with only one employee, she has eight hours every day at her own disposal; she ought to plan her outside engagements accordingly. her liberty from household cares during these eight hours can only be gained though by having efficient and trustworthy assistants in her home, and she can never obtain these unless she abandons her old fashioned methods of housekeeping. she must grant to household employees the same rights and privileges given to business employees; she must apply business principles to housework. a great power lies in the hands of the modern housewife, a power as yet only suspected by a few, which, if properly wielded, can raise housework from its present undignified position to the place it ought to occupy, and that is in the foremost rank of manual labor for women. part iii eight hour schedules in the home eight hour schedules for one employee. eight hour schedules for two employees. eight hour schedules for three employees. eight hour schedules for one employee the schedules given in the following pages have been in actual practice for a sufficient length of time to prove that they can be relied on to produce satisfactory results, although no doubt many housewives will find that some of them must be modified to meet special requirements in their homes. two very important points must always be borne in mind in order to obtain the greatest advantage from an eight hour schedule, especially in families where only one employee is engaged to do the housework. the first point is this: the housewife ought only to make her working schedule _after_ she has carefully studied her own comfort and convenience in regard to the hours she considers the most important of the day for her to have help in her housework. the second point is for the housewife to reserve for herself the entire freedom of the eight hours during which her employee is on duty, for then she can place, or she ought to be able to, the full responsibility of the housekeeping upon her employee. by adhering strictly to these two points, the housewife will soon perceive that she can dispense with the services of her employee for the remaining hours of the day without much inconvenience to herself or her family. she may even find it more pleasant than otherwise to be relieved from the sight and sound of household work, for at least a few hours a day, when she is in her own home. possibly the housewife who has but one employee will not accept with alacrity the proposition of allowing her to be off duty for an entire day once a week, for unless she be willing to do the necessary work herself on that day, she must engage a special person to take the place of her regular employee. but many families engage a woman to come once a week to help with the washing and house-cleaning, especially when they have only one household employee. if this woman came on the day the regular employee was away, she could relieve the housewife of all the housework that could not be postponed until the next day. schedule no. i when only one employee is engaged in a private home, her services are needed more at meal time than at any other time of the day, especially if small children are in the family. as the hours for the three principal meals are about the same everywhere, the following schedule is a very useful one. from a.m. to a.m. hours from m. to p.m. hours from p.m. to p.m. hours ------- hours in the morning from seven to ten o'clock, the employee had ample time to prepare and serve breakfast and wash up the dishes afterwards, and do the chamberwork. the three hours from noon until three o'clock were filled with duties that varied considerably each day. luncheon was served at one o'clock; it was but a light meal easy to cook and easy to serve, therefore the time from two to three o'clock was usually devoted to ironing, or mending, or cleaning silver, or polishing brasses, or preparing some of the dishes in advance either for dinner that evening or for luncheon the next day. two hours were sufficient to cook and serve dinner and wash up the dishes afterwards. a woman came once a week, on the day the employee was off duty, to do the family washing and assist with the general housework. she also did some of the ironing; the rest of the ironing was done the next day by the regular employee. this schedule has been tested, not merely once for a few months, but several times, and not with the same employee, but with different employees, and it has always been most satisfactory. it may seem doubtful to those who have never had their housework done on schedule time that the work can be completed in the time stated, but the greatest incentive that an employee can have to work quickly and well, is to know that her position is as good as any she can find elsewhere, and that when her work is over she is free to do exactly as she pleases with the remainder of her time. schedule no. ii the following schedule is very different from the preceding one, inasmuch as the housewife did not consider it necessary for her employee to be on duty in the middle of the day. there were no children in this family and as the housewife was alone in the day time, she very frequently went out for luncheon. she concluded therefore that it was the best time of the day for her to dispense with the services of her employee, whose working hours were arranged thus: from : a.m. to : a.m. hours from : p.m. to : p.m. hours ------- hours by half past eleven in the morning, all the usual housework was finished, and the employee went home; she returned at half past four in the afternoon, in time to attend to five o'clock tea and dinner. once a week, on alternate saturdays and sundays, she had a "day of rest." on these days the housewife got breakfast ready herself, after which she did as much or as little of the regular work as she chose. it is not difficult to reduce housework to a minimum on special occasions. the family, which was a small one, consisting of three adults, usually went out to dinner on these alternate saturdays and sundays. schedule no. iii in this schedule, the employee's work is divided into two periods, with one hour for rest between. the family consisted of a man and his wife, who lived in an apartment. the hours of work were as follows: from m. to p.m. hours from p.m. to p.m. hours ------- hours the housewife was very fond of entertaining, and she chose an employee who was an excellent cook and a very good waitress. in consequence she was able to place the entire responsibility of luncheons and dinners on her, and on days when no guests were present all the house-cleaning was done. as the employee did not report on duty before noon, the housewife was obliged to get breakfast herself. however this was a very simple matter, for her employee always set the table for breakfast the night before. the next morning it was very easy for the housewife, with the aid of an electric heater on the breakfast table, to heat the cereal, boil the water for the coffee, and broil the bacon or scramble the eggs, or indeed to prepare any of the usual breakfast dishes. the employee did all the washing, ironing and mending each week, and although she came to her work only at noon, she accomplished as much work during her eight hours as if she began earlier in the day. schedule no. iv many schedules were tried before a really satisfactory one was finally chosen for a family of six: mother, father, four small children. the eldest child was seven years old, and there was only one household employee to help with the work. they lived in the country, and breakfast had to be served promptly at : a.m., on account of taking the early morning train to town. naturally, with only one employee, the housewife was compelled to do some of the housework herself, and until the following schedule was adopted, she had been in the habit of rising early, dressing the children, and getting breakfast ready herself. her employee arrived later in the day and remained until after dinner at night. the comfort and general welfare of the mother were increased to such a remarkable degree by the new schedule, however, that it is well worth special attention. the hours were as follows: from : a.m. to : a.m. hours from : a.m. to : p.m. hours ------- hours immediately upon arriving at the house, the employee went to the children and took complete charge of all of them. the two oldest dressed themselves, but of course the other two required help. after dressing them, she prepared breakfast. the cereal was always cooked the day before, and as a gas stove was used for cooking purposes, it was not hard to have breakfast ready promptly every morning at : . then the employee, having had her own breakfast before leaving her home, worked steadily until : a.m. during this time, the only work the mother felt she ought to do was to go out with her two youngest children; the other two went to school. she was always home again by : , when her employee stopped working. the employee lived too far away to go home for lunch, and as there was no place in the neighborhood where she could go for lunch, she always brought it with her and ate it in her employer's house. during the hour she was off duty, the mother attended to some household duties herself, and she also bathed the two children, and put them to bed for their morning nap. at : , her employee reappeared on duty, and took full charge of the house and children until : p.m.; her work for the day was then over and she went home. this schedule makes the mother stay home after half past three, but by that time all the real housework had been done by her employee. to give the children their supper and to put them to bed leisurely, was much easier work than to rise early and dress them hurriedly in the morning, and to get breakfast ready for the entire family. it was not much trouble to get dinner herself in the evening for her husband and herself only. the house was quiet, the children asleep, and there was no necessity of hurrying as in the morning. when she wished to give a dinner party, or to receive her friends, or to go to any entertainment in the afternoon after : , she asked her employee to give her extra hours of work for which she paid extra. once a week her employee had a "day of rest," and on this day another woman was engaged to take her place. this schedule enabled the mother to have many hours each day absolutely free from the children and household cares. eight hour schedules for two employees it is much easier to plan an eight hour schedule for two employees than for one, and there is no limit to the number of different ways in which the sixteen hours of work may be divided, subdivided, and arranged to please the individual housewife. with two employees, it is no longer necessary for the housewife to remain at home while one is off duty, even for an hour, for one relieves the other without any cessation of work. even on the seventh day, "the day of rest," the housewife can always arrange to have her work done without doing it herself, in spite of the absence of one of her employees. when a schedule is finally agreed upon, however, it must be rigidly enforced, for it is more important to keep to the hours specified when there are two employees than when there is only one. although the housewife may be tempted to claim the privilege of changing her hours very often to please herself, since she is the employer, if she value her peace of mind, she will refrain from doing it. only when the inevitable, the unforeseen, occurs should she make a change in her regular schedule. when one employee is off duty all day, the other employee can remain on duty the entire day; naturally this plan necessitates more than eight hours of work on that day, probably two or three more hours, but if on the day after or the day before, the employee be allowed to work two or three hours less than eight hours, the average of eight hours a day and six days a week is maintained. another example of what the housewife can do when one of her employees is off duty the entire day, is to make her other employee follow schedule no. . this enables her to keep to eight hours a day and at the same time the housewife does none of the housework herself. schedule no. v with two employees it is a wise plan to arrange a schedule that makes the work of one employee commence the moment the work of the other ceases. this tends to promote punctuality without requiring special supervision on the part of the housewife. the following schedule is admirably adapted to the every day life of the average family with two employees: _first employee_ from a.m. to a.m. hours from m. to p.m. hours ------- hours _second employee_ from a.m. to p.m. hours from p.m. to p.m. hours ------- hours all the washing, ironing, and mending of the family were done by the two employees, and they also took care of the children when necessary. besides being good cooks, they were both excellent waitresses; in consequence it made no difference which one was on duty at meal time. one employee only was in charge of breakfast; she came at seven o'clock in the morning, and worked steadily until eleven o'clock, when the second employee arrived. she then went out for her lunch, returning at twelve, and remaining on duty until four o'clock in the afternoon. she was then free for the remainder of the day. the second employee, as soon as she arrived at a.m., went through the house and finished any work that was not completed by the first employee. she worked without stopping until p.m., then went away for her lunch; she returned at p.m. to relieve the first employee whose work was over at four o'clock. the second employee remained on duty until p.m.; she cooked and served dinner so quickly and efficiently that the housewife who had always been accustomed to have two employees, a "cook" and a "waitress," on duty for dinner every night, found to her great surprise that one efficient household employee, working on schedule time, accomplished in the same time the work of two of her former "servants." schedule no. vi in this schedule the housewife wanted both her employees to help her with her two children. with this end in view, she made all the work of the house interchange with the care of the children; in consequence when one employee was off duty, the other could always be relied on to help with the children. this proved to be a very successful schedule, for it relieved the mother from being obliged to sit in the nursery as she was compelled to do every time her former "nurse" went downstairs to her meals, or had her "afternoon off." but when the mother wished to be with her children, and that was very often, the employee who was in the nursery at the time, left the room immediately to attend to other household duties. both employees were on duty at a.m., a most necessary arrangement where there are small children in a family. the first employee prepared and served breakfast for the family, while the other employee took full charge of the children, giving them their breakfast in the nursery, and taking them out afterwards for a walk. at a.m., she returned with the children, and she was then off duty for two hours. the mother generally chose this time to be with her children; if however, she had any other engagement, the first employee was on duty until noon and could be called upon to look after them. _first employee_ from a.m. to m. hours from p.m. to p.m. hours ------- hours _second employee_ from a.m. to a.m. hours from m. to p.m. hours ------- hours schedule no. vii there are many families who may object to all the preceding schedules on account of the early hour in the evening for household employees to be off duty. when the housewife has never had her housework done on schedule time by an efficient employee, she may well think it impossible to have the dinner dishes washed up and everything put away in order by p.m. however some families do not begin dinner before half past seven, or eight o'clock, or even later, but in these families, it is not unusual for the breakfast hour to be very late also. in consequence nothing is easier than to make a schedule for the day's work begin late and end late, without making any other alteration in it. the following schedule, however, combines an early breakfast and a late dinner, in a family where only two employees were kept: _first employee_ from a.m. to m. hours from p.m. to p.m. hours ------- hours _second employee_ from m. to p.m. hours from p.m. to p.m. hours (or from to p.m.) ------- hours eight hour schedules for three employees the greater the number of household employees, the easier it is to make a satisfactory working schedule. but the temptation to specialize the work is greater, and should be carefully guarded against. it is just as necessary with three employees as with one for the housewife to insist that each one be capable and willing to do all kinds of work in the home, including sewing and taking care of children. with three employees, the housewife ought to make them take turns in cooking and serving one of the three meals each day. this enables them to become familiar with the dining room and with the different dishes for each course; it also removes any feeling of embarrassment which naturally might be felt by an employee who is rarely called upon to cook or serve a meal. to have an expert needlewoman in the house is a great boon to the housewife, and when she has three employees who can sew in her home, she ought to insist upon a great deal of sewing and mending being done by each one of them. it is rare that the "servant" of to-day is a good sewer; in fact the housewife would hesitate to ask her to do even the ordinary mending, but when one engages household employees on an eight hour schedule, and when there are a hundred women to choose from, it is not hard to find several who sew well. schedule no. viii it is so easy to plan the housework for three employees that one schedule as an example seems quite sufficient, and the only thing that the housewife must remember is to make all the work interchangeable. _first employee_ from a.m. to a.m. hours from m. to p.m. hours ------- hours _second employee_ from a.m. to p.m. hours from p.m. to p.m. hours ------- hours _third employee_ from p.m. to p.m. hours from p.m. to p.m. hours ------- hours conclusion in conclusion it seems that a few words are necessary about families who need the services of an employee at night as well as in the day time. there are many mothers who do not wish or who are not able to take care of their children at night, and in consequence it is absolutely necessary to have an attendant. the present custom is to have the nurse or maid sleep in the same room as the baby, or in a room adjoining the children's bedroom, so as to be within call. but a woman who has worked all day, or even eight hours a day, should not have her sleep disturbed at night by taking care of children. no woman can be fit for her work the next day if she has not been able to secure the average amount of sleep necessary to health. in many cases it has been proved that when a child does not sleep well at night, the nurse has taken upon herself the responsibility of giving it "soothing syrup" so as to keep it quiet. this is hardly to be wondered at when one considers the strain under which the nurse is kept day and night by taking care of a small child; besides the average nurse is generally ignorant of the harm caused by so-called "soothing syrups." if a child be sick, the mother should call in a trained nurse, that is if she can afford it, and when she has several employees, she can usually afford this extra expense. if the child or children be well, and the mother desires some one to attend to them at night, she should engage a woman who has no occupation during the day and who is willing to work at night. she should make a point of choosing one who sews well, so that the services of a seamstress might be combined with the duties of a night nurse. there is always some mending to do in all families and a woman who is clever with her needle might make herself very useful to her employer. thousands of women sew by artificial light in dressmaking establishments and factories; in all probability just as many women could be found to sew by artificial light in private homes. perhaps at first the novelty of working at night might deter women from taking a position similar to the one suggested above, but a woman who was really in need of work would not let the unusual hours prevent her from accepting it, many men work at night and it is not unlikely that many women would be willing to do it too. women are not as timid as they were reputed to be in former years; they would neither scream nor faint nowadays at the sight of a little mouse scampering across the floor. indeed quite recently the newspapers reported that a woman whose husband had just died had accepted the position of a night watchman, and she filled her new rôle so successfully that on one occasion she managed to seize a burglar and handed him over to a policeman. this proposition of engaging a woman to work at night is only a suggestion, however, offered to those who find it absolutely necessary to have a domestic employee in their house at night. it remains to be proved if it could be carried out successfully. but the great changes in housekeeping described in the preceding chapters are not mere suggestions nor theories of what might be done: each reform has already been put into actual practice. the result has been so extraordinary that one is impelled to believe that the only way to solve the servant problem is to apply business principles to housework in private homes. naturally such a revolution from methods now in vogue can not be wrought in a day, and the transitional period may be one of some difficulty and confusion for employer and employee alike who have spent a large portion of their lives under the old régime. but the revolution is imperative, and the ultimate benefit beyond calculation. [illustration: emily fox-seton] emily fox-seton being "the making of a marchioness" and "the methods of lady walderhurst" by frances hodgson burnett illustrated by c.d. williams new york grosset & dunlap publishers copyright, , by the century company copyright, , by mrs. frances hodgson burnett copyright, , by frederick a. stokes company september, [** transcriber's note: i have corrected a few obvious printers' errors. details are after the text so as not to interrupt the flow of what was intended to be an enjoyable read and not a scholarly work. **] part one chapter one when miss fox-seton descended from the twopenny bus as it drew up, she gathered her trim tailor-made skirt about her with neatness and decorum, being well used to getting in and out of twopenny buses and to making her way across muddy london streets. a woman whose tailor-made suit must last two or three years soon learns how to protect it from splashes, and how to aid it to retain the freshness of its folds. during her trudging about this morning in the wet, emily fox-seton had been very careful, and, in fact, was returning to mortimer street as unspotted as she had left it. she had been thinking a good deal about her dress--this particular faithful one which she had already worn through a twelvemonth. skirts had made one of their appalling changes, and as she walked down regent street and bond street she had stopped at the windows of more than one shop bearing the sign "ladies' tailor and habit-maker," and had looked at the tautly attired, preternaturally slim models, her large, honest hazel eyes wearing an anxious expression. she was trying to discover _where_ seams were to be placed and how gathers were to be hung; or if there were to be gathers at all; or if one had to be bereft of every seam in a style so unrelenting as to forbid the possibility of the honest and semi-penniless struggling with the problem of remodelling last season's skirt at all. "as it is only quite an ordinary brown," she had murmured to herself, "i might be able to buy a yard or so to match it, and i _might_ be able to join the gore near the pleats at the back so that it would not be seen." she quite beamed as she reached the happy conclusion. she was such a simple, normal-minded creature that it took but little to brighten the aspect of life for her and to cause her to break into her good-natured, childlike smile. a little kindness from any one, a little pleasure or a little comfort, made her glow with nice-tempered enjoyment. as she got out of the bus, and picked up her rough brown skirt, prepared to tramp bravely through the mud of mortimer street to her lodgings, she was positively radiant. it was not only her smile which was childlike, her face itself was childlike for a woman of her age and size. she was thirty-four and a well-set-up creature, with fine square shoulders and a long small waist and good hips. she was a big woman, but carried herself well, and having solved the problem of obtaining, through marvels of energy and management, one good dress a year, wore it so well, and changed her old ones so dexterously, that she always looked rather smartly dressed. she had nice, round, fresh cheeks and nice, big, honest eyes, plenty of mouse-brown hair and a short, straight nose. she was striking and well-bred-looking, and her plenitude of good-natured interest in everybody, and her pleasure in everything out of which pleasure could be wrested, gave her big eyes a fresh look which made her seem rather like a nice overgrown girl than a mature woman whose life was a continuous struggle with the narrowest of mean fortunes. she was a woman of good blood and of good education, as the education of such women goes. she had few relatives, and none of them had any intention of burdening themselves with her pennilessness. they were people of excellent family, but had quite enough to do to keep their sons in the army or navy and find husbands for their daughters. when emily's mother had died and her small annuity had died with her, none of them had wanted the care of a big raw-boned girl, and emily had had the situation frankly explained to her. at eighteen she had begun to work as assistant teacher in a small school; the year following she had taken a place as nursery-governess; then she had been reading-companion to an unpleasant old woman in northumberland. the old woman had lived in the country, and her relatives had hovered over her like vultures awaiting her decease. the household had been gloomy and gruesome enough to have driven into melancholy madness any girl not of the sanest and most matter-of-fact temperament. emily fox-seton had endured it with an unfailing good nature, which at last had actually awakened in the breast of her mistress a ray of human feeling. when the old woman at length died, and emily was to be turned out into the world, it was revealed that she had been left a legacy of a few hundred pounds, and a letter containing some rather practical, if harshly expressed, advice. go back to london [mrs. maytham had written in her feeble, crabbed hand]. you are not clever enough to do anything remarkable in the way of earning your living, but you are so good-natured that you can make yourself useful to a lot of helpless creatures who will pay you a trifle for looking after them and the affairs they are too lazy or too foolish to manage for themselves. you might get on to one of the second-class fashion-papers to answer ridiculous questions about house-keeping or wall-papers or freckles. you know the kind of thing i mean. you might write notes or do accounts and shopping for some lazy woman. you are a practical, honest creature, and you have good manners. i have often thought that you had just the kind of commonplace gifts that a host of commonplace people want to find at their service. an old servant of mine who lives in mortimer street would probably give you cheap, decent lodgings, and behave well to you for my sake. she has reason to be fond of me. tell her i sent you to her, and that she must take you in for ten shillings a week. emily wept for gratitude, and ever afterward enthroned old mrs. maytham on an altar as a princely and sainted benefactor, though after she had invested her legacy she got only twenty pounds a year from it. "it was so _kind_ of her," she used to say with heartfelt humbleness of spirit. "i never _dreamed_ of her doing such a generous thing. i hadn't a _shadow_ of a claim upon her--not a _shadow_." it was her way to express her honest emotions with emphasis which italicised, as it were, her outpourings of pleasure or appreciation. she returned to london and presented herself to the ex-serving-woman. mrs. cupp had indeed reason to remember her mistress gratefully. at a time when youth and indiscreet affection had betrayed her disastrously, she had been saved from open disgrace and taken care of by mrs. maytham. the old lady, who had then been a vigorous, sharp-tongued, middle-aged woman, had made the soldier lover marry his despairing sweetheart, and when he had promptly drunk himself to death, she had set her up in a lodging-house which had thriven and enabled her to support herself and her daughter decently. in the second story of her respectable, dingy house there was a small room which she went to some trouble to furnish up for her dead mistress's friend. it was made into a bed-sitting-room with the aid of a cot which emily herself bought and disguised decently as a couch during the daytime, by means of a red and blue como blanket. the one window of the room looked out upon a black little back-yard and a sooty wall on which thin cats crept stealthily or sat and mournfully gazed at fate. the como rug played a large part in the decoration of the apartment. one of them, with a piece of tape run through a hem, hung over the door in the character of a _portière_; another covered a corner which was miss fox-seton's sole wardrobe. as she began to get work, the cheerful, aspiring creature bought herself a kensington carpet-square, as red as kensington art would permit it to be. she covered her chairs with turkey-red cotton, frilling them round the seats. over her cheap white muslin curtains (eight and eleven a pair at robson's) she hung turkey-red draperies. she bought a cheap cushion at one of liberty's sales, and some bits of twopenny-halfpenny art china for her narrow mantelpiece. a lacquered tea-tray and a tea-set of a single cup and saucer, a plate and a teapot, made her feel herself almost sumptuous. after a day spent in trudging about in the wet or cold of the streets, doing other people's shopping, or searching for dressmakers or servants' characters for her patrons, she used to think of her bed-sitting-room with joyful anticipation. mrs. cupp always had a bright fire glowing in her tiny grate when she came in, and when her lamp was lighted under its home-made shade of crimson japanese paper, its cheerful air, combining itself with the singing of her little, fat, black kettle on the hob, seemed absolute luxury to a tired, damp woman. mrs. cupp and jane cupp were very kind and attentive to her. no one who lived in the same house with her could have helped liking her. she gave so little trouble, and was so expansively pleased by any attention, that the cupps,--who were sometimes rather bullied and snubbed by the "professionals" who generally occupied their other rooms,--quite loved her. sometimes the "professionals," extremely smart ladies and gentlemen who did turns at the balls or played small parts at theatres, were irregular in their payments or went away leaving bills behind them; but miss fox-seton's payments were as regular as saturday night, and, in fact, there had been times when, luck being against her, emily had gone extremely hungry during a whole week rather than buy her lunches at the ladies' tea-shops with the money that would pay her rent. in the honest minds of the cupps, she had become a sort of possession of which they were proud. she seemed to bring into their dingy lodging-house a touch of the great world,--that world whose people lived in mayfair and had country-houses where they entertained parties for the shooting and the hunting, and in which also existed the maids and matrons who on cold spring mornings sat, amid billows of satin and tulle and lace, surrounded with nodding plumes, waiting, shivering, for hours in their carriages that they might at last enter buckingham palace and be admitted to the drawing-room. mrs. cupp knew that miss fox-seton was "well connected;" she knew that she possessed an aunt with a title, though her ladyship never took the slightest notice of her niece. jane cupp took "modern society," and now and then had the pleasure of reading aloud to her young man little incidents concerning some castle or manor in which miss fox-seton's aunt, lady malfry, was staying with earls and special favorites of the prince's. jane also knew that miss fox-seton occasionally sent letters addressed "to the right honourable the countess of so-and-so," and received replies stamped with coronets. once even a letter had arrived adorned with strawberry-leaves, an incident which mrs. cupp and jane had discussed with deep interest over their hot buttered-toast and tea. emily fox-seton, however, was far from making any professions of grandeur. as time went on she had become fond enough of the cupps to be quite frank with them about her connections with these grand people. the countess had heard from a friend that miss fox-seton had once found her an excellent governess, and she had commissioned her to find for her a reliable young ladies' serving-maid. she had done some secretarial work for a charity of which the duchess was patroness. in fact, these people knew her only as a well-bred woman who for a modest remuneration would make herself extremely useful in numberless practical ways. she knew much more of them than they knew of her, and, in her affectionate admiration for those who treated her with human kindness, sometimes spoke to mrs. cupp or jane of their beauty or charity with a very nice, ingenuous feeling. naturally some of her patrons grew fond of her, and as she was a fine, handsome young woman with a perfectly correct bearing, they gave her little pleasures, inviting her to tea or luncheon, or taking her to the theatre. her enjoyment of these things was so frank and grateful that the cupps counted them among their own joys. jane cupp--who knew something of dressmaking--felt it a brilliant thing to be called upon to renovate an old dress or help in the making of a new one for some festivity. the cupps thought their tall, well-built lodger something of a beauty, and when they had helped her to dress for the evening, baring her fine, big white neck and arms, and adorning her thick braids of hair with some sparkling, trembling ornaments, after putting her in her four-wheeled cab, they used to go back to their kitchen and talk about her, and wonder that some gentleman who wanted a handsome, stylish woman at the head of his table, did not lay himself and his fortune at her feet. "in the photograph-shops in regent street you see many a lady in a coronet that hasn't half the good looks she has," mrs. cupp remarked frequently. "she's got a nice complexion and a fine head of hair, and--if you ask _me_--she's got as nice a pair of clear eyes as a lady could have. then look at her figure--her neck and her waist! that kind of big long throat of hers would set off rows of pearls or diamonds beautiful! she's a lady born, too, for all her simple, every-day way; and she's a sweet creature, if ever there was one. for kind-heartedness and good-nature i never saw her equal." miss fox-seton had middle-class patrons as well as noble ones,--in fact, those of the middle class were far more numerous than the duchesses,--so it had been possible for her to do more than one good turn for the cupp household. she had got sewing in maida vale and bloomsbury for jane cupp many a time, and mrs. cupp's dining-room floor had been occupied for years by a young man emily had been able to recommend. her own appreciation of good turns made her eager to do them for others. she never let slip a chance to help any one in any way. it was a good-natured thing done by one of her patrons who liked her, which made her so radiant as she walked through the mud this morning. she was inordinately fond of the country, and having had what she called "a bad winter," she had not seen the remotest chance of getting out of town at all during the summer months. the weather was beginning to be unusually hot, and her small red room, which seemed so cosy in winter, was shut in by a high wall from all chance of breezes. occasionally she lay and panted a little in her cot, and felt that when all the private omnibuses, loaded with trunks and servants, had rattled away and deposited their burdens at the various stations, life in town would be rather lonely. every one she knew would have gone somewhere, and mortimer street in august was a melancholy thing. and lady maria had actually invited her to mallowe. what a piece of good fortune--what an extraordinary piece of kindness! she did not know what a source of entertainment she was to lady maria, and how the shrewd, worldly old thing liked her. lady maria bayne was the cleverest, sharpest-tongued, smartest old woman in london. she knew everybody and had done everything in her youth, a good many things not considered highly proper. a certain royal duke had been much pleased with her and people had said some very nasty things about it. but this had not hurt lady maria. she knew how to say nasty things herself, and as she said them wittily they were usually listened to and repeated. emily fox-seton had gone to her first to write notes for an hour every evening. she had sent, declined, and accepted invitations, and put off charities and dull people. she wrote a fine, dashing hand, and had a matter-of-fact intelligence and knowledge of things. lady maria began to depend on her and to find that she could be sent on errands and depended on to do a number of things. consequently, she was often at south audley street, and once, when lady maria was suddenly taken ill and was horribly frightened about herself, emily was such a comfort to her that she kept her for three weeks. "the creature is so cheerful and perfectly free from vice that she's a relief," her ladyship said to her nephew afterward. "so many women are affected cats. she'll go out and buy you a box of pills or a porous plaster, but at the same time she has a kind of simplicity and freedom from spites and envies which might be the natural thing for a princess." so it happened that occasionally emily put on her best dress and most carefully built hat and went to south audley street to tea. (sometimes she had previously gone in buses to some remote place in the city to buy a special tea of which there had been rumours.) she met some very smart people and rarely any stupid ones, lady maria being incased in a perfect, frank armour of good-humoured selfishness, which would have been capable of burning dulness at the stake. "i won't have dull people," she used to say. "i'm dull myself." when emily fox-seton went to her on the morning in which this story opens, she found her consulting her visiting-book and making lists. "i'm arranging my parties for mallowe," she said rather crossly. "how tiresome it is! the people one wants at the same time are always nailed to the opposite ends of the earth. and then things are found out about people, and one can't have them till it's blown over. those ridiculous dexters! they were the nicest possible pair--both of them good-looking and both of them ready to flirt with anybody. but there was too much flirting, i suppose. good heavens! if i couldn't have a scandal and keep it quiet, i wouldn't have a scandal at all. come and help me, emily." emily sat down beside her. "you see, it is my early august party," said her ladyship, rubbing her delicate little old nose with her pencil, "and walderhurst is coming to me. it always amuses me to have walderhurst. the moment a man like that comes into a room the women begin to frisk about and swim and languish, except those who try to get up interesting conversations they think likely to attract his attention. they all think it is possible that he may marry them. if he were a mormon he might have marchionesses of walderhurst of all shapes and sizes." "i suppose," said emily, "that he was very much in love with his first wife and will never marry again." "he wasn't in love with her any more than he was in love with his housemaid. he knew he must marry, and thought it very annoying. as the child died, i believe he thinks it his duty to marry again. but he hates it. he's rather dull, and he can't bear women fussing about and wanting to be made love to." they went over the visiting-book and discussed people and dates seriously. the list was made and the notes written before emily left the house. it was not until she had got up and was buttoning her coat that lady maria bestowed her boon. "emily," she said, "i am going to ask you to mallowe on the d. i want you to help me to take care of people and keep them from boring me and one another, though i don't mind their boring one another half so much as i mind their boring me. i want to be able to go off and take my nap at any hour i choose. i will _not_ entertain people. what you can do is to lead them off to gather things or look at church towers. i hope you'll come." emily fox-seton's face flushed rosily, and her eyes opened and sparkled. "o lady maria, you _are_ kind!" she said. "you know how i should enjoy it. i have heard so much of mallowe. every one says it is so beautiful and that there are no such gardens in england." "they are good gardens. my husband was rather mad about roses. the best train for you to take is the : from paddington. that will bring you to the court just in time for tea on the lawn." emily could have kissed lady maria if they had been on the terms which lead people to make demonstrations of affection. but she would have been quite as likely to kiss the butler when he bent over her at dinner and murmured in dignified confidence, "port or sherry, miss?" bibsworth would have been no more astonished than lady maria would, and bibsworth certainly would have expired of disgust and horror. she was so happy when she hailed the twopenny bus that when she got into it her face was beaming with the delight which adds freshness and good looks to any woman. to think that such good luck had come to her! to think of leaving her hot little room behind her and going as a guest to one of the most beautiful old houses in england! how delightful it would be to live for a while quite naturally the life the fortunate people lived year after year--to be a part of the beautiful order and picturesqueness and dignity of it! to sleep in a lovely bedroom, to be called in the morning by a perfect housemaid, to have one's early tea served in a delicate cup, and to listen as one drank it to the birds singing in the trees in the park! she had an ingenuous appreciation of the simplest material joys, and the fact that she would wear her nicest clothes every day, and dress for dinner every evening, was a delightful thing to reflect upon. she got so much more out of life than most people, though she was not aware of it. she opened the front door of the house in mortimer street with her latch-key, and went upstairs, almost unconscious that the damp heat was dreadful. she met jane cupp coming down, and smiled at her happily. "jane," she said, "if you are not busy, i should like to have a little talk with you. will you come into my room?" "yes, miss," jane replied, with her usual respectful lady's maid's air. it was in truth jane's highest ambition to become some day maid to a great lady, and she privately felt that her association with miss fox-seton was the best possible training. she used to ask to be allowed to dress her when she went out, and had felt it a privilege to be permitted to "do" her hair. she helped emily to remove her walking dress, and neatly folded away her gloves and veil. she knelt down before her as soon as she saw her seat herself to take off her muddy boots. "oh, _thank_ you, jane," emily exclaimed, with her kind italicised manner. "that _is_ good of you. i _am_ tired, really. but such a nice thing has happened. i have had such a delightful invitation for the first week in august." "i'm sure you'll enjoy it, miss," said jane. "it's so hot in august." "lady maria bayne has been kind enough to invite me to mallowe court," explained emily, smiling down at the cheap slipper jane was putting on her large, well-shaped foot. she was built on a large scale, and her foot was of no cinderella-like proportions. "o miss!" exclaimed jane. "how beautiful! i was reading about mallowe in 'modern society' the other day, and it said it was lovely and her ladyship's parties were wonderful for smartness. the paragraph was about the marquis of walderhurst." "he is lady maria's cousin," said emily, "and he will be there when i am." she was a friendly creature, and lived a life so really isolated from any ordinary companionship that her simple little talks with jane and mrs. cupp were a pleasure to her. the cupps were neither gossiping nor intrusive, and she felt as if they were her friends. once when she had been ill for a week she remembered suddenly realising that she had no intimates at all, and that if she died mrs. cupp's and jane's would certainly be the last faces--and the only ones--she would see. she had cried a little the night she thought of it, but then, as she told herself, she was feverish and weak, and it made her morbid. "it was because of this invitation that i wanted to talk to you, jane," she went on. "you see, we shall have to begin to contrive about dresses." "yes, indeed, miss. it's fortunate that the summer sales are on, isn't it? i saw some beautiful colored linens yesterday. they were so cheap, and they do make up so smart for the country. then you've got your new tussore with the blue collar and waistband. it does become you." "i must say i think that a tussore always looks fresh," said emily, "and i saw a really nice little tan toque--one of those soft straw ones--for three and eleven. and just a twist of blue chiffon and a wing would make it look quite _good_." she was very clever with her fingers, and often did excellent things with a bit of chiffon and a wing, or a few yards of linen or muslin and a remnant of lace picked up at a sale. she and jane spent quite a happy afternoon in careful united contemplation of the resources of her limited wardrobe. they found that the brown skirt _could_ be altered, and, with the addition of new _revers_ and collar and a _jabot_ of string-coloured lace at the neck, would look quite fresh. a black net evening dress, which a patron had good-naturedly given her the year before, could be remodelled and touched up delightfully. her fresh face and her square white shoulders were particularly adorned by black. there was a white dress which could be sent to the cleaner's, and an old pink one whose superfluous breadths could be combined with lace and achieve wonders. "indeed, i think i shall be very well off for dinner-dresses," said emily. "nobody expects me to change often. every one knows--if they notice at all." she did not know she was humble-minded and of an angelic contentedness of spirit. in fact, she did not find herself interested in contemplation of her own qualities, but in contemplation and admiration of those of other people. it was necessary to provide emily fox-seton with food and lodging and such a wardrobe as would be just sufficient credit to her more fortunate acquaintances. she worked hard to attain this modest end and was quite satisfied. she found at the shops where the summer sales were being held a couple of cotton frocks to which her height and her small, long waist gave an air of actual elegance. a sailor hat, with a smart ribbon and well-set quill, a few new trifles for her neck, a bow, a silk handkerchief daringly knotted, and some fresh gloves, made her feel that she was sufficiently equipped. during her last expedition to the sales she came upon a nice white duck coat and skirt which she contrived to buy as a present for jane. it was necessary to count over the contents of her purse very carefully and to give up the purchase of a slim umbrella she wanted, but she did it cheerfully. if she had been a rich woman she would have given presents to every one she knew, and it was actually a luxury to her to be able to do something for the cupps, who, she always felt, were continually giving her more than she paid for. the care they took of her small room, the fresh hot tea they managed to have ready when she came in, the penny bunch of daffodils they sometimes put on her table, were kindnesses, and she was grateful for them. "i am very much obliged to you, jane," she said to the girl, when she got into the four-wheeled cab on the eventful day of her journey to mallowe. "i don't know what i should have done without you, i'm sure. i feel so smart in my dress now that you have altered it. if lady maria's maid ever thinks of leaving her, i am sure i could recommend you for her place." chapter two there were other visitors to mallowe court travelling by the : from paddington, but they were much smarter people than miss fox-seton, and they were put into a first-class carriage by a footman with a cockade and a long drab coat. emily, who traveled third with some workmen with bundles, looked out of her window as they passed, and might possibly have breathed a faint sigh if she had not felt in such buoyant spirits. she had put on her revived brown skirt and a white linen blouse with a brown dot on it. a soft brown silk tie was knotted smartly under her fresh collar, and she wore her new sailor hat. her gloves were brown, and so was her parasol. she looked nice and taut and fresh, but notably inexpensive. the people who went to sales and bought things at three and eleven or "four-three" a yard would have been able add her up and work out her total. but there would be no people capable of the calculation at mallowe. even the servants' hall was likely to know less of prices than this one guest did. the people the drab-coated footman escorted to the first-class carriage were a mother and daughter. the mother had regular little features, and would have been pretty if she had not been much too plump. she wore an extremely smart travelling-dress and a wonderful dust-cloak of cool, pale, thin silk. she was not an elegant person, but her appointments were luxurious and self-indulgent. her daughter was pretty, and had a slim, swaying waist, soft pink cheeks, and a pouting mouth. her large picture-hat of pale-blue straw, with its big gauze bow and crushed roses, had a slightly exaggerated parisian air. "it is a little too picturesque," emily thought; "but how lovely she looks in it! i suppose it was so becoming she could not help buying it. i'm sure it's virot." as she was looking at the girl admiringly, a man passed her window. he was a tall man with a square face. as he passed close to emily, he stared through her head as if she had been transparent or invisible. he got into the smoking-carriage next to her. when the train arrived at mallowe station, he was one of the first persons who got out. two of lady maria's men were waiting on the platform. emily recognised their liveries. one met the tall man, touching his hat, and followed him to a high cart, in the shafts of which a splendid iron-gray mare was fretting and dancing. in a few moments the arrival was on the high seat, the footman behind, and the mare speeding up the road. miss fox-seton found herself following the second footman and the mother and daughter, who were being taken to the landau waiting outside the station. the footman piloted them, merely touching his hat quickly to emily, being fully aware that she could take care of herself. this she did promptly, looking after her box, and seeing it safe in the mallowe omnibus. when she reached the landau, the two other visitors were in it. she got in, and in entire contentment sat down with her back to the horses. the mother and daughter wore for a few minutes a somewhat uneasy air. they were evidently sociable persons, but were not quite sure how to begin a conversation with an as yet unintroduced lady who was going to stay at the country house to which they were themselves invited. emily herself solved the problem, producing her commonplace with a friendly tentative smile. "isn't it a lovely country?" she said. "it's perfect," answered the mother. "i've never visited europe before, and the english country seems to me just exquisite. we have a summer place in america, but the country is quite different." she was good-natured and disposed to talk, and, with emily fox-seton's genial assistance, conversation flowed. before they were half-way to mallowe, it had revealed itself that they were from cincinnati, and after a winter spent in paris, largely devoted to visits to paquin, doucet, and virot, they had taken a house in mayfair for the season. their name was brooke. emily thought she remembered hearing of them as people who spent a great deal of money and went incessantly to parties, always in new and lovely clothes. the girl had been presented by the american minister, and had had a sort of success because she dressed and danced exquisitely. she was the kind of american girl who ended by marrying a title. she had sparkling eyes and a delicate tip-tilted nose. but even emily guessed that she was an astute little person. "have you ever been to mallowe court before?" she inquired. "no; and i am _so_ looking forward to it. it is so beautiful." "do you know lady maria very well?" "i've known her about three years. she has been very kind to me." "well, i shouldn't have taken her for a particularly kind person. she's too sharp." emily amiably smiled. "she's so clever," she replied. "do you know the marquis of walderhurst?" asked mrs. brooke. "no," answered miss fox-seton. she had no part in that portion of lady maria's life which was illumined by cousins who were marquises. lord walderhurst did not drop in to afternoon tea. he kept himself for special dinner-parties. "did you see the man who drove away in the high cart?" mrs. brooke continued, with a touch of fevered interest. "cora thought it must be the marquis. the servant who met him wore the same livery as the man up there"--with a nod toward the box. "it was one of lady maria's servants," said emily; "i have seen him in south audley street. and lord walderhurst was to be at mallowe. lady maria mentioned it." "there, mother!" exclaimed cora. "well, of course if he is to be there, it will make it interesting," returned her mother, in a tone in which lurked an admission of relief. emily wondered if she had wanted to go somewhere else and had been firmly directed toward mallowe by her daughter. "we heard a great deal of him in london this season," mrs. brooks went on. miss cora brooke laughed. "we heard that at least half a dozen people were determined to marry him," she remarked with pretty scorn. "i should think that to meet a girl who was indifferent might be good for him." "don't be too indifferent, cora," said her mother, with ingenuous ineptness. it was a very stupid bit of revelation, and miss brooke's eyes flashed. if emily fox-seton had been a sharp woman, she would have observed that, if the _rôle_ of indifferent and piquant young person could be made dangerous to lord walderhurst, it would be made so during this visit. the man was in peril from this beauty from cincinnati and her rather indiscreet mother, though upon the whole, the indiscreet maternal parent might unconsciously form his protection. but emily only laughed amiably, as at a humorous remark. she was ready to accept almost anything as humour. "well, he _would_ be a great match for any girl," she said. "he is so rich, you know. he is very rich." when they reached mallowe, and were led out upon the lawn, where the tea was being served under embowering trees, they found a group of guests eating little hot cakes and holding teacups in their hands. there were several young women, and one of them--a very tall, very fair girl, with large eyes as blue as forget-me-nots, and with a lovely, limp, and long blue frock of the same shade--had been one of the beauties of the past season. she was a lady agatha slade, and emily began to admire her at once. she felt her to be a sort of added boon bestowed by kind fate upon herself. it was so delightful that she should be of this particular house-party--this lovely creature, whom she had only known previously through pictures in ladies' illustrated papers. if it should occur to her to wish to become the marchioness of walderhurst, what could possibly prevent the consummation of her desire? surely not lord walderhurst himself, if he was human. she was standing, leaning lightly against the trunk of an ilex-tree, and a snow-white borzoi was standing close to her, resting his long, delicate head against her gown, encouraging the caresses of her fair, stroking hand. she was in this attractive pose when lady maria turned in her seat and said: "there's walderhurst." the man who had driven himself over from the station in the cart was coming towards them across the grass. he was past middle life and plain, but was of good height and had an air. it was perhaps, on the whole, rather an air of knowing what he wanted. emily fox-seton, who by that time was comfortably seated in a cushioned basket-chair, sipping her own cup of tea, gave him the benefit of the doubt when she wondered if he was not really distinguished and aristocratic-looking. he was really neither, but was well-built and well-dressed, and had good grayish-brown eyes, about the colour of his grayish-brown hair. among these amiably worldly people, who were not in the least moved by an altruistic prompting, emily's greatest capital consisted in the fact that she did not expect to be taken the least notice of. she was not aware that it was her capital, because the fact was so wholly a part of the simple contentedness of her nature that she had not thought about it at all. the truth was that she found all her entertainment and occupation in being an audience or a spectator. it did not occur to her to notice that, when the guests were presented to him, lord walderhurst barely glanced at her surface as he bowed, and could scarcely be said to forget her existence the next second, because he had hardly gone to the length of recognising it. as she enjoyed her extremely nice cup of tea and little buttered scone, she also enjoyed looking at his lordship discreetly, and trying to make an innocent summing up of his mental attitudes. lady maria seemed to like him and to be pleased to see him. he himself seemed, in an undemonstrative way, to like lady maria. he also was evidently glad to get his tea, and enjoyed it as he sat at his cousin's side. he did not pay very much attention to any one else. emily was slightly disappointed to see that he did not glance at the beauty and the borzoi more than twice, and then that his examination seemed as much for the borzoi as for the beauty. she could not help also observing that since he had joined the circle it had become more animated, so far at least as the female members were concerned. she could not help remembering lady maria's remark about the effect he produced on women when he entered a room. several interesting or sparkling speeches had already been made. there was a little more laughter and chattiness, which somehow it seemed to be quite open to lord walderhurst to enjoy, though it was not exactly addressed to him. miss cora brooke, however, devoted herself to a young man in white flannels with an air of tennis about him. she sat a little apart and talked to him in a voice soft enough to even exclude lord walderhurst. presently she and her companion got up and sauntered away. they went down the broad flight of ancient stone steps which led to the tennis-court, lying in full view below the lawn. there they began to play tennis. miss brooke skimmed and darted about like a swallow. the swirl of her lace petticoats was most attractive. "that girl ought not to play tennis in shoes with ridiculous heels," remarked lord walderhurst. "she will spoil the court." lady maria broke into a little chuckle. "she wanted to play at this particular moment," she said. "and as she has only just arrived, it did not occur to her to come out to tea in tennis-shoes." "she'll spoil the court all the same," said the marquis. "what clothes! it's amazing how girls dress now." "i wish i had such clothes," answered lady maria, and she chuckled again. "she's got beautiful feet." "she's got louis quinze heels," returned his lordship. at all events, emily fox-seton thought miss brooke seemed to intend to rather keep out of his way and to practise no delicate allurements. when her tennis-playing was at an end, she sauntered about the lawn and terraces with her companion, tilting her parasol prettily over her shoulder, so that it formed an entrancing background to her face and head. she seemed to be entertaining the young man. his big laugh and the silver music of her own lighter merriment rang out a little tantalisingly. "i wonder what cora is saying," said mrs. brooke to the group at large. "she always makes men laugh so." emily fox-seton felt an interest herself, the merriment sounded so attractive. she wondered if perhaps to a man who had been so much run after a girl who took no notice of his presence and amused other men so much might not assume an agreeable aspect. but he took more notice of lady agatha slade than of any one else that evening. she was placed next to him at dinner, and she really was radiant to look upon in palest green chiffon. she had an exquisite little head, with soft hair piled with wondrous lightness upon it, and her long little neck swayed like the stem of a flower. she was lovely enough to arouse in the beholder's mind the anticipation of her being silly, but she was not silly at all. lady maria commented upon that fact to miss fox-seton when they met in her bedroom late that night. lady maria liked to talk and be talked to for half an hour after the day was over, and emily fox-seton's admiring interest in all she said she found at once stimulating and soothing. her ladyship was an old woman who indulged and inspired herself with an epicurean wisdom. though she would not have stupid people about her, she did not always want very clever ones. "they give me too much exercise," she said. "the epigrammatic ones keep me always jumping over fences. besides, i like to make all the epigrams myself." emily fox-seton struck a happy mean, and she was a genuine admirer. she was intelligent enough not to spoil the point of an epigram when she repeated it, and she might be relied upon to repeat it and give all the glory to its originator. lady maria knew there were people who, hearing your good things, appropriated them without a scruple. to-night she said a number of good things to emily in summing up her guests and their characteristics. "walderhurst has been to me three times when i made sure that he would not escape without a new marchioness attached to him. i should think he would take one to put an end to the annoyance of dangling unplucked upon the bough. a man in his position, if he has character enough to choose, can prevent even his wife's being a nuisance. he can give her a good house, hang the family diamonds on her, supply a decent elderly woman as a sort of lady-in-waiting and turn her into the paddock to kick up her heels within the limits of decorum. his own rooms can be sacred to him. he has his clubs and his personal interests. husbands and wives annoy each other very little in these days. married life has become comparatively decent." "i should think his wife might be very happy," commented emily. "he looks very kind." "i don't know whether he is kind or not. it has never been necessary for me to borrow money from him." lady maria was capable of saying odd things in her refined little drawling voice. "he's more respectable than most men of his age. the diamonds are magnificent, and he not only has three superb places, but has money enough to keep them up. now, there are three aspirants at mallowe in the present party. of course you can guess who they are, emily?" emily fox-seton almost blushed. she felt a little indelicate. "lady agatha would be very suitable," she said. "and mrs. ralph is very clever, of course. and miss brooke is really pretty." lady maria gave vent to her small chuckle. "mrs. ralph is the kind of woman who means business. she'll corner walderhurst and talk literature and roll her eyes at him until he hates her. these writing women, who are intensely pleased with themselves, if they have some good looks into the bargain, believe themselves capable of marrying any one. mrs. ralph has fine eyes and rolls them. walderhurst won't be ogled. the brooke girl is sharper than ralph. she was very sharp this afternoon. she began at once." "i--i didn't see her"--wondering. "yes, you did; but you didn't understand. the tennis, and the laughing with young heriot on the terrace! she is going to be the piquant young woman who aggravates by indifference, and disdains rank and splendour; the kind of girl who has her innings in novelettes--but not out of them. the successful women are those who know how to toady in the right way and not obviously. walderhurst has far too good an opinion of himself to be attracted by a girl who is making up to another man: he's not five-and-twenty." emily fox-seton was reminded, in spite of herself, of mrs. brooke's plaint: "don't be too indifferent, cora." she did not want to recall it exactly, because she thought the brookes agreeable and would have preferred to think them disinterested. but, after all, she reflected, how natural that a girl who was so pretty should feel that the marquis of walderhurst represented prospects. chiefly, however, she was filled with admiration at lady maria's cleverness. "how wonderfully you observe everything, lady maria!" she exclaimed. "how wonderfully!" "i have had forty-seven seasons in london. that's a good many, you know. forty-seven seasons of débutantes and mothers tend toward enlightenment. now there is agatha slade, poor girl! she's of a kind i know by heart. with birth and beauty, she is perfectly helpless. her people are poor enough to be entitled to aid from the charity organisation, and they have had the indecency to present themselves with six daughters--six! all with delicate skins and delicate little noses and heavenly eyes. most men can't afford them, and they can't afford most men. as soon as agatha begins to go off a little, she will have to step aside, if she has not married. the others must be allowed their chance. agatha has had the advertising of the illustrated papers this season, and she has gone well. in these days a new beauty is advertised like a new soap. they haven't given them sandwich-men in the streets, but that is about all that has been denied them. but agatha has not had any special offer, and i know both she and her mother are a little frightened. alix must come out next season, and they can't afford frocks for two. agatha will have to be sent to their place in ireland, and to be sent to castle clare is almost like being sent to the bastille. she'll never get out alive. she'll have to stay there and see herself grow thin instead of slim, and colourless instead of fair. her little nose will grow sharp, and she will lose her hair by degrees." "oh!" emily fox-seton gave forth sympathetically. "what a pity that would be! i thought--i really thought--lord walderhurst seemed to admire her." "oh, every one admires her, for that matter; but if they go no further that will not save her from the bastille, poor thing. there, emily; we must go to bed. we have talked enough." chapter three to awaken in a still, delicious room, with the summer morning sunshine breaking softly into it through leafy greenness, was a delightful thing to miss fox-seton, who was accustomed to opening her eyes upon four walls covered with cheap paper, to the sound of outside hammerings, and the rattle and heavy roll of wheels. in a building at the back of her bed-sitting-room there lived a man whose occupation, beginning early in the morning, involved banging of a persistent nature. she awakened to her first day at mallowe, stretching herself luxuriously, with the smile of a child. she was so thankful for the softness of her lavender-fragrant bed, and so delighted with the lovely freshness of her chintz-hung room. as she lay upon her pillow, she could see the boughs of the trees, and hear the chatter of darting starlings. when her morning tea was brought, it seemed like nectar to her. she was a perfectly healthy woman, with a palate as unspoiled as that of a six-year-old child in the nursery. her enjoyment of all things was so normal as to be in her day and time an absolute abnormality. she rose and dressed at once, eager for the open air and sunshine. she was out upon the lawn before any one else but the borzoi, which rose from beneath a tree and came with stately walk toward her. the air was exquisite, the broad, beautiful stretch of view lay warm in the sun, the masses of flowers on the herbaceous borders showed leaves and flower-cups adorned with glittering drops of dew. she walked across the spacious sweep of short-cropped sod, and gazed enraptured at the country spread out below. she could have kissed the soft white sheep dotting the fields and lying in gentle, huddled groups under the trees. "the darlings!" she said, in a little, effusive outburst. she talked to the dog and fondled him. he seemed to understand her mood, and pressed close against her gown when she stopped. they walked together about the gardens, and presently picked up an exuberant retriever, which bounded and wriggled and at once settled into a steady trot beside them. emily adored the flowers as she walked by their beds, and at intervals stopped to bury her face in bunches of spicy things. she was so happy that the joy in her hazel eyes was pathetic. she was startled, as she turned into a rather narrow rose-walk, to see lord walderhurst coming toward her. he looked exceedingly clean in his fresh light knickerbocker suit, which was rather becoming to him. a gardener was walking behind, evidently gathering roses for him, which he put into a shallow basket. emily fox-seton cast about for a suitable remark to make, if he should chance to stop to speak to her. she consoled herself with the thought that there were things she really _wanted_ to say about the beauty of the gardens, and certain clumps of heavenly-blue campanulas, which seemed made a feature of in the herbaceous borders. it was so much nicer not to be obliged to invent observations. but his lordship did not stop to speak to her. he was interested in his roses (which, she heard afterward, were to be sent to town to an invalid friend), and as she drew near, he turned aside to speak to the gardener. as emily was just passing him when he turned again, and as the passage was narrow, he found himself unexpectedly gazing into her face. being nearly the same height, they were so near each other that it was a little awkward. "i beg pardon," he said, stepping back a pace and lifting his straw hat. but he did not say, "i beg pardon, miss fox-seton," and emily knew that he had not recognised her again, and had not the remotest idea who she was or where she came from. she passed him with her agreeable, friendly smile, and there returned to her mind lady maria's remarks of the night before. "to think that if he married poor pretty lady agatha she will be mistress of three places quite as beautiful as mallowe, three lovely old houses, three sets of gardens, with thousands of flowers to bloom every year! how nice it would be for her! she is so lovely that it seems as if he _must_ fall in love with her. then, if she was marchioness of walderhurst, she could do so much for her sisters." after breakfast she spent her morning in doing a hundred things for lady maria. she wrote notes for her, and helped her to arrange plans for the entertainment of her visitors. she was very busy and happy. in the afternoon she drove across the moor to maundell, a village on the other side of it. she really went on an errand for her hostess, but as she was fond of driving and the brown cob was a beauty, she felt that she was being given a treat on a level with the rest of her ladyship's generous hospitalities. she drove well, and her straight, strong figure showed to much advantage on the high seat of the cart. lord walderhurst himself commented on her as he saw her drive away. "she has a nice, flat, straight back, that woman," he remarked to lady maria. "what is her name? one never hears people's names when one is introduced." "her name is emily fox-seton," her ladyship answered, "and she's a nice creature." "that would be an inhuman thing to say to most men, but if one is a thoroughly selfish being, and has some knowledge of one's own character, one sees that a nice creature might be a nice companion." "you are quite right," was lady maria's reply, as she held up her lorgnette and watched the cart spin down the avenue. "i am selfish myself, and i realise that is the reason why emily fox-seton is becoming the lodestar of my existence. there is such comfort in being pandered to by a person who is not even aware that she is pandering. she doesn't suspect that she is entitled to thanks for it." that evening mrs. ralph came shining to dinner in amber satin, which seemed to possess some quality of stimulating her to brilliance. she was witty enough to collect an audience, and lord walderhurst was drawn within it. this was mrs. ralph's evening. when the men returned to the drawing-room, she secured his lordship at once and managed to keep him. she was a woman who could talk pretty well, and perhaps lord walderhurst was amused. emily fox-seton was not quite sure that he was, but at least he listened. lady agatha slade looked a little listless and pale. lovely as she was, she did not always collect an audience, and this evening she said she had a headache. she actually crossed the room, and taking a seat by miss emily fox-seton, began to talk to her about lady maria's charity-knitting which she had taken up. emily was so gratified that she found conversation easy. she did not realise that at that particular moment she was a most agreeable and comforting companion for agatha slade. she had heard so much of her beauty during the season, and remembered so many little things that a girl who was a thought depressed might like to hear referred to again. sometimes to agatha the balls where people had collected in groups to watch her dancing, the flattering speeches she had heard, the dazzling hopes which had been raised, seemed a little unreal, as if, after all, they could have been only dreams. this was particularly so, of course, when life had dulled for a while and the atmosphere of unpaid bills became heavy at home. it was so to-day, because the girl had received a long, anxious letter from her mother, in which much was said of the importance of an early preparation for the presentation of alix, who had really been kept back a year, and was in fact nearer twenty than nineteen. "if we were not in debrett and burke, one might be reserved about such matters," poor lady claraway wrote; "but what is one to do when all the world can buy one's daughters' ages at the book-sellers'?" miss fox-seton had seen lady agatha's portrait at the academy and the way in which people had crowded about it. she had chanced to hear comments also, and she agreed with a number of persons who had not thought the picture did the original justice. "sir bruce norman was standing by me with an elderly lady the first time i saw it," she said, as she turned a new row of the big white-wool scarf her hostess was knitting for a deep-sea fisherman's charity. "he really looked quite annoyed. i heard him say: 'it is not good at all. she is far, far lovelier. her eyes are like blue flowers.' the moment i saw you, i found myself looking at your eyes. i hope i didn't seem rude." lady agatha smiled. she had flushed delicately, and took up in her slim hand a skein of the white wool. "there are some people who are never rude," she sweetly said, "and you are one of them, i am sure. that knitting looks nice. i wonder if i could make a comforter for a deep-sea fisherman." "if it would amuse you to try," emily answered, "i will begin one for you. lady maria has several pairs of wooden needles. shall i?" "do, please. how kind of you!" in a pause of her conversation, mrs. ralph, a little later, looked across the room at emily fox-seton bending over lady agatha and the knitting, as she gave her instructions. "what a good-natured creature that is!" she said. lord walderhurst lifted his monocle and inserted it in his unillumined eye. he also looked across the room. emily wore the black evening dress which gave such opportunities to her square white shoulders and firm column of throat; the country air and sun had deepened the colour on her cheek, and the light of the nearest lamp fell kindly on the big twist of her nut-brown hair, and burnished it. she looked soft and warm, and so generously interested in her pupil's progress that she was rather sweet. lord walderhurst simply looked at her. he was a man of but few words. women who were sprightly found him somewhat unresponsive. in fact, he was aware that a man in his position need not exert himself. the women themselves would talk. they wanted to talk because they wanted him to hear them. mrs. ralph talked. "she is the most primeval person i know. she accepts her fate without a trace of resentment; she simply accepts it." "what is her fate?" asked lord walderhurst, still gazing in his unbiassed manner through his monocle, and not turning his head as he spoke. "it is her fate to be a woman who is perfectly well born, and who is as penniless as a charwoman, and works like one. she is at the beck and call of any one who will give her an odd job to earn a meal with. that is one of the new ways women have found of making a living." "good skin," remarked lord walderhurst, irrelevantly. "good hair--quite a lot." "she has some of the nicest blood in england in her veins, and she engaged my last cook for me," said mrs. ralph. "hope she was a good cook." "very. emily fox-seton has a faculty of finding decent people. i believe it is because she is so decent herself"--with a little laugh. "looks quite decent," commented walderhurst. the knitting was getting on famously. "it was odd you should see sir bruce norman that day," agatha slade was saying. "it must have been just before he was called away to india." "it was. he sailed the next day. i happen to know, because some friends of mine met me only a few yards from your picture and began to talk about him. i had not known before that he was so rich. i had not heard about his collieries in lancashire. oh!"--opening her big eyes in heart-felt yearning,--"how i wish i owned a colliery! it must be so _nice_ to be rich!" "i never was rich," answered lady agatha, with a bitter little sigh. "i know it is hideous to be poor." "_i_ never was rich," said emily, "and i never shall be. you"--a little shyly--"are so different." lady agatha flushed delicately again. emily fox-seton made a gentle joke. "you have eyes like blue flowers," she said. lady agatha lifted the eyes like blue flowers, and they were pathetic. "oh!" she gave forth almost impetuously, "sometimes it seems as if it does not matter whether one has eyes or not." it was a pleasure to emily fox-seton to realise that after this the beauty seemed to be rather drawn toward her. their acquaintance became almost a sort of intimacy over the wool scarf for the deep-sea fisherman, which was taken up and laid down, and even carried out on the lawn and left under the trees for the footmen to restore when they brought in the rugs and cushions. lady maria was amusing herself with the making of knitted scarfs and helmets just now, and bits of white or gray knitting were the fashion at mallowe. once agatha brought hers to emily's room in the afternoon to ask that a dropped stitch might be taken up, and this established a sort of precedent. afterward they began to exchange visits. the strenuousness of things was becoming, in fact, almost too much for lady agatha. most unpleasant things were happening at home, and occasionally castle clare loomed up grayly in the distance like a spectre. certain tradespeople who ought, in lady claraway's opinion, to have kept quiet and waited in patience until things became better, were becoming hideously persistent. in view of the fact that alix's next season must be provided for, it was most awkward. a girl could not be presented and properly launched in the world, in a way which would give her a proper chance, without expenditure. to the claraways expenditure meant credit, and there were blots as of tears on the letters in which lady claraway reiterated that the tradespeople were behaving horribly. sometimes, she said once in desperation, things looked as if they would all be obliged to shut themselves up in castle clare to retrench; and then what was to become of alix and her season? and there were millicent and hilda and eve. more than once there was the mist of tears in the flower-blue eyes when lady agatha came to talk. confidence between two women establishes itself through processes at once subtle and simple. emily fox-seton could not have told when she first began to know that the beauty was troubled and distressed; lady agatha did not know when she first slipped into making little frank speeches about herself; but these things came about. agatha found something like comfort in her acquaintance with the big, normal, artless creature--something which actually raised her spirits when she was depressed. emily fox-seton paid constant kindly tribute to her charms, and helped her to believe in them. when she was with her, agatha always felt that she really was lovely, after all, and that loveliness was a great capital. emily admired and revered it so, and evidently never dreamed of doubting its omnipotence. she used to talk as if any girl who was a beauty was a potential duchess. in fact, this was a thing she quite ingenuously believed. she had not lived in a world where marriage was a thing of romance, and, for that matter, neither had agatha. it was nice if a girl liked the man who married her, but if he was a well-behaved, agreeable person, of good means, it was natural that she would end by liking him sufficiently; and to be provided for comfortably or luxuriously for life, and not left upon one's own hands or one's parents', was a thing to be thankful for in any case. it was such a relief to everybody to know that a girl was "settled," and especially it was such a relief to the girl herself. even novels and plays were no longer fairy-stories of entrancing young men and captivating young women who fell in love with each other in the first chapter, and after increasingly picturesque incidents were married in the last one in the absolute surety of being blissfully happy forevermore. neither lady agatha nor emily had been brought up on this order of literature, nor in an atmosphere in which it was accepted without reservation. they had both had hard lives, and knew what lay before them. agatha knew she must make a marriage or fade out of existence in prosaic and narrowed dulness. emily knew that there was no prospect for her of desirable marriage at all. she was too poor, too entirely unsupported by social surroundings, and not sufficiently radiant to catch the roving eye. to be able to maintain herself decently, to be given an occasional treat by her more fortunate friends, and to be allowed by fortune to present to the face of the world the appearance of a woman who was not a pauper, was all she could expect. but she felt that lady agatha had the right to more. she did not reason the matter out and ask herself why she had the right to more, but she accepted the proposition as a fact. she was ingenuously interested in her fate, and affectionately sympathetic. she used to look at lord walderhurst quite anxiously at times when he was talking to the girl. an anxious mother could scarcely have regarded him with a greater desire to analyse his sentiments. the match would be such a fitting one. he would make such an excellent husband--and there were three places, and the diamonds were magnificent. lady maria had described to her a certain tiara which she frequently pictured to herself as glittering above agatha's exquisite low brow. it would be infinitely more becoming to her than to miss brooke or mrs. ralph, though either of them would have worn it with spirit. she could not help feeling that both mrs. ralph's brilliancy and miss brooke's insouciant prettiness were not unworthy of being counted in the running, but lady agatha seemed somehow so much more completely the thing wanted. she was anxious that she should always look her best, and when she knew that disturbing letters were fretting her, and saw that they made her look pale and less luminous, she tried to raise her spirits. "suppose we take a brisk walk," she would say, "and then you might try a little nap. you look a little tired." "oh," said agatha one day, "how kind you are to me! i believe you actually care about my complexion--about my looking well." "lord walderhurst said to me the other day," was emily's angelically tactful answer, "that you were the only woman he had ever seen who _always_ looked lovely." "did he?" exclaimed lady agatha, and flushed sweetly. "once sir bruce norman actually said that to me. i told him it was the nicest thing that could be said to a woman. it is all the nicer"--with a sigh--"because it isn't _really_ true." "i am sure lord walderhurst believed it true," emily said. "he is not a man who talks, you know. he is very serious and dignified." she had herself a reverence and admiration for lord walderhurst bordering on tender awe. he was indeed a well-mannered person, of whom painful things were not said. he also conducted himself well toward his tenantry, and was patron of several notable charities. to the unexacting and innocently respectful mind of emily fox-seton this was at once impressive and attractive. she knew, though not intimately, many noble personages quite unlike him. she was rather early victorian and touchingly respectable. "i have been crying," confessed lady agatha. "i was afraid so, lady agatha," said emily. "things are getting hopeless in curzon street. i had a letter from millicent this morning. she is next in age to alix, and she says--oh, a number of things. when girls see everything passing by them, it makes them irritable. millicent is seventeen, and she is too lovely. her hair is like a red-gold cloak, and her eyelashes are twice as long as mine." she sighed again, and her lips, which were like curved rose-petals, unconcealedly quivered. "they were _all_ so cross about sir bruce norman going to india," she added. "he will come back," said emily, benignly; "but he may be too late. has he"--ingenuously--"seen alix?" agatha flushed oddly this time. her delicate skin registered every emotion exquisitely. "he has seen her, but she was in the school-room, and--i don't think--" she did not finish, but stopped uneasily, and sat and gazed out of the open window into the park. she did not look happy. the episode of sir bruce norman was brief and even vague. it had begun well. sir bruce had met the beauty at a ball, and they had danced together more than once. sir bruce had attractions other than his old baronetcy and his coal-mines. he was a good-looking person, with a laughing brown eye and a nice wit. he had danced charmingly and paid gay compliments. he would have done immensely well. agatha had liked him. emily sometimes thought she had liked him very much. her mother had liked him and had thought he was attracted. but after a number of occasions of agreeable meetings, they had encountered each other on the lawn at goodwood, and he had announced that he was going to india. forthwith he had gone, and emily had gathered that somehow lady agatha had been considered somewhat to blame. her people were not vulgar enough to express this frankly, but she had felt it. her younger sisters had, upon the whole, made her feel it most. it had been borne in upon her that if alix, or millicent with the red-gold cloak, or even eve, who was a gipsy, had been given such a season and such doucet frocks, they would have combined them with their wonderful complexions and lovely little chins and noses in such a manner as would at least have prevented desirable acquaintances from feeling free to take p. and o. steamers to bombay. in her letter of this morning, millicent's temper had indeed got somewhat the better of her taste and breeding, and lovely agatha had cried large tears. so it was comforting to be told that lord walderhurst had said such an extremely amiable thing. if he was not young, he was really _very_ nice, and there were exalted persons who absolutely had rather a fad for him. it would be exceptionally brilliant. the brisk walk was taken, and lady agatha returned from it blooming. she was adorable at dinner, and in the evening gathered an actual court about her. she was all in pink, and a wreath of little pink wild roses lay close about her head, making her, with her tall young slimness, look like a botticelli nymph. emily saw that lord walderhurst looked at her a great deal. he sat on an extraordinarily comfortable corner seat, and stared through his monocle. lady maria always gave her emily plenty to do. she had a nice taste in floral arrangement, and early in her visit it had fallen into her hands as a duty to "do" the flowers. the next morning she was in the gardens early, gathering roses with the dew on them, and was in the act of cutting some adorable "mrs. sharman crawfords," when she found it behoved her to let down her carefully tucked up petticoats, as the marquis of walderhurst was walking straight toward her. an instinct told her that he wanted to talk to her about lady agatha slade. "you get up earlier than lady agatha," he remarked, after he had wished her "good-morning." "she is oftener invited to the country than i am," she answered. "when i have a country holiday, i want to spend every moment of it out of doors. and the mornings are so lovely. they are not like this in mortimer street." "do you live in mortimer street?" "yes." "do you like it?" "i am very comfortable. i am fortunate in having a nice landlady. she and her daughter are very kind to me." the morning was indeed heavenly. the masses of flowers were drenched with dew, and the already hot sun was drawing fragrance from them and filling the warm air with it. the marquis, with his monocle fixed, looked up into the cobalt-blue sky and among the trees, where a wood-dove or two cooed with musical softness. "yes," he observed, with a glance which swept the scene, "it is different from mortimer street, i suppose. are you fond of the country?" "oh, yes," sighed emily; "oh, yes!" she was not a specially articulate person. she could not have conveyed in words all that her "oh, yes!" really meant of simple love for and joy in rural sights and sounds and scents. but when she lifted her big kind hazel eyes to him, the earnestness of her emotion made them pathetic, as the unspeakableness of her pleasures often did. lord walderhurst gazed at her through the monocle with an air he sometimes had of taking her measure without either unkindliness or particular interest. "is lady agatha fond of the country?" he inquired. "she is fond of everything that is beautiful," she replied. "her nature is as lovely as her face, i think." "is it?" emily walked a step or two away to a rose climbing up the gray-red wall, and began to clip off blossoms, which tumbled sweetly into her basket. "she seems lovely in everything," she said, "in disposition and manner and--everything. she never seems to disappoint one or make mistakes." "you are fond of her?" "she has been so kind to me." "you often say people are kind to you." emily paused and felt a trifle confused. realising that she was not a clever person, and being a modest one, she began to wonder if she was given to a parrot-phrase which made her tiresome. she blushed up to her ears. "people are kind," she said hesitatingly. "i--you see, i have nothing to give, and i always seem to be receiving." "what luck!" remarked his lordship, calmly gazing at her. he made her feel rather awkward, and she was at once relieved and sorry when he walked away to join another early riser who had come out upon the lawn. for some mysterious reason emily fox-seton liked him. perhaps his magnificence and the constant talk she had heard of him had warmed her imagination. he had never said anything particularly intelligent to her, but she felt as if he had. he was a rather silent man, but never looked stupid. he had made some good speeches in the house of lords, not brilliant, but sound and of a dignified respectability. he had also written two pamphlets. emily had an enormous respect for intellect, and frequently, it must be admitted, for the thing which passed for it. she was not exacting. during her stay at mallowe in the summer, lady maria always gave a village treat. she had given it for forty years, and it was a lively function. several hundred wildly joyous village children were fed to repletion with exhilarating buns and cake, and tea in mugs, after which they ran races for prizes, and were entertained in various ways, with the aid of such of the house-party as were benevolently inclined to make themselves useful. everybody was not so inclined, though people always thought the thing amusing. nobody objected to looking on, and some were agreeably stimulated by the general sense of festivity. but emily fox-seton was found by lady maria to be invaluable on this occasion. it was so easy, without the least sense of ill-feeling, to give her all the drudgery to do. there was plenty of drudgery, though it did not present itself to emily fox-seton in that light. she no more realised that she was giving lady maria a good deal for her money, so to speak, than she realised that her ladyship, though an amusing and delightful, was an absolutely selfish and inconsiderate old woman. so long as emily fox-seton did not seem obviously tired, it would not have occurred to lady maria that she could be so; that, after all, her legs and arms were mere human flesh and blood, that her substantial feet were subject to the fatigue unending trudging to and fro induces. her ladyship was simply delighted that the preparations went so well, that she could turn to emily for service and always find her ready. emily made lists and calculations, she worked out plans and made purchases. she interviewed the village matrons who made the cake and buns, and boiled the tea in bags in a copper; she found the women who could be engaged to assist in cutting cake and bread-and-butter and helping to serve it; she ordered the putting up of tents and forms and tables; the innumerable things to be remembered she called to mind. "really, emily," said lady maria, "i don't know how i have done this thing for forty years without you. i must always have you at mallowe for the treat." emily was of the genial nature which rejoices upon even small occasions, and is invariably stimulated to pleasure by the festivities of others. the festal atmosphere was a delight to her. in her numberless errands to the village, the sight of the excitement in the faces of the children she passed on her way to this cottage and that filled her eyes with friendly glee and wreathed her face with smiles. when she went into the cottage where the cake was being baked, children hovered about in groups and nudged each other, giggling. they hung about, partly through thrilled interest, and partly because their joy made them eager to courtesy to her as she came out, the obeisance seeming to identify them even more closely with the coming treat. they grinned and beamed rosily, and emily smiled at them and nodded, uplifted by a pleasure almost as infantile as their own. she was really enjoying herself so honestly that she did not realise how hard she worked during the days before the festivity. she was really ingenious, and invented a number of new methods of entertainment. it was she who, with the aid of a couple of gardeners, transformed the tents into bowers of green boughs and arranged the decorations of the tables and the park gates. "what a lot of walking you do!" lord walderhurst said to her once, as she passed the group on the lawn. "do you know how many hours you have been on your feet to-day?" "i like it," she answered, and, as she hurried by, she saw that he was sitting a shade nearer to lady agatha than she had ever seen him sit before, and that agatha, under a large hat of white gauze frills, was looking like a seraph, so sweet and shining were her eyes, so flower-fair her face. she looked actually happy. "perhaps he has been saying things," emily thought. "how happy she will be! he has such a nice pair of eyes. he would make a woman very happy." a faint sigh fluttered from her lips. she was beginning to be physically tired, and was not yet quite aware of it. if she had not been physically tired, she would not even vaguely have had, at this moment, recalled to her mind the fact that she was not of the women to whom "things" are said and to whom things happen. "emily fox-seton," remarked lady maria, fanning herself, as it was frightfully hot, "has the most admirable effect on me. she makes me feel generous. i should like to present her with the smartest things from the wardrobes of all my relations." "do you give her clothes?" asked walderhurst. "i haven't any to spare. but i know they would be useful to her. the things she wears are touching; they are so well contrived, and produce such a decent effect with so little." lord walderhurst inserted his monocle and gazed after the straight, well-set-up back of the disappearing miss fox-seton. "i think," said lady agatha, gently, "that she is really handsome." "so she is," admitted walderhurst--"quite a good-looking woman." that night lady agatha repeated the amiability to emily, whose grateful amazement really made her blush. "lord walderhurst knows sir bruce norman," said agatha. "isn't it strange? he spoke of him to me to-day. he says he is clever." "you had a nice talk this afternoon, hadn't you?" said emily. "you both looked so--so--as if you were enjoying yourselves when i passed." "did he look as if he were enjoying himself? he was very agreeable. i did not know he could be so agreeable." "i have never seen him look as much pleased," answered emily fox-seton. "though he always looks as if he liked talking to you, lady agatha. that large white gauze garden-hat"--reflectively--"is so _very_ becoming." "it was very expensive," sighed lovely agatha. "and they last such a short time. mamma said it really seemed almost criminal to buy it." "how delightful it will be," remarked cheering emily, "when--when you need not think of things like that!" "oh!"--with another sigh, this time a catch of the breath,--"it would be like heaven! people don't know; they think girls are frivolous when they care, and that it isn't serious. but when one knows one _must_ have things,--that they are like bread,--it is awful!" "the things you wear really matter." emily was bringing all her powers to bear upon the subject, and with an anxious kindness which was quite angelic. "each dress makes you look like another sort of picture. have you,"--contemplatively--"anything _quite_ different to wear to-night and to-morrow?" "i have two evening dresses i have not worn here yet"--a little hesitatingly. "i--well i saved them. one is a very thin black one with silver on it. it has a trembling silver butterfly for the shoulder, and one for the hair." "oh, put that on to-night!" said emily, eagerly. "when you come down to dinner you will look so--so new! i always think that to see a fair person suddenly for the first time all in black gives one a kind of delighted start--though start isn't the word, quite. do put it on." lady agatha put it on. emily fox-seton came into her room to help to add the last touches to her beauty before she went down to dinner. she suggested that the fair hair should be dressed even higher and more lightly than usual, so that the silver butterfly should poise the more airily over the knot, with its quivering, outstretched wings. she herself poised the butterfly high upon the shoulder. "oh, it is lovely!" she exclaimed, drawing back to gaze at the girl. "do let me go down a moment or so before you do, so that i can see you come into the room." she was sitting in a chair quite near lord walderhurst when her charge entered. she saw him really give something quite like a start when agatha appeared. his monocle, which had been in his eye, fell out of it, and he picked it up by its thin cord and replaced it. "psyche!" she heard him say in his odd voice, which seemed merely to make a statement without committing him to an opinion--"psyche!" he did not say it to her or to any one else. it was simply a kind of exclamation,--appreciative and perceptive without being enthusiastic,--and it was curious. he talked to agatha nearly all the evening. emily came to lady agatha before she retired, looking even a little flushed. "what are you going to wear at the treat to-morrow?" she asked. "a white muslin, with _entre-deux_ of lace, and the gauze garden-hat, and a white parasol and shoes." lady agatha looked a little nervous; her pink fluttered in her cheek. "and to-morrow night?" said emily. "i have a very pale blue. won't you sit down, dear miss fox-seton?" "we must both go to bed and sleep. you must not get tired." but she sat down for a few minutes, because she saw the girl's eyes asking her to do it. the afternoon post had brought a more than usually depressing letter from curzon street. lady claraway was at her motherly wits' ends, and was really quite touching in her distraction. a dressmaker was entering a suit. the thing would get into the papers, of course. "unless something happens, something to save us by staving off things, we shall have to go to castle clare at once. it will be all over. no girl could be presented with such a thing in the air. they don't like it." "they," of course, meant persons whose opinions made london's society's law. "to go to castle clare," faltered agatha, "will be like being sentenced to starve to death. alix and hilda and millicent and eve and i will be starved, quite slowly, for the want of the things that make girls' lives bearable when they have been born in a certain class. and even if the most splendid thing happened in three or four years, it would be too late for us four--almost too late for eve. if you are out of london, of course you are forgotten. people can't help forgetting. why shouldn't they, when there are such crowds of new girls every year?" emily fox-seton was sweet. she was quite sure that they would not be obliged to go to castle clare. without being indelicate, she was really able to bring hope to the fore. she said a good deal of the black gauze dress and the lovely effect of the silver butterflies. "i suppose it was the butterflies which made lord walderhurst say 'psyche! psyche!' when he first saw you," she added, _en passant_. "did he say that?" and immediately lady agatha looked as if she had not intended to say the words. "yes," answered emily, hurrying on with a casual air which had a good deal of tact in it. "and black makes you so wonderfully fair and aërial. you scarcely look quite real in it; you might float away. but you must go to sleep now." lady agatha went with her to the door of the room to bid her good-night. her eyes looked like those of a child who might presently cry a little. "oh, miss fox-seton," she said, in a very young voice, "you are so kind!" chapter four the parts of the park nearest to the house already presented a busy aspect when miss fox-seton passed through the gardens the following morning. tables were being put up, and baskets of bread and cake and groceries were being carried into the tent where the tea was to be prepared. the workers looked interested and good-humoured; the men touched their hats as emily appeared, and the women courtesied smilingly. they had all discovered that she was amiable and to be relied on in her capacity of her ladyship's representative. "she's a worker, that miss fox-seton," one said to the other. "i never seen one that was a lady fall to as she does. ladies, even when they means well, has a way of standing about and telling you to do things without seeming to know quite how they ought to be done. she's coming to help with the bread-and-butter-cutting herself this morning, and she put up all them packages of sweets yesterday with her own hands. she did 'em up in different-coloured papers, and tied 'em with bits of ribbon, because she said she knowed children was prouder of coloured things than plain--they was like that. and so they are: a bit of red or blue goes a long way with a child." emily cut bread-and-butter and cake, and placed seats and arranged toys on tables all the morning. the day was hot, though beautiful, and she was so busy that she had scarcely time for her breakfast. the household party was in the gayest spirits. lady maria was in her most amusing mood. she had planned a drive to some interesting ruins for the afternoon of the next day, and a dinner-party for the evening. her favourite neighbours had just returned to their country-seat five miles away, and they were coming to the dinner, to her great satisfaction. most of her neighbours bored her, and she took them in doses at her dinners, as she would have taken medicine. but the lockyers were young and good-looking and clever, and she was always glad when they came to loche during her stay at mallowe. "there is not a frump or a bore among them," she said. "in the country people are usually frumps when they are not bores, and bores when they are not frumps, and i am in danger of becoming both myself. six weeks of unalloyed dinner-parties, composed of certain people i know, would make me begin to wear moreen petticoats and talk about the deplorable condition of london society." she led all her flock out on to the lawn under the ilex-trees after breakfast. "let us go and encourage industry," she said. "we will watch emily fox-seton working. she is an example." curiously enough, this was miss cora brooke's day. she found herself actually walking across the lawn with lord walderhurst by her side. she did not know how it happened, but it seemed to occur accidentally. "we never talk to each other," he said. "well," answered cora, "we have talked to other people a great deal--at least i have." "yes, you have talked a good deal," said the marquis. "does that mean i have talked too much?" he surveyed her prettiness through his glass. perhaps the holiday stir in the air gave him a festive moment. "it means that you haven't talked enough to me. you have devoted yourself too much to the laying low of young heriot." she laughed a trifle saucily. "you are a very independent young lady," remarked walderhurst, with a lighter manner than usual. "you ought to say something deprecatory or--a little coy, perhaps." "i shan't," said cora, composedly. "shan't or won't?" he inquired. "they are both bad words for little girls--or young ladies--to use to their elders." "both," said miss cora brooke, with a slightly pleased flush. "let us go over to the tents and see what poor emily fox-seton is doing." "poor emily fox-seton," said the marquis, non-committally. they went, but they did not stay long. the treat was taking form. emily fox-seton was hot and deeply engaged. people were coming to her for orders. she had a thousand things to do and to superintend the doing of. the prizes for the races and the presents for the children must be arranged in order: things for boys and things for girls, presents for little children and presents for big ones. nobody must be missed, and no one must be given the wrong thing. "it would be dreadful, you know," emily said to the two when they came into her tent and began to ask questions, "if a big boy should get a small wooden horse, or a little baby should be given a cricket bat and ball. then it would be so disappointing if a tiny girl got a work-box and a big one got a doll. one has to get things in order. they look forward to this so, and it's heart-breaking to a child to be disappointed, isn't it?" walderhurst gazed uninspiringly. "who did this for lady maria when you were not here?" he inquired. "oh, other people. but she says it was tiresome." then with an illumined smile; "she has asked me to mallowe for the next twenty years for the treats. she is so kind." "maria is a kind woman"--with what seemed to emily delightful amiability. "she is kind to her treats and she is kind to maria bayne." "she is kind to _me_," said emily. "you don't know how i am enjoying this." "that woman enjoys everything," lord walderhurst said when he walked away with cora. "what a temperament to have! i would give ten thousand a year for it." "she has so little," said cora, "that everything seems beautiful to her. one doesn't wonder, either. she's very nice. mother and i quite admire her. we are thinking of inviting her to new york and giving her a real good time." "she would enjoy new york." "have you ever been there, lord walderhurst?" "no." "you ought to come, really. so many englishmen come now, and they all seem to like it." "perhaps i will come," said walderhurst. "i have been thinking of it. one is tired of the continent and one knows india. one doesn't know fifth avenue, and central park, and the rocky mountains." "one might try them," suggested pretty miss cora. this certainly was her day. lord walderhurst took her and her mother out in his own particular high phaeton before lunch. he was fond of driving, and his own phaeton and horses had come to mallowe with him. he took only his favourites out, and though he bore himself on this occasion with a calm air, the event caused a little smiling flurry on the lawn. at least, when the phaeton spun down the avenue with miss brooke and her mother looking slightly flushed and thrilled in their high seats of honour, several people exchanged glances and raised eye-brows. lady agatha went to her room and wrote a long letter to curzon street. mrs. ralph talked about the problem-play to young heriot and a group of others. the afternoon, brilliant and blazing, brought new visitors to assist by their presence at the treat. lady maria always had a large house-party, and added guests from the neighbourhood to make for gaiety. at two o'clock a procession of village children and their friends and parents, headed by the village band, marched up the avenue and passed before the house on their way to their special part of the park. lady maria and her guests stood upon the broad steps and welcomed the jocund crowd, as it moved by, with hospitable bows and nods and becks and wreathed smiles. everybody was in a delighted good-humour. as the villagers gathered in the park, the house-party joined them by way of the gardens. a conjurer from london gave an entertainment under a huge tree, and children found white rabbits taken from their pockets and oranges from their caps, with squeals of joy and shouts of laughter. lady maria's guests walked about and looked on, laughing with the children. the great affair of tea followed the performance. no treat is fairly under way until the children are filled to the brim with tea and buns and cake, principally cake in plummy wedges. lady agatha and mrs. ralph handed cake along rows of children seated on the grass. miss brooke was talking to lord walderhurst when the work began. she had poppies in her hat and carried a poppy-coloured parasol, and sat under a tree, looking very alluring. "i ought to go and help to hand cake," she said. "my cousin maria ought to do it," remarked lord walderhurst, "but she will not--neither shall i. tell me something about the elevated railroad and five-hundred-and-fifty-thousandth street." he had a slightly rude, gracefully languid air, which cora brooke found somewhat impressive, after all. emily fox-seton handed cake and regulated supplies with cheerful tact and good spirits. when the older people were given their tea, she moved about their tables, attending to every one. she was too heart-whole in her interest in her hospitalities to find time to join lady maria and her party at the table under the ilex-trees. she ate some bread-and-butter and drank a cup of tea while she talked to some old women she had made friends with. she was really enjoying herself immensely, though occasionally she was obliged to sit down for a few moments just to rest her tired feet. the children came to her as to an omnipotent and benign being. she knew where the toys were kept and what prizes were to be given for the races. she represented law and order and bestowal. the other ladies walked about in wonderful dresses, smiling and exalted, the gentlemen aided the sports in an amateurish way and made patrician jokes among themselves, but this one lady seemed to be part of the treat itself. she was not so grandly dressed as the others,--her dress was only blue linen with white bands on it,--and she had only a sailor hat with a buckle and bow, but she was of her ladyship's world of london people, nevertheless, and they liked her more than they had ever liked a lady before. it was a fine treat, and she seemed to have made it so. there had never been quite such a varied and jovial treat at mallowe before. the afternoon waxed and waned. the children played games and raced and rejoiced until their young limbs began to fail them. the older people sauntered about or sat in groups to talk and listen to the village band. lady maria's visitors, having had enough of rural festivities, went back to the gardens in excellent spirits, to talk and to watch a game of tennis which had taken form on the court. emily fox-seton's pleasure had not abated, but her colour had done so. her limbs ached and her still-smiling face was pale, as she stood under the beech-tree regarding the final ceremonies of the festal day, to preside over which lady maria and her party returned from their seats under the ilex-trees. the national anthem was sung loudly, and there were three tremendous cheers given for her ladyship. they were such joyous and hearty cheers that emily was stirred almost to emotional tears. at all events, her hazel eyes looked nice and moistly bright. she was an easily moved creature. lord walderhurst stood near lady maria and looked pleased also. emily saw him speak to her ladyship and saw lady maria smile. then he stepped forward, with his non-committal air and his monocle glaring calmly in his eye. "boys and girls," he said in a clear, far-reaching voice, "i want you to give three of the biggest cheers you are capable of for the lady who has worked to make your treat the success it has been. her ladyship tells me she has never had such a treat before. three cheers for miss fox-seton." emily gave a gasp and felt a lump rise in her throat. she felt as if she had been without warning suddenly changed into a royal personage, and she scarcely knew what to do. the whole treat, juvenile and adult, male and female, burst into three cheers which were roars and bellows. hats and caps were waved and tossed into the air, and every creature turned toward her as she blushed and bowed in tremulous gratitude and delight. "oh, lady maria! oh, lord walderhurst!" she said, when she managed to get to them, "how _kind_ you are to me!" chapter five after she had taken her early tea in the morning, emily fox-seton lay upon her pillows and gazed out upon the tree-branches near her window, in a state of bliss. she was tired, but happy. how well everything had "gone off"! how pleased lady maria had been, and how kind of lord walderhurst to ask the villagers to give three cheers for herself! she had never dreamed of such a thing. it was the kind of attention not usually offered to her. she smiled her childlike smile and blushed at the memory of it. her impression of the world was that people were really very amiable, as a rule. they were always good to her, at least, she thought, and it did not occur to her that if she had not paid her way so remarkably well by being useful they might have been less agreeable. never once had she doubted that lady maria was the most admirable and generous of human beings. she was not aware in the least that her ladyship got a good deal out of her. in justice to her ladyship, it may be said that she was not wholly aware of it herself, and that emily absolutely enjoyed being made use of. this morning, however, when she got up, she found herself more tired than she ever remembered being before, and it may be easily argued that a woman who runs about london on other people's errands often knows what it is to be aware of aching limbs. she laughed a little when she discovered that her feet were actually rather swollen, and that she must wear a pair of her easiest slippers. "i must sit down as much as i can to-day," she thought. "and yet, with the dinner-party and the excursion this morning, there may be a number of little things lady maria would like me to do." there were, indeed, numbers of things lady maria was extremely glad to ask her to do. the drive to the ruins was to be made before lunch, because some of the guests felt that an afternoon jaunt would leave them rather fagged for the dinner-party in the evening. lady maria was not going, and, as presently became apparent, the carriages would be rather crowded if miss fox-seton joined the party. on the whole, emily was not sorry to have an excuse for remaining at home, and so the carriages drove away comfortably filled, and lady maria and miss fox-seton watched their departure. "i have no intention of having my venerable bones rattled over hill and dale the day i give a dinner-party," said her ladyship. "please ring the bell, emily. i want to make sure of the fish. fish is one of the problems of country life. fishmongers are demons, and when they live five miles from one they can arouse the most powerful human emotions." mallowe court was at a distance from the country town delightful in its effects upon the rusticity of the neighbourhood, but appalling when considered in connection with fish. one could not dine without fish; the town was small and barren of resources, and the one fishmonger of weak mind and unreliable nature. the footman who obeyed the summons of the bell informed her ladyship that the cook was rather anxious about the fish, as usual. the fishmonger had been a little doubtful as to whether he could supply her needs, and his cart never arrived until half-past twelve. "great goodness!" exclaimed her ladyship when the man retired. "what a situation if we found ourselves without fish! old general barnes is the most ferocious old gourmand in england, and he loathes people who give him bad dinners. we are all rather afraid of him, the fact is, and i will own that i am vain about my dinners. that is the last charm nature leaves a woman, the power to give decent dinners. i shall be fearfully annoyed if any ridiculous thing happens." they sat in the morning-room together writing notes and talking, and as half-past twelve drew near, watching for the fishmonger's cart. once or twice lady maria spoke of lord walderhurst. "he is an interesting creature, to my mind," she said. "i have always rather liked him. he has original ideas, though he is not in the least brilliant. i believe he talks more freely to me, on the whole, than to most people, though i can't say he has a particularly good opinion of me. he stuck his glass in his eye and stared at me last night, in that weird way of his, and said to me, 'maria, in an ingenuous fashion of your own, you are the most abominably selfish woman i ever beheld.' still, i know he rather likes me. i said to him: 'that isn't quite true, james. i am selfish, but i'm not _abominably_ selfish. abominably selfish people always have nasty tempers, and no one can accuse me of having a nasty temper. i have the disposition of a bowl of bread and milk." "emily,"--as wheels rattled up the avenue,--"_is_ that the fishmonger's cart?" "no," answered emily at the window; "it is the butcher." "his attitude toward the women here has made my joy," lady maria proceeded, smiling over the deep-sea fishermen's knitted helmet she had taken up. "he behaves beautifully to them all, but not one of them has really a leg to stand on as far as he is responsible for it. but i will tell you something, emily." she paused. miss fox-seton waited with interested eyes. "he is thinking of bringing the thing to an end and marrying _some_ woman. i feel it in my bones." "do you think so?" exclaimed emily. "oh, i can't help hoping--" but she paused also. "you hope it will be agatha slade," lady maria ended for her. "well, perhaps it will be. i sometimes think it is agatha, if it's any one. and yet i'm not sure. one never could be sure with walderhurst. he has always had a trick of keeping more than his mouth shut. i wonder if he could have any other woman up his sleeve?" "why do you think--" began emily. lady maria laughed. "for an odd reason. the walderhursts have a ridiculously splendid ring in the family, which they have a way of giving to the women they become engaged to. it's ridiculous because--well, because a ruby as big as a trouser's button _is_ ridiculous. you can't get over that. there is a story connected with this one--centuries and things, and something about the woman the first walderhurst had it made for. she was a dame something or other who had snubbed the king for being forward, and the snubbing was so good for him that he thought she was a saint and gave the ruby for her betrothal. well, by the merest accident i found walderhurst had sent his man to town for it. it came two days ago." "oh, how interesting!" said emily, thrilled. "it _must_ mean something." "it is rather a joke. wheels again, emily. is _that_ the fishmonger?" emily went to the window once more. "yes," she answered, "if his name is buggle." "his name _is_ buggle," said lady maria, "and we are saved." but five minutes later the cook herself appeared at the morning-room door. she was a stout person, who panted, and respectfully removed beads of perspiration from her brow with a clean handkerchief. she was as nearly pale as a heated person of her weight may be. "and what has happened now, cook?" asked lady maria. "that buggle, your ladyship," said cook, "says your ladyship can't be no sorrier than he is, but when fish goes bad in a night it can't be made fresh in the morning. he brought it that i might see it for myself, and it is in a state as could not be used by any one. i was that upset, your ladyship, that i felt like i must come and explain myself." "what _can_ be done?" exclaimed lady maria. "emily, _do_ suggest something." "we can't even be sure," said the cook, "that batch has what would suit us. batch sometimes has it, but he is the fishmonger at maundell, and that is four miles away, and we are short-'anded, your ladyship, now the 'ouse is so full, and not a servant that could be spared." "dear me!" said lady maria. "emily, this is really enough to drive one quite mad. if everything was not out of the stables, i know you would drive over to maundell. you are such a good walker,"--catching a gleam of hope,--"do you think you could walk?" emily tried to look cheerful. lady maria's situation was really an awful one for a hostess. it would not have mattered in the least if her strong, healthy body had not been so tired. she was an excellent walker, and ordinarily eight miles would have meant nothing in the way of fatigue. she was kept in good training by her walking in town, springy moorland swept by fresh breezes was not like london streets. "i think i can manage it," she said nice-temperedly. "if i had not run about so much yesterday it would be a mere nothing. you must have the fish, of course. i will walk over the moor to maundell and tell batch it must be sent at once. then i will come back slowly. i can rest on the heather by the way. the moor is lovely in the afternoon." "you dear soul!" lady maria broke forth. "what a boon you are to a woman!" she felt quite grateful. there arose in her mind an impulse to invite emily fox-seton to remain the rest of her life with her, but she was too experienced an elderly lady to give way to impulses. she privately resolved, however, that she would have her a good deal in south audley street, and would make her some decent presents. when emily fox-seton, attired for her walk in her shortest brown linen frock and shadiest hat, passed through the hall, the post-boy was just delivering the midday letters to a footman. the servant presented his salver to her with a letter for herself lying upon the top of one addressed in lady claraway's handwriting "to the lady agatha slade." emily recognised it as one of the epistles of many sheets which so often made poor agatha shed slow and depressed tears. her own letter was directed in the well-known hand of mrs. cupp, and she wondered what it could contain. "i hope the poor things are not in any trouble," she thought. "they were afraid the young man in the sitting-room was engaged. if he got married and left them, i don't know what they would do; he has been so regular." though the day was hot, the weather was perfect, and emily, having exchanged her easy slippers for an almost equally easy pair of tan shoes, found her tired feet might still be used. her disposition to make the very best of things inspired her to regard even an eight-mile walk with courage. the moorland air was so sweet, the sound of the bees droning as they stumbled about in the heather was such a comfortable, peaceful thing, that she convinced herself that she should find the four miles to maundell quite agreeable. she had so many nice things to think of that she temporarily forgot that she had put mrs. cupp's letter in her pocket, and was half-way across the moor before she remembered it. "dear me!" she exclaimed when she recalled it. "i must see what has happened." she opened the envelope and began to read as she walked; but she had not taken many steps before she uttered an exclamation and stopped. "how very nice for them!" she said, but she turned rather pale. from a worldly point of view the news the letter contained was indeed very nice for the cupps, but it put a painful aspect upon the simple affairs of poor miss fox-seton. "it is a great piece of news, in one way," wrote mrs. cupp, "and yet me and jane can't help feeling a bit low at the thought of the changes it will make, and us living where you won't be with us, if i may take the liberty, miss. my brother william made a good bit of money in australia, but he has always been homesick for the old country, as he always calls england. his wife was a colonial, and when she died a year ago he made up his mind to come home to settle in chichester, where he was born. he says there's nothing like the feeling of a cathedral town. he's bought such a nice house a bit out, with a big garden, and he wants me and jane to come and make a home with him. he says he has worked hard all his life, and now he means to be comfortable, and he can't be bothered with housekeeping. he promises to provide well for us both, and he wants us to sell up mortimer street, and come as quick as possible. but we _shall_ miss you, miss, and though her uncle william keeps a trap and everything according, and jane is grateful for his kindness, she broke down and cried hard last night, and says to me: 'oh, mother, if miss fox-seton could just manage to take me as a maid, i would rather be it than anything. traps don't feed the heart, mother, and i've a feeling for miss fox-seton as is perhaps unbecoming to my station.' but we've got the men in the house ticketing things, miss, and we want to know what we shall do with the articles in your bed-sitting-room." the friendliness of the two faithful cupps and the humble turkey-red comforts of the bed-sitting-room had meant home to emily fox-seton. when she had turned her face and her tired feet away from discouraging errands and small humiliations and discomforts, she had turned them toward the bed-sitting-room, the hot little fire, the small, fat black kettle singing on the hob, and the two-and-eleven-penny tea-set. not being given to crossing bridges before she reached them, she had never contemplated the dreary possibility that her refuge might be taken away from her. she had not dwelt upon the fact that she had no other real refuge on earth. as she walked among the sun-heated heather and the luxuriously droning bees, she dwelt upon it now with a suddenly realising sense. as it came home to her soul, her eyes filled with big tears, which brimmed over and rolled down her cheeks. they dropped upon the breast of her linen blouse and left marks. "i shall have to find a new bed-sitting-room somewhere," she said, the breast of the linen blouse lifting itself sharply. "it will be so different to be in a house with strangers. mrs. cupp and jane--" she was obliged to take out her handkerchief at that moment. "i am afraid i can't get anything respectable for ten shillings a week. it was very cheap--and they were so nice!" all her fatigue of the early morning had returned. her feet began to burn and ache, and the sun felt almost unbearably hot. the mist in her eyes prevented her seeing the path before her. once or twice she stumbled over something. "it seems as if it must be farther than four miles," she said. "and then there is the walk back. i _am_ tired. but i must get on, really." chapter six the drive to the ruins had been a great success. it was a drive of just sufficient length to put people in spirits without fatiguing them. the party came back to lunch with delightful appetities. lady agatha and miss cora brooke had pink cheeks. the marquis of walderhurst had behaved charmingly to both of them. he had helped each of them to climb about among the ruins, and had taken them both up the steep, dark stairway of one of the towers, and stood with them looking over the turrets into the courtyard and the moat. he knew the history of the castle and could point out the banquet-hall and the chapel and the serving-places, and knew legends about the dungeons. "he gives us all a turn, mother," said miss cora brooke. "he even gave a turn yesterday to poor emily fox-seton. he's rather nice." there was a great deal of laughter at lunch after their return. miss cora brooke was quite brilliant in her gay little sallies. but though she was more talkative than lady agatha, she did not look more brilliant. the letter from curzon street had not made the beauty shed tears. her face had fallen when it had been handed to her on her return, and she had taken it upstairs to her room with rather a flagging step. but when she came down to lunch she walked with the movement of a nymph. her lovely little face wore a sort of tremulous radiance. she laughed like a child at every amusing thing that was said. she might have been ten years old instead of twenty-two, her colour, her eyes, her spirits seemed of a freshness so infantine. she was leaning back in her chair laughing enchantingly at one of miss brooke's sparkling remarks when lord walderhurst, who sat next to her, said suddenly, glancing round the table: "but where is miss fox-seton?" it was perhaps a significant fact that up to this moment nobody had observed her absence. it was lady maria who replied. "i am almost ashamed to answer," she said. "as i have said before, emily fox-seton has become the lodestar of my existence. i cannot live without her. she has walked over to maundell to make sure that we do not have a dinner-party without fish to-night." "she has _walked_ over to maundell," said lord walderhurst--"after yesterday?" "there was not a pair of wheels left in the stable," answered lady maria. "it is disgraceful, of course, but she is a splendid walker, and she said she was not too tired to do it. it is the kind of thing she ought to be given the victoria cross for--saving one from a dinner-party without fish." the marquis of walderhurst took up the cord of his monocle and fixed the glass rigidly in his eye. "it is not only four miles to maundell," he remarked, staring at the table-cloth, not at lady maria, "but it is four miles back." "by a singular coincidence," said lady maria. the talk and laughter went on, and the lunch also, but lord walderhurst, for some reason best known to himself, did not finish his. for a few seconds he stared at the table-cloth, then he pushed aside his nearly disposed-of cutlet, then he got up from his chair quietly. "excuse me, maria," he said, and without further ado went out of the room, and walked toward the stables. * * * * * there was excellent fish at maundell; batch produced it at once, fresh, sound, and desirable. had she been in her normal spirits, emily would have rejoiced at the sight of it, and have retraced her four miles to mallowe in absolute jubilation. she would have shortened and beguiled her return journey by depicting to herself lady maria's pleasure and relief. but the letter from mrs. cupp lay like a weight of lead in her pocket. it had given her such things to think of as she walked that she had been oblivious to heather and bees and fleece-bedecked summer-blue sky, and had felt more tired than in any tramp through london streets that she could call to mind. each step she took seemed to be carrying her farther away from the few square yards of home the bed-sitting-room had represented under the dominion of the cupps. every moment she recalled more strongly that it had been home--home. of course it had not been the third-floor back room so much as it had been the cupps who made it so, who had regarded her as a sort of possession, who had liked to serve her, and had done it with actual affection. "i shall have to find a new place," she kept saying. "i shall have to go among quite strange people." she had suddenly a new sense of being without resource. that was one of the proofs of the curious heaviness of the blow the simple occurrence was to her. she felt temporarily almost as if there were no other lodging-houses in london, though she knew that really there were tens of thousands. the fact was that though there might be other cupps, or their counterparts, she could not make herself believe such a good thing possible. she had been physically worn out before she had read the letter, and its effect had been proportionate to her fatigue and lack of power to rebound. she was vaguely surprised to feel that the tears kept filling her eyes and falling on her cheeks in big heavy drops. she was obliged to use her handkerchief frequently, as if she was suddenly developing a cold in her head. "i must take care," she said once, quite prosaically, but with more pathos in her voice than she was aware of, "or i shall make my nose quite red." [illustration: the marquis of walderhurst] though batch was able to supply fish, he was unfortunately not able to send it to mallowe. his cart had gone out on a round just before miss fox-seton's arrival, and there was no knowing when it would return. "then i must carry the fish myself," said emily. "you can put it in a neat basket." "i'm very sorry, miss; i am, indeed, miss," said batch, looking hot and pained. "it will not be heavy," returned emily; "and her ladyship must be sure of it for the dinner-party." so she turned back to recross the moor with a basket of fish on her arm. and she was so pathetically unhappy that she felt that so long as she lived the odour of fresh fish would make her feel sorrowful. she had heard of people who were made sorrowful by the odour of a flower or the sound of a melody but in her case it would be the smell of fresh fish that would make her sad. if she had been a person with a sense of humour, she might have seen that this was a thing to laugh at a little. but she was not a humorous woman, and just now---- "oh, i shall have to find a new place," she was thinking, "and i have lived in that little room for years." the sun got hotter and hotter, and her feet became so tired that she could scarcely drag one of them after another. she had forgotten that she had left mallowe before lunch, and that she ought to have got a cup of tea, at least, at maundell. before she had walked a mile on her way back, she realised that she was frightfully hungry and rather faint. "there is not even a cottage where i could get a glass of water," she thought. the basket, which was really comparatively light, began to feel heavy on her arm, and at length she felt sure that a certain burning spot on her left heel must be a blister which was being rubbed by her shoe. how it hurt her, and how tired she was--how tired! and when she left mallowe--lovely, luxurious mallowe--she would not go back to her little room all fresh from the cupps' autumn house-cleaning, which included the washing and ironing of her turkey-red hangings and chair-covers; she would be obliged to huddle into any poor place she could find. and mrs. cupp and jane would be in chichester. "but what good fortune it is for them!" she murmured. "they need never be anxious about the future again. how--how wonderful it must be to know that one need not be afraid of the future! i--indeed, i think i really must sit down." she sat down upon the sun-warmed heather and actually let her tear-wet face drop upon her hands. "oh, dear! oh, dear! oh, dear!" she said helplessly. "i must not let myself do this. i mustn't, oh, dear! oh, dear! oh, dear!" she was so overpowered by her sense of her own weakness that she was conscious of nothing but the fact that she must control it. upon the elastic moorland road wheels stole upon one without sound. so the wheels of a rapidly driven high cart approached her and were almost at her side before she lifted her head, startled by a sudden consciousness that a vehicle was near her. it was lord walderhurst's cart, and even as she gazed at him with alarmed wet eyes, his lordship descended from it and made a sign to his groom, who at once impassively drove on. emily's lips tried to tremble into a smile; she put out her hand fumblingly toward the fish-basket, and having secured it, began to rise. "i--sat down to rest," she faltered, even apologetically. "i walked to maundell, and it was so hot." just at that moment a little breeze sprang up and swept across her cheek. she was so grateful that her smile became less difficult. "i got what lady maria wanted," she added, and the childlike dimple in her cheek endeavoured to defy her eyes. the marquis of walderhurst looked rather odd. emily had never seen him look like this before. he took a silver flask out of his pocket in a matter-of-fact way, and filled its cup with something. "that is sherry," he said. "please drink it. you are absolutely faint." she held out her hand eagerly. she could not help it. "oh, thank you--thank you!" she said. "i am _so_ thirsty!" and she drank it as if it were the nectar of the gods. "now, miss fox-seton," he said, "please sit down again. i came here to drive you back to mallowe, and the cart will not come back for a quarter of an hour." "you came on purpose!" she exclaimed, feeling, in truth, somewhat awe-struck. "but how kind of you, lord walderhurst--how good!" it was the most unforeseen and amazing experience of her life, and at once she sought for some reason which could connect with his coming some more interesting person than mere emily fox-seton. oh,--the thought flashed upon her,--he had come for some reason connected with lady agatha. he made her sit down on the heather again, and he took a seat beside her. he looked straight into her eyes. "you have been crying," he remarked. there was no use denying it. and what was there in the good gray-brown eye, gazing through the monocle, which so moved her by its suggestion of kindness and--and some new feeling? "yes, i have," she admitted. "i don't often--but--well, yes, i have." "what was it?" it was the most extraordinary thump her heart gave at this moment. she had never felt such an absolute thump. it was perhaps because she was tired. his voice had lowered itself. no man had ever spoken to her before like that. it made one feel as if he was not an exalted person at all; only a kind, kind one. she must not presume upon his kindness and make much of her prosaic troubles. she tried to smile in a proper casual way. "oh, it was a small thing, really," was her effort at treating the matter lightly; "but it seems more important to me than it would to any one with--with a family. the people i live with--who have been so kind to me--are going away." "the cupps?" he asked. she turned quite round to look at him. "how," she faltered, "did you know about them?" "maria told me," he answered, "i asked her." it seemed such a human sort of interest to have taken in her. she could not understand. and she had thought he scarcely realised her existence. she said to herself that was so often the case--people were so much kinder than one knew. she felt the moisture welling in her eyes, and stared steadily at the heather, trying to wink it away. "i am really glad," she explained hastily. "it is such good fortune for them. mrs. cupp's brother has offered them such a nice home. they need never be anxious again." "but they will leave mortimer street--and you will have to give up your room." "yes. i must find another." a big drop got the better of her, and flashed on its way down her cheek. "i can find a room, perhaps, but--i can't find----" she was obliged to clear her throat. "that was why you cried?" "yes." after which she sat still. "you don't know where you will live?" "no." she was looking so straight before her and trying so hard to behave discreetly that she did not see that he had drawn nearer to her. but a moment later she realised it, because he took hold of her hand. his own closed over it firmly. "will you," he said--"i came here, in fact, to ask you if you will come and live with me?" her heart stood still, quite still. london was so full of ugly stories about things done by men of his rank--stories of transgressions, of follies, of cruelties. so many were open secrets. there were men, who, even while keeping up an outward aspect of respectability, were held accountable for painful things. the lives of well-born struggling women were so hard. sometimes such nice ones went under because temptation was so great. but she had not thought, she could not have dreamed---- she got on her feet and stood upright before him. he rose with her, and because she was a tall woman their eyes were on a level. her own big and honest ones were wide and full of crystal tears. "oh!" she said in helpless woe. "oh!" it was perhaps the most effective thing a woman ever did. it was so simple that it was heartbreaking. she could not have uttered a word, he was such a powerful and great person, and she was so without help or stay. since the occurring of this incident, she has often been spoken of as a beauty, and she has, without doubt, had her fine hours; but walderhurst has never told her that the most beautiful moment of her life was undoubtedly that in which she stood upon the heather, tall and straight and simple, her hands hanging by her sides, her large, tear-filled hazel eyes gazing straight into his. in the femininity of her frank defencelessness there was an appeal to nature's self in man which was not quite of earth. and for several seconds they stood so and gazed into each other's souls--the usually unilluminated nobleman and the prosaic young woman who lodged on a third floor back in mortimer street. then, quite quickly, something was lighted in his eyes, and he took a step toward her. "good heavens!" he demanded. "what do you suppose i am asking of you?" "i don't--know," she answered; "i don't--know." "my good girl," he said, even with some irritation, "i am asking you to be my wife. i am asking you to come and live with me in an entirely respectable manner, as the marchioness of walderhurst." emily touched the breast of her brown linen blouse with the tips of her fingers. "you--are--asking--_me_?" she said. "yes," he answered. his glass had dropped out of his eye, and he picked it up and replaced it. "there is black with the cart," he said. "i will explain myself with greater clearness as we drive back to mallowe." the basket of fish was put in the cart, and emily fox-seton was put in. then the marquis got in himself, and took the reins from his groom. "you will walk back, black," he said, "by that path," with a wave of the hand in a diverging direction. as they drove across the heather, emily was trembling softly from head to foot. she could have told no human being what she felt. only a woman who had lived as she had lived and who had been trained as she had been trained could have felt it. the brilliance of the thing which had happened to her was so unheard of and so undeserved, she told herself. it was so incredible that, even with the splendid gray mare's high-held head before her and lord walderhurst by her side, she felt that she was only part of a dream. men had never said "things" to her, and a man was saying them--the marquis of walderhurst was saying them. they were not the kind of things every man says or said in every man's way, but they so moved her soul that she quaked with joy. "i am not a marrying man," said his lordship, "but i must marry, and i like you better than any woman i have ever known. i do not generally like women. i am a selfish man, and i want an unselfish woman. most women are as selfish as i am myself. i used to like you when i heard maria speak of you. i have watched you and thought of you ever since i came here. you are necessary to every one, and you are so modest that you know nothing about it. you are a handsome woman, and you are always thinking of other women's good looks." emily gave a soft little gasp. "but lady agatha," she said. "i was sure it was lady agatha." "i don't want a girl," returned his lordship. "a girl would bore me to death. i am not going to dry-nurse a girl at the age of fifty-four. i want a companion." "but i am so _far_ from clever," faltered emily. the marquis turned in his driving-seat to look at her. it was really a very nice look he gave her. it made emily's cheeks grow pink and her simple heart beat. "you are the woman i want," he said. "you make me feel quite sentimental." when they reached mallowe, emily had upon her finger the ruby which lady maria had graphically described as being "as big as a trouser button." it was, indeed, so big that she could scarcely wear her glove over it. she was still incredible, but she was blooming like a large rose. lord walderhurst had said so many "things" to her that she seemed to behold a new heaven and a new earth. she had been so swept off her feet that she had not really been allowed time to think, after that first gasp, of lady agatha. when she reached her bedroom she almost returned to earth as she remembered it. neither of them had dreamed of this--neither of them. what could she say to lady agatha? what would lady agatha say to her, though it had not been her fault? she had not dreamed that such a thing could be possible. how could she, oh, how could she? she was standing in the middle of her room with clasped hands. there was a knock upon the door, and lady agatha herself came to her. what had occurred? something. it was to be seen in the girl's eyes, and in a certain delicate shyness in her manner. "something very nice has happened," she said. "something nice?" repeated emily. lady agatha sat down. the letter from curzon street was in her hand half unfolded. "i have had a letter from mamma. it seems almost bad taste to speak of it so soon, but we have talked to each other so much, and you are so kind, that i want to tell you myself. sir bruce norman has been to talk to papa about--about me." emily felt that her cup filled to the brim at the moment. "he is in england again?" agatha nodded gently. "he only went away to--well, to test his own feelings before he spoke. mamma is delighted with him. i am going home to-morrow." emily made a little swoop forward. "you always liked him?" she said. lady agatha's delicate mounting colour was adorable. "i was quite _unhappy_," she owned, and hid her lovely face in her hands. in the morning-room lord walderhurst was talking to lady maria. "you need not give emily fox-seton any more clothes, maria," he said. "i am going to supply her in future. i have asked her to marry me." lady maria lightly gasped, and then began to laugh. "well, james," she said, "you have certainly much more sense than most men of your rank and age." part two chapter seven when miss emily fox-seton was preparing for the extraordinary change in her life which transformed her from a very poor, hardworking woman into one of the richest marchionesses in england, lord walderhurst's cousin, lady maria bayne, was extremely good to her. she gave her advice, and though advice is a cheap present as far as the giver is concerned, there are occasions when it may be a very valuable one to the recipient. lady maria's was valuable to emily fox-seton, who had but one difficulty, which was to adjust herself to the marvellous fortune which had befallen her. there was a certain thing emily found herself continually saying. it used to break from her lips when she was alone in her room, when she was on her way to her dressmaker's, and in spite of herself, sometimes when she was with her whilom patroness. "i can't believe it is true! i can't believe it!" "i don't wonder, my dear girl," lady maria answered the second time she heard it. "but what circumstances demand of you is that you should learn to." "yes," said emily, "i know i must. but it seems like a dream. sometimes," passing her hand over her forehead with a little laugh, "i feel as if i should suddenly find myself wakened in the room in mortimer street by jane cupp bringing in my morning tea. and i can see the wallpaper and the turkey-red cotton curtains. one of them was an inch or so too short. i never could afford to buy the new bit, though i always intended to." "how much was the stuff a yard?" lady maria inquired. "sevenpence." "how many yards did you need?" "two. it would have cost one and twopence, you see. and i really could get on without it." lady maria put up her lorgnette and looked at her protégée with an interest which bordered on affection, it was so enjoyable to her epicurean old mind. "i didn't suspect it was as bad as that, emily," she said. "i should never have dreamed it. you managed to do yourself with such astonishing decency. you were actually nice--always." "i was very much poorer than anyone knew," said emily. "people don't like one's troubles. and when one is earning one's living as i was, one must be agreeable, you know. it would never do to seem tiresome." "there's cleverness in realising that fact," said lady maria. "you were always the most cheerful creature. that was one of the reasons walderhurst admired you." the future marchioness blushed all over. lady maria saw even her neck itself blush, and it amused her ladyship greatly. she was intensely edified by the fact that emily could be made to blush by the mere mention of her mature fiancé's name. "she's in such a state of mind about the man that she's delightful," was the old woman's internal reflection; "i believe she's in love with him, as if she was a nurse-maid and he was a butcher's boy." "you see," emily went on in her nice, confiding way (one of the most surprising privileges of her new position was that it made it possible for her to confide in old lady maria), "it was not only the living from day to day that made one anxious, it was the future!" (lady maria knew that the word began in this case with a capital letter.) "no one knows what the future is to poor women. one knows that one must get older, and one may not keep well, and if one could not be active and in good spirits, if one could not run about on errands, and things fell off, _what_ could one do? it takes hard work, lady maria, to keep up even the tiniest nice little room and the plainest presentable wardrobe, if one isn't clever. if i had been clever it would have been quite different, i dare say. i have been so frightened sometimes in the middle of the night, when i wakened and thought about living to be sixty-five, that i have lain and shaken all over. you see," her blush had so far disappeared that she looked for the moment pale at the memory, "i had nobody--nobody." "and now you are going to be the marchioness of walderhurst," remarked lady maria. emily's hands, which rested on her knee, wrung themselves together. "that is what it seems impossible to believe," she said, "or to be grateful enough for to--to--" and she blushed all over again. "say 'james'," put in lady maria, with a sinful if amiable sense of comedy; "you will have to get accustomed to thinking of him as 'james' sometimes, at all events." but emily did not say "james." there was something interesting in the innocent fineness of her feeling for lord walderhurst. in the midst of her bewildered awe and pleasure at the material splendours looming up in her horizon, her soul was filled with a tenderness as exquisite as the religion of a child. it was a combination of intense gratitude and the guileless passion of a hitherto wholly unawakened woman--a woman who had not hoped for love or allowed her thoughts to dwell upon it, and who therefore had no clear understanding of its full meaning. she could not have explained her feeling if she had tried, and she did not dream of trying. if a person less inarticulate than herself had translated it to her she would have been amazed and abashed. so would lord walderhurst have been amazed, so would lady maria; but her ladyship's amazement would have expressed itself after its first opening of the eyes, with a faint elderly chuckle. when miss fox-seton had returned to town she had returned with lady maria to south audley street. the mortimer street episode was closed, as was the cupps' house. mrs. cupp and jane had gone to chichester, jane leaving behind her a letter the really meritorious neatness of which was blotted by two or three distinct tears. jane respectfully expressed her affectionate rapture at the wondrous news which "modern society" had revealed to her before miss fox-seton herself had time to do so. "i am afraid, miss," she ended her epistle, "that i am not experienced enough to serve a lady in a grand position, but hoping it is not a liberty to ask it, if at any time your own maid should be wanting a young woman to work under her, i should be grateful to be remembered. perhaps having learned your ways, and being a good needlewoman and fond of it, might be a little recommendation for me." "i _should_ like to take jane for my maid," emily had said to lady maria. "do you think i might make her do?" "she would probably be worth half a dozen french minxes who would amuse themselves by getting up intrigues with your footmen," was lady maria's astute observation. "i would pay an extra ten pounds a year myself for slavish affection, if it was to be obtained at agency offices. send her to a french hairdresser to take a course of lessons, and she will be worth anything. to turn you out perfectly will be her life's ambition." to jane cupp's rapture the next post brought her the following letter:-- dear jane,--it is just like you to write such a nice letter to me, and i can assure you i appreciated all your good wishes very much. i feel that i have been most fortunate, and am, of course, very happy. i have spoken to lady maria bayne about you, and she thinks that you might make me a useful maid if i gave you the advantage of a course of lessons in hairdressing. i myself know that you would be faithful and interested and that i could not have a more trustworthy young woman. if your mother is willing to spare you, i will engage you. the wages would be thirty-five pounds a year (and beer, of course) to begin with, and an increase later as you became more accustomed to your duties. i am glad to hear that your mother is so well and comfortable. remember me to her kindly. yours truly, emily fox-seton jane cupp trembled and turned pale with joy as she read her letter. "oh, mother!" she said, breathless with happiness. "and to think she is almost a marchioness this very minute. i wonder if i shall go with her to oswyth castle first, or to mowbray, or to hurst?" "my word!" said mrs. cupp, "you are in luck, jane, being as you'd rather be a lady's maid than live private in chichester. you needn't go out to service, you know. your uncle's always ready to provide for you." "i know he is," answered jane, a little nervous lest obstacles might be put in the way of her achieving her long-cherished ambition. "and it's kind of him, and i'm sure i'm grateful. but--though i wouldn't hurt his feelings by mentioning it--it is more independent to be earning your own living, and there's more _life_, you see, in waiting on a titled lady and dressing her for drawing-rooms and parties and races and things, and travelling about with her to the grand places she lives in and visits. why, mother, i've heard tell that the society in the servants' halls is almost like high life. butlers and footmen and maids to high people has seen so much of the world and get such manners. do you remember how quiet and elegant susan hill was that was maid to lady cosbourne? and she'd been to greece and to india. if miss fox-seton likes travel and his lordship likes it, i may be taken to all sorts of wonderful places. just think!" she gave mrs. cupp a little clutch in her excitement. she had always lived in the basement kitchen of a house in mortimer street and had never had reason to hope she might leave it. and now! "you're right, jane!" her mother said, shaking her head. "there's a great deal in it, particular when you're young. there's a great deal in it." when the engagement of the marquis of walderhurst had been announced, to the consternation of many, lady maria had been in her element. she was really fine at times in her attitude towards the indiscreetly or tactlessly inquiring. her management of lady malfry in particular had been a delightful thing. on hearing of her niece's engagement, lady malfry had naturally awakened to a proper and well-behaved if belated interest in her. she did not fling herself upon her breast after the manner of worldly aunts in ancient comedies in which cinderella attains fortune. she wrote a letter of congratulation, after which she called at south audley street, and with not too great obviousness placed herself and her house at the disposal of such female relatives as required protection during the period of their preparation for becoming marchionesses. she herself could not have explained exactly how it was that, without being put through any particular process, she understood, before her call was half over, that emily's intention was to remain with lady maria bayne and that lady maria's intention was to keep her. the scene between the three was far too subtle to be of the least use upon the stage, but it was a good scene, nevertheless. its expression was chiefly, perhaps, a matter of inclusion and exclusion, and may also have been largely telepathic; but after it was over, lady maria chuckled several times softly to herself, like an elderly bird of much humour, and lady malfry went home feeling exceedingly cross. she was in so perturbed a humour that she dropped her eyelids and looked rather coldly down the bridge of her nose when her stupidly cheery little elderly husband said to her,-- "well, geraldine?" "i beg pardon," she replied. "i don't quite understand." "of course you do. how about emily fox-seton?" "she seems very well, and of course she is well satisfied. it would not be possible for her to be otherwise. lady maria bayne has taken her up." "she is walderhurst's cousin. well, well! it will be an immense position for the girl." "immense," granted lady malfry, with a little flush. a certain tone in her voice conveyed that discussion was terminated. sir george knew that her niece was not coming to them and that the immense position would include themselves but slightly. emily was established temporarily at south audley street with jane cupp as her maid. she was to be married from lady maria's lean old arms, so to speak. her ladyship derived her usual epicurean enjoyment from the whole thing,--from too obviously thwarted mothers and daughters; from walderhurst, who received congratulations with a civilly inexpressive countenance which usually baffled the observer; from emily, who was overwhelmed by her emotions, and who was of a candour in action such as might have appealed to any heart not adapted by the flintiness of its nature to the macadamising of roads. if she had not been of the most unpretentious nice breeding and unaffected taste, emily might have been ingenuously funny in her process of transformation. "i keep forgetting that i can afford things," she said to lady maria. "yesterday i walked such a long way to match a piece of silk, and when i was tired i got into a penny bus. i did not remember until it was too late that i ought to have called a hansom. do you think," a shade anxiously, "that lord walderhurst would mind?" "just for the present, perhaps, it would be as well that i should see that you shop in the carriage," her ladyship answered with a small grin. "when you are a marchioness you may make penny buses a feature of the distinguished _insouciance_ of your character if you like. i shouldn't myself, because they jolt and stop to pick up people, but you can, with originality and distinction, if it amuses you." "it doesn't," said emily. "i hate them. i have longed to be able to take hansoms. oh! how i have _longed_--when i was tired." the legacy left her by old mrs. maytham had been realised and deposited as a solid sum in a bank. since she need no longer hoard the income of twenty pounds a year, it was safe to draw upon her capital for her present needs. the fact made her feel comfortable. she could make her preparations for the change in her life with a decent independence. she would have been definitely unhappy if she had been obliged to accept favours at this juncture. she felt as if she could scarcely have borne it. it seemed as if everything conspired to make her comfortable as well as blissfully happy in these days. lord walderhurst found an interest in watching her and her methods. he was a man who, in certain respects, knew himself very well and had few illusions respecting his own character. he had always been rather given to matter-of-fact analysis of his own emotions; and at mallowe he had once or twice asked himself if it was not disagreeably possible that the first moderate glow of his st. martin's summer might die away and leave him feeling slightly fatigued and embarrassed by the new aspect of his previously regular and entirely self-absorbed existence. you might think that you would like to marry a woman and then you might realise that there were objections--that even the woman herself, with all her desirable qualities, might be an objection in the end, that any woman might be an objection; in fact, that it required an effort to reconcile oneself to the fact of a woman's being continually about. of course the arriving at such a conclusion, after one had committed oneself, would be annoying. walderhurst had, in fact, only reflected upon this possible aspect of affairs _before_ he had driven over the heath to pick emily up. afterwards he had, in some remote portion of his mentality, vaguely awaited developments. when he saw emily day by day at south audley street, he found he continued to like her. he was not clever enough to analyse her; he could only watch her, and he always looked on at her with curiosity and a novel sensation rather like pleasure. she wakened up at sight of him, when he called, in a way that was attractive even to an unimaginative man. her eyes seemed to warm, and she often looked flushed and softly appealing. he began to note vaguely that her dresses were better, and oftener changed, than they had been at mallowe. a more observant man might have been touched by the suggestion that she was unfolding petal by petal like a flower, and that each carefully chosen costume was a new petal. he did not in the least suspect the reverent eagerness of her care of herself as an object hoping to render itself worthy of his qualities and tastes. his qualities and tastes were of no exalted importance in themselves, but they seemed so to emily. it is that which by one chance or another so commends itself to a creature as to incite it to the emotion called love, which is really of importance, and which, not speaking in figures, holds the power of life and death. personality sometimes achieves this, circumstances always aid it; but in all cases the result is the same and sways the world it exists in--during its existence. emily fox-seton had fallen deeply and touchingly in love with this particular prosaic, well-behaved nobleman, and her whole feminine being was absorbed in her adoration of him. her tender fancy described him by adjectives such as no other human being would have assented to. she felt that he had condescended to her with a generosity which justified worship. this was not true, but it was true for her. as a consequence of this she thought out and purchased her wardrobe with a solemnity of purpose such as might well have been part of a religious ceremonial. when she consulted fashion plates and lady maria, or when she ordered a gown at her ladyship's dressmaker's, she had always before her mind, not herself, but the marchioness of walderhurst--a marchioness of walderhurst whom the marquis would approve of and be pleased with. she did not expect from him what sir bruce norman gave to lady agatha. agatha and her lover were of a different world. she saw them occasionally, not often, because the simple selfishness of young love so absorbed them that they could scarcely realise the existence of other persons than themselves. they were to be married, and to depart for fairyland as soon as possible. both were fond of travel, and when they took ship together their intention was to girdle the world at leisure, if they felt so inclined. they could do anything they chose, and were so blissfully sufficient for each other that there was no reason why they should not follow their every errant fancy. the lines which had been increasing in lady claraway's face had disappeared, and left her blooming with the beauty her daughters had reproduced. this delightful marriage had smoothed away every difficulty. sir bruce was the "most charming fellow in england." that fact acted as a charm in itself, it seemed. it was not necessary to go into details as to the mollifying of tradespeople and rearranging of the entire aspect of life at curzon street. when agatha and emily fox-seton met in town for the first time--it was in the drawing room at south audley street--they clasped each other's hands with an exchange of entirely new looks. "you look so--so _well_, miss fox-seton," said agatha, with actual tenderness. if she had not been afraid of seeming a little rudely effusive she would have said "handsome" instead of "well," for emily was sweetly blooming. "happiness is becoming to you," she added. "may i say how _glad_ i am?" "thank you, thank you!" emily answered. "everything in the world seems changed, doesn't it?" "yes, everything." they stood and gazed into each other's eyes a few seconds, and then loosed hands with a little laugh and sat down to talk. it was, in fact, lady agatha who talked most, because emily fox-seton led her on and aided her to delicate expansion by her delight in all that in these days made up her existence of pure bliss. it was as if an old-time fairy story were being enacted before emily's eyes. agatha without doubt had grown lovelier, she thought; she seemed even fairer, more willowy, the forget-me-not eyes were of a happier blue, as forget-me-nots growing by clear water-sides are bluer than those grown in a mere garden. she appeared, perhaps, even a little taller, and her small head had, if such a thing were possible, a prettier flower-like poise. this, at least, emily thought, and found her own happiness added to by her belief in her fancy. she felt that nothing was to be wondered at when she heard agatha speak of sir bruce. she could not utter his name or refer to any act of his without a sound in her voice which had its parallel in the light floating haze of blush on her cheeks. in her intercourse with the world in general she would have been able to preserve her customary sweet composure, but emily fox-seton was not the world. she represented a something which was so primitively of the emotions that one's heart spoke and listened to her. agatha was conscious that miss fox-seton had seen at mallowe--she could never quite understand how it had seemed so naturally to happen--a phase of her feelings which no one else had seen before. bruce had seen it since, but only bruce. there had actually been a sort of confidence between them--a confidence which had been like intimacy, though neither of them had been effusive. "mamma is so happy," the girl said. "it is quite wonderful. and alix and hilda and millicent and eve--oh! it makes such a difference to them. i shall be able," with a blush which expressed a world of relieved affection, "to give them so much pleasure. any girl who marries happily and--and well--can alter everything for her sisters, if she _remembers_. you see, i shall have reason to remember. i know things from experience. and bruce is so kind, and gay, and proud of their prettiness. just imagine their excitement at all being bridesmaids! bruce says we shall be like a garden of spring flowers. i am so glad," her eyes suddenly quite heavenly in their joyful relief, "that he is _young_!" the next second the heavenly relieved look died away. the exclamation had been involuntary. it had sprung from her memory of the days when she had dutifully accepted, as her portion, the possibility of being smiled upon by walderhurst, who was two years older than her father, and her swift realisation of this fact troubled her. it was indelicate to have referred to the mental image even ever so vaguely. but emily fox-seton was glad too that sir bruce was young, that they were all young, and that happiness had come before they had had time to tire of waiting for it. she was so happy herself that she questioned nothing. "yes. it is nice," she answered, and glowed with honest sympathy. "you will want to do the same things. it is so agreeable when people who are married like to do the same things. perhaps you will want to go out a great deal and to travel, and you could not enjoy it if sir bruce did not." she was not reflecting in the least upon domestic circles whose male heads are capable of making themselves extremely nasty under stress of invitations it bores them to accept, and the inclination of wives and daughters to desire acceptance. she was not contemplating with any premonitory regrets a future in which, when walderhurst did not wish to go out to dinner or disdained a ball, she should stay at home. far from it. she simply rejoiced with lady agatha, who was twenty-two marrying twenty-eight. "you are not like me," she explained further. "i have had to work so hard and contrive so closely that _everything_ will be a pleasure to me. just to know that i _never_ need starve to death or go into the workhouse is such a relief that--" "oh!" exclaimed lady agatha, quickly and involuntarily laying a hand on hers, startled by the fact that she spoke as if referring to a wholly matter-of-fact possibility. emily smiled, realising her feeling. "perhaps i ought not to have said that. i forgot. but such things are possible when one is too old to work and has nothing to depend on. you could scarcely understand. when one is very poor one is frightened, because occasionally one cannot help thinking of it." "but now--now! oh! how different!" exclaimed agatha, with heartfelt earnestness. "yes. now i need never be afraid. it makes me so grateful to--lord walderhurst." her neck grew pink as she said it, just as lady maria had seen it grow pink on previous occasions. moderate as the words were, they expressed ardour. lord walderhurst came in half an hour later and found her standing smiling by the window. "you look particularly well, emily. it's that white frock, i suppose. you ought to wear a good deal of white," he said. "i will," emily answered. he observed that she wore the nice flush and the soft appealing look, as well as the white frock. "i wish--" here she stopped, feeling a little foolish. "what do you wish?" "i wish i could do more to please you than wear white--or black--when you like." he gazed at her, always through the single eyeglass. even the vaguest approach to emotion or sentiment invariably made him feel stiff and shy. realising this, he did not quite understand why he rather liked it in the case of emily fox-seton, though he only liked it remotely and felt his own inaptness a shade absurd. "wear yellow or pink occasionally," he said with a brief, awkward laugh. what large, honest eyes the creature had, like a fine retriever's or those of some nice animal one saw in the zoo! "i will wear anything you like," she said, the nice eyes meeting his, not the least stupidly, he reflected, though women who were affectionate often looked stupid. "i will do anything you like; you don't know what you have done for me, lord walderhurst." they moved a trifle nearer to each other, this inarticulate pair. he dropped his eyeglass and patted her shoulder. "say 'walderhurst' or 'james'--or--or 'my dear,'" he said. "we are going to be married, you know." and he found himself going to the length of kissing her cheek with some warmth. "i sometimes wish," she said feelingly, "that it was the fashion to say 'my lord' as lady castlewood used to do in 'esmond.' i always thought it nice." "women are not so respectful to their husbands in these days," he answered, with his short laugh. "and men are not so dignified." "lord castlewood was not very dignified, was he?" he chuckled a little. "no. but his rank was, in the reign of queen anne. these are democratic days. i'll call you 'my lady' if you like." "oh! no--no!" with fervour, "i wasn't thinking of anything like that." "i know you were not," he reassured her. "you are not that kind of woman." "oh! how _could_ i be?" "_you_ couldn't," good-naturedly. "that's why i like you." then he began to tell her his reason for calling at this particular hour. he came to prepare her for a visit from the osborns, who had actually just returned from india. captain osborn had chosen, or chance had chosen for him, this particular time for a long leave. as soon as she heard the name of osborn, emily's heart beat a little quickly. she had naturally learned a good deal of detail from lady maria since her engagement. alec osborn was the man who, since lord walderhurst's becoming a widower, had lived in the gradually strengthening belief that the chances were that it would be his enormous luck to inherit the title and estates of the present marquis of walderhurst. he was not a very near relation, but he was the next of kin. he was a young man and a strong one, and walderhurst was fifty-four and could not be called robust. his medical man did not consider him a particularly good life, though he was not often ill. "he's not the kind of chap who lives to be a hundred and fifty. i'll say that for him," alec osborn had said at mess after dinner had made him careless of speech, and he had grinned not too pleasantly when he uttered the words. "the only thing that would completely wipe my eye isn't as likely to happen to him as to most men. he's unsentimental and level headed, and doesn't like marriage. you can imagine how he's chivied by women. a fellow in his position couldn't be let alone. but he doesn't like marriage, and he's a man who knows jolly well what he likes and what he doesn't. the only child died, and if he doesn't marry again, i'm in a safe place. good lord! the difference it would make!" and his grin extended itself. it was three months after this that the marquis of walderhurst followed emily fox-seton out upon the heath, and finding her sitting footsore and depressed in spirit beside the basket of lady maria's fish, asked her to marry him. when the news reached him, alec osborn went and shut himself up in his quarters and blasphemed until his face was purple and big drops of sweat ran down it. it was black bad luck--it was black bad luck, and it called for black curses. what the articles of furniture in the room in the bungalow heard was rather awful, but captain osborn did not feel that it did justice to the occasion. when her husband strode by her to his apartment, mrs. osborn did not attempt to follow him. she had only been married two years, but she knew his face too well; and she also knew too well all the meaning of the fury contained in the words he flung at her as he hurled himself past her. "walderhurst is going to be married!" mrs. osborn ran into her own room and sat down clutching at her hair as she dropped her face in her little dark hands. she was an anglo-indian girl who had never been home, and had not had much luck in life at any time, and her worst luck had been in being handed over by her people to this particular man, chiefly because he was the next of kin to lord walderhurst. she was a curious, passionate creature, and had been in love with him in her way. her family had been poor and barely decently disreputable. she had lived on the outskirts of things, full of intense girlish vanity and yearnings for social recognition, poorly dressed, passed over and snubbed by people she aspired to know socially, seeing other girls with less beauty and temperament enjoying flirtations with smart young officers, biting her tongue out with envy and bitterness of thwarted spirit. so when captain osborn cast an eye on her and actually began a sentimental episode, her relief and excitement at finding herself counting as other girls did wrought itself up into a passion. her people were prompt and sharp enough to manage the rest, and osborn was married before he knew exactly whither he was tending. he was not pleased with himself when he wakened to face facts. he could only console himself for having been cleverly led and driven into doing the thing he did not want to do, by the facts that the girl was interesting and clever and had a good deal of odd un-english beauty. it was a beauty so un-english that it would perhaps appear to its greatest advantage in the contrasts afforded by life in england. she was so dark, of heavy hair and drooping-lidded eyes and fine grained skin, and so sinuous of lithe, slim body, that among native beauties she seemed not to be sufficiently separated by marks of race. she had tumbled up from childhood among native servants, who were almost her sole companions, and who had taught her curious things. she knew their stories and songs, and believed in more of their occult beliefs than any but herself knew. she knew things which made her interesting to alec osborn, who had a bullet head and a cruel lower jaw, despite a degree of the ordinary good looks. the fact that his chances were good for becoming marquis of walderhurst and taking her home to a life of english luxury and splendour was a thing she never forgot. it haunted her in her sleep. she had often dreamed of oswyth castle and of standing amidst great people on the broad lawns her husband had described feelingly during tropical days when they had sat together panting for breath. when there had been mention made of the remote, awful possibility that walderhurst might surrender to the siege laid to him, she had turned sick at the thought. it made her clench her hands until the nails almost pressed into the skin of her palms. she could not bear it. she had made osborn burst into a big, harsh laugh one day when she had hinted to him that there were occult things to be done which might prevent ill luck. he had laughed first and scowled afterwards, cynically saying that she might as well be working them up. he had not come out to india followed by regrets and affection. he had been a black sheep at home, and had rather been hustled away than otherwise. if he had been a more admirable kind of fellow, walderhurst would certainly have made him an allowance; but his manner of life had been such as the marquis had no patience with in men of any class, and especially abhorred in men whom the accident of birth connected with good names. he had not been lavish in his demonstrations of interest in the bullet-headed young man. osborn's personableness was not of a kind attractive to the unbiassed male observer. men saw his cruel young jowl and low forehead, and noticed that his eyes were small. he had a good, swaggering military figure to which uniform was becoming, and a kind of animal good looks which would deteriorate early. his colour would fix and deepen with the aid of steady daily drinking, and his features would coarsen and blur, until by the time he was forty the young jowl would have grown heavy and would end by being his most prominent feature. while he had remained in england, walderhurst had seen him occasionally, and had only remarked and heard unpleasant things of him,--a tendency to selfish bad manners, reckless living, and low flirtation. he once saw him on the top of a bus with his arm round the waist of an awful, giggling shop-girl kind of person, who was adorned with tremendous feathers and a thick fringe coming unfrizzled with the heat and sticking out here and there in straight locks on her moist forehead. osborn thought that the arm business had been cleverly managed with such furtiveness that no one could see it, but walderhurst was driving solemnly by in his respectable barouche, and he found himself gazing through his monocle directly at his relative, and seeing, from the street below, the point at which the young man's arm lost itself under the profusely beaded short cape. a dull flush rose to his countenance, and he turned away without showing any sign of recognition; but he was annoyed and disgusted, because this particular kind of blatantly vulgar bad taste was the sort of thing he loathed. it was the sort of thing which made duchesses of women who did alluring "turns" at music halls or sang suggestive songs in comic opera, and transformed into the chatelaines of ancient castles young persons who had presided at the ribbon counter. he saw as little as possible of his heir presumptive after this, and if the truth were told, captain alec osborn was something of a factor in the affair of miss emily fox-seton. if walderhurst's infant son had lived, or if osborn had been a refined, even if dull, fellow, there are ten chances to one his lordship would have chosen no second marchioness. captain osborn's life in india had not ended in his making no further debts. he was not a man to put the brake on in the matter of self-indulgence. he got into debt so long as a shred of credit remained to him, and afterwards he tried to add to his resources by cards and betting at races. he made and lost by turn, and was in a desperate state when he got his leave. he applied for it because he had conceived the idea that his going home as a married man might be a good thing for him. hester, it seemed not at all improbable, might accomplish something with walderhurst. if she talked to him in her interesting semi-oriental way, and was fervid and picturesque in her storytelling, he might be attracted by her. she had her charm, and when she lifted the heavy lids of her long black eyes and fixed her gaze upon her hearer as she talked about the inner side of native life, of which she knew such curious, intimate things, people always listened, even in india, where the thing was not so much of a novelty, and in england she might be a sort of sensation. osborn managed to convey to her gradually, by a process of his own, a great deal of what he wanted her to do. during the months before the matter of the leave was quite decided, he dropped a word here and there which carried a good deal of suggestion to a mind used to seizing on passing intimations. the woman who had been hester's ayah when she was a child had become her maid. she was a woman with a wide, silent acquaintance with her own people. she was seldom seen talking to anyone and seldom seemed to leave the house, but she always knew everything. her mistress was aware that if at any time she chose to ask her a question about the secret side of things concerning black or white peoples, she would receive information to be relied upon. she felt that she could have heard from her many things concerning her husband's past, present, and future, and that the matter of the probable succession was fully comprehended by her. when she called her into the room after recovering outwardly from her hour of desperation, she saw that the woman was already aware of the blow that had fallen upon the household. what they said to each other need not be recorded here, but there was more in the conversation than the mere words uttered, and it was one of several talks held before mrs. osborn sailed for england with her husband. "he may be led into taking into consideration the fact that he has cut the ground from under a fellow's feet and left him dangling in the air," said osborn to his wife. "best thing will be to make friends with the woman, hang her!" "yes, alec, yes," hester osborn answered, just a little feverishly. "we must make friends with her. they say she is a good sort and was frightfully poor herself." "she won't be poor now, hang her!" remarked captain osborn with added fervour. "i should like to break her neck! i wonder if she rides?" "i'm sure she has not been well enough off to do anything like that." "good idea to begin to teach her." and he laughed as he turned on his heel and began to walk the deck with a fellow passenger. it was these people lord walderhurst had come to prepare her for. "maria has told you about them, i know," he said. "i dare say she has been definite enough to explain that i consider osborn altogether undesirable. under the veneer of his knowledge of decent customs he is a cad. i am obliged to behave civilly to the man, but i dislike him. if he had been born in a low class of life, he would have been a criminal." "oh!" emily exclaimed. "any number of people would be criminals if circumstances did not interfere. it depends a good deal on the shape of one's skull." "oh!" exclaimed emily again, "do you think so?" she believed that people who were bad were bad from preference, though she did not at all understand the preference. she had accepted from her childhood everything she had ever heard said in a pulpit. that walderhurst should propound ideas such as ministers of the church of england might regard as heretical startled her, but he could have said nothing startling enough to shake her affectionate allegiance. "yes, i do," he answered. "osborn's skull is quite the wrong shape." but when, a short time after, captain osborn brought the skull in question into the room, covered in the usual manner with neatly brushed, close-cropped hair, emily thought it a very nice shape indeed. perhaps a trifle hard and round-looking and low of forehead, but not shelving or bulging as the heads of murderers in illustrated papers generally did. she owned to herself that she did not see what lord walderhurst evidently saw, but then she did not expect of herself an intelligence profound enough to follow his superior mental flights. captain osborn was well groomed and well mannered, and his demeanour towards herself was all that the most conventional could have demanded. when she reflected that she herself represented in a way the possible destruction of his hopes of magnificent fortune, she felt almost tenderly towards him, and thought his easy politeness wonderful. mrs. osborn, too! how interesting and how beautiful in an odd way mrs. osborn was! every movement of her exceeding slimness was curiously graceful. emily remembered having read novels whose heroines were described as "undulating." mrs. osborn was undulating. her long, drooping, and dense black eyes were quite unlike other girls' eyes. emily had never seen anything like them. and she had such a lonely, slow, shy way of lifting them to look at people. she was obliged to look up at tall emily. she seemed a schoolgirl as she stood near her. emily was the kind of mistaken creature whose conscience, awakening to unnecessary remorses, causes its owner at once to assume all the burdens which fate has laid upon the shoulders of others. she began to feel like a criminal herself, irrespective of the shape of her skull. her own inordinate happiness and fortune had robbed this unoffending young couple. she wished that it had not been so, and vaguely reproached herself without reasoning the matter out to a conclusion. at all events, she was remorsefully sympathetic in her mental attitude towards mrs. osborn, and being sure that she was frightened of her husband's august relative, felt nervous herself because lord walderhurst bore himself with unrelated courtesy and kept his monocle fixed in his eye throughout the interview. if he had let it drop and allowed it to dangle in an unbiassed manner from its cord, emily would have felt more comfortable, because she was sure his demeanour would have appeared a degree more encouraging to the osborns. "are you glad to be in england again?" she asked mrs. osborn. "i never was here before," answered the young woman. "i have never been anywhere but in india." in the course of the conversation she explained that she had not been a delicate child, and also conveyed that even if she had been one, her people could not have afforded to send her home. instinct revealed to emily that she had not had many of the good things of life, and that she was not a creature of buoyant spirits. the fact that she had spent a good many hours of most of her young days in reflecting on her ill-luck had left its traces on her face, particularly in the depths of her slow-moving, black eyes. they had come, it appeared, in the course of duty, to pay their respects to the woman who was to be their destruction. to have neglected to do so would have made them seem to assume an indiscreet attitude towards the marriage. "they can't like it, of course," lady maria summed them up afterwards, "but they have made up their minds to lump it as respectably as possible." "i am _so_ sorry for them," said emily. "of course you are. and you will probably show them all sorts of indiscreet kindnesses, but don't be too altruistic, my good emily. the man is odious, and the girl looks like a native beauty. she rather frightens me." "i don't think captain osborn is odious," emily answered. "and she _is_ pretty, you know. she is frightened of us, really." remembering days when she herself had been at a disadvantage with people who were fortunate enough to be of importance, and recalling what her secret tremor before them had been, emily was very nice indeed to little mrs. osborn. she knew from experience things which would be of use to her--things about lodgings and things about shops. osborn had taken lodgings in duke street, and emily knew the quarter thoroughly. walderhurst watched her being nice, through his fixed eyeglass, and he decided that she had really a very good manner. its goodness consisted largely in its directness. while she never brought forth unnecessarily recollections of the days when she had done other people's shopping and had purchased for herself articles at sales marked - / _d_, she was interestingly free from any embarrassment in connection with the facts. walderhurst, who had been much bored by himself and other people in time past, actually found that it gave a fillip to existence to look on at a woman who, having been one of the hardest worked of the genteel labouring classes, was adapting herself to the role of marchioness by the simplest of processes, and making a very nice figure at it too, in her entirely unbrilliant way. if she had been an immensely clever woman, there would have been nothing special in it. she was not clever at all, yet walderhurst had seen her produce effects such as a clever woman might have laboured for and only attained by a stroke of genius. as, for instance, when she had met for the first time after her engagement, a certain particularly detestable woman of rank, to whom her relation to walderhurst was peculiarly bitter. the duchess of merwold had counted the marquis as her own, considering him fitted by nature to be the spouse of her eldest girl, a fine young woman with projecting teeth, who had hung fire. she felt emily fox-seton's incomprehensible success to be a piece of impudent presumption, and she had no reason to restrain the expression of her sentiments so long as she conveyed them by methods of inference and inclusion. "you must let me congratulate you very warmly, miss fox-seton," she said, pressing her hand with maternal patronage. "your life has changed greatly since we last saw each other." "very greatly indeed," emily flushed frankly in innocent gratitude as she answered. "you are very kind. thank you, thank you." "yes, a great change." walderhurst saw that her smile was feline and asked himself what the woman was going to say next. "the last time we met you called to ask me about the shopping you were to do for me. do you remember? stockings and gloves, i think." walderhurst observed that she expected emily to turn red and show herself at a loss before the difficulties of the situation. he was on the point of cutting into the conversation and disposing of the matter himself when he realised that emily was neither gaining colour nor losing it, but was looking honestly into her grace's eyes with just a touch of ingenuous regret. "it was stockings," she said. "there were some marked down to one and elevenpence halfpenny at barratt's. they were really _quite_ good for the price. and you wanted four pairs. and when i got there they were all gone, and those at two and three were not the least bit better. i was so disappointed. it was too bad!" walderhurst fixed his monocle firmly to conceal the fact that he was verging upon a cynical grin. the woman was known to be the stingiest of small great persons in london, her economies were noted, and this incident was even better than many others society had already rejoiced over. the picture raised in the minds of the hearers of her grace foiled in the purchase of stockings marked down to _s_. - / _d_. would be a source of rapture for some time to come. and emily's face! the regretful kindness of it, the retrospective sympathy and candid feeling! it was incredibly good! "and she did it quite by accident!" he repeated to himself in his inward glee. "she did it quite by accident! she's not clever enough to have done it on purpose. what a brilliantly witty creature she would be if she had invented it!" as she had been able unreluctantly to recall her past upon this occasion, so she was able to draw for mrs. osborn's benefit from the experience it had afforded her. she wanted to make up to her, in such ways as she could, for the ill turn she had inadvertently done her. as she had at once ranged herself as an aid on the side of lady agatha, so she ranged herself entirely without obtrusiveness on the side of the osborns. "it's true that she's a good sort," hester said when they went away. "her days of being hard up are not far enough away to be forgotten. she hasn't any affectation, at any rate. it makes it easier to stand her." "she looks like a strong woman," said osborn. "walderhurst got a good deal for his money. she'll make a strapping british matron." hester winced and a dusky red shot up in her cheek. "so she will," she sighed. it was quite true, and the truer it was the worse for people who despairingly hung on and were foolish enough to hope against hope. chapter eight the marriage of lady agatha came first, and was a sort of pageant. the female writers for fashion papers lived upon it for weeks before it occurred and for some time after. there were numberless things to be written about it. each flower of the garden of girls was to be described, with her bridesmaid's dress, and the exquisite skin and eyes and hair which would stamp her as the beauty of her season when she came out. there yet remained five beauties in lady claraway's possession, and the fifth was a baby thing of six, who ravished all beholders as she toddled into church carrying her sister's train, aided by a little boy page in white velvet and point lace. the wedding was the most radiant of the year. it was indeed a fairy pageant, of youth and beauty, and happiness and hope. one of the most interesting features of the occasion was the presence of the future marchioness of walderhurst, "the beautiful miss fox-seton." the fashion papers were very strenuous on the subject of emily's beauty. one of them mentioned that the height and pose of her majestic figure and the cut of her profile suggested the venus of milo. jane cupp cut out every paragraph she could find and, after reading them aloud to her young man, sent them in a large envelope to chichester. emily, faithfully endeavouring to adjust herself to the demands of her approaching magnificence, was several times alarmed by descriptions of her charms and accomplishments which she came upon accidentally in the course of her reading of various periodicals. the walderhurst wedding was dignified and distinguished, but not radiant. the emotions emily passed through during the day--from her awakening almost at dawn to the silence of her bedroom at south audley street, until evening closed in upon her sitting in the private parlour of an hotel in the company of the marquis of walderhurst--it would require too many pages to describe. her first realisation of the day brought with it the physical consciousness that her heart was thumping--steadily thumping, which is quite a different matter from the ordinary beating--at the realisation of what had come at last. an event which a year ago the wildest dream could not have depicted for her was to-day an actual fact; a fortune such as she would have thought of with awe if it had befallen another woman, had befallen her unpretending self. she passed her hand over her forehead and gasped as she thought of it. "i hope i shall be able to get accustomed to it and not be a--a disappointment," she said. "oh!" with a great rising wave of a blush, "how good of him! how can i _ever_--" she lived through the events of the day in a sort of dream within a dream. when jane cupp brought her tea, she found herself involuntarily making a mental effort to try to look as if she was really awake. jane, who was an emotional creature, was inwardly so shaken by her feelings that she herself had stood outside the door a few moments biting her lips to keep them from trembling, before she dared entirely trust herself to come in. her hand was far from steady as she set down the tray. "good morning, jane," emily said, by way of trying the sound of her voice. "good morning, miss," jane answered. "it's a beautiful morning, miss. i hope--you are very well?" and then the day had begun. afterwards it marched on with solemn thrill and stately movement through hours of wondrous preparation for an imposing function, through the splendid gravity of the function itself, accompanied by brilliant crowds collected and looking on in a fashionable church, and motley crowds collected to look on outside the edifice, the latter pushing and jostling each other and commenting in more or less respectful if excited undertones, but throughout devouring with awe-struck or envious eyes. great people whom emily had only known through the frequent mention of their names in newspapers or through their relationship or intimacy with her patrons, came to congratulate her in her rôle of bride. she seemed to be for hours the centre of a surging, changing crowd, and her one thought was to bear herself with an outward semblance of composure. no one but herself could know that she was saying internally over and over again, to steady herself, making it all seem real, "i am being married. this is my wedding. i am emily fox-seton being married to the marquis of walderhurst. for his sake i must not look stupid or excited. i am not in a dream." how often she said this after the ceremony was over and they returned to south audley street, for the wedding breakfast could scarcely be computed. when lord walderhurst helped her from the carriage and she stepped on to the strip of red carpet and saw the crowd on each side of it and the coachman and footmen with their big white wedding favours and the line of other equipages coming up, her head whirled. "that's the marchioness," a young woman with a bandbox exclaimed, nudging her companion. "that's 'er! looks a bit pale, doesn't she?" "but, oh gawd! look at them di-monds an' pearls--jess look at 'em!" cried the other. "wish it was me." the breakfast seemed splendid and glittering and long; people seemed splendid and glittering and far off; and by the time emily went to change her bridal magnificence for her travelling costume she had borne as much strain as she was equal to. she was devoutly grateful for the relief of finding herself alone in her bedroom with jane cupp. "jane," she said, "you know exactly how many minutes i can dress in and just when i must get into the carriage. can you give me five minutes to lie down quite flat and dab my forehead with eau de cologne? five minutes, jane. but be quite sure." "yes, miss--i do beg pardon--my lady. you can have five--safe." she took no more,--jane went into the dressing-room and stood near its door, holding the watch in her hand,--but even five minutes did her good. she felt less delirious when she descended the stairs and passed through the crowds again on lord walderhurst's arm. she seemed to walk through a garden in resplendent bloom. then there were the red carpet once more, and the street people, and the crowd of carriages and liveries, and big, white favours. inside the carriage, and moving away to the echo of the street people's cheer, she tried to turn and look at lord walderhurst with an unalarmed, if faint, smile. "well," he said, with the originality which marked him, "it is really over!" "yes," emily agreed with him. "and i never can forget lady maria's goodness." walderhurst gazed at her with a dawning inquiry in his mind. he himself did not know what the inquiry was. but it was something a trifle stimulating. it had something to do with the way in which she had carried herself throughout the whole thing. really few women could have done it as well. the pale violet of her travelling costume which was touched with sable was becoming to her fine, straight figure. and at the moment her eyes rested on his with the suggestion of trustful appeal. despite the inelasticity of his mind, he vaguely realised his bridegroom honours. "i can begin now," he said with stiff lightness, if such a paradox can be, "to address you as the man in esmond addressed his wife. i can call you 'my lady.'" "oh!" she said, still trying to smile, but quivering. "you look very nice," he said. "upon my word you do." and kissed her trembling honest mouth almost as if he had been a man--not quite--but almost. chapter nine they began the new life at palstrey manor, which was ancient and most beautiful. nothing walderhurst owned was as perfect an example of olden time beauty, and as wonderful for that reason. emily almost wept before the loveliness of it, though it would not have been possible for her to explain or particularise the grounds for her emotion. she knew nothing whatever of the venerable wonders of the architecture. to her the place looked like an immense, low-built, rambling fairy palace--the palace of some sleeping beauty during whose hundred years of slumber rich dark-green creepers had climbed and overgrown its walls and towers, enfolding and festooning them with leaves and tendrils and actual branches. the huge park held an enchanted forest of trees; the long avenue of giant limes, their writhen limbs arching and interlocking, their writhen roots deep in velvet moss, was an approach suited to a fairy story. * * * * * during her first month at palstrey emily went about still in her dream. it became more a dream every day. the old house was part of it, the endless rooms, the wonderful corridors, the gardens with their revelations of winding walks, labyrinths of evergreens, and grass paths leading into beautiful unexpected places, where one suddenly came upon deep, clear pools where water plants grew and slow carp had dreamed centuries away. the gardens caused emily to disbelieve in the existence of mortimer street, but the house at times caused her to disbelieve in herself. the picture gallery especially had this effect upon her. the men and women, once as alive as her everyday self, now gazing down at her from their picture frames sometimes made her heart beat as if she stood in the presence of things eerie. their strange, rich, ugly, or beautiful garments, their stolid or fervid, ugly or beautiful, faces, seemed to demand something of her; at least she had just enough imagination to feel somewhat as if they did. walderhurst was very kind to her, but she was afraid she might bore him by the exceeding ignorance of her questions about people whom he had known from his childhood as his own kith and kin. it was not unlikely that one might have become so familiar with a man in armour or a woman in a farthingale that questions connected with them might seem silly. persons whose ancestors had always gazed intimately at them from walls might not unnaturally forget that there were other people to whom they might wear only the far-away aspect of numbers in catalogues of the academy, or exhibitions of that order. there was a very interesting catalogue of the palstrey pictures, and emily found and studied it with deep interest. she cherished a touching secret desire to know what might be discoverable concerning the women who had been marchionesses of walderhurst before. none of them but herself, she gathered, had come to their husbands from bed-sitting rooms in obscure streets. there had been noble hyrsts in the reign of henry i., and the period since then elapsed had afforded time for numerous bridals. lady walderhurst was overcome at moments by her reflections upon what lay behind and before her, but not being a complex person or of fervid imagination, she was spared by nature the fevers of complex emotions. in fact, after a few weeks had passed she came out of her dream and found her happiness enduring and endurable. each day's awakening was a delight to her, and would probably be so to the end of her existence, absolutely because she was so sane and uncomplex a creature. to be deftly assisted in her dressing by jane cupp, and to know that each morning she might be fittingly and becomingly attired without anxiety as to where her next gown was to come from, was a lovely thing. to enjoy the silent, perfect workings of the great household, to drive herself or be driven, to walk and read, to loiter through walled gardens and hothouses at will,--such things to a healthy woman with an unobscured power of enjoyment were luxuries which could not pall. walderhurst found her an actual addition to his comfort. she was never in the way. she seemed to have discovered the trick of coming and going undisturbingly. she was docile and affectionate, but not in the least sentimental. he had known men whose first years of marriage, not to speak of the first months, had been rendered unbearable by the fact that their wives were constantly demanding or expecting the expression of sentiments which unsentimental males had not at their fingers' ends. so the men had been annoyed or bored, and the women had been dissatisfied. emily demanded nothing of the sort, and was certainly not dissatisfied. she looked very handsome and happy. her looks positively improved, and when people began to call and she to pay visits, she was very much liked. he had certainly been quite right in deciding to ask her to marry him. if she had a son, he should congratulate himself greatly. the more he saw of osborn the more he disliked him. it appeared that there was a prospect of a child there. this last was indeed true, and emily had been much touched and awakened to sympathy. it had gradually become revealed to her that the osborns were poorer than they could decently admit. emily had discovered that they could not even remain in the lodgings in duke street, though she did not know the reason, which was that captain osborn had been obliged to pay certain moneys to stave off a scandal not entirely unconnected with the young woman his arm had encircled the day walderhurst had seen him on the top of the bus. he was very well aware that if he was to obtain anything from lord walderhurst, there were several things which must be kept entirely dark. even a scandal belonging to the past could be made as unpleasant as an error of to-day. also the young woman of the bead cape knew how to manage him. but they must remove to cheaper lodgings, and the rooms in duke street had been far from desirable. lady walderhurst came in one morning from a walk, with a fresh colour and bright eyes, and before taking off her hat went to her husband's study. "may i come in?" walderhurst had been writing some uninteresting letters and looked up with a smile. "certainly," he answered. "what a colour you have! exercise agrees with you. you ought to ride." "that was what captain osborn said. if you don't mind, i should like to ask you something." "i don't mind. you are a reasonable woman, emily. one's safe with you." "it is something connected with the osborns." "indeed!" chilling slightly. "i don't care about them, you know." "you don't dislike her, do you?" "no-o, not exactly." "she's--the truth is, she is not at all well," with a trifle of hesitance; "she ought to be better taken care of than she is in lodgings, and they are obliged to take very cheap ones." "if he had been a more respectable fellow his circumstances would have been different," rather stiffly. emily felt alarmed. she had not dreamed of the temerity of any remark suggestive of criticism. "yes," hastily, "of course. i am sure you know best; but--i thought perhaps--" walderhurst liked her timidity. to see a fine, tall, upstanding creature colour in that way was not disagreeable when one realised that she coloured because she feared she might offend one. "what did you think 'perhaps'?" was his lenient response. her colour grew warmer, but this time from a sense of relief, because he was evidently not as displeased as he might have been. "i took a long walk this morning," she said. "i went through the high wood and came out by the place called the kennel farm. i was thinking a good deal of poor mrs. osborn because i had heard from her this morning, and she seemed so unhappy. i was looking at her letter again when i turned into the lane leading to the house. then i saw that no one was living there, and i could not help going in to look--it is such a delightful old building, with its queer windows and chimneys, and the ivy which seems never to have been clipped. the house is so roomy and comfortable--i peeped in at windows and saw big fireplaces with benches inside them. it seems a pity that such a place should not be lived in and--well, i thought how _kind_ it would be of you to lend it to the osborns while they are in england." "it would indeed be kind," remarked his lordship, without fervour. her momentary excitement led emily to take the liberty of putting out her hand to touch his. she always felt as if connubial familiarities were rather a liberty; at least she had not, so far, been able to overcome a feeling rather of that order. and this was another thing walderhurst by no means disliked. he himself was not aware that he was a man with a good deal of internal vanity which enjoyed soothing food. in fact, he had not a sufficiently large brain to know very much about himself or to be able to analyse his reasons for liking or disliking people or things. he thought he knew his reasons for his likes and dislikes, but he was frequently very far away from the clear, impersonal truth about them. only the brilliant logic and sensitiveness of genius really approaches knowledge of itself, and as a result it is usually extremely unhappy. walderhurst was never unhappy. he was sometimes dissatisfied or annoyed, but that was as far as his emotions went. being pleased by the warm touch of emily's hand, he patted her wrist and looked agreeably marital. "the place was built originally for a family huntsman, and the pack was kept there. that is why it is called the kennel farm. when the last lease fell out it remained unlet because i don't care for an ordinary tenant. it's the kind of house that is becoming rare, and the bumpkin farmer and his family don't value antiquities." "if it were furnished as it _could_ be furnished," said emily, "it would be _beautiful_. one _can_ get old things in london if one can afford them. i've seen them when i've been shopping. they are not cheap, but you can get them if you really search." "would you like to furnish it?" walderhurst inquired. the consciousness that he could, if he chose, do the utmost thing of its kind in this way, at the moment assumed a certain proportion of interest to him under the stimulation of the wonder and delight which leaped into emily's eyes as the possibility confronted her. having been born without imagination, his wealth had not done for him anything out of the ordinary every-day order. "would i _like_ to do it? oh, _dear_!" she exclaimed. "why, in all my life i have never _dreamed_ of being able to do such things." that, of course, was true, he reflected, and the fact added to his appreciation of the moment. there were, of course, many people to whom it would be impossible to contemplate the spending of a sum of money of any importance in the indulgence of a wish founded on mere taste. he had not thought of the thing particularly in detail before, and now that he realised the significance of the fact as a fact, emily had afforded him a new sensation. "you may do it now, if you wish," he said. "i once went over the place with an architect, and he said the whole thing could be made comfortable and the atmosphere of the period wholly retained for about a thousand pounds. it is not really dilapidated and it is worth saving. the gables and chimneys are very fine. i will attend to that, and you can do the rest in your own way." "it may take a good deal of money to buy the old things," gasped emily. "they are not cheap in these days. people have found out that they are wanted." "it won't cost twenty thousand pounds," walderhurst answered. "it is a farm-house after all, and you are a practical woman. restore it. you have my permission." emily put her hands over her eyes. this was being the marchioness of walderhurst, and made mortimer street a thing still more incredible. when she dropped her hands, she laughed even a trifle hysterically. "i _couldn't_ thank you," she said. "it is as i said. i never quite believed there were people who were able to think of doing such things." "there are such people," he said. "you are one of them." "and--and--" she put it to him with a sudden recollection of the thing her emotions had momentarily swept away. "oh! i must not forget, because i am so pleased. when it is furnished--" "oh! the osborns? well, we will let them have it for a few months, at any rate." "they will be so _thankful_," emotionally. "you will be doing them _such_ a favour." "i am doing it for you, not for them. i like to see you pleased." she went to take off her hat with moisture in her eyes, being overpowered by his munificence. when she reached her room she walked about a little, because she was excited, and then sat down to think of the relief her next letter would carry to mrs. osborn. suddenly she got up, and, going to her bedside, knelt down. she respectfully poured forth devout thanks to the deity she appealed to when she aided in the intoning of the litany on sundays. her conception of this power was of the simplest conventional nature. she would have been astonished and frightened if she had been told that she regarded the omnipotent being as possessing many of the attributes of the marquis of walderhurst. this was, in fact, true without detracting from her reverence in either case. chapter ten the osborns were breakfasting in their unpleasant sitting-room in duke street when lady walderhurst's letter arrived. the toast was tough and smoked, and the eggs were of the variety labelled " a shilling" in the shops; the apartment was also redolent of kippered herring, and captain osborn was scowling over the landlady's weekly bill when hester opened the envelope stamped with a coronet. (each time emily wrote a note and found herself confronting the coronet on the paper, she blushed a little and felt that she must presently awake from her dream.) mrs. osborn herself was looking far from amiable. she was ill and nervous and irritable, and had, in fact, just been crying and wishing that she was dead, which had given rise to unpleasantness between herself and her husband, who was not in the mood to feel patient with nerves. "here's one from the marchioness," she remarked slightingly. "i have had none from the marquis," sneered osborn. "he might have condescended a reply--the cold-blooded beggar!" hester was reading her letter. as she turned the first page her expression changed. as has previously been suggested, the epistolary methods of lady walderhurst were neither brilliant nor literary, and yet mrs. osborn seemed to be pleased by what she read. during the reading of a line or so she wore an expression of slowly questioning wonder, which, a little later on, settled into relief. "i can only say i think it's very decent of them," she ejaculated at last; "really decent!" alec osborn looked up, still scowlingly. "i don't see any cheque," he observed. "that would be the most decent thing. it's the thing we want most, with this damned woman sending in bills like this for the fourth-rate things we live on, and for her confounded tenth-rate rooms." "this is better than cheques. it means our having something we couldn't hope for cheques enough to pay for. they are offering to lend us a beautiful old place to live in for the rest of our stay." "what!" osborn exclaimed. "where?" "near palstrey manor, where they are staying now." "near palstrey! how near?" he had been slouching in his chair and now sat up and leaned forward on the table. he was eager. hester referred to the letter again. "she doesn't say. it is a sort of antiquity, i gather. it's called the kennel farm. have you ever been to palstrey?" "not as a guest." he was generally somewhat sardonic when he spoke of anything connected with walderhurst. "but once i was in the nearest county town by chance and rode over. by jove!" starting a little, "i wonder if it can be a rum old place i passed and reined in to have a look at. i hope it is." "why?" "it's near enough to the manor to be convenient." "do you think," hesitating, "that we shall see much of them?" "we shall if we manage things decently. she likes you, and she's the kind of woman to be sympathising and make a fuss over another woman--particularly one who is under the weather and can be sentimentalised over." hester was pushing crumbs about on the tablecloth with her knife, and a dull red showed itself on her cheek. "i am not going to make capital of--circumstances," she said sullenly. "i won't." she was not a woman easily managed, and osborn had had reason on more than one occasion to realise a certain wicked stubbornness in her. there was a look in her eye now which frightened him. it was desperately necessary that she should be kept in a tractable mood. as she was a girl with affections, and he was a man without any, he knew what to do. he got up and went to her side, putting his arm round her shoulders as he sat in a chair near her. "now, little woman," he said. "now! for god's sake don't take it that way. don't think i don't understand how you feel." "i don't believe you know anything about the way i feel," she said, setting her narrow white teeth and looking more like a native woman than he had ever seen her. a thing which did not aid his affection for her, such as it was, happened to be that in certain moods she suggested a hindoo beauty to him in a way which brought back to him memories of the past he did not care to have awakened. "yes i do, yes i do," he protested, getting hold of her hand and trying to make her look at him. "there are things such a woman as you can't help feeling. it's because you feel them that you must be on your mettle--lord knows you've got pluck enough--and stand by a fellow now. what shall i do, my god, if you don't?" he was, in fact, in such straits that the ring of emotion in his voice was not by any means assumed. "my god!" he repeated, "what shall we all do if you won't?" she lifted her eyes then to look at him. she was in a sufficiently nervous condition to be conscious that tears were always near. "are there worse things than you have told me?" she faltered. "yes, worse things than it would be fair to bother you with. i don't want you to be tormented. i was a deuced fool before i met you and began to run straight. things pile in now that would have lain quiet enough if walderhurst had not married. hang it all! he ought to do the decent thing by me. he owes something to the man who may stand in his shoes, after all." hester lifted her slow eyes again. "you've not much of a chance now," she said. "she's a fine healthy woman." osborn sprang up and paced the floor, set upon by a sudden spasm of impotent rage. he snapped his teeth rather like a dog. "oh! curse her!" he gave forth. "the great, fresh-coloured lumping brute! what did she come into it for? of all the devilish things that can happen to a man, the worst is to be born to the thing i was born to. to know through your whole life that you're just a stone's-throw from rank and wealth and splendour, and to have to live and look on as an outsider. upon my word, i've felt more of an outsider just because of it. there's a dream i've had every month or so for years. it's a dream of opening a letter that tells me he's dead, or of a man coming into the room or meeting me in the street and saying suddenly, 'walderhurst died last night, walderhurst died last night!' they're always the same words, 'walderhurst died last night!' and i wake up shaking and in a cold sweat for joy at the gorgeous luck that's come at last." hester gave a low cry like a little howl, and dropped her head on her arms on the table among the cups and saucers. "she'll have a son! she'll have a son!" she cried. "and then it won't matter whether _he_ dies or not." "ough!" was the sound wrenched from osborn's fury. "and our son might have been in it. ours might have had it all! damn--damn!" "he won't,--he won't now, even if he lives to be born," she sobbed, and clutched at the dingy tablecloth with her lean little hands. it was hard on her. she had had a thousand feverish dreams he had never heard of. she had lain awake hours at night and stared with wide-open eyes at the darkness, picturing to her inner soul the dream of splendour that she would be part of, the solace for past miseries, the high revenges for past slights that would be hers after the hour in which she heard the words osborn had just quoted, "walderhurst died last night!" oh! if luck had only helped them! if the spells her ayah had taught her in secret had only worked as they would have worked if she had been a native woman and had really used them properly! there was a spell she had wrought once which ameerah had sworn to her was to be relied on. it took ten weeks to accomplish its end. in secret she had known of a man on whom it had been worked. she had found out about it partly from the remote hints which had aided her half knowledge of strange things and by keeping a close watch. the man had died--he had died. she herself, and with her own eyes had seen him begin to ail, had heard of his fevers and pains and final death. he had died. she knew that. and she had tried the thing herself in dead secrecy. and at the fifth week, just as with the native who had died, she heard that walderhurst was ill. during the next four weeks she was sick with the tension of combined horror and delight. but he did not die in the tenth week. they heard that he had gone to tangiers with a party of notable people, and that his "slight" indisposition had passed, leaving him in admirable health and spirits. her husband had known nothing of her frenzy. she would not have dared to tell him. there were many things she did not tell him. he used to laugh at her native stories of occult powers, though she knew that he had seen some strange things done, as most foreigners had. he always explained such things contemptuously on grounds which presupposed in the performers of the mysteries powers of agility, dexterity, and universal knowledge quite as marvellous as anything occult could have been. he did not like her to show belief in the "tricks of the natives," as he called them. it made a woman look a fool, he said, to be so credulous. during the last few months a new fever had tormented her. feelings had awakened in her which were new. she thought things she had never thought before. she had never cared for children or suspected herself of being the maternal woman. but nature worked in her after her weird fashion. she began to care less for some things and more for others. she cared less for osborn's moods and was better able to defy them. he began to be afraid of her temper, and she began to like at times to defy his. there had been some fierce scenes between them in which he had found her meet with a flare of fury words she would once have been cowed by. he had spoken one day with the coarse slightingness of a selfish, irritable brute, of the domestic event which was before them. he did not speak twice. she sprang up before him and shook her clenched fist in his face, so near that he started back. "don't say a word!" she cried. "don't dare--don't dare. i tell you--look out, if you don't want to be killed." during the outpouring of her frenzy he saw her in an entirely new light and made discoveries. she would fight for her young, as a tigress fights for hers. she was nursing a passion of secret feeling of which he had known nothing. he had not for a moment suspected her of it. she had not seemed that kind of girl. she had been of the kind that cares for finery and social importance and the world's favour, not for sentiments. on this morning of the letter's arrival he watched her sobbing and clutching the tablecloth, and reflected. he walked up and down and pondered. there were a lot of things to be thought over. "we may as well accept the invitation at once," he said. "grovel as much as you choose. the more the better. they'll like it." chapter eleven the osborns arrived at the kennel farm on a lovely rainy morning. the green of the fields and trees and hedges was sweetly drenched, and the flowers held drops which sparkled when the fitful sun broke forth and searched for the hidden light in them. a palstrey carriage comfortably met them and took them to their destination. as they turned into the lane, osborn looked out at the red gables and chimneys showing themselves among the trees. "it's the old place i looked at," he said, "and a jolly old place it is." hester was drinking in the pure sweetness of the fresh air and filling her soul with the beauty of such things as she had never seen before. in london she had grown hopeless and sick of spirit. the lodgings in duke street, the perpetual morning haddock and questionable eggs and unpaid bills, had been evil things for her. she had reached a point at which she had felt she could bear them no longer. here, at all events, there would be green trees and clear air, and no landlady. with no rent to pay, there would be freedom from one torment at least. she had not expected much more than this freedom, however. it had seemed highly probable that there might be discomforts in an ancient farmhouse of the kind likely to be lent to impecunious relatives. but before they crossed the threshold it was plain to her that, for some reason, they had been given more. the old garden had been put in order--a picturesque and sweet disorderly order, which had allowed creepers to luxuriate and toss, and flowers to spring out of crannies, and clumps of things to mass themselves without restraint. the girl's wretched heart lifted itself as they drove up to the venerable brick porch which had somewhat the air of a little church vestibule. through the opened door she saw a quaint comfort she had not dreamed of. she had not the knowledge of things which would have told her what wonders emily had done with the place, but she could see that its quaint furnishings were oddly beautiful in their harmony. the heavy chairs and benches and settles seemed to have been part of centuries of farm-house life, and to belong to the place as much as the massive beams and doors. hester stood in the middle of the hall and looked about her. part of it was oak panelled and part was whitewashed. there were deep, low windows cut in the thick walls. "i never saw anything the least like it," she said. "you wouldn't expect to see anything like it in india," her husband answered. "and you won't find many places like it in england. i should like a look at the stables." he went out almost immediately and took the look in question, finding the result unexpectedly satisfactory. walderhurst had lent him a decent horse to ride, and there was a respectable little cart for hester. palstrey manor had "done them" very well. this was a good deal more than he had expected. he knew such hospitality would not have been shown him if he had come to england unmarried. consequently his good luck was partly a result of hester's existence in his life. at the same time there awakened in him a consciousness that hester would not have been likely to produce such results unless in combination with another element in the situation,--the element of another woman who was sympathetic and had some power,--the new lady walderhurst, in fact. "and yet, confound her--confound her!" he thought, as he walked into the loose box to look the mare over and pat her sleekness. the relations which established themselves between palstrey and the kennel farm were marked by two characteristic features. one of these was that lord walderhurst did not develop any warmer interest in the osborns, and that lady walderhurst did. having acceded to emily's wishes, and really behaved generously in the matter of providing for his heir presumptive and his wife, lord walderhurst felt impelled to no further demonstration of feeling. "i don't like him any better than i did," he remarked to emily. "and i cannot say that mrs. osborn attracts me. of course there is a reason why a kind-hearted woman like yourself should be specially good to her just now. do anything you wish for them while they are in the neighbourhood. but as for me, the fact that a man is one's heir presumptive is not enough in itself alone to endear him to one, rather the contrary." between these two it is to be confessed there existed that rancour which is not weakened by the fact that it remains unexpressed and lurks in the deeps of the inward being. walderhurst would not have been capable of explaining to himself that the thing he chiefly disliked in this robust, warm-blooded young man was that when he met him striding about with his gun over his shoulder and a keeper behind him, the almost unconscious realisation of the unpleasant truth that he was striding over what might prove to be his own acres, and shooting birds which in the future he would himself possess the right to preserve, to invite other people to shoot, to keep less favoured persons from shooting, as lord of the manor. this was a truth sufficiently irritating to accentuate all his faults of character and breeding. emily, whose understanding of his nature developed with every day of her life, grew into a comprehension of this by degrees. perhaps her greatest leap forward was taken on the day when, as he was driving her in the cart which had picked her up on the moor, they saw osborn tramping through a cover with his gun. he did not see them, and a shade of irritation swept walderhurst's face. "he seems to feel very much at home," he commented. then he was silent for a space during which he did not look pleased. "if he were my son," he said, "it would be a different matter. if audrey's child had lived--" he stopped and gave the tall mare a light cut with his whip. he was evidently annoyed with himself for having spoken. a hot wave of colour submerged emily. she felt it rush over her whole body. she turned her face away, hoping walderhurst would not observe her. this was the first time she had heard him utter his dead wife's name. she had never heard anyone speak it. audrey had evidently not been a much-beloved or regretted person. but she had had a son. her primitive soul had scarcely dared to approach, even with awe, the thought of such a possibility for herself. as in the past she had not had the temerity to dream of herself as a woman who possessed attractions likely to lead to marriage, so she was mentally restrained in these days. there was something spinster-like in the tenor of her thoughts. but she would have laid down her life for this dull man's happiness. and of late she had more than once blamed herself for accepting so much, unthinkingly. "i did not realise things properly," she had said to herself in humble pain. "i ought to have been a girl, young and strong and beautiful. his sacrifice was too great, it was immense." it had been nothing of the sort. he had pleased himself and done what was likely to tend, and had tended, altogether to his own ease and comfort. in any case emily fox-seton was a fine creature, and only thirty-four, and with alec osborn at the other side of the globe the question of leaving an heir had been less present and consequently had dwindled in importance. the nearness of the osborns fretted him just now. if their child was a son, he would be more fretted still. he was rather glad of a possibility, just looming, of his being called away from england through affairs of importance. he had spoken to emily of this possibility, and she had understood that, as his movements and the length of his stay would be uncertain, she would not accompany him. "there is one drawback to our marriage," he said. "is it--is it anything i can remove?" emily asked. "no, though you are responsible for it. people seldom can remove the drawbacks they are responsible for. you have taught me to miss you." "have i--have i?" cried emily. "oh! i _am_ happy!" she was so happy that she felt that she must pass on some of her good fortune to those who had less. she was beautifully kind to hester osborn. few days passed without the stopping of a walderhurst carriage before the door of the kennel farm. sometimes emily came herself to take mrs. osborn to drive, sometimes she sent for her to come to lunch and spend the day or night at palstrey. she felt an interest in the young woman which became an affection. she would have felt interested in her if there had not existed a special reason to call forth sympathy. hester had many curious and new subjects for conversation. emily liked her descriptions of indian life and her weird little stories of the natives. she was charmed with ameerah, whose nose rings and native dress, combining themselves with her dark mystic face, rare speech, and gliding, silent movements, awakened awe in the rustics and mingled distrust and respect in the servants' hall at palstrey. "she's most respectably behaved, my lady, though foreign and strange in her manners," was jane cupp's comment. "but she has a way of looking at a person--almost stealthy--that's upset me many a time when i've noticed it suddenly. they say that she knows things, like fortune-telling and spells and love potions. but she will only speak of them quite secret." emily gathered that jane cupp was afraid of the woman, and kept a cautious eye upon her. "she is a very faithful servant, jane," she answered. "she is devoted to mrs. osborn." "i am sure she is, my lady. i've read in books about the faithfulness of black people. they say they're more faithful than white ones." "not more faithful than _some_ white ones," said lady walderhurst with her good smile. "ameerah is not more faithful than you, i'm very sure." "oh, my lady!" ejaculated jane, turning red with pleasure. "i do hope not. i shouldn't like to think she could be." in fact the tropic suggestion of the ayah's personality had warmed the imagination of the servants' hall, and there had been much talk of many things, of the osborns as well as of their servants, and thrilling stories of east indian life had been related by walderhurst's man, who was a travelled person. captain osborn had good sport on these days, and sport was the thing he best loved. he was of the breed of man who can fish, hunt, or shoot all day, eat robust meals and sleep heavily all night; who can do this every day of a year, and in so doing reach his highest point of desire in existence. he knew no other aspirations in life than such as the fortunes of a man like walderhurst could put him in possession of. nature herself had built him after the model of the primeval type of english country land-owner. india with her blasting and stifling hot seasons and her steaming rains gave him nothing that he desired, and filled him with revolt against fate every hour of his life. his sanguine body loathed and grew restive under heat. at the kennel farm, when he sprang out of his bed in the fresh sweetness of the morning and plunged into his tub, he drew every breath with a physical rapture. the air which swept in through the diamond-paned, ivy-hung casements was a joy. "good lord!" he would cry out to hester through her half-opened door, "what mornings! how a man _lives_ and feels the blood rushing through his veins! rain or shine, it's all the same to me. i can't stay indoors. just to tramp through wet or dry heather, or under dripping or shining trees, is enough. how can one believe one has ever lain sweating with one's tongue lolling out, and listened to the whining creak of the punkah through nights too deadly hot to sleep in! it's like remembering hell while one lives in paradise." "we shan't live in paradise long," hester said once with some bitterness. "hell is waiting for us." "damn it! don't remind a man. there are times when i don't believe it." he almost snarled the answer. it was true that his habit was to enhance the pleasure of his days by thrusting into the background all recollections of the reality of any other existence than that of the hour. as he tramped through fern and heather he would remember nothing but that there was a chance--there was chance, good lord! after a man not over strong reached fifty-four or five, there were more chances than there had been earlier. after hours spent in such moods, it was not pleasant to come by accident upon walderhurst riding his fine chestnut, erect and staid, and be saluted by the grave raising of his whip to his hat. or to return to the farm just as the palstrey barouche turned in at the gate with lady walderhurst sitting in it glowing with health and that enjoyable interest in all things which gave her a kind of radiance of eye and colour. she came at length in a time when she did not look quite so radiant. this, it appeared, was from a reason which might be regarded as natural under the circumstances. a more ardent man than lord walderhurst might have felt that he could not undertake a journey to foreign lands which would separate him from a wife comparatively new. but lord walderhurst was not ardent, and he had married a woman who felt that he did all things well--that, in fact, a thing must be well because it was his choice to do it. his journey to india might, it was true, be a matter of a few months, and involved diplomatic business for which a certain unimpeachable respectability was required. a more brilliant man, who had been less respectable in the most decorous british sense, would not have served the purpose of the government. emily's skin had lost a shade of its healthful freshness, it struck hester, when she saw her. there was a suggestion of fulness under her eyes. yet with the bright patience of her smile she defied the remote suspicion that she had shed a tear or so before leaving home. she explained the situation with an affectionally reverent dwelling upon the dignity of the mission which would temporarily bereave her of her mate. her belief in walderhurst's intellectual importance to the welfare of the government was a complete and touching thing. "it will not be for very long," she said, "and you and i must see a great deal of each other. i am so glad you are here. you know how one misses--" breaking off with an admirable air of determined cheer--"i must not think of that." walderhurst congratulated himself seriously during the days before his departure. she was so exactly what he liked a woman to be. she might have made difficulties, or have been sentimental. if she had been a girl, it would have been necessary to set up a sort of nursery for her, but this fine amenable, sensible creature could take perfect care of herself. it was only necessary to express a wish, and she not only knew how to carry it out, but was ready to do so without question. as far as he was concerned, he was willing to leave all to her own taste. it was such decent taste. she had no modern ideas which might lead during his absence to any action likely to disturb or annoy him. what she would like best to do would be to stay at palstrey and enjoy the beauty of it. she would spend her days in strolling through the gardens, talking to the gardeners, who had all grown fond of her, or paying little visits to old people or young ones in the village. she would help the vicar's wife in her charities, she would appear in the manor pew at church regularly, make the necessary dull calls, and go to the unavoidable dull dinners with a faultless amiability and decorum. "as i remarked when you told me you had asked her to marry you," said lady maria on the occasion of his lunching with her on running up to town for a day's business, "you showed a great deal more sense than most men of your age and rank. if people _will_ marry, they should choose the persons least likely to interfere with them. emily will never interfere with you. she cares a great deal more about your pleasure than her own. and as to that, she's so much like a big, healthy, good child that she would find pleasure wheresoever you dropped her." this was true, yet the healthy, childish creature had, in deep privacy, cried a little, and was pathetically glad to feel that the osborns were to be near her, and that she would have hester to think of and take care of during the summer. it was pathetic that she should cherish an affection so ingenuous for the osborns, for one of them at least had no patience with her. to captain osborn her existence and presence in the near neighbourhood were offences. he told himself that she was of the particular type of woman he most disliked. she was a big, blundering fool, he said, and her size and very good nature itself got on his nerves and irritated him. "she looks so deucedly prosperous with her first-rate clothes and her bouncing health," he said. "the tread of her big feet makes me mad when i hear it." hester answered with a shrill little laugh. "her big feet are a better shape than mine," she said. "i ought to hate her, and i would if i could, but i can't." "i can," muttered osborn between his teeth as he turned to the mantel and scratched a match to light his pipe. chapter twelve when lord walderhurst took his departure for india, his wife began to order her daily existence as he had imagined she would. before he had left her she had appeared at the first drawing-room, and had spent a few weeks at the town house, where they had given several imposing and serious dinner parties, more remarkable for dignity and good taste than liveliness. the duties of social existence in town would have been unbearable for emily without her husband. dressed by jane cupp with a passion of fervour, fine folds sweeping from her small, long waist, diamonds strung round her neck, and a tiara or a big star in her full brown hair, emily was rather superb when supported by the consciousness that walderhurst's well-carried maturity and long accustomedness were near her. with him she could enjoy even the unlively splendour of a function, but without him she would have been very unhappy. at palstrey she was ceasing to feel new, and had begun to realise that she belonged to the world she lived in. she was becoming accustomed to her surroundings, and enjoyed them to the utmost. her easily roused affections were warmed by the patriarchal atmosphere of village life. most of the palstrey villagers had touched their forelocks or curtsied to walderhursts for generations. emily liked to remember this, and had at once conceived a fondness for the simple folk, who seemed somehow related so closely to the man she worshipped. walderhurst had not the faintest conception of what this worship represented. he did not even reach the length of realising its existence. he saw her ingenuous reverence for and belief in him, and was naturally rather pleased by them. he was also vaguely aware that if she had been a more brilliant woman she would have been a more exacting one, and less easily impressed. if she had been a stupid woman or a clumsy one, he would have detested her and bitterly regretted his marriage. but she was only innocent and gratefully admiring, which qualities, combining themselves with good looks, good health, and good manners, made of a woman something he liked immensely. really she had looked very nice and attractive when she had bidden him good-by, with her emotional flush and softness of expression and the dewy brightness of her eyes. there was something actually moving in the way her strong hand had wrung his at the last moment. "i only _wish_," she had said, "i only do so _wish_ that there was something i could _do_ for you while you are away--something you could leave me to _do_." "keep well and enjoy yourself," he had answered. "that will really please me." nature had not so built him that he could suspect that she went home and spent the rest of the morning in his rooms, putting away his belongings with her own hands, just for the mere passion of comfort she felt in touching the things he had worn, the books he had handled, the cushions his head had rested against. she had indeed mentioned to the housekeeper at berkeley square that she wished his lordship's apartments to remain untouched until she herself had looked over them. the obsession which is called love is an emotion past all explanation. the persons susceptible to its power are as things beneath a spell. they see, hear, and feel that of which the rest of their world is unaware, and will remain unaware for ever. to the endearing and passion-inspiring qualities emily walderhurst saw in this more than middle-aged gentleman an unstirred world would remain blind, deaf, and imperceptive until its end transpired. this, however, made not the slightest difference in the reality of these things as she saw and felt and was moved to her soul's centre by them. bright youth in agatha norman, at present joyously girdling the globe with her bridegroom, was moved much less deeply, despite its laughter and love. a large lump swelled in emily's throat as she walked about the comfortable, deserted apartments of her james. large tears dropped on the breast of her dress as they had dropped upon her linen blouse when she walked across the moor to maundell. but she bravely smiled as she tenderly brushed away with her hand two drops which fell upon a tweed waistcoat she had picked up. having done this, she suddenly stooped and kissed the rough cloth fervently, burying her face in it with a sob. "i do _love_ him so!" she whispered, hysterically. "i do so _love_ him, and i shall so _miss_ him!" with the italicised feelingness of old. the outburst was in fact so strongly italicised that she felt the next moment almost as if she had been a little indecent. she had never been called upon by the strenuousness of any occasion to mention baldly to lord walderhurst that she "loved" him. it had not been necessary, and she was too little used to it not to be abashed by finding herself proclaiming the fact to his very waistcoat itself. she sat down holding the garment in her hands and let her tears fall. she looked about her at the room and across the corridor through the open door at his study which adjoined it. they were fine rooms, and every book and bust and chair looked singularly suggestive of his personality. the whole house was beautiful and imposing in emily's eyes. "he has made all my life beautiful and full of comfort and happiness," she said, trembling. "he has saved me from everything i was afraid of, and there is nothing i can _do_. oh!" suddenly dropping a hot face on her hands, "if i were only hester osborn. i should be glad to suffer anything, or die in any way. i should have paid him back--just a little--if i might." for there was one thing she had learned through her yearning fervour, not through any speech of his. all the desire and pride in him would be fed full and satisfied if he could pass his name on to a creature of his own flesh and blood. all the heat his cold nature held had concentrated itself in a secret passion centred on this thing. she had begun to awaken to a suspicion of this early in their marriage, and afterwards by processes of inclusion and exclusion she had realised the proud intensity of his feeling despite his reserve and silence. as for her, she would have gone to the stake, or have allowed her flesh to be cut into pieces to form that which would have given him reason for exultation and pride. such was the helpless, tragic, kindly love and yearning of her. * * * * * the thing filled her with a passion of tenderness for hester osborn. she yearned over her, too. her spinster life had never brought her near to the mystery of birth. she was very ignorant and deeply awed by the mere thought of it. at the outset hester had been coldly shy and reticent, but as they saw each other more she began to melt before the unselfish warmth of the other woman's overtures of friendship. she was very lonely and totally inexperienced. as agatha slade had gradually fallen into intimacy of speech, so did she. she longed so desperately for companionship that the very intensity of her feelings impelled her to greater openness than she had at first intended. "i suppose men don't know," she said to herself sullenly, in thinking of osborn, who spent his days out of doors. "at any rate, they don't care." emily cared greatly, and was so full of interest and sympathy that there was something like physical relief in talking to her. "you two have become great pals," alec said, on an afternoon when he stood at a window watching lady walderhurst's carriage drive away. "you spend hours together talking. what is it all about?" "she talks a good deal about her husband. it is a comfort to her to find someone to listen. she thinks he is a god. but we principally talk about--me." "don't discourage her," laughed osborn. "perhaps she will get so fond of you that she will not be willing to part with us, as she will be obliged to take both to keep one." "i wish she would, i wish she would!" sighed hester, tossing up her hands in a languid, yet fretted gesture. the contrast between herself and this woman was very often too great to be equably borne. even her kindness could not palliate it. the simple perfection of her country clothes, the shining skins of her horses, the smooth roll of her carriage, the automatic servants who attended her, were suggestive of that ease and completeness in all things, only to be compassed by long-possessed wealth. to see every day the evidences of it while one lived on charitable sufferance on the crumbs which fell from the master's table was a galling enough thing, after all. it would always have been galling. but it mattered so much more now--so much more to hester than she had known it could matter even in those days when as a girl she had thirstily longed for it. in those days she had not lived near enough to it all to know the full meaning and value of it--the beauty and luxury, the stateliness and good taste. to have known it in this way, to have been almost part of it and then to leave it, to go back to a hugger-mugger existence in a wretched bungalow hounded by debt, pinched and bound hard and fast by poverty, which offered no future prospect of bettering itself into decent good luck! who could bear it? both were thinking the same thing as their eyes met. "how are we to stand it, after this?" she cried out sharply. "we can't stand it," he answered. "confound it all, something _must_ happen." "nothing will," she said; "nothing but that we shall go back worse off than before." * * * * * at this period lady walderhurst went to london again to shop, and spent two entire happy days in buying beautiful things of various kinds, which were all to be sent to mrs. osborn at the kennel farm, palstrey. she had never enjoyed herself so much in her life as she did during those two days when she sat for hours at one counter after another looking at exquisite linen and flannel and lace. the days she had spent with lady maria in purchasing her trousseau had not compared with these two. she looked actually lovely as she almost fondled the fine fabrics, smiling with warm softness at the pretty things shown her. she spent, in fact, good deal of money, and luxuriated in so doing as she could never have luxuriated in spending it in finery for herself. nothing indeed seemed too fairy-like in its fineness, no quantity of lace seemed in excess. her heart positively trembled in her breast sometimes, and she found strange tears rising in her eyes. "they are so sweet," she said plaintively to the silence of her own bedroom as she looked some of her purchases over. "i don't know why they give me such a feeling. they look so little and--helpless, and as if they were made to hold in one's arms. it's absurd of me, i daresay." the morning the boxes arrived at the kennel farm, emily came too. she was in the big carriage, and carried with her some special final purchases she wanted to bring herself. she came because she could not have kept away. she wanted to see the things again, to be with hester when she unpacked them, to help her, to look them all over, to touch them and hold them in her hands. she found hester in the large, low-ceilinged room in which she slept. the big four-post bed was already snowed over with a heaped-up drift of whiteness, and open boxes were scattered about. there was an odd expression in the girl's eyes, and she had a red spot on either cheek. "i did not expect anything like this," she said. "i thought i should have to make some plain, little things myself, suited to its station," with a wry smile. "they would have been very ugly. i don't know how to sew in the least. you forget that you were not buying things for a prince or a princess, but for a little beggar." "oh, don't!" cried emily, taking both her hands. "let us be _happy_! it was so _nice_ to buy them. i never liked anything so much in my life." she went and stood by the bedside, taking up the things one by one, touching up frills of lace and smoothing out tucks. "doesn't it make you happy to look at them?" she said. "_you_ look at them," said hester, staring at her, "as if the sight of them made you hungry, or as if you had bought them for yourself." emily turned slightly away. she said nothing. for a few moments there was a dead silence. hester spoke again. what in the world was it in the mere look of the tall, straight body of the woman to make her feel hot and angered? "if you had bought them for yourself," she persisted, "they would be worn by a marquis of walderhurst." emily laid down the robe she had been holding. she put it on the bed, and turned round to look at hester osborn with serious eyes. "they _may_ be worn by a marquis of walderhurst, you know," she answered. "they may." she was remotely hurt and startled, because she felt in the young woman something she had felt once or twice before, something resentful in her thoughts of herself, as if for the moment she represented to her an enemy. the next moment, however, hester osborn fell upon her with embraces. "you are an angel to me," she cried. "you are an angel, and i can't thank you. i don't know how." emily walderhurst patted her shoulder as she kindly enfolded her in warm arms. "don't thank me," she half whispered emotionally. "don't. just let us _enjoy_ ourselves." chapter thirteen alec osborn rode a good deal in these days. he also walked a good deal, sometimes with a gun over his shoulder and followed by a keeper, sometimes alone. there was scarcely a square yard of the palstrey manor lands he had not tramped over. he had learned the whole estate by heart, its woods, its farms, its moorlands. a morbid secret interest in its beauties and resources possessed him. he could not resist the temptation to ask apparently casual questions of keepers and farmers when he found himself with them. he managed to give his inquiries as much the air of accident as possible, but he himself knew that they were made as a result of a certain fevered curiosity. he found that he had fallen into the habit of continually making plans connected with the place. he said to himself, "if it were mine i would do this, or that. if i owned it, i would make this change or that one. i would discharge this keeper or put another man on such a farm." he tramped among the heather thinking these things over, and realising to the full what the pleasure of such powers would mean to a man such as himself, a man whose vanity had never been fed, who had a desire to control and a longing for active out-of-door life. "if it were mine, if it were mine!" he would say to himself. "oh! damn it all, if it were only mine!" and there were other places as fine, and finer places he had never seen,--oswyth, hurst, and towers,--all walderhurst's all belonging to this one respectable, elderly muff. thus he summed up the character of his relative. as for himself he was young, strong, and with veins swelling with the insistent longing for joyful, exultant life. the sweating, panting drudgery of existence in india was a thought of hell to him. but there it was, looming up nearer and nearer with every heavenly english day that passed. there was nothing for it but to go back--go back, thrust one's neck into the collar again, and sweat and be galled to the end. he had no ambitions connected with his profession. he realised loathingly in these days that he had always been waiting, waiting. the big, bright-faced woman who was always hanging about hester, doing her favours, he actually began to watch feverishly. she was such a fool; she always looked so healthy, and she was specially such a fool over walderhurst. when she had news of him, it was to be seen shining in her face. she had a sentimental school-girl fancy that during his absence she would apply herself to the task of learning to ride. she had been intending to do so before he went away; they had indeed spoken of it together, and walderhurst had given her a handsome, gentle young mare. the creature was as kind as she was beautiful. osborn, who was celebrated for his horsemanship, had promised to undertake to give the lessons. a few days after her return from london with her purchases, she asked the husband and wife to lunch with her at palstrey, and during the meal broached the subject. "i should like to begin soon, if you can spare the time for me," she said. "i want to be able to go out with him when he comes back. do you think i shall be slow in learning? perhaps i ought to be lighter to ride well." "i think you will be pretty sure to have a first-class seat," osborn answered. "you will be likely to look particularly well." "do you think i shall? how good you are to encourage me. how soon could i begin?" she was quite agreeably excited. in fact, she was delighted by innocent visions of herself as walderhurst's equestrian companion. perhaps if she sat well, and learned fine control of her horse, he might be pleased, and turn to look at her, as they rode side by side, with that look of approval and dawning warmth which brought such secret joy to her soul. "when may i take my first lesson?" she said quite eagerly to captain osborn, for whom a footman was pouring out a glass of wine. "as soon," he answered, "as i have taken out the mare two or three times myself. i want to know her thoroughly. i would not let you mount her until i had learned her by heart." they went out to the stables after lunch and visited the mare in her loose box. she was a fine beast, and seemed as gentle as a child. captain osborn asked questions of the head groom concerning her. she had a perfect reputation, but nevertheless she was to be taken over to the kennel stables a few days before lady walderhurst mounted her. "it is necessary to be more than careful," osborn said to hester that night. "there would be the devil and all to pay if anything went wrong." the mare was brought over the next morning. she was a shining bay, and her name was faustine. in the afternoon captain osborn took her out. he rode her far and learned her thoroughly before he brought her back. she was as lively as a kitten, but as kind as a dove. nothing could have been better tempered and safer. she would pass anything, even the unexpected appearance of a road-mending engine turning a corner did not perceptibly disturb her. "is she well behaved?" hester asked at dinner time. "yes, apparently," was his answer; "but i shall take her out once or twice again." he did take her out again, and had only praise for her on each occasion. but the riding lessons did not begin at once. in fact he was, for a number of reasons, in a sullen and unsociable humour which did not incline him towards the task he had undertaken. he made various excuses for not beginning the lessons, and took faustine out almost every day. but hester had an idea that he did not enjoy his rides. he used to return from them with a resentful, sombre look, as if his reflections had not been pleasant company for him. in truth they were not pleasant company. he was beset by thoughts he did not exactly care to be beset by--thoughts which led him farther than he really cared to go, which did not incline him to the close companionship of lady walderhurst. it was these thoughts which led him on his long rides; it was one of them which impelled him, one morning, as he was passing a heap of broken stone, piled for the mending of the ways by the roadside, to touch faustine with heel and whip. the astonished young animal sprang aside curvetting. she did not understand, and to horse-nature the uncomprehended is alarming. she was more bewildered and also more fretted when, in passing the next stone heap, she felt the same stinging touches. what did it mean? was she to avoid this thing, to leap at sight of it, to do what? she tossed her delicate head and snorted in her trouble. the country road was at some distance from palstrey, and was little frequented. no one was in sight. osborn glanced about him to make sure of this fact. a long stretch of road lay before him, with stone heaps piled at regular intervals. he had taken a big whiskey and soda at the last wayside inn he had passed, and drink did not make him drunk so much as mad. he pushed the mare ahead, feeling in just the humour to try experiments with her. * * * * * "alec is very determined that you shall be safe on faustine," hester said to emily. "he takes her out every day." "it is very good of him," answered emily. hester thought she looked a trifle nervous, and wondered why. she did not say anything about the riding lessons, and in fact had seemed of late less eager and interested. in the first place, it had been alec who had postponed, now it was she. first one trifling thing and then another seemed to interpose. "the mare is as safe as a feather-bed," osborn said to her one afternoon when they were taking tea on the lawn at palstrey. "you had better begin now if you wish to accomplish anything before lord walderhurst comes back. what do you hear from him as to his return?" emily had heard that he was likely to be detained longer than he had expected. it seemed always to be the case that people were detained by such business. he was annoyed, but it could not be helped. there was a rather tired look in her eyes and she was paler than usual. "i am going up to town to-morrow," she said. "the riding lessons might begin after i come back." "are you anxious about anything?" hester asked her as she was preparing for the drive back to the kennel farm. "no, no," emily answered. "only--" "only what?" "i should be so glad if--if he were not away." hester gazed reflectively at her suddenly quivering face. "i don't think i ever saw a woman so fond of a man," she said. emily stood still. she was quite silent. her eyes slowly filled. she had never been able to say much about what she felt for walderhurst. hers was a large, dumb, primitive affection. she sat at her open bedroom window a long time that evening. she rested her chin upon her hand and looked up at the deeps of blue powdered with the diamond dust of stars. it seemed to her that she had never looked up and seen such myriads of stars before. she felt far away from earthly things and tremulously uplifted. during the last two weeks she had lived in a tumult of mind, of amazement, of awe, of hope and fear. no wonder that she looked pale and that her face was full of anxious yearning. there were such wonders in the world, and she, emily fox-seton, no, emily walderhurst, seemed to have become part of them. she clasped her hands tight together and leaned forward into the night with her face turned upwards. very large drops began to roll fast down her cheeks, one after the other. the argument of scientific observation might have said she was hysterical, and whether with or without reason is immaterial. she did not try to check her tears or wipe them away, because she did not know that she was crying. she began to pray, and heard herself saying the lord's prayer like a child. "our father who art in heaven--our father who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name," she murmured imploringly. she said the prayer to the end, and then began it over again. she said it three or four times, and her appeal for daily bread and the forgiveness of trespasses expressed what her inarticulate nature could not have put into words. beneath the entire vault of heaven's dark blue that night there was nowhere lifted to the unknown a prayer more humbly passion-full and gratefully imploring than her final whisper. "for thine is the kingdom, the power, and the glory, for ever and ever. amen, amen." when she left her seat at the window and turned towards the room again, jane cupp, who was preparing for the morrow's journey and was just entering with a dress over her arm, found herself restraining a start at sight of her. "i hope you are quite well, my lady," she faltered. "yes," lady walderhurst answered. "i think i am very well--very well, jane. you will be quite ready for the early train to-morrow morning." "yes, my lady, quite." "i have been thinking," said emily gently, almost in a tone of reverie, "that if your uncle had not wanted your mother so much it would have been nice to have her here with us. she is such an experienced person, and so kind. i never forget how kind she was to me when i had the little room in mortimer street." "oh! my lady, you was kind to _us_," cried jane. she recalled afterwards, with tears, how her ladyship moved nearer to her and took her hand with what jane called "her wonderful _good_ look," which always brought a lump to her throat. "but i always count on you, jane," she said. "i count on you so much." "oh! my lady," jane cried again, "it's my comfort to believe it. i'd lay down my life for your ladyship, i would indeed." emily sat down, and on her face there was a soft, uplifted smile. "yes," she said, and jane cupp saw that she was reflective again, and the words were not addressed exactly, to herself, "one would be quite ready to lay down one's life for the person one loved. it seems even a little thing, doesn't it?" chapter fourteen lady walderhurst remained in town a week, and jane cupp remained with her, in the house in berkeley square, which threw open its doors to receive them on their arrival quite as if they had never left it. the servants' hall brightened temporarily in its hope that livelier doings might begin to stir the establishment, but jane cupp was able to inform inquirers that the visit was only to be a brief one. "we are going back to palstrey next monday," she explained. "my lady prefers the country, and she is very fond of palstrey; and no wonder. it doesn't seem at all likely she'll come to stay in london until his lordship gets back." "we hear," said the head housemaid, "that her ladyship is very kind to captain osborn and his wife, and that mrs. osborn's in a delicate state of health." "it would be a fine thing for us if it was in our family," remarked an under housemaid who was pert. jane cupp looked extremely reserved. "is it true," the pert housemaid persisted, "that the osborns can't abide her?" "it's true," said jane, severely, "that she's goodness itself to them, and they ought to adore her." "we hear they don't," put in the tallest footman. "and who wonders. if she was an angel, there's just a chance that she may give captain osborn a wipe in the eye, though she is in her thirties." "it's not for _us_," said jane, stiffly, "to discuss thirties or forties or fifties either, which are no business of ours. there's one gentleman, and him a marquis, as chose her over the heads of two beauties in their teens, at least." "well, for the matter of that," admitted the tall footman, "i'd have chose her myself, for she's a fine woman." lady maria was just on the point of leaving south audley street to make some visits in the north, but she came and lunched with emily, and was in great form. she had her own opinion of a number of matters, some of which she discussed, some of which she kept to herself. she lifted her gold lorgnette and looked emily well over. "upon my word, emily," she said, "i am proud of you. you are one of my successes. your looks are actually improving. there's something rather etherealised about your face to-day. i quite agree with walderhurst in all the sentimental things he says about you." she said this last partly because she liked emily and knew it would please her to hear that her husband went to the length of dwelling on her charms in his conversation with other people, partly because it entertained her to see the large creature's eyelids flutter and a big blush sweep her cheek. "he really was in great luck when he discovered you," her ladyship went on briskly. "as for that, i was in luck myself. suppose you had been a girl who could not have been left. as walderhurst is short of female relatives, it would have fallen to me to decently dry-nurse you. and there would have been the complications arising from a girl being baby enough to want to dance about to places, and married enough to feel herself entitled to defy her chaperone; she couldn't have been trusted to chaperone herself. as it is, walderhurst, can go where duty calls, etc., and i can make my visits and run about, and you, dear thing, are quite happy at palstrey playing lady bountiful and helping the little half-breed woman to expect her baby. i daresay you sit and make dolly shirts and christening robes hand in hand." "we enjoy it all very much," emily answered, adding imploringly, "please don't call her a little half-breed woman. she's such a dear little thing, lady maria." lady maria indulged in the familiar chuckle and put up her lorgnette to examine her again. "there's a certain kind of early victorian saintliness about you, emily walderhurst, which makes my joy," she said. "you remind me of lady castlewood, helen pendennis, and amelia sedley, with the spitefulness and priggishness and catty ways left out. you are as nice as thackeray _thought_ they were, poor mistaken man. i am not going to suffuse you with blushes by explaining to you that there is what my nephew would call a jolly good reason why, if you were not an early victorian and improved thackerayian saint, you would not be best pleased at finding yourself called upon to assist at this interesting occasion. another kind of woman would probably feel like a cat towards the little osborn. but even the mere reason itself, as a reason, has not once risen in your benign and pellucid mind. you have a pellucid mind, emily; i should be rather proud of the word if i had invented it myself to describe you. but i didn't. it was walderhurst. you have actually wakened up the man's intellects, such as they are." she evidently had a number of opinions of the osborns. she liked neither of them, but it was captain osborn she especially _dis_liked. "he is really an underbred person," she explained, "and he hasn't the sharpness to know that is the reason walderhurst detests him. he had vulgar, cheap sort of affairs, and nearly got into the kind of trouble people don't forgive. what a fool a creature in his position is to offend the taste of the man he may inherit from, and who, if he were not antagonistic to him, would regard him as a sort of duty. it wasn't his immorality particularly. nobody is either moral or immoral in these days, but penniless persons must be decent. it's all a matter of taste and manners. i haven't any morals myself, my dear, but i have beautiful manners. a woman can have the kind of manners which keep her from breaking the commandments. as to the commandments, they are awfully easy things _not_ to break. who wants to break them, good lord! thou shall do no murder. thou shalt not steal. thou shalt not commit, etc. thou shalt not bear false witness. that's simply gossip and lying, and they are bad manners. if you have good manners, you _don't_." she chatted on in her pungent little worldly, good-humoured way through the making of a very excellent lunch. after which she settled her smart bonnet with clever touches, kissed emily on both cheeks, and getting into her brougham rolled off smiling and nodding. emily stood at the drawing-room window and watched her equipage roll round the square and into charles street, and then turned away into the big, stately empty room, sighing without intending to do so while she smiled herself. "she's so witty and so amusing," she said; "but one would no more think of _telling_ her anything than one would think of catching a butterfly and holding it while one made it listen. she would be so _bored_ if she was confided in." which was most true. never in her life had her ladyship allowed herself the indiscretion of appearing a person in whom confidences might be reposed. she had always had confidences enough of her own to take care of, without sharing those of other people. "good heavens!" she had exclaimed once, "i should as soon think of assuming another woman's wrinkles." on the first visit lady walderhurst made to the kennel farm the morning after her return to palstrey, when alec osborn helped her from her carriage, he was not elated by the fact that he had never seen her look so beautifully alive and blooming during his knowledge of her. there was a fine rose on her cheek, and her eyes were large and happily illumined. "how well you look!" broke from him with an involuntariness he was alarmed to realise as almost spiteful. the words were an actual exclamation which he had not meant to utter, and emily walderhurst even started a trifle and looked at him with a moment's question. "but you look well, too," she answered. "palstrey agrees with both of us. you have such a colour." "i have been riding," he replied. "i told you i meant to know faustine thoroughly before i let you mount her. she is ready for you now. can you take your first lesson to-morrow?" "i--i don't quite know," she hesitated. "i will tell you a little later. where is hester?" hester was in the drawing-room. she was lying on a sofa before an open window and looking rather haggard and miserable. she had, in fact, just had a curious talk with alec which had ended in something like a scene. as hester's health grew more frail, her temper became more fierce, and of late there had been times when a certain savagery, concealed with difficulty in her husband's moods, affected her horribly. this morning she felt a new character in emily's manner. she was timid and shy, and a little awkward. her child-like openness of speech and humour seemed obscured. she had less to say than usual, and at the same time there was a suggestion of restless unease about her. hester osborn, after a few minutes, began to have an odd feeling that the woman's eyes held a question or a desire in them. she had brought some superb roses from the manor gardens, and she moved about arranging them for hester in vases. "it is beautiful to come back to the country," she said. "when i get into the carriage at the station and drive through the sweet air, i always feel as if i were beginning to live again, and as if in london i had not been quite alive. it seemed so _heavenly_ in the rose garden at palstrey to-day, to walk about among those thousands of blooming lovely things breathing scent and nodding their heavy, darling heads." "the roads are in a beautiful condition for riding," hester said, "and alec says that faustine is perfect. you ought to begin to-morrow morning. shall you?" she spoke the words somewhat slowly, and her face did not look happy. but, then, it never was a really happy face. the days of her youth had been too full of the ironies of disappointment. there was a second's silence, and then she said again: "shall you, if it continues fine?" emily's hands were full of roses, both hands, and hester saw both hands and roses tremble. she turned round slowly and came towards her. she looked nervous, awkward, abashed, and as if for that moment she was a big girl of sixteen appealing to her and overwhelmed with queer feelings, and yet the depths of her eyes held a kind of trembling, ecstatic light. she came and stood before her, holding the trembling roses as if she had been called up for confession. "i--i mustn't," she half whispered. the corners of her lips drooped and quivered, and her voice was so low that hester could scarcely hear it. but she started and half sat up. "you _mustn't_?" she gasped; yes, really it was gasped. emily's hand trembled so that the roses began to fall one by one, scattering a rain of petals as they dropped. "i mustn't," she repeated, low and shakily. "i had--reason.--i went to town to see--somebody. i saw sir samuel brent, and he told me i must not. he is quite sure." she tried to calm herself and smile. but the smile quivered and ended in a pathetic contortion of her face. in the hope of gaining decent self-control, she bent down to pick up the dropped roses. before she had picked up two, she let all the rest fall, and sank kneeling among them, her face in her hands. "oh, hester, hester!" she panted, with sweet, stupid unconciousness of the other woman's heaving chest and glaring eyes. "it has come to me too, actually, after all." chapter fifteen the palstrey manor carriage had just rolled away carrying lady walderhurst home. the big, low-ceilinged, oak-beamed farm-house parlour was full of the deep golden sunlight of the late afternoon, the air was heavy with the scent of roses and sweet-peas and mignonette, the adorable fragrance of english country-house rooms. captain osborn inhaled it at each breath as he stood and looked out of the diamond-paned window, watching the landau out of sight. he felt the scent and the golden glow of the sunset light as intensely as he felt the dead silence which reigned between himself and hester almost with the effect of a physical presence. hester was lying upon the sofa again, and he knew she was staring at his back with that sardonic widening of her long eyes, a thing he hated, and which always foreboded things not pleasant to face. he did not turn to face them until the footman's cockade had disappeared finally behind the tall hedge, and the tramp of the horses' feet was deadening itself in the lane. when he ceased watching and listening, he wheeled round suddenly. "what does it all mean?" he demanded. "hang her foolish airs and graces._ why_ won't she ride, for she evidently does not intend to." hester laughed, a hard, short, savage little un-mirthful sound it was. "no, she doesn't intend to," she answered, "for many a long day, at least, for many a month. she has sir samuel brent's orders to take the greatest care of herself." "brent's? brent's?" hester struck her lean little hands together and laughed this time with a hint at hysteric shrillness. "i told you so, i told you so!" she cried. "i knew it would be so, i knew it! by the time she reaches her thirty-sixth birthday there will be a new marquis of walderhurst, and he won't be either you or yours." and as she finished, she rolled over on the sofa, and bit the cushions with her teeth as she lay face downwards on them. "he won't be you, or belong to you," she reiterated, and then she struck the cushions with her clenched fist. he rushed over to her, and seizing her by the shoulders shook her to and fro. "you don't know what you are talking about," he said; "you don't know what you are saying." "i do! i do! i do!" she screamed under her breath, and beat the cushions at every word. "it's true, it's true. she's drivelling about it, drivelling!" alec osborn threw back his head, drawing in a hard breath which was almost a snort of fury. "by god!" he cried, "if she went out on faustine now, she would not come back!" his rage had made him so far beside himself that he had said more than he intended, far more than he would have felt safe. but the girl was as far beside herself as he was, and she took him up. "serve her right," she cried. "i shouldn't care. i hate her! i hate her! i told you once i couldn't, but i do. she's the biggest fool that ever lived. she knew _nothing_ of what i felt. i believe she thought i would rejoice with her. i didn't know whether i should shriek in her face or scream out laughing. her eyes were as big as saucers, and she looked at me as if she felt like the virgin mary after the annunciation. oh! the stupid, _inhuman_ fool!" her words rushed forth faster and faster, she caught her breath with gasps, and her voice grew more shrill at every sentence. osborn shook her again. "keep quiet," he ordered her. "you are going into hysterics, and it won't do. get hold of yourself." "go for ameerah," she gasped, "or i'm afraid i can't. she knows what to do." he went for ameerah, and the silently gliding creature came bringing her remedies with her. she looked at her mistress with stealthily questioning but affectionate eyes, and sat down on the floor rubbing her hands and feet in a sort of soothing massage. osborn went out of the room, and the two women were left together. ameerah knew many ways of calming her mistress's nerves, and perhaps one of the chief ones was to lead her by subtle powers to talk out her rages and anxieties. hester never knew that she was revealing herself and her moods until after her interviews with the ayah were over. sometimes an hour or so had passed before she began to realise that she had let out things which she had meant to keep secret. it was never ameerah who talked, and hester was never conscious that she talked very much herself. but afterwards she saw that the few sentences she had uttered were such as would satisfy curiosity if the ayah felt it. also she was not, on the whole, at all sure that the woman felt it. she showed no outward sign of any interest other than the interest of a deep affection. she loved her young mistress to-day as passionately as she had loved her as a child when she had held her in her bosom as if she had been her own. by the time emily walderhurst had reached palstrey, ameerah knew many things. she understood that her mistress was as one who, standing upon the brink of a precipice, was being slowly but surely pushed over its edge--pushed, pushed by fate. this was the thing imaged in her mind when she shut herself up in her room and stood alone in the midst of the chamber clenching her dark hands high above her white veiled head, and uttering curses which were spells, and spells which were curses. emily was glad that she had elected to be alone as much as possible, and had not invited people to come and stay with her. she had not invited people, in honest truth, because she felt shy of the responsibility of entertainment while walderhurst was not with her. it would have been proper to invite his friends, and his friends were all people she was too much in awe of, and too desirous to please to be able to enjoy frankly as society. she had told herself that when she had been married a few years she would be braver. and now her gladness was so devout that it was pure rejoicing. how could she have been calm, how could she have been conversational, while through her whole being there surged but one thought. she was sure that while she talked to people she would have been guilty of looking as if she was thinking of something not in the least connected with themselves. if she had been less romantically sentimental in her desire to avoid all semblance of burdening her husband she would have ordered him home at once, and demanded as a right the protection of his dignity and presence. if she had been less humble she would have felt the importance of her position and the gravity of the claims it gave her to his consideration, instead of being lost in prayerful gratitude to heaven. she had been rather stupidly mistaken in not making a confidante of lady maria bayne, but she had been, in her big girl shyness, entirely like herself. in some remote part of her nature she had shrunk from a certain look of delighted amusement which she had known would have betrayed itself, despite her ladyship's good intentions, in the eyes assisted by the smart gold lorgnette. she knew she was inclined to be hyper-emotional on this subject, and she felt that if she had seen the humour trying to conceal itself behind the eye-glasses, she might have been hysterical enough to cry even while she tried to laugh, and pass her feeling off lightly. oh, no! oh, no! somehow she _knew_ that at such a moment, for some fantastic, if subtle, reason, lady maria would only see her as emily fox-seton, that she would have actually figured before her for an instant as poor emily fox-seton making an odd confession. she could not have endured it without doing something foolish, she felt that she would not, indeed. so lady maria went gaily away to make her round of visits and be the amusing old life and soul of house-party after house-party, suspecting nothing of a possibility which would actually have sobered her for a moment. emily passed her days at palstrey in a state of happy exaltation. for a week or so they were spent in wondering whether or not she should write a letter to lord walderhurst which should convey the information to him which even lady maria would have regarded as important, but the more she argued the question with herself, the less she wavered from her first intention. lady maria's frank congratulation of herself and lord walderhurst in his wife's entire unexactingness had indeed been the outcome of a half-formed intention to dissipate amiably even the vaguest inclination to verge on expecting things from people. while she thought emily unlikely to allow herself to deteriorate into an encumbrance, her ladyship had seen women in her position before, whose marriages had made perfect fools of them through causing them to lose their heads completely and require concessions and attentions from their newly acquired relations which bored everybody. so she had lightly patted and praised emily for the course of action she preferred to "keep her up to." "she's the kind of woman ideas sink into if they are well put," she had remarked in times gone by. "she's not sharp enough to see that things are being suggested to her, but a suggestion acts upon her delightfully." her suggestions acted upon emily as she walked about the gardens at palstrey, pondering in the sunshine and soothed by the flower scents of the warmed borders. such a letter written to walderhurst might change his cherished plans, concerning which she knew he held certain ambitions. he had been so far absorbed in them that he had gone to india at a time of the year which was not usually chosen for the journey. he had become further interested and absorbed after he had reached the country, and he was evidently likely to prolong his stay as he had not thought of prolonging it. he wrote regularly though not frequently, and emily had gathered from the tone of his letters that he was more interested than he had ever been in his life before. "i would not interfere with his work for anything in the world," she said. "he cares more for it than he usually cares for things. i care for everything--i have that kind of mind; an intellectual person is different. i am perfectly well and happy here. and it will be so nice to look forward." she was not aware how lady maria's suggestions had "sunk in." she would probably have reached the same conclusion without their having been made, but since they had been made, they had assisted her. there was one thing of all others she felt she could not possibly bear, which was to realise that she herself could bring to her james's face an expression she had once or twice seen others bring there (captain osborn notably),--an expression of silent boredom on the verge of irritation. even radiant domestic joy might not be able to overrule this, if just at this particular juncture he found himself placed in the position of a man whom decency compelled to take the next steamer to england. if she had felt tenderly towards hester osborn before, the feeling was now increased tenfold. she went to see her oftener, she began to try to persuade her to come and stay at palstrey. she was all the more kind because hester seemed less well, and was in desperate ill spirits. her small face had grown thin and yellow, she had dark rings under her eyes, and her little hands were hot and looked like bird's claws. she did not sleep and had lost her appetite. "you must come and stay at palstrey for a few days," emily said to her. "the mere change from one house to another may make you sleep better." but hester was not inclined to avail herself of the invitation. she made obstacles and delayed acceptance for one reason and another. she was, in fact, all the more reluctant because her husband wished her to make the visit. their opposed opinions had resulted in one of their scenes. "i won't go," she had said at first. "i tell you i won't." "you will," he answered. "it will be better for you." "will it be worse for me if i don't?" she laughed feverishly. "and how will it be better for you if i do? i know you are in it." he lost his temper and was indiscreet, as his temper continually betrayed him into being. "yes, i am in it," he said through his teeth, "as you might have the sense to see. everything is the better for us that throws us with them, and makes them familiar with the thought of us and our rights." "our rights," the words were a shrill taunt. "what rights have you, likely to be recognised, unless you kill her. are you going to kill her?" he had a moment of insanity. "i'd kill her and you too if it was safe to do it. you both deserve it!" he flung across the room, having lost his wits as well as his temper. but a second later both came back to him as in a revulsion of feeling. "i talk like a melodramatic fool," he cried. "oh, hester, forgive me!" he knelt on the floor by her side, caressing her imploringly. "we both take fire in the same way. we are both driven crazy by this damned blow. we're beaten; we may as well own it and take what we can get. she's a fool, but she's better than that pompous, stiff brute walderhurst, and she has a lot of pull over him he knows nothing about. the smug animal is falling in love with her in his way. she can make him do the decent thing. let us keep friends with her." "the decent thing would be a thousand a year," wailed hester, giving in to his contrition in spite of herself, because she had once been in love with him, and because she was utterly helpless. "five hundred a year wouldn't be indecent." "let us keep on her good side," he said, fondling her, with a relieved countenance. "tell her you will come and that she is an angel, and that you are sure a visit to the manor will save your life." they went to palstrey a few days later. ameerah accompanied them in attendance upon her mistress, and the three settled down into a life so regular that it scarcely seemed to wear the aspect of a visit. the osborns were given some of the most beautiful and convenient rooms in the house. no other visitors were impending and the whole big place was at their disposal. hester's boudoir overlooked the most perfect nooks of garden, and its sweet chintz draperies and cushions and books and flowers made it a luxurious abode of peace. "what shall i do," she said on the first evening in it as she sat in a soft chair by the window, looking out at the twilight and talking to emily. "what shall i do when i must go away?" "i don't mean only from here,--i mean away from england, to loathly india." "do you dislike it so?" emily asked, roused to a new conception of her feeling by her tone. "i could never describe to you how much," fiercely. "it is like going to the place which is the opposite of heaven." "i did not know that," pityingly. "perhaps--i wonder if something might not be done: i must talk to my husband." ameerah seemed to develop an odd fancy for the society of jane cupp, which jane was obliged to confess to her mistress had a tendency to produce in her system "the creeps." "you must try to overcome it, jane," lady walderhurst said. "i'm afraid it's because of her colour. i've felt a little silly and shy about her myself, but it isn't nice of us. you ought to read 'uncle tom's cabin,' and all about that poor religious uncle tom, and legree, and eliza crossing the river on the blocks of ice." "i have read it twice, your ladyship," was jane's earnestly regretful response, "and most awful it is, and made me and mother cry beyond words. and i suppose it is the poor creature's colour that's against her, and i'm trying to be kind to her, but i must own that she makes me nervous. she asks me such a lot of questions in her queer way, and stares at me so quiet. she actually asked me quite sudden the other day if i loved the big mem sahib. i didn't know what she _could_ mean at first, but after a while i found out it was her indian way of meaning your ladyship, and she didn't intend disrespect, because she spoke of you most humble afterwards, and called his lordship the heaven born." "be as kind as you can to her, jane," instructed her mistress. "and take her a nice walk occasionally. i daresay she feels very homesick here." what ameerah said to her mistress was that these english servant women were pigs and devils, and could conceal nothing from those who chose to find out things from them. if jane had known that the ayah could have told her of every movement she made during the day or night, of her up-gettings and down-lyings, of the hour and moment of every service done for the big mem sahib, of why and how and when and where each thing was done, she would have been frightened indeed. one day, it is true, she came into lady walderhurst's sleeping apartment to find ameerah standing in the middle of it looking round its contents with restless, timid, bewildered eyes. she wore, indeed, the manner of an alarmed creature who did not know how she had got there. "what are you doing here?" demanded jane. "you have no right in this part of the house. you're taking a great liberty, and your mistress will be angry." "my mem sahib asked for a book," the ayah quite shivered in her alarmed confusion. "your mem sahib said it was here. they did not order me, but i thought i would come to you. i did not know it was forbidden." "what was the book?" inquired jane severely. "i will take it to her ladyship." but ameerah was so frightened that she had forgotten the name, and when jane knocked at the door of mrs. osborn's boudoir, it was empty, both the ladies having gone into the garden. but ameerah's story was quite true, lady walderhurst said in the evening when jane spoke of the matter as she dressed her for dinner. they had been speaking of a book containing records of certain historical walderhursts. it was one emily had taken from the library to read in her bedroom. "we did not ask her to go for it. in fact i did not know the woman was within hearing. she moves about so noiselessly one frequently does not know when she is near. of course she meant very well, but she does not know our english ways." "no, my lady, she does not," said jane, respectfully but firmly. "i took the liberty of telling her she must keep to her own part of the house unless required by your ladyship." "you mustn't frighten the poor creature," laughed her mistress. she was rather touched indeed by the slavish desire to please and do service swiftly which the ayah's blunder seemed to indicate. she had wished to save her mistress even the trouble of giving the order. that was her oriental way, emily thought, and it was very affectionate and child-like. being reminded of the book again, she carried it down herself into the drawing-room. it was a volume she was fond of because it recorded romantic stories of certain noble dames of walderhurst lineage. her special predilection was a dame ellena, who, being left with but few servitors in attendance during her lord's absence from his castle on a foraging journey into an enemy's country, had defended the stronghold boldly against the attack of a second enemy who had adroitly seized the opportunity to forage for himself. in the cellars had been hidden treasure recently acquired by the usual means, and knowing this, dame ellena had done splendid deeds, marshalling her small forces in such way as deceived the attacking party and showing herself in scorn upon the battlements, a fierce, beauteous woman about to give her lord an heir, yet fearing naught, and only made more fierce and full of courage by this fact. the son, born but three weeks later, had been the most splendid and savage fighter of his name, and a giant in build and strength. "i suppose," emily said when they discussed the legend after dinner, "i suppose she felt that she could do _anything_," with her italics. "i daresay _nothing_ could make her afraid, but the thought that something might go wrong while her husband was away. and strength was given her." she was so thrilled that she got up and walked across the room with quite a fine sweep of heroic movement in her momentary excitement. she held her head up and smiled with widening eyes. but she saw captain osborn drag at his black moustache to hide an unattractive grin, and she was at once abashed into feeling silly and shy. she sat down again with awkward self-consciousness. "i'm afraid i'm making you laugh at me," she apologised, "but that story always gives me such a romantic feeling. i like her so." "oh! not at all, not all," said osborn. "i was not laughing really; oh no!" but he had been, and had been secretly calling her a sentimental, ramping idiot. it was a great day for jane cupp when her mother arrived at palstrey manor. it was a great day for mrs. cupp also. when she descended from the train at the little country station, warm and somewhat flushed by her emotions and the bugled splendours of her best bonnet and black silk mantle, the sight of jane standing neatly upon the platform almost overcame her. being led to his lordship's own private bus, and seeing her trunk surrounded by the attentions of an obsequious station-master and a liveried young man, she was conscious of concealing a flutter with dignified reserve. "my word, jane!" she exclaimed after they had taken their seats in the vehicle. "my word, you look as accustomed to it as if you had been born in the family." but it was when, after she had been introduced to the society in the servants' hall, she was settled in her comfortable room next to jane's own that she realised to the full that there were features of her position which marked it with importance almost startling. as jane talked to her, the heat of the genteel bonnet and beaded mantle had nothing whatever to do with the warmth which moistened her brow. "i thought i'd keep it till i saw you, mother," said the girl decorously. "i know what her ladyship feels about being talked over. if i was a lady myself, i shouldn't like it. and i know how deep you'll feel it, that when the doctor advised her to get an experienced married person to be at hand, she said in that dear way of hers, 'jane, if your uncle could spare your mother, how i should like to have her. i've never forgot her kindness in mortimer street.'" mrs. cupp fanned her face with a handkerchief of notable freshness. "if she was her majesty," she said, "she couldn't be more sacred to me, nor me more happy to be allowed the privilege." jane had begun to put her mother's belongings away. she was folding and patting a skirt on the bed. she fussed about a little nervously and then lifted a rather embarrassed face. "i'm glad you _are_ here, mother," she said. "i'm thankful to _have_ you!" mrs. cupp ceased fanning and stared at her with a change of expression. she found herself involuntarily asking her next question in a half whisper. "why, jane, what is it?" jane came nearer. "i don't know," she answered, and her voice also was low. "perhaps i'm silly and overanxious, because i _am_ so fond of her. but that ameerah, i actually dream about her." "what! the black woman?" "if i was to say a word, or if you did, and we was wrong, how should we feel? i've kept my nerves to myself till i've nearly screamed sometimes. and my lady would be so hurt if she knew. but--well," in a hurried outburst, "i do wish his lordship was here, and i do wish the osborns wasn't. i do wish it, i tell you that." "good lord!" cried mrs. cupp, and after staring with alarmed eyes a second or so, she wiped a slight dampness from her upper lip. she was of the order of female likely to take a somewhat melodramatic view of any case offering her an opening in that direction. "jane!" she gasped faintly, "do you think they'd try to take her life?" "goodness, no!" ejaculated jane, with even a trifle of impatience. "people like them daren't. but suppose they was to try to, well, to upset her in some way, what a thing for them it would be." after which the two women talked together for some time in whispers, jane bringing a chair to place opposite her mother's. they sat knee to knee, and now and then jane shed a tear from pure nervousness. she was so appalled by the fear of making a mistake which, being revealed by some chance, would bring confusion upon and pain of mind to her lady. "at all events," was mrs. cupp's weighty observation when their conference was at an end, "here we both are, and two pairs of eyes and ears and hands and legs is a fat lot better than one, where there's things to be looked out for." her training in the matter of subtlety had not been such as ameerah's, and it may not be regarded as altogether improbable that her observation of the ayah was at times not too adroitly concealed, but if the native woman knew that she was being remarked, she gave no sign of her knowledge. she performed her duties faithfully and silently, she gave no trouble, and showed a gentle subservience and humbleness towards the white servants which won immense approbation. her manner towards mrs. cupp's self was marked indeed by something like a tinge of awed deference, which, it must be confessed, mollified the good woman, and awakened in her a desire to be just and lenient even to the dark of skin and alien of birth. "she knows her betters when she sees them, and has pretty enough manners for a black," the object of her respectful obeisances remarked. "i wonder if she's ever heard of her maker, and if a little brown testament with good print wouldn't be a good thing to give her?" this boon was, in fact, bestowed upon her as a gift. mrs. cupp bought it for a shilling at a small shop in the village. ameerah, in whose dusky being was incorporated the occult faith of lost centuries, and whose gods had been gods through mystic ages, received the fat, little brown book with down-dropped lids and grateful obeisance. these were her words to her mistress: "the fat old woman with protruding eyes bestowed it upon me. she says it is the book of her god. she has but one. she wishes me to worship him. am i a babe to worship such a god as would please her. she is old, and has lost her mind." lady walderhurst's health continued all that could be desired. she arose smiling in the morning, and bore her smile about with her all day. she walked much in the gardens, and spent long, happy hours sewing in her favourite sitting-room. work which she might have paid other women to do, she did with her own hands for the mere sentimental bliss of it. sometimes she sat with hester and sewed, and hester lay on a sofa and stared at her moving hands. "you know how to do it, don't you?" she once said. "i was obliged to sew for myself when i was so poor, and this is delightful," was emily's answer. "but you could buy it all and save yourself the trouble." emily stroked her bit of cambric and looked awkward. "i'd rather not," she said. well as she was, she began to think she did not sleep quite so soundly as had been habitual with her. she started up in bed now and again as if she had been disturbed by some noise, but when she waited and listened she heard nothing. at least this happened on two or three occasions. and then one night, having been lying folded in profound, sweet sleep, she sprang up in the black darkness, wakened by an actual, physical reality of sensation, the soft laying of a hand upon her naked side,--that, and nothing else. "what is that? who is there?" she cried. "someone is in the room!" yes, someone was there. a few feet from her bed she heard a sobbing sigh, then a rustle, then followed silence. she struck a match and, getting up, lighted candles. her hand shook, but she remembered that she must be firm with herself. "i must not be nervous," she said, and looked the room over from end to end. but it contained no living creature, nor any sign that living creature had entered it since she had lain down to rest. gradually the fast beating of her heart had slackened, and she passed her hand over her face in bewilderment. "it wasn't like a dream at all," she murmured; "it really wasn't. i _felt_ it." still as absolutely nothing was to be found, the sense of reality diminished somewhat, and being so healthy a creature, she regained her composure, and on going back to bed slept well until jane brought her early tea. under the influence of fresh morning air and sunlight, of ordinary breakfast and breakfast talk with the osborns, her first convictions receded so far that she laughed a little as she related the incident. "i never had such a real dream in my life," she said; "but it must have been a dream." "one's dreams are very real sometimes," said hester. "perhaps it was the palstrey ghost," osborn laughed. "it came to you because you ignore it." he broke off with a slight sudden start and stared at her a second questioningly. "did you say it put its hand on your side?" he asked. "don't tell her silly things that will frighten her. how ridiculous of you," exclaimed hester sharply. "it's not proper." emily looked at both of them wonderingly. "what do you mean?" she said. "i don't believe in ghosts. it won't frighten me, hester. i never even heard of a palstrey ghost." "then i am not going to tell you of one," said captain osborn a little brusquely, and he left his chair and went to the sideboard to cut cold beef. he kept his back towards them, and his shoulders looked uncommunicative and slightly obstinate. hester's face was sullen. emily thought it sweet of her to care so much, and turned upon her with grateful eyes. "i was only frightened for a few minutes, hester," she said. "my dreams are not vivid at all, usually." but howsoever bravely she ignored the shock she had received, it was not without its effect, which was that occasionally there drifted into her mind a recollection of the suggestion that palstrey had a ghost. she had never heard of it, and was in fact of an orthodoxy so ingenuously entire as to make her feel that belief in the existence of such things was a sort of defiance of ecclesiastical laws. still, such stories were often told in connection with old places, and it was natural to wonder what features marked this particular legend. did it lay hands on people's sides when they were asleep? captain osborn had asked his question as if with a sudden sense of recognition. but she would not let herself think of the matter, and she would not make inquiries. the result was that she did not sleep well for several nights. she was annoyed at herself, because she found that she kept lying awake as if listening or waiting. and it was not a good thing to lose one's sleep when one wanted particularly to keep strong. jane cupp during this week was, to use her own words, "given quite a turn" by an incident which, though a small matter, might have proved untoward in its results. the house at palstrey, despite its age, was in a wonderful state of preservation, the carved oak balustrades of the stairways being considered particularly fine. "what but providence," said jane piously, in speaking to her mother the next morning, "made me look down the staircase as i passed through the upper landing just before my lady was going down to dinner. what but providence i couldn't say. it certainly wasn't because i've done it before that i remember. but just that one evening i was obliged to cross the landing for something, and my eye just lowered itself by accident, and there it was!" "just where it would have tripped her up. good lord! it makes my heart turn over to hear you tell it. how big a bit of carving was it?" mrs. cupp's opulent chest trimmings heaved. "only a small piece that had broken off from old age and worm-eatenness, i suppose, but it had dropped just where she wouldn't have caught sight of it, and ten to one would have stepped on it and turned her ankle and been thrown from the top to the bottom of the whole flight. suppose i _hadn't_ seen it in time to pick it up before she went down. oh, dear! oh, dear! mother!" "i should say so!" mrs. cupp's manner approached the devout. this incident it was which probably added to jane's nervous sense of responsibility. she began to watch her mistress's movements with hyper-sensitive anxiety. she fell into the habit of going over her bedroom two or three times a day, giving a sort of examination to its contents. "perhaps i'm so fond of her that it's making me downright silly," she said to her mother; "but it seems as if i can't help it. i feel as if i'd like to know everything she does, and go over the ground to make sure of it before she goes anywhere. i'm so proud of her, mother; i'm just as proud as if i was some connection of the family, instead of just her maid. it'll be such a splendid thing if she keeps well and everything goes as it should. even people like us can see what it means to a gentleman that can go back nine hundred years. if i was lady maria bayne, i'd be here and never leave her. i tell you nothing could drive me from her." "you are well taken care of," hester had said. "that girl is devoted to you. in her lady's maid's way she'd fight for your life." "i think she is as faithful to me as ameerah is to you," emily answered. "i feel sure ameerah would fight for you." ameerah's devotion in these days took the form of a deep-seated hatred of the woman whom she regarded as her mistress's enemy. "it is an evil thing that she should take this place," she said. "she is an old woman. what right hath she to think she may bear a son. ill luck will come of it. she deserves any ill fortune which may befall her." "sometimes," lady walderhurst once said to osborn, "i feel as if ameerah disliked me. she looks at me in such a curious, stealthy way." "she is admiring you," was his answer. "she thinks you are something a little supernatural, because you are so tall and have such a fresh colour." there was in the park at palstrey manor a large ornamental pool of water, deep and dark and beautiful because of the age and hugeness of the trees which closed around it, and the water plants which encircled and floated upon it. white and yellow flags and brown velvet rushes grew thick about its edge, and water-lilies opened and shut upon its surface. an avenue of wonderful limes led down to a flight of mossy steps, by which in times gone by people had descended to the boat which rocked idly in the soft green gloom. there was an island on it, on which roses had been planted and left to run wild; early in the year daffodils and other spring flowers burst up through the grass and waved scented heads. lady walderhurst had discovered the place during her honeymoon, and had loved it fondly ever since. the avenue leading to it was her favourite walk; a certain seat under a tree on the island her favourite resting-place. "it is so still there," she had said to the osborns. "no one ever goes there but myself. when i have crossed the little old bridge and sit down among the greenness with my book or work, i feel as if there was no world at all. there is no sound but the rustle of the leaves and the splash of the moor-hens who come to swim about. they don't seem to be afraid of me, neither do the thrushes and robins. they know i shall only sit still and watch them. sometimes they come quite near." she used, in fact, to take her letter-writing and sewing to the sweet, secluded place and spend hours of pure, restful bliss. it seemed to her that her life became more lovely day by day. [illustration: hester osborn] hester did not like the pool. she thought it too lonely and silent. she preferred her beflowered boudoir or the sunny garden. sometimes in these days she feared to follow her own thoughts. she was being pushed--pushed towards the edge of her precipice, and it was only the working of nature that she should lose her breath and snatch at strange things to stay herself. between herself and her husband a sort of silence had grown. there were subjects of which they never spoke, and yet each knew that the other's mind was given up to thought of them day and night. there were black midnight hours when hester, lying awake in her bed, knew that alec lay awake in his also. she had heard him many a time turn over with a caught breath and a smothered curse. she did not ask herself what he was thinking of. she knew. she knew because she was thinking of the same things herself. of big, fresh, kind emily walderhurst lost in her dreams of exultant happiness which never ceased to be amazed and grateful to prayerfulness; of the broad lands and great, comfortable houses; of all it implied to be the marquis of walderhurst or his son; of the long, sickening voyage back to india; of the hopeless muddle of life in an ill-kept bungalow; of wretched native servants, at once servile and stubborn and given to lies and thefts. more than once she was forced to turn on her face that she might smother her frenzied sobs in her pillow. it was on such a night--she had awakened from her sleep to notice such stillness in osborn's adjoining room, that she thought him profoundly asleep--that she arose from her bed to go and sit at her open window. she had not been seated there many minutes before she became singularly conscious, she did not know how, of some presence near her among the bushes in the garden below. it had indeed scarcely seemed to be sound or movement which had attracted her attention, and yet it must have been one or both, for she involuntarily turned to a particular spot. yes, something, someone, was standing in a corner, hidden by shrubbery. it was the middle of the night, and people were meeting. she sat still and almost breathless. she could hear nothing and saw nothing but, between the leafage, a dim gleam of white. only ameerah wore white. after a few seconds' waiting she began to think a strange thing, though she presently realised that, taking all things into consideration, it was not strange at all. she got up very noiselessly and stole into her husband's room. he was not there; the bed was empty, though he had slept there earlier in the night. she went back to her own bed and got into it again. in ten minutes' time captain osborn crept upstairs and returned to bed also. hester made no sign and did not ask any questions. she knew he would have told her nothing, and also she did not wish to hear. she had seen him speaking to ameerah in the lane a few days before, and now that he was meeting her in the night she knew that she need not ask herself what the subject of their consultation might be. but she looked haggard in the morning. lady walderhurst herself did not look well, for the last two or three nights she had been starting from her sleep again with that eerie feeling of being wakened by someone at her bedside, though she had found no one when she had examined the room on getting up. "i am sorry to say i am afraid i am getting a little nervous," she had said to jane cupp. "i will begin to take valerian, though it is really very nasty." jane herself had a somewhat harried expression of countenance. she did not mention to her mistress that for some days she had been faithfully following a line of conduct she had begun to mark out for herself. she had obtained a pair of list slippers and had been learning to go about softly. she had sat up late and risen from her bed early, though she had not been rewarded by any particularly marked discoveries. she had thought, however, that she observed that ameerah did not look at her as much as had been her habit, and she imagined she rather avoided her. all she said to lady walderhurst was: "yes, my lady, mother thinks a great deal of valerian to quiet the nerves. will you have a light left in your room to-night, my lady?" "i am afraid i could not sleep with a light," her mistress answered. "i am not used to one." she continued to sleep, disturbedly some nights, in the dark. she was not aware that on some of the nights jane cupp either slept or laid awake in the room nearest to her. jane's own bedroom was in another part of the house, but in her quiet goings about in the list shoes she now and then saw things which made her nervously determined to be within immediate call. "i don't say it isn't nerves, mother," she said, "and that i ain't silly to feel so suspicious of all sorts of little things, but there's nights when i couldn't stand it not to be quite near her." chapter sixteen the lime avenue was a dim, if lovely, place at twilight. when the sun was setting, broad lances of gold slanted through the branches and glorified the green spaces with mellow depths of light. but later, when the night was drawing in, the lines of grey tree-trunks, shadowed and canopied by boughs, suggested to the mind the pillars of some ruined cathedral, desolate and ghostly. jane cupp, facing the gloom of it during her lady's dinner-hour, and glancing furtively from side to side as she went, would have been awed by the grey stillness, even if she had not been in a timorous mood to begin with. in the first place, the lime avenue, which was her ladyship's own special and favourite walk, was not the usual promenade of serving-maids. even the gardeners seldom set foot in it unless to sweep away dead leaves and fallen wood. jane herself had never been here before. this evening she had gone absolutely because she was following ameerah. she was following ameerah because, during the afternoon tea-hour in the servants' hall, she had caught a sentence or so in the midst of a gossiping story, which had made her feel that she should be unhappy if she did not go down the walk and to the water-side,--see the water, the boat, the steps, everything. "my word, mother!" she had said, "it's a queer business for a respectable girl that's maid in a great place to be feeling as if she had to watch black people, same as if she was in the police, and not daring to say a word; for if i did say a word, captain osborn's clever enough to have me sent away from here in a jiffy. and the worst of it is," twisting her hands together, "there _mayn't_ be _anything_ going on really. if they were as innocent as lambs they couldn't act any different; and just the same, things _might_ have happened by accident." "that's the worst of it," was mrs. cupp's fretted rejoinder. "any old piece of carving might have dropped out of a balustrade, and any lady that wasn't well might have nightmare and be disturbed in her sleep." "yes," admitted jane, anxiously, "that is the worst of it. sometimes i feel so foolish i'm all upset with myself." the gossip in servants' halls embraces many topics. in country houses there is naturally much to be said of village incidents, of the scandals of cottages and the tragedies of farms. this afternoon, at one end of the table the talk had been of a cottage scandal which had verged on tragedy. a handsome, bouncing, flaunting village girl had got into that "trouble" which had been anticipated for her by both friends and enemies for some time. being the girl she was, much venomous village social stir had resulted. it had been predicted that she would "go up to london," or that she would drown herself, having an impudent high spirit which brought upon her much scornful and derisive flouting on her evil day. the manor servants knew a good deal of her, because she had been for a while a servant at the kennel farm, and had had a great fancy for ameerah, whom it had pleased her to make friends with. when she fell suddenly ill, and for days lay at the point of death, there was a stealthy general opinion that ameerah, with her love spells and potions, could have said much which might have been enlightening, if she had chosen. the girl had been in appalling danger. the village doctor, who had been hastily called in, had at one moment declared that life had left her body. it was, in fact, only ameerah who had insisted that she was not dead. after a period of prostration, during which she seemed a corpse, she had slowly come back to earthly existence. the graphic descriptions of the scenes by her bedside, of her apparent death, her cold and bloodless body, her lagging and ghastly revival to consciousness, aroused in the servants' hall a fevered interest. ameerah was asked questions, and gave such answers as satisfied herself if not her interlocutors. she was perfectly aware of the opinions of her fellow servitors. she knew all about them while they knew nothing whatsoever about her. her limited english could be used as a means of baffling them. she smiled, and fell into hindustani when she was pressed. jane cupp heard both questions and answers. ameerah professed to know nothing but such things as the whole village knew. towards the end of the discussion, however, in a mixture of broken english and hindustani, she conveyed that she had believed that the girl would drown herself. asked why, she shook her head, then said that she had seen her by the mem sahib's lake at the end of the trees. she had asked if the water was deep enough, near the bridge, to drown. ameerah had answered that she did not know. there was a general exclamation. they all knew it was deep there. the women shuddered as they remembered how deep they had been told it was at that particular spot. it was said that there was no bottom to it. everybody rather revelled in the gruesomeness of the idea of a bottomless piece of water. someone remembered that there was a story about it. as much as ninety years ago two young labourers on the place had quarrelled about a young woman. one day, in the heat of jealous rage one had seized the other and literally thrown him into the pond. he had never been found. no drags could reach his body. he had sunk into the blackness for ever. ameerah sat at the table with downcast eyes. she had a habit of sitting silent with dropped eyes, which jane could not bear. as she drank her tea she watched her in spite of herself. after a few minutes had passed, her appetite for bread and butter deserted her. she got up and left the hall, looking pale. the mental phases through which she went during the afternoon ended in her determination to go down the avenue and to the water's side this evening. it could be done while her ladyship and her guests were at dinner. this evening the vicar and his wife and daughter were dining at the manor. jane took in emotionally all the mysterious silence and dimness of the long tree-pillared aisle, and felt a tremor as she walked down it, trying to hold herself in hand by practical reflections half whispered. "i'm just going to have a look, to make sure," she said, "silly or not. i've got upset through not being able to help watching that woman, and the way to steady my nerves is to make sure i'm just giving in to foolishness." she walked as fast as she could towards the water. she could see its gleam in the dim light, but she must pass a certain tree before she could see the little bridge itself. "my goodness! what's that?" she said suddenly. it was something white, which rose up as if from the ground, as if from the rushes growing at the water's edge. just a second jane stood, and choked, and then suddenly darted forward, running as fast as she could. the white figure merely moved slowly away among the trees. it did not run or seem startled, and as jane ran she caught it by its white drapery, and found herself, as she had known she would, dragging at the garments of ameerah. but ameerah only turned round and greeted her with a welcoming smile, mild enough to damp any excitement. "what are you doing here?" jane demanded. "why do you come to this place?" ameerah answered her with simple fluency in hindustani, with her manner of not realising that she was speaking to a foreigner who could not understand her. what she explained was that, having heard that jane's mem sahib came here to meditate on account of the stillness, she herself had formed the habit of coming to indulge in prayer and meditation when the place was deserted for the day. she commended the place to jane, and to jane's mother, whom she believed to be holy persons given to devotional exercises. jane shook her. "i don't understand a word you say," she cried. "you know i don't. speak in english." ameerah shook her head slowly, and smiled again with patience. she endeavoured to explain in english which jane was sure was worse than she had ever heard her use before. was it forbidden that a servant should come to the water? she was far too much for jane, who was so unnerved that she burst into tears. "you are up to some wickedness," she sobbed; "i know you are. you're past bearing. i'm going to write to people that's got the right to do what i daren't. i'm going back to that bridge." ameerah looked at her with a puzzled amiability for a few seconds. she entered into further apologies and explanations in hindustani. in the midst of them her narrow eyes faintly gleamed, and she raised a hand. "they come to us. it is your mem sahib and her people. hear them." she spoke truly. jane had miscalculated as to her hour, or the time spent at the dinner-table had been shorter than usual. in fact, lady walderhurst had brought her guests to see the young moon peer through the lime-trees, as she sometimes did when the evening was warm. jane cupp fled precipitately. ameerah disappeared also, but without precipitation or any sign of embarrassment. * * * * * "you look as if you had not slept well, jane," lady walderhurst remarked in the morning as her hair was being brushed. she had glanced into the glass and saw that it reflected a pale face above her own, and that the pale face had red rims to its eyes. "i have been a bit troubled by a headache, my lady," jane answered. "i have something like a headache myself." lady walderhurst's voice had not its usual cheerful ring. her own eyes looked heavy. "i did not rest well. i have not rested well for a week. that habit of starting from my sleep feeling that some sound has disturbed me is growing on me. last night i dreamed again that someone touched my side. i think i shall be obliged to send for sir samuel brent." "my lady," exclaimed jane feverishly, "if you would--if you would." lady walderhurst's look at her was nervous and disturbed. "do you--does your mother think i am not as well as i should be, jane?" she said. jane's hands were actually trembling. "oh no, my lady. oh no! but if sir samuel could be sent for, or lady maria bayne, or--or his lordship--" the disturbed expression of lady walderhurst's face changed to something verging on alarm. it was true that she began to be horribly frightened. she turned upon jane, pallor creeping over her skin. "oh!" she cried, a sound of almost child-like fear and entreaty in her voice. "i am sure you think i am ill, i am sure you do. what--what is it?" she leaned forward suddenly and rested her forehead on her hands, her elbows supported by the dressing-table. she was overcome by a shock of dread. "oh! if anything should go wrong!" in a faint half wail; "if anything _could_ happen!" she could not bear the mere thought. it would break her heart. she had been so happy. god had been so good. jane was inwardly convulsed with contrition commingled with anger at her own blundering folly. now it was she herself who had "upset" her ladyship, given her a fright that made her pale and trembling. what did she not deserve for being such a thoughtless fool. she might have known. she poured forth respectfully affectionate protestations. "indeed, i beg your pardon, my lady. indeed, it's only my silliness! mother was saying yesterday that she had never seen a lady so well and in as good spirits. i have no right to be here if i make such mistakes. please, my lady--oh! might mother be allowed to step in a minute to speak to you?" emily's colour came, back gradually. when jane went to her mother, mrs. cupp almost boxed her ears. "that's just the way with girls," she said. "no more sense than a pack of cats. if you can't keep quiet you'd better just give up. of course she'd think you meant they was to be sent for because we was certain she was a dying woman. oh my! jane cupp, get away!" she enjoyed her little interview with lady walderhurst greatly. a woman whose opinion was of value at such a time had the soundest reasons for enjoying herself. when she returned to her room, she sat and fanned herself with a pocket handkerchief and dealt judicially with jane. "what we've got to do," she said, "is to think, and think we will. tell her things outright we must not, until we've got something sure and proved. then we can call on them that's got the power in their hands. we can't call on them till we can show them a thing no one can't deny. as to that bridge, it's old enough to be easy managed, and look accidental if it broke. you say she ain't going there to-day. well, this very night, as soon as it's dark enough, you and me will go down and have a look at it. and what's more, we'll take a man with us. judd could be trusted. worst comes to worst, we're only taking the liberty of making sure it's safe, because we know it _is_ old and we're over careful." as jane had gathered from her, by careful and apparently incidental inquiry, emily had had no intention of visiting her retreat. in the morning she had, in fact, not felt quite well enough. her nightmare had shaken her far more on its second occurring. the stealthy hand had seemed not merely to touch, but to grip at her side, and she had been physically unable to rise for some minutes after her awakening. this experience had its physical and mental effects on her. she did not see hester until luncheon, and after luncheon she found her to be in one of her strange humours. she was often in these strange humours at this time. she wore a nervous and strained look, and frequently seemed to have been crying. she had new lines on her forehead between the eyebrows. emily had tried in vain to rouse and cheer her with sympathetic feminine talk. there were days when she felt that for some reason hester did not care to see her. she felt it this afternoon, and not being herself at the high-water mark of cheerfulness, she was conscious of a certain degree of discouragement. she had liked her so much, she had wanted to be friends with her and to make her life an easier thing, and yet she appeared somehow to have failed. it was because she was so far from being a clever woman. perhaps she might fail in other things because she was not clever. perhaps she was never able to give to people what they wanted, what they needed. a brilliant woman had such power to gain and hold love. after an hour or so spent in trying to raise the mental temperature of mrs. osborn's beflowered boudoir, she rose and picked up her little work-basket. "perhaps you would take a nap if i left you," she said. "i think i will stroll down to the lake." she quietly stole away, leaving hester on her cushions. chapter seventeen a few minutes later a knock at the door being replied to by hester's curt "come in!" produced the modest entry of jane cupp, who had come to make a necessary inquiry of her mistress. "her ladyship is not here; she has gone out." jane made an altogether involuntary step forward. her face became the colour of her clean white apron. "out!" she gasped. hester turned sharply round. "to the lake," she said. "what do you mean by staring in that way?" jane did not tell her what she meant. she incontinently ran from the room without any shadow of a pretence at a lady's maid's decorum. she fled through the rooms, to make a short cut to the door opening on to the gardens. through that she darted, and flew across paths and flowerbeds towards the avenue of limes. "she shan't get to the bridge before me," she panted. "she shan't, she shan't. i won't let her. oh, if my breath will only hold out!" she did not reflect that gardeners would naturally think she had gone mad. she thought of nothing whatever but the look in ameerah's downcast eyes when the servants had talked of the bottomless water,--the eerie, satisfied, sly look. of that, and of the rising of the white figure from the ground last night she thought, and she clutched her neat side as she ran. the lime avenue seemed a mile long, and yet when she was running down it she saw lady walderhurst walking slowly under the trees carrying her touching little basket of sewing in her hand. she was close to the bridge. "my lady! my lady!" she gasped out as soon as she dared. she could not run screaming all the way. "oh, my lady! if you please!" emily heard her and turned round. never had she been much more amazed in her life. her maid, her well-bred jane cupp, who had not drawn an indecorous breath since assuming her duties, was running after her calling out to her, waving her hands, her face distorted, her voice hysteric. emily had been just on the point of stepping on to the bridge, her hand had been outstretched towards the rail. she drew back a step in alarm and stood staring. how strange everything seemed to-day. she began to feel choked and trembling. a few seconds and jane was upon her, clutching at her dress. she had so lost her breath that she was almost speechless. "my lady," she panted. "don't set foot on it; don't--don't, till we're sure." "on--on what?" then jane realised how mad she looked, how insane the whole scene was, and she gave way to her emotions. partly through physical exhaustion and breathlessness, and partly through helpless terror, she fell on her knees. "the bridge!" she said. "i don't care what happens to me so that no harm comes to you. there's things being plotted and planned that looks like accidents. the bridge would look like an accident if part of it broke. there's no bottom to the water. they were saying so yesterday, and _she_ sat listening. i found her here last night." "she! her!" emily felt as if she was passing through another nightmare. "ameerah," wailed poor jane. "white ones have no chance against black. oh, my lady!" her sense of the possibility that she might be making a fool of herself after all was nearly killing her. "i believe she would drive you to your death if she could do it, think what you will of me." the little basket of needlework shook in lady walderhurst's hand. she swallowed hard, and without warning sat down on the roots of a fallen tree, her cheeks blanching slowly. "oh jane!" she said in simple woe and bewilderment. "i don't understand any of it. how could--how _could_ they want to hurt me!" her innocence was so fatuous that she thought that because she had been kind to them they could not hate or wish to injure her. but something for the first time made her begin to quail. she sat, and tried to recover herself. she put out a shaking hand to the basket of sewing. she could scarcely see it, because suddenly tears had filled her eyes. "bring one of the men here," she said, after a few moments. "tell him that i am a little uncertain about the safety of the bridge." she sat quite still while jane was absent in search of the man. she held her basket on her knee, her hand resting on it. her kindly, slow-working mind was wakening to strange thoughts. to her they seemed inhuman and uncanny. was it because good, faithful, ignorant jane had been rather nervous about ameerah that she herself had of late got into a habit of feeling as if the ayah was watching and following her. she had been startled more than once by finding her near when she had not been aware of her presence. she had, of course, heard hester say that native servants often startled one by their silent, stealthy-seeming ways. but the woman's eyes had frightened her. and she had heard the story about the village girl. she sat, and thought, and thought. her eyes were fixed upon the moss-covered ground, and her breath came quickly and irregularly several times. "i don't know what to do," she said. "i am sure--if it is true--i don't know what to do." the under-gardener's heavy step and jane's lighter one roused her. she lifted her eyes to watch the pair as they came. he was a big, young man with a simple rustic face and big shoulders and hands. "the bridge is so slight and old," she said to him, "that it has just occurred to me that it might not be quite safe. examine it carefully to make sure." the young man touched his forehead and began to look the supports over. jane watched him with bated breath when he rose to his feet. "they're all right on this side, my lady," he said. "i shall have to get in the boat to make sure of them that rest on the island." he stamped upon the end nearest and it remained firm. "look at the railing well," said lady walderhurst. "i often stand and lean on it and--and watch the sunset." she faltered at this point, because she had suddenly remembered that this was a habit of hers, and that she had often spoken of it to the osborns. there was a point on the bridge at which, through a gap in the trees, a beautiful sunset was always particularly beautiful. it was the right-hand rail facing these special trees she rested on when she watched the evening sky. the big, young gardener looked at the left-hand rail and shook it with his strong hands. "that's safe enough," he said to jane. "try the other," said jane. he tried the other. something had happened to it. it broke in his big grasp. his sunburnt skin changed colour by at least three shades. "lord a'mighty!" jane heard him gasp under his breath. he touched his cap and looked blankly at lady walderhurst. jane's heart seemed to herself to roll over. she scarcely dared look at her mistress, but when she took courage to do so, she found her so white that she hurried to her side. "thank you, jane," she said rather faintly. "the sky is so lovely this afternoon that i meant to stop and look at it. i should have fallen into the water, which they say has no bottom. no one would have seen or heard me if you had not come." she caught jane's hand and held it hard. her eyes wandered over the avenue of big trees, which no one but herself came near at this hour. it would have been so lonely, so lonely! the gardener went away, still looking less ruddy than he had looked when he arrived on the spot. lady walderhurst rose from her seat on the mossy tree-trunk. she rose quite slowly. "don't speak to me yet, jane," she said. and with jane following her at a respectful distance, she returned to the house and went to her room to lie down. there was nothing to prove that the whole thing was not mere chance, mere chance. it was this which turned her cold. it was all impossible. the little bridge had been entirely unused for so long a time, it had been so slight a structure from the first; it was old, and she remembered now that walderhurst had once said that it must be examined and strengthened if it was to be used. she had leaned upon the rail often lately; one evening she had wondered if it seemed quite as steady as usual. what could she say, whom could she accuse, because a piece of rotten wood had given away. she started on her pillow. it was a piece of rotten wood which had fallen from the balustrade upon the stairs, to be seen and picked up by jane just before she would have passed down on her way to dinner. and yet, what would she appear to her husband, to lady maria, to anyone in the decorous world, if she told them that she believed that in a dignified english household, an english gentleman, even a deposed heir presumptive, was working out a subtle plot against her such as might adorn a melodrama? she held her head in her hands as her mind depicted to her lord walderhurst's countenance, lady maria's dubious, amused smile. "she would think i was hysterical," she cried, under her breath. "he would think i was vulgar and stupid, that i was a fussy woman with foolish ideas, which made him ridiculous. captain osborn is of his family. i should be accusing him of being a criminal. and yet i might have been in the bottomless pond, in the bottomless pond, and no one would have known." if it all had not seemed so incredible to her, if she could have felt certain herself, she would not have been overwhelmed with this sense of being baffled, bewildered, lost. the ayah who so loved hester might hate her rival. a jealous native woman might be capable of playing stealthy tricks, which, to her strange mind, might seem to serve a proper end. captain osborn might not know. she breathed again as this thought came to her. he could not know; it would be too insane, too dangerous, too wicked. and yet, if she had been flung headlong down the staircase, if the fall had killed her, where would have been the danger for the man who would only have deplored a fatal accident. if she had leaned upon the rail and fallen into the black depths of water below, what could have been blamed but a piece of rotten wood. she touched her forehead with her handkerchief because it felt cold and damp. there was no way out. her teeth chattered. "they may be as innocent as i am. and they may be murderers in their hearts. i can prove nothing, i can prevent nothing. oh! _do_ come home." there was but one thought which remained clear in her mind. she must keep herself safe--she must keep herself safe. in the anguish of her trouble she confessed, by putting it into words, a thing which she had not confessed before, and even as she spoke she did not realise that her words contained confession. "if i were to die now," she said with a touching gravity, "he would care very much." a few moments later she said, "it does not matter what happens to me, how ridiculous or vulgar or foolish i seem, if i can keep myself safe--until after. i will write to him now and ask him to try to come back." it was the letter she wrote after this decision which osborn saw among others awaiting postal, and which he stopped to examine. chapter eighteen hester sat at the open window of her boudoir in the dark. she had herself put out the wax candles, because she wanted to feel herself surrounded by the soft blackness. she had sat through the dinner and heard her husband's anxious inquiries about the rotten handrail, and had watched his disturbed face and emily's pale one. she herself had said but little, and had been glad when the time came that she could decently excuse herself and come away. as she sat in the darkness and felt the night breath of the flowers in the garden, she was thinking of all the murderers she had ever heard of. she was reflecting that some of them had been quite respectable people, and that all of them must have lived through a period in which they gradually changed from respectable people to persons in whose brains a thought had worked which once they would have believed impossible to them, which they might have scouted the idea of their giving room to. she was sure the change must come about slowly. at first it would seem too mad and ridiculous, a sort of angry joke. then the angry joke would return again and again, until at last they let it stay and did not laugh at it, but thought it over. such things always happened because some one wanted, or did not want, something very much, something it drove them mad to think of being forced to live without, or with. men who hated a woman and could not rid themselves of her, who hated the sight of her face, her eyes, her hair, the sound of her voice and step, and were rendered insane by her nearness and the thought that they never could be free from any of these things, had before now, commonplace or comparatively agreeable men, by degrees reached the point where a knife or a shot or a heavy blow seemed not only possible but inevitable. people who had been ill-treated, people who had faced horrors through want and desire, had reached the moment in which they took by force what fate would not grant them. her brain so whirled that she wondered if she was not a little delirious as she sat in the stillness thinking such strange things. for weeks she had been living under a strain so intense that her feelings had seemed to cease to have any connection with what was normal. she had known too much; and yet she had been certain of nothing at all. but she and alec were like the people who began with a bad joke, and then were driven and driven. it was impossible not to think of what might come, and of what might be lost for ever. if the rail had not been tried this afternoon, if big, foolish emily walderhurst had been lying peacefully among the weeds to-night! "the end comes to everyone," she said. "it would have been all over in a few minutes. they say it isn't really painful." her lips quivered, and she pressed her hands tightly between her knees. "that's a murderer's thought," she muttered querulously. "and yet i wasn't a bad girl to begin with." she began to see things. the chief thing was a sort of vision of how emily would have looked lying in the depths of the water among the weeds. her brown hair would have broken loose, and perhaps tangled itself over her white face. would her eyes be open and glazed, or half shut? and her childish smile, the smile that looked so odd on the face of a full-grown woman, would it have been fixed and seemed to confront the world of life with a meek question as to what she had done to people--why she had been drowned? hester felt sure that was what her helpless stillness would have expressed. how happy the woman had been! to see her go about with her unconsciously joyous eyes had sometimes been maddening. and yet, poor thing! why had she not the right to be happy? she was always trying to please people and help them. she was so good that she was almost silly. the day she had brought the little things from london to the kennel farm, hester remembered that, despite her own morbid resentment, she had ended by kissing her with repentant tears. she heard again, in the midst of her delirious thoughts, the nice, prosaic emotion of her voice as she said: "_don't_ thank me--don't. just let us _enjoy_ ourselves." and she might have been lying among the long, thick weeds of the pond. and it would not have been the accident it would have appeared to be. of that she felt sure. brought face to face with this definiteness of situation, she began to shudder. she went out into the night feeling that she wanted air. she was not strong enough to stand the realisation that she had become part of a web into which she had not meant to be knitted. no; she had had her passionate and desperate moments, but she had not meant things like this. she had almost hoped that disaster might befall, she had almost thought it possible that she would do nothing to prevent it--almost. but some things were too bad. she felt small and young and hopelessly evil as she walked in the dark along a grass path to a seat under a tree. the very stillness of the night was a horror to her, especially when once an owl called, and again a dreaming bird cried in its nest. she sat under the tree in the dark for at least an hour. the thick shadow of the drooping branches hid her in actual blackness and seclusion. she said to herself later that some one of the occult powers she believed in had made her go out and sit in this particular spot, because there was a thing which was not to be, and she herself must come between. when she at last rose it was with panting breath. she stole back to her room, and lighted with an unsteady hand a bedroom candle, whose flame flickered upon a distorted, little dark face. for as she had sat under the tree she had, after a while, heard whispering begin quite near her; had caught, even in the darkness, a gleam of white, and had therefore deliberately sat and listened. * * * * * there could be, to the purely normal geniality of emily walderhurst's nature, no greater relief than the recognition that a cloud had passed from the mood of another. when hester appeared the next morning at the breakfast-table, she had emerged from her humour of the day before and was almost affectionate in her amiability. the meal at an end, she walked with emily in the garden. she had never shown such interest in what pertained to her as she revealed this morning. something she had always before lacked emily recognised in her for the first time,--a desire to ask friendly questions, to verge on the confidential. they talked long and without reserve. and how pretty it was of the girl, emily thought, to care so much about her health and her spirits, to be so interested in the details of her every-day life, even in the simple matter of the preparation and serving of her food, as if the merest trifle was of consequence. it had been unfair, too, to fancy that she felt no interest in walderhurst's absence and return. she had noticed everything closely, and actually thought he ought to come back at once. "send for him," she said quite suddenly; "send for him now." there was an eagerness expressed in the dark thinness of her face which moved emily. "it is dear of you to care so much, hester," she said. "i didn't know you thought it mattered." "he must come," said hester. "that's all. send for him." "i wrote a letter yesterday," was lady walderhurst's meek rejoinder. "i got nervous." "so did i get nervous," said hester; "so did i." that she was disturbed emily could see. the little laugh she ended her words with had an excited ring in it. during the osborns' stay at palstrey the two women had naturally seen a good deal of each other, but for the next two days they were scarcely separated at all. emily, feeling merely cheered and supported by the fact that hester made herself so excellent a companion, was not aware of two or three things. one was that mrs. osborn did not lose sight of her unless at such times as she was in the hands of jane cupp. "i may as well make a clean breast of it," the young woman said. "i have a sense of responsibility about you that i haven't liked to speak of before. it's half hysterical, i suppose, but it has got the better of me." "you feel responsible for _me_!" exclaimed emily, with wondering eyes. "yes, i do," she almost snapped. "you represent so much. walderhurst ought to be here. i'm not fit to take care of you." "i ought to be taking care of you," said emily, with gentle gravity. "i am the older and stronger. you are not nearly so well as i am." hester startled her by bursting into tears. "then do as i tell you," she said. "don't go anywhere alone. take jane cupp with you. you have nearly had two accidents. make jane sleep in your dressing-room." emily felt a dreary chill creep over her. that which she had felt in the air when she had slowly turned an amazed face upon jane in the lime avenue, that sense of the strangeness of things again closed her in. "i will do as you wish," she answered. but before the next day closed all was made plain to her, all the awfulness, all the cruel, inhuman truth of things which seemed to lose their possibility in the exaggeration of proportion which made their incongruousness almost grotesque. the very prettiness of the flowered boudoir, the very softness of the peace in the velvet spread of garden before the windows, made it even more unreal. that day, the second one, emily had begun to note the new thing. hester was watching her, hester was keeping guard. and as she realised this, the sense of the abnormalness of things grew, and fear grew with it. she began to feel as if a wall were rising around her, built by unseen hands. the afternoon, an afternoon of deeply golden sun, they had spent together. they had read and talked. hester had said most. she had told stories of india,--curious, vivid, interesting stories, which seemed to excite her. at the time when the sunlight took its deepest gold the tea-tray was brought in. hester had left the room a short time before the footman appeared with it, carrying it with the air of disproportionate solemnity with which certain male domestics are able to surround the smallest service. the tea had been frequently served in hester's boudoir of late. during the last week, however, lady walderhurst's share of the meal had been a glass of milk. she had chosen to take it because mrs. cupp had suggested that tea was "nervous." emily sat down at the table and filled a cup for hester. she knew she would return in a few moments, so set the cup before mrs. osborn's place and waited. she heard the young woman's footsteps outside, and as the door opened she lifted the glass of milk to her lips. she was afterwards absolutely unable to describe to herself clearly what happened the next moment. in fact, it was the next moment that she saw hester spring towards her, and the glass of milk had been knocked from her hand and rolled, emptying itself, upon the floor. mrs. osborn stood before her, clenching and unclenching her hands. "have you drunk any of it?" she demanded. "no," emily answered. "i have not." hester osborn dropped into a chair and leaned forward, covering her face with her hands. she looked like a woman on the verge of an outbreak of hysteria, only to be held in check by a frenzied effort. lady walderhurst, quite slowly, turned the colour of the milk itself. but she did nothing but sit still and gaze at hester. "wait a minute." the girl was trying to recover her breath. "wait till i can hold myself still. i am going to tell you now. i am going to tell you." "yes," emily answered faintly. it seemed to her that she waited twenty minutes before another word was spoken, that she sat quite that long looking at the thin hands which seemed to clutch the hidden face. this was a mistake arising from the intensity of the strain upon her nerves. it was scarcely five minutes before mrs. osborn lowered her hands and laid them, pressed tightly palm to palm, between her knees. she spoke in a low voice, such a voice as a listener outside could not have heard. "do you know," she demanded, "what you represent to us--to me and to my husband--as you sit there?" emily shook her head. the movement of disclaimer was easier than speech. she felt a sort of exhaustion. "i don't believe you do," said hester. "you don't seem to realise anything. perhaps it's because you are so innocent, perhaps it's because you are so foolish. you represent the thing that we have the right to _hate_ most on earth." "do _you_ hate me?" asked emily, trying to adjust herself mentally to the mad extraordinariness of the situation, and at the same time scarcely understanding why she asked her question. "sometimes i do. when i do not i wonder at myself." the girl paused a second, looked down, as if questioningly, at the carpet, and then, lifting her eyes again, went on in a dragging, half bewildered voice: "when i do _not_, i actually believe it is because we are both--women together. before, it was different." the look which walderhurst had compared to "that of some nice animal in the zoo" came into emily's eyes as two honest drops fell from them. "would _you_ hurt me?" she faltered. "could _you_ let other people hurt me?" hester leaned further forward in her chair, widening upon her such hysterically insistent, terrible young eyes as made her shudder. "don't you _see_?" she cried. "_can't_ you see? but for _you_ my son would be what walderhurst is--my son, not yours." "i understand," said emily. "i understand." "listen!" mrs. osborn went on through her teeth. "even for that, there are things i haven't the nerve to stand. i have thought i could stand them. but i can't. it does not matter why. i am going to tell you the truth. you represent too much. you have been too great a temptation. nobody meant anything or planned anything at first. it all came by degrees. to see you smiling and enjoying everything and adoring that stilted prig of a walderhurst put ideas into people's heads, and they grew because every chance fed them. if walderhurst would come home--" lady walderhurst put out her hand to a letter which lay on the table. "i heard from him this morning," she said. "and he has been sent to the hills because he has a little fever. he must be quiet. so you see he _cannot_ come yet." she was shivering, though she was determined to keep still. "what was in the milk?" she asked. "in the milk there was the indian root ameerah gave the village girl. last night as i sat under a tree in the dark i heard it talked over. only a few native women know it." there was a singular gravity in the words poor lady walderhurst spoke in reply. "that," she said, "would have been the cruelest thing of all." mrs. osborn got up and came close to her. "if you had gone out on faustine," she said, "you would have met with _an accident_. it might or might not have killed you. but it would have been an accident. if you had gone downstairs before jane cupp saw the bit of broken balustrade you might have been killed--by accident again. if you had leaned upon the rail of the bridge you would have been drowned, and no human being could have been accused or blamed." emily gasped for breath, and lifted her head as if to raise it above the wall which was being slowly built round her. "nothing will be done which can be proved," said hester osborn. "i have lived among native people, and know. if ameerah hated me and i could not get rid of her i should die, and it would all seem quite natural." she bent down and picked up the empty glass from the carpet. "it is a good thing it did not break," she said, as she put it on the tray. "ameerah will think you drank the milk and that nothing will hurt you. you escape them always. she will be frightened." as she said it she began to cry a little, like a child. "nothing will save _me_," she said. "i shall have to go back, i shall have to go back!" "no, no!" cried emily. the girl swept away her tears with the back of a clenched hand. "at first, when i hated you," she was even petulant and plaintively resentful, "i thought i could let it go on. i watched, and watched, and bore it. but the strain was too great. i broke down. i think i broke down one night, when something began to beat like a pulse against my side." emily got up and stood before her. she looked perhaps rather as she had looked when she rose and stood before the marquis of walderhurst on a memorable occasion, the afternoon on the moor. she felt almost quiet, and safe. "what must i do?" she asked, as if she was speaking to a friend. "i am afraid. tell me." little mrs. osborn stood still and stared at her. the most incongruous thought came to her mind. she found herself, at this weird moment, observing how well the woman held her stupid head, how finely it was set on her shoulders, and that in a modern royal academy way she was rather like the venus of milo. it is quite out of place to think such things at such a time. but she found herself confronted with them. "go away," she answered. "it is all like a thing in a play, but i know what i am talking about. say you are ordered abroad. be cool and matter-of-fact. simply go and hide yourself somewhere, and call your husband home as soon as he can travel." emily walderhurst passed her hand over her forehead. "it _is_ like something in a play," she said, with a baffled, wondering face. "it isn't even respectable." hester began to laugh. "no, it isn't even respectable," she cried. and her laughter was just in time. the door opened and alec osborn came in. "what isn't respectable?" he asked. "something i have been telling emily," she answered, laughing even a trifle wildly. "you are too young to hear such things. you must be kept respectable at any cost." he grinned, but faintly scowled at the same time. "you've upset something," he remarked, looking at the carpet. "i have, indeed," said hester. "a cup of tea which was half milk. it will leave a grease spot on the carpet. that won't be respectable." when she had tumbled about among native servants as a child, she had learned to lie quickly, and she was very ready of resource. chapter nineteen as she heard the brougham draw up in the wet street before the door, mrs. warren allowed her book to fall closed upon her lap, and her attractive face awakened to an expression of agreeable expectation, in itself denoting the existence of interesting and desirable qualities in the husband at the moment inserting his latch-key in the front door preparatory to mounting the stairs and joining her. the man who, after twenty-five years of marriage, can call, by his return to her side, this expression to the countenance of an intelligent woman is, without question or argument, an individual whose life and occupations are as interesting as his character and points of view. dr. warren was of the mental build of the man whose life would be interesting and full of outlook if it were spent on a desert island or in the bastille. he possessed the temperament which annexes incident and adventure, and the perceptiveness of imagination which turns a light upon the merest fragment of event. as a man whose days were filled with the work attendant upon the exercise of a profession from which can be withheld few secrets, and to which most mysteries explain themselves, his brain was the recording machine of impressions which might have stimulated to vividness of imagination a man duller than himself, and roused to feeling one of far less warm emotions. he came into the room smiling. he was a man of fifty, of strong build, and masculine. he had good shoulders and good colour, and the eyes, nose, and chin of a man it would be a stupid thing to attempt to deal with in a blackguardly manner. he sat down in his chair by the fire and began to chat, as was his habit before he and his wife parted to dress for dinner. when he was out during the day he often looked forward to these chats, and made notes of things he would like to tell his mary. during her day, which was given to feminine duties and pleasures, she frequently did the same thing. between seven and eight in the evening they had delightful conversational opportunities. he picked up her book and glanced it over, he asked her a few questions and answered a few; but she saw it was with a somewhat preoccupied manner. she knew a certain remote look in his eye, and she waited to see him get up from his chair and begin to walk to and fro, with his hands in his pockets and his head thrown back. when, after having done this, he began in addition to whistle softly and draw his eyebrows together, she broke in upon him in the manner of merely following an established custom. "i am perfectly sure," was her remark, "that you have come upon one of the extraordinary cases." the last two words were spoken as with inverted commas. of many deep interests he added to her existence, the extraordinary cases were among the most absorbing. he had begun to discuss them with her during the first year of their married life. accident had thrown one of them into her immediate personal experience, and her clear-headed comprehension and sympathy in summing up singular evidence had been of such value to him that he had turned to her in the occurrence of others for the aid straightforward, mutual logic could give. she had learned to await the extraordinary case with something like eagerness. sometimes, it was true, its incidents were painful; but invariably they were absorbing in their interest, and occasionally illuminating beyond description. of names and persons it was not necessary she should hear anything--the drama, the ethics, were enough. with an absolute respect for his professional reserves, she asked no questions he could not reply to freely, and avoided even the innocent following of clues. the extraordinary case was always quite enough as it stood. when she saw the remotely speculative look in his eye, she suspected one, when he left his chair and paced the floor with that little air of restlessness, and ended with unconscious whistling which was scarcely louder than a breath, she felt that evidence enough had accumulated for her. he stopped and turned round. "my good mary," he owned at once, "its extraordinariness consists in its baffling me by being so perfectly ordinary." "well, at least that is not frequent. what is its nature? is it awful? is it sad? is it eccentric? is it mad or sane, criminal or domestic?" "it is nothing but suggestive, and that it suggests mystery to me makes me feel as if i myself, instead of a serious practitioner, am a professional detective." "is it a case in which you might need help?" "it is a case in which i am impelled to give help, if it proves that it is necessary. she is such an exceedingly nice woman." "good, bad, or indifferent?" "of a goodness, i should say--of a goodness which might prevent the brain acting in the manner in which a brutal world requires at present that the human brain should act in self-defence. of a goodness which may possibly have betrayed her into the most pathetic trouble." "of the kind--?" was mrs. warren's suggestion. "of that kind," with a troubled look; "but she is a married woman." "she _says_ she is a married woman." "no. she does not say so, but she looks it. that's the chief feature of the case. any woman bearing more obviously the stamp of respectable british matrimony than this one does, it has not fallen to me to look upon." mrs. warren's expression was _intriguée_ in the extreme. there was a freshness in this, at least. "but if she bears the stamp as well as the name--! do tell me all it is possible to tell. come and sit down, harold." he sat down and entered into details. "i was called to a lady who, though not ill, seemed fatigued from a hurried journey and, as it seemed to me, the effects of anxiety and repressed excitement. i found her in a third-class lodging-house in a third-class street. it was a house which had the air of a place hastily made inhabitable for some special reason. there were evidences that money had been spent, but that there had been no time to arrange things. i have seen something of the kind before, and when i was handed into my patient's sitting-room, thought i knew the type i should find. it is always more or less the same,--a girl or a very young woman, pretty and refined and frightened, or pretty and vulgar and 'carrying it off' with transparent pretences and airs and graces. anything more remote from what i expected you absolutely cannot conceive." "not young and pretty?" "about thirty-five or six. a fresh, finely built woman with eyes as candid as a six-year-old girl's. quite unexplanatory and with the best possible manner, only sweetly anxious about her health. her confidence in my advice and the earnestness of her desire to obey my least instructions were moving. ten minutes' conversation with her revealed to me depths of long-secreted romance in my nature. i mentally began to swear fealty to her." "did she tell you that her husband was away?" "what specially struck me was that it did not occur to her that her husband required stating, which was ingenuously impressive. she did not explain her mother or her uncles, why her husband? her mental attitude had a translucent clearness. she wanted a medical man to take charge of her, and if she had been an amiable, un-brilliant lady who was a member of the royal house, she would have conversed with me exactly as she did." "she was so respectable?" "she was even a little mid-victorian, dear mary; a sort of clean, healthy, mid-victorian angel." "there's an incongruousness in the figure in connection with being obviously in hiding in a lodging-house street." and mrs. warren gave herself to reflection. "i cannot make it as incongruous as she was. i have not told you all. i have saved to the last the feature which marked her most definitely as an extraordinary case. i suppose one does that sort of thing from a sense of drama." "what else?" inquired mrs. warren, roused from her speculation. "what respectable conclusion _could_ one deduce from the fact that a letter lay on the table near her, sealed with an imposing coat of arms. one's eye having accidentally fallen on it, one could, of course, only avoid glancing at it again, so i recognised nothing definite. also, when i was announced unexpectedly, i saw her quickly withdraw her hand from her lips. she had been kissing a ring she wore. i could not help seeing that afterwards. my good mary, it was a ruby, of a size and colour which recalled the arabian nights." mrs. warren began to resign herself. "no," she said, "there is no respectable conclusion to be drawn. it is tragic, but prosaic. she has been governess or companion in some great house. she may be a well-born woman. it is ten times more hideous for her than if she were a girl. she has to writhe under knowing that both her friends and her enemies are saying that she had not the excuse of not having been old enough to know better." "that might all be true," he admitted promptly. "it _would_ be true if--but she is not writhing. she is no more unhappy than you or i. she is only anxious, and i could swear that she is only anxious about one thing. the moment in which i swore fealty to her was when she said to me, 'i want to be quite safe--until after. i do not care for myself. i will bear anything or do anything. only one thing matters. i shall be such a good patient.' then her eyes grew moist, and she closed her lips decorously to keep them from trembling. "they're not usually like that," mrs. warren remarked. "i have not found them so," he replied. "perhaps she believes the man will marry her." there was odd unexpectedness in the manner in which dr. warren suddenly began to laugh. "my dear wife, if you could see her! it is the incongruity of what we are saying which makes me laugh. with her ruby and her coronets and her lodging-house street, she is of an impeccableness! she does not even know she could be doubted. fifteen years of matrimony spent in south kensington, three girls in the schoolroom and four boys at eton, could not have crystallised a more unquestionable serenity. and you are saying gravely, 'perhaps she believes the man will marry her.' whatsoever the situation is, i am absolutely sure that she has never asked herself whether he would or not." "then," mrs. warren answered, "it is the most extraordinary case we have had yet." "but i have sworn fealty to her," was warren's conclusion. "and she will tell me more later." he shook his head with an air of certainty. "yes, she will feel it necessary to tell me later." they went upstairs to dress for dinner, and during the remainder of the evening which they spent alone they talked almost entirely of the matter. chapter twenty lady walderhurst's departure from palstrey, though unexpected, had been calm and matter-of-fact. all the osborns knew was that she had been obliged to go up to london for a day or two, and that when there, her physician had advised certain german baths. her letter of explanation and apology was very nice. she could not return to the country before beginning her journey. it seemed probable that she would return with her husband, who might arrive in england during the next two months. "has she heard that he is coming back?" captain osborn asked his wife. "she has written to ask him to come." osborn grinned. "he will be obliged to her. he is tremendously pleased with his importance at this particular time, and he is just the sort of man--as we both know--to be delighted at being called back to preside over an affair which is usually a matter for old women." but the letter he had examined, as it lay with the rest awaiting postal, he had taken charge of himself. he knew that one, at least, would not reach lord walderhurst. having heard in time of the broken bridge-rail, he had been astute enough to guess that the letter written immediately after the incident might convey such impressions as might lead even his lordship to feel that it would be well for him to be at home. the woman had been frightened, and would be sure to lose her head and play the fool. in a few days she would calm down and the affair would assume smaller proportions. at any rate, he had chosen to take charge of this particular letter. what he did not know, however, was that chance had played into his hands in the matter of temporarily upsetting lord walderhurst's rather unreliable digestion, and in altering his plans, by a smart, though not dangerous, attack of fever which had ended in his being ordered to a part of the hill country not faithfully reached by letters; as a result of which several communications from his wife went astray and were unduly delayed. at the time captain osborn was discussing him with hester, he was taking annoyed care of himself with the aid of a doctor, irritated by the untoward disturbance of his arrangements, and giving, it is true, comparatively little thought to his wife, who, being comfortably installed at palstrey manor, was doubtless enjoyably absorbed in little mrs. osborn. "what german baths does she intend going to?" alec osborn inquired. hester consulted the letter with a manner denoting but languid interest. "it's rather like her that she doesn't go to the length of explaining," was her reply. "she has a way of telling you a great many things you don't care to know, and forgetting to mention those you are interested in. she is very detailed about her health, and her affection and mine. she evidently expects us to go back to the kennel farm, and deplores her inhospitality, with adjectives." she did not look as if she was playing a part; but she was playing one, and doing it well. her little way was that of a nasty-tempered, self-centred woman, made spiteful by being called upon to leave a place which suited her. "you are not really any fonder of her than i am," commented osborn, after regarding her speculatively a few moments. if he had been as sure of her as he had been of ameerah--! "i don't know of any reason for my being particularly fond of her," she said. "it's easy enough for a rich woman to be good-natured. it doesn't cost her enough to constitute a claim." osborn helped himself to a stiff whiskey and soda. they went back to the kennel farm the next day, and though it was his habit to consume a large number of "pegs" daily, the habit increased until there were not many hours in the day when he was normally sure of what he was doing. the german baths to which lady walderhurst had gone were nearer to palstrey than any one knew. they were only at a few hours' distance by rail. when, after a day spent in a quiet london lodging, mrs. cupp returned to her mistress with the information that she had been to the house in mortimer street and found that the widow who had bought the lease and furniture was worn out with ill-luck and the uncertainty of lodgers, and only longed for release which was not ruin, emily cried a little for joy. "oh, how i should like to be there!" she said. "it was such a dear house. no one would ever dream of my being in it. and i need have no one but you and jane. i should be so safe and quiet. tell her you have a friend who will take it, as it is, for a year, and pay her anything." "i won't tell her quite that, my lady," mrs. cupp made sagacious answer. "i'll make her an offer in ready money down, and no questions asked by either of us. people in her position sometimes gets a sudden let that pays them better than lodgers. all classes has their troubles, and sometimes a decent house is wanted for a few months, where money can be paid. i'll make her an offer." the outcome of which was that the widowed householder walked out of her domicile the next morning with a heavier purse and a lighter mind than she had known for many months. the same night, ingenuously oblivious of having been called upon to fill the role of a lady in genteel "trouble," good and decorous emily walderhurst arrived under the cover of discreet darkness in a cab, and when she found herself in the "best bedroom," which had once been so far beyond her means, she cried a little for joy again, because the four dull walls, the mahogany dressing-table, and ugly frilled pincushions looked so unmelodramatically normal and safe. "it seems so home-like," she said; adding courageously, "it is a very comfortable place, really." "we can make it much more cheerful, my lady," jane said, with grateful appreciation. "and the relief makes it like paradise." she was leaving the room and stopped at the door. "there's not a person, black or white, can get across the door-mat, past mother and me, until his lordship comes," she allowed herself the privilege of adding. emily felt a little nervous when she pictured to herself lord walderhurst crossing the door-mat of a house in mortimer street in search of his marchioness. she had not yet had time to tell him the story of the episode of the glass of milk and hester osborn's sudden outburst. every moment had been given to carefully managed arrangement for the journey which was to seem so natural. hester's cleverness had suggested every step and had supported her throughout. but for hester she was afraid she might have betrayed herself. there had been no time for writing. but when james received her letter (of late she had more than once thought of him as "james"), he would know the one thing that was important. and she had asked him to come to her. she had apologised for suggesting any alteration of his plans, but she had really asked him to come to her. "i think he will come," she said to herself. "i do think he will. i shall be so glad. perhaps i have not been sensible, perhaps i have not done the best thing, but if i keep myself safe until he comes back, that really seems what is most important." two or three days in the familiar rooms, attended only by the two friendly creatures she knew so well, seemed to restore the balance of life for her. existence became comfortable and prosaic again. the best bedroom and the room in which she spent her days were made quite cheerful through jane's enterprise and memories of the appointments of palstrey. jane brought her tea in the morning, mrs. cupp presided over the kitchen. the agreeable doctor, whose reputation they had heard so much of, came and went, leaving his patient feeling that she might establish a friendship. he looked so clever and so kind. she began to smile her childlike smile again. mrs. cupp and jane told each other in private that if she had not been a married lady, they would have felt that she was miss fox-seton again. she looked so like herself, with her fresh colour and her nice, cheerful eyes. and yet to think of the changes there had been, and what they had gone through! people in london know nothing--or everything--of their neighbours. the people who lived in mortimer street were of the hard-worked lodging-house keeping class, and had too many anxieties connected with butcher's bills, rent, and taxes, to be able to give much time to their neighbours. the life in the house which had changed hands had nothing noticeable about it. it looked from the outside as it had always looked. the door-steps were kept clean, milk was taken in twice a day, and local tradesmen's carts left things in the ordinary manner. a doctor occasionally called to see someone, and the only person who had inquired about the patient (she was a friendly creature, who met mrs. cupp at the grocer's, and exchanged a few neighbourly words) was told that ladies who lived in furnished apartments, and had nothing to do, seemed to find an interest in seeing a doctor about things working-women had no time to bother about. mrs. cupp's view seemed to be that doctor's visits and medicine bottles furnished entertainment. mrs. jameson had "as good a colour and as good an appetite as you or me," but she was one who "thought she caught cold easy," and she was "afraid of fresh air." dr. warren's interest in the extraordinary case increased at each visit he made. he did not see the ruby ring again. when he had left the house after his first call, mrs. cupp had called lady walderhurst's attention to the fact that the ring was on her hand, and could not be considered compatible with even a first floor front in mortimer street. emily had been frightened and had removed it. "but the thing that upsets me when i hand him in," jane said to her mother anxiously in private, "is the way she can't help looking. you know what i mean, mother,--her nice, free, _good_ look. and we never _could_ talk to her about it. we should have to let her know that it's more than likely he thinks she's just what she isn't. it makes me mad to think of it. but as it had to be, if she only looked a little awkward, or not such a lady, or a bit uppish and fretful, she would seem so much more real. and then there's another thing. you know she always _did_ carry her head well, even when she was nothing but poor miss fox-seton tramping about shopping with muddy feet. and now, having been a marchioness till she's got used to it, and knowing that she is one, gives her an innocent, stately look sometimes. it's a thing she doesn't know of herself, but i do declare that sometimes as she's sat there talking just as sweet as could be, i've felt as if i ought to say, 'oh! if you please, my lady, if you _could_ look not quite so much as if you'd got on a tiara.'" "ah!" and mrs. cupp shook her head, "but that's what her maker did for her. she was born just what she looks, and she looks just what she was born,--a respectable female." whereby dr. warren continued to feel himself baffled. "she only goes out for exercise after dark, mary," he said. "also in the course of conversation i have discovered that she believes every word of the bible literally, and would be alarmed if one could not accept the athanasian creed. she is rather wounded and puzzled by the curses it contains, but she feels sure that it would be wrong to question anything in the church service. her extraordinariness is wholly her incompatibleness." gradually they had established the friendship emily had thought possible. once or twice dr. warren took tea with her. her unabashed and accustomed readiness of hospitality was as incompatible with her circumstances as all the rest. she had the ease of a woman who had amiably poured out tea for afternoon callers all her life. women who were uncertain of themselves were not amiably at ease with small social amenities. her ingenuous talk and her fervent italics were an absolute delight to the man who was studying her. he, too, had noticed the carriage of her head jane cupp had deplored. "i should say she was well born," he commented to his wife. "she holds herself as no common woman could." "ah! i haven't a doubt that she is well born, poor soul." "no, not 'poor soul.' no woman who is as happy as she is needs pity. since she has had time to rest, she looks radiant." in course of time, however, she was less radiant. most people know something of waiting for answers to letters written to foreign lands. it seems impossible to calculate correctly as to what length of time must elapse before the reply to the letter one sent by the last mail can reach one. he who waits is always premature in the calculation he makes. the mail should be due at a certain date, one is so sure. the letter could be written on such a day and posted at once. but the date calculated for arrives, passes,--the answer has not come. who does not remember? emily walderhurst had passed through the experience and knew it well. but previously the letters she had sent had been of less vital importance. when the replies to them had lingered on their way she had, it is true, watched eagerly for the postman, and had lived restlessly between the arrivals of the mails, but she had taught herself resignation to the inevitable. now life had altered its aspect and its significance. she had tried, with the aid of an untried imagination, to paint to herself the moments in which her husband would read the letter which told him what she had told. she had wondered if he would start, if he would look amazed, if his grey-brown eyes would light with pleasure! might he not want to see her? might he not perhaps write at once? she never could advance farther in her imagined reading of this reply than the first lines: "my dear emily,--the unexpected good news your letter contains has given me the greatest satisfaction. you do not perhaps know how strong my desire has been--" she used to sit and flush with happiness when she reached this point. she so wished that she was capable of depicting to herself what the rest would be. she calculated with the utmost care the probable date of the epistle's arrival. she thought she made sure of allowing plenty of time for all possible delays. the safety of her letters she had managed, with hester's aid, to arrange for. they were forwarded to her bankers and called for. only the letters from india were of any importance, and they were not frequent. she told herself that she must be even more than usually patient this time. when the letter arrived, if he told her he felt it proper that he should return, no part of the strange experience she had passed through would be of moment. when she saw his decorous, well-bred face and heard his correctly modulated voice, all else would seem like an unnatural dream. in her relief at the decent composure of the first floor front in mortimer street the days did not seem at first to pass slowly. but as the date she had counted on drew near she could not restrain a natural restlessness. she looked at the clock and walked up and down the room a good deal. she was also very glad when night came and she could go to bed. then she was glad when the morning arrived, because she was a day nearer to the end. on a certain evening dr. warren said to his wife, "she is not so well to-day. when i called i found her looking pale and anxious. when i commented on the fact and asked how she was, she said that she had had a disappointment. she had been expecting an important letter by a mail arriving yesterday, and it had not come. she was evidently in low spirits." "perhaps she has kept up her spirits before because she believed the letter would come," mrs. warren speculated. "she has certainly believed it would come." "do _you_ think it will, harold?" "she thinks it will yet. she was pathetically anxious not to be impatient. she said she knew there were so many reasons for delay when people were in foreign countries and very much occupied." "there are many reasons, i daresay," said mrs. warren with a touch of bitterness," but they are not usually the ones given to waiting, desperate women." dr. warren stood upon the hearthrug and gazed into the fire, knitting his brows. "she wanted to tell or ask me something this afternoon," he said, "but she was afraid. she looked like a good child in great trouble. i think she will speak before long." she looked more and more like a good child in trouble as time passed. mail after mail came in, and she received no letter. she did not understand, and her fresh colour died away. she spent her time now in inventing reasons for the non-arrival of her letter. none of them comprised explanations which could be disparaging in any sense to walderhurst. chiefly she clung to the fact that he had not been well. anything could be considered a reason for neglecting letter writing if a man was not well. if his illness had become serious she would, of course, have heard from his doctor. she would not allow herself to contemplate that. but if he was languid and feverish, he might so easily put off writing from day to day. this was all the more plausible as a reason, since he had not been a profuse correspondent. he had only written when he had found he had leisure, with decent irregularity, so to speak. at last, however, on a day when she had felt the strain of waiting greater than she had courage for, and had counted every moment of the hour which must elapse before jane could return from her mission of inquiry, as she rested on the sofa she heard the girl mount the stairs with a step whose hastened lightness wakened in her an excited hopefulness. she sat up with brightened face and eager eyes. how foolish she had been to fret. now--now everything would be different. ah! how thankful she was to god for being so good to her! "i think you must have a letter, jane," she said the moment the door opened. "i felt it when i heard your footstep." jane was touching in her glow of relief and affection. "yes, my lady, i have, indeed. and they said at the bank that it had come by a steamer that was delayed by bad weather." emily took the letter. her hand shook, but it was with pleasure. she forgot jane, and actually kissed the envelope before she opened it. it looked like a beautiful, long letter. it was quite thick. but when she had opened it, she saw that the letter itself was not very long. several extra sheets of notes or instructions, it did not matter what, seemed to be enclosed. her hand shook so that she let them fall on the floor. she looked so agitated that jane was afraid to do more than retire discreetly and stand outside the door. in a few minutes she congratulated herself on the wisdom of not having gone downstairs. she heard a troubled exclamation of wonder, and then a call for herself. "jane, please, jane!" lady walderhurst was still sitting upon the sofa, but she looked pale and unsteady. the letter was in her hand, which rested weakly in her lap. it seemed as if she was so bewildered that she felt helpless. she spoke in a tired voice. "jane," she said, "i think you will have to get me a glass of wine. i don't think i am going to faint, but i do feel so--so upset." jane was at her side kneeling by her. "please, my lady, lie down," she begged. "please do." but she did not lie down. she sat trembling and looking at the girl in a pathetic, puzzled fashion. "i don't think," she quavered, "that his lordship can have received my letter. he can't have received it. he doesn't say anything. he doesn't say one word--" she had been too healthy a woman to be subject to attacks of nerves. she had never fainted before in her life, and as she spoke she did not at all understand why jane seemed to move up and down, and darkness came on suddenly in the middle of the morning. jane managed by main strength to keep her from falling from the sofa, and thanked providence for the power vouchsafed to her. she reached the bell and rang it violently, and hearing it, mrs. cupp came upstairs with heavy swiftness. chapter twenty one naturally a perceptive and closely reasoning woman, mrs. warren's close intellectual intimacy with her husband had, in giving her the benefit of intercourse with a wide experience, added greatly to her power of reasoning by deduction. warren frequently felt that his talk with her was something like consultation with a specially clever and sympathetic professional confrère. her suggestions or conclusions were invariably worth consideration. more than once his reflection upon them had led him to excellent results. she made one night a suggestion with regard to the extraordinary case which struck him as being more than usually astute. "is she an intellectual woman?" she inquired. "not in the least. an unsparingly brilliant person might feel himself entitled to the right to call her stupid." "is she talkative?" "far from it. one of her charms is the nice respect she seems to feel for the remarks of others." "and she is not excitable?" "rather the reverse. if excitability is liveliness, she is dull." "i see," slowly, "you have not yet thought it possible that she might--well--be under some delusion." warren turned quickly and looked at her. "it is wonderfully brilliant of you to have thought of it. a delusion?" he stood and thought it over. "do you remember," his wife assisted him with, "the complications which arose from young mrs. jerrold's running away, under similar circumstances, to scotland and hiding herself in a shepherd's cottage under the impression that her husband was shadowing her with detectives? you recollect what a lovable woman she was, and what horror she felt of the poor fellow." "yes, yes. that was an extraordinary case too." mrs. warren warmed with her subject. "here is a woman obviously concealing herself from the world in a lodging-house, plainly possessing money, owning a huge ruby ring, receiving documents stamped with imposing seals, taking exercise only by night, heart-wrung over the non-arrival of letters which are due. every detail points to one painful, dubious situation. on the other hand, she presents to you the manner and aspect of a woman who is absolutely not dubious, and who is merely anxious on the one point a dubious person would be indifferent to. isn't it, then, possible that over-wrought physical condition may have driven her to the belief that she is hiding from danger." dr. warren was evidently following the thought seriously. "she said," reflecting, "that all that mattered was that she should be safe. 'i want to keep safe.' that was it. you are very enlightening, mary, always. i will go and see her again to-morrow. but," as the result of another memory, "how sane she seems!" * * * * * he was thinking of this possible aspect of the matter as he mounted the staircase of the house in mortimer street the next day. the stairway was of the ordinary lodging-house type, its dinginess somewhat alleviated by the fact that the cupps had covered the worn carpet with clean warm-coloured felting. the yellowish marbled paper on the walls depressed the mind as one passed it; the indeterminate dun paint had defied fog for years. the whole house presented only such features as would encourage its proprietors to trust to the sufficing of infrequent re-decoration. jane had, however, made efforts in behalf of the drawing-room, in which her mistress spent her days. she had introduced palliations by degrees and with an unobtrusiveness which was not likely to attract the attention of neighbours unaccustomed to lavish delivery by means of furniture vans. she had brought in a rug or so, and had gradually replaced objects with such as were more pleasant to live with and more comfortable to use. dr. warren had seen the change wrought, and had noted evidences that money was not unobtainable. the maid also was a young woman whose manner towards her mistress was not merely respectful and well-bred, but suggestive of watchful affection bordering on reverence. jane cupp herself was a certificate of decorum and good standing. it was not such young women who secluded themselves with questionable situations. as she laid her hand on the drawing-room door to open it and announce him, it occurred to dr. warren that he would tell mary that evening that if mrs. jameson had been the heroine of any unconventional domestic drama it was an unmistakable fact that jane cupp would have "felt it her duty as a young woman to leave this day month, if you please, ma'am," quite six months ago. and there she was, in a neat gown and apron,--evidently a fixture because she liked her place,--her decent young face full of sympathetic interest. the day was dull and cold, but the front room was warm and made cheerful by fire. mrs. jameson was sitting at a writing-table. there were letters before her, and she seemed to have been re-reading them. she did not any longer bloom with normal health. her face was a little dragged, and the first thing he noted in the eyes she lifted to him was that they were bewildered. "she has had a shock," he thought. "poor woman!" he began to talk to her about herself with the kindly perception which was inseparable from him. he wondered if the time had not come when she would confide in him. her shock, whatsoever it had been, had left her in the position of a woman wholly at a loss to comprehend what had occurred. he saw this in her ingenuous troubled face. he felt as if she was asking herself what she should do. it was not unlikely that presently she would ask him what she should do. he had been asked such things before by women, but they usually added trying detail accompanied by sobs, and appealed to his chivalry for impossible aid. sometimes they implored him to go to people and use his influence. emily answered all his questions with her usual sweet, good sense. she was not well. yesterday she had fainted. "was there any disturbing reason for the faint?" he inquired. "it was because i was--very much disappointed," she answered, hesitating. "i had a letter which--it was not what i expected." she was thinking desperately. she could understand nothing. it was not explainable that what she had written did not matter at all, that james should have made no reply. "i was awake all night," she added. "that must not go on," he said. "i was thinking--and thinking," nervously. "i can see that," was his answer. perhaps she ought to have courage to say nothing. it might be safer. but it was so lonely not to dare to ask anyone's advice, that she was getting frightened. india was thousands and thousands of miles away, and letters took so long to come and go. anxiety might make her ill before she could receive a reply to a second letter. and perhaps now in her terror she had put herself into a ridiculous position. how could she send for lady maria to mortimer street and explain to her? she realised also that her ladyship's sense of humour might not be a thing to confide in safely. warren's strong, amiable personality was good for her. it served to aid her to normal reasoning. though she was not aware of the fact, her fears, her simplicity, and her timorous adoration of her husband had not allowed her to reason normally in the past. she had been too anxious and too much afraid. her visitor watched her with great interest and no little curiosity. he himself saw that her mood was not normal. she did not look as poor mrs. jerrold had looked, but she was not in a normal state. he made his visit a long one purposely. tea was brought up, and he drank it with her. he wanted to give her time to make up her mind about him. when at last he rose to go away, she rose also. she looked nervously undecided, but let him go towards the door. her move forward was curiously sudden. "no, no," she said. "please come back. i--oh!--i really think i ought to tell you." he turned towards her, wishing that mary were with him. she stood trying to smile, and looking so entirely nice and well-behaved even in her agitation. "if i were not so puzzled, or if there was _anybody_--" she said. "if you could only advise me; i must--i _must_ keep safe." "there is something you want to tell me?" he said quietly. "yes," she answered. "i am so anxious, and i am sure it must be bad for one to be anxious always. i have not dared to tell anyone. my name is not mrs. jameson, dr. warren. i am--i am lady walderhurst." he barely managed to restrain a start. he was obliged to admit to himself that he had not thought of anything like this. but mary had been right. emily blushed to her ears with embarrassment. he did not believe her. "but i _am_ really," she protested. "i _really_ am. i was married last year. i was emily fox-seton. perhaps you remember." she was not flighty or indignant. her frank face was only a little more troubled than it had been before. she looked straight into his eyes without a doubt of his presently believing her. good heavens! if-- she walked to the writing-table and picked up a number of letters. they were all stamped with the same seal. she brought them to him almost composedly. "i ought to have remembered how strange it would sound," she said in her amenable voice. "i hope i am not doing wrong in speaking. i hope you won't mind my troubling you. it seemed as if i _couldn't_ bear it alone any longer." after which she told him her story. * * * * * the unadorned straightforwardness of the relation made it an amazing thing to hear, even more amazing than it would have been made by a more imaginative handling. her obvious inability to cope with the unusual and villainous, combined with her entire willingness to obliterate herself in any manner in her whole-souled tenderness for the one present object of her existence, were things a man could not be unmoved by, even though experience led him to smile at the lack of knowledge of the world which had left her without practical defence. her very humbleness and candour made her a drama in herself. "perhaps i was wrong to run away. perhaps only a silly woman would have done such a queer, unconventional thing. but i could think of nothing else so likely to be quite safe, until lord walderhurst could advise me. and when his letter came yesterday, and he did not speak of what i had said--" her voice quite failed her. "captain osborn has detained your letter. lord walderhurst has not seen it." life began to come back to her. she had been so horribly bewildered as to think at moments that perhaps it might be that a man who was very much absorbed in affairs-- "the information you sent him is the most important, and moving, a man in his position could receive." "do you think so, _really_?" she lifted her head with new courage and her colour returned. "it is impossible that it should be otherwise. it is, i assure you, _impossible_, lady walderhurst." "i am so thankful," she said devoutly. "i am so _thankful_ that i have told you." anything more touching and attractive than her full eyes and her grown-up child's smile he felt he had never seen. chapter twenty two the attack of fever which had seemed to begin lightly for lord walderhurst assumed proportions such as his medical man had not anticipated. his annoyance at finding his duties interfered with fretted him greatly. he was not, under the circumstances, a good patient, and, partly as a result of his state of mind, he began, in the course of a few weeks, to give his doctors rather serious cause for anxiety. on the morning following emily's confession to dr. warren she had received a letter from her husband's physician, notifying her of his new anxieties in connection with his patient. his lordship required extreme care and absolute freedom from all excitement. everything which medical science and perfect nursing could do would be done. the writer asked lady walderhurst's collaboration with him in his efforts at keeping the invalid as far as possible in unperturbed spirits. for some time it seemed probable that letter writing and reading would be out of the question, but if, when correspondence might be resumed, lady walderhurst would keep in mind the importance of serenity to the convalescent, the case would have all in its favour. this, combined with expressions of sympathetic encouragement and assurances that the best might be hoped for, was the gist of the letter. when dr. warren arrived, emily handed the epistle to him and watched him as he read it. "you see," she said when he looked up, "that i did not speak too soon. now i shall have to trust to you for everything. i could _never_ have borne it _all_ by myself. could i?" "perhaps not," thinking it over; "but you are very brave." "i don't think i'm brave," thinking it over on her own part, "but it seemed as if there were things i _must_ do. but now you will advise me." she was as biddable as a child, he told his wife afterwards, and that a woman of her height and carriage should be as biddable as she might have been at six years old, was an effective thing. "she will do anything i tell her, she will go anywhere i advise. i advise that she shall go to her husband's house in berkeley square, and that together you and i will keep unobtrusive guard over her. all is quite simple, really. all would have been comparatively simple at the outset, if she had felt sure enough of her evidence to dare to confide in some practical person. but she was too uncertain and too much afraid of scandal, which might annoy her husband. she is deeply in awe of lord walderhurst and deeply in love with him." "when one realises how unnecessary qualities and charms seem to be to the awakening of the tender emotion, it is rather dull, perhaps, to ask why. yet one weakly asks it," was mrs. warren's summation. "and one cannot supply the answer. but the mere devotion itself in this nice creature is a thing to be respected. she will control even her anxieties and reveal nothing while she writes her cheerful letters, as soon as she is allowed to write them." "lord walderhurst will be told nothing?" "nothing until his recovery is complete. now that she has made a clean breast of everything to me and given herself into my hands, i believe that she finds a sentimental pleasure in the thought of keeping her secret until he returns. i will confess to you, mary, that i think that she has read of and tenderly sympathised with heroines who have done the like before. she does not pose to herself as a heroine, but she dwells affectionately on ingenuous mental pictures of what lord walderhurst will say. it is just as well that it should be so. it is better for her than fretting would be. experience helped me to gather from the medical man's letter that his patient is in no condition to be told news of any kind, good or bad." the house in berkeley square was reopened. lady walderhurst returned to it, as it was understood below stairs, from a visit to some german health resort. mrs. cupp and jane returned with her. the wife of her physician in attendance was with her a great deal. it was most unfortunate for her ladyship that my lord was detained in india by illness. the great household, having presented opened shutters to the world, went on in the even tenor of its way. there brooded over it, however, a sort of hushed dignity of atmosphere. the very housemaids wore an air of grave discretion. their labours assumed the proportions of confidential interested service, in which they felt a private pride. not one among them had escaped becoming attached to lady walderhurst. away from palstrey, away from mortimer street, emily began to find reality in the fact that everything had already become quite simple, after all. the fine rooms looked so well ordered and decent in a stately way. melodramatic plotting ceased to exist as she looked at certain dignified sofas and impressive candelabra. such things became even more impossible than they had become before the convincingness of the first floor front bedroom in mortimer street, she began to give a good deal of thought to the summer at mallowe. there was an extraordinary luxury in living again each day of it, the morning when she had taken the third-class carriage which provided her with hot, labouring men in corduroys as companions, that fleeting moment when the tall man with the square face had passed the carriage and looked straight through her without seeming to see her at all. she sat and smiled tenderly at the mere reminiscent thought. and then the glimpse of him as he got into the high phaeton at the station; and the moment when lady maria had exclaimed "there's walderhurst," and he had come swinging with his leisurely step across the lawn. and he had scarcely seemed to see her then, or notice her really when they met, until the morning he had joined her as she gathered the roses and had talked to her about lady agatha. but he had actually been noticing her a little even from the first--he had been thinking about her a little all the time. and how far she had been from guessing it when she had talked to lady agatha, how pleased she had been the morning of the rose gathering when he had seemed interested only in agatha's self! she always liked to recall, however, the way in which he had asked the few questions about her own affairs. her simplicity never wearied of the fascination of the way in which he had looked at her, standing on the pathway, with that delightful non-committal fixing of her with the monocle when she had said: "people _are_ kind. you see, i have nothing to give, and i always seem to be receiving." and he had gazed at her quite unmovedly and answered only: "what luck!" but since then he had mentioned this moment as one of those in which he had felt that he might want to marry her, because she was so unconscious of the fact that she gave much more to everybody than she received, that she had so much to give and was totally unaware of the value of her gifts. "his thoughts of me are so _beautiful_ very often," was her favourite reflection, "though he always has that composed way of saying things. what he says seems more _valuable_, because he is like that." in truth, his composed way of saying things it was which seemed to her incomparable. even when, without understanding its own longing for a thing it lacked, her heart had felt itself a little unsustained she had never ceased to feel the fascination of his entire freedom from any shadow of interest in the mental attitude of others towards himself. when he stood and gazed at people through the glass neatly screwed into his eye, one felt that it was he whose opinion was of importance, not the other person's. through sheer chill imperviousness he seemed entirely detached from the powers of criticism. what people said or thought of his fixed opinion on a subject was not of the least consequence, in fact did not exist; the entities of the persons who cavilled at such opinions themselves ceased to exist, so far as he was concerned. his was the immovable temperament. he did not snub people: he cut the cord of mental communication with them and dropped them into space. emily thought this firmness and reserved dignity, and quailed before the thought of erring in such a manner as would cause him to so send her soul adrift. her greatest terror during the past months had been the fear of making him ridiculous, of putting him in some position which might annoy him by objectionable publicity. but now she had no further fears, and could wait in safety and dwell in peace upon her memories and her hopes. she even began to gain a kind of courage in her thoughts of him. the atmosphere of the berkeley square mansion was good for her. she had never felt so much its mistress before the staff of servants of whose existence she was the centre, who so plainly served her with careful pleasure, who considered her least wish or inclination as a royal command, increased her realisation of her security and power. the warrens, who understood the dignity and meaning of mere worldly facts her nature did not grasp, added subtly to her support. gradually she learned to reveal herself in simple talk to mrs. warren, who found her, when so revealed, a case more extraordinary than she had been when enshrouded in dubious mystery. "she is absolutely delicious," mrs. warren said to her husband. "that an adoration such as hers could exist in the nineteenth century is--" "almost degenerate," he laughed. "perhaps it is regenerate," reflecting. "who knows! nothing earthly, or heavenly, would induce me to cast a doubt upon it. seated opposite to a portrait of her james, i hear her opinions of him, when she is not in the least aware of what her simplest observation conveys. she does not know that she is including him when she is talking of other things, that one sees that while she is too shy to openly use his name much, the very breath of her life is a reference to him. her greatest bliss at present is to go unobtrusively into his special rooms and sit there dwelling upon his goodness to her." in fact emily spent many a quiet hour in the apartments she had visited on the day of her farewell to her husband. she was very happy there. her soul was uplifted by her gratitude for the peace she had reached. the reports of lord walderhurst's physician were never alarming and generally of a reassuring nature. but she knew that he must exercise great caution, and that time must elapse before he could confront his return voyage. he would come back as soon as was quite safe. and in the meantime her world held all that she could desire, lacking himself. her emotion expressed itself in her earnest performance of her reverent daily devotions. she read many chapters of the bible, and often sat happily absorbed in the study of her book of common prayer. she found solace and happiness in such things, and spent her sunday mornings, after the ringing of the church bells, quite alone in walderhurst's study, following the service and reading the collects and lessons. the room used to seem so beautifully still, even berkeley square wearing its church-hour aspect suggested devout aloofness from worldly things. "i sit at the window and _think_," she explained to mrs. warren. "it is so nice there." she wrote her letters to india in this room. she did not know how far the new courage in her thoughts of her husband expressed itself in these letters. when walderhurst read them, however, he felt a sense of change in her. women were sometimes spoken of as "coming out amazingly." he began to feel that emily was, in a measure at least, "coming out." perhaps her gradually increasing feeling of accustomedness to the change in her life was doing it for her. she said more in her letters, and said it in a more interesting way. it was perhaps rather suggestive of the development of a girl who was on the verge of becoming a delightful sort of woman. lying upon his back in bed, rendered, it may be, a trifle susceptible by the weakness of slow convalescence, he found a certain habit growing upon him--a habit of reading her letters several times, and of thinking of her as it had not been his nature to think of women; also he slowly awakened to an interest in the arrival of the english mails. the letters actually raised his spirits and had an excellent physical effect. his doctor always found him in good condition after he had heard from his wife. "your letters, my dear emily," walderhurst once wrote, "are a great pleasure to me. you are to-day exactly as you were at mallowe,--the creature of amiable good cheer. your comfort stimulates me." "how _dear_, how _dear_?" emily cried to the silence of the study, and kissed the letter with impassioned happiness. [illustration: lady maria bayne] the next epistle went even farther. it absolutely contained "things" and referred to the past which it was her joy to pour libations before in secret thought. when her eye caught the phrase "the days at mallowe" in the middle of a sheet, she was almost frightened at the rush of pleasure which swept over her. men who were less aloof from sentimental moods used such phrases in letters, she had read and heard. it was almost as if he had said "the dear old days at mallowe" or "the happy days at mallowe," and the rapture of it was as much as she could bear. "i cannot help remembering as i lie here," she read in actual letters as she went on, "of the many thoughts which passed through my mind as i drove over the heath to pick you up. i had been watching you for days. i always liked particularly your clear, large eyes. i recall trying to describe them to myself and finding it difficult. they seemed to me then to resemble something between the eyes of a very nice boy and the eyes of a delightful sheep-dog. this may not appear so romantic a comparison as it really is." emily began most softly and sweetly to cry. nothing more romantic could she possibly have imagined. "i thought of them in spite of myself as i drove across the moor, and i could scarcely express to you how angry i was at maria. it seemed to me that she had brutally imposed on you only because she had known she might impose on a woman with such a pair of eyes. i was angry and sentimental at one and the same time. and to find you sitting by the wayside, absolutely worn out with fatigue and in tears, moved me really more than i had anticipated being moved. and when you mistook my meaning and stood up, your nice eyes looking into mine in such ingenuous appeal and fear and trouble, i have never forgotten it, my dear, and i never shall." his mood of sentiment did not sit easily upon him, but it meant a real and interesting quite human thing. emily sat alone in the room and brooded over it as a mother might brood over a new-born child. she was full of tremulous bliss, and, dwelling with reverent awe upon the wonder of great things drawing nearer to her every hour, wept for happiness as she sat. * * * * * the same afternoon lady maria bayne arrived. she had been abroad taking, in no dull fashion, various "cures," which involved drinking mineral waters while promenading to the sounds of strains of outdoor music, and comparing symptoms wittily with friends equal to amazing repartee in connection with all subjects. dr. warren was an old acquaintance, and as he was on the point of leaving the house as she entered it she stopped to shake hands with him. "it's rather unfortunate for a man when one can only be glad to see him in the house of an enemy." she greeted him with, "i must know what you are doing here. it's not possible that lady walderhurst is fretting herself into fiddle-strings because her husband chooses to have a fever in india." "no, she is behaving beautifully in all respects. may i have a few minutes' talk with you, lady maria, before you see her?" "a few minutes' talk with me means something either amusing or portentous. let us walk into the morning-room." she led the way with a rustle of silk petticoats and a suggestion of lifted eyebrows. she was inclined to think that the thing sounded more portentous than amusing. thank heaven! it was not possible for emily to have involved herself in annoying muddles. she was not that kind of woman. when she came out of the room some twenty minutes later she did not look quite like herself. her smart bonnet set less well upon her delicate little old face, and she was agitated and cross and pleased. "it was ridiculous of walderhurst to leave her," she was saying. "it was ridiculous of her not to order him home at once. it was exactly like her,--dear and ridiculous." in spite of her agitation she felt a little grotesque as she went upstairs to see emily,--grotesque, because she was obliged to admit to herself that she had never felt so curiously excited in her life. she felt as she supposed women did when they allowed themselves to shed tears through excitement; not that she was shedding tears, but she was "upset," that was what she called it. as the door opened emily rose from a chair near the fire and came slowly towards her, with an awkward but lovely smile. lady maria made a quick movement forward and caught hold of both her hands. "my good emily," she broke forth and kissed her. "my excellent emily," and kissed her again. "i am completely turned upside down. i never heard such an insane story in my life. i have seen dr. warren. the creatures were mad." "it is all over," said emily. "i scarcely believe it was true now." lady maria being led to a sofa settled herself upon it, still wearing her complex expression of crossness, agitation, and pleasure. "i am going to stay here," she said, obstinately. "there shall be no more folly. but i will tell you that they have gone back to india. the child was a girl." "it was a girl?" "yes, absurdly enough." "oh," sighed emily, sorrowfully. "i'm _sure_ hester was _afraid_ to write to me." "rubbish!" said lady maria. "at any rate, as i remarked before, i am going to stay here until walderhurst comes back. the man will be quite mad with gratified vanity." chapter twenty three it was a damp and depressing day on which lord walderhurst arrived in london. as his carriage turned into berkeley square he sat in the corner of it rather huddled in his travelling-wraps and looking pale and thin. he was wishing that london had chosen to show a more exhilarating countenance to him, but he himself was conscious of being possessed by something more nearly approaching a mood of eagerness than he remembered experiencing at any period of his previous existence. he had found the voyage home long, and had been restless. he wanted to see his wife. how agreeable it would be to meet, when he looked across the dinner-table, the smile in her happy eyes. she would grow pink with pleasure, like a girl, when he confessed that he had missed her. he was curious to see in her the changes he had felt in her letters. having time and opportunities for development, she might become an absolutely delightful companion. she had looked very handsome on the day of her presentation at court. her height and carriage had made her even impressive. she was a woman, after all, to be counted on in one's plans. but he was most conscious that his affection for her had warmed. a slight embarrassment was commingled with the knowledge, but that was the natural result of his dislike to the sentimental. he had never felt a shadow of sentiment for audrey, who had been an extremely light, dry, empty-headed person, and he had always felt she had been adroitly thrust upon him by their united families. he had not liked her, and she had not liked him. it had been very stupidly trying. and the child had not lived an hour. he had liked emily from the first, and now--it was an absolute truth that he felt a slight movement in the cardiac region when the carriage turned into berkeley square. the house would look very pleasant when he entered it. emily would in some subtle way have arranged that it should wear a festal, greeting air. she had a number of nice, little feminine emotions about bright fires and many flowers. he could picture her childlike grown-up face as it would look when he stepped into the room where they met. some one was ill in berkeley square, evidently very ill. straw was laid thick all along one side of it, depressing damp, fresh straw, over which the carriage rolled with a dull drag of the wheels. it lay before the door of his own house, he observed, as he stepped out. it was very thickly scattered. the door swung open as the carriage stopped. crossing the threshold, he glanced at the face of the footman nearest to him. the man looked like a mute at a funeral, and the expression was so little in accord with his mood that he stopped with a feeling of irritation. he had not time to speak, however, before a new sensation arrested his attention,--a faint odour which filled the place. "the house smells like a hospital," he exclaimed, in great annoyance. "what does it mean?" the man he addressed did not answer. he turned a perturbed awkward face to his superior in rank, an older man, who was house steward. in the house of mortal pain or death there is but one thing more full of suggestion than the faint smell of antiseptics,--the gruesome, cleanly, unpleasant odour,--that is, the unnatural sound of the whispering of hushed voices. lord walderhurst turned cold, and felt it necessary to stiffen his spine when he heard his servant's answer and the tone in which it was made. "her ladyship, my lord--her ladyship is very low. the doctors do not leave her." "her ladyship?" the man stepped back deferentially. the door of the morning-room had been opened, and old lady maria bayne stood on the threshold. her worldly air of elderly gaiety had disappeared. she looked a hundred. she was almost dilapidated. she had allowed to relax themselves the springs which held her together and ordinarily supplied her with sprightly movement. "come here!" she said. when he entered the room, aghast, she shut the door. "i suppose i ought to break it to you gently," she said shakily, "but i shall do no such thing. it's too much to expect of any woman who has gone through what i have during these last three days. the creature is dying; she may be dead now." she sank on the sofa and began to wipe away pouring tears. her old cheeks were pale and her handkerchief showed touches of rose-pink on its dampness. she was aware of their presence, but was utterly indifferent. walderhurst stared at her haggard disorder and cleared his throat, finding himself unable to speak without doing so. "will you have the goodness to tell me," he said with weird stiffness, "what you are talking about?" "about emily walderhurst," she answered. "the boy was born yesterday, and she has been sinking ever since. she cannot possibly last much longer." "she!" he gasped, turning lead colour. "cannot possibly last,--emily?" the wrench and shock were so unnatural that they reached that part of his being where human feeling was buried under selfishness and inhuman conventionality. he spoke, and actually thought, of emily first. lady maria continued to weep shamelessly. "i am over seventy," she said, "and the last three days have punished me quite enough for anything i may have done since i was born. i have been in hell, too, james. and, when she could think at all, she has only thought of you and your miserable child. i can't imagine what is the matter with a woman when she can care for a man to such an extent. now she has what she wants,--she's dying for you." "why wasn't i told?" he asked, still with the weird and slow stiffness. "because she was a sentimental fool, and was afraid of disturbing you. she ought to have ordered you home and kept you dancing attendance, and treated you to hysterics." no one would have resented such a course of action more derisively than lady maria herself, but the last three days had reduced her to something like hysteria, and she had entirely lost her head. "she has been writing cheerfully to me--" "she would have written cheerfully to you if she had been seated in a cauldron of boiling oil, it is my impression," broke in her ladyship. "she has been monstrously treated, people trying to murder her, and she afraid to accuse them for fear that you would disapprove. you know you have a nasty manner, james, when you think your dignity is interfered with." lord walderhurst stood clenching and unclenching his hands as they hung by his sides. he did not like to believe that his fever had touched his brain, but he doubted his senses hideously. "my good maria," he said, "i do not understand a word you say, but i must go and see her." "and kill her, if she has a breath left! you will not stir from here. thank heaven! here is dr. warren." the door had opened and dr. warren came in. he had just laid down upon the coverlet of a bed upstairs what seemed to be the hand of a dying woman, and no man like himself can do such a thing and enter a room without a singular look on his face. people in a house of death inevitably whisper, whatsoever their remoteness from the sick-room. lady maria cried out in a whisper: "is she still alive?" "yes," was the response. walderhurst went to him. "may i see her?" "no, lord walderhurst. not yet." "does that mean that it is not yet the last moment?" "if that moment had obviously arrived, you would be called." "what must i do?" "there is absolutely nothing to be done but to wait. brent, forsythe, and blount are with her." "i am in the position of knowing nothing. i must be told. have you time to tell me?" they went to walderhurst's study, the room which had been emily's holy of holies. "lady walderhurst was very fond of sitting here alone," dr. warren remarked. walderhurst saw that she must have written letters at his desk. her own pen and writing-tablet lay on it. she had probably had a fancy for writing her letters to himself in his own chair. it would be like her to have done it. it gave him a shock to see on a small table a thimble and a pair of scissors. "i ought to have been told," he said to dr. warren. dr. warren sat down and explained why he had not been told. as he spoke, interest was awakened in his mind by the fact that lord walderhurst drew towards him the feminine writing-tablet and opened and shut it mechanically. "what i want to know," he said, "is, if i shall be able to speak to her. i should like to speak to her." "that is what one most wants," was dr. warren's non-committal answer, "at such a time." "you think i may not be able to make her understand?" "i am very sorry. it is impossible to know." "this," slowly, "is very hard on me." "there is something i feel i must tell you, lord walderhurst." dr. warren kept a keen eye on him, having, in fact, felt far from attracted by the man in the past, and wondering how much he would be moved by certain truths, or if he would be moved at all. "before lady walderhurst's illness, she was very explicit with me in her expression of her one desire. she begged me to give her my word, which i could not have done without your permission, that whatsoever the circumstances, if life must be sacrificed, it should be hers." a dusky red shot through walderhurst's leaden pallor. "she asked you that?" he said. "yes. and at the worst she did not forget. when she became delirious, and we heard that she was praying, i gathered that she seemed to be praying to me, as to a deity whom she implored to remember her fervent pleading. when her brain was clear she was wonderful. she saved your son by supernatural endurance." "you mean to say that if she had cared more for herself and less for the safety of the child she need not have been as she is now?" warren bent his head. lord walderhurst's eyeglass had been dangling weakly from its cord. he picked it up and stuck it in his eye to stare the doctor in the face. the action was a singular, spasmodic, hard one. but his hands were shaking. "by god!" he cried out, "if i had been here it should not have been so!" he got up and supported himself against the table with the shaking hands. "it is very plain," he said, "that she has been willing to be torn to pieces upon the rack to give me the thing i wanted. and now, good god in heaven, i feel that i would have strangled the boy with my own hands rather than lose her." in this manner, it seemed, did a rigid, self-encased, and conventional elderly nobleman reach emotion. he looked uncanny. his stiff dignity hung about him in rags and tatters. cold sweat stood on his forehead and his chin twitched. "just now," he poured forth, "i don't care whether there is a child or not. i want her--i care for nothing else. i want to look at her, i want to speak to her, whether she is alive or dead. but if there is a spark of life in her, i believe she will hear me." dr. warren sat and watched him, wondering. he knew curious things of the human creature, things which most of his confrères did not know. he knew that life was a mysterious thing, and that even a dying flame of it might sometimes be fanned to flickering anew by powers more subtle than science usually regards as applicable influences. he knew the nature of the half-dead woman lying on her bed upstairs, and he comprehended what the soul of her life had been,--her divinely innocent passion for a self-centred man. he had seen it in the tortured courage of her eyes in hours of mortal agony. "don't forget," she had said. "our father which art in heaven. don't let anyone forget. hallowed be thy name." the man, leaning upon his shaking hands before him, stood there, for these moments at least, a harrowed thing. not a single individual of his acquaintance would have known him. "i want to see her before the breath leaves her," he gave forth in a harsh, broken whisper. "i want to speak. let me see her." dr. warren left his chair slowly. out of a thousand chances against her, might this one chance be for her,--the chance of her hearing, and being called back to the shores she was drifting from, by this stiff, conventional fellow's voice. there was no knowing the wondrousness of a loving human thing, even when its shackles were loosening themselves to set it free. "i will speak to those in charge with me," he said. "will you control every outward expression of feeling?" "yes." adjoining lady walderhurst's sleeping apartment was a small boudoir where the medical men consulted together. two of them were standing near the window conversing in whispers. walderhurst merely nodded and went to wait apart by the fire. ceremony had ceased to exist. dr. warren joined the pair at the window. lord walderhurst only heard one or two sentences. "i am afraid that nothing, now, can matter--at any moment." * * * * * those who do not know from experience what he saw when he entered the next room have reason to give thanks to such powers as they put trust in. there ruled in the large, dim chamber an awful order and silence. the faint flickering of the fire was a marked sound. there was no other but a fainter and even more irregular one heard as one neared the bed. sometimes it seemed to stop, then, with a weak gasp, begin again. a nurse in uniform stood in waiting; an elderly man sat on a chair at the bedside, listening and looking at his watch, something white and lifeless lying in his grasp,--emily walderhurst's waxen, unmoving hand. the odour of antiseptics filled the nostrils. lord walderhurst drew near. the speaking sign of the moment was that neither nurse nor doctor stirred. emily lay low upon a pillow. her face was as bloodless as wax and was a little turned aside. the shadow was hovering over it and touched her closed lids and the droop of her cheek and corners of her mouth. she was far, far away. this was what walderhurst felt first,--the strange remoteness, the lonely stillness of her. she had gone alone far from the place he stood in, and which they two familiarly knew. she was going, alone, farther still. as he stood and watched her closed eyes,--the nice, easily pleased eyes,--it was they themselves, closed on him and all prosaic things and pleasures, which filled him most strangely with that sense of her loneliness, weirdly enough, _hers_, not his. he was not thinking of himself but of her. he wanted to withdraw her from her loneliness, to bring her back. he knelt down carefully, making no sound, stealthily, not removing his eyes from her strange, aloof face. he slowly dared to close his hand on hers which lay outside the coverlet. and it was a little chill and damp,--a little chill. a power, a force which hides itself in human things and which most of them know not of, was gathering within him. he was warm and alive, a living man; his hand as it closed on the chill of hers was warm; his newly awakened being sent heat to it. he whispered her name close to her ear. "emily!" slowly, "emily!" she was very far away and lay unmoving. her breast scarcely stirred with the faintness of her breath. "emily! emily!" the doctor slightly raised his eyes to glance at him. he was used to death-bed scenes, but this was curious, because he knew the usual outward aspect of lord walderhurst, and its alteration at this moment suggested abnormal things. he had not the flexibility of mind which revealed to dr. warren that there were perhaps abnormal moments for the most normal and inelastic personages. "emily!" said his lordship, "emily!" he did not cease from saying it, in a low yet reaching whisper, at regular intervals, for at least half an hour. he did not move from his knees, and so intense was his absorption that the presence of those who came near was as nothing. what he hoped or intended to do he did not explain to himself. he was of the order of man who coldly waves aside all wanderings on the subjects of occult claims. he believed in proven facts, in professional aid, in the abolition of absurdities. but his whole narrow being concentrated itself on one thing,--he wanted this woman back. he wanted to speak to her. what power he unknowingly drew from the depths of him, what exquisite answering thing he reached at, could not be said. perhaps it was only some remote and subtle turn of the tide of life and death which chanced to come to his aid. "emily!" he said again, after many times. dr. warren at this moment met the lifted eyes of the doctor who was counting her pulse, and in response to his look went to him. "it seems slightly stronger," dr. forsythe whispered. the slow, faint breathing changed a shade; there was heard a breath slightly, very slightly deeper, less flickering, then another. lady walderhurst slightly stirred. "remain where you are," whispered dr. warren to her husband, "and continue to speak to her. do not alter your tone. go on." * * * * * emily walderhurst, drifting out on a still, borderless, white sea, sinking gently as she floated, sinking in peaceful painlessness deeper and deeper in her drifting until the soft, cool water lapped her lips and, as she knew without fear, would soon cover them and her quiet face, hiding them for ever,--heard from far, very far away, across the whiteness floating about her, a faint sound which at first only fell upon the stillness without meaning. everything but the silence had been left behind aeons ago. nothing remained but the soundless white sea and the slow drifting and sinking as one swayed. it was more than sleep, this still peace, because there was no thought of waking to any shore. but the far-off sound repeated itself again, again, again and again, monotonously. something was calling to something. she was so given up to the soft drifting that she had no thoughts to give, and gave none. in drifting so, one did not think--thought was left in the far-off place the white sea carried one from. she sank quietly a little deeper and the water touched her lip. but something was calling to something, something was calling something to come back. the call was low, low and strange, so regular and so unbroken and insistent, that it arrested, she knew not what. did it arrest the floating and the swaying in the enfolding sea? was the drifting slower? she could not rouse herself to think, she wanted to go on. did she no longer feel the water lapping against her lip? something was calling to something still. once, aeons ago, before the white sea had borne her away, she would have understood. "emily, emily, emily!" yes, once she would have known what the sound meant. once it had meant something, a long time ago. it had even now disturbed the water, and made it cease to lap so near her lip. * * * * * it was at this moment that one doctor had raised his eyes to the other, and lady walderhurst had stirred. when walderhurst left his place beside his wife's bed, dr. warren went with him to his room. he made him drink brandy and called his man to him. "you must remember," he said, "that you are an invalid yourself." "i believe," was the sole answer, given with an abstracted knitting of the brows,--"i believe that in some mysterious way i have made her hear me." dr. warren looked grave. he was a deeply interested man. he felt that he had been looking on at an almost incomprehensible thing. "yes," was his reply. "i believe that you have." about an hour later lord walderhurst made his way downstairs to the room in which lady maria bayne sat. she still looked a hundred years old, but her maid had redressed her toupee, and given her a handkerchief neither damp nor tinted with rubbed-off rouge. she looked at her relative a shade more leniently, but still addressed him with something of the manner of a person undeservedly chained to a malefactor. her irritation was not modified by the circumstance that it was extremely difficult to be definite in the expression of her condemnation of things which had made her hideously uncomfortable. having quite approved of his going to india in the first place, it was not easy to go thoroughly into the subject of the numerous reasons why a man of his years and responsibilities ought to have realised that it was his duty to remain at home and take care of his wife. "incredible as it seems," she snapped, "the doctors _think_ there is a slight change, for the better." "yes," walderhurst answered. he leaned against the mantel and gazed into the fire. "she will come back," he added in a monotone. lady maria stared at him. she felt that the man was eerie, walderhurst, of all men on earth! "where do you think she has been?" she professed to make the inquiry with an air of reproof. "how should one know?" rather with the old stiffness. "it is impossible to tell." lady maria bayne was not the person possessing the temperament to incline him to explain that, wheresoever the outer sphere might be to which the dying woman had been drifting, he had been following her, as far as living man could go. the elderly house steward opened the door and spoke in the hollow whisper. "the head nurse wished to know if your ladyship would be so good as to see lord oswyth before he goes to sleep." walderhurst turned his head towards the man. lord oswyth was the name of his son. he felt a shock. "i will come to the nursery," answered lady maria. "you have not seen him yet?" turning to walderhurst. "how could i?" "then you had better come now. if she becomes conscious and has life enough to expect anything, she will expect you to burst forth into praises of him. you had better at least commit to memory the colour of his eyes and hair. i believe he has two hairs. he is a huge, fat, overgrown thing with enormous cheeks. when i saw his bloated self-indulgent look yesterday, i confess i wanted to slap him." her description was not wholly accurate, but he was a large and robust child, as walderhurst saw when he beheld him. from kneeling at the pillow on which the bloodless statue lay, and calling into space to the soul which would not hear, it was a far cry to the warmed and lighted orris-perfumed room in which life had begun. there was the bright fire before which the high brass nursery fender shone. there was soft linen hanging to be warmed, there was a lace-hung cradle swinging in its place, and in a lace-draped basket silver and gold boxes and velvet brushes and sponges such as he knew nothing about. he had not been in such a place before, and felt awkward, and yet in secret abnormally moved, or it seemed abnormally to him. two women were in attendance. one of them held in her arms what he had come to see. it was moving slightly in its coverings of white. its bearer stood waiting in respectful awe as lady maria uncovered its face. "look at it," she said, concealing her relieved elation under a slightly caustic manner. "how you will relish the situation when emily tells you that he is like you, i can't be as sure as i should be of myself under the same circumstances." walderhurst applied his monocle and gazed for some moments at the object before him. he had not known that men experienced these curiously unexplainable emotions at such times. he kept a strong hold on himself. "would you like to hold him?" inquired lady maria. she was conscious of a benevolent effort to restrain the irony in her voice. lord walderhurst made a slight movement backward. "i--i should not know how," he said, and then felt angry at himself. he desired to take the thing in his arms. he desired to feel its warmth. he absolutely realised that if he had been alone with it, he should have laid aside his eyeglass and touched its cheek with his lips. two days afterwards he was sitting by his wife's pillow, watching her shut lids, when he saw them quiver and slowly move until they were wide open. her eyes looked very large in her colourless, more sharply chiselled face. they saw him and him only, as light came gradually into them. they did not move, but rested on him. he bent forward, almost afraid to stir. he spoke to her as he had spoken before. "emily!" very low, "emily!" her voice was only a fluttering breath, but she answered. "it--was--you!" she said. chapter twenty four such individuals as had not already thought it expedient to gradually loosen and drop the links of their acquaintance with captain alec osborn did not find, on his return to his duties in india, that the leave of absence spent in england among his relatives had improved him. he was plainly consuming enormous quantities of brandy, and was steadily going, physically and mentally, to seed. he had put on flesh, and even his always dubious good looks were rapidly deserting him. the heavy young jowl looked less young and more pronounced, and he bore about an evil countenance. "disappointment may have played the devil with him," it was said by an elderly observer; "but he has played the devil with himself. he was a wrong'un to begin with." when hester's people flocked to see her and hear her stories of exalted life in england, they greeted her with exclamations of dismay. if osborn had lost his looks, she also had lost hers. she was yellow and haggard, and her eyes looked over-grown. she had not improved in the matter of temper, and answered all effusive questions with a dry, bitter little smile. the baby she had brought back was a puny, ugly, and tiny girl. hester's dry, little smile when she exhibited her to her relations was not pretty. "she saved herself disappointment by being a girl," she remarked. "at all events, she knows from the outset that no one can rob her of the chance of being the marquis of walderhurst." it was rumoured that ugly things went on in the osborn bungalow. it was known that scenes occurred between the husband and wife which were not of the order admitted as among the methods of polite society. one evening mrs. osborn walked slowly down the mall dressed in her best gown and hat, and bearing on her cheek a broad, purpling mark. when asked questions, she merely smiled and made no answer, which was extremely awkward for the well-meaning inquirer. the questioner was the wife of the colonel of the regiment, and when the lady related the incident to her husband in the evening, he drew in his breath sharply and summed the situation up in a few words. "that little woman," he said, "lives every day through twenty-four hours of hell. one can see it in her eyes, even when she professes to smile at the brute for decency's sake. the awfulness of a woman's forced smile at the devil she is tied to, loathing him and bearing in her soul the thing, blood itself could not wipe out. ugh! i've seen it once before, and i recognised it in her again. there will be a bad end to this." there probably would have been, with the aid of unlimited brandy and unrestrained devil, some outbreak so gross that the social laws which rule men who are "officers and gentlemen" could not have ignored or overlooked it. but the end came in an unexpected way, and osborn was saved from open ignominy by an accident. on a certain day when he had drunk heavily and had shut hester up with him for an hour's torture, after leaving her writhing and suffocating with sobs, he went to examine some newly bought firearms. in twenty minutes it was he who lay upon the floor writhing and suffocating, and but a few minutes later he was a dead man. a charge from a gun he had believed unloaded had finished him. * * * * * lady walderhurst was the kindest of women, as the world knew. she sent for little mrs. osborn and her child, and was tender goodness itself to them. hester had been in england four years, and lord oswyth had a brother as robust as himself, when one heavenly summer afternoon, as the two women sat on the lawn drinking little cups of tea, hester made a singular revelation, and made it without moving a muscle of her small countenance. "i always intended to tell you, emily," she began quietly, "and i will tell you now." "what, dear?" said emily, holding out to her a plate of tiny buttered scones. "have some of these nice, little hot ones." "thank you." hester took one of the nice, little hot ones, but did not begin to eat it. instead, she held it untouched and let her eyes rest on the brilliant flower terraces spread out below. "what i meant to tell you was this. the gun was not loaded, the gun alec shot himself with, when he laid it aside." emily put down her tea-cup hastily. "i saw him take out the charge myself two hours before. when he came in, mad with drink, and made me go into the room with him, ameerah saw him. she always listened outside. before we left the kennel farm, the day he tortured and taunted me until i lost my head and shrieked out to him that i had told you what i knew, and had helped you to go away, he struck me again and again. ameerah heard that. he did it several times afterwards, and she always knew. she always intended to end it in some way. she knew how drunk he was that last day, and--it was she who went in and loaded the gun while he was having his scene with me. she knew he would go and begin to pull the things about without having the sense to know what he was doing. she had seen him do it before. i know it was she who put the load in. we have never uttered a word to each other about it, but i know she did it, and that she knows i know. before i married alec, i did not understand how one human being could kill another. he taught me to understand, quite. but i had not the courage to do it myself. ameerah had." and while lady walderhurst sat gazing at her with a paling face, she began quietly to eat the little buttered scone. the end [** transcriber changes: original page (part one, chapter ): the whole treat, juvenile and adult, male and female, burst into three cheers which were roars and bellows[missing. inserted] original page (part one, chapter ): "i wish i had such clothes,[missing " inserted] answered lady maria, and she chuckled again. original page (part two, chapter ): realising this, he did not quite understand why he rather liked it in the case of emily fox-seton, though he only liked it remotely and felt his own inaptness a shade absurd. original page (part two, chapter ): "i know what her ladyship feels about being talked over. if i was a lady myself, i shouldn't like it. and i know how deep you'll feel it, that when the doctor advised her to get an experienced married person to be at hand, she said in that dear way of hers, 'jane, if your uncle could spare your mother, how i should like to have her.'[extraneous ' omitted] i've never forgot her kindness in mortimer street.'" original page (part two, chapter ): "my lady! my lady!" she gasped out as soon as she dare[missing "d" inserted]. original page (part two, chapter ): "they may be as innocent as i am. and they may be murderers in their hearts. i can prove nothing, i can prevent nothing. "[extraneous " omitted]oh! _do_ come home." original page : human nature at its best and worst is well protrayed[changed to "portrayed"]. **] * * * * * titles selected from grosset & dunlap's list may be had wherever books are sold. ask for grosset & dunlap's list * * * * * the siege of the seven suitors. by meredith nicholson. illustrated by c. coles phillips and reginald birch. seven suitors vie with each other for the love of a beautiful girl, and she subjects them to a test that is full of mystery, magic and sheer amusement. the magnet. by henry c. rowland. illustrated by clarence f. underwood. the story of a remarkable courtship involving three pretty girls on a yacht, a poet-lover in pursuit, and a mix-up in the names of the girls. the turn of the road. by eugenia brooks frothingham. a beautiful young opera singer chooses professional success instead of love, but comes to a place in life where the call of the heart is stronger than worldly success. scottie and his lady. by 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may be had wherever books are sold. ask for grosset & dunlap's list * * * * * the second wife. by thompson buchanan. illustrated by w.w. fawcett. harrison fisher wrapper printed in four colors and gold. an intensely interesting story of a marital complication in a wealthy new york family involving the happiness of a beautiful young girl. tess of the storm country. by grace miller white. illustrated by howard chandler christy. an amazingly vivid picture of low class life in a new york college town, with a heroine beautiful and noble, who makes a great sacrifice for love. from the valley of the missing. by grace miller white. frontispiece and wrapper in colors by penrhyn stanlaws. another story of "the storm country." two beautiful children are kidnapped from a wealthy home and appear many years after showing the effects of a deep, malicious scheme behind their disappearance. the lighted match. by charles neville buck. illustrated by r.f. schabelitz. a lovely princess travels incognito 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lecturer's laughable experience because he's late, a young woman's excursion into the stock market, etc. old lady number . by louise forsslund. a heart-warming story of american rural life, telling of the adventures of an old couple in an old folk's home, their sunny, philosophical acceptance of misfortune and ultimate prosperity. the husband's story. by david graham phillips. a story that has given all europe as well as all america much food for thought. a young couple begin life in humble circumstances and rise in worldly matters until the husband is enormously rich--the wife in the most aristocratic european society--but at the price of their happiness. the trail of ninety-eight. by robert w. service. illustrated by maynard dixon. one of the best stories of "vagabondia" ever written, and one of the most accurate and picturesque descriptions of the stampede of gold seekers to the yukon. the love story embedded in the narrative is strikingly original. * * * * * ask for complete free list of g. & d. popular copyrighted fiction grosset & dunlap, west th st., new york * * * * * titles selected from grosset & dunlap's list may be had wherever books are sold. ask for grosset & dunlap's list * * * * * his hour. by elinor glyn. illustrated. a beautiful blonde englishwoman visits russia, and is violently made love to by a young russian aristocrat. a most unique situation complicates the romance. the gamblers. by charles klein and arthur hornblow, illustrated by c.e. chambers. a big, vital treatment of a present day situation wherein men play for big financial stakes and women flourish on the profits--or repudiate the methods. cheerful americans. by charles battell loomis. illustrated by florence scovel shinn and others. a good, wholesome, laughable presentation of some americans at home and abroad, on their vacations, and during their hours of relaxation. the woman of the world. by ella wheeler wilcox. clever, original presentations of present day social problems and the best solutions of them. a book every girl and woman should possess. the light that lures. by percy brebner. illustrated. handsomely colored wrapper. a young southerner who loved lafayette, goes to france to aid him during the days of terror, and is lured in a certain direction by the lovely eyes of a frenchwoman. the ramrodders. by holman day. frontispiece by harold matthews brett. a clever, timely story that will make politicians think and will make women realize the part that politics play--even in their romances. * * * * * ask for complete free list of g. & d. popular copyrighted fiction grosset & dunlap, west th st., new york * * * * * the master's violin by myrtle reed a love story with a musical atmosphere. a picturesque, old german virtuoso is the reverent possessor of a genuine cremona. he consents to take as his pupil a handsome youth who proves to have an aptitude for technique, but not the soul of the artist. the youth has led the happy, careless life of a modern, well-to-do young american, and he cannot, with his meagre past, express the love, the longing, the passion and the tragedies of life and its happy phases as can the master who has lived life in all its fulness. but a girl comes into his existence, a beautiful bit of human driftwood that his aunt had taken into her heart and home; and through his passionate love for her, he learns the lessons that life has to give--and his soul awakens. founded on a fact well known among artists, but not often recognized or discussed. if you have not read "lavender and old lace" by the same author, you have a double pleasure in store--for these two books show myrtle reed in her most delightful, fascinating vein--indeed they may be considered as masterpieces of compelling interest. * * * * * ask for complete free list of g. & d. popular copyrighted fiction grosset & dunlap, publishers, new york * * * * * the prodigal judge by vaughan kester this great novel--probably the most popular book in this country to-day--is as human as a story from the pen of that great master of "immortal laughter and immortal tears," charles dickens. the prodigal judge is a shabby outcast, a tavern hanger-on, a genial wayfarer who tarries longest where the inn is most hospitable, yet with that suavity, that distinctive politeness and that saving grace of humor peculiar to the american man. he has his own code of morals--very exalted ones--but honors them in the breach rather than in the observance. clinging to the judge closer than a brother, is solomon mahaffy--fallible and failing like the rest of us, but with a sublime capacity for friendship; and closer still, perhaps, clings little hannibal, a boy about whose parentage nothing is known until the end of the story. hannibal is charmed into tolerance of the judge's picturesque vices, while miss betty, lovely and capricious, is charmed into placing all her affairs, both material and sentimental, in the hands of this delightful old vagabond. the judge will be a fixed star in the firmament of fictional characters as surely as david harum or col. sellers. he is a source of infinite delight, while this story of mr. kester's is one of the finest examples of american literary craftmanship. * * * * * ask for complete free list of g. & d. popular copyrighted fiction grosset & dunlap, west th st., new york * * * * * grosset & dunlap's dramatized novels original, sincere and courageous--often amusing--the kind that are making theatrical history. * * * * * madame x. by alexandra bisson and j. w. mcconaughy. illustrated with scenes from the play. a beautiful parisienne became an outcast because her husband would not forgive an error of her youth. her love for her son is the great final influence in her career. a tremendous dramatic success. the garden of allah. by robert hichens. an unconventional english woman and an inscrutable stranger meet and love in an oasis of the sahara. staged this season with magnificent cast and gorgeous properties. the prince of india. by lew. wallace. a glowing romance of the byzantine empire, presenting with extraordinary power the siege of constantinople, and lighting its tragedy with the warm underglow of an oriental romance. as a play it is a great dramatic spectacle. tess of the storm country. by grace miller white. illust. by howard chandler christy. a girl from the dregs of society, loves a young cornell university student, and it works startling changes in her life and the lives of those about her. the dramatic version is one of the sensations of the season. young wallingford. by george randolph chester. illust. by f.r. gruger and henry raleigh. a series of clever swindles conducted by a cheerful young man, each of which is just on the safe side of a state's prison offence. as "get-rich-quick wallingford," it is probably the most amusing expose of money manipulation ever seen on the stage. the intrusion of jimmy. by p. g. wodehouse. illustrations by will grefe. social and club life in london and new york, an amateur burglary adventure and a love story. dramatized under the title of "a gentleman of leisure," it furnishes hours of laughter to the play-goers. * * * * * grosset & dunlap, west th st., new york * * * * * the novels of winston churchill skillful in plot, dramatic in episode, powerful and original in climax. mr. crewe's career. illus. by a.i. keller and kinneys. a new england state is under the political domination of a railway and mr. crewe, a millionaire, seizes the moment when the cause of the people against corporation greed is being espoused by an ardent young attorney, to further his own interest in a political way, by taking up this cause. the daughter of the railway president, with the sunny humor and shrewd common sense of the new england girl, plays no small part in the situation as well as in the life of the young attorney who stands so unflinchingly for clean politics. the crossing. illus. by s. adamson and l. baylis. describing the battle of fort moultrie and the british fleet in the harbor of charleston, the blazing of the kentucky wilderness, the expedition of clark and his handful of dauntless followers in illinois, the beginning of civilization along the ohio and mississippi, and the treasonable schemes builded against washington and the federal government. coniston. illustrated by florence scovel shinn. a deft blending of love and politics distinguishes this book. the author has taken for his hero a new englander, a crude man of the tannery, who rose to political prominence by his own powers, and then surrendered all for the love of a woman. it is a sermon on civic righteousness, and a love story of a deep motive. the celebrity. an episode. an inimitable bit of comedy describing an interchange of personalities between a celebrated author and a bicycle salesman of the most blatant type. the story is adorned with some character sketches more living than pen work. it is purest, keenest fun--no such piece of humor has appeared for years: it is american to the core. the crisis. illus. by howard chandler christy. a book that presents the great crisis in our national life with splendid power and with a sympathy, a sincerity, and a patriotism that are inspiring. the several scenes in the book in which abraham lincoln figures must be read in their entirety for they give a picture of that great, magnetic, loveable man, which has been drawn with evident affection and exceptional success. * * * * * grosset & dunlap, west th st., new york * * * * * b. m. bower's novels thrilling western romances large mos. handsomely bound in cloth. illustrated * * * * * chip, of the flying u a breezy wholesome tale, wherein the love affairs of chip and delia whitman are charmingly and humorously told. chip's jealousy of dr. cecil grantham, who turns out to be a big, blue eyed young woman is very amusing. a clever, realistic story of the american cow-puncher. the happy family a lively and amusing story, dealing with the adventures of eighteen jovial, big hearted montana cowboys. foremost amongst them, we find ananias green, known as andy, whose imaginative powers cause many lively and exciting adventures. her prairie knight a realistic story of the plains, describing a gay party of easterners who exchange a cottage at newport for the rough homeliness of a montana ranch-house. the merry-hearted cowboys, the fascinating beatrice, and the effusive sir redmond, become living, breathing personalities. the range dwellers here are everyday, genuine cowboys, just as they really exist. spirited action, a range feud between two families, and a romeo and juliet courtship make this a bright, jolly, entertaining story, without a dull page. the lure of dim trails a vivid portrayal of the experience of an eastern author, among the cowboys of the west, in search of "local color" for a new novel. "bud" thurston learns many a lesson while following "the lure of the dim trails" but the hardest, and probably the most welcome, is that of love. the lonesome trail "weary" davidson leaves the ranch for portland, where conventional city life palls on him. a little branch of sage brush, pungent with the atmosphere of the prairie, and the recollection of a pair of large brown eyes soon compel his return. a wholesome love story. the long shadow a vigorous western story, sparkling with the free, outdoor, life of a mountain ranch. its scenes shift rapidly and its actors play the game of life fearlessly and like men. it is a fine love story from start to finish. * * * * * ask for complete free list of g. & d. popular copyrighted fiction grosset & dunlap, west th st., new york * * * * * the novels of george barr mccutcheon graustark. a story of love behind a throne, telling how a young american met a lovely girl and followed her to a new and strange country. a thrilling, dashing narrative. beverly of graustark. beverly is a bewitching american girl who has gone to that stirring little principality--graustark--to visit her friend the princess, and there has a romantic affair of her own. brewster's millions. a young man is required to spend one million dollars in one year in order to inherit seven. how he does it forms the basis of a lively story. castle craneycrow. the story revolves round the abduction of a young american woman, her imprisonment in an old castle and the adventures created through her rescue. cowardice court. an amusing social feud in the adirondacks in which an english girl is tempted into being a traitor by a romantic young american, forms the plot. the daughter of anderson crow. the story centers about the adopted daughter of the town marshal in a western village. her parentage is shrouded in mystery, and the story concerns the secret that deviously works to the surface. the man from brodney's. the hero meets a princess in a far-away island among fanatically hostile musselmen. romantic love making amid amusing situations and exciting adventures. nedra. a young couple elope from chicago to go to london traveling as brother and sister. they are shipwrecked and a strange mix-up occurs on account of it. the sherrods. the scene is the middle west and centers around a man who leads a double life. a most enthralling novel. truxton king. a handsome good natured young fellow ranges on the earth looking for romantic adventures and is finally enmeshed in most complicated intrigues in graustark. * * * * * grosset & dunlap, west th st., new york * * * * * louis tracy's captivating and exhilarating romances may be had wherever books are sold. ask for grosset & dunlap's list * * * * * cynthia's chauffeur. illustrated by howard chandler christy. a pretty american girl in london is touring in a car with a chauffeur whose identity puzzles her. an amusing mystery. the stowaway girl. illustrated by nesbitt benson. a shipwreck, a lovely girl stowaway, a rascally captain, a fascinating officer, and thrilling adventures in south seas. the captain of the kansas. love and the salt sea, a helpless ship whirled into the hands of cannibals, desperate fighting and a tender romance. the message. illustrated by joseph cummings chase. a bit of parchment found in the figurehead of an old vessel tells of a buried treasure. a thrilling mystery develops. the pillar of light. the pillar thus designated was a lighthouse, and the author tells with exciting detail the terrible dilemma of its cut-off inhabitants. the wheel o'fortune. with illustrations by james montgomery flagg. the story deals with the finding of a papyrus containing the particulars of some of the treasures of the queen of sheba. a son of the immortals. illustrated by howard chandler christy. a young american is proclaimed king of a little balkan kingdom, and a pretty parisian art student is the power behind the throne. the wings of the morning. a sort of robinson crusoe _redivivus_ with modern settings and a very pretty love story added. the hero and heroine are the only survivors of a wreck, and have many thrilling adventures on their desert island. * * * * * ask for complete free list of g. & d. popular copyrighted fiction grosset & dunlap, west th st., new york * * * * * mass' george, by george manville fenn. ________________________________________________________________________ george bruton, son of captain bruton is a young teenager. his father's plantation is in georgia. the time is around the middle of the eighteenth century. although not keen on the idea of slavery, captain bruton determines that he will buy one of them and will try to treat him extremely well. the man has a son, whom the family nickname pompey, pomp for short. eventually these two become relaxed, realising that there will be no hard treatment for them, and the two boys, george and pomp, become fast friends. they have various adventures, including attacks by alligators, floods, fire, red indians, spaniards, snakes, ants, and several other nasties. the book very largely consists of dialogue between the two boys, starting at the point when pomp can barely speak english, which he soon masters after a fashion (which his father never does), and going on to the point when captain bruton decides to free the two slaves, who had comported themselves well during a prolonged series of attacks by indians, and later by spaniards from florida as well. it's quite a long book, but the action is well-sustained, and you will enjoy it. nh ________________________________________________________________________ mass' george, by george manville fenn. chapter one. interesting? my life? well, let me see. i suppose some people would call it so, for now i come to think of it i did go through a good deal; what with the fighting with the spaniards, and the indians, and the fire, and the floods, and the wild beasts, and such-like adventures. yes; it never seemed to occur to me before, you know, me--george bruton, son of captain bruton of the king's army, who went out with the general to help colonise georgia, as they called the country after his majesty king george the second, and went through perils and dangers such as no one but english gentlemen and their brave followers would dare and overcome. you'll find it all in your histories; how the general had leave to take so many followers, and carve out for themselves land and estates in the beautiful new country. my father was one of the party. he went, for he was sick at heart and despondent. he had married a sweet english lady--my mother--and when i was about six years old she died; and after growing more and more unhappy for a couple of years, his friends told him that if he did not seek active life of some kind, he would die too, and leave me an orphan indeed. that frightened him so that he raised himself up from his despondent state, readily embraced the opportunity offered by the general's expedition, sold his house in the country to which he had retired on leaving the army, and was going out to the southern part of north america with me only. but sarah would not hear of parting from me, and begged my father to take her to be my attendant and his servant, just as on the same day morgan johns, our gardener, had volunteered to go with his master. not that he was exactly a gardener, though he was full of gardening knowledge, and was a gardener's son; for he had been in my father's company in the old regiment, and when my father left it, followed him down and settled quite into a domestic life. well, as morgan johns volunteered to go with the expedition, and said nothing would suit him better than gardening in a new country, and doing a bit of fighting if it was wanted, and as our sarah had volunteered too, it fell out quite as a matter of course, that one day as my father was seated in his room writing letters, and making his final preparations for his venturesome journey, and while i was seated there looking at the pictures in a book, morgan and sarah came in dressed in their best clothes, and stood both of them looking very red in the face. "well?" said my father, in the cold, stern way in which he generally spoke then; "what is it?" "tell him, sarah," i heard morgan whisper, for i had gone up to put my hand in hers. "for shame!" she said; "it's you who ought." "now look you," said morgan, who was a welshman, and spoke very welshy sometimes, "didn't you just go and promise to help and obey? and the first thing i tells you to do you kicks." "i am very busy," said my father. "if you two want a holiday, say so." "holiday, sir? not us," said morgan, in a hesitating way. "we don't want no holiday, sir, only we felt like as it was our dooty to tell you what--" "to tell me what?" "yes, sir; seeing as we were going out to a savage country, where you've got to do everything yourself before you can have it, and as there'd be no parsons and churches, we thought we'd get it done decent and 'spectable here first." "my good fellow, what do you mean?" said my father. "why, what i've been telling of you, sir. sarah says--" "i did not, morgan, and i shouldn't have thought of such a thing. it was all your doing." "steady in the ranks, my lass. be fair. i'll own to half of it, but you know you were just as bad as me." "i was not, sir, indeed," cried sarah, beginning to sob. "he deluded me into it, and almost forced me to say yes." "man's dooty," said morgan, dryly. "what!" cried my father, smiling; "have you two gone and been married?" "stop there, sir, please, begging your pardon," said morgan; "i declare to gootness, you couldn't make a better guess than that." "i beg your pardon, sir," said sarah, who was very red in the face before, but scarlet now; and as i sit down and write all this, as an old man, everything comes back to me as vividly as if it were only yesterday--for though i have forgotten plenty of my later life, all this is as fresh as can be--"i beg your pardon, sir, but as you know all the years i have been in your service, and with my own dear angel of a mistress--heaven bless her!" "amen," said my father, and, stern soldier as he was, i saw the tears stand thick in his eyes, for poor sarah broke down and began to sob, while morgan turned his face and began to blow his nose like a trumpet out of tune. "i--i beg your pardon for crying, sir, and it's very weak, i own," continued sarah, after a few minutes' interval, during which i hurriedly put my arm round her, and she dabbed down and kissed me, leaving my face very wet; "but you know i never meant to be married, but when morgan comes to me and talks about what i was thinking about--how you and that poor darling motherless boy was to get on in foreign abroad, all amongst wild beasts and savages, and no one to make a drop o' gruel if you had colds, or to make your beds, or sew on a button, and your poor stockings all in holes big enough to break any decent woman's heart, and to master george's head--" "i can wash my own head well enough now, sarah," i said. "yes, my dear; but i don't believe you'd do it as well as i could, and you know i never let the soap get in your eyes. and when, sir, morgan comes to me, and he asks me if i'd got the heart to let you both go out into the wilderness like that without a soul to look after you, and tells me as it was my dooty to marry him, and go out and look after the housekeeping for you both, while he did the garden, what could i say?" poor sarah paused quite out of breath. "say?" said my father, smiling, but looking very much moved. "you could only say _yes_, like the good, true-hearted woman you are." "oh, sir!" exclaimed sarah. "you have both relieved me of a great deal of care and anxiety by your faithful, friendly conduct," continued my father, "for it will make what i am going to seek in the wilderness quite a home at once. it is not the wilderness you think, for i know on very good authority that the place where we are going is a very beautiful and fertile country." "can't come up to wales," said morgan, shaking his head. "perhaps not," said my father, smiling; "but very beautiful all the same. i ought to warn you both, though, while there is time to draw back, that the land is entirely new." "what, wasn't it made with the rest of the world, sir?" said morgan, staring. "yes, of course," said my father; "but i mean it has never been inhabited more than by a few indians, who passed through it when hunting. no houses; not so much as a road." "then there won't be no taverns, sarah," said morgan, giving her a nudge. "and a very good thing too," she replied. "so that," continued my father, "i shall have to help cut down the trees to build my own house, make my own furniture, and fence in the estate-- in short, do everything." "well, i don't see nothing to grumble at in that, sir, so long as there's plenty of wood," said morgan. "there'll be too much wood, my man," said my father, smiling, "and we shall have to ply the axe hard to clear our way." "any stone or slate, sir?" "plenty of stone, but no slate that i am aware of." "no," cried morgan, triumphantly. "i knew there'd be no slate. that proves as it won't come up to wales. there isn't such a country for slate anywhere as wales. well, sir, but even if there's no slate, we can make shift. first thing we do as soon as we get out, will be for me to rig the missus up a bit of a kitchen, and we shall take a few pots and pans in a box." "oh, i shall go well provided with necessaries," said my father. "then pray don't forget a frying-pan, sir. it's wonderful what the missus here can do with a frying-pan." "do be quiet, morgan johns," said sarah. "shan't," he growled. "i'm a-telling of the truth. it's wonderful, sir, that it is. give her a frying-pan and a bit o' fire, and we shan't never hurt for a bit o' well-cooked victuals." "but--" began my father, when morgan rushed in again. "washin', sir, i forgot all about the washing. we shall want a tub and a line. trees 'll do for tying up to, and you'll see we shall none of us ever want for clean clothes." "do be quiet, morgan." "i shan't, sarah. it's only fair as the master should know what you can do, look you." "but i wish you people to think seriously now, while there is yet time," said my father. "seriously, sir? oh yes, we've been thinking of it seriously enough, and--i say, missus, do try and do without flat-irons; they're very heavy kind o' traps for a man to take in his kit." "come, come," said my father; "you had better think better of it, and not embrace such a rough life." "we have thought better on it, sir, and the very best too. we're coming, and if you won't take us, we'll come without. and look you, sir, of course you'll take some guns, and swords, and powder and shot." "of course." "then don't forget some tools: spades, and hoes, and seeds, and some carpenter's things and nails. you can't think what a deal can be done with a hammer, a saw, and a few nails." "then you mean to come?" "mean to come, sir?" cried morgan, in astonishment. "why we got married o' purpose; didn't we, sarah?" "oh yes, sir; that's the very truth." "and we shall be obliged to go now." i did not see where the obligation came in, but i supposed it was all right. "then i can only say thank you heartily," cried my father, warmly; "and for my part, i'll do my duty by you both." "of course we know that, don't we, sarah? or else we shouldn't go." "my dear master!" said sarah, and she bent forward and kissed his hand before clapping her handkerchief to her eyes, and rushing out of the room. "she'll be all right, sir, soon," whispered morgan. "and look you, i'll begin getting together all sorts of little tackle, sir, as i think 'll be useful out yonder. knives and string, and--look you, master george, strikes me as a few hooks and lines wouldn't be amiss. a few good fish in a frying-pan, cooked as sarah can cook 'em, arn't to be sneezed at now and then." he gave us both a sharp nod, and hastily followed his wife, while i stayed to pester my father with endless questions about our new home. chapter two. the month which followed was one scene of excitement to me. we went into lodgings in bristol, and my father seemed to be always busy making purchases, or seeing the different gentlemen who were going out with us in the same ship. i recollect many of their faces. there was the general, a firm, kindly-looking man, who always seemed to me as if he could not possibly be a soldier, he was too quiet. then there was colonel preston, a handsome, florid gentleman, ten years older than my father, and i heard that his wife, two sons and daughter were to be of the party. in a misty kind of way, too, i can recollect that the gentlemen who came and had long talks with my father, used to chat about the plantations in virginia and carolina, and about a charter from the king, and that the place we were going to was to be called georgia, because the king's name was the same as mine. then, too, there was a great deal of talk about the enemy; and as i used to sit and listen, i understood that the spaniards were the enemy, and that they lived in florida. but every one laughed; and my father, i remember, said gravely-- "i do not fear anything that the spaniards can do to hinder us, gentlemen, i am more disposed to dread the climate." a great deal that followed has now, at this time of writing, become confused and mixed up; but i can remember the cheering from the wharves as our ship floated away with the tide, people talking about us as adventurers, and that soon after it came on to blow, and my next recollections are of being in a dark cabin lit by a lantern, which swung to and fro, threatening sometimes to hit the smoky ceiling. i did not pay much heed to it though, for i was too ill, and the only consolation i had was that of seeing sarah's motherly face by the dim light, and hearing her kindly, comforting words. then, after a very stormy voyage, we seemed, as i recollect it, to have glided slowly out of winter into summer, and we were off a land of glorious sunshine at the mouth of a river, up which we sailed. i know there was a great deal done afterwards in the way of formal taking possession in the name of the king, and i can recollect being delighted with the show that was made, and at seeing my father and the other gentlemen wearing gay clothes and sashes and plumes, and with swords buckled on. even morgan partook of the change, and i well recall how he came to me just before he landed, in a kind of grenadier uniform, with sword and musket and belts, drawing himself up very stiff and proud-looking as he let down the butt-end of his firelock with a loud bang upon the deck. "do i look all right and soldierly, master george?" he whispered, after a glance round to see that he was not overheard. "yes," i said, "you look fine. is your gun loaded?" "not yet, my lad." "pull out your sword and let's look at it." "by and by, my lad," he said; "but tell me; i do look all right, don't i?" "yes. why?" "because sarah's got a nasty fit on this mornin'. don't tell her i told you; but she said i looked fit to be laughed at, and that there'd be no fighting for me: indians would all run away." "oh, never mind what she says," i cried. "i wish i was big enough for a soldier." "wait a bit, boy, you'll grow," he said, as he busily tightened a well-whitened belt. "you see it's so long since i've been soldiering, that i'm a bit out of practice." there was no enemy, indian or spaniard, to oppose us, and before long the land had been roughly surveyed and portioned out, my father, as an officer of good standing, being one of the earliest to choose; and in a very short time we were preparing to go out on the beautiful little estate that had become his, for the most part forest-land, with a patch or two of rich, easily-drained marsh on both sides of a little stream which ran, not far away, into the great river up which we had sailed, and upon which, just below us, was to be formed the new city. then time glided on, and as i recall everything i can, i have recollections of the gentlemen of the expedition, and common men, soldiers and others, coming with their swords and guns to our place, and all working hard together, after setting sentries and scouts to give warning of danger, and cutting down trees, and using saws, and helping to roughly build a little wooden house, and put up a fence for us. then, after getting our things in shelter, my father and morgan joined in helping to build and clear for some one else; and so on, week after week, all working together to begin the settlement, till we were all provided with rough huts and shelters for the valuable stores and ammunition brought out. after which people began to shift for themselves, to try and improve the rough places first built. chapter three. with a new place, every touch makes a difference; and when some of those touches are given by the hand of a gardener, nature begins to help. it was so at our georgia home. every bit of time my father or morgan could find to spare, they were digging, or trimming, or planting, till sarah would set to and grumble to me because they would not come in to their meals. "i wouldn't care, sir," she would say, "only the supper's getting spoiled." "but the home made more beautiful," replied my father; and then i have heard him say as he glanced through the window at flower and tree flourishing wonderfully in that beautiful climate, "if my poor wife had lived to see all this!" early and late worked morgan, battling with the wild vines and beautiful growths that seemed to be always trying to make the garden we were redeeming from the wilderness come back to its former state. but he found time to gratify me, and he would screw up his dry welsh face and beckon to me sometimes to bring a stick and hunt out squirrel, coon, or some ugly little alligator, which he knew to be hiding under the roots of a tree in some pool. then, as much to please me as for use, a punt was bought from the owners of a brig which had sailed across from bristol to make her last voyage, being condemned to breaking up at our infant port. the boat, however, was nearly new, and came into my father's hands complete, with mast, sail, ropes, and oars; and it was not long before i gained the mastery over all that it was necessary to learn in the management. morgan's fishing-tackle came into use, and after a little instruction and help from the welshman, i began to wage war upon the fish in our stream and in the river, catching, beside, ugly little reptiles of the tortoise or turtle family--strange objects to be hauled up from muddy depths at one end of a line, but some of them very good eating all the same. the little settlement throve as the time went on, and though the indians were supposed to be threatening, and to look with very little favour upon the settlement so near their hunting-grounds, all remained peaceful, and we had nothing but haughty overbearing words from our spanish neighbours. to a man the officers and gentlemen who had come out turned their attention to agriculture, and many were the experiments tried, and successfully too. at one estate cotton was growing; at another, where there was a lot of rich low land easily flooded, great crops of rice were raised. here, as i walked round with my father, we passed broad fields of sugar-cane, and farther on the great crinkled-leaved indian corn flourished wonderfully, with its flower tassels, and beautiful green and then orange-buff ears of hard, sweet, flinty corn. then came long talks about the want of more help, and one of the settlers braved public opinion, and every one began to talk about how shocking it was for an english gentleman to purchase slaves. but before many months had passed there was hardly a settler without slave labour, the principal exception being my father. it is hard to paint a picture in words, but i should like those who read this to understand what my home was like when i was about twelve years old, a great strong healthy boy, with cheeks burned brown by the sun. our place began with one low erection, divided by a rough partition into two--our room and the morgans'; most of our meals being eaten in the big rustic porch contrived by morgan in what he called his spare time, and over which ran wildly the most beautiful passion-flower i had ever seen. but then as wood was abundant, and a saw-pit had been erected, a more pretentious one-floored cottage residence was planned to join on to the first building, which before long was entirely devoted to the servants; and we soon had a very charming little home with shingle roof, over which beautiful creepers literally rioted, and hung down in festoons from our windows. every day seemed to mellow and beautify this place, and the wild garden dotted with lovely cypresses and flowering shrubs, mingled with every kind of fruit-tree that my father and morgan had been able to get together. over trellises, and on the house facing south, grape-vines flourished wonderfully. peaches were soon in abundance, and such fruits familiar to english people at home as would bear the climate filled the garden. my father's estate extended for a considerable distance, but the greater part remained as it had been tilled by nature, the want of assistance confining his efforts to a comparatively small garden; but he used to say to me, in his quiet, grave way-- "we might grow more useful things, george, but we could not make the place more beautiful." and i often used to think so, as i gazed out of my window at the wild forest, and the openings leading down to the stream and away to the swamp, where i could hear the alligators barking and bellowing at night, with a feeling half dread, half curiosity, and think that some day i should live to see one that i had caught or killed myself, close at hand. now and then morgan used to call me to come and see where a 'gator, as he called it, had been in the night, pointing out its track right up to the rough fence of the garden. "you and i'll have a treat one of these days, my lad." "yes," i used to say; "but when?" "oh, one of these days when i'm not busy." "ah, morgan," i used to say, impatiently, "when you're not busy: when will that be?" "be? one o' these days when we've cut down all the wood, and turned all that low flat swamp into plantation. you see i'm so busy just now." "oh, very well," i said, "i shall go by myself." "that you won't, look you," he cried. "i heard you promise your father you wouldn't go alone. you're not much of a boy, but you're too good to feed alligators with, or let the rattlesnakes and 'cassins try their pyson on." "but they wouldn't, i should take care." "take care? do you know, there's 'gators big as trees in these swamp-holes. i shouldn't wonder if there's some of the old open-countenanced beauties big round as houses. why, master george, i believe there's fellows out there as old as the river, and as could take you as easy as i do a pill." "don't believe it." "_ve_-ry well then; only mind, if one does take you across the middle, give you a pitch up in the air, and then catch you head-first and swallow you, don't you blame me." "why, how could i, if he swallowed me?" i said. "oh, i don't know. you might holler or knock, if you had a stick in your hand." "what stuff!" "oh, is it! there's plenty of room in 'em, and they're as hard as horn. but you take my advice, and don't try." "well, then, come with me; i know several holes where i think they live." "how do you know that?" "because i've seen the footmarks leading down to them all plain in the mud." "then you've been going too far, and don't you run no risks again." i walked away discontentedly, as i'd often walked away before, wishing that i had a companion of my own age. some of the gentlemen settled out there had sons; but they were away, and at times the place seemed very lonely; but i fancy now that was only just before a storm, or when everything felt strange and depressing. at other times i was happy enough. every morning i had three hours' good study with my father, who very rarely let me neglect that. then in the afternoon there was always something to do or something to see and help over. for, as far as my father's means would allow, he planned and contrived endless things to make our home more attractive and convenient. one week it would be the contriving of rough tree-trunk steps down from the bank to the water's edge, so that the boat was easily reached, and ringbolts were driven into cut-down trees, which became natural posts for mooring the boat. another time during one of our walks, he stopped by a lovely pool out toward the swamp--a spot of about an acre and a half in extent, where the trees kept off the wind, and where the morning sun seemed to light up the bottom, showing every pebble and every fish as if seen through crystal glass. "there," he said, "that will be ten times better than bathing in the river. i always feel a little nervous about you there. this shall be your own private bathing-pool, where you can learn to swim to your heart's content. that old fallen hickory will do for your dressing-room, and there are places to hang up your clothes. i don't think you can come to harm here." of course i was delighted, and at the same time a little disappointed; for the fact that the pool was perfectly safe took away somewhat from its attractiveness, and i began to think that there was no stream to carry one along; no very deep places to swim over and feel a thrill at the danger; no holes in the banks where an alligator might be smiling pleasantly as he thought how good a boy would be to eat. chapter four. i am obliged to run quickly through my early unadventurous days, skipping, as it were, from memory to memory of things which happened before life became serious and terrible for us all at the plantation, and storms and peril followed rapidly after the first pleasant calm. for it seems to me now, as i sit and think, that nothing could have been happier than the life on the river during the first days of the settlement. of course, everybody had to work hard, but it was in a land of constant sunshine, of endless spring and summer days--cold weather was hardly known--and when a storm came, though the thunder and lightning were terrible and the rain tremendous, everything afterwards seemed to bound into renewed life, and the scent of the virgin forest was delightful. all worked hard, but there was the certain repayment, and in what must have been a very short time, the settlers had raised a delightful home in the wilderness, where all was so dreamy and peaceful that their weapons and military stores seemed an encumbrance, and many felt that they would have done more wisely if they had brought agricultural implements instead. before we left england, as i have told you, the adventurers who met at my father's rooms talked of the ruthless savage--the lurking indian of the forest and prairie, and also of our neighbours the spaniards; but as soon as we reached the place, it seemed to all that the indians did not exist; and as to the spaniards, they were far south, separated by long stretches of open land, forests, river, and swamp, and might, for aught we knew, be at the other side of the world. i was sitting indoors one bright sunny day, and i had just reached finishing distance with a latin translation my father had left me to do, when i heard a quick "hist!" looking up, i saw morgan at the window. "'most done?" he said. "yes." "then come along, i'll show you something." i bounded out, to find him armed with a stick about six feet long, provided with a little fork at the end made by driving in a couple of nails and bending them out. "what is it?" i cried, excitedly. "enemy. get yourself a good stout stick." "rake-handle do?" "yes, capital." i ran to the tool-shed and came back directly, panting. "now," i said, "what enemy is it--an alligator?" "no. you said you didn't believe there were any snakes here. i've got one to show you now." "yes; but where?" "never you mind where. all you've got to do is to creep after me silent like; and when you see me pin him down with this fork, you can kill him." "but what a cowardly way," i cried; "it isn't fair." "well, look you, i never did see such a boy as you are, master george. do you know what sort of a snake it is?" "how should i? you wouldn't tell me." "well, you talk as if it was a little adder, foot and half long, or a snake at home that you might pick up in your hand. why, it's a real rattlesnake." "oh!" i exclaimed, excitedly. "over six foot long, and as thick as my wrist." "pooh!" i said, with my imagination full of boa-constrictors big enough to entwine and crush us up. "that's nothing!" "nothing! do you know one bite from a fellow like this will kill a man? and you talk about fighting fair. nice lot of fairness in the way they fight. you come along, and promise to be very careful, or i shan't go." "oh, i'll be careful," i said. "but if you feel afraid, say so, and i'll go alone." "i don't feel afraid," i replied; "and if i did," i added with a laugh, "i wouldn't say i was." "not you," he muttered, and he held up a finger, and led the way down by the garden, and from thence into the uncleared forest, where a faint track wandered in and out among the great, tall, pillar-like trunks whose tops shut out the light of day, all but where at intervals what seemed to us like rays of golden dust, or there were silvery-looking lines of finest cobweb stretching from far on high, but which proved to be only delicate threads of sunshine which had pierced the great canopy of leaves. beyond this i knew that there was an opening where all was warm and glowing that was subdued and gloomy now, and it was not long before i saw, without a doubt, that morgan was making for this clearing, and in all probability for one of the patches of stony ground that lay full in the sunshine, baked and hot. it was very cool and silent in among the trees, whose great trunks towered up so high, and though we could hear a chirp now and then far above us in the leaves, all was as still as possible, not so much as a beetle or fly breaking the silence with its hum. there was the opening at last, and as we neared it, the tree-trunks stood out like great black columns against the warm golden light. morgan held up his hand, and for the moment i felt as if we were going to do something very treacherous, till i recalled reading about some one having died twenty minutes after the bite of one of these snakes, and that made me feel more merciless, as i followed my leader, who kept picking his way, so that his feet should not light upon some dead twig which would give forth a snap. the next minute we were out in the sunshine, and here morgan stopped for me to overtake him, when he placed his lips close to my ear, and whispered-- "i'd been over to the bathing-pool to get some o' that white sand out of the bottom, when as i come back, i see my gentleman coiled up fast asleep. he's over yonder, just this side of the pine-trees, left of that big sugar-loaf--the light-green one." he pointed to a tall cone-like cypress, and i felt that i knew the rough, bare, stony place exactly. "ready?" he whispered again. i nodded. "then you must walk this time like a cat. perhaps he's gone, but he may be fast asleep still." he made a point with his fork to show me how he meant to fix the reptile to the ground, and i took a good grip of my rake-handle, intending to try and disable the monster by one blow. this part of our journey was much more tedious than the other, for we were now getting close to the spot, and we knew that though sometimes it was possible to walk close by a snake without disturbing it, at other times the slightest sound would send it gliding rapidly out of sight. we approached then in the most stealthy way, morgan holding his fork the while as if it were a gun, and we were advancing upon the enemy. low growth had sprung apace about the clearing, so that we could not get a sight of the spot till we were close by, when morgan softly parted the bush-like growth, peered out, drew back, and signed to me to advance, moving aside the while, so that i could pass him, and peer out in turn. i was not long in availing myself of the opportunity; and there, not a dozen feet from me, lay twisted about, something like a double s, a large specimen of the serpent i had so often heard about; and a curious shrinking sensation came over me, as i noticed its broad flat head, shaped something like an old-fashioned pointed shovel, with the neck quite small behind, but rapidly increasing till the reptile was fully, as morgan said, thick as his wrist; and then slowly tapering away for a time before rapidly running down to where i could see five curious-looking rings at the end of the dull grey tail. "a rattlesnake," i said to myself, as with a kind of fascination i eagerly looked at the line which marked the gaping mouth showing plainly in an ugly smile; then at the dull creamy-brown and grey markings, and the scales which covered the skin, here and there looking worn and crumpled, and as if it was a trifle too big for the creature that wore it as if it were a shirt of mail. i should have stood there staring at the repellent-looking creature for long enough, had not morgan softly drawn me back, and then led the way round to our left, so that we could have the sun behind us, and approach the dangerous reptile without having to rustle through the bushes close at hand. "mind you keep back, my lad, till i've got him safe," whispered morgan, "then hit him hard." "is it as dangerous as they say?" i asked. "worse, look you; that's why i want to pin him first. i might hit him a good crack, but snakes are hard to kill, and he might throw his head about and bite even then, though i arn't quite sure even now that they don't sting with their tails." "i'm sure they don't," i whispered back. "ah, that's all very well, master george, but i don't see as you can know much better than me. anyhow, i'm going to risk it; so here goes, and when i say `now,' bring down that rake-handle as big a whop as you can with both hands, right on his back." i nodded, and we stood out now on the barren, stony patch close to the fir-trees, with the sun casting our shadows in a curious dumpy way on the earth, and our enemy about thirty feet away. morgan signed to me to stand still, and i obeyed trembling with excitement, and eagerly watching as he cautiously approached with his pole extended before him, ready to make a dart at the snake, whose head lay half turned for him, and its neck temptingly exposed, ready for the fork which should hold it down. on went morgan, inch by inch, his shadow just before him, and in spite of his injunction, i could not refrain from following, so as to get a good view of the encounter; and besides, i argued with myself, how could i be ready to help unless i was close at hand? consequently i stepped on nearer too, till i could see the reptile quite clearly, distinguishing every scale and noting the dull, fixed look of its eyes, which did not seem to be closed, for i was not familiar then with the organisation of snakes. as morgan went on the stillness of the clearing seemed terrible, and once more i could not help thinking of what a treacherous act it was to steal upon the creature like that in its sleep. but directly after, the killing instinct toward a dangerous enemy grew strong within me, and i drew in my breath, my teeth were set fast, and my fingers tightened about the rake-handle, ready to deliver a blow. all this took very few minutes, but it seemed to me to last a long time, and thought after thought ran through my mind, each one suggestive of danger. "suppose morgan misses it," i said to myself; "it will be frightened and vicious, and strike at him, and if he is bitten i shall be obliged to attack it then, and i shall not have such a chance as he has, for the head will be darting about in all directions." then i began to wish i had gone first, and hit at it as it lay, with all my might. too late now, i knew; and as i saw in imagination morgan lying helpless there, and myself striking hard at the snake, never taking into consideration the fact that after a deadly stroke the animal would rapidly try to escape, and glide away. morgan was now so near that i saw the shadow of his head begin to creep over the snake, and it loomed so black and heavy that i wondered why the reptile did not feel it and wake up. then i stood fast as if turned to stone, as i watched my companion softly extend the pole he carried, with the fork nearer and nearer the creature's neck, to remain perfectly motionless for a moment or two. there was a darting motion, and morgan stood pressing the staff down as the serpent leaped into life, writhing, twining, and snapping its body in waves which ran from head to the tail which quivered in the air, sending forth a peculiar low, dull, rattling noise, and seeming to seek for something about which to curl. "i've got him, master george. come along now; it's your turn." i sprang forward to see that the evil-looking head was held down close to the ground, and that the jaws were gaping, and the eyes bright with a vindictive light, literally glittering in the sun. "can you hold him?" i said, hoarsely. "oh, yes; i've got him pretty tight. my! see that? he is strong." for at that moment the snake's tail struck him, and twined about his left leg; untwined, and seemed to flog at him, quivering in the air the while, but only after writhing horribly, twisting round the pole which pressed it down, and forming itself into a curious moving knot. "i can't hit at it now," i said, hoarsely; "it will strike away the pole." "yes; don't hit yet. wait a bit till he untwissens himself; then give it him sharp, look you." "you won't let it go?" i said. "not a bit of it, my lad. too fond of morgan johns to let him stick his fangs into me. now you've got a chance. no, you haven't; he's twisted up tighter than ever. never mind, wait a bit; there's no hurry." "but you are torturing it so," i cried. "can't help it, master george. if i didn't, he'd torture me and you too. well, he does twissen about. welsh eel's nothing to him." for the snake in its rage and pain kept twining about the pole, treating that as the cause of all its suffering. morgan stood there full of excitement, but though longing to deliver a blow that should paralyse if it did not kill our enemy, i could not get the slightest chance. "ah, we ought to have had a cut at him before he twined about my pole," said morgan, after this had been going on for some minutes; "but it wasn't your fault; there wasn't time." "no," i said, gloomily, "there was no time. now then, hold tight." i made a rapid stroke at the long, lithe body which suddenly untwisted to its full length, but my rake-handle only struck the ground, for the serpent was quicker than i, and it threw itself once more in a series of quivering folds about morgan's pole. "well, he is strong," cried the latter. "but i have it. i'm getting a bit 'fraid he'll work quite a hole, and get out, and i'm not at all sure that the nails arn't giving. look here, master george; put your hand in my pocket, and pull out and open my big knife ready for me. then you shall hold the pole, and i'll go down and try and cut his head off." "but will that be safe?" i said. "hadn't we better leave go and run away?" "what, and leave a customer like this free to hunt about our place? now you wouldn't like to do that, i know." "no; i shouldn't like to do that," i said; "but it would be terrible if he got away." "well then, out with my knife--quick! i'm beginning to wish we'd left him alone, for it'll be chizzle for both of us if he do get loose." i hastily took his knife from his pocket, and opened it. "that's your style, master george. now then, stick it across my mouth, and then take hold just under my hands. you must press it down hard, or he'll heave himself out, for he's mighty strong, i can tell you. got hold?" "yes," i said, as i took hold of the pole, keeping my feet as far away as i could from the writhing knot, for fear it should suddenly untwine and embrace my legs. "that's right, press down hard. think you can hold him?" "i don't know; i think so." "now, look ye here, my lad, thinking won't do; you've got to hold him, and if you feel as you can't you must say so. rattlesnakes arn't garden wums." "i'll try, and i will hold it," i said. "there you have it, then," he said, releasing the pole, and leaving it quivering and vibrating in my hands. "now then, i'm going to wait till he untwines again, and then i'm going to have off his head, if he don't work it out before. if he do, you've got to run as hard as you can: jump right away, my lad, never mind me." i nodded; i could not speak, and i stood holding down the pole, seeing the snake striving to draw its head back between the little prongs of the fork, and knowing that if it did our position would be terrible. "now then, hold him tight," cried morgan; "i'm going to lay hold and draw him out a bit, so as to get a cut through somewhere." i did not speak, but pressed down with all my might, feeling my eyes strained as, with a shudder of dread, i saw morgan stoop and boldly seize hold of the snake. but the touch only seemed to make the great living knot tighten, and after a try morgan ceased. "no," he said, "it won't do. i shall only drag him out, for i'm not at all sure about those nails. i say, my lad, i really do wish we had let him alone, or had a go at him with a gun." i tried to answer, but no words would come, and i wanted to look hopelessly at morgan, but i could not take my eyes off the great, grey, writhing knot which was always in motion, heaving and working, now loosening, now tightening up. "hah!" cried morgan, suddenly, as once more the horrible creature threw itself out to full length, and he sprang forward to seize the neck just as a wave ran along the body from tail to head; and as i pressed the pole down hard, the head rose like lightning, struck morgan right in the face, and i saw him fall backward, rolling over and over; while, after writhing on the ground a moment or two, the snake raised its bleeding head, and i saw that it was drawing back to strike. i don't know how it happened exactly; i only can tell that i felt horribly frightened, starting back as morgan fell over, and that then, as the snake was preparing to strike, being naturally slow and weak from its efforts, the pole i held in both hands came down heavily, and then again and again, till our enemy lay broken and twisting weakly, its back broken in two places, and the blood flowing from its mouth. chapter five. i was brought to myself again by a hearty shout just as i was trying to get rid of a shuddering sensation of fear, and wanting to go to morgan's help--asking myself what i ought to do to any one who had been bitten by a rattlesnake. "brayvo! as they say, master george. you did give it him well." "but--morgan--arn't you stung--bitten, i mean?" i faltered. "me? no, my lad. he gave me a flop on the cheek with the back of his head as he shook himself loose, and i didn't stop to give him another chance. but you did bring that down smart, and no mistake. let's look at the end." he took hold of the pole and examined the place where the two nails had been driven in to form the fork. "yes," he said, thoughtfully. "i was beginning to be afraid of that-- see here. this nail's regularly bent down, and it opened the fork out so that when he snapped himself like a cart-whip he shook himself clear. know better next time. i'll get a bit of iron or an old pitchfork, and cut the tines down short on purpose for this sort of game, master george. ah, would you?" he shouted, as he made a dart for where the snake was feebly writhing itself toward the undergrowth, and catching it by the tail snatched it back to lie all together, writhing slowly. "wait till i find my knife. oh, here it is," he said. "no. never mind, give me yours. i'll look afterwards. dropped it when i rolled over yonder." i took out my knife and opened it. "oh, i say, my lad, don't look so white. wern't 'fraid, were you?" "yes," i said, huskily. "i could not help being frightened." "not you," said morgan, roughly; "you wasn't half frightened, or you wouldn't have done what you did. now then, my gentleman, you're never going to bite and kill any one, so--there--and there!" as he spoke he placed one foot a few inches from the rattlesnake's head, the creature opening its mouth and making a feeble attempt to bite, but the next moment my keen knife had divided the neck, and morgan picked up the piece. "now look ye here, master george, i shouldn't wonder if this gentleman's got two sharp teeth at the top here like an adder has at home. they're the poison ones, and--yes, what did i tell you?" he laughed as he opened the creature's wide mouth with the blade of the knife, and drew forward two keen-looking fangs, to show me. "there you are," he said. "just like adders', only theirs is little tiny things just like a sharp bit of glass, and they lay back in the roof of their mouths so that you have to look close to see 'em." "throw the horrible poisonous thing away," i said. "yes; we'll pitch it all together in the river. some big alligator will think it's a fine worm, and i hope he'll like it. one moment; i must find my knife." he threw down the rattlesnake's head, and then said thoughtfully-- "no; let's take it up to the house, master george, and let your father see the kind of game he's got on his property. i'll show it to my sarah too, or she won't believe it was such a big one, or got such poison fangs." "you'll have to carry it home," i said, with a shudder. "no, i shan't, master george, and it's of no use for you to try to make me believe you're afraid, because i shan't have it. you killed it, and i'll twist up a bit o' grass to make a rope, and you shall carry it home to show master and our sarah. i can tie it to the end of the pole. stop a minute; where's my knife?--must be just here." he went straight for the low growth and bushes, and began peering about while i stood leaning on the pole and looking down at the slightly heaving form of the serpent, when my attention was taken by a hoarse cry from morgan. "what's the matter?" i said, as i saw that he was bending forward staring in among the bushes. he did not reply, and feeling certain that he had found another rattlesnake, i raised the pole once more, and went to where he stood, when my lips parted, and i turned to call for help, but stopped there, for i found myself face to face with a similar object to that which had arrested morgan. a tall, keen-faced, half-naked indian stood before me, with his black hair gathered back and tied up so that a few eagle feathers were stuck through it; a necklace or two was about his neck and hanging down upon his breast; a pair of fringed buckskin leggings covered his legs; and he carried a tomahawk in one hand, and a bow in the other. almost before i could recover from my surprise, i saw that we were completely surrounded, for at least a dozen more were dotted about the clearing. at that moment morgan seemed to get the better of his start, and backed to where i stood, with the indian following him in a slow, stately manner. "we're in for it, master george," whispered morgan. "what shall we do-- run?" "it would be of no use to try," i whispered. "not a bit, lad, they'd run us down directly. hold up your head, lad; you arn't afraid of a rattlesnake, so you needn't be afraid of these furreners. what are they--injuns?" "yes," i answered; "red indians," though i had never seen one before. "ah, well, look you, there's nothing to mind--they arn't poisonous. i shall ask them what they want. i say, what are they all coming close up to us for?" "i don't know," i said, as i made a strong effort not to be afraid, and to keep from thinking about the stories i had heard of the indians' cruelty, as the party came forward, evidently at a sign from the man who had faced me, and who wore more feathers than the rest. "i say, master george," whispered morgan again, "hadn't i better ask 'em what they want?" "it's of no use. i don't think they would understand." "well," said morgan, coughing to clear his throat, "i'm a soldier, and i've been in a fight before now, so i know a little about it. we're surprised, master george, by the enemy, and without arms. first dooty is to retreat, and you being my officer, you says we can't." "i'm sure we can't," i said, talking to morgan, but looking sharply round at the indians, who all stood gazing at us in the sternest and most immovable way. "quite right, lad. madness to talk about running, but i'd give all the wage i've got to take dooring the next ten year, look you, to be able to let the master know." "shall i call to him?" "only bring him up to be took prisoner too. here, let's make the best of it," cried morgan, jauntily. "how are you, gentlemen?--strangers in these parts, arn't you?" the only man to take any notice of this easy-going address was the indian i imagined to be the chief, and he uttered a grunt. "ah, i thought so. nice country isn't it, only we've got some ugly customers here.--sure they can't understand, master george?" "i feel nearly sure." "so do i, lad.--ugly customers, snakes--see?--snakes." he took the pole quickly from my hand, and at the same moment i saw, as it were, a shock run through the group of indians, each man taking tightly hold of the tomahawk he carried. but morgan did not notice it, and thrusting the end of the pole under the snake, he raised it up. "see?" he cried. "we just killed it--no, we didn't, for it isn't quite dead." the indians looked at him and then at the snake, but in the most stolid way, and i stood wondering what was to come next. "know what it is, i suppose?" continued morgan, who kept on talking in an excited way, as if to gain time while he tried to think out some plan, as was really the case; but the audience merely looked on frowningly, and i saw the chief draw back slightly as morgan picked up the head and pointed to its fangs with his finger. the thoughts of the risk he might be running made me forget for the moment any that was threatening us from the indians, and i cried, in warning tones-- "be careful; it may be dangerous though it's dead." "yes; this seems to be dead," replied morgan; "but i say, master george, i don't know whatever to do." "scrape a hole first, and bury that horrid thing," i said; "and then perhaps we shall see what they are going to do." "not to kill us, are they?" he whispered. i could not help giving a start of horror, and looking wildly round at the indians, who stood like so many statues looking on, as, in a hasty, excited way, morgan roughly kicked away some of the loose gravel, and then with the rake-handle scraped out a good-sized hole, into which he threw the snake's head and dragged the body, raking the loose gravel back over them and stamping it down. "now then, master george, what 'll us do next?" "i don't know; let them take us away as prisoners, i suppose. we must not try to run away, because they would follow, and we should lead them home. shall we run into the woods?" "never get there, my lad," he replied, sadly. "they'd have us before we got a hundred yards." all doubt as to our next proceedings were put an end to at once, for the chief laid his hand upon my shoulder, and said, in a deep voice, something which was quite unintelligible to us both. i shook my head, but he grasped my arm firmly, and pointed toward the forest. "he means us to go," i said; and in obedience i walked toward the darkest part, but the chief checked me, and pointed toward the spot where our faint track lay which led toward the house; and feeling constrained to obey, i gave morgan a disconsolate look, and went slowly on with the indian walking by my side. "we can't help it, master george," said morgan. "don't be down-hearted, lad. perhaps they don't mean any harm, and let's hope your father or my sarah will see us in time to shut up the place, and get the guns down from the racks." the distance was very short, but it was the most painful walk i ever had, for i felt as if i was being the guide to take the enemy right to the place my father had toiled so hard to win from the wilderness, and twice over i tried to deviate from the path, and lead the party into the forest, so as to bear right away from the house. but it was of no use. a strong hand gripped my arm instantly; there was a stern look, a low, deep utterance, and the chief pointed again to the right track. it was useless to try and misunderstand him, and at last, after two more feints, i felt that there was nothing else to be done but to allow myself to be forced onward. just before we came in sight of the house, the chief said something, and two of the men pushed morgan forward till he was close to me, and one of the men walked on his left and the other came behind. "see what that means, master george?" "no; what does it mean?" "that indians are clever as white men, and they've put us in the front rank to keep any one from firing at them." i saw it plainly enough now, for as we advanced, my father appeared at the window, and i saw a gun in his hand. he started as he caught sight of us two prisoners, but feeling, i suppose, that any attempt at defence was useless under the circumstances, he left the window for a moment or two, and i heard his voice speaking. then he reappeared, and climbed out of the window, the door being closed and fastened. he stepped forward boldly with the firelock resting on his arm, and walked to where the indians had halted, holding out his hand in token of friendship, but it was not taken, the indians' eyes running from him all over and about the place, as if they were astonished at what they saw. "tell me quickly," said my father, "but be cool. everything depends upon our treating them in a friendly way, and not being afraid." i told him how we had been surprised, and his face looked very grave as he listened. "well," he said, "we are in their power. if i fired it might bring help, but it would be too late to benefit us; and for aught we know, the rest of the tribe may already be up in the settlement. stay with them and don't attempt to escape." the indian chief watched us curiously as my father talked to me, and two of his men half started forward as my father turned away to go back to the house. but a word from the chief checked them, and every eye was fixed upon the returning figure, as my father walked to the door, beat upon it, called sarah to open, and then passed in. the faces of the indians were a study, but they preserved their stolid looks, and uttered a sigh of satisfaction as my father appeared again with such provisions as the place afforded, and proceeded to offer them to our visitors. i watched everything attentively, and saw the men stand fast without looking either at my father or the provisions which he placed before them, till the chief said a few words in a loud tone. then with an eagerness in sharp contrast to their former apathy, they seized the food and began to eat. my father spoke to the chief again and again, and the indian said something coldly in reply; but they were wasted words, and the rough meal was partaken of in comparative silence. "they only mean to be friendly, father, do they?" i said at last. "it is impossible to say; they may prove treacherous," he replied. "but don't talk, and if you grasp anything they seem to want, tell me, so that i can satisfy them. it would be terrible if they attempted to destroy all we have been at such pains to get together." "couldn't we all make a dart for indoors, sir?" said morgan, in a whisper. "we have got plenty of weepons there, sir, and might manage to keep them off till help came." "the risk is too great," said my father. "these men are as active as leopards, and before we could get within doors we should each have an axe in his brain." "but, begging your pardon, sir, we can all run." "as fast as a tomahawk can fly? no; they are peaceful now, and friendly; let us treat them as friends, and hope that they will soon go." at that moment the chief made a sign with his hands to his lips, a sign that was unmistakable, and a large pail of water was fetched out by morgan, and drunk from with avidity. this done, the indians sat and stood about watching everything within reach, while we were in the unpleasantly helpless state of being unable to speak, or to make them understand, and in the more unpleasant or perilous position of being unable to grasp their intentions. as the time went on my father appeared to grow more hopeful. he had evidently come to the conclusion that it was useless to attempt resistance, and he seemed to think that our friendly treatment might win the respect of these stern, morose-looking men. then, all at once, i saw that his hopes were dashed. he looked at me wildly, and i saw the firelock he held tremble in his hand. "try and be firm, george," he said, quietly, "and do not look as if i am saying anything serious to you," he continued, laughing. "i understand, father," i said, cheerfully, though my heart kept giving great thumps against my ribs. "can you hear what i am saying, morgan?" continued my father, pleasantly, and not appearing to pay the slightest attention to the indians. "every word, sir; but it's hard work, for i want to run indoors to try and comfort that poor woman who is trembling there." "so we all do," said my father, and he looked quite merry; "but don't look like that, man. it is inviting an attack if these men do mean evil." "right, sir; i am quite laughing now," said morgan. "ah, that's worse," cried my father, "that ghastly grin will ruin us. there, listen to what i am saying. when these savages attack us, it will be in some treacherous way, so as to get the advantage of us without injury to themselves. if they do attack, never mind who goes down, the survivors must rush into the house and defend it to the last, for that poor woman's sake. fight hopefully if i am not with you; for as soon as firing begins it may bring help from the settlement." "then why not fire at once, sir?" cried morgan, earnestly. "because, as i intimated before, it would bring help, but help that came too late." the calm forced way in which my father spoke seemed to be the most terrible part of the whole day's work. the inaction was bad enough, and to sit there expecting that at any moment the indians might turn upon us and kill us with their axes, made it almost impossible to sit there as my father wished; but sit there we did, and as my eyes wandered from one to the other of the weird, fierce-looking indians, who seemed to be doing nothing but watch us for an excuse to make an attack, it made my brain swim. how it was all burnt into my memory, and how i can picture it all now! the bright garden, the flowers, and the promise of fruit, and the house beginning to look more lovely every month; and now in front of it red indians squatting about, or standing with their bows strung, arrows in a case behind them, and axes in hand, ready at the word from their chief to spring upon us. all at once the chief uttered a peculiar sound, and the men who were seated sprang to their feet, and stood watching the tall, fierce-looking fellow. he spoke again, and without a word they all moved off quickly toward the settlement, making straight for colonel preston's estate. i sat there watching them till the last man had disappeared. then all the bright sunshiny scene around began to swim, and wave, and grow distant, and all was blank. chapter six. "better, my boy?" "yes. what is it? i felt so sick and strange." i was lying on my back looking up at my father, who was bending over me bathing my forehead with cold water. "the sun--a little overdone. there, you are better now." "ah, i recollect," i said, "where are the indians?" "hush! don't get excited. they are gone now." "yes, i know," i said; "gone to colonel preston's." "hist!" he cried, as i heard steps close by, and morgan came hurrying up. "couldn't get far, sir. i was making haste, and getting close up to the last man as i thought, when three of the savages jumped up just in my path, and held up their bows and arrows in a way that said, plain as any tongue could speak, `go back, or we'll send one of these through you.'" "the chief knows what he is about," said my father, "and we cannot communicate. now then, get inside, and we will barricade the place as well as we can, in case of their coming back. can you walk now, george?" "yes, father, the giddiness has gone off now," i said; and i sprang up, but reeled and nearly fell again. "take my arm, boy," he said, as he helped me toward the window, and i climbed in by it, when the first thing my eyes lighted upon was the figure of our sarah, down on her knees behind the door with her eyes shut; but a gun was leaning up against the wall; and as she heard us she sprang up, seized it, and faced round. "oh! i thought it was the indians," she said, with a sigh of relief. "perhaps we have been frightening ourselves without cause," said my father, helping morgan to fix up the strong shutter with which the window was provided. "the indians are gone now." "yes," muttered morgan, so that i could hear, "but they may come back again. i don't trust 'em a bit." "nor i, morgan," said my father, for he had heard every word; "but a bold calm front seems to have kept them from attempting violence. if we had been shut up here, and had opened fire, not one of us would now have been alive." "never mind, sir," said morgan. "if they come back let's risk it, and show a bold front here behind the shutters, with the muzzles of our guns sticking out, for i couldn't go through another hour like that again. i was beginning to turn giddy, like master george here, and to feel as if my head was going to burst." "go up into the roof, and keep a good look-out from the little gratings; but keep away, so as not to show your face." "then you do think they'll come back, sir?" "yes, i feel sure of it. i am even now in doubt as to whether they are all gone. indians are strangely furtive people, and i fully expect that a couple of them are lying down among the trees to watch us, for fear we should try to communicate with the others. i am afraid now that i made a mistake in settling down so far from the rest. ah! listen! a shot. yes; there it is again." "no, sir," said morgan, "that wasn't a shot: it was--there it goes again!--and another." two distant sounds, exactly like shots, fell again upon our ears. "yes," cried my father, excitedly, "the fight has begun." "nay, sir, that was only a big 'gator threshing the water up in some corner to kill the fish," cried morgan; and he passed up through the ceiling into the roof. as morgan went out of sight, and took his place in the narrow loft between the sloping rafters, my father busied himself loading guns, and placing them ready by the openings in the shutters which i had always supposed were for nothing else but to admit the light. and as he worked, sarah stood ready to hand him powder or bullets, or a fresh weapon, behaving with such calm seriousness, and taking so much interest in the work, that my father said, gravely-- "hardly a woman's task this, sarah." "ah, sir," she replied, quietly; "it's a woman's work to help where she is wanted." "quite right," said my father. then, turning to me, he went on, "i am a soldier, george, and all this is still very horrible to me, but i am making all these preparations in what i think is the right and wisest spirit; for if an enemy sees that you are well prepared, he is much less likely to attack you and cause bloodshed. we are safe all together indoors now, and with plenty of protection, so that if our indian visitors come again, we are more upon equal terms." "do you really think they will come again, father?" i said. "i'm afraid so. we have been living in too much fancied security, and ready to think there was no danger to apprehend from indians. now we have been rudely awakened from our dream." "and if they come shall you shoot, father?" "not unless it is absolutely necessary to save our lives. i cannot help feeling that we ought to be up at the settlement, but i should have been unwilling to leave our pleasant home to the mercy of these savages; and, of course, now it is impossible to go, so we must make the best defence we can, if the enemy returns." all this was very startling, and from time to time little shudders of dread ran through me, but at the same time there was so much novelty and excitement, that i don't think i felt very much alarmed. in fact, i found myself hoping once that the indians would come back, so that i could see how they behaved now that we were shut up tightly in our house, all of which was very reprehensible no doubt; but i am recording here, as simply and naturally as i can, everything that i can remember of my boyish life. the preparations for attack were at last ended, and after securing and barricading door and window in every way possible, we sat down to wait for the first sign of the enemy, and i was wondering how long it would be before we saw the indians return, when i suddenly awoke to the fact that i was terribly hungry. i don't suppose i should have thought of it, though, if sarah had not made her appearance with bread and meat all ready cut for us, and very welcome it proved; morgan, on receiving his share passed up to him in the loft, giving me a nod and a smile before he went back to continue his watch. and this proved to be a long and weary one. the afternoon sun slowly descended; and as it sank lower, i could see that my father's face grew more and more stern. i did not speak to him, but i knew what it meant--that he was thinking of the coming darkness, and of how terribly difficult our watch would be. "yes," he said, suddenly, just as if he had heard my thoughts; "they are naturally quiet, stealthy people, and the darkness will give them opportunities which would be full of risk by day. i am afraid that they are waiting in ambush for the night, and that then they will come on." "i hope not," i thought; but i would not have let my father see how frightened i was for all the world; and trying to be as cheerful as i could under the circumstances, i went up and joined morgan to help him watch from the latticed openings in the roof, with the garden gradually growing more gloomy, and the trees of the forest beyond rapidly becoming black. then darker and darker, and there was no moon that night till quite late. beyond the possibility of there being some reptile about that had crawled up from the river, hungry and supper-hunting, there had never seemed to be anything about home that was alarming, and night after night i had stolen out to listen to the forest sounds, and scent the cool, damp, perfumed air; but now there was a feeling of danger at hand, lurking perhaps so close that it would not have been safe to open the door; and as i watched beside morgan from between the window-bars, we were constantly touching each other, and pointing to some tree-stump, tuft, or hillock, asking whether that was an indian creeping cautiously toward the house. somehow that seemed to me the darkest night i could remember, and the various sounds, all of which were really familiar, seemed strange. now there was the plaintive cry of one of the goat-suckers which hawked for moths and beetles round the great trees; then, after a silence so profound that it was painful, came the deep croak of the bullfrog rising and falling and coming from a hundred different directions at once. then all at once their deep croaking was dominated by a loud barking bellow; and as i listened with my hands feeling cold and damp, i caught hold of morgan. "what's that?" i whispered, excitedly. "my arm," he replied, coolly. "don't pinch, lad." "no, no; i mean the sound. what noise was that?" "oh! why, you know. that was a 'gator." "are you sure? it sounded like a man's voice." "not it. who did you think could be there? nobody likely to be out there but indians, and they wouldn't shout; they'd whisper so that we shouldn't know they were near." i was silent again, and sat watching and listening as sound after sound struck my ear, making it seem that the wilds had never been so full before of strange noises, though the fact was that nothing was unusual except that i did not realise that i had never been in danger before, and sat up to listen. all at once i jumped and uttered a cry, for something had touched me. "hush! don't make a noise," said a familiar voice. "i only wanted to know whether you could make out anything." "no, father. only the frogs and alligators are barking and bellowing." "can't see any sign of indians, nor any red light from over toward the settlement?" "no, father." "no, sir. all's quiet," said morgan. "it isn't, father," i whispered. "i never heard so much noise from out by the river before. there, hark!" we all listened in silence as a loud bellowing sound came from a distance. "there!" i whispered, in awe-stricken tones. "only one of the reptiles by the stream," said my father, quietly. "but don't you think it's because some one is there?" "no; certainly not. keep a sharp look-out on both sides, morgan, and warn me if you see the slightest movement, for it may be a crawling, lurking indian." "we'll keep a good look-out, sir, never fear," said morgan, and we resumed our watch--if watch it could be called, where we were more dependent upon our ears than upon our eyes. morgan was very silent and thoughtful till i spoke to him. "what did my father mean about the red glare over at the settlement?" "hah!" he ejaculated, and he was again silent for a minute or two. then in a quick whisper, "i was just thinking about that, master george, when you spoke, and that it was the enemy we had to fear the most." "what do you mean?" i asked. "fire, my lad, fire. i dare say that with our guns and swords we may keep them off; but that's how they'll get the better of us." "by fire?" "yes; they'll get something blazing up against the house, and the moment it catches fire it's all over with us." "what! set fire to the house?" "yes, master george, that's what your father's afraid of. no; i'm wrong there. i was at the wars with him, and i never saw him afraid--not even to-day. takes a bold man to come out of his fort and go up to the enemy as he did--twelve to one--expecting every moment a crack from a tomahawk. he hasn't got any fear in him; but he thinks about the fire all the same. now then, don't talk, but keep a sharp look-out, or they may steal on to us without our seeing them." all this was said in a low whisper as we tried to keep a good look-out from the little trellised dormers; and the minutes stole on and became hours, with the darkness seeming to increase till about midnight. then all looked darker, when morgan pressed my arm, and i gave, a violent start. "'sleep, sir?" "i? asleep? no! yes; i'm afraid i must have been," i said, feeling the colour come burning into my face. "look yonder," he whispered. i looked from the grating and saw that, all at once, as it appeared to me, the tops of the trees were visible out to the east, and it grew plainer and plainer as i watched. "moon's getting very old, master george," whispered morgan, "but yonder she comes up." "then it will soon be light." "no; but not so dark." "then the indians won't come now?" i said eagerly. "i don't know much about them, master george, but from what i've heard say from those who do, indians always comes when they're not expected, and if you're to be ready for them you must always be on the watch." the overpowering sense of sleep which had made me lose consciousness for a few minutes ceased to trouble me now, and i stood watching eagerly for the time when the moon would rise above the trees, and send its light across the clearing in front of the house. i waited anxiously, for there had been the lurking dread that the indians might creep up to the garden through the darkness, unseen, and perhaps strike at my father down below before he could be on his guard. once the moon was up, i felt that we should have light till daybreak, and with that light a good deal of the shivering dread caused by the darkness would pass away. it was a long, very long while before the moon reached the tops of the trees, but when it did, the clearing and the gardens seemed to have been transformed. long shadows, black as velvet, stretched right away, and trees were distorted so that i felt as if i was dreaming of seeing a garden upon which i had never set eyes before. at last, almost imperceptibly, the moon, well on to its last quarter, appeared above the edge of the forest, and i was in the act of drawing myself back with a feeling of satisfaction that all was safe, when i saw something dark lying close to the shadow cast by a tree. "would indians lie down and crawl?" i whispered. "more likely to than walk, if all i hear's true, master george." "then look there!" i whispered, as i pointed to the dark, shadowy figure. "where, lad? i can't see anything." "there; just at the edge of that long, stretched-out shadow." morgan drew in his breath with a faint hiss. "it's moving--_he's_ moving," he whispered; "crawling right along to get round to the back, i should say. and look, sir, look!--another of 'em." i just caught sight of the second figure, and then crept to the rough trap-door opening. "father," i whispered, "come up here. bring a gun." he was beneath the opening in a moment. "take hold of the gun," he said. "mind!--be careful"--and he passed the heavy weapon up to me. the next moment he was up in the rough loft, and i pointed out the figures of the indians. i heard him too draw in his breath with a faint hiss, as he stretched out his hand for the gun, took it, softly passed the barrel out through the open window and took aim, while i stood suffering from a nervous thrill that was painful in the extreme, for i knew that when he fired it must mean death. i involuntarily shrank away, waiting for the heavy report which seemed as if it would never come; and at last, unable to bear the suspense longer, i pressed forward again to look hesitatingly through the window, feeling that i might have to fire a gun myself before long. all at once, as the suspense had grown unbearable, the barrel of the firelock made a low scraping noise, for my father was drawing it back. "a false alarm, george," he said, gently. "no, no," i whispered; "look--look!" for i could see both figures crawling along slowly, flat on their breasts. "yes, i see them, my boy," he said; "and i was deceived too, for the moment, but we must not waste shot on creatures like these." "why, if it arn't a pair o' 'gators," said morgan, with a suppressed laugh. "well, they did look just like injins, and no mistake." i felt so vexed at making so absurd a mistake, that i remained silent till my father passed the gun to me. "take hold," he said, gently. "it was a mistake that deceived us all. better be too particular than not particular enough." he lowered himself down into the room below, and i passed him the gun before going back to where morgan leaned against the window. "there they go, master george," he said, laughing. "you and me must have a new pair o' spectacles apiece from the old country if we have to do much of this sort of thing." "i did not think i could have been so stupid," i said, angrily; and going away to the other window, so that i should not have to listen to my companion's bantering, which i felt pretty sure would come, i stood gazing at the beautiful scene without, the moon making the dark green leaves glisten like silver, while the shades grew to be of a velvety black. every here and there patches of light shone on the great trunks of the trees, while their tops ran up like great spires into the softly-illumined sky. the excitement had driven away all desire for sleep, and we watched on listening to every sound and cry that came from the forest surrounding, wonderfully plain in the silence of the night, which magnified croak, bellow, or faint rustling among the leaves or bushes, as some nocturnal creature made its way through the trees. at times the watching seemed to be insufferably dreary and wearisome; then something startling would send the blood thrilling through my veins again; and so on and on, till the moon began to grow pale, the light to appear of a pearly grey in the east, golden flecks glistened high all above the trees, and once more it was new day, with the birds singing, and a feeling of wonder impressing me, it appeared so impossible that i could have been up and watching all night. chapter seven. "master george!--master george!" the call was repeated, for i did not answer the first, my mouth being expanded to its fullest stretch in a tremendous yawn. "come down, and have some breakfast. you must want it sore." the very fact of sarah mentioning it made me feel a horrible sinking sensation, and as soon as my father gave leave for one of us to leave the post at the window, i came down to find that, though we up in the narrow loft had heard nothing, sarah had been for some time preparing a good meal, which, whatever might be the perils awaiting us later on, we all ate with the greatest of enjoyment. we had hardly finished when morgan gave the alarm, and my father hurried to his post of observation, but only to conceal his piece directly, as he uttered the word "friend!" for our nearest neighbour, colonel preston, a tall, stern, rather overbearing man, came up, followed by a couple of men. "i've come to give you warning, bruton," he said. "i tried to send you warning last night," replied my father. "what! you know?" "do you not see how we are barricaded?" "oh, i thought it was because you were just getting up. the indians came by here then?" "yes," said my father; and he briefly told of our adventure, and the watch we had kept. "well," said the colonel, sharply, and as i thought in rather a dictatorial way; "it all goes to prove that it was a mistake for you to isolate yourself here. you must move close up to us, so that in a case of emergency we can all act together." "it would be better," said my father, quietly. "then you will come?" "no; i selected this place for its beauty, as you chose yours. i should not like to give it up." "you'll repent it, bruton. you must have had a narrow escape last night." "i do not know," said my father, thoughtfully. "of course we were very suspicious of the reason for the indians' visit, but they did us no harm." "nor to us. our numbers overawed them, i suppose." "our numbers did not overawe them here," said my father, smiling; but he added rather bitterly, "if they had meant mischief, we could not have counted on your help." "nor we on yours," said the colonel, in a rather irritable manner. "well, of course i have no right to dictate to you; but i may as well tell you that as soon as the indians left us, we met together, and determined to erect a block-house or fort ready to flee to in case of emergency. it is for you to chose whether you will join us in the work." "i shall join you, of course," said my father, quietly; and, refusing any refreshment, evidently to the great disgust of his men, who exchanged glances which evidently meant breakfast, the colonel walked off. "see those two fellows, master george?" whispered morgan, as my father stood gazing thoughtfully after the colonel. "yes; why?" "never see two look more hungry in my life. they'd have cleared us out, see if they wouldn't. good job there arn't many in the settlement like 'em." "why?" i said. "because we should soon be having a famine in the land. what are you laughing at, lad?" "you," i said, as i recalled a number of morgan's performances with the knife and fork. he looked at me fiercely, and as if he were terribly offended; for morgan's welsh blood had a way of bubbling up and frothing over like mead; but directly after there was a bit of a twitch at one corner of his mouth, then a few wrinkles started out at each side of his face about the eyes, and began to spread all over till he was showing his teeth. "ah, well, master george," he said, "i can see through you. perhaps i aren't such a very bad trencherman. sarah says i do eat. but what's the harm? man can't work well without; nor more can't a fire burn without you keeps on putting plenty o' wood. but i say, my lad, when those injin fellows came down upon us, i began to think i should never be hungry again. did i look very much frightened?" "no; i thought you looked very brave." "did i? did you think so, master george?" "yes; certainly." "now, you're not making fun of me, are you?" "certainly not." "well, come, i'm glad of that," said morgan, brightening up; "because do you know, master george, 'twix' you and me, i don't think i'm quite so good that way as i ought to be. i tried hard not to seem in a fright, but i was in one all the same, and seemed to feel arrows sticking into me, and them chopping at me with tomahawks. wasn't pleasant, look you, was it?" "no, and it was no wonder." "no, sir, it warn't. but i say, master george, you didn't feel so bad as that, did you?" i glanced round to see if my father was within hearing, and then said with a laugh-- "i'm afraid i felt ever so much worse." "then we'll shake hands over it," said morgan; "but i say, master george, i'd give everything to know whether the master felt scared too." "i don't think he did. oh, i'm sure he did not. see how erect and firm he was." "ah, that's being a soldier, sir. they drill 'em up into being as stiff as can be, and to look as if they like it when they're being shot at. that's what makes english soldiers such fine fellows in a battle." further discussion was put an end to by the coming up to us of my father. "you heard what colonel preston said, george?" "yes, father." "about being safe, and the risk of fresh attacks by the indians?" "yes, father; we heard every word--didn't we, morgan?" "oh yes; everything, sir." "well," said my father, "it is quite possible that this party came to spy out the land so as to prepare for a descent. if this is so, there is a good deal of risk in staying here. i have made up my mind what to do under the circumstances." "oh, master! oh, captain bruton!" broke out morgan; "don't say that after the pains we took in getting our garden in order, and in helping to build the house, and never happy unless i was going to do something to make it look pretty, you're thinking of moving and letting some one else come in?" "i think the risk is very great in staying; and that for your wife's sake, my son's, and yours, i perhaps ought to give up this, and go and take up fresh land close to my brother settlers." "but, begging your pardon, sir, don't you think nothing of the sort again. what do you say, master george?" "oh, i shouldn't like to go away from here," i said. "there, sir! hear that?" cried morgan. "why, if you come to reckon it up, how do you know that you're going to be safer there than here? if the injins come, that's where they'll go for first, and we're just as likely to be killed there as here." "possibly, morgan." "and then look at the place, sir, all along by the big river. it arn't half so healthy as this. i never feel well there, and i know the land arn't half so rich." "but we must study safety, my man," said my father. "of course we must, sir, so what's the good of being scared about some injins, who may never come again, and running right into where there's likely to be fevers--and if some day there don't come a big flood and half drown 'em all, i'm a dutchman, and wasn't born in carnarvon after all." "but there is another consideration, morgan; we have some one else to look after--your wife." "oh, don't you trouble about me, sir," cried sarah; and we looked up in astonishment. "i came out here to look after you and master george, not for you to look after me." "why, what are you doing up there?" said my father, as sarah's nose showed between the bars of the window of the loft. "keeping a sharp look-out for indians, sir." "that's right sarah," cried morgan. "and, i say, you don't think we had better go, do you?" "certainly not," said sarah, sharply. "just as we're getting the place and my kitchen so snug and comfortable. i should think not indeed." "there, sir," cried morgan, triumphantly. "well," said my father, "i had made up my mind to stop, at any rate as far as i was concerned, but i wished to give you all the opportunity of going up to the settlement." "'tchah, sir! i don't call that a settlement. but, begging your pardon, captain, speaking _as_ an old soldier _to_ an old soldier," continued morgan, "what you say is ridickerlus." "morgan!" cried my father, sternly. "can't help it, sir, even if you order me pack-drill, or even black-hole and a flogging. why, its ridickerlus for you as an officer to tell your men to forsake you and leave you in the lurch." "but, my good fellow--" "ah, i haven't done yet, captain. you've worried me and gone on till it's mutiny in the ranks, and i refuse to obey." "well, george," said my father, "you hear this; what do you say?" "i say it would be a horrid pity to go away and leave the place, father. oh, don't! i like it ever so! and we're so happy here, and i don't believe the indians will come again." "then you would not be afraid to stay here and take our chance? no," he said, reverently, "place ourselves in his hands, my boy, and be content." "amen to all that, sir, says i," cried morgan, taking off his hat; and then i saw him close his eyes, and his lips were moving as he turned away. "thank you, morgan," said my father, quietly; "and thank you too, my boy. we will not give up our restful, beautiful home for a scare. perhaps if the indians find that we wish to be at peace with them, they may never attempt to molest us. we will stay." morgan gave his leg a slap, and turned round to me. "there, master george!" he cried. "why, with all these fruit and vegetables coming on, i should have 'most broke my heart, and i know our sarah would have broken hers." that day was after all a nervous one, and we felt as if at any moment an indian might appear at the edge of the wood, followed by a body perhaps a hundred strong. so our vigilance was not relaxed, neither that day nor during the next week; but nothing occurred to disturb our peace, and the regular routine went on. from what we heard at the settlement the idea of building a block-house had been for the present given up; but morgan came back one morning, after a visit to the colonel's man, with some news which rather disturbed my father. "small schooner in the river?" "yes, sir." "and you say that several of the gentlemen have been buying?" "yes, sir; that's right," said morgan, "and the blacks are put to work in their plantations." my father frowned and walked away, while i eagerly turned to morgan for an explanation. "oh, it's all right enough, sir, what i tell you," said morgan; "and seems to me they're right, so long as they treat 'em well. here's lots of land wants clearing and planting, and one pair of hands can't do it, of course, and there's no men to be hired out here, so the gentlemen have been buying slaves." "what a shame!" i cried. "how would you like to be bought for a slave?" morgan looked at me, then at the sky, then down at the ground; then away straight before him, as he took off his hat and scratched one ear. "humph!" he ejaculated, suddenly; "that's a puzzler, master george. do you know i never thought of that." "it seems to me horribly cruel." "but then, you see, master george, they're blacks, and that makes all the difference." i could not see it, but i did not say so, and by degrees other things took my attention. there was so much to see, and hear, and do, that i forgot all about indians and blacks; or if they did come to mind at all as time went on, i merely gave them a passing thought, and went off to talk to morgan, to set a trap, to fish, or to watch the beautiful birds that came into the sunny clearing about my home. chapter eight. "there," said morgan, one day, as he gave the soil a final pat with his spade, "that job's done, and now i'm going to have a bit of a rest. leaving-off time till the sun gets a bit down." "what have you been planting?" i asked. "seeds, my lad; flower seeds, as i've picked myself. i like to keep raising the useful things, but we may as well have some bright flowers too. where's the master?" "indoors, writing." "then what do you say to a bit of sport?" "another rattlesnake?" i cried. "no, thank ye, my lad; meddling with rattlesnakes may mean bringing down the indians, so we'll let them alone." "nonsense!" "well, perhaps it is, my lad." "but what have you found?" "what do you say to a 'coon?" "oh, they get into the hollow trees, where you can't catch them." "well then, a bear?" "a bear!" i cried; "a real wild bear?" "ah, i thought that would set you off; but it arn't a bear; they're up among the hills." "what is it then? how you do hang back from telling!" "course i do. if i let you have it all at once, you wouldn't enjoy it half so much." "oh, i know," i cried, "it's going to fish after those ridiculous little terrapins, and they're such horrid things to take off the hook." "guess again." "birds? an eagle?" "no; guess again, nearly right; something as lays eggs--" "a turtle?" morgan shook his head. "not an alligator, is it?" he wrinkled up his face in a hearty laugh. "alligator it is, sir. i found a nest yesterday." "and didn't tell me. i want to see an alligator's nest. i never could find one." "ah, you didn't look in the right kind of tree, master george." "don't talk to me as if i were a baby, morgan," i said; "just as if i didn't know better than that." "oh, but you don't know everything. i got awfully laughed at once for saying squirrels build nests in trees." "oh, but they do," i said; "i've seen them." "'course you have; but when i said so, some one laughed, and asked how many eggs you can find in a squirrel's nest.--so you don't believe the 'gators build in trees, don't you?" "no; but i believe they lay eggs. how many are there in this?" "oh, it isn't that sort of nest. i mean a nest where he goes to sleep in; and you and me's going to wake him up, and try if we can't catch him and bring him home." i could not help thinking of the indians, as i went with morgan to make the preparations, which were simple enough, and consisted in arming himself with a long pole and giving me one similar, after which he put a piece of rope in his pocket, and declared himself ready. we went off in the same direction as that chosen when we killed the rattlesnake, but turned off to the left directly, and made for the bank of the river, that bore away from the landing-place, towards a low, moist part, intersected by the meandering stream which drained the marshy part. here we had to proceed rather cautiously, for the place was full of decayed trees covered with brilliant green and grey moss, and looking solid, but which crumbled away at a touch from the foot, and often concealed holes into which it would have been awkward to fall, since we did not know what kind of creatures lived therein. "seem to have lost the place," said morgan, after we had been going along for some time pretty well parallel with the river. "oh, morgan!" i exclaimed, impatiently. "no; i have it," he cried. "i remember that tree with the long moss hanging down so far. the ground's harder here too. more to the left, master george. there you are at last." "but where's the nest?" i said. "why, there it is, my lad; can't you see?" i looked round, but there was nothing visible but a few footprints in a muddy spot, and a hole of very moderate size, evidently going some distance down into the moist, boggy soil. "is this it?" "yes, of course." "but you said a nest." "well, i meant, as i told you, his nest, his snuggery. now i'm going to see if he's at home." i looked on full of doubt, for the whole proceeding seemed to me to be very absurd, and i felt sure that morgan was mistaken. "i don't believe he knows any more about alligators than i do," i said to myself, as i saw him thrust the long pole down into the hole. "i tried this game on yesterday, master george, and he said he was at home." "nonsense!" i cried, pettishly. "but i'm afraid he has gone out for a walk this time, and it's a case of call again to-morrow. no," he added, energetically, "it's all right. says he's at home." "why, what do you mean?" i cried. "got a bite," said morgan, grinning. "you try. but mind he don't come out with a rush. he might be nasty." i hesitated for a moment, then leaning my own pole against a bush, i took hold of the one morgan gave into my hands, and moved it slightly. "well?" i said. "i don't feel anything." "give it a bit of a stir round, my lad," he said. i moved the pole a little, and then jumped and let go. "what's the matter?" cried morgan, laughing. "something bit the pole, and made it jar right up my arm." "that's him. i told you he was at home. now then, you aren't afraid, are you?" "not a big one, is it?" "no, not very; only tidy size; but we shall see if we get him out." i looked rather aghast at morgan, for the idea of getting a large alligator out there in the marshy place, and both of us unarmed, was rather startling. "now then, give him a good stir up." sooner than seem afraid, but with my heart beating heavily, i took hold of the pole, and gave it a good shake, and left go again, for it seemed as if some one had given it a good rap with a heavy stick, and a jarring sensation ran up my arm. "no mistake about it this time," said morgan, grinning. "puts me in mind of sniggling for eels, and pushing a worm at the end of a willow-stick up an eel's burrow in a muddy bank. they give it a knock like that sometimes, but of course not so hard. well, why don't you go on?" "go on with what?" i cried, wishing myself well out of the whole business. "stirring of him up, and making him savage. but stop a moment, let's have this ready." he took out the piece of rope, and made a large noose, laying it on some thick moss, and then turning to me again. "now then, my lad, give him a good stir up. don't be afraid. make him savage, or else he won't hold on." with a dimly defined notion of what we were aiming at, i gave the pole a good wrench round in the hole, feeling it strike against something, and almost simultaneously feeling something strike against it. "that's the way, sir. give it him again." growing reckless now, and feeling that i must not shrink, i gave the pole another twist round, with the result that it was snatched out of my hand. "he has it," cried morgan, excitedly. "feel if he has got it fast, master george." i took hold of the pole, gazing down with no little trepidation, in the expectation of at any moment seeing some hideous monster rush out, ready to seize and devour me. but there was no response to my touch, the pole coming loosely into my hand. "give him another stir up, master george. they tell me that's the way they do it to make them savage." "but do we want to make the creature savage?" i said. "course we do! there, you do as i tell you, my lad, and you'll see." i gave the pole a good poke round in the hole again, just as if i was stirring up something in a huge pot, when almost before i had gone right round--_whang_! the pole quivered in my hand, and a thrill ran through me as in imagination i saw a monstrous beast seize the end of the stick in its teeth and give it a savage shake. "hurrah!" cried morgan. "he has got it tight now. that's right, master george; let me come. we'll soon haul him out." "no, no," i said, as excited now as the welshman. "it may be dangerous." "we'll dangerous him, my lad." "but he may bite." "well, let him. 'gators' bites arn't poisonous, like snakes. i should just like to see him bite." "i shouldn't," i said, mentally, as morgan pushed me a little on one side, and took hold of the pole. "now then, don't you be scared; i'll tackle him if he's vicious. both pull together. he's so vexed now that he won't leave go if his teeth 'll hold." "no," i said, setting my own teeth fast, but not in the pole. "am i to pull?" "to be sure. both pull together. it's like fishing with a wooden line. now then, haul away!" there was a length of about ten feet of the pole down in the hole as we took hold together and began to haul, feeling something very heavy at the end, which came up in a sullen, unresisting way for some distance, giving me courage and making me nearly as eager and excited as our man. "that's the way, sir. we'll soon--hi! hold tight! wo--ho, there; wo-- ho! ah!" for all at once the creature began to struggle furiously, shaking the pole so that we dragged at it with all our might; and then--_whoosh_! the alligator left go, and we went backward on the soft mossy earth. "i _am_ glad!" i thought, as we struggled up. "there, master george, what d'yer think o' that? can't have such games as this at home in the old country, eh?" "no," i said. "but you're not going to try again, are you?" "not going to try again? i should think i am, till i get the great ugly creature here at the top. why, you're not skeart of him, are you?" "wait till he's out, and then we'll see," i replied, as i thrust the pole down again, giving it a fierce twist, and felt it seized once more. "that's the way. this is a bit of the finest sport i ever had, and it's just dangerous enough to make it exciting. haul away, my lad." i set my teeth and hauled, the reptile coming up quickly enough half-way, and then beginning to writhe and shake its head furiously, every movement being communicated to our arms, and giving us a good notion of the strength of the enemy we were fighting, if fighting it could be called. up we drew it inch by inch, and i must confess that with every change of the position of my hands i hoped it would be the last, that the creature would leave go, and drop back into the hole, and that morgan would be so disappointed that he would not try any more. that is just how i felt, and yet, odd as it may sound, it is not as i felt, for mingled with that series of thoughts--just as a change of position shows another set of colours on a bird's back or in a piece of silk--there was another, in which i was hoping the alligator would hold on tightly, so that we might get it right out of the hole, and i could attack and kill it with the pole, so that i could show morgan and--much more important--myself that i was not afraid to behave as boldly as the man who had hold with his hands touching mine. my last ideas were gratified, for as we hauled together there was another savage shaking of the pole, which quivered in our grasp; then a strong drag or two, and we knew by the length of the pole that we must have the reptile within a yard of the surface, when morgan looked down where a bright gleam of the sunlight shot from above. "all right, master george," he cried; "this way--over with you!" and setting the example, he dragged the pole over in the opposite direction to that in which we had it bent, when i perforce followed with him, and the next moment we were dragging a great alligator through the wet moss and black mud, the creature making very little resistance, for it was on its back, this being the result of morgan's last movement when he dragged the pole across the hole. the shape of the reptile's head and back made our task the more easy, and we had run with it a good fifty feet before it recovered from its surprise, loosened its hold of the pole, and began to writhe and thrash about with its tail as it twisted itself over into its proper position, in a way that was startling. "now, master george, we've got him. i'll keep him from running back into his hole; you go and get the rope." i could not stir for a few moments, but stood watching, as i saw morgan raise up the pole, and bring it down bang across the alligator's back, but without doing it the slightest injury, for the end struck a half-rotten log, and the pole snapped off a yard above morgan's hands. "never mind! i'll keep him back," roared morgan, as the reptile kept facing him, and half turning to strike at him with its tail. "quick, lad! the rope--the rope!" i started off at once, and picked up the rope with its noose all ready, and then seized my pole as well, too much excited now to think of being afraid. then i trotted back to morgan just as he was having a fierce fight with the creature, which kept on snapping and turning at him in a way that, to say the least, was alarming. "ah, would you!" morgan kept crying, as the brute snapped at him, and he presented the broken pole, upon which the reptile's teeth closed, giving the wood a savage shake which nearly wrenched it out of morgan's hands; but he held on, and had all his work to do to avoid the tangled growth and the blows of the creature's tail. "that's it, master george. now quick: drop that rope, and next time he opens his pretty mouth give him the pole. aren't afraid of him, are you?" i did not answer. i did not want to answer just then, but i did exactly as i was told, dropping the rope and standing ready with my pole on one side, so as to thrust it into the brute's mouth. i did not have long to wait for my opportunity, and it was not the alligator's fault that he did not get right hold, for through nervousness, i suppose, i thrust short, and the jaws came together with an ugly snap that was startling. "never mind; try again; quick, my lad, or he'll get away back to the hole." to prevent this morgan made a rush, and gave the brute a sounding thwack with his broken pole, sufficiently hard to make it turn in another direction, when, thoroughly excited now, i made a poke at it with the pole, and it snapped at it viciously. i made another and another, and then the teeth closed upon the end, and the pole quivered in my grasp. "well done! brave lad!" shouted morgan, for he did not know i was all of a tremble. "that's the way; hold on, and keep him thinking about you just a moment. pull! let go! pull again!" as he gave me these directions, he got the end of the pole from me for a moment so as to pass the noose of the rope he had picked up over it, and then once more shouting to me to pull, he boldly ran the wide noose down over the pole; and as the brute saw him so near, it loosed its hold to make a fierce snap; but morgan was too quick for the creature, and leaped away with a shout of triumph, tightening the rope, which was right round the reptile's neck, and running and passing the other end about a tree. "got him now," panted morgan, as the alligator thrashed at the rope with its tail, and tugged and strained with all its might, but of course only tightening the noose with every effort. "yes," i said, breathlessly, as i stood now well out of danger; "we've got him now." "yes, we've got him now," said morgan again, as we made the end of the rope fast to a branch. "that would hold one twice as big. let's see; 'bout how long is he?" "seven feet," i said, making a rapid guess. "well," said morgan, in a slow, hesitating way; "here, hi! keep your tail still, will you, while you're being measured." but the reptile seemed to thrash all the harder, dragging the noose tight, and flogging at the rope in a way which promised, if time enough was given, to wear it through. "oh, well, if you won't, i must guess. yes, sir, he's quite seven feet long--nearer eight; but he must be pretty young, for he's a lean, lizardly-looking brute. not nice things to tackle, are they? look ye here at the marks of his teeth." as he said this, morgan held up his broken pole, first one piece then the other. "i say, master george, he can nip. if that had been your leg or my arm, we should have wanted a bit or two of sticking-plaster, even if we hadn't had the bone cracked in two." "it's a horribly ugly brute," i said, as i approached it a little nearer, and examined it by the warm ruddy glow which shone down here and there into the gloomy swamp forest. "yes; his mother ought to be very proud of him," said morgan, laughing; "wonder what his brothers and sisters are like. ha! ha! ha!" "what are you laughing at?" i said. "i was only thinking, master george. the idea of me coming out of carnarvonshire across the sea to find things like that!" "yes; it's different to home," i said. "this is home," replied morgan, stolidly--"home now. i've set and tended many a lot of eggs; but i say, master george, only think of a thing like that coming out of a new-laid egg. do rattlesnakes!" i could not help smiling at the idea, but my face felt strange, and there was a twitching about my temples as the last words fell upon my ears. "halloa! what's the matter, lad?" "you--you said rattlesnakes," i whispered hoarsely. "well, what of it? this is 'gator country. rattlesnakes, they tell me, likes the high, dry, hot, stony places." "yes--father said so," i replied in a whisper, as i looked cautiously round. "well then, what are you looking for?" "indians," i whispered, for i had recalled how the savages had surrounded us while our attention was taken up by the last noxious creature we had attacked. at my words morgan made a bound, and then began to move past a tree. but he stopped short, and returned to my side, looking wildly round the while. "see 'em--see any of 'em?" he whispered. "no; but suppose they have stolen upon us again as they did before!" "yah! what do you mean by frightening a man? i teclare to cootness it's too bad of you, master george." i smiled once more, for morgan's speech had sounded very droll and welsh, as it often was when he grew excited. "you tit it to scare me," he said, angrily. "indeed, no." "yes, inteet," he said; "and look you--i say, master george, was it meant for a choke?" "indeed, no, morgan; i really felt startled." "then it's all right," he said. "there's none of 'em here, so let's get home." "but what are you going to do with the alligator?" "eh? oh, i never thought of that. i wanted to catch him so that you might have a bit of fun." "but now we have caught him?" "well, dunno, my lad. might take him home and chain him up. turn down a barrel to make him a kennel; he can bark." "oh, nonsense! we can't do that." "he's no good to eat, though they say the savages eat 'em. here, i know; let's take him home, and ask master what's to be done with him." "take him home?" i faltered. "ay, to be sure. i'll lead him by the string, and you can come behind and give him a poke with the pole when he won't go. ought by rights to have two ropes, like they do at home with a vicious cow; then when he ran at me, you could pull; and when he ran at you, i could pull him back." "but we haven't two ropes. that isn't long enough to cut, and i can't stop him if he runs at you." "might pull his tail," said morgan. "ugh!" i ejaculated, as i recalled the use the creature could make of it, giving blows that i knew would knock me off my feet. "well then, i tell you what; let's leave him tied up as he is, and get back. the master will be wondering where we are, and fancying all sorts of trouble." "seems cruel," i said. "the creature will be strangled." "not he. if he does, he'll strangle himself. i never feel very merciful to things that go about doing all the harm they can as long as they live. say, shall i kill him at once?" "no; let's leave him, and see what my father says." morgan examined the knot he had made, and then started away, for the reptile made a lash at him with its tail, and in retort he took out his big-bladed knife, opened it, and held it out threateningly. "it's all very well, look you," he said; "but if you'd hit me with that tail of yours, i'd have had it off as sure as you're alive." it was morgan's farewell to the alligator as we turned off with our poles, broken and sound, and hurried back to find my father with a gun over his arm, fast coming in search of us. chapter nine. "i was afraid something was wrong," he said. "and look here, morgan, i want to live at peace with all the world, but self-preservation is the first law of nature, and i would rather you did not leave the place again unarmed.--well, george," he continued, turning to me, "where have you been?" i told him of our adventure, and he was thoughtful for a few moments. "you must go together in the morning and kill the thing," he said. "i don't like destroying life, but these wild creatures of the forest and swamp must give way to man. if they do not they must perish. all deadly creatures must be killed without mercy. there is not room in the parts of the earth we chose to live in for both." consequently, after making our arrangements, i called morgan at daybreak, and we took a gun and ammunition to execute the alligator. "be a lesson for you in the use of a firelock, master george," said morgan, as we travelled on across our clearing, and paused at the edge of the forest. "now then, my lad," he cried, giving his orders in a military way, and bidding me load. i had seen the charging of a gun often enough to be able to go through the task sufficiently well to get a few words of commendation, but a good many of blame. "ram well home, my lad. i like to see the rod hop again, and the powder solid." "what difference does it make?" i asked. "all the difference in the world, my lad. powder's rum stuff, and good loading makes it do its work well. bad loading makes it do its work anyhow." "i don't understand you," i said. "it's easy enough, sir. s'pose i take a charge of powder, and lay it loose on a stone. if i set light to it there's a puff and some smoke, and that's all, because it has plenty of room. but if i shut it up tight in a gun-barrel rammed down hard, it goes off with a loud bang, because it has to burst its way out. if you ram lightly, the bullet will go only a little way. if you ram hard, your bullet will go straight to the mark." "there it is then, rammed hard," i said, as i made the ramrod ring. "that's right. now you shall shoot the 'gator. some folks say their skin's too hard for the bullet to go through. we shall see." we went on together toward our landing-place, and then on and away to the left, following our previous day's trail more and more into the swamp, beside the river, talking about the fight we had had with the reptile, morgan laughingly saying that he should like to have another with one twice as big, while i thought i should not, but did not say so. the morning was delightful, with the birds piping and singing, and in the open sunny parts we caught sight of the lovely orange orioles, and those all yellow and black--birds which took the place of our thrushes and blackbirds of the old country. every now and then a tall crane would fly up from where he had been prodding about with his sharp bill in some mossy pool, his long legs trailing out behind him as if he had been dancing on stilts. it had all grown familiar to me now, but i was never tired of gazing at the dark, shadowy places where the cypresses rose right out of the black water, and the great trailing moss, ten and fifteen feet long, hung down from the boughs like ragged veils. the place looked as if it might be the haunt of large, water-loving serpents, or strange beasts which lurked in waiting for the unwary traveller; but we heard nothing but the cries of birds and the rustling and beating of wings, or the hum of insect life, save now and then when there was a splash from the river away to our right, or from a black pool hidden from us by the dense growth. "make some of 'em stare over at home, master george," said morgan. "what at?" "place like this. miles and miles of it, and no use made of it. round here! that's right. remember that old rotten tree?" "yes," i said; "we must be close to the place now. how near shall i stand to the alligator when i shoot?" "oh, just as near as you like. mind that hole; i shouldn't wonder if another one lived there." i stepped quickly aside from the ugly-looking spot, and felt so vexed on seeing my companion smile, that i turned back and stood looking down into the place, forcing myself to do so quietly, and then following in a deliberate way, though all the time i could not help feeling a kind of shuddering sensation run over me, as if i had suddenly stepped out of the hot woodland into a current of fresh cool air. i glanced at morgan as i overtook him, but he did not say anything, only trudged on till, suddenly laying his hand upon my arm, he pointed to a tree dimly-seen through the overhung shades. "that's the one i tied the line to," he said; "now i shouldn't wonder if we find he has scratched himself a hole in the soft earth. it's nearly half water, and i dare say he could easy." "and if he has, what then?" "why, we must pull him back by the rope. he won't make much of a struggle; it will be too tight round his neck, and choke him so. there, what did i tell you!" he pointed to where the rope ran down from the tree apparently into the ground. "but if he had scratched a hole," i said, "he would have made a heap." "oh no; it's all so soft as soon as you get through the roots. he'd worm himself down right out of sight in no time, and--well, i am took aback." morgan had stooped down and picked up the noose. the alligator had gone. "somebody must have set him free, morgan." "somebody? what somebody would do that? there arn't no monkeys about here as i know of, or it might have been one of them. nobody else would do it. ah, i see." he pointed to the noose, and showed me how the rope was frayed and teazled out, as if by the application of claws. "that's it, plain enough. he's had all night to do it in, and there he has been scrat, scrat, scrat, scrat at his neck with those fore-paws of his, till he got it loose and pushed it over his head." "nonsense!" i said; "a thing like that wouldn't be clever enough." "i don't know," said morgan. "they're clever enough to hunt and catch dinners by slapping the water with their tails till the fish are stunned; they're clever enough to make nests and lay eggs; and this one was clever enough to try and cut me down with his tail, and i don't see that it was so very wonderful for him to try and scratch off anything that hurt his neck. mind that gun, my lad; you don't want to shoot me, i know." i coloured, and felt vexed at my clumsiness in the way of carrying the loaded piece, and stood watching while morgan untied the rope from the tree, rolled it up in a ring, fastened it, and put his arm through before turning back. "never mind," he said, cheerily, "better luck next time. now let's get home to breakfast. i dare say he has gone down to the river and got his long enough ago." we walked back to find a couple of men from the settlement--which promised some day to be a town--and as i caught sight of them, i felt sure that it was bad news which they had brought, and my father's serious face confirmed the idea as he spoke to one of the men. "yes; tell the general i will be there in good time," my father was saying, as we came within earshot; and the men saluted and went off in regular military style, for many of them who had now turned settlers and farmers had served in the army with the leaders of the expedition. and often, on thinking it over since, i have felt how wise a selection of men there was; for, as you have yet to learn, it was highly necessary to have folk who could turn their swords and spears into ploughshares and sickles; but who, when it was necessary, could turn them back and use them in the defence of their new homes. "have the indians come back, father?" i asked, eagerly. he looked round quickly, starting slightly, for he had not seen me approach, and he was deep in thought. "no, boy," he said, sighing, "but it seems we are not to enjoy our homes in peace; a new enemy is in the field." i looked at him, waiting to hear more, but he was silent, and began walking slowly to and fro till breakfast was ready. during the meal he said suddenly-- "put on the best things you have, my boy. i am going up to the settlement this morning. i thought you would like to go." i was not long in getting ready as soon as the meal was ended, and, to my surprise, i found my father in uniform, and with his sword by his side; but he looked so quiet and stern that i did not like to question him, and walked on steadily by his side, as he drew himself up and marched forward, just as if his clothes had brought back old days, and made him the stern, firm soldier once more. it was a glorious walk. the sun was scorchingly hot, but our whole way was between the great sweet-scented pines, whose needle-like leaves glistened like silver as they reflected back the sun's beams, and shaded our way. after a time we began to have glimpses of the big river, and at last as we approached an opening i caught sight of a large ship, and uttered an exclamation. "yes," said my father, as he saw what had taken my attention; "it is a fine ship, but unfortunately she is not a friend." i looked up at him inquiringly. "spaniard," he said, laconically. "the spaniards have a settlement down in the south, and they have taken it into their heads that we are trespassers. i am going to be one of those who meet the officers this morning." our walk was soon at an end, and my eyes were busy noting the way in which houses had sprung up in large patches of land, spread along at a short distance from the bank of the broad river into which our stream ran, and evidently marked out regularly and running for some distance back. it was the beginning of a town, but as i saw it then, it was a collection of houses and goodly gardens, with plantations of corn, sugar-cane, and cotton, all growing luxuriantly among the trees, which had been left standing here and there. the scene was as animated as it was beautiful. boats lay at anchor, dotted about in the glistening river, and right out, a quarter of a mile from the shore, lay the spanish vessel with her colours flying, and a large boat lying alongside; while on shore i could see several of the gentlemen i knew by sight, dressed like my father in uniform, and mostly walking two and two in deep converse. i had eyes for everything, and the picture i saw was soon printed vividly in my imagination; one object that i remember well being the english flag, which was blowing out from the top of a pole, which i soon saw was not planted by man, being a tall straight pine which had been lopped and smoothed down till it was exactly suited for the purpose to which it was put. another thing too struck me, and that was the fact that though the greater part of the men i saw about, standing idling and evidently watching the ship with its boat alongside, were familiar to me, there was quite a number of black faces, whose owners were loosely clad in white cotton shirt and breeches, talking together, showing their white teeth, and basking in the sun. "yes," said my father, as i looked inquiringly at him, "and it has been in opposition to my wishes; but i am only one against many--they are slaves." directly after, colonel preston came out of the largest of the wooden houses in company with another officer, and as they caught sight of my father, they hastened their pace and came towards him. "ah, bruton," said the colonel, "you have come." "yes," said my father, smiling, as he shook hands with both; "and you had been thinking that as i was such an opponent of many of your measures, and held myself so much aloof, i should stay away." "well," said the colonel, who seemed startled by my father's words, "i must confess i--" "had not much faith in me, preston. but i hope that in any emergency where my help is required, i shall not be found wanting." "i am sure of it. i beg your pardon for my ungenerous thoughts," said the colonel, warmly; "and i am sorry that you and i do not always think the same." "whatever we may think, preston," said my father, warmly, "i hope we shall always hold each other in esteem." "i know we shall," cried the colonel; and he shook hands warmly with me. "glad to see you, youngster," he said; "but be quick and grow into a man. we want sturdy fellows who can handle a sword, and fight for their land." "then they are aggressive, preston?" said my father. "aggressive! you never heard such overbearing insolence." "yes, insolence," said the other officer. "would you believe it, captain bruton; they demand that we shall immediately give up this land--this settlement which we have taken in the name and by permission of his majesty the king--and go." "where?" said my father, gravely. "ah, that they do not say," cried colonel preston. "an officer has come with this command from the governor of their settlement, and, in the customary haughty style of the overbearing spaniard, the message has been delivered, and the ambassador is coming to meet us at the general's in about an hour for our reply as to how soon we shall be gone." "that sounds spanish," said my father. "then they do not propose to reimburse us for all that we have done, or to find us another settlement?" "no, no, no," cried the colonel, angrily; "our orders are to go--to evacuate the settlement at once." "that would be a painful task if we had to submit." "submit!" said the colonel, angrily. "surely, bruton, you would not advocate such a plan after all that we have done?" my father made no reply, but turned to look thoughtfully at the spanish ship, while the colonel seemed to be raging with anger. "you will be present at the meeting, of course?" he said. "yes," said my father, quickly; "i have come on purpose. we must have this peaceably settled if possible." "good heavens!" cried the colonel. "ah, here is the general," he cried, as the quiet, grave, benevolent man came up, dressed in a very shabby uniform, whose gold lace was sadly frayed and tarnished. "hark here, sir; captain bruton talks of a peaceful settlement of this difficulty." "indeed!" said the general, frowning; and i looked at him eagerly, as i recalled that he it was who had been spoken of as the leader of our expedition. "well, we shall see." "and very shortly too," said colonel preston, warmly, "for here they come." all eyes were directed toward the large boat which had just pushed away from the spaniard, and which was now running rapidly toward the shore, with the blades of the oars flashing, the flag in the stern-sheets trailing in the water, and the glint of weapons seen now and then, showing that those on board were well-armed. then the general spoke. "preston and crayford, have the goodness to receive these spanish gentlemen, and bring them up to my house. the rest, i hope, will assemble quickly there, so that i can hear what they have to say." this had evidently all been planned over night, for the officers in uniform all seemed to be making fast for the house out of which i had seen the general come, and before many minutes had elapsed the room was thronged, and i was standing behind my father, who was close to where the general stood. not a word was spoken, and in the silence i could hear plainly the noise made by the sailors in laying in their oars, after which there was a pause, and then plainly heard there were the tramp of men, the buzz of voices. about a dozen soldiers halted outside, and four tall, dark, handsome-looking spanish officers were ushered in by colonel preston and mr crayford. seats were proffered, but declined, and all remained standing, while the spanish officers conferred together for a few moments before one, who seemed the youngest and lowest in rank, stepped forward, and in fair english said haughtily-- "gentlemen, i have come for your answer to the communication brought to you last night from the governor of his most sacred majesty's possessions here in america. what is it to be?" "let me say first, sir," said the general, quietly, "that we do not recognise the authority here of the king of spain. we are on ground belonging to his majesty the king of england." "you are interlopers, sir, on the colonial possessions of his majesty the king of spain," said the young officer, coldly. "when will you have evacuated this land?" "what is to be our reply, gentlemen?" said the general, looking round. "am i to send word back that you will give up tamely, and submit to this demand?" "no, no, no," rose in an angry roar throughout the room. "you alone were silent, captain bruton," said the general, sternly. "have you nothing to say?" "yes," said my father, who turned very white; and he took a step forward. "sir," he said to the spanish officer, "is the governor of your settlement aware that we are no trespassers here, but that we came under the authority of his majesty king george?" "i believe all that has been discussed, sir," said the officer, coldly. "again i ask, how soon will you evacuate this place?" "you are hasty, sir," said my father; and a murmur arose in the room. "gentlemen," he continued, turning towards his brother officers and members of the expedition, "bear with me for a few moments." there was another murmur and then silence, with every eye fixed angrily upon my father's face, as he turned once more to the spanish officers. "gentlemen," he said, "all of us who are here consider that we are acting within our rights in taking and holding this land, which you see we have turned from a wilderness into a smiling home. the question of right seems to be in dispute. cannot it be peacefully settled, for the sake of all? i think we can convince your governor that we are only acting within our rights." the spanish officer who was evidently the leader said a few words angrily to the interpreter, who nodded shortly. "your answer?" he said, haughtily. "that we demand a peaceable solution of this difficulty, and that there be no bloodshed." "when will you go?" cried the young spaniard aggressively, and amidst a low angry murmur i saw my father's face flush, as he took another step forward, and raising his sword with his left hand he clapped his right down upon the hilt. a silence fell upon all, and his words rang out loudly and clearly as he exclaimed with his eyes flashing and his brows knit-- "when our hands have no longer strength to draw our swords, sir--when the last man has been beaten down in our struggle for liberty and life-- when we have again taught haughty, overbearing spain that the english race is not one to draw back--when--i beg your pardon, general," said my father, stopping short. "go on, sir," said the general, sternly. "i would not wish for a better exponent of my views." "then go, sir," continued my father, "and tell the man who sent you that we are, all whom you see here, englishmen who have made this our home-- men who mean to keep what we have won in defiance of spain and all her hosts." "is this your answer?" said the spanish officer, sternly, as soon as silence came after a tremendous cheer. "yes," cried the general, "that is our answer, gentlemen, so go in peace." "yes, sir," said the spaniard, after a few muttered words with his companions, "to return in war." his defiance was received in calm silence, and he and his companions were led out again by colonel preston and mr crayford, not a word being spoken till they had been seen to march down to the rough quay, embark, and row off to their ship. it was not till colonel preston and mr crayford had returned, full of excitement, that the silence was broken by the general. "well, gentlemen," he said, "what have you to say?" "god save the king!" said my father, enthusiastically. "then you will all fight in defence of your hearths and homes?" a tremendous cheer was the answer. "well, then," said the general, "we must be prepared. i look upon it all as an empty, insolent piece of bombast; but whatever it is, we must not be taken unawares. help shall be at once asked from england, and meantime we must do all we can to place ourselves in a state of defence." "well, george," said my father, as we walked back home, seeing the sails of the spaniard set, and that she was gliding slowly down the river, "what have you to say to all this?" "i should like to know whether the spaniards will come back." "ah, that remains to be proved, my boy. we shall see." "not they," said morgan, when i told him, and he was listening eagerly to my account of what had taken place. "if we were indians perhaps they would; but we're englishmen and welshmen, look you. no, my lad, we're more likely to see those indians. depend upon it, all that spaniel said was a bit of bounce." chapter ten. those were busy times at the settlement, where the crops and everything else were neglected so that all hands might work at the block-house, or fort, it was determined to build, so as to have a place to flee to in case of attack, and the fight going against us. wood was plentiful enough, and the _chip-chop_ of the axes was heard all day long, willing hands toiling hard, so that at the end of a week a strong wooden breastwork was contrived; and this, as the time went by, was gradually improved, sheds and huts being run up within for shelter from the dews and rain, and for store-places in case we were besieged. but the weeks went by, and the spaniards made no sign, and as far as we could tell were not likely to. still the general did not relax his efforts; outposts and guards did duty; a well was dug inside the fort, and stores were gathered in, but no enemies came, and their visit began to seem like a bit of history. my father and morgan had walked over with me to the fort every morning, and there gentlemen toiled beside the ordinary labourers and the slaves; but no fresh alarm came, and at last we were back at the house regularly, and time was devoted to making up for the past neglect, morgan bemoaning the state of the garden most piteously. i suppose i must have been about fifteen years old then, but cannot be sure. all i know is that the whole business stands out vividly in my mind, as if it had taken place yesterday. in fact i can sit down, close my eyes, and recall nearly the whole of my boyish life on the river, with the scenes coloured by memory till they seem to grow. at such times it seems to me that i can actually breathe in the sweet lemony odour of the great laurel-leaved flowers borne on what, there, were often great trees dotted with blossoms which looked like gigantic creamy-white tulips, one of which great magnolias flourished at the end of our house. on the day of which i am speaking, morgan johns, our serving-man and general hand, for there was nothing he was not ready to do, came and told my father that there was a schooner in the river, adding something which my father shook his head over and groaned. this, of course, made me open my ears and take an interest in the matter at once. "well, sir, look you," said morgan, "i'll do as much as i can, but you keep on fencing in more and more land, and planting more and more trees." "yes, i do, morgan," said my father, apologetically; "but see how different it is to cold, mountainous north wales." "north wales is a very coot country, sir," said morgan, severely. "no man should look down on the place of his birth." "nobody does, morgan. i often long to see snowdon, and the great ridge of blue mountains growing less and less till they sink into the sea." "ah," said morgan, enthusiastically, and speaking more broadly, "it's a fery coot country is wales. where are your mountains here?" "ah, where are they, morgan? the place is flat enough, but see how rich and fat the soil is." "yes, it's fery good," said morgan, growing more english. "and see how things grow." "yes; that's the worst of them, sir; they grow while you're looking at them; and how can one man fight against the weeds, which grow so fast they lift your coat off the ground?" "in time, morgan, in time," said my father. "yes, sir, in time. ah, well, i'll work till i die, and i can't do any more." "no, morgan," said my father, quietly, "you cannot do any more." "the other gentlemen who came out don't mind doing it, and their little estates are in better order than ours." "no, morgan," said my father, decisively, "i will not have that. nobody had such fruit as we did last year." "well, master," said our old servant, with his hard, dry face brightening up into a smile, "i think we can beat them all round; but if you are going on enclosing fresh clearings from the forest, i must have more help." my father shook his head and morgan went on, "the other gentlemen are going aboard, one after another; why don't you go too, sir?" "if i went, it would be to try to put a stop to it, morgan, and cry shame on my neighbours for what they are doing." "ah, well, master, i've done," said morgan. "i'll work till i drop, and i can do no more." my father turned to the old-fashioned desk he had brought from home, and went on writing a letter, while, after giving him a look full of vexation, our man gave his straw hat a flop against his side, and went out. i was not long in following and overtaking him by the rough fence which enclosed our garden. "morgan! morgan!" i cried. "well, master george, boy, what is it?" "what did you want father to do?" "go and ask him." "no, i shan't; i shall ask you. did you want him to buy something to help in the garden?" morgan looked at me quietly and nodded. "what was it?--a new spade?" "nay, boy; but people to use spades and hoes--'specially the last." "but you can't buy people." "can't you, boy?" "only slaves. oh, i say, morgan! i know; you wanted father to buy some slaves." "ay, boy, that's it. every one else here's doing it, so why shouldn't we?" "i don't know," i said, thoughtfully. "i know this," i cried; "that schooner that came into the river has got slaves on board." "that's right, master george, boy. cargo of blacks from the guinea coast, and our neighbours are buying 'em so fast that there won't be one left if we want any." "we don't want any," i said, indignantly. "no, master george, boy, so your father said; and i'm going to ask him to graft me." "to graft you?" "ay, my lad, with a row of extra arms all down each side, like that picture of the injin idol in your book." "what nonsense, morgan!" "oh, i don't know, master george. one pair of hands can't do the work here. wants a dozen pair, seems to me. well, i've done my dooty. i told master there was a chance to get some slaves." "and of course my father would not buy slaves," i said, indignantly. "no, sir; and the house and plantations i've took such pride in will all go to ruin now." "morgan!" we both started and looked round to see my father standing in the rough porch of rugged oak-wood. the man went up to him. "you have made me uneasy about all this," he said, thoughtfully. "i will go on board the schooner, and see who is there among my neighbours. i should like to interfere if i could." "better not, sir. may make bad blood after." "morgan!" cried my father, so sternly that the man drew himself up as if he were on parade, and his old officer were in uniform. "do not forget yourself, sir. go and unloose the boat. you can row me on board." morgan saluted and went away, while my father began to walk up and down the sandy path among his flowers. i waited a bit, and then went hesitatingly up to him. for a few minutes he did not notice me, and i saw that his lips were pressed close together, and his brow wrinkled. "ah, george," he said at last, and he laid his hand upon my shoulder. "going out in the boat, father?" "yes, my boy." "take me too." he looked at me quickly, and shook his head. "but i should like to go, father." "my boy," he said, "i am going on board a ship lying in the river--a vessel used by cruel-hearted men for trafficking in their fellow-creatures." "yes, i know, father," i said; "a slaver." he frowned a little, but went on. "i am going to see if i can do any good among my friends and neighbours. it would be no proper sight for you." i felt disappointed, but when my father spoke in that firm, quiet way, i knew that he meant every word he said, and i remained silent, but followed him as he took his hat and stick and walked slowly down to the little landing-place, where morgan was already seated in the boat with the painter held in one hand, passed just round the trunk of the nearest tree, and ready to slip as soon as my father stepped on board. a slight motion of an oar sent the stern of the boat close in to the bank, my father stepped in, the painter was slipped, and the boat yielded to the quick current, and began to glide away. but just then my father raised his head, saw me standing there disconsolate, and said aloud-- "would you very much like to come, george?" "oh, yes, father," i shouted; and he made a sign. morgan pulled his left-hand oar, and i forced my way through the dense undergrowth to reach the spot where the boat was being pulled in, fifty yards down stream. it was hard work, and i had not gone far through the dense leafage, and over the soft, spongy, river-soaked bank, before there was a rush and a scuffle, followed by a splash, and though i saw nothing, i knew that it was a small alligator, taking refuge in the water after a night's wandering ashore. i had heard these sounds so often, and was so accustomed to the dread shown by the reptiles, that i did not hesitate to go on, and soon after reached the place where morgan was holding on by the overhanging bushes, drawing the boat so close in that i easily stepped down on to one of the thwarts, giving my father a bright, eager look, but he did not see it; so taking one of the oars, i sat down behind our man, and rowed hard till our boat glided out of the mouth of the stream which ran through my father's property, and reached the turbid waters of the great river. as we passed out of the mouth of our stream, and round the bushes on the point, there lay the schooner a couple of hundred yards away, anchored in the middle, with her long raking masts tapering in the sunshine, and the great spars glistening and bright as if freshly greased. she was low in the water, and as i looked over my shoulder, i caught sight of a boat just pushing off to go down stream, and noted that she was rowed by some of our neighbours, and had black men on board. i saw my father give a quick look in the direction of the boat, and frown, but he did not speak, and we rowed on. as we neared the schooner i more than once became conscious of a peculiar offensive odour, that i thought must be something coming up with the tide; but i was too much interested in the slaver to give more than a passing thought to such a matter, and my eagerness and excitement increased as we drew near. for i heard loud voices, and saw our nearest neighbour close to the side, talking to a hard-looking, deeply-bronzed man. then one of the sailors threw us a rope; we made fast, my father stepped on board, and i followed. "better take the other two i've got, colonel, and clear me out," said the bronzed man. "no, i think not," said colonel preston, who had exchanged a short nod with my father, and he turned to where a dejected-looking group of negroes, both men and women, were standing on the deck close to the open hold. "better alter your mind; make your black hay while the sun shines. i may never come up your river again. i'll throw in the other two dirt cheap." i felt the colour come into my cheeks, and then felt how pitiful it was for the miserable, drooping, nearly nude creatures to be sold like that; but my attention was taken up directly by my father's looks and the colonel's words as he said, sternly-- "no; six are all i want, and it seems to me that half of these will die before i have had them long ashore." "no; they'll soon pick up. we've had a rough crossing," said the slaver captain, "and the quarters are a bit close. we ran short of water too, and a tidy lot died, and made the others bad. you give 'em time, and that lot 'll turn out as cheap as anything you ever bought. you should have seen them when they first came aboard--lively and spry as could be. have the other two. hi! below there!" he continued, as he went to the open hold, and boy-like i stepped forward, full of curiosity, to look down too. but i started back in horror, as a hot puff of the revolting odour i had previously noticed came up from below. "ah, not very sweet, youngster," said the slaver captain, with a laugh. "going to brimstone it out well as soon as i've made a clearance. got two more, haven't you?" "ay," came up in a growl. "man and woman, eh?" "boy and a man," came up. "send 'em on deck." there was a pause, during which i heard from below--"now then! up with you!" and the sound of blows, which made me draw a long breath, and i was going back once more to the hold when i felt my father's hand upon my shoulder, and saw as i looked up that he was deadly pale. "hoist 'em up there!" shouted the captain, and a rope rove through a block was lowered down. "how can you join in this cursed business, preston?" said my father in a low tone to our neighbour. "i was going to ask you that," said the colonel, coldly. "me? ask me?" "yes, sir; you have come on board to buy slaves, i suppose, with the rest of us?" "i deny it," said my father, flashing out, as he drew himself up. "i came on board, too late it seems, to try and prevail upon my brother emigrants--english gentlemen of birth and position--to discountenance this hateful traffic in the bodies of our fellow-creatures." "we must have men to work if our colony is to succeed, captain bruton." "oh!" ejaculated my father, and then in a low voice, as his eyes rested on the group of poor black wretches huddled together, i heard him say, "it is monstrous!" at that moment a couple of sailors began to haul at the rope run through the block; it tightened, and with a cheery "yo-ho!" they ran up what seemed to be the dead body of a big negro, whose head and arms hung down inert as he was hoisted on high; the spar to which the block was fastened swung round, the rope slackened, and the poor wretch plumped down on the deck, to lie motionless all of a heap. "not in very good fettle," said the slave captain, curtly; "but he'll come round." the rope was cast loose from the negro's chest, lowered down again, and i gazed from the poor wretch lying half or quite dead on the deck, to my father, and back again, noting that he was very pale, biting his lower lip, and frowning in a way that i knew of old meant a storm. "now then, up with him!" shouted the captain. "ay, ay, but look out, or he'll be overboard. he's lively as an eel," came from below. "right!" said the captain; and he took up a small line and held it ready in both hands. the rope tightened; there was a cheery "yo-ho!" and up came a black, impish-looking boy of about my own age, kicking, struggling, and tearing at the rope round his chest. but it was all in vain; he was swung round, held suspended with his feet just clear of the deck, and his wrists were caught in a loop of the line bound together, his ankles were served the same, and the lad was dropped on the deck to lie writhing like some wild animal, showing his teeth, and watching us all in turn with his rolling eyes. "come," said the slave captain, laughingly turning to colonel preston; "he's lively enough to make up for the other. better have 'em. i'll throw them in for next to nothing." "no," said our neighbour, coldly. "that man is dying, and the boy would be of no use to me." "the man is not dying," said the slave captain roughly, "but he soon will be if you don't have him. as for this shaver, he's about as near being an imp as we can find. keep away, my lad, or he may bite you." this was to me, as i approached the boy, who showed his teeth at me like a vicious dog. "going to have 'em, colonel?" "no; once more, no," said the colonel, sternly. "i am only waiting for my boat." "all right, sir, i don't go begging. what do you say?" he continued, turning to my father. "will you buy those two?" "i?" cried my father, angrily; "buy my fellow-creatures for slaves?" "oh, no, of course not," said the slave captain. and then to himself, but i heard him, "too good a man, i suppose.--sorry you won't have 'em, colonel.--heave 'em down." the men on deck advanced to the insensible negro, and were in the act of stooping to pass the rope once more about his chest, when my father, who could bear the scene no longer, said quietly-- "do you not see that man is dying?" "yes, sir. altered your mind? you can have the two a bargain." "bah!" exclaimed my father, fiercely. "man, have you no heart, no feeling?" "not that i know of, sir. this trade would take it out of any one." "but the poor creature's lips are dried up. he wants water." "he'll have plenty to-night, sir," said the slave captain, with a laugh. "down with him, my lads." "ay, ay, sir," said the men; the rope was passed round the negro, and the men seized the end to haul. "i can't bear it," i heard my father say in a whisper; and then aloud--"stop!" "eh? what for?" "i will buy the man," said my father. "and the boy?" "n--" "yes, yes," i shouted, excitedly. my father turned upon me with an angry look, but he seemed to read mine, and his face changed. "yes," he said, quietly. "right, and a good riddance," said the captain, laughing, as he held out his hand for the money my father began to count out. "i don't mind telling you now, sir; if you hadn't bought him, he'd have been dead enough to-night; but you get him ashore and take care of him, and he'll come round--he will indeed; i'm not tricking you. it's wonderful what a deal these niggers will bear. there, i like to deal square," he added, as he thrust the money in his pocket. "smithers, shove a chain on that boy's legs, and another on the man's." "ay, ay, sir." "no, no, for heaven's sake, no," cried my father. "oh, just as you like," said the slave captain. "i was going to give you the shackles; only i warn you, if you don't have them on, that man as soon as you revive him will make for the river and drown himself, and the boy will be off into the woods." "do what is best," said my father, and the shackles were put on. "shall we hoist them into the boat for you?" "if you please," said my father, coldly. "heave ahead, my lads," cried the slave captain; "and below there, get those brimstone-pans going at once." "ay, ay," came from below, and i saw a lighted lanthorn passed down as my father's two slaves were hoisted over the side, and lowered into the boat, where morgan stood ready with a grim smile upon his lip. "you'll get yours home first, bruton," said colonel preston, coming to my father's side; "my boat's all behind. i say, neighbour, don't preach at me any more. you're as bad as any of us, and i'm glad you've come to your senses at last." my father gave him a peculiar look, and then glanced at the group of slaves destined for the preston property, where they stood huddled together quite apathetic and hopeless-looking. the next minute we were at the gangway, and as i passed down, i saw three rough-looking men coming up out of the hold, and a thin bluish vapour began to curl up before they smothered it down by rapidly covering the opening and drawing over it a well-tarred canvas. very soon after i was in the boat, stooping to take an oar, and gazing at the stern, where the man lay as if dead, and the boy, whose bonds had been secured to the thwart, lay glaring at me viciously, and had taken hold of the edge of the boat in his white teeth; and directly after, as we rowed away from the floating horror upon whose deck we had so lately stood, there came the regular beat of oars, and i saw colonel preston's boat, which had evidently been ashore with one load, coming back for the other poor wretches and their owner. "why, hang me!" said a voice, evidently not intended for our ears, "if that puritanical captain bruton hasn't been buying niggers too." the calm water bears sound to a great distance. i saw my father wince a little, and he turned to me bending down, so that his lips were pretty close to my ear. "yes," he said, "captain bruton has been buying niggers too." "no, no, father," i said, looking up; "one of them is mine." "and what are you going to do with him?" he said, slowly, as his eyes seemed to search mine. "do with him, father?" i said, promptly. "let him go." chapter eleven. our first task on getting out of the main river and up our stream to the landing-place where the boat was made fast, was to get the boy ashore, and it proved to be no light task; coaxing and threats were received in the same spirit--for of course he could not comprehend a word. all he seemed to realise was that he was in the hands of his enemies; and that if he could get a chance, he ought to bite those hands. "you'll have to be careful, morgan," i said, as our man stooped down to unfasten the rope which held the boy to the thwart. "careful? what for, master george? think i should break him?" "no; he bites." "oh, he won't bite me," said morgan, confidently. "like to catch him at it." he had his wish, for the boy swung himself round and set his teeth hard in morgan's leg. "oh! well, he is hungry, and no mistake," said morgan, freeing himself by giving the boy's head a sharp thrust. "has he bitten you?" said my father. "well, he have, and he haven't, sir. breeches was a bit too tough for him, but he has nipped me finely. wonderful power in his jaw. no, no, master george, don't you touch him; he'll have to go in the copper first. ah, would you! why, he's like a fish, only he arn't hooked." for the boy had made a dash for liberty, and it was only after a severe struggle that he was held down, and this time i was the sufferer; for, as i helped to keep him from springing overboard, he swung his head round and fixed his teeth in my left arm in a pinch that seemed to be scooping out a circular piece of flesh. "well, he is a warmint, and no mistake. let go, will you, sir?" "don't strike the boy," said my father. "let me get hold of his jaw." the boy saw the hand coming and wrenched himself away, seeming to take a piece of my arm with him, and leaving me throbbing with agonising pain, and feeling as if i must yell out and sob and cry. "well done, george!" said my father, pressing my shoulder in a firm grip. "that's brave; always try and bear pain like a man." "but it hurts horribly," i said, with my eyes full of tears. "i know it does, my lad, but noise will not ease the pang.--now, morgan, you had better fetch another rope and bind him well." "s'pose i had, sir. i'd take hold of him and carry him ashore, but he'd have his teeth into me directly. s'pose people don't go mad after being bit by boys? on'y feel mad, eh, master george?" i nodded, for i could not trust myself to speak, and i stood looking on as the boy was held back in the bottom of the boat, with my father's foot upon his breast. "shall i fetch a rope, sir? can you hold him?" "yes, i think so. we can manage him between us." morgan leaped ashore, and he was about to go up to the house, when a rush and scramble brought him back, for the boy was struggling like an eel; and how he managed i do not know, but he wriggled from beneath my father's foot, passed under the thwart, and, as i tried to stop him, threw me backwards, and was over the side with a splash and beneath the stream. as i uttered a cry of horror i saw the boy's woolly head appear for a moment above the surface, and then go down, weighted as he was by the shackles on his ankles; and, as i gazed, i nearly went after him, the boat gave such a lunge, but i saved myself, and found that it was caused by morgan leaping back rope in hand, after unfastening the moorings, and it was well he did so, sending the boat well off into the stream, floating after our purchase. "see him?" cried my father, eagerly, as he threw off hat and coat ready to dive in. "not yet, sir," said morgan, standing ready with the boat-hook. "i would not have him drowned for five hundred pounds," cried my father. "no, no, george, my boy, you must not go after him; his struggles would drown you both." "don't see him, sir. big alligator hasn't got him, has it?" "don't talk like that, man," cried my father, with a shudder; "but you ought to be able to see him in this clear water." "i see him!" i cried, excitedly; "give me the boat-hook." it was passed to me, and after a couple of misses, i felt the hook take hold, drew up gently, and as i hauled in, we found that the boy was coming up feet first, the iron having passed between the ring of the shackle and the boy's ankle. "steady, my lad, steady!" cried morgan, as i drew the boy nearer, and the next minute he was seized and drawn into the boat, feeble and helpless now, half dead, and making no further attempt to escape as the boat was paddled back toward the landing-place. "that's quieted him a bit anyhow, sir," said morgan. "won't take his clothes long to dry, master george, will it?" "poor fellow! he has been so ill-used," said my father, "that he thinks we mean to do him harm." "oh, we'll soon teach him better, sir," replied morgan, as i laid my hand on the boy's side to feel if his heart was beating. "oh, he arn't drowned, sir, and the wash 'll do him no end of good. here we are!" he leaped out, made the boat fast, and then, coming back, was about to carry the boy ashore; but my father had forestalled him, and stepped out with the boy in his arms, laying him gently down on the grass, and then looking wonderingly at morgan, who had followed, and knelt down to pass a rope through the shackle and make it fast to a ring-bolt used for mooring the boat, and driven into one of the tree-trunks close to the water. "not necessary," said my father. "begging your pardon, sir, he'll come to and be off while we're busy perhaps. now about the man; i'm rather 'fraid about him." "we must get him ashore," said my father; and after securing the boat parallel with the log which formed the bottom of the landing-place, they managed to get the poor creature, who was quite an inert mass, out upon the bank, and then, after placing one of the bottom-boards of the boat under his back, i joined in, and we dragged him right up to where the boy lay insensible. "i'm afraid we are too late," said my father, as he felt the black's pulse. "yes, sir, you've threw good money away here," said morgan; "he'll never do a stroke of work for us, but thank you kindly for meaning help all the same, and i must try what i can do with the boy." "is he dead, father?" i whispered, in an awe-stricken tone. "no, but dying, i am afraid. he has been starved and suffocated in that vile schooner. good heavens! how can men be such fiends?" "ay, that can't do no harm," said morgan, as i filled the boat's baler with water, and knelt down by the negro's side to begin trickling a few drops from time to time between his cracked lips, and sprinkling his face. "i will fetch a few drops of spirit," said my father. "keep on giving him a little water." he went away toward the house while i continued my task, and morgan kept up a running commentary upon the man's appearance. "pity, too," he said. "master oughtn't to have let them cheat him though, like this. fine working chap. see what a broad, deep chest he's got, master george. don't think much of his legs, but he's got wonderful arms. my! what a sight of hoeing i could have got him to do, but it's a case of hoe dear me! with him, i'm afraid." "you don't think he'll die, morgan, do you?" i said, piteously. "ay, but i do, my dear lad. they've 'bout killed him. we want help, but i'm 'fraid all that slave-dealing's 'bout as bad as bad can be. give him a few more drops o' water; those others trickled down." i gave the man a few more drops, pouring them from my fingers almost at minute intervals, but he made no sign. then, all at once, i felt half startled, for a pair of eyes were watching me, and i saw that the boy had recovered sufficiently to be noticing everything that was going on. as our eyes met, he looked at me like a fierce dog who was watching for an opportunity to make a successful snap; but as he saw me trickle a few more drops of water between the man's lips, his face suddenly grew eager, and he looked at me, found my eyes fixed upon him, and slowly opened his mouth widely. "want some water?" i said; and i was going to him when he jerked himself fiercely away, and showed his beautiful white teeth at me. "wo ho!" cried morgan. "mind, lad, or he'll have his teeth in you." "he's thirsty," i said; and i held the tin baler half full of water to him. he looked at me, then at the water, and i could see his lips move and his teeth part, showing his dry tongue quivering like that of a dog. then he fixed his eyes upon me again fiercely. "let me give it him," said morgan, as the boy's mouth opened widely again, and there was a pitiful, imploring look in his eyes. now i could not understand all that when i was so young, but i've often thought about it since, and seemed to read it all, and how nature was making him beg for water for his parched tongue, while his education forced upon him the desire to fight me as a cruel enemy. "there," i said, going a little nearer, pushing the baler close to his hands, and drawing back. he looked at me, then at the water, and back at me, fixing me with his eyes, as one hand stole slowly from his side towards the baler, drawing it nearer and nearer stealthily, as if in dread of my snatching it away; and then it was at his lips, and he gulped down the contents. "there, i'm not going to hurt you," i said, stretching out my hand for the baler, and getting it, meaning to go and fill it once more; and as i returned i saw that he was watching me so wildly that i walked up, with him shrinking away as far as he could go, and offered the tin to him again. he took it in the same shrinking way, evidently expecting a blow, and drank heavily once more. "well, he couldn't ha' swallowed much, master george, else he wouldn't be so thirsty," said morgan. "now give this here one a dose, though it seems to me labour in vain; only it may make him go off a bit easy." he filled the baler, and i knelt down again to sprinkle the poor fellow's temples, and trickle a few drops once more between his lips, the boy watching me the while, and then giving me the first notice of my father's return by shuffling away in another direction. "poor wretch!" i heard my father mutter, as he gave me a piece of bread-cake, and pointed to the boy, before taking the cork from a bottle, and slowly dropping a spoonful or two of spirit between the man's teeth. after this he waited, and i saw that the boy was watching him wildly. then he poured in a little more, without apparently the slightest effect, and after looking on for a few minutes, i advanced toward the boy, holding out the cake. but i stopped short, with my hand extended, looking at him, and then, as he took no notice of the cake, but stared wildly at me, i broke off a few crumbs, and began to eat before him, treating him as i would have treated some savage creature i wished to tame, and breaking off a piece and throwing it within his reach. then i went on eating again, and after a time i saw his hand steal slowly to the bread, his eyes fixed on mine, and he snatched the piece and conveyed it to his mouth with a motion that was wonderful from its rapidity. this i repeated two or three times before feeling that i ought now to have won his confidence a little, when i went close to him, put down the cake, and went back to kneel by my father, whose hand was upon the man's throat. "is he getting better?" i said. there was a shake of the head, and i looked then with a feeling of awe at the black face before me, with the eyes so close that there was just a gleam of the white eyeballs visible; but as i gazed, i fancied i saw a jerking motion in the throat, and i whispered to my father to look. "a good sign, or a bad one, my boy," he whispered. "you had better go now, back to the house." "yes, father," i said, unwillingly; "but don't you think you can cure him like you did me when i was so ill?" "i would to heaven i could, boy!" he said, so earnestly that i was startled, and the more so that at the same moment the man slowly opened his eyes, and stared at us vacantly. "it is a hopeful sign," said my father, and he took the baler, poured out all but a few drops of water, added some spirit, and placed it to the man's lips, with the result that he managed to drink a little, and then lay perfectly still, gazing at my father with a strange look which i know now was one full of vindictive hate, for the poor wretch must have read all this attention to mean an attempt to keep him alive for more ill-treatment, or until he was sold. "take a little more," said my father, offering the vessel again, and the man drank and once more lay still, glaring at us all in turn. "why, you'll save him after all, sir," said morgan, eagerly. "hurrah!" but no one paid heed to his remark, for at that moment there was a sort of bound, and we saw that the boy had contrived to force himself so near that he could lay his hand on the man's cheek, uttering as he did so a few words incomprehensible to us, but their effect on the man was magical: his features softened, and two great tears stole slowly from his eyes as we watched the pair, the boy glaring at us defiantly, as if to protect his companion, and i heard my father say softly-- "thank god!" chapter twelve. after a time, with the boy seeming to watch defiantly beside the great fellow, the black revived sufficiently to swallow some bread soaked in wine-and-water; the dull, filmy look left his eyes; and at last he dropped off into a heavy sleep. "shall we try and carry him up to one of the sheds, sir?" said morgan. "no; the poor fellow has had a very narrow escape from death," replied my father; "and i do not know even now that he will recover. fetch a few boards to lay against that bough, and tie the boat-mast up there, and fasten the sail against it, so as to act as a bit of shelter to keep off the sun. george, put some dry grass in a sack, and it will do for a pillow." we set about our task at once. "lor' ha' mussy!" grumbled morgan, "what a fuss we are making about a nigger. pillows for him! why don't master say, `get the best bedroom ready, and put on clean sheets'? i say, master george, think he'd come off black?" but all the same morgan worked hard, with the great drops of perspiration running off his face, till he had rigged up the shelter, the black sleeping heavily the while, but the boy watching every act of ours in a suspicious way, his eyes rolling about, and his lips twitching as if he were ready to fly at us and bite. "i know," said morgan, all at once with a broad grin, as he was sloping some boards lately cut from a tree over the sleeping negro. "know what?" i said. "what young sooty's a thinking. he's a young canny ball, and he believes we're going to make a fire and roast 'em for a feast." whatever the boy thought, he had ceased to struggle to get away, but lay quite still with his arm stretched-out, so that he could touch the big negro, and he was in this attitude when my father came back from the house. "yes, that will do," he said, approvingly. "yes, sir, there won't be no sun get at him now. think he'll come right?" "yes, i hope so. poor fellow!--if he has managed to live through the horrors of that slaver's hold, now that he has taken a turn for the better he may recover. he must have been a splendidly healthy fellow, and--" "well, he arn't now, sir, anyhow," said morgan. "what'll i do with young coal-box, sir? better chain him up in the shed, hadn't i, or he'll be off?" my father did not reply for some moments, but stood watching the boy, as he lay with his bright eyes fixed on first one and then the other, like a wild creature ready to act on its defence. "he must have known a good deal of this negro," said my father, thoughtfully. "go and slacken that rope." "if i do, sir, he'll go off like a 'coon, and we shall never see him again," said morgan. "did you hear my orders?" said my father, in the sharp military way in which he spoke sometimes. morgan went to the ring-bolt, and began to unfasten the rope, when at the first quiver the boy half started up and remained crouching, ready to spring away. "shall i go on, sir?" said morgan. "yes; slacken the rope sufficiently to let him reach the man." "he'll make a dash for it, master george," grumbled morgan. he was right, for the boy did make a dash as soon as he saw that the rope which tethered him to the tree was loosened, but only to creep close up to the negro, thrust his arm under his neck, and press close to his side. "i thought so," said my father. "draw that rope from the shackles." "what, undo him altogether, sir?" "yes." "oh, all right, master george," grumbled morgan to me. "i could have leathered the young imp into shape, and made a labourer of him in time; but if your father likes to waste his money it is no business of mine." my father's back was towards us, and he was standing at some little distance so as not to startle the boy, who rose again, crouched, and looked wildly at us, as the rope which had been simply passed through the iron shackles began to run through a link till the end was drawn out, and run over the ground to where morgan stood grumbling and coiling up the rope. "no, he will not," said my father, gravely. "there is something stronger than hempen rope to hold him, george, evidently. unless i am much mistaken, he will not leave the poor fellow's side." "ah, well, sir," said morgan, as he hung the rope on the stump of a branch, "they're your niggers, and niggers _is_ niggers. i shouldn't trust 'em, and they'll cut and run." "if they do, my man, i shall be sorry," said my father, gravely, "for they may fall into worse hands than ours. we have no key to those shackles; could you turn them with a file?" "little screwdriver may do it, sir?" said morgan, thoughtfully. "fetch it from the tool-chest," said my father, shortly; and morgan went off grumbling something about waste of money. he was back in a short time, during which the black still slept, and the boy crouched by him watching us eagerly. "now," said my father, "see if you can open those ankle-rings. no, no; i mean the man's." "but s'pose he's only shamming, sir, and jumps up, half kills me, and runs?" "i'll forgive him if he does," said my father, dryly, "for you are getting to be a very dictatorial, meddling, insolent servant, morgan." "well!" exclaimed morgan. "hear that, master george, and after me following faithful all the way to these here wild shores. ah, master, i didn't think you'd ha' said--hi! keep back, you young warmint!" for at the first movement of morgan toward the sleeping black's feet, the boy sprang up and showed his teeth like a dog. "stop! keep back," said my father, and morgan drew away, muttering something about a savage young tom wolf. "it is quite natural," said my father, "and strengthens my ideas. he thought his companion was going to be hurt." as my father spoke, he moved toward the boy. "don't go anigh him without a stick, sir," said morgan, hastily. my father did not notice the remark, but turned to me. "be on your guard, george," he said; "but be firm, and i think the poor fellow will understand what you are going to do. take the screwdriver, and try if you can unfasten the boy's anklets first." i obeyed, and advanced to the boy, whose aspect was rather startling; but i went down on my knees, and before he could fly at me i caught quickly hold of the chain which connected his legs. that made him pause for a moment, and look down sharply to see what i was going to do. he seemed to have some idea directly; and as luck would have it, the little square hole that was used to turn the screw was toward me, the screwdriver went in, and it turned so easily that i was able to open the filthy, rusty shackle, and set one leg free. the boy's head moved like that of a bird, as he looked first at his foot and then at me, and he stood quite still now, as i unscrewed the second anklet and took it off. "throw the chains into the river," said my father. "no, no," cried morgan; "they may come in handy." "for you?" said my father, with a curious smile. splash! went the iron rings and links, and the boy looked puzzled, but made no opposition as i knelt down hard by the sleeping negro's feet, and using the screwdriver as a key, opened both the anklets in turn, and pointed to them as they lay on the grass, looking hard at the lad the while. he stared at me stupidly for a few moments, and then in a curiously sullen manner stooped down, knelt down, and began to replace them on the sleeping man's legs. "no, no," i shouted; and the boy started away, flinching as if expecting a blow; but as i stood pointing down at the irons, he stooped once more and picked them up, looking at me wonderingly again, but as i pointed to the river a flash of intelligence came from his eyes, and he whisked the irons over his head, and cast them right out into the stream. "now fetch him something to eat," said my father, as the boy crouched down by the man's head again under the shelter. i went for some bread, and after a long time managed to make the boy take it; but he only snatched it up after the fashion of a wild animal, and ate it voraciously. "there," said my father at last; "leave them now. i dare say the poor fellow will sleep for hours, and it will be the best thing for him. don't go far away, george; and if you find that he wakes, try and give him some bread soaked in that thin french wine." "well," said morgan, as soon as my father had gone back into the house, "you don't catch me saying any more about it; but your father gave a lot o' money for them two, and they might ha' been useful on the plantation; but you mark my word, master george, that there big nigger 'll begin to open first one eye and then the other when we aren't looking; then him and the boy 'll slip into the boat, and a'most afore we know it, look you, they'll be gone." "nonsense, morgan!" i said. "nonsense! why, no, my boy, i reckon it's madness. if master didn't mean to have slaves why did he buy them?" "to save them from being ill-treated." "ill-treated?" said morgan, scornfully; "why, they're only niggers." "well, they're men, morgan." "dunno so much about that, master george. they're blacks, that's what they are, and everybody but master buys 'em to work on the plantations. i did think master was going to be sensible at last. only slaves!" "how would you like to be a slave, morgan?" "me, master george? well, you see i couldn't be. i aren't a black. there, i've got lots to do, and can't stand talking here. these weeds 'll be all over my garden again directly. you're going to stop, i s'pose?" "yes." "well, call me if they seize the boat. we can't let 'em have that. when they do go, they'll have to swim." so morgan went off to his hoeing, and i stopped under the shade of the big magnolia to keep my long watch. chapter thirteen. i kept about near the rough shelter rigged up for the two blacks, wondering how my father would set about giving them their freedom, for i seemed fully to understand that this was what he intended to do. every now and then i glanced toward the place, where everything was wonderfully still, and at such times i found myself thinking about morgan's words; and it appeared only natural that the poor fellows should try to escape, being quite in ignorance of the hands into which they had fallen; but if they did, i was fully determined to put a stop to their taking our boat, for i did not mean to lose that, and have my fishing expeditions spoiled. after a time my task began to grow tedious, and i wanted to go and peep in to see if they were asleep; but somehow i shrank from doing this, and i began to wander about, now up to the house, and now back to the river, thinking, as i stood there gazing down into the clear water, that it would not be safe for the two blacks to lie there after dark, when the great alligators came crawling out of the pools in search of food. for there were plenty of accounts current among the settlers of how people had been attacked by the great reptiles, and i meant to suggest to my father that the two should be sheltered in the great shed, which had a strong door. i glanced toward the canvas which hung from the spar, and suddenly awoke to the fact that there was something black at one end; seeing directly after that a bright eye was watching me, but only to be carefully withdrawn as soon as its owner realised that he was seen. i smiled to myself at this, and went off into the garden, where i could hear morgan's great hoe with its regular chop-chop, as he battled away with the weeds which refused to acknowledge the difference between wild waste and cultivated ground. "hullo!" cried morgan, as soon as he saw me. "what, have they slipped off?" "slipped off? no," i said, indignantly. "i want a peach." "right, my lad," said morgan; "and, look you, get one off the further tree; they're not the best to look at, but they're the sweetest and the best to taste, i can tell you." peaches grew easily and plentifully in the hot sunshine of our garden, and securing a sample of the best, i went back toward the landing-place, where i saw the boy's head pop back out of sight as soon as i appeared. then laying down the fruit just within reach of the corner from which i had seen the boy watching me, i was in the act of turning away, when i saw that i was being watched from the other side. "hullo, morgan!" i said. "you there?" "yes, master george, i'm here, and it's time i was," he cried, sourly. "do you think your father and me grafted them peach trees, and coaxed 'em on into bearing, for you to feed niggers with them?" "i've a right to do what i like with the fruit, if i don't eat it," i said, angrily. "oh, very well; i've done. seems to me that if master's to be always bullying me on one side, and you on the other, the sooner i make up my bundle and go home to carnarvon, the better." "that's what you always say, morgan," i replied, laughing; "but you never do go." "ah, but you'll see some day; and then you'll be sorry," he grumbled, and away he went. "i don't want to hurt his feelings," i thought; "but he needn't be so disagreeable about the poor black fellows." after a time i went to the shelter and looked in, to see that the man was lying with his eyes opened; and, recalling what my father had said, i gave him some bread and wine, which he ate as it was put to his lips, in a dull, forbidding way which took all the pleasure out of what i had thought was an act of kindness. the peaches had disappeared, and i was saying to myself, "you might have given him one!" when i found that both of them were lying close to the black's head untouched. about sunset my father came and looked at his purchase in a very grave way, and then apparently satisfied he drew back. "the man is recovering," he said. "we saved his life, my boy, but they must not stay there to-night. i hardly believe that an alligator would attack them; but one great fellow has been travelling through the garden in the night, and if he came near them, there would be a terrible scare if nothing worse." "where are they to go then, father?" "in the large shed. there are plenty of bundles of corn straw, and they must make shift with that until we can build them a hut." "build them a hut?" i said, in wondering tones. "are they going to stop?" "stop? where else can they go, my lad?" "i did not think of that, father," i said. "no, poor fellows, when they have been sold into slavery, there is no going back. even if we could put them ashore in africa, it would only be for them to be slain or sold again." "then--" i stopped short, afraid to finish my speech. "well, what were you going to say?" "i was going to ask you if--if--" "i was going to keep slaves like my neighbours, eh?" "yes, father," i said, bluntly. "yes, my boy. it is forced upon me to do so; but it will be an easy slavery, george. we have thrown their chains away, and they are free to go wherever they like. now call morgan, and let's have them up here." i called our man, and the sail was dragged aside, for the boy to crouch menacingly by the man, who lay gazing at us in a dull, heavy way. "how are we to make them understand?" said my father, who advanced, bent down, and took hold of the negro's wrist and felt his pulse. the boy bared his teeth, but the man said a word or two in his own language, and the boy drew back. "stronger, decidedly," said my father; and he stood watching his patient, while i fetched some more bread and soaked it in wine. he ate it slowly and mechanically, like some beast of burden, and when it was finished my father signed to him to get up, saying the words at the same time. he evidently understood, and tried to raise himself, nearly reaching to a sitting position, but falling back from sheer weakness, and gazing shrinkingly at us as if expecting a blow. but as no blow came he spoke to the boy, who at once took his hands and pulled him into a sitting position, but the man could do no more, and uttered a low groan in his abject weakness as he gazed up in his eyes. my father thought for a moment and then turned to morgan. "get the sail," he said; and the triangular piece of canvas was spread beside the man on the ground. "now," said my father, "creep on to that, and we'll carry you." the man looked up at him with his brow puckered over with lines, but he did not comprehend. "show him what i mean," said my father; and i lay down on the canvas, and then rose up, and my father pointed. the negro understood him, spoke to the boy, and with his help and morgan's half rolled, half dragged himself on to the sail. "now," said my father; "he's big and heavy; morgan and i will take the top, you take the bottom, george. if you could get that boy to understand, it would be easy." i took hold of the bottom of the sail and made signs to the boy, but he could not or would not understand, till the black uttered a guttural word or two, when he came shrinkingly to my side, and took hold, watching me the while as if to be aware of danger. "now then," said my father, "i don't suppose you two can lift; but if you ease the load up a little from the ground, that will be all that is necessary. now together, morgan." they turned their backs on us as they took a good hold of the sail, and began to drag our load toward the great barn-like shed at the end of the house, reaching it without much difficulty, and drawing the sail right over a quantity of dry corn-stalks. here, after giving them some food to eat if they desired it, we left them and closed the door. "there, morgan," said my father, with a smile, as we crossed the garden, "i am a slave-owner now like my neighbours, and as soon as that man is well and strong, you will have no excuse for grumbling about the want of help." chapter fourteen. i was so curious the next morning to see whether the slaves had run away, that i crept down soon after daybreak, and a curious feeling of vexation came over me as i saw that the door of the big shed was open. "they're gone," i said, and ran back and down to the landing-place, to see if they had taken to the boat. but there it was, all safe, and i drew back and stood watching as i caught sight of a droll-looking object, so busy that he had not noticed me; for about forty yards away there was the boy, coating himself all over with the soft yellow mud he scooped up from the stream, where he stood about up to his knees, rubbing it well, and not forgetting his woolly head, just as i might have used soap. the appearance of the boy was so comical that i could hardly keep back a laugh. but i refrained, and watched him earnestly at work for a few minutes, before throwing himself down, and sluicing off the thin mud, his black skin appearing once more, and ending by diving out into deep water, and beginning to swim with an ease that i envied. this went on for about ten minutes, when he came out dripping, gave himself a shake, and then catching sight of me, ran up the bank and as hard as he could go for the shed. i followed, and on reaching it found that the boy was not visible, having probably hidden himself among the corn-stalks, while his companion lay sleeping heavily--a great savage-looking black. i came away without closing the door, thinking of my father's words; and i'm afraid with something of the same thoughts as i should have had about some of the wild creatures i had before tried to tame, i began to long for the coming down of mrs morgan to prepare breakfast, meaning to get from her a good bowl of the indian corn porridge that she regularly prepared. as it happened she was extra early that morning; and as soon as i had proffered my request, she informed me rather tartly that she knew all about it, for the master had given her orders the night before. by the time it was ready and cooling, my father was down. "that for the blacks?" he said, as he saw the bowl i was taking to the shed. "yes," i said; and i told him about what i had seen. "poor fellow! i am not surprised," he said. "what can be more horrible than the way in which they were confined?" the man was awake, and on our entering the dim shed he made an effort to rise, but fell back helplessly, and lay gazing at us in a half fierce, half sullen way, not changing his aspect as my father felt his pulse, and laid his hand upon his head. "hah! that's better," said my father; "less fever. if he can eat, it is only a question of time. where is the boy?" we looked round, but he was invisible. "call the boy," said my father, looking hard at the man, and pointing to the food; but there was no sign of being understood, and my father turned to me. "set the bowl down," he said. "they will get used to us in time." i followed him out, and we went in to our breakfast, where the position was pretty well discussed. "let them be, poor wretches," said my father at last. "by and by, perhaps, they will find out that all white people do not mean evil by them. it is very unfortunate, and i had made a vow that i would never have a slave, and here i am with two of my own purchasing." as soon as i could get away, i hurried off to the shed to hear a quick rustling sound as i neared the door, and i got to the opening time enough to see some of the corn-stalks in motion, betraying where the boy had rushed off to on hearing my steps. i did not make a rush after him, for fear of making him more wild, but took up the bowl to find it empty, and i looked at our invalid and laughed. but he made no sign, only gazed at me with the same weary sullen look, and i went away feeling a little disheartened. "hullo, master george, been to see my deppyties?" said morgan. "i was just going to look at 'em. that big black isn't going to die, is he?" i turned back with him to the door of the shed, and he stood gazing in. "no; he won't die this time. but i don't much like his looks, master george. seems the sort of fellow to turn ugly and knock me down with the big hoe, and i shan't like that, nor my wife neither. where's young smutty?" "under the corn-stalks in the corner." "what, hiding?" "yes." "here, stop a minute till i get the pitchfork; i'll soon turn him out." "no, no," i cried; "they're to be treated gently." "and as if they were human beings," said my father's stern voice, for he had come silently behind us. "have the goodness to remember that, morgan. if i am to be a slave-owner, my people shall meet with consideration, and not be treated as if they were the beasts of the field. do you understand?" "oh yes, sir, i understand," said morgan, good-humouredly; "you can count on me doing what's right by them. they can't help the colour of their skins." "i am satisfied," said my father, quietly, and he left us staring in that heavy, sombre face before us--a face full of despair, but one to which we could not address words of sympathy. the change that took place in the man day by day was wonderful, as far as health was concerned. in three days he was walking slowly about; in a week he was ready to take the tool in hand which morgan gave him, and he went on clumsily with the work he was set to do, but displaying strength that was the admiration of us all. but he was moody, shrinking, and suspicious, and the boy was precisely the same. for it always seemed to me that the boy was constantly on the look-out to avoid a blow or some ill-usage on my part, and his companion to be expecting it from my father. the treatment they had been receiving for months had utterly cowed them, but when they began to realise that they had fallen among friends, the change was rapid indeed. of course they could not understand us, and when they spoke, which was very seldom, their language was utterly beyond our comprehension; but we got on pretty well by signs, after a few weeks when the change came. it was one glorious afternoon, when, after worrying morgan into getting me some bait, i prepared my rough lines for fishing, and while i was disentangling the hooks which had been thrown carelessly together, the boy who was passing nodded and looked on. "going fishing," i said. "come with me?" he looked at me without comprehension, and when i took hold of him by the arm, he shrank away. "oh, i say," i said, "i wish you wouldn't. who's going to hit you? carry this basket." i placed one in his hand, and gave him the pot containing the bait in the other, signed to him to follow, and in a dull, sad way he came behind to where the boat was moored; but as soon as he saw me step in, he began to look wildly out into the stream, and to shrink away. "it's all right," i said, "there's no slaver out there. come along." but he shrank away more and more, with his eyes dilating, and he said a few words quite fiercely in his own tongue. "don't be so stupid," i said, jumping out and securing him just in time to stop him from running off with my bait and lines. he struggled for a moment, but ceased, and in a drooping, dejected way allowed me to lead him to the boat, into which he stepped sadly, and dropped down in a sitting position, with his legs under him, and his head bent upon his breast. "oh, i say," i cried, "don't do that. look here; we are going fishing. here, take an oar and row." i had cast off the boat, and we were floating down the stream as i placed the oar in his hands, took the other, and in a sad, depressed, obedient way, he clumsily imitated my actions, rowing steadily if not ably on. "there," i said, when we were as far out as i wished to be; "that will do. lay your oar in like that," and i laid down my own. he obeyed me, and then sat looking at me as mournfully as if i were going to drown him. "oh, i do wish you'd try and take it differently," i said, looking pleasantly at him the while. "now, look here, i'm going to catch a fish." as i spoke, i put a large bait on the strong hook i had ready, threw it over the side, and twisted the stout cord round my hand, while the boy sat watching me. "well, you have got a bit better," i said to him; "the other day you always wanted to bite. do try and come round, because you're not a slave, after all. oh!" i uttered a yell, as i started up to pay out line, for, as we floated gently down stream, there was a tremendous tug which cut my hand, and seemed ready to jerk my arm from out its socket. but i had so twisted the line that i could not pay it out, and as i stood, there came another so fierce a tug that i lost my balance, caught at the boy to save myself, and the light boat careened over, and seemed to shoot us both out into the river. for a few moments the water thundered in my ears; the great fish, which must have been a gar pike, tugged at my hand, broke away, and i was swimming with the black head of the boy close by me, as we struggled as quickly as we could to the bank, reached it together, climbed out, and i dropped down into a sitting position, with my companion staring wonderingly at me. his aspect was so comical, and his eyes sought mine in such a wondering way, as if asking me whether this was the way i went fishing, that i burst out into an uncontrollable roar of laughter, when, to my utter astonishment, the sad black face before me began to expand, the eyes to twinkle, the white teeth to show, and for the first time perhaps for months the boy laughed as merrily as i did. then, all at once, i remembered the boat, which was floating steadily away down stream toward the big river, and pointing to it, i ran as far as i could along the bank, and plunged in to swim out and secure it. there was another plunge and the boy was by my side, and we swam on, he being ready to leave me behind, being far more active in the water than i. but he kept waiting for me, till i pointed on at the boat, and he seemed to understand, and went on. the boat had gone into a swift current, and it was a long way from where i swam, and by degrees i began to find that i had rather miscalculated my strength. i was only lightly clad, but my clothes began to feel heavy, the banks to look a long way off, and the boat as far; while all at once the thought struck me, after i had been swimming some time, that i should never be able to reach the boat or the shore. i tried to get rid of the fancy, but it would not go, and one effect of that thought was to make me swim more quickly than i should have done, or, as i should express it, use my limbs more rapidly than i ought, so that i was quickly growing tired, and at last so utterly worn out that a cold chill came over me. i looked despairingly to right and left at the beautiful tree-hung river-side, and then forward to where the boy had just reached the boat, and saw him climb in, the sun shining upon his wet back. "hi! boy!" i shouted, "take the oars, and row." i might as well have held my tongue, for he could not understand a word; and as i shouted again and again i looked at him despairingly, for he was sitting on the thwart laughing, with the boat gliding downstream faster than i seemed to be able to swim, while i knew that i should never be able to overtake it, and that i was getting deeper in the water. "oh, if i could only make him understand!--if i could only make him understand!" i kept thinking, as i shouted again hoarsely; and this time he did seem to comprehend that something was wrong, for i saw him jump up and begin making signs to me. then he shouted something, and i saw that he was about to jump in again as if to come to me. but he stopped, and took up one of the oars, to begin rowing, but of course only to send the boat round. then, as if puzzled, he put the oar over the other side, and rowed hard like that, to send the boat's head in the other direction, repeating this again and again, and now standing up to shout to me. i could not shout in return, only stare at him wildly, as he kept on making ineffective efforts to row to me, till all seemed to be over; the bright water and the beautiful green banks began to grow misty; and i knew that though i might keep struggling on for a few minutes, i should never reach the boat, and that he would never be able to row it to me. i did not feel in much trouble nor get in any great alarm, for i suppose the severe exertion dulled everything, and robbed my sufferings of their poignancy as i still swam on more and more slowly, with my starting eyes fixed upon the boat still many yards away from me, and growing more and more dim as the water began to bubble about my lips. all at once in front of me i saw the boy's black figure rise up in the boat like a shadow. then there was a splash and the water flashed up, and i knew he must be swimming toward me to help me; but i could not see that he had taken the rope in his teeth, after finding himself unable to row in my direction, and had essayed to swim to me and tug the boat in his wake. this in so swift a stream was impossible, but his brave act saved my life, for he was able to hold his own by swimming hard till the current bore me down to him just as i was sinking; and my next recollection is of feeling myself clutched and my hand being raised to the edge of the boat, while one arm was about my waist. the feeling of comparative security brought back my fleeting senses, and i made a convulsive clutch with the other hand at the gunwale; while the next thing i remember is feeling myself helped over the side by the boy, who had climbed in, and lying in the bottom with the sun beating down upon me--sick almost to death. chapter fifteen. by a wonderfully kindly arrangement of nature we recover very rapidly when we are young; and before half an hour had passed i was seated on the thwart, using one of the oars, while the boy was using the other, but he kept leaving off rowing to gaze earnestly in my face; and when i smiled at him to show him that i was better, he showed his white teeth, and even then i could not help thinking what a bright, chubby-looking face he had, as he plunged his oar in again, and tugged at it, rowing very clumsily, of course, but helping me to get the boat along till we reached the rough logs and the stumps which formed our landing-place, where i was very glad to get ashore and make the boat fast. "well, george, how many fish?" cried my father, as i went up to the house, to find him in the garden trying to direct the big black how to use his hoe. "none, father," i said, half hysterically, for i was quite broken down. "why, what's the matter?" he said. "hallo! been in?" "yes--been drowned--that boy." "what!" cried my father, furiously. "no, no! he jumped in--saved me--i was going down." i saw my father close his eyes, and his lips moved as he stood holding my hand in his, evidently struggling with his emotion. then he said quietly-- "better go in and get some dry clothes, and--" he stopped and stood listening and gazing in wonder at the great negro and my companion, for the boy had gone up to him, and gesticulating rapidly and with animated face he seemed to be relating what had passed. the change that came over the big fellow's face was wonderful. the minute before it wore its old, hard, darkening look of misery, with the eyes wild and the forehead all wrinkled and creased; but now as he stood listening, his eyes lit up, his forehead grew smooth, and his face seemed to have grown younger; his tightly-drawn-together lips parted, showing his white teeth. so that as my father took a step or two forward, seized the boy's arm, and then laid his hand upon his head, it was a completely transformed countenance that looked in my father's. for the man caught his hand, bent down and held it against his forehead, saying a few words in a low tone, and then drew respectfully away. "you have had a narrow escape, my boy," said my father, huskily; "but out of evil sometimes comes good; and it looks as if your accident has broken the ice. those two are completely transformed. it is just as if we had been doing them good, instead of their doing good to us. but there, get in. i don't want to have you down with a fever." my father was right; our two servants--i will not call them slaves, for they never were that to us--appeared indeed to be quite transformed, and from that day they always greeted me with a smile, and seemed to be struggling hard to pick up the words of our language, making, too, the most rapid progress. the heavy, hard look had gone from the black's face, and the boy was always showing his white teeth, and on the look-out either to do something for me, or to go with me on my excursions. in a week it was "mass' george," and in a month, in a blundering way, he could begin to express what he had to say, but only to break down and stamp, ending by bursting into a hearty laugh. it was my doing that the pair were called pompey and hannibal, and day after day, as i used to be out in the garden, watching the big black, who had entirely recovered his strength, display how great that strength was, i wondered how it was possible that the great happy-looking fellow could be the same dull, morose savage that we had brought dying ashore. at the end of another couple of months, i went in one day full of a new discovery. "do you know who pomp is, father?" i exclaimed. "yes; an unfortunate young negro from the west coast of africa." "yes, father, but more than that. hannibal has been telling me, and i think i understand him, though it's rather hard. they lived in a village up the country, and the enemy came in the night, and killed some, and took the rest prisoners to march them down to the coast, and sell them for slaves. pomp's mother was one of them, and she fell down and died on the march." "did hannibal tell you this?" "yes, father, and sat and cried as he told me; and pompey's his son." "are you sure?" "oh, yes. he always calls pompey `my boy,' and pomp called him `fader' to-day." "ah, but that may merely be imitation." "i don't think it is," i said, eagerly; and i proved to be right, for they certainly were father and son. the winter came and passed rapidly away, and it was never cold to signify, and with the coming spring all thoughts of the indians and the spaniards died away. my father would talk about the indians' visitation sometimes, but he considered that it was only to see if we were disposed to be enemies, and likely to attack them; but finding we did not interfere in the least, and were the most peaceable of neighbours, they were content to leave us alone. "and the spaniards only tried to frighten us away, morgan," i said one day. "well, i s'pose so, master george; but you see we're so shut up here we never know what's going to take place unless a ship puts in. it's a very beautiful place, but there isn't a road, you see, that's worth calling a road. ah, there were roads in carnarvon!" "i don't believe you'd care to go back to them though, morgan," i said. "well, i hardly know, master george; you see this place don't 'pear to agree with our sarah's temper. it gets very trying sometimes when it's hot. it was very hot this morning, and she was so put out that when young pomp put his black head in at the door she threw the big wooden shovel at him." "but what for?" "that's what i said to her, master george. `sarah,' i says, `what had the poor black boy done to make you throw things at him?' "`done,' she says; `didn't you see him put his head round the door and grin at me?' "`well,' i says, `sarah, my girl, that's only his way of showing that he likes you.' "`then i don't want him to like me, and he's more trouble than he's worth.' and there's a lot of truth in that, master george." "why he works hard, morgan," i said. "yes, just so long as you are watching him. then he's off to play some prank or another. that boy always seems to me as if he must be doing something he ought not to do." "oh, he's a very good boy." "never make such a man as his father, my lad. humph! here he is." i turned, and there, sure enough, was pomp making a large display of his white teeth, and holding something behind so that we should not see. "what have you got?" i said. he drew a basket forward and displayed four good-sized terrapins, and offered them to morgan for a present. "no, no," grumbled the man, "i don't want them, and i'm sure that the missus would find fault if i took them in. she hates them; besides, i'm not going to be sugared over like that, to keep me from speaking out. now, look here, you've been fishing." "yes, sah. kedge de terrupum." "and i told you to hoe down between those yams, didn't i?" "yes, mass' morgan, i going to hoe down de yam-yam." "but why isn't it done?" "i d'know," said pomp, innocently. "you don't know?" "no, sah, don't know 'tall." "but i told you to do them," said morgan, angrily. "didn't i?" "yes, sah." "then why didn't you do them?" "wanted to go and kedge terrupum." "now, look here, sir, you've got to do what you're told." "what you tell me, den?" "i told you to go and hoe those yams, and you neglected the duty to go fishing." "yes, sir, go fishing; kedge terrupum." "instead of doing your work." "mass' morgan, sah," began pomp, in a tone of protest, but morgan interrupted him. "now then, how is it those yams are not hoed?" "don't know, sah. tell hannibal hoe them." "you told hannibal to hoe them--your father?" "yes, tell um fader hoe um; mass' morgan want um done." "yes, but i wanted you to do them." "yes, sah, and i want um fader to hoe um yam while i go kedge terrupum. you make big holler at um for not do um." "now then, look you, master george, oughtn't this fellow to be flogged?" "you say no, mass' george, and--" morgan darted out a hand to catch pomp's arm, but the boy was too quick, and dodged behind me. "let him be," i said; "he doesn't know any better." "but i want to teach him better," grumbled morgan. "hist! mass' george. i find great 'gator." "where?" i asked, eagerly, for i had long had an idea that i should like to see another of the monsters. "down by de ribber. all lay long so, out in de hot sun." pomp threw himself on the ground, and wallowed along a little way. "all along so, sah, while i done kedge de terrupum, and then all along tell mass' george come and shoot um." "how big was it?" i said, eagerly. "big as ebber so much. come on, see um, mass' george." "it's only some little one, half as big as the one we pulled out of the hole," said morgan. "you never want to go on them games now you've got that black chap." "oh, i'll go with you any time, if you'll come." "too busy, sir, too busy. going to get a gun?" "yes, i'll go and see. it may be a big one. colonel preston's man told me there are some very big ones up the river on the mud-banks." "yes, sir, but nobody ever sees them." "well, i'll try this time, and if my father asks for me, say where i've gone." i heard morgan mutter something, but paid no heed, knowing that it was something about being careful with the gun, for i was not without my share of conceit and belief in my capacity of taking care of a gun. for my father had rather encouraged me to practise with his fowling-piece, as also with one of the heavy fire-locks we had in the house. "an emergency might come," he said; and what with his instructions and those of morgan, i was, if not a good marksman, as fairly expert as could be expected from a boy of my years. i soon had the gun from its slings, and, providing myself with powder and ball, rejoined pomp, whose eyes rolled with excitement at the sight of the piece. "me carry de powder shot bag," he cried, eagerly; and i let him sling the pouches over his shoulder, and followed behind him, as he marched off with head erect, and a look of pride that was ludicrous. he was, as a rule, a creature apparently made up of springs, which were always setting him in motion; but when bound upon any shooting or fishing excursion the natural pride in his brain rose above everything else, and i was often turned into quite a secondary personage, and had to obey. it was so upon this occasion, for just as we reached the edge of the forest he stopped short, and in a stern whisper said-- "'top here and load um gun, or wake ole 'gator where um sleep." i obeyed, of course, ramming home a bullet, and as i was in the act of removing the rod from the barrel, pomp suddenly exclaimed-- "top um bit." he ran off at full speed, and came back with his eyes flashing, and flourishing a small axe which he had fetched from the shed. this he directly after thrust into his belt, and holding up his hand, whispered-- "now, no make noise. i go first." he went on, leading me through the drier part of the swamp, and right away from the river, to my great wonderment; but after walking silently about half an hour he stopped, again held up his hand, and then with the greatest of caution crept on through the bushes, and in and out among the swamp-trees, never making the slightest sound, and i followed as well as i could for about a quarter of an hour, when he signed to me to stop, and i knew by the bright light a little farther on that the river was pretty near. the next moment he was down flat, crawling slowly over the mossy ground, looking back to see if i was watching him, and pausing at last close to a gnarled old tree, which he tried to keep between him and the water. i had been watching him lying there for about five minutes, when i became aware of the fact that he was returning as silently as he had gone, and as he reached me he put his lips to my ear. "'gator sleep in de mud. mass' george, crawl up to de big tree, look 'long gun, and shoot um." i was skilled enough then in the huntsman's craft to know what to do, and divesting myself of hat and boots, i went down and crawled cautiously in the trail made by the boy, trying hard to go as silently and with as little effort, but the nervous excitement set my heart beating, and by the time i reached the great gnarled tree i felt breathless, and my hands trembled exceedingly. i lay quite still for a few minutes before venturing to do more, and then inch by inch i drew myself sidewise, and peered round the rugged trunk of the tree. the next moment i was quite paralysed by the surprise i felt, for there, not twenty feet away from the spot where i lay, was a monstrous alligator, evidently fast asleep on a glistening mud-bank, his trail from the water being distinctly marked in the soft mud. there were the prints of his paws, and of his long tapering tail, and i could do nothing but gaze at his great proportions. as far as i could judge he was about fourteen feet long, but evidently of great age, from his bulk, his horny hide banded and barred and corrugated, while the strength of such a beast must be, i knew, tremendous. how long i watched the sleeping monster i cannot tell, but it was some time before i woke up to the fact that i had come on purpose to put an end to its destructive career, and that i had a gun ready charged in my hand lying close alongside. then with my heart beating fast i slowly pushed the barrel forward, resting it upon one of the mossy buttresses at the tree-trunk, my eyes fixed all the time upon the great closed and smiling mouth, and the peculiar heavily-browed eyes. as if i were moved by something that was not myself, i gradually got the gun into position, grasping it firmly and pressing the butt home, while i carefully sighted the monster, wondering a little what the consequences would be if i missed, whether i should be attacked, and whether i should have time to get away. but directly after every sense was concentrated upon the task i had in hand, and just as i was about to draw trigger the creature quickly raised its head, as if suspecting the nearness of danger. i was well ready though now, and raised the barrel of my gun slightly, pressed it against the tree, and fired. there was the roar of the gun, a tremendous kick on the shoulder, and beyond the heavy sour-smelling smoke by which i was surrounded i heard a tremendous splashing and thrashing noise, accompanied by heavy blows, as if the monster was striking hard at something near. but i lay perfectly still, feeling that the wounded monster would on seeing me make a spring, and if it did i knew that my life was at an end. the splashings and the dull beating sound continued, but i kept behind the sheltering tree, now wondering whether the creature would have strength to get back into the river, or whether it would be there waiting for its assailant. at last, fascinated as it were by the desire to peep round the tree-trunk which sheltered me from my victim, i gently peered out, and stared in astonishment, for there was pomp busy at work with his axe cutting off the reptile's head, while the tail kept writhing and lashing the stream, alongside which it had nearly crawled. "dat's got um," cried pomp. "hi! ohey! mass' george." i was already on my legs, and, gun in hand, i parted the bushes, and joined the boy just as the monster gave a tremendous heave and a writhe, and rolled off the bank with a tremendous splash in the water. "ah, you no kedge fish and eat um no more, eh, mass' george?" he cried. "'gator no good widout um head, eh?" i looked down on the mud, and there, sure enough, lay the creature's head. "why, pomp!" i exclaimed; "what have you been doing?" "cut off um head, mass' george. he no like dat." pomp broke out with one of his laughs, hooked hold of the grinning head, and dragged it out of the mud up to the side of a clear pool, a little way back in the swamp. "stop a bit," i said; "i want to have a good look at it." "wait till i wash um, mass' george. no; must wash umself fus. here a mess." pomp was about to jump into the pool to wash the mud from his legs, when he suddenly clapped his hands. "oh, here's game, mass' george; only look. dat's ole 'gator's house a water, where he keep all 'um lil pickaninny. look at 'um." sure enough, there were five or six small alligators at the far end-- little fellows not very long out of the shell. "oh dear!" cried pomp, "i very sorry for you poor fellows. poor old fader got um head cut off. what, you no b'lieve um? den look dah." he threw the great head into the pool with a splash, and then jumped in to stand up to his knees, washing it about till it was free from mud, and his legs too, when he dragged it out again on to the green moss, and we proceeded to examine the horrible jaws. "him much worse den pomp." "what do you mean?" "mass' morgan and de capen say pomp do lot o' mischuff. dat do more mischuff den pomp." "yes, i should think so," i said, as i examined the dripping head, and saw plainly that my bullet must have gone right through the monster's brain, probably only stunning it for the time being, and enough to give the boy time to hack off its head. for these creatures have an amount of vitality that is wonderful, and after injuries that are certain in the end to prove fatal, contrive to get back into the water and swim away. it was a long time before i was satisfied with gazing at the grinning head, with its great teeth and holes in the upper jaw into which they seemed to fit as into a sheath. at last though i turned to the boy. "we must take it home, pomp," i said. "no," he said, with a look of disgust. "um quite dead now. frow um into de ribber." "oh no! i want my father to see it, and morgan." "we go an' fess um den." "no, no. you must carry it home." "no, too heaby, mass' george, and um begin to 'tink." i laughed, for pomp was beginning to show his natural disinclination for work, though certainly the hideous head did send forth an unpleasant, musky odour. so long as an exciting task was on hand which interested him, pomp would work most industriously; but over anything plodding and approaching drudgery he was laziness itself. "i frow um in de ribber, or you frow um in, mass' george." "neither," i said. "it must be carried home." "what, dat great heaby head?" "yes." "what, all de way fro' de tree?" "yes." "no, no, mass' george, um too heaby. dat kill a poor nigger all dead, oh!" "nonsense! it is not so heavy as all that." "oh, yes; um drefful heaby. frow um in." "but i want my father to see it, and morgan would like to." "eh? i see." he ducked down quickly, and lifted the head on to an old stump. then, breaking off a bough of dead wood, he chopped a short piece off and propped open the huge jaws. "dah!" he exclaimed, gleefully. "dat make um laugh, and de fly come in an' out, an' um no snap at um no more." "but don't i tell you that i want them to see it at home. sarah would like to see it too." "eh? oh, no, mass' george," cried pomp, excitedly, and beginning to imitate poor sarah's sharp acid way so accurately that i roared with laughter. for every tone of her voice--every gesticulation--was exactly true to nature. "`what!'" he cried; "`what you mean, you nast' black young rascal, bring dat ting in my clean kitchun? i get hold ob you, i box your ears. how dah you--how dah you! take um away--take um away!' dat what misses sarah say." "but we will not take it into her clean kitchen, pomp. we'll put it on that pine-stump at the bottom of the garden." "oh, no, mass' george. sun shine on um, and de fly come on. make um 'mell horrid." "oh, that will soon go off," i said. "come, let's get back. wait till i've loaded again though. here, give me the powder and a bullet. we might see something else." "eh?" "i said give me the powder and a bullet. halloa! where's the ammunition?" "eh? now where i put dat amnisham, mass' george? i dunno." "why, you must have laid it down on the ground when we came after the alligator." "sure i did, mass' george. ah, you are clebber boy. come 'long, we find um we go back." "no, no, stop. i want that head carried home." "but um so heaby, mass' george, and poor pomp drefful hot an' tire." "dreadful lazy you mean," i cried, angrily. "come, sir." "now, mass' george cross again, and goin' break poor lil nigger heart," he whimpered. "stuff! sham! lay hold of that head." "break um back den, carry dat great heaby thing." "it will not. you didn't think it heavy when you dragged it along with the axe." "head all hot den, mass' george; got cold now." "why, you lazy, cunning young rascal!" i cried; "if you don't pick that head up directly, and bring it along!" "ugh!" ejaculated pomp, with a shudder; "um so dreffel ugly, pomp frighten to deff." i could not help laughing heartily at his faces, and the excuses he kept inventing, and he went on-- "pomp wouldn't mind a bit if de head dry, but um so dreffel wet an' nasty. an' you come close here, mass' george, an' 'mell um. ugh!" he pinched his nose between his fingers, and turned his back on the monster. "now, no nonsense, sir," i said, severely. "i will have that carried home." "for de massa see um, an' mass' morgan?" "yes," i said. "oh!" exclaimed the boy, in a tone which suggested that he at last understood me; "for de massa and mass' morgan see um. i run home fess um here." he was off like a shot, but my voice checked him. "stop, sir." "you call, mass' george?" "come here, you young rascal!" "come dah, mass' george? no fess um here?" he said, coming slowly cringing up. "no, sir. now then, no nonsense; take hold of that head." pomp stuck the handle of the axe into the band of his short cotton drawers, wiped a tear out of each eye, and took the hideous great head off the stump, looking at me reproachfully, as he bent with its weight. "is it very heavy?" i said. "kill poor boy carry um all dat way, mass' george." i stood the gun up against the nearest tree, and went to him and lifted the head, to find that it really was a pretty good weight. "yes," i said, replacing it on the stump; "it is heavy, pomp." "den i go fess mass' bruton here," he cried, joyfully. "no. give me that axe." he took the little chopper out of his belt, and slowly and shrinkingly gave me the handle; then dropped on his knees, crossed his hands on his breast, and lowered his head. "don' kill um dis time, mass' george. pomp berry sorry such a lazy rascal." "get up, and don't to stupid," i said, roughly. "who's going to kill you?" and looking round, i had soon found and cut down a stout young sapling, which i trimmed into a pole, pomp watching me the while with a piteous expression on his countenance. "there," i said, when i had done, and provided myself with a stout pole about ten feet long. "oh! ow!" burst forth pomp in a terrified howl. "what's the matter now?" i cried in astonishment. "nebber tink mass' george such coward." "eh? what do you mean?" "lil bit do, mass' george." "no, it wouldn't." "off!" "here, what's the matter? what do you mean?" i cried, as he threw himself down on the moss, and kept on drawing up his legs as if in agony, and kicking them out again like a frog. "nebber tink mass' george such coward." "i'm not, sir. why?" "cut great big 'tick like dat to beat poor lil nigger like pomp." "lil nigger like pomp!" i cried, mockingly; "why, you're as big as i am. get up, you great tar-coloured stupid." "no, no, mass' george; hit um lyem down, please; not hurt so much." "get up!" i shouted; and i poked him in the ribs with the end of the pole. "ow! ow!" yelled pomp at every touch, and the more he shouted the more i laughed and stirred him up, till he suddenly sat up, drew his knees to his chest, put his arms round them, and wrinkling his forehead into lines, he looked up at me pitifully. "arn't done nuff yet, mass' george?" he whimpered. "enough?" i cried. "did you think i cut this great pole to whop you?" "yes, mass' george." "why, it was to carry the head on, one at each end." "oh!" cried pomp, jumping up as if made of springs, and showing his teeth; "i knew dat a hall de time." "you wicked young story-teller," i cried, raising the pole quarter-staff fashion, and making an offer at him, when pomp dropped on his knees again, and raised his hands for mercy. "ah, you deserve it," i said; "telling a fib like that." "was dat a fib, mass' george?" "yes; you didn't know it all the time." "no, mass' george; not till you tell um. i tought you cut de big 'tick to whop poor nigger all black and blue." "why, how could i?" and i roared with laughter as i looked at his shiny, ebony skin. "dunno, mass' george. hit berry hard, make um bruisum all ober de body, same as you say when you tumble down--you say make um all black and blue." "there, come along," i said; "let's get the thing home. phew! look at the flies already." "whish--whoosh--whoosh!" cried pomp, breaking off a bough and sweeping it round. "nebber mind, mass' george; fly keep on eat lit bit all de way home; not hab so much a carry." "but how are we to manage? here, you must find some tough cane to lay the head on." "i know now," cried pomp, taking the pole. "what are you going to do?" i said. "put um down um troat. so." as he spoke, he ran the pole through the open jaws and out at the neck, so that the head was safely swinging in the middle. "dah," he said, "now you carry dat end, i carry dis end. dat end nice an' tin for mass' george." "why, you cunning young rascal," i said, "you want me to carry the dirty wet end, do you?" pomp grinned, and broke off some thick leaves to carefully clean the sullied end, chuckling merrily the while. "um was horrid nassy, mass' george," he said. "now all right." i took up and shouldered the gun, and then seizing one end of the pole, we marched triumphantly back with our grisly trophy, accompanied by quite a cloud of flies which kept up a tremendous humming noise. i went first, and easily found the spot where the ammunition had been set down by pomp in his excitement; and after he had thrown the pouch-straps over his shoulder and i had decided not to load again, as we were going straight home, we prepared for a fresh start. "mass' george like to come dis end?" said pomp. "no," i said; "i'll go first;" and we went on till pomp began to grunt and shudder. "what's the matter?" i said, looking back. "poor pomp get all de 'mell ob de head dis end." "all right," i said; "it won't hurt you." "but um do 'tink horrid, mass' george." "we'll carry it the other way, side by side, as soon as we get out of the trees," i said; and we went on a little further, when the boy uttered a shout. "what's the matter now?" i said. "de fly, mass' george." "never mind the flies," i said; "they will not hurt you." "but dey do, mass' george. dey keep tink pomp am de head, and sit on um and bite lil bit out ob um arm and neck. poor nigger hardly got a bit ob clothes on." "and a good job too, pomp," i cried. "i wish i hadn't. phew! it is hot!" after divers changes about, in which i got my fair share of the nuisance, we reached the house, to find my father at home; and he, morgan, and hannibal came on to meet our triumphant procession. "bravo, george!" said my father; "why, that's quite a patriarch. how did you manage to kill him?" "mass' george shoot um, and pomp cut um head off," cried the boy, proudly. "yes," i said; "pomp found him asleep, and fetched me. morgan, i want it on that stump." "no, no, sir," said morgan. "i'll get the hammer and a big spike-nail, and drive it through the back of the skin into that big tree at the bottom." "capital!" i cried. "but it will be a nuisance," said my father. "oh no, sir. it's full in the hot sun, and the flies will clean it. before a week's out it will be dry." hannibal fetched the short ladder, and held the head, while morgan drove in the nail so that the great head with its propped open jaws hung there grinning at the bottom of the garden; the skin soon shrinking away so that the head hung as it were by a skin loop; and before a month was past it was perfectly inoffensive, and had preserved in drying its natural appearance in a wonderful way. chapter sixteen. recollections of sunny days in the cotton-fields, with the men and women cramming the white bursting pods into baskets as they laughed and chattered together, and every now and then burst into some song or chorus, their natural light-heartedness making them, if well treated, forget the bonds from which they suffered. of those many days in the hot glow, where the men were busy with great chopping-knives cutting down the tall, towering canes ready to be piled high in the mule-carts and borne off to the crushing-mills. for as time went on the visit of the slave schooner was repeated again and again, and the settlers brought more land under cultivation, and the place grew more busy week by week. but at home all remained the same, only that by the help of hannibal our garden increased in beauty and productiveness to a wonderful extent, and pomp and i revelled in the abundance of the fruit. i used to look at the boy and his father, and wonder how it was possible for them to have settled down so contentedly. but they had, and it did not seem to me that they had a single thought of the past, so light and easy-going they were. but i misjudged them, as time proved. i was merry and lively enough in those days, never happier than when playing morgan some trick to arouse his wrath; but i was the perfection of quietness compared to pomp, who was more like a monkey in his antics than a boy; and his father, the morose-looking, gloomy slave that he had been, seemed to have grown as full of life and fun as his son. i don't think that there was anything i could have asked that pair that they would not have done. if i expressed a wish to have a pair of young squirrels for pets, they were sure to be obtained, just as the raccoon was, and the woodchuck. if i wished to fish, the baits were ready and the boat cleaned out; while if i told hannibal i wanted him to come and row for me, his black face shone with pleasure, and he would toil on in the hot sun, hour after hour, with the oars, evidently sharing my delight whenever i caught a fish. i remember one day when my father had gone across to the settlement on some business, taking morgan with him--i think it was to see and select from some fruit-trees and seeds which had been brought over from the old country--that i sat in our room, busy over the study which i had promised to have done by the time of my father's return. as i sat there i glanced out of the window from time to time to see hannibal toiling away with his hoe, in a great perspiration which glistened in the sun, but evidently supremely happy, as he chattered away to pomp, who was also supposed to be working hard, but only at preserving his position as he squatted on the top of a post with his arms about his knees, and his hoe laid across his head, perfectly balanced. i laughed to myself, and then went on with my work, a piece of latin translation, for my father used to say, "there is nothing to prevent you being a gentleman, my boy, even if we do live out in the wilds." all at once i heard sarah's quick step, as she went out of the place, and directly after she was busy over something. carelessly enough i looked up, and saw that she was beating and brushing my father's uniform, previous to hanging it over a rail, so as to guard it from decay by exposure to the sun. i sat looking at the bright scarlet and gold lace, and saw that she had brought out the cap too. then i went on with my work again, finished it, and with a sigh of satisfaction put all away, thinking that i would go down to the pool and have a bathe. the idea seemed good, and i stepped out, thinking what a patient, industrious, careful woman sarah was, and seeing that she must have fetched is the uniform again, and put it away. i went through the fence into the garden, meaning to make pomp go with me, but he was no longer perched on the stump, one of the many left when the garden was made; and on looking round for hannibal to ask where the boy had gone, i found he too had left his work. "hasn't finished," i said to myself, for the man's hoe was leaning against the tree. carelessly enough, i strolled on down to the bottom of the garden, looking at the alligator's great grinning jaws as i went by, and out at the end, to see if the pair were in the little hut that had been built for their use, and a laugh which i heard as i drew nearer told me that i was right as far as hannibal was concerned, while a few excited words which i could not make out proved that pomp was there as well. "what are they doing?" i thought to myself; and with the idea of giving them a surprise, i did not go up to the door, but turned off, walked round to the back, and parting the trees by whose leaves the place was shadowed, i reached the little square window at the rear of the house, and stood looking in, hardly knowing which to do--be furiously angry, or burst out laughing. for the moment i did neither, but stood gazing in unseen. there to my left was pomp, both his eyes twinkling with delight, squatting on the floor, and holding his knees, his favourite attitude, while his thick lips were drawn back from his milky-white teeth, from between which came a low, half-hissing, half-humming noise evidently indicative of his satisfaction, and in its way resembling the purring of a cat. to my right, slowly walking up and down, with a grave display of dignity that was most ludicrous, was hannibal, his head erect, eyes very wide open, and arms held firmly to his sides, a position that he must have imitated from seeing some of the drilling preparations going on at the settlement, and kept up ever since the scare produced by the coming of the indians and the spaniards. the reason for this attitudinising and parading was plain the moment i appeared at the window and grasped the situation; for it was clear enough--pomp had seen the gay uniform airing upon the rail, had annexed it, and carried it off to the hut, probably with his father as an abettor, in what could only have been meant for a loan; and he had followed the boy in, and possibly with his assistance put on the clothes, which fitted him fairly well; but his appearance was not perfect. for there over the white-faced scarlet coat was the shiny black face, surmounted by the military cap worn wrong way foremost, while the breeches were unbuttoned at the knee, and the leggings were not there, only hannibal's black legs, and below them his dusty toes, which spread out far from each other, and worked about in a way most absurd. but the most absurd thing of all was the aspect of satisfied dignity in the man's countenance. it was as if he were supremely happy and contented with himself, the clothes having evidently raised him enormously in his own estimation. "now what shall i do?" i thought; "go in and scold them both, or wait and see if they put the things back?" i was still hesitating and thinking how angry my father would be, when i found suddenly that there would be no need for me to speak and upset the equanimity of the happy pair, for all at once i heard a loud exclamation from the direction of the house, where sarah had just come out to fetch in the uniform; and directly after, she jumped at the right conclusion, and made the place echo with the cry of "pompey!" the effect was wondrous. the boy seemed for the moment turned to stone; his jaw fell, and he stared at his father, whose face seemed to grow ashy, and from whose aspect all the dignity had vanished in an instant. then, quick as some wild animal, pomp sprang at his father, the shock with which he struck him in the chest causing the hat to fall off back on to the floor as he tore at the buttons to get the coat off. hannibal, with his fingers shaking and twitching, helped all he could, and hindered more, while i stood smothering my laughter and waiting to see the end of the comedy. those garments were dragged off doubtlessly much more quickly than they were put on, and as soon as they were huddled together, father and son stood listening to sarah's voice, their eyes starting, and the perspiration standing in great drops upon their faces. "what will they do next?" i said to myself. apparently they had no plans, for hannibal looked reproachfully at his son and shook his head at him, his lips moving, and in a low, husky voice he said-- "whatebber will i do!" a way out of the difficulty seemed to come to the younger black, for he suddenly darted at the hat, picked it up, and dabbed it down on the bundle of white and scarlet clothes. then, whispering a few words to his father--who seemed to be hanging back but to give way at last--the boy ran to the door, dropped down on all fours so as to be hidden by the trees from the house, and glided off almost as rapidly as some four-legged animal. "the young coward, to run away like that," i said to myself, as another loud cry of "pompey, pompey! where are you?" came from the front of the house. "poor old hannibal!" i thought to myself, as i saw the utterly cowed object before me, so strangely contrasted with the dignified being a short time back in uniform, that i could hardly restrain my merriment. but i did not laugh out, for i was sorry for the poor fellow, and tried to think of some way of extricating him from his difficulty, as he stood there with the uniform huddled up in his arms. somehow no idea came, only a feeling of anger against the cowardly young scoundrel of a boy, who had left his father in the lurch. "if it was only he," i said to myself, "i'd glory in seeing old sarah pull his ears, a mischievous young dog!" but there was hannibal before me, and whenever i looked in the poor fellow's face i never could help a feeling of respectful liking for the unhappy slave whom i had seen lying half dead upon the bank of the stream when we first brought him ashore. then with sarah's voice still heard at intervals raging and storming, i strove to think of a plan to get the poor fellow out of his hobble, while at the same time, in a confused way, the scene on the bank kept coming back, and with it thoughts of how the boy had been ready to fight for his father then, while now he had taken to his heels and fled. "i don't know what to do," i said at last to myself, as i felt that our civilising had spoiled pomp. "to go and talk to her, and tell her not to make a fuss." "pompey! pompey!" rang out from close by now, and hannibal let fall the uniform, and clasped his hands. it was evident that sarah was coming to see if the boy was in the hut, and there was nothing for it but to bear the blame. "pompey! do you hear me?" "a--y--ou," came from right the other side of the house. "you call a me, missie sarah?" "oh, there you are, are you?" she cried; and as i peeped through the trees, i saw her turn sharply round and hurry back, talking volubly the while. then she called again-- "pompey!" "yes, missie." "come here, sir." "you call a me, missie?" "yes, you know i called you. where are you?" "hey--oh--hi--ho! hey oh--hi oh! ally olly hi--oh--olly olly hi!" came in musical tones from the other side of the house; and as i peeped once more through the windows i saw hannibal's bent back, as he stooped and picked up the clothes, brushed off some dust, and then with them held all ready and his face working with excitement, he crept to the door. "pompey, do you hear me?" cried sarah, who was gone up now to the house. "hey--oh--hi--oh! yes, missie, you call a me?" came from a little farther away. "do you hear what i say, sir?" "yes, missie." "then come here directly." "ole massa go along, an' massa george a 'top alonga." "pompey!" "yes, missie; you call a me?" "oh!" cried sarah, fiercely, "just wait till i get hold of you, sir;" and she ran off down the path at the other side of the house, shouting for the boy, who kept on answering, and, as i realised now, purposely leading her farther and farther away to give his father time. for, stooping low down, and with wonderful speed and agility, hannibal, who had crept out of the hut, suddenly darted into and down the garden, and as i followed, keeping well hidden among the trees, i saw him reach the front of the house, shake out the uniform, hang coat and breeches on the rail, stick the cap on the end, and dart off away in another direction, so to reach the path leading into the forest on the way to the stream. i ached with my efforts to keep down my laughter, as i saw him scud off, glad at heart though, all the same, for, poor fellow, he had escaped. then all at once my admiration for pomp increased to a wonderful degree, for i heard a howl from the other side of the house, the sound of blows, heavy ones too; and as pomp shrieked and howled, it was evident that sarah was cuffing him tremendously. her voice grew louder every moment, so did pomp's cries and protestations, till i could hear every word from my hiding-place, thoroughly enjoying of course the punishment that had fallen on the boy, while delighted by his ruse to get the clothes back and save his father. "oh don't, missie; don't whop a poor lil nigger," came loudly. "you mischievous--(_bang_!)--young--(_bang_!)--where are those clothes?" "no, haven't got 'em, missie; no, haven't got 'em. oh! _oh_! oh!" "don't tell me your wicked stories, sir. tell me this moment, or master shall know, and you shall be flogged. you have stolen them away." "no, no, missie, pompey nebber 'teal, no, nebber; wouldn't 'teal notin'." "you--(_bang_!)--have taken--(_bang_!)--those clothes away. where are they, sir?" "oh, don't whip lil nigger, missie. no got no clothes on'y lil cotton drawers, an' lil shirtums," howled pomp, as he was dragged into sight now, sarah holding on tightly by one of his ears. "and i say you have got them, sir. nobody else could have taken them," cried sarah. "you wicked black magpie, you! show me this instant where you have put them, or i don't know what i won't do." i knew what was coming; it was all plain enough. but no, not quite all; but i did see the _denouement_ to some extent, for, as sarah dragged the boy forward, i could contain myself no longer. "oh don't, missie!" howled the young dog. "oh, but i will," cried sarah. "i put poor master's uniform on that rail to air, and--_well_!" "ha--ha--ha--ha--ha!" i never laughed louder in my life, as i burst forth into quite a yell, for there stood poor sarah, with her mouth wide open, staring at the uniform hanging on the rail, and then at pomp, who looked up at her with his face screwed up in mock agony, but his eyes twinkling with delight. "was dem a clothes you gone lose, missie?" he said, innocently; and sarah panted and looked is my direction. "dat massa george brass out alarfin for you whip poor lil nigger nuffin tall." "oh--oh--oh!" burst forth sarah at last, hysterically; "it's a shame--a cruel shame, master george, to play me such a good-for-nothing trick." i ceased laughing directly, and my mouth opened now with astonishment at the turn things had taken. "you ought to be ashamed of yourself, sir," cried sarah; "and here have i been ill-using this poor boy because--oh, pompey, pompey, pompey!" she caught him in her arms and gave him a motherly hug, while i stood amongst the trees speechless. "missie cry her eyes cos she whip pompey?" "yes, my poor boy," cried sarah. "but his father shall know. ah, you may well stop in hiding, sir; it's a shame." then, ever so much louder, "it's a shame!" "don't 'cold massa george, missie," said pompey. "him nebber do nuffin." "do nothing, indeed!" cried sarah. "you come along in with me, and i'm very, very sorry i whipped you." "pompey done mind, missie," said the boy, showing his teeth. "there, you're a very good, forgiving boy," said sarah, as she caught up the uniform to take it in; "and i wish i could forgive myself." then, catching pomp by the arm, she led him into the house, from which he soon after returned with a corn-cake and half a pot of prime jam of sarah's own make. and there i stood all the time thinking seriously among the trees, and unable to make up my mind what to do. if i did not speak, i should bear the blame, and sarah would remain angry with me. if i told all, poor hannibal, who had been led into the indulgence in a bit of vanity by his boy, would be in disgrace, and i knew that the poor fellow would feel it keenly. if i did not tell all, that young rascal would triumph in his cunning and deceit, and enjoy letting me have the credit of playing the trick on sarah. "i will tell," i said, sharply, as i saw pomp come out licking his thick lips, and enjoying the jam. then i thought of how patiently he had borne sarah's blows, so as to save his father from getting into disgrace, and that disarmed me again; so that my mind see-sawed about in the most tiresome way, till i gave up in despair, coming to no conclusion, and leaving the matter to settle itself, but determined to give master pomp a good thrashing soon, so as to get some satisfaction out of the affair. "pomp," i said, half aloud, "pomp. yes, i called him pomp; and after what i saw in the hut i ought to call old hannibal vanity. so i will-- pomp and vanity. i wish i could make up my mind what to do." i had something else to think of the next moment, for i heard a shout, and hannibal himself came running along the path from the stream. "hi--hi--mass' george!" he shouted, breathlessly. "what's the matter?" i said, running towards the house to get a gun. "here, quick, come in here." i strained my eyes as i ran, expecting to see indians in pursuit of him, but he alone was visible, and he pointed, breathless and panting, in the direction from which he came. "what is it?" i cried. "what's the matter?" the answer came in a peculiar, low, hissing, rushing sound, as if a storm were coming through the forest. it ceased directly, and died away in a low, dull roar. chapter seventeen. "here, what's the matter?" i cried; and at that moment sarah came running out again, looking inquiringly from one to the other. "what was that noise?" she said. "de ribber--de ribber," panted hannibal. then he tried to say more, but he was so excited that his command of english failed him, and he turned to pomp, who had just come back from the hut, and said something to him volubly in his own tongue. pomp's mouth opened wide, and he stared wildly at his father. then turning to me, he caught hold of my arm. "come, get up the tree, mass' george. pull missie up the tree." "what for? what's the matter?" i said, as the dull roaring seemed to be coming back. "ribber run all ober; water take away de boat, and all gone." "river running over? what do you mean--a flood?" "yes, dat's flood. come, get up a tree." "oh, nonsense! come and see." "no, no, mass' george, mustn't go," cried pomp, seizing my arm, and i was making for the path leading to the stream. "hark! hear dat?" i certainly did hear a low, ominous roar rising and falling in the air, but it sounded like distant thunder dying away. i began to be startled now, for the look of dread in hannibal's features was not without its effect upon me. just then pomp began to drag sarah toward the biggest cypress about the place, chattering to her excitedly the while. "no, no, i can't; my good boy, no," she cried. "what! get up the tree? oh, nonsense! here, master george, my dear boy, what does it all mean?" "i don't know. i'm as puzzled as you are, but it means that we're going to have a flood. i wish my father was here." "look here, pomp," i said; "we need not climb a tree; it's a great chance if the water reaches as high as the garden;" and i looked round, thinking how wise my father had been to select this spot, which was the only rising bit of ground near, though he had not chosen it on account of fears of flood, but so as to be well above the swamp damp and mists. hannibal said something excitedly to his son. "yes; climb up a tree, mass' george. big water come roll down, wash um all away. ah! make um hase, mass' george." he seized me by the arm, and pushed me toward the tree, which was about a hundred feet away down the slope at the back, but almost instantaneously a wave of water came washing and sighing through the forest slowly but surely, and lapped onward as it swept out from the forest line at a rate which, deliberate as it seemed, was sufficient for it to reach the big cypress before we could; and i stopped short appalled and looked round for a place of refuge. the water came on, and in another minute would have been up to where we stood, but it shrank back again toward the forest, and i felt that the danger was over, when to my great delight i heard a shout, the splashing of some one running through water, and my father came into sight to run up the slope to the place where we stood, closely followed by morgan, and both at first too much exhausted to speak. "thank god!" he cried at last. "don't speak. flood. the settlement deep in water. rising fast. the boat?" "wash away, massa," cried pomp. "ah!" cried my father, despairingly. "quick, all of you. it is coming now." as he spoke i heard the deep roar increasing, and after a glance round, my father pointed to the tree. "we must get up into that. no: too late." for the flood came in a great, smooth, swelling wave out from the edge of the forest, and then glided toward us, rising rapidly up the slope. "i'm with you," cried my father, and catching sarah by the hand, he dragged her into the house, seized the rough ladder, and made her climb up silent and trembling into the loft, where, before we could join her, the water was over the doorsteps and had risen to our knees. but the moment sarah was in the loft, my father ordered pomp and me to follow, then hannibal and morgan, coming up last himself, by which time the water was up to his waist. as soon as he was in the little low loft, my father forced out the wooden bars across one of the windows and looked out, to take in the extent of our danger, and i pressed close to his side. "is there any danger?" i said, rather huskily. "i hope not, my boy," he said, sadly. "the question is whether the house will be swept right away. everything depends upon whether it comes with a fierce rash, or rises slowly." i looked round and could see that the flood kept coming in little swells or waves from the edge of the forest, the water rushing out from among the tall trunks, and then seeming to undulate gently toward the house. the garden was covered deeply, and where i had been accustomed to look at the pleasant sand-walks, and the young fruit-trees, all was now water, out of which rose the tops of trees here and there. the thatched roof of the blacks' hut was just visible as a grey point seen amongst the tree-tops, and all at once i saw it rise up high out of the water and then settle down again and float slowly away. at that moment my father uttered a low sigh, and then there was another loud dull roar, and a great wave came rolling out of the edge of the forest, swelling onward, the tops of the trees bending towards us as it came on and on slowly, but with a force that bore all before it, and i felt my father's hand clasp mine in his. "quick!" he whispered; "climb out, and get on the ridge of the roof." "are you coming too, father?" i said. "out, quick!" he answered, but before i was clear of the window, he had hold of me and half drew me back, holding to me tightly, and not without need, for there was a dull thud, the house quivered from the tremendous blow, and i felt the water leap over me, deluging me from head to foot, and making me gasp for breath as i struggled to get back. "quiet!" said my father, sternly, and i remained still, expecting to feel the house swept away, to go floating like the roof of the hut, right away. but it stood firm, the wave gliding off, but leaving the water now rippling up between the boards, telling that the lower floor was filled, and the flood rising through the ceiling. an anxious ten minutes ensued, during which wave after wave came rolling out of the forest, each to deliver a heavy blow at our house, making the roof crack, but never yield, and with the last came so great an influx of water that our position rapidly began to grow untenable. my father made no effort to induce me to climb up after the first wave struck us, till the water had risen well up into the loft, when he said quietly-- "up with you, morgan, on to the ridge." "begging your pardon, sir, i--" "silence, sir! out and up with you, and be ready to take your wife's hands." it was the officer spoke then, and morgan crept out through the rough dormer window, and directly after shouted briefly-- "ready." "now, sarah, my good woman, be brave and firm; creep out here," said my father. "don't think about the water, and grasp your husband's hands at once." i heard sarah give a deep sigh, and she caught at and pressed my shoulder as she passed; then with an activity i should not have expected of her, she crept out of the window, my father holding her dress tightly; there was a loud scrambling sound heard above the hissing and roaring of the water, and my father spoke again. "safe!" he muttered. then aloud, "now, boys--both of you--up, and on to the ridge." "you first, pomp," i said; and the boy scrambled out, and i followed, the task being, of course, mere play to us as we crept up the well-timbered roof, and got outside of the ridge-pole. we had not been there a minute before hannibal and my father were beside us, and the waste of water all around. "not much too soon," said my father, cheerfully. "do you see, george?" "yes, father," i said, feeling rather white, or as i suppose any one would feel if he were white, for the water was level now with the bottom of the window; "will it rise higher?" "i am afraid so," he said, gravely, as he looked sharply round at the various trees standing out of the water. "yes," he continued, with the firmness of one who has made his decision; "morgan, you swim well, and the current sets in the right direction. if the house gives way--" "oh, but it won't, sir; we made it too strong for that." "then if the water compels us to leave here, do you think you can support your wife to that tree, if i swim beside and help you?" "i will support her there, sir," said morgan, firmly. "that's right. hannibal, you can easily reach there?" "yes, sah." "and you boys can, of course. we may have to take to that tree, for i think it will stand." we all declared our ability to reach the new refuge, and pomp gave me a nod and a smile, for it was the tree we had before meant to reach; and then we sat there awe-struck, and wondering whether the house would give way, and be swept from its position. but now no fresh waves came rolling out of the forest, only a current swept gently past, and after a long silence my father said-- "yes, that must be it. a terrible series of storms must have been occurring, hundreds, perhaps a thousand miles away up in the highlands and mountains, gathering force, till a flood has swept down to here like a series of huge waves passing down the rivers, and flooding all their banks. the first violence has passed, and i think we may hope that the waters will go down as rapidly as they rose." but his words did not seem likely to prove correct, for as we sat there, with evening creeping on, it was plain to see that the water was still rising--very slowly, but creeping steadily on. at first it was only level with the dormer window; then by slow degrees it was half way up; and as darkness was coming on, the top of the window was nearly reached. the roof was high in pitch, so that we were well out of the reach of the cold current as yet; but calculating by the rate of advance, it was plain that before many hours had passed the water would have risen to us; and the question my father had to ask us all was, whether we should stay there in the hope that at any time the highest point of the flood might have been reached, or try and swim at once to the great cypress, and take refuge among its boughs. "what do you say, morgan?" said my father at last. "shall we go or stay?" "don't know what to say, sir. we are dry now, but if we swim to the tree we shall all be drenched, except these two blacks, and they can easily wring out their things. then it means sitting in our wet clothes half perished through the night. i don't so much mind, but it would be terrible for her." "don't study me, sir, please," said sarah, firmly. "do what is for the best." "i think what you say is right, morgan. we can but swim to the tree when the water rises too high for us to stay here longer." "but you don't really think it'll get any higher, sir, do you?" "i am afraid to say what i think," replied my father. "we are in a vast continent whose rivers are enormous. you see the water is still rising." "oh yes, sir, it's still rising," grumbled morgan; "but i wish it would keep still. going to stop or go, sir? if we go it had better be at once." "we will stay," said my father; and as terrible a vigil as ever poor creatures kept commenced. fortunately for us the night was glorious, and as the last gleam of daylight passed away, the great stars came out rapidly, till the darkened heavens were one blaze of splendour, while the scene was made more grand by the glittering being reflected from the calm surface of the waters all around, till we seemed to be sitting there in the midst of a sea of gold, with blackened figures standing up dotted here and there, and beyond them the dark line of the forest. the silence for a time was awful, for the current now ran very slowly, and the rise of the water was so insidious that it could hardly be perceived. from time to time my father tried to raise our spirits by speaking hopefully and prayerfully of our position, but it was hard work to raise the spirits of poor creatures in so perilous a strait, and after a time he became silent, and we all sat wondering, and bending down to feel if the water was still rising. then all at once a curious thrill of horror ran through me, for the hideous bellow of an alligator was heard, and morgan's hand went involuntarily to his pocket. "got knives, everybody?" he said. "don't want them cowardly beasts to tackle us now." "it is hardly likely," said my father, but at that moment as he spoke pomp touched my arm. "dah 'gator!" he said, pointing. i could see nothing, only that there was a broken lustre of the stars reflected on the water; and if it was one of the monsters it slowly glided away. then it began to grow colder and colder, and as i sat and gazed before me, the dark trees standing above the flood grew misty, and a pleasant sensation was stealing over me, when i felt my arm grasped tightly, and i gave quite a jump. "no, no, my boy!" said my father, sternly. "you must not give way to that." "i--i--" i faltered. "you were dropping off to sleep," said my father, firmly. "you must master the desire. hannibal, take care that pomp does not go to sleep." "him sleep long time, sah," said the black. "wake um up?" "no; let him sleep; only keep watch over him, or he may slide into the water." there was silence again, only broken by a low sigh or two from sarah, to whom morgan muttered something again and again as the time crawled slowly on and the waters still rose higher and higher toward our feet. never did the night seem so long before, and the only relief i had in my wearisome position was derived from the efforts i had to make from time to time to master the terrible feeling of drowsiness which would keep coming on. every now and then there was a little buzz of conversation, and i made out that my father asked every one's opinion, and made all try to make out how much higher the water had risen, so as to excite their interest, though it was all plain enough. and so the night wore on, with the flood gliding up and up, and strange splashings and bellowings heard from time to time, now far off, now nearer, and every eye was strained to see if the creatures that made these noises were appearing. then all was silent again, and we waited, with the water still rising. all at once i caught at my father's arm. "what's that?" i whispered, in awe-stricken tones, for there was a curious quivering thrill in the timbers of the house, and it felt to me as if it was at last yielding to the presence of the water, and preparing to break up and float away. my father did not answer for a few moments, and i knew that he was listening intently. "i am not sure," he said at last. "i think--and hope--that it was something heavy swept against the house, and that it has passed on." the alarm died out, and we sat either in silence or talking together of the state of affairs at the settlement, and the possibility of help coming in the shape of boats at daybreak, when pomp's sharp voice suddenly rang out-- "hi! who did dat? who pour cole water on nigger leg?" in spite of the cold and misery and peril of my position, i could not help laughing heartily as i heard hannibal speaking angrily. pomp retorted just as sharply, but though his father spoke in their west african tongue the boy replied in his broken english, to which he was daily becoming more accustomed, while his father acquired it far more slowly. "how i know?" cried pomp, irritably. "i tought mass' george play trick. hi! mass' george, you dah?" "yes," i said. "what is it?" "you got anyfing to eat? i so dreffle hungry." "no, pomp," i replied, sadly; "nothing at all." "you been sleep, sah?" he continued, turning to my father. "no, my lad, no," replied my father, good-humouredly, and i heard the boy yawn loudly. there was no need to measure the water now, or to be in doubt as to whether it was rising, for it had wetted our feet as we sat astride, or eased the position by sitting in the ordinary way. but the stars still shone, and the night dragged its slow way on. "will morning never come?" i said, despairingly to my father at last. "oh, i am so--so sleepy." he took my hand and pressed it. "try and bear it all like a man, my boy," he whispered. "there is a woman with us, and you have not heard her make a single complaint." "no; it was very selfish and cowardly of me, father," i whispered back, "and i will try." i did, and i conquered, for i know that not a single complaint afterwards escaped my lips. and higher still rose the black, gold-spangled water over our ankles, creeping chilly and numbing up our legs, and we knew that before long the effort would have to be made to reach the great black mound of boughs which we could dimly see a short distance away. "how far do you think it is from daybreak, morgan?" said my father suddenly, after what seemed to me a terrible time of suspense. "don't know, sir. daren't guess at it," said morgan, despondently. "time has gone so slowly that it may be hours off yet." "no," said my father, "it cannot be very far away. if i could feel sure i would still wait before making our attempt, but i am afraid to wait long. we are getting chilled and numb." "just so, sir," said morgan, sadly. "you think for us all, sir, and give your orders. i'll do my best." there was another pause, and i heard my father draw a deep breath, and then speak sharply-- "well, george," he said; "how do you feel for your swim?" i tried to answer, but a feeling of despair choked me, as i looked across at the dark boughs, thought of the depth of water between, and that i could not swim there now. "oh, come, come, lad, pick up," cried my father. "the distance is nothing. i shall want you to help me." "yes, father," i said, despondently; and i heard him draw a deep, catching breath. but he knew that on him lay the task of saving us all, and he said cheerfully-- "you can easily swim that, hannibal?" "yes, sah," said the black, quietly. "and you, pompey?" "eh, massa? swim dat? yes, pomp swim all dat, sah." "we shall be forced to start directly," said my father. "do you hear, morgan? we must not wait to be floated off." "no, sir," replied morgan; and his voice sounded sad and grave, and a low sigh came from by his side. then arose in a low voice-- "master george, dear, could you get here?" "yes," i said, trying to stir myself; and, catching hold of my father's hand, i stood up with a foot on each side of the ridge, stiff, cramped, and with the water streaming from me. "that's right," said my father, cheerfully. "mind how you go, my lad. it will stretch your legs. take hold of hannibal; don't slip and get a ducking." he said all this cheerily, and i knew it was to encourage us all; but as i passed by him, stepping right over his legs, he whispered, "speak cheerily to the poor woman." "yes, father," i whispered back. "don't keep him, sarah," said my father. "i want to come there myself; i shall swim by your other side." she did not answer, and i crept by hannibal and then over pomp, who gave me a hug, his teeth chattering as he said-- "oh, i say, mass' george, i so dreffle cold. water right up a-top." the next moment i was seated again on the ridge, feeling that the water really was right up to the top, as sarah's cold arms closed round me, and her wet face was pressed to mine as she kissed me. "good-bye; god bless you, my darling!" "don't, don't talk like that," i said. "we'll all mount the tree, and the water will go down." a piteous, despairing sigh came into my ear, and i felt morgan's hand seek mine, and give me what i knew was meant for a farewell grip. a bad preparation for a swim to save one's life, and the chill of the rising water began now to increase as i fancied it made a leap at us, as if to snatch us off and bear us away to the far-off dark shores beyond which there was a newer life. "come, george, my lad. back with you," cried my father; "i want to come there. be ready every one; we must start in a few minutes." "yes, father," i said; and i was on my way back, passing pomp, who began to follow me, and together we crept, splashing through the water, holding tight by hannibal, and then by my father. "you too, my lad?" he said, kindly. "yes, massa," replied pomp. "swim steadily, both of you. the distance is very short, and there is nothing to mind." then as if to himself--"oh, if i could only tell when morning would come!" "massa want know when time to get up to go to work?" said pomp, sharply. "yes." "oh, quite soon, sah. sun come up dreckly, and warm poor little nigger; i so dreffle cold." "how do you know?" cried my father, clinging as it were like a drowning man to a straw of hope. "oh, pomp know, sah. dah! you ope bofe ear, and listum to lil bird. dat him. lil blackum yallow bird, go _pinkum-winkum-wee_." a dead silence fell upon us, and what had been inaudible to me, but quite plain to the boy, came faintly from the distance--the twittering cry of a bird in one of the trees at the edge of the forest; and directly after it was answered from far away, and i felt my father's cold wet hand grasp mine as he exclaimed hoarsely--"thank god." i could hear him breathing hard, and the tears ran down my cheeks as my head rested on his breast, and i clung to him for a few seconds. then he drew another deep breath, and his voice and manner were entirely changed, as he cried out-- "do you hear, morgan? daybreak in a few minutes, and the sun before long. i think we could hold out here for an hour at a pinch. we shall have our swim long before that, and with heaven's good light to help us safely there." "hurrah!" shouted morgan, hoarsely. and then we all joined in a hearty cheer, while the cry of the bird rang out directly after from close at hand. chapter eighteen. black night comes quickly down there in the south, with but little of the twilight of the north, and after the night's dark reign there is but a short dawn before the sun springs up to shed hope and light, and the bright thoughts of a new day. and now, with the blood seeming to flow more swiftly through our chilled frames, came the pipings and twitterings of the birds at the edge of the forest; there was a misty light, then a roseate flush overhead which rapidly changed to orange above and below. the black mirror spangled with diamonds and gold had gone, and as we sat there with the water lapping now over the ridge, which was quite invisible, the sun's edge rose over the forest, glorifying the tops of the trees, and the great green cypress stood up with golden gleams darting through it, and offering us an inviting refuge from the peril in which we were placed. "now, morgan, ready?" said my father, as he stood up and shook his limbs. "yes, sir, ready. cheer up, old lass; we'll soon get you there." i caught a glimpse of sarah's white despairing face, but my attention was taken up directly by my father's words. "come, pompey, brave lad, jump in and swim across to the big tree, and show us the way." "iss, massa," cried the boy; and he started up and dived in plump, to disappear, and then his black head popped up. "come 'long, mass' george," he cried; "so lubbly warm." "yes; in with you!" cried my father; and i rose, hesitated a moment, and then plunged in, to find that by comparison with the air the water was quite warm. "i dab fuss," cried pompey, and he swam on to soon reach one of the boughs, and turn round to wait for me. i did not keep him long; and as soon as we had seated ourselves astride of the great branch just level with the water, we stayed to watch the coming of the rest. that little swim after the effort required to make the first plunge was simplicity itself to us boys; and consequently i looked almost wonderingly at the effort it caused my father and morgan to get across with sarah, whom they supported between them. they started well, swimming of course abreast, and with hannibal coming behind, but after a time they began to get deeper in the water, and to be swimming with more effort, fighting so fiercely at last that if it had not been for hannibal lending them a helping hand, they would have been swept away. i could not understand the reason for some time, but at last made out that they had drifted into a spot where two little currents met, and were striving against a force which i had not encountered, and were being carried away. at last, by making a desperate effort, they swam on up the swift little current, and were nearing the tree fast, getting well toward the bough on which we two boys were seated, when all at once they stopped and began struggling again. they were so near the end of the bough, that had we been there i could almost have reached them, and yet, so close to safety, they were, as i at last realised, completely helpless. "what is it? what's the matter, father?" i cried, excitedly. "caught--caught among the boughs underneath," he panted, hoarsely; and i knew now that they had swum into and become entangled among the submerged boughs. just then i heard sarah say piteously-- "it's of no use. try and save yourselves." i looked at pomp, and he nodded his head, as if he fully comprehended me, beginning at once to creep along the bough we were on, like a monkey, and i followed as well as i could, pretty quickly, but not with his agility. the bough was thick where we sat, about a couple of feet above the water, and rose up at the end to about ten feet above. but as i hoped, when we were some distance along, it began to bend more and more, and the thinner branch we now reached bent so rapidly that we were soon only five feet, after climbing to six, then four, three--two--then one, and then touching the water into which we sank now, going along hand over hand, making the rough bough act as a natural rope, till pomp was at the full extent of the thinnest twigs and nearly within reach of the helpless group. "now, mass' george, come," he said. i grasped his meaning and passed on abreast of him, took a good hold with one hand grasping quite a bunch of twigs, while the boy took the other and reached out toward where morgan was just able to keep himself afloat, with the others beyond him, and all growing weaker minute by minute. pomp got out as far as he could and stretched out his hand, but he was a full yard off still, and in a despairing way i looked at morgan's upturned face. "no catch hold, massa?" cried pomp; and then he said something in his own tongue, whose effect was to make hannibal swim rapidly towards him from where he had been supporting my father, he being the only one not entangled by the boughs. the peril taught the man how to act, and catching his son's hand, he bridged the space and extended his other hand to morgan, so that we formed a human chain in the water, dependent upon the strength of my wrist and the bunch of twigs and leaves i held. "now, father," i said; "can you get clear?" he struggled feebly, and i began to tremble for my hold. "no," he said; "my foot is caught in a fork among the boughs, and if you draw, it only tightens it." a dead silence ensued. what was to be done? i could not answer the question, and i knew that everything depended upon how long i could hold on. was all our effort to result in failure after all? it seemed so, and i tried to say something about kicking free, but no words would come, and once more i began to feel a horrible sensation of fear. the difficulty was solved by my father, who roused himself to a final effort just in the height of our despair. "get her into the tree," he said, hoarsely. "never mind me." what followed seems to me now like part of a confused dream. nearly all my early adventures stand out, when i go back, brightly vivid and distinct, but a mist comes over my brain when i try to recall that scene. i can remember though how pomp changed his grasp of my hand after a struggle, by getting his teeth well into the skirt of the loose black garment i wore, thus setting both my hands at liberty, so that i was able to get a double hold upon the boughs, and drag and draw with such good effect that pomp was soon within reach of another. he seized this, and together we managed to draw hannibal and then morgan within reach, so that they too got a good grip of the bended twigs, and were in comparative safety. but my father? i looked from where i held on, up to my chin in the water, outward toward the spot in which i had seen him last. but he was not there. he had really been the only one entangled, and as soon as he had loosened his hold of poor sarah, a good struggle in the outward direction had set him free, and i saw him now striking out feebly and floating helplessly away. my first thought was to swim to his help, but i was utterly unnerved and overdone. a few strokes would have been all that i could have taken, and then i might have gone down, but a hand was stretched-out and caught me by the collar, and morgan's voice whispered-- "no, no, my lad, leave it to them." and now for the first time, in a confused way, i understood that hannibal and pompey were swimming to my father's help, while i remained clinging there. more misty than ever all that follows seems, but i have a recollection of seeing the two black heads nearing where my father was still struggling to keep afloat, drifting farther and farther away, and next of his being close up to the great fork of the tree some dozen yards from where we clung. it was no easy task to join them, but the danger was past now, and after a rest we three--morgan, sarah, and myself--managed to get along the bough to where we could reach another, lower down, and level with the water. the rest was simple, and before many more minutes had elapsed, we were all gathered together in the great fork among the huge branches, wringing away part of the water that drenched us, and mentally thankful for our narrow escape from death as we revelled in the warm beams of the sun. chapter nineteen. very little was said for some time, every one being glad of the calm and silence, and drawing in the genial warmth which was delicious to our cramped and thoroughly weary limbs. and as i sat there, gazing out over the waters at what seemed to be a vast lake, it did not appear like a scene of desolation, for the sunbeams danced on the rippled water, or turned it to a glittering mirror, where it flowed calm and still; the trees stood out at intervals all green and beautiful; and the forest beyond the clearings, though dwarfed, was unchanged. now and then a fish flashed out like a bar of silver, and the birds twittered, piped, and sang as if nothing had happened. it was only the poor human beings who were helpless, and beginning to feel, now that the excitement had passed, the pangs of a trouble that it was impossible to meet. one of my first acts, as soon as i began to grow dry and warm, was to take my knife from my pocket and cut a notch in the tree just on a level with the water. pomp looked at me and then shook his head. "no," he said; "no, mass' george, no get sug gum dah, an' pomp dreffle hungry." "i know that," i said, rather surlily, for my notch was not meant for the purpose he thought, and i knew the difference between a cypress and a sugar maple. "den what for cut um tree?" "to see whether the water is rising or going down." "not do nuffum," said the boy, eagerly. "'top so." "yes, he is right," said my father, who had been higher up the tree, trying to get a glimpse in the direction of the settlement, in the hope of help in the shape of a boat being on the way. "the flood seems to have reached its highest point, and we may begin to hope that it will go down now." but the hours glided by and there was no help, and no sign of the flood sinking. pomp was quite right; it did "'top so," and we began to suffer keenly from hunger. we had long got well warm in the sunshine, and the thirst we felt was easily assuaged, though there was very little temptation to partake of the turbid water; but our sensations of hunger grew apace, and i saw that while we white people sat there about the fork of the tree, trying to bear our sufferings stoically, both the blacks were in constant movement, and they had always something to say, hannibal confining his remarks however to his son. "look, look!" cried pomp, excitedly; "dah um fis. no got hookum line, no got net." he shook his head despondently, evidently quite oblivious of the fact that even with hook and line he had no bait, and that it was impossible to use a net. then he was off up the tree, first ascending one great bough and then another, to lean out, staring away between the twigs in search of something, but he always came down again looking quite disconsolate. "what have you been looking for?" i said on one of these occasions. "simmon tree, mass' george. no see one nowhere 'bout." "but you couldn't get there if you could see them." "no get um?" he said with a laugh. "pomp no get um? wait a bit." "why, how could you manage?" "no manage 'tall. 'wim dah, and 'wim back." then we scanned the waste of waters in the hope that we might see something, even if it was only some drowned animal, but nothing came in sight till well on in the afternoon, when hannibal made some remark which sent pompey into a tremendous state of excitement. "what is it?" i cried, eagerly rising from where i had been down to examine my notch, to find that the water remained nearly unchanged. "pomp and um fader see some fis' good to eat," said the boy. "come see." i climbed up to where he was, and he pointed; but for some time i could make out nothing but driftwood, a tree floating roots upward, and some great patches of grass that seemed to have been scooped out of a bank, roots and all. "i can't see anything," i said at last. "what, not dah?" cried pomp. "no." "all 'long side dat tree?" "oh, yes," i cried; "what is it--a big fish?" "no; dat nice lil 'gator, sah." "what? why, we couldn't eat alligator." "oh, yes; eat um, got nuffum else," cried pomp, to my great disgust. "but even if you would eat the nasty wretch, you can't catch it." "no," said pomp. "tell um fader can't catch. pomp wish dat, but lil 'gator, see um come on, cock um tail up and go right to de bottom. oh, oh, mass' george, i so dreffle hungry. feel as if um eatum own fader." there was something so comic in the poor fellow's trouble that i could not forbear smiling as i went along to where morgan was seated quietly enough by sarah, and i felt something like anger and disgust as i saw that the former was eating something. "oh, morgan!" i said, sharply; "if i had had something to eat i would have shared it." "isn't much, but you shall have some if you like, sir. sarah here won't touch it." he took a flat brass box out of his pocket, opened it, and held it to me. "tobacco!" i said, looking with disgust at the black, twisted leaf. "yes, sir, 'bacco keeps off the hunger." "i'd rather have the hunger," i said; and he shut the box with a snap. restless as pomp now, and growing more and more miserable, i climbed to where my father was sitting watching one break among the trees in the direction of the settlement, and he turned to me with a smile. "tired and hungry?" he said. "yes, i know. but patience, my boy, patience. our lives have been spared, and help may come at any moment." "but do you think we shall escape?" "why not?" he said, calmly. "we were in much greater peril last night." "yes, father," i said; "but we weren't half so hungry." my remark brought the first smile i had seen to his lip for hours. "yes, yes; i know," he said; "but patience. i think we shall soon see the water begin to fall, for when i was at the settlement yesterday, the tide was turning and going down about this time. if it does not take with it the inundation, we must divide ourselves into two parties, one to sit and watch while the other sleeps. by to-morrow the flood will either have fallen, or help will have come." "sleep, father!" i said, dolefully; "who can sleep at a time like this?" "all of us, i hope," he said. "we shall easily drop off after our past night's watch." "but who could go to sleep feeling so hungry as this?" i protested. "you," he said, smiling; "and recollect the french proverb, _qui dort dine_. you know what that means." "no, father," i said, dolefully. "shame! you should not forget your french. he who sleeps dines, my boy." "perhaps that's so in france, father, but it isn't so here, in the midst of a flood, and i don't think any frenchman would say so if he were up in this tree like we are now." i climbed down again to look at the notch i had made, and see if there was any difference, then sent up a shout of delight, for the water had sunk a foot, and was going down so rapidly that i could almost trace its descent. it was as my father had hoped; the flood was running out with the tide; and as the cause was over we had every prospect of being set at liberty before many hours had passed. it was the apparent certainty of this hope which enabled us to bear patiently the rest of our imprisonment, and the pangs of hunger. for night came with the water still falling; but the fact was plainly before us--we should have to pass one night in the tree. i looked forward to the long, dreary hours with horror, but after getting astride of one branch, and putting my arms round another, feeling half ready to groan with misery, the present dropped away all at once, and i was conscious of nothing till the sun was brightly shining again, when i awoke to find that my wrists were tightly bound together on the other side of the great bough i had embraced; and on recovering my senses sufficiently to look down, i saw that the water had not all drained away, there being several feet in the lower part of the clearings, but the house was so nearly standing out clear that there could not have been more than a couple of feet in depth on the floor. morgan and hannibal were already down, wading breast-high towards the house; and as my father set free my hands, we prepared to follow. it was no easy task, for the branches were far apart, and covered with slimy mud, but we descended cautiously, promising to come back with ropes to lower poor sarah and pomp. the latter looked gloomy and discontented on being told that he was to stay and keep sarah company; but he proceeded to walk along to her as we lowered ourselves down, and then contrived to be first, for his bare feet slipped on the muddy bough, and he went headlong down splash into five feet of water and mud, to rise again looking the most pitiable object imaginable. "pomp come up again?" he asked, dolefully. "no; go and have a good wash," said my father, and as the boy went off swimming and wading, we two descended into the thin mud and water, and made our way toward the house. i looked up at my father to see what he would say to the desolation, as i saw the change that had taken place in so short a time, and then, miserably weak and half-hysterical as i was--perhaps that was the cause--i burst into an uncontrollable fit of laughter. for pomp had come close up behind us, after an expedition to the hut that had been made for his home, and his sharp voice rose suddenly just in the midst of our sad thoughts, with-- "oh! here a mess!" even my father could not help laughing as he looked at the boy. but there was nothing humorous in the scene to pomp, who looked up at my father with his brow knit, and continued-- "place all gone--wash away, and can't find my tick." "the hut washed away?" asked my father. "iss; all agone." "never mind! we must build another. well, morgan, can you find anything to eat?" for morgan had just waded out of the house again with a basket in his hand, and he hastened to open it and produce a couple of roast fowls and a couple of loaves of bread, the latter all swollen up into a great sop, while the former were covered with a thin coating of mud. "quick!" said my father, seizing one of the fowls and cutting it in two; "get a rope from the shed, and the little ladder. take this to your wife at once. no; stop a minute. here, you go, george; there is some wine in the cupboard." i went splashing through the door, and fetched the bottle, for i knew exactly where it stood; and on my return this was given to morgan, who was sent at once to the tree, while we four stood there in the water eating the remains of the fowls ravenously, both hannibal and pomp evidently enjoying the well-soaked bread, which was not bad to one so hungry as i, after i had cut away the muddy outside. "yes," said my father, smiling at pomp, after we had relieved the terrible cravings of hunger from which we had suffered; "it is a mess. but look, george, the water is still sinking fast." that was plain enough to see now, and as it went lower and lower, the damage done, though of course great, was not what might have been expected. we had been saved from utter destruction by the fact that only a moderate-sized clearing had been made in the virgin forest, whose mighty trunks had formed a natural fence round our house, and checked the rush of the flood, which, instead of reaching us in an overwhelming wave, had been broken up, and its force destroyed before it could reach us. even the open fences about the garden had escaped, the water having played freely in and out; and though hannibal's hut had been lifted up and floated right away, the fence-top was now appearing above the water, and seemed to be quite unharmed. the water sank so fast now that my father shouted to morgan to let sarah stay where she was till there was solid earth for her to descend to, and consequently he came down to see what he could do to help. that amounted to nothing, for until the water had passed away nothing could be done, save splash here and there, looking at the fruit-trees bestrewed with moss and muddy reeds and grass, while morgan uttered groan after groan, as he at last saw the bushes and the tops of his vegetables appear covered with slime. "the place is ruined, sir," he groaned. "whatever is to be done? go back to the old country?" "get to work as soon as the place is dry," replied my father. "a few showers of rain after the sun has dried and cracked the mud will soon wash your garden clean." morgan shook his head. "and i don't know what my poor wife will say to her kitchen." "ah, now you are touching upon the more serious part, my man," said my father. "come, morgan, you and i have got the better of worse troubles than this, so set to work, and by some means contrive to get fires going in each of the rooms." "with wet wood," said morgan, grumpily. "why, it's only wet outside," i cried. "here, pomp, try and find the little chopper. know where it is?" "ise know where chopper, but de hut all gone away." the wood-shed was standing though, and before very long, with hannibal's help, a good basketful of dry wood was cut; and after a long struggle and several dryings in the hot sun, the tinder and matches acted, and big fires were blazing in the house, whose floors were now only covered with mud. already the thatch and shingle roof had ceased to drip, and was rapidly drying, while by midday sarah was busy at work with brush and pail cleansing the floors, and keeping the two blacks and myself busy bringing things out to dry, while morgan was removing mud from the various objects within the house. the main difficulty we had to encounter was how to find a dry resting-place for the night. sheets and blankets promised to be quite fit for use by sundown, but the question was where to lay them. every one naturally objected to the trees, and the ridge of the roof was no more inviting than on the first night. but a little ingenuity soon put all right. timber was so plentiful with us that poles and planks lay piled up at the back of the house, and after a number of these had been hunted up, from where they had floated among the trees, and laid in the full sunshine, a platform was built up high above the muddy earth, and then another upon which pine boughs were laid, and good, dry resting-places contrived for our weary bones. chapter twenty. it is needless to relate the shifts and plans adopted to restore the place to its former state, but we were favoured by the weather, a long spell of hot sunshine working wonders, and the rapid drying and the work of many hands soon produced a change. in two days we could go about on dry ground. in four, mud was scaling over everything in cakes, and being cracked into dust it regularly powdered off the trees, and a couple of tremendous tropical showers sufficed to clear off the remainder from twig and leaf, so that what with the rapid vegetation, and the clearing effects of rain and dew, a month had hardly passed before the place began to look very much as it did before the misfortune, morgan informing me smilingly that the soft mud was as good for the garden as a great dressing of manure. our furniture in the house was of the simplest, and though sarah declared that the place would never be the same again, i very soon began to forget all about our trouble, and was only reminded of it by the wisps of dry grass and muddy, woody twigs that clung here and there among some of the trees. on one occasion i found pomp busy with a bucket of water and a brush down at the bottom of the garden, where he was scrubbing away at something black. "hallo!" i exclaimed. "what's that?" "'gator head, mass' george. pomp find um 'tuck in dah 'tween um two trees." he illustrated his meaning by showing me how the head had been washed from its place, and swept between a couple of tree-stumps, where it had remained covered with mud and rubbish, till it had caught his eye, such a trophy being too valuable to lie there in neglect. i stopped till he had done, and then, all wet and glistening, the great dried head with its gaping jaws was replaced on the spike-nail morgan had driven in the tree. "dah, you 'top till water come and wash um down again, and den pomp come and wash um up." these words of the boy set me thinking; and that night i asked my father about the probabilities of another flood. "it is impossible to say how long it may be before we have another visitation," he replied. "from what i can gather, it seems that they are so rare that a generation may go by without such a flood occurring, and i hardly like to give up so satisfactory a home on the chance of a fresh one coming during our lives." "oh no, father, don't give it up," i said. "everything at the settlement seems to be straight again." "they suffered more than we did too," he continued. "but don't you think some one ought to have come in a boat to help us?" "yes, if the poor things had thought of it; but i fully believe that in their trouble and excitement, trying to save life as they were, they did not even give a thought to us." then the flood was set aside with the troubles from the indians and the spaniards, my father saying quietly enough that people who came out to an entirely new country must do so bearing in mind that they have to take the risks with the pleasures. some of which sarah heard, for she took up the subject next time i saw her alone, and she shook her head at me as she said-- "yes, my dear, there's a lot to put up with for those who come to live in new lands, and a couple more of my chickens gone; but i don't know what you and your poor father would have done if me and morgan had not made up our minds to come too." i'm afraid i was playing the impostor a little, for i said to her, "we couldn't have got on at all without you, sarah;" but all the time i was thinking how much more easily we could have managed during the night of peril if we had not had sarah with us, and how it was in trying to save her that my father nearly lost his life. but i did not let her see it, and said quietly-- "lost two more of the chickens?" "yes, my dear; and it seems so strange that the birds that could take such care of themselves all through that dreadful flood should be lost now." "it does seem strange," i said, as my thoughts went back to the flood, and i recalled how the fowls took refuge in the pine-trees, and kept going higher and higher as the water rose, hopping calmly enough from branch to branch, and roosting high up at the top, to stop picking about till the flood was sinking, and then slowly descend with the falling waters, to find quite a feast in the mud. "you don't think, do you, that those two blacks, master george--" "what, like chickens?" "yes, my dear." "the people up at the settlement say they do, and that they can't keep any fowls at all." "then that's it," cried sarah, triumphantly; "and i was right about that smell a few nights ago." "what smell?" "of something roasting in the lean-to shed where those two sleep." "nonsense, sarah! it was squirrel or something of that kind that they had knocked down and cooked." "no, my dear; it was exactly like roast chicken, and i'm very much afraid--" "so am i, sarah, that you are going to make a mistake. i don't believe either of them would steal. ah! here comes pomp all in a hurry about something.--what is it?" "hi! find um, mass' george," cried the boy, who was in a high state of excitement. "find what?" i cried. "oh, yes, pomp find um; come and see." "yes, i'll come," i said. "but, i say, pomp, there are two chickens gone. do you know anything about them?" "yes. such big bird come and take um, mass' george. big bird fly ober de tree, _whish_--_whoosh_! and 'tick um foot into de chickum." sarah shook her head in a peculiar severe way; but i guessed that she had the question of the uniform upon her mind, and she held her tongue, while pomp dragged me off to see his discovery. he led me into a part of the forest where i had not been since the flood, and there, sure enough, twenty feet above the ground, and preserving its perpendicular position, was the greater part of the hut, pomp climbing up to it in triumph, and then on to the top, with the result that his weight was just sufficient to dislodge it, and the whole affair came down with a crash, and with the boy seated in the ruins. "what do dat for?" he cried in a whimpering tone as he sat rubbing himself. "do what?" i cried, laughing. "pull um down down an' break up. how we get um back now?" "i didn't touch it." "not touch um! how um tumble down den? oh my leg--my leg!" "no, no; you're not hurt much, pomp. there, get up, we can't get the hut back; and you know father said a new and better one was to be built. we'll set this one up here and make a summer-house of it, to come to when i'm shooting." "eh! what a summer-house?" "that will be." "no; dat hut; massa say dat hut." "but we'll make it into a summer-house." pomp shook his head and looked puzzled. "pomp find de hut, and massa george say um summer-house. 'pose um find de boat 'ticking in tree, dat be summer-house too?" "no, no, you old stupid," i cried. "but, i say, pomp," i continued, as the thought occurred to me that this might be possible, and that the boat had not gone down the stream to the river, and from thence out to sea. "what mass' george say?" cried the boy, for i had stopped to think. "wait a minute," i cried. then, after a few moments' thought-- "why, yes, it is possible; the flood came from the big river, up ours, and the boat must be somewhere in the forest after all." pomp shook his head. "done know what um mean," he said. "i mean that perhaps our boat was washed up somewhere." "iss, pomp wash um up two-tree-day 'fore took away wif de mop." "i mean the flood carried the boat up into the forest among the trees, like it did the hut." "mass' george fink so?" "yes." "come 'long find um." willingly enough i started with the boy, but stopped directly, for i remembered that hannibal had come running up to announce the loss of the boat, and that he might have some recollection of the direction in which it was carried. "let's ask your father," i said; and we went to where he was in the garden. to my great delight, his description tallied with my idea. the boat had been carried up stream, and full of eagerness we set out, but it was too late to do much that day, and we soon returned, after planning to start at daybreak the next morning, pomp having undertaken to awaken me, while i arranged with sarah for a basketful of provisions, so that we might be able to spend a good long day. in the course of the evening i related the finding of the hut to my father, and my hope that the boat might be discovered too, but he shook his head. "extremely doubtful, my boy. but wait a bit and then go and search, though, if you like; and even if you do not find it, you will have a glorious ramble along the river-bank." "will you come too, father?" i said. "i should like to, but i have promised for several days to go over to the settlement to meet the general and colonel preston. take morgan or hannibal with you, if you like." "oh no, father," i said, "pomp will be guide enough; i believe he often steals off to go long distances into the forest after woodchucks and squirrels." "you will take a gun, i suppose. any game will be welcome." "yes, father." "and take care not to get into danger." "what danger?" "snakes and other reptiles may be in abundance." "i'll take care." "and for aught we know indians may be hunting in the neighbourhood." "should not we have heard them or seen them, if they were?" i said, for i did not like the idea of giving up my trip. "well, perhaps so," said my father. "there, i will not stop you; i only say again, be careful when you do go." "can't i go to-morrow?" i said. "no, i would rather that you did not go right away while i am from home. wait a few days, and then have your trip." i said no more, but of course felt disappointed, and a strange temptation came over me next day, on finding how bright it was, to go and explore a little, the more especially that pomp came up with his face shining and full of excitement. "now," he cried, "go and find summer-house." "no, no," i said; "the boat." "mass' george call him summer-house yesterday." "we'll go soon," i said, "but not for a few days." "what mass' george going do, then?" "stop about at home and take care of the house." "mass' george tink water come 'gain, wash um away?" "no, no, i hope not," i said, laughing. "but i'm not going far away." "mass' george come fish terrapum?" "no, pomp, i'm going to stop about here. perhaps i shall go and have a bathe at the pool by and by, but i'm not sure." "pomp go wif mass' george have 'wim." "no, no," i said, pettishly, for i was out of temper, hot and disappointed at not being able to go and hunt for the boat. then i felt annoyed at having to stop at home when my father had gone to the settlement, and somehow that place had never seemed to attract me so much before. "father might have taken me," i said to myself, as i thought of how beautiful the sugar-canes must be now, after the soaking and dressing they had had with the mud. then, too, the indian corn must be waving gloriously, and i longed to see slaves at work in the cotton-field. "father will be seeing all that," i thought, "and it's all nonsense about stopping and taking care of the place. i couldn't do anything if there was a flood, or if the indians came. i should have liked to go." all of which was very absurd and stupid, but i have known other boys think and talk in a similar way. i went to the fence, and stood leaning over it, feeling more out of humour than ever, and i hit viciously at a fly or two which settled upon me. pomp was watching me all the time in a half puzzled way, and at last he broke out with-- "mass' george." "don't bother!" pomp drew back, took out the knife i had given him, picked up a piece of wood and began to cut it, while i stood kicking at the fence, and watching morgan and old vanity, as i mentally called him, busy at work cutting down the former's deadly enemies, the weeds. "say, mass' george." "don't bother, i tell you," i cried viciously; and there was another pause, during which pomp made a low whistling noise, which was not such a very bad imitation of the bobolink. but pomp could not be quiet long, and he broke out again with-- "mass' george." i turned fiercely round to see that his black face was full of animation, and eyes and lips bright with mischievous glee, all of which annoyed me the more, for what business had he to be happy when i was so disappointed, out of humour, and miserable? "be off! why don't you go to work, sir?" "won't mass' george come in de wood?" "no. be off!" "pomp come and have a 'wim 'long o' mass' george?" "no, you won't. be off; i don't want you." the boy looked at me aghast, and his thick lower lip worked. "mass' george get tire poor old pomp?" "yes. be off!" "mass' george send poor old pomp 'way?" "yes. don't bother. can't you see i don't want you?" "wugh!" pomp threw himself down on his face, and rested his forehead on his crossed arms. "don't do that," i said. "get up, and be off, or i shall kick you." the boy sprang up with his eyes flashing, but they were full of tears, and this gave me satisfaction, for i was in that absurd state of mind when one likes to make others feel as uncomfortable as oneself. "mass' george want poor ole pomp to go away?" "yes," i cried; "and don't be so idiotic, you miserable little nigger, calling yourself `poor ole pomp!'" "mass' george break poor ole pomp heart." "i'll break poor ole pomp's head if he bothers me any more," i cried, sulkily, as i once more leaned over the fence and began kicking off some of the dry mud which still adhered, though the leafage above it was clear and green. i heard pomp draw in his breath hard, and he gave his bare foot a stamp on the ground. "you want poor ole pomp go drown self?" "yes," i said, sourly. "pomp go jump in de ribber." "go on then." "you nebber see poor ole pomp, nebber no more." "don't want to." "oh, mass' george!--oh, mass' george!" these words came so piteously that all my ill-humour gave way to pity for the boy, who was as affectionate as he was passionate by nature; but his next words hardened me, and i stood fast, trying to hide my mirth as he broke out in a lachrymose way, pitying himself. "poor lil nigger! oh dear, dear, poor lil black nigger slave! nobody care dump poor ole pomp!" then there was a long pause. "you want pomp go drown self, mass' george?" "yes," i said. "mind you don't get wet." "eh?" "i say, go and have a good dry drown." "how you do dat all?" "i don't know. be off." "poor ole pomp! de 'gators eat um all up like lil yam." "ha--ha--ha--ha--ha!" i burst out, for i could contain myself no longer. the comparison to the "lil yam" was too much for me, and as i faced round, good-humoured once more, and ready to go and bathe or do anything with the boy who was my only companion, he showed his teeth at me fiercely, made a run, jumped over the fence into the garden, and i saw him dash down the middle path toward the forest as hard as he could go. i stood looking in the direction he had taken for a minute or two, and felt disposed to go after him; but i had seen him get into a temper before, and get out of it again, and i knew that next time we met all this would have passed away from both of us like a cloud. "no, i won't go after him," i said to myself; "it will make him vain and conceited, and he's bad enough as it is. poor ole pomp! poor lil nigger! what a rum fellow he can be when he likes!" this little episode had quite carried off the sour feeling from which i had suffered, and i began to look about me, enjoying the beauty of the morning, forgetting all about pomp, who had, no doubt, i thought, found out a nice sunny spot and gone off to sleep. chapter twenty one. no one would have thought there had been a flood to have seen the garden and plantation so soon after the waters had gone down; for where the slimy mud had lain in pools, it had cracked all over till it was creased and marked like an alligator's back, through which cracks the tender green growth soon thrust itself, to spring up at a wondrous rate, as if glad to be fertilised by the soft alluvial soil. wherever the mud had lain thick on broad leaf or grass, it had, as i have said, cracked and fallen off, or been washed away by the heavy rains and dews, and our grounds and the country round were as beautiful as ever--more beautiful, i ought to say, for everything was fresher and greener, and where the swamps had been muddy and parched, and overhung with dry growth, all was bright and glorious, with the pools full up, and the water-ways overhung with mossy drapery, glittering and flashing back the sun's rays wherever the sun pierced the trees. "going for a walk, master george?" said morgan that morning, as i sauntered down the garden in the hot sunshine, wondering what i should do with myself. "yes," i said, eagerly, for the question had given me the idea i wanted. yes, i would go for a walk. "better be careful, my lad. i would not overheat myself. after all this flooding there may be fever in the air. but there, you will take care of yourself." "yes, morgan," i said, "i'll try. seen pomp anywhere?" "no; not since breakfast. a lazy young dog. make his father do all the work. what's that, sir?" we both looked sharply round toward the forest, for there was the faint rustle of something moving, but the sound ceased as he spoke. "only a squirrel," i said, at a guess. "i think i shall go and have a bathe." "where?" said morgan; "not in the river; the stream is too swift, sir, yet." "no; in our big pool." "better take a pole and prod about well first. after all this water there may be a young alligator or two crept in." "oh, i'm not afraid of them," i said, laughing; and i listened again, for there was another faint rustle among the leaves, but it ceased, and i stood watching as morgan tied up two or three of the great succulent vine-shoots which were trailing over one of the trees, luxuriating in the glowing sunshine, and showing goodly-sized bunches of grapes, such as would in another two months be so many little amber bags of luscious sweetness. "yes, i haven't had a swim since the flood," i thought to myself, as i went on, leaped over the rough, moss-grown fence, and was soon after making my way along past the edge of the sugar-cane plantation, where the weeds were growing like mad, and then through the great, tall-leaved rows of tobacco in the new clearing, where the stumps of the trees so laboriously cut down still stood. in another ten minutes i was out of the glowing sunshine beneath the oaks with their flowing drapery of moss, now peering up to see if anything alive was moving among the branches, now noticing how far up the flood had risen, as shown by the mark of dried mud and the patches of withered reed, which still clung here and there. but there was no sign of living thing, and i walked on for a time in and out among the great trunks in the deep shade towards where there was a broad patch of sunshine, and all therein looked to be of green and gold. it was the clearing where the trees had been cut down for building and fencing when we first came. i was not long in placing myself upon a stump out here in the broad sunshine, to watch what was going on, for this was a favourite old place of mine, where i generally found something to interest me. so it was on this day, for a great crane flew up and went off with a great deal of wing-flapping before it was clear of the trees; and as i was eagerly watching the spot where it had disappeared, there was one bright flash, and one only, as a humming-bird darted across the sunny clearing, to poise itself first here and then there, before the open flowers of the great creepers, its wings vibrating so rapidly that they were invisible, and the lovely little creature looked more like some great moth than a bird. i knew him and his kind well enough, and that if i had had it in my hand, i should have seen his head and crest all of a bright ruby tint, and the scale-like feathers of its throat glowing almost like fire; but as it flew rapidly here and there, it seemed all of a dull, warm brown, surrounded by a transparency formed by its rapidly-beating wings. i sat watching the humming-bird till another and another came to disturb the first, and begin chasing it, darting here and there like dragon-flies, now up, and now down; round and round, and sometimes coming so close that i could have beaten one to the ground with a bough. then, all at once, they soared up and up, passed over the trees, and were gone, leaving me swinging my legs and whistling softly, as my eyes now wandered about in search of something else. oaks draped with moss, a great cypress at the edge of the clearing, which had grown up and up till it was higher than some of the trees, and spread its boughs over them like an umbrella to keep off the rain, and keeping off the sunshine as well, so that they had grown up so many tall, thin trunks, with tops quite hidden by the dark green cypress, and looking like upright props to keep its great top spread. i knew that in all probability there was more than one 'possum in the great trees surrounding the opening, but pomp was not there to find them, and i had no dog. i felt, too, that in all probability more than one bright pair of eyes were watching me from some bough, and their owners' bushy tails twitching and whisking about; but i could see nothing, and after a time, as a sudden thought struck me, i got down softly, and looked round for a stick. this was soon found, for whenever i cut one i generally left it thrust in somewhere among the dense growth. thus armed, i went cautiously across the clearing toward the farther side, where the gravelly bank was crowned by a tuft of pines, beneath which, in the full sunshine, the ground was almost bare, and dotted with stones, ashy, and dark, and dull, and grey. i had committed more than one murder there, but they were murders in which i exulted, for they meant death to the horrible rattlesnake or deadly moccasin, as they lay sunning their cold blood in the hot rays, ready to deal death to the passer-by, whose inadvertent foot should disturb their sleep. i went very cautiously, with my eyes scanning the spot eagerly, for at very little distance the reptiles would be invisible from the way in which their scales assimilated with the earth. but, though i used every caution, i saw no wavy or coiled up serpent asleep, nor caught sight of a tail rapidly following its owner in amongst the stunted herbage and stones. "getting scarcer," i said to myself, as i turned off again, and made for a faint track between the trees--a seldom-used path, leading on to the edge of the swamp that bordered the little river running down to the great tidal stream, which came from far away to the north-west among the mountains. for a time, as i went on peering here and there, i forgot all about my first intention, but it came back strongly as i reached a natural opening, and once more passed out of the shade, which seemed streaked with threads of silver where the sun-rays darted through, and stood looking down at the broad, glistening, shallow pool, where we boys had often bathed. the place looked beautiful as ever; the water wonderfully clear. small fish darted away at my approach, and took refuge in the reeds and grass at the side, or in the broad patch of water-growth in one corner some twenty yards across. there was the dead tree on my side of the pool, which was about sixty yards in length, and looked as tempting a spot for a bath as can be imagined. the heat was growing oppressive, but the air was beautifully pure and clear; and the insects which darted about flashed in the sunshine, and kept up a continuous hum that was soothing and pleasant, as i began to take off my clothes, enjoying the sensation of the hot sun pouring its heat down upon my skin. "i wish pomp was here," i said to myself; and as i said those words, i burst out into a hearty fit of laughter, as in imagination i saw his black face shining in the water, and the great drops standing like pearls in his woolly head. my thoughts did not promise him much enjoyment in his bath, for divers ideas connected with ducking, splashing, and the like occurred to me, the more forcibly from the fact, that though pomp swam admirably, it was after the fashion of a duck, and not of a fish, for he never, if he could possibly help it, put his head under water. i was half undressed, when i caught a glimpse of a good-sized pike, slowly rising to the surface to bask, and stooping down, and picking up the stick i had brought with me--a good stout piece of hickory nearly six feet long--i drew back a little, stole gently along the edge of the pool till i deemed myself about opposite, and then raising the stick with both hands, stole forward, to deal a heavy blow at the fish, trusting that if i missed it the stroke on the water might paralyse it, until i had had time to hook it ashore. "don't see why a crack with a stick should not do as well as an alligator's tail," i said to myself. that blow was not delivered, for before i could gather myself up and bring my muscles to bear, the water flashed as a little wave rose, and the fish was far out of reach. "better luck next time," i said, as i went back to the tree, finished undressing, stood for a moment or two on the edge of the pool, and then dived in, sending the water flying up sparkling in the light. it was deliciously invigorating, though the water was too much warmed by the sun to give me a swift electric shock; and as i rose to the surface, shook the drops from my eyes, and began to swim slowly along, i felt as if i had never enjoyed a bath so well before. for the water felt soft, and yielding, and elastic, and as if no effort was required to keep myself afloat. "pity old pomp isn't here," i said, as i lazily swam to one end, where there were tufts of water weeds, and a kind of natural ditch took off the surplus water into a pool of similar size, a hundred yards away among the trees--a black-looking, overhung place, suggestive of reptiles, and depth, and dead tree-trunks with snaggy boughs ready to remove a swimmer's skin, though possibly if the trees had all been cleared away, and the bright sunshine had flooded it with light, it might have looked attractive enough. as it was, i should have thought it madness to venture into such a spot, not knowing what danger might lurk therein, and i turned and swam back toward the other end, but stopped in the middle opposite my clothes lying on the fallen tree, and turned over to float and gaze up at the blue sky and the glorious hues of green upon the trees which surrounded the pool. "i wonder where pomp is," i said to myself, and then, satisfied that if he saw morgan he would learn where i had gone, and follow, i turned over on my breast and began to swim lazily toward the end where the reeds grew. "i dare say all the fish have taken refuge in there," i said to myself. "if one had a net to spread round, and then send pomp in there with a pole to beat and thrash about, one might get, a good haul." i swam on, driven by i don't know what attraction toward the great patch of reeds standing up out of the clear water, when all at once morgan's words concerning alligators came to my mind, and for a moment i hesitated and ceased swimming, gazing straight before me at the large patch of aquatic growth, and then at another, a dozen yards away to my right. "they'd only he little ones and scuttle off as hard as they could," i thought directly, and continued swimming toward the great patch before me, when, just as i was about a dozen feet from the thickest part, i felt a chill of horror run through me, paralysing every nerve, and my lips parted to utter a cry, for the reeds were suddenly agitated as by the passage of something forcing its way out, and to my horror the hideous open-mouthed snout of a great alligator was thrust forth, and from its wide jaws there came a horrible bellowing roar which sounded to me at the moment as if the monster had uttered the word _houk_! i could not for the moment stir nor utter a cry for help. then as the reeds were more roughly agitated, and i saw that the brute was struggling out from the tangle of matted roots below the surface, i threw myself back, and splashing and beating the water with all my might to scare the reptile, i made for the shore. the distance was only short, but to me then it seemed interminable. i had only glanced over my shoulder once, to see that the alligator was in full pursuit, with its open jaws well above the surface, and evidently gaining upon me fast, as i tore through the water, sending all i could back over the monster's muzzle; but in those agonised moments all seemed in vain, as in imagination i felt myself seized, dragged under, and drowned. the thought was far too horrible to bear; and, in spite of myself, i felt that i must turn round and face the brute, to make one brave struggle for life, and not let it seize me by the leg and drag me down, when just as i was about to yield to this feeling, and in the act of turning, my horror culminated, for there was a rush, and a great wave of water rose from the open patch of reeds on my left, and i knew that a second enemy had rushed out from its lair and was making for me. i uttered a hoarse gasp, and began swimming again toward the shore, when once more a strange sensation ran through me, mingled of horror, despair, and wonder, as i heard in a hoarse, hollow voice i well knew, though it sounded strange-- "oh, oh, mass' george! help! great 'gator, mass' george--help!" the cry did not come from the bank, nor from among the trees, but from close behind me where the first alligator was in full pursuit, and as i once more ceased swimming, paralysed by wonder, i saw my first pursuer rise up in a peculiar way in the water, raise its two black paws to its head, take it off, and dash it at the second alligator, which seized it on the instant, a second head appearing just above the surface, closing upon the first with a snap, and then there was a tremendous swirl in the water, a tail appeared above the surface as the brute dived down, and as i swam on panting, the surface of the water behind grew calm. but i was not swimming alone. pomp's black head was close by me, and his voice rose in a sobbing howl as, shivering with horror, he kept on-- "oh, swim fass, mass' george; swim fass, mass' george, 'fore de 'gator catch us. oh, swim fass, mass' george; swim fass, mass' george! 'fore de 'gator catch us," till we reached the shore and scrambled out, white and black, in the blazing sun, the water streaming down us, and both panting hard and trembling in every limb. chapter twenty two. "oh--ho--ho--ho--ho! what a lubbly bit fun!" cried pomp, as soon as the danger had passed away. "why, pomp!" i cried at last, fiercely, for i was too much astonished to speak at first. but he was off along the bank, to stop opposite the smaller batch of reeds, where he stood with both his fists doubled, stamping his bare feet, and shouting a perfect torrent of abuse at the invisible enemy. i caught a word here and there, words full of threats of what he would do to the "ugly 'gator, nex' time." but i was too much upset to shout till i had scrambled into my clothes, when i went sharply along the edge of the pool to where the boy was still shaking his fists, and abusing the reptile which had nearly scared him to death. but there was another scare ready for pomp. indignation was hot within me, and i made my presence known by a smart kick with my bare foot which nearly sent him into the pool again, and a cuff on the side of the head which knocked him back. "oh--oh--oh! don't, mass' george," he bellowed, as he dropped on his knees and held up his hands; "don't flog um, mass' george. i nebber, nebber do so no more." "you rascal!" i cried, catching him by the ear. "how came you to play me that trick?" "on'y for bit ob fun, mass' george; on'y for bit ob fun." "you dog!" i cried, shaking him. "on'y lil bit o' fun, mass' george; got de 'gator's head on to frighten um. nebber tink no 'gator dah, or not nebber done it." "no, i suppose not," i cried. "how dare you try to frighten me like that!" "say, mass' george, you pull dat ear right off." "serve you right too, sir. you insolent rascal. but i'll tell my father, and you shall be flogged." "oh no, don't do dat ah, mass' george. kick um again and pull um oder ear. pomp won't holler much. don't tell de massa." "a blackguardly, cowardly trick with that nasty old alligator's head." "but, mass' george," cried pomp, suddenly jumping up, "you no business beat kick a boy." "what, sir!" "why, if i no do dat, an de ole 'gator get hold ob de head, he get hold ob you, an where you be now?" my hand dropped to my side, and i stared in a puzzled way at pomp, who began to show his white teeth, as it seemed to me that what he said was true, and that if the reptile had not dashed at the boy, and seized the old head thrown at him, he might have seized me and dragged me down. "tink i sabe you, mass' george, and you hab berry narrow scrape; and den you say you tell de massa, and hab me flog." "yes," i said, half aloud, "he might have seized me." "oh, he hab you, sure 'nuff, mass' george, and um be pickin' you bone now down in de mud--iyah--iyah--iyah!" he roared, in a great burst of laughter as he turned round to the water, rested his hands on his knees, and shouted-- "how you like big 'gator head, eh? you find um berry hard? hope you like um, sah." he faced round to me again, showing his teeth, and with his eyes twinkling with merriment. "don't tell a massa," he said, pleadingly. i was conquered, for it was clear enough to me now that the boy's prank had in all probability saved my life. but i still hesitated as i seized him by both ears now, and gently swayed his head to and fro. "dat's right, mass' george, pull um hard. i no mine a bit." "you rascal!" i cried; "will you promise never to do it again?" "can't do it again, mass' george; ugly great 'gator got de head." "but will you play me such a trick again?" "dunno, mass' george. you pull hard bofe ears togedder, and kick um." "where are your clothes?" i said, quite disarmed now. "in de tree, mass' george. hab noder pull." "no," i said. "put on your clothes." pomp threw himself on the ground and began to howl. "what's that for, sir?" "you go tell de capen, and hab poor nigger flog. ah, mass' george, you bery cruel young massa." "get up, pomp. i'm not going to tell father, but you shouldn't have played me such a trick." the boy seemed as if made of india-rubber, for he sprang up, ducked down, stood on his head, and then went over and over head over heels three or four times before leaping up with a loud shout. "oh, mass' george, pull um out; got big forn in um back." it was quite true, and after i had relieved him of the spine, he ran to the biggest tree near, climbed up into the fork, and descended directly with his clothes, into which he slipped--not a long job, for he was by this time dry, and his garments consisted only of a short-sleeved shirt and a pair of cotton drawers, which came down to mid thigh. "now, look here, mass' george," he cried, excitedly; "you'n me got to kill dat 'gator." "yes," i said, "i must lie in wait and shoot him." "i tink so. what did he come in young mass' bath for? i go fetch um gun now." "no, no," i said. "it would be no use." "no," said pomp, thoughtfully, and then showing his teeth; "too busy fryin' um dinner. oh, mass' george, what a bit ob fun!" pompey threw himself down, and laughed till the tears rolled down his cheeks. "i ten times--hund times more frightum than you, mass' george. i tought um catch dis nigger for sartum, an' i felt so sorry for you, mass' george, dat i holler out loud." "sorry for me?" "yes, sah. what you do widout pomp?" "come along," i said, half surlily, half amused at the easy-going, light-hearted way in which the boy could forget the horrible peril in which he had placed himself. "you berry sorry too, mass' george.--i know." "know what?" "how catch um 'gator?" "how?" "pompey know. show um a morrow. good-bye, sah. bring you 'noder dinner morrow morning." he made a mock salutation in the direction he believed the reptile to have taken, and then together we began to thread our way through the trees, back toward the clearing, and then after another cautious look round for snakes made for the garden. but before we were within a hundred yards, pomp stopped. "ole massa in big garden, mass' george?" "i don't know," i said. "he was going to be back to dinner." "i go round de oder way. mass' say i chop wood, and i was going to chop wood till i hear you say morgan you go for walk, and i know you go for 'wim." "well?" "pomp very hurt upon mass' george." "oh, were you?" i said. "mass' george say cruel fing to pomp, so um go an' fess de ole 'gator head, and undress umself, an' get in de water firs, an' fright um." "ah, well, you'll be flogged one of these days, master pomp, without my telling tales of you." "i 'pose i will," he said, thoughtfully. "no like for mass' george tell, dough." "why not?" "cos dat hurt pomp more dan de floggum." "nonsense!" "eh? dat nonsense, mass' george? i don't know. if mass' morgan tell and get pomp flog, pomp holler, `oh don't, oh don't!' an' fro himself on de ground, an' squiggle an' kick. but soon as done flog um, pomp rub um back up gen tree, an' nebber mine a bit." "i suppose so," i said. "but if mass' george tell an' get pomp flog, dunno why, but no use rub back gen de tree. hurt pomp all de same." so pomp ran off to get round to the wood-shed, where i heard him as i reached the house chopping away as hard as he could, and making the wood fly; and i need hardly say i did not tell any tales about the boy's trick, though i thought about it a great deal. my ideas of punishment were not of the flogging kind, but connected with some way of giving master pomp tit for tat by means of a scare; but my invention was rather at fault, and idea after idea was dismissed as soon as formed. they were not pleasant ideas, some of them, and they were all wanting in the element i wished to impart. one of sarah's wild-plum jam puffs, with a dose of medicine concealed therein, was dismissed at once. so was a snake in his bed, because there were objections to the trick. in all probability the snake would not stop there; and if it did, as it must necessarily be a harmless one, it would not frighten pomp a bit, and might suggest the idea of playing a similar trick on me. i could push him into the water first time we were on the river-bank, but he would only laugh and swim out. i might lasso him suddenly some day, and tie him up to a tree, and leave him in the forest without anything to eat for a few hours; but i knew that i couldn't find the heart to torture the poor fellow like that; and if i could, no knots that i contrived would ever hold him very long. "bah! it's waste of time!" i said; and i gave it up, not knowing that i should soon have something far more serious to think about. for just as i was deep in my cogitations i heard a step, and my father came into sight, looking very hot and tired. that evening, as we sat together by the light of a candle, with the forest insects humming round, he said suddenly-- "i'm afraid our troubles with the spaniards are not over, george. these people are threatening again." "but that does not matter, does it, father?" "i don't know yet, my boy. there is a great deal of braggadocio and pride in your spanish don, and they have plenty of enterprise and fight in them sometimes, as we know by what they have done." "but will they come and fight against us, father?" i said, eagerly. "i don't know that they will come and fight against _us_," he replied, dryly. i felt the blood come up into my temples, and i spoke quickly-- "i know i'm only a boy, father, and not big enough to fight for you, or by your side like a soldier, but i could load." he smiled and leaned toward me, and patted my shoulder. "i beg your pardon, george," he said, kindly. "i ought not to have spoken as i did. you are only a boy, and while you are a boy i pray heaven that you may enjoy a boy's happy life, and that we may be free from all the troubles that are threatening. i am a soldier, and i have fought in the service of my country." "yes," i said, proudly, "i know. morgan has often told me." "morgan ought to hold his tongue, and not put vain notions into your head." "but he said it was glorious, father." he looked at me sadly, and sighed. "i am a soldier, george," he said; "but i am afraid that i have very little belief in what people call glory. in too many cases the brilliancy of the glory is dulled with blood and horror too terrible to be spoken of without a shudder. it is glorious to fight in defence of your country, its women and children, or to fight here for our homes; and while i have strength to lift a sword, or voice and knowledge to lead and direct others in such a cause, i will, if it is necessary, fight again. but after what i have been through and seen, i am ready to go down on my knees and pray the god of love and peace and mercy that neither i nor you may ever see sword flashed or shot fired in anger while we live." he was silent for a few moments, and then he said, cheerfully-- "come, what did the latin writer say about a man defending his own country?" "`_dulce et decorum est_--'" i said, promptly, and then stopped short. "i forget the rest, father." he laughed. "our life out here, as the pioneers of a new civilisation, is not conducive to the study of the classics, my boy. it's a rough school, where we have to take care to avoid fevers, and meet indians, and are threatened with spanish aggression, and have to fight for our lives against a flood. but there, we have drifted into a very serious talk." "but i like it, father," i said eagerly, "though i am ashamed to have forgotten my latin." "ah, well, you will look that passage up in your horace, and i venture to say that it will be so impressed now upon your memory that it will never slip away. there, i mentioned the flood. flood suggests boat. you said you thought the boat might have been carried up the stream into the woods somewhere." "yes," i said; "the water did come out of the big river and rush up ours." "it is quite probable. you may find it as you say you did the hut. when are you going to search for it?" "when you give me leave." "go when you like. i did think i should have to go again to-morrow to the settlement to confer with the general and the others, but messages have again been sent back to the spanish governor of florida, and it must be many days, perhaps weeks, before we hear again, so you can go to-morrow if you will." i leaped up from my seat excitedly. "where are you going now?" "to tell pomp to call me, and ask sarah to prepare a basket of something to eat." he nodded and took up a book, while after telling our housekeeper of my wants, i ran across the clearing to the edge of the forest to call the boy to get ready. as i drew near i found hannibal seated on a stump left by the cutting down of one of the trees to make room for the new hut, with his chin resting in his hands. "hallo, han," i said; "anything the matter?" "no, mass' george," he said. "i only look up at de 'tars and tink." "what about?" "i wonder wedder dey de 'tars i see in my own country." "yes," i said; "i do know that. do you ever want to go back again?" "back again, sah?" "yes--to your own country." he shook his head. "no, mass' george. too much fight--too much kill-- too much sell for slave; nebber go back again." "then you are happy here?" "yes, sah. happy here wif mass' george and de capen. can't talk. understand?" "oh, yes," i said; "i understand. where's pomp?" "sleep. dah! i call um." "no, no; let me," i said, laughing. i went into the hut, and there on the blanket in a corner, with his mouth wide open, lay the boy fast asleep. it was so dark inside that i should not have been able to make him out but for the gleam of light from the window, which made his teeth just visible. i stood looking down at him and listening to his breathing for a few moments, before slipping out of the hut, taking my knife from my pocket, and cutting a long twig which i stripped, all but a few leaves at the end. as i came back, hannibal rose. "don't whip, mass' george," he said in a pleading whisper, as he laid his hand upon my arm. "i was not going to," i said, laughing, "only to tickle him." i saw the big african's teeth gleam, and i stole back into the hut on tip-toe, thinking the while how marvellous it was that a great fellow like the black, who could have almost crushed me with one hand, should be so patiently submissive, and give up to me as he did. but that thought passed away as i stood over pomp and gently tickled him on one cheek. he moved restlessly, and i tickled the other with the leaves. he turned back again, and the end of the twig began to play about his neck. there was a quick rustle, one hand struck at the twig and pomp rolled over upon his face. this gave me a good opportunity to titillate both sides of his neck, and he sprang round again. "bodder!" i heard him mutter; but i persevered, making the twig play well about him. "bodder de fly!" he cried, viciously; but the twig tickled away, and pomp's eyes were so tightly closed that he contented himself with twisting and rubbing himself. "wait i get up, i mash all de ole fly eberywhere," he muttered. tickle--tickle--tickle. _slip slap_. pomp's hands delivered a couple of blows on his bare skin. tickle--tickle--tickle. "you no like me come mash you, eh?" tickle--tickle--tickle. "yah! you great ugly skeeter, you leave lil nigger go sleep." "_buzz_--_buzz_--_hum_." tickle--tickle--tickle. i made as good an imitation as i could of a gnat's hum, and kept up the tickling till he made two or three vicious lounges out at where i stood in the darkness, and this time he got hold of the twig. "eh?" he exclaimed. "dat not skeeter fly. dat you, fader? you let lil nigger go sleep. keep a 'tick 'till." "eh? who dat? ah, yah! it you, mass' george. i know all de time." "no, you didn't, old sleepy head." "eh? well, what head for at night but sleep um? you want pomp go after 'coon?" "no; look here, pomp; we're to go and try to find the boat in the morning. come and call me as soon as it's day." "eh? why not go now, mass' george?" "no, no; i want to go and have a good sleep first. mind, as soon as it's light; i'll take the gun." "i call you, mass' george, widout come an' ticklum wif lil 'tick, ha-- ha--ha! i know." "good-night." "good-night, mass' george; i come and climb up your window; and you look out." "i will," i said to myself as i went away, said good-night to hannibal, and hurried back to bed, but not till i had carefully fastened my window ajar, so that pomp could not get it open in the morning. and there i was, too much excited by the ideas of the trip to get to sleep. for as i lay there i could picture the little river winding in and out among the great trees of the primeval forest, and see it here black as night flowing sluggishly beneath the drooping moss-hung trees, there dancing in the sunshine that rained down from above, and then on and on in amongst the mysterious shades where in all probability the foot of man had never trod. "oh," i said to myself at last, as i lay listening to the monotonous piping insect hum, and the bellowings and croakings from the wood, "how hot it is! i do wish it was day." but it seemed that many hours must elapse before day could come, and in a curious dreamy way i was wandering on and on through the tangled wood close to the river-bank, when pomp said in a whisper-- "hi! mass' george, you go 'top seep all day?" i started up to find that i had slept for hours, and light in the shape of the morning was at the window, in company with darkness in the form of pomp's black face. chapter twenty three. i lost no time in dressing after opening my window wide, there being no fear now of pomp getting at me to have his revenge while i was asleep for the tricks i had played upon him. the boy thrust in his legs with an easy motion, as soon as the window was thrown open, raising himself and dropping gently into a sitting position to watch me wash and dress. "well, why are you looking on in that contemptuous way?" i said at last, as i noted the play of his face. "dat not temshus, mass' george," he said. "i only sit and fink what long time you are wash and dress." "that's not long," i said; "why, how long are you?" "no time, mass' george. i go bed like am now, and get up like am now, and come on." "but do you mean to say you haven't washed this morning?" "how i 'top go to ribber an' wash, when mass' george wait to be called? hab good 'wim when we get to ribber." i finished dressing, and took pomp into sarah's kitchen, where we both made a hearty meal, which was interrupted by pomp insisting upon having the shot and powder pouches buckled on him at once, so that he might make sure of them, and not be defrauded of the honour of carrying them by any tricks on my part. he did not look so pleased at having to carry the wallet which had been well stored ready for our use, but he submitted to have the strap thrown over his head, and passed one arm through. then full of eagerness i shouldered the gun, and we started off into the forest, passing the clearing where the rattlesnake had been killed, and next passing on to the little river, up whose course we were to make our way, keeping a good look-out for the boat the while. the morning was glorious, the sun piercing the low-lying mist, which rapidly grew more transparent, broke up, and seemed to dissolve away. the birds were piping and screaming in the trees, and as we reached the river, where all was light and sunshine, we started first a great white crane, which rose from the shallows and flew off, then a kingfisher with dazzling coat, and soon after came in sight of a little flock of rosy-winged flamingoes, with their curious, long, snaky, writhing necks, and quaintly-shaped bills, which always looked to me as if they were made to use upside down. "well, i nebber see!" cried pomp at last, after stepping back, and preserving the most profound silence time after time. "what's the matter?" "why mass' george no shoot?" "because we don't want the birds. you don't care to have to carry them, do you?" "no; dis wallet um so dreffle heabby." we tramped on a little farther, now in the deep shade, now in the golden sunshine when we could get close to the stream, and then pomp sighed. "mass' george like to carry de walletum now?" "no; i'm carrying the gun." "pomp carry de gun." "oh, no," i said, "i'll manage that;" and we went slowly on again. there was no track, and near the river where the light and sunshine played there was plenty of thick undergrowth, while a short distance back in the forest the walking was easy among the trees, where scarcely anything clothed the ground in the deep shadow. pomp kept trudging away toward the dark, shadowy forest, and i had to stop him again and again, for the boat was not likely to be in there. on the last occasion he said-- "walletum dreffle heabby, mass' george. don't think better carry um inside?" "what do you mean?" "mass' george eat half, and pomp eat half. den we hab nuffum to carry." i naturally enough burst out laughing. "why, we've only just had a good breakfast, and couldn't eat any more." "oh yes, pomp could, big lots." "and what are we to have to eat by and by, when we get hungry?" "mass' george shoot ducks; pomp make fire an' roace um." "no, no, no," i cried. "here, pass me the wallet, and i'll give you a rest." "and pomp carry de gun," he cried, eagerly. "no, sir. if you can carry the gun, you can carry the wallet. here, give me hold." pomp looked disappointed as he handed over the wallet very slowly, and after slinging it on we once more progressed, looking carefully in all directions in search of the lost boat, but seeing nothing; and i soon had to come to the conclusion that the chances were very greatly against our finding the object of our search. it was slow work, but for some miles the place was familiar, my father having brought me as far exploring, and pomp and i having several times over boated through the dark forest along that bright, winding highway-- the river; generally with some difficulty, on account of the fallen trees, and snags, and dense overgrowth, beneath which we often had to force our way, while at other times we had almost to cut a channel through the lilies and other water plants which choked the stream. it was plain enough to see though, now, how comparatively easy a journey would have been in a boat, for the large flood-waves which had swept up the river had scoured out its bed, throwing vast rotting heaps of the succulent water-growths ashore to rot, fester, and dry in the hot sun. high up too i could see the traces where the flood had reached, well marked by the dry grass hanging among the boughs. but we kept on forcing our way slowly, soon getting into a part of the river that was entirely new, and growing more and more fascinating to me at every step. for there was, in addition to the glorious beauty of the bright, sunny river, with its banks where in places the trees drooped down and dipped their boughs in the smooth water, and the various growths were of the most dazzling green, always something new--bird, quadruped, insect, or fish taking my attention to such a degree that i often forgot the boat and the object of our journey. pomp was just as excited as i, touching my arm every now and then to point with a black finger at some grey heron standing thigh-deep, watching for the fish that nearly made the waters alive; and perhaps just as we were waiting to see him make the next dart with his beak at some shoal of unfortunate fry, there would be what seemed to be a great curved bar of silver flash out of the water, to plunge in again, giving us just a glimpse of the fierce fish's glittering scales. every now and then some big fellow would leap right out, to come down again with a heavy splash, and send a whole shoal of tiny fish, invisible to us before, flying out of the water to avoid their enemy, the river shark. a little farther, and pomp's lips would be close to my ear imploring me to shoot as he indicated a bit of sandy or muddy shore where, just clear of the water and looking like a piece of tree-stump, a great alligator would lie basking in the hot sunshine. but i invariably resisted his prayers, and as we went on, the reptile would suddenly hear our coming and scuffle rapidly out of sight, making a great swirl in the water as he disappeared. "no, pomp," i would say, "the first 'gator i shoot must be that one in the bathing-pool. come along." on we went, with the river winding in and out through the forest, and there was always something fresh to see: humming-birds that were not so big as some of the butterflies and beetles that swarmed in the sunshiny parts; great lagoon-like pools where the running of the stream became invisible, and we could see far down in the deep water where fish were slowly gliding in and out among the roots of the trees, which in many places clothed the bottom with masses of fibre. now pomp's eyes would be ready to start out of his head as we neared a corner, or starting off into the forest to avoid some wild or swampy patch, we crept out to the river's bank again, to startle a little flock of ducks which had been preening themselves, and sent feathers like tiny boats floating down the stream. "plenty of time," i would keep saying. "we don't want them yet, and i'll shoot them when we do." "but 'pose dey not dah to shoot when you want um, mass' george. i dreffle hungry now." "ah," i said at last, "our wallet is getting heavy. let's pick out a place, and have some lunch." pomp pricked up his ears, as he generally did when he heard a new word, and this was one ready for him to adopt. "iss," he said, eagerly, "i berry fond o' lunch. i fought smell um yesday when missie cook um." "cook what?" i said. "dat lunch, mass' george." i laughed, and pressed on to look for a good spot, and soon found one where a great tree, whose roots had been undermined by the river, had fallen diagonally with its branches half in the water, and offering us a good seat just nicely shaded from the burning sun, while we had only to lie out on its great trunk and reach down to be able to fill the tin can i had with the clear water. the gun was leaned up against the tree-roots; we each sat astride facing each other, the bigness of the tree making it rather an uneasy seat; i slung the wallet round and placed it between us, and had just thrust in my hand, while pomp wrenched himself round to hang the ammunition pouches close to the gun on a ragged root behind him, when, all at once, the boy's left leg flew over and kicked the wallet out of my hands, and he bounded a couple of yards away to stand grinning angrily and rubbing himself. "too bad, mass' george. what do dat for?" "do what?" i cried, roaring with laughter, as i stooped down and picked up the wallet, out of which fortunately nothing had fallen. "'tick um pin in poor lil nigger." "i didn't," i said; "and see what you've done." "yes, mass' george did. pomp felt um. you wait bit, i serb you out." "but i tell you i did not, pomp," i cried, as i wiped my eyes. "oh, you ridiculous-looking little chap! come and sit down." "no, won't. you 'tick um pin in poor lil nigger behind leg 'gain." "i will not, 'pon my honour," i cried. "oh, you did look comic." "made um feel comic dicklus," cried pomp, catching up the two words i had used. "did hurt." "come and sit down." "you no 'tick um pin in 'gain?" "i haven't got a pin," i said. "den i know; it was um big forn." "it wasn't, pomp. come and sit down and have some lunch." "no. won't come. don't want no lunchum. hurt poor pomp dreffle. you alway play um trick." "i tell you i didn't do anything, pomp. there, come along." he caught sight of the food i brought now from the wallet, and it was irresistible. "you no 'tick pin in nigger 'gain?" "no." "nor yet um forn?" "no. come along, you little unbeliever. come along." "i serb you out fo dat, mass' george, you see," he said, sidling back to the tree, watching me cautiously the while. "oh, very well, i'll forgive you," i said, as he retook his place. "i say, pomp, i am thirsty." "so 'm i, mass' george. dat lunchum?" "yes; that's lunch," i said, as i laid the neatly-done-up napkin containing provision of some kind on the tree-trunk between us, and taking out the tin can i leaned right back, gripping the tree with both legs, and lowering my hand i dipped the vessel full of water. i was just in the act of rising cautiously and very slowly, when a sharp pain in the fleshy part of my leg made me spring forward in agony, dashing the water in pomp's face, knocking the wallet and its contents over sidewise, and in my pain and rage i seized the boy to begin cuffing him, while he wrestled with me to get away, as we hugged and struggled like two fighting men in a _melee_ on the same horse. "how dare you!" i panted; "that was the point of your knife. i'll teach you to--oh, murder!" "oh, mass' george, don't! _oh_! oh! oh!" we both made a bound together, went off the trunk sidewise, and pomp struggled up, tore off his shirt and drawers, and began to beat and shake them, and then peep inside, pausing every moment to have a rub; while i, without going to his extreme, was doing the best i could to rid myself of my pain. "nas' lil fing!" cried pomp, stamping on something in the grass. "look, look, mass' george, make hase; dey eat all de lunchum." the mystery was out. we had seated ourselves upon the home of a vicious kind of ant, whose nest was under the rotten bark of the tree, and as soon as pomp realised the truth he danced about with delight. "i fought you 'tick pin in lil nigger. you fought i 'tick um knife in mass' george! you catch um, too." "yes," i said, wriggling under my clothes, and rubbing myself. "oh! quick! back of my neck, pomp, look. biting." pomp sprang to me in an instant. "i got um, mass' george. dah!" he cried, as he placed the vicious little insect between his teeth, and bit it in two. "you no bite young massa 'gain. how you like be bite, sah? make you feel dicklus, eh? oh! ugh! tiff! tiff! tiff! oh, um do tase nasty." pomp spat and shuddered and ended by washing out his mouth by running a little way, lying flat with his head over the bank, and scooping up some water with his hand. meanwhile i cautiously picked up the provisions, the napkin and wallet, and carefully shook them clear of the vicious little things--no easy job, by the way; after which, stinging and smarting still, i sought another place where we could eat our meal in peace. chapter twenty four. "no, no, pomp," i said, after a time, during which we had been thoroughly enjoying our food, "you've had quite enough. we shall want to make this last till night." "mass' george no want to finish um all up?" "no." "so not hav' to carry walletum." "of course not. we shall soon be hungry again." "catch fis; shoot de duck; pomp fine plenty 'tick; and make a fire." "i wish you'd find the boat," i said, packing up the remains of the meal the while. "think it's any use to go any farther?" "yes; go right on, mass' george; plenty time." "yes, we'll go on," i said, for i felt refreshed and rested, and as if i should like to go journeying on for days--the beauty of the river and the various things we saw exciting a desire to continue our trip. "i don't suppose any one ever came here before, but we mustn't lose our way." "couldn't lose way, mass' george. ony got to keep by ribber, and he show de way back." "of course," i said; "i forgot that." "no walk back." "i hope not," i said. "we are going to find the boat." pomp made a grimace and looked round, as if to say, "not likely." "no find a boat, put lot ob 'tick togedder and float down de ribber home." "ah, well, we'll see," i said; and we continued our journey for hour after hour, always finding some fresh beauty to entice me, or living object for pomp to stalk and beg me to shoot. but though we looked here and there as well as we could, there was no sign of the object of our search; in fact, i soon began to feel that i had embarked upon an enterprise that was almost an impossibility. the river had now grown a little swifter, and though there was plenty of swampy land down by its banks, it seemed as if we were getting into a more elevated region, the margin being higher, and here and there quite precipitous, but it was always more beautiful, and the objects of natural history grew frequent every hour. now it was a squirrel, of which there seemed to be great numbers; then all at once, as we were threading our way through the low bushes, something sprang up from its lair and went bounding off among the trees, giving me just a glimpse of a pretty head with large eyes and small horns, before it was gone. "oh, mass' george, you ought shoot dat," said pomp, reproachfully. "dat berry good to eat." "if i had been on the look-out, i could not have hit it," i said. "but i say, pomp," i continued, looking round as we came upon a high sandy bluff through which the river had cut its way, and whose dry, sun-bathed sides offered a pleasant resting-place, "aren't you tired?" "no," said the boy, thoughtfully, "pomp not bit tired, only one leg." "well, are you hungry then?" "dreffle, mass' george. you like emp de walletum now?" "yes, we'll sit down and have a good meal, and then we shall have to make haste back." "top lil bit, mass' george," said the boy, cautiously. "oh no, there are no pins and forns there to 'tick in us," i said. "no, mass' george, but dat sort o' place for rattle tailum 'nake. i go look fust." i felt a shudder run through me at the mention of the noxious creature, and brought the gun to bear as we advanced. "no; no shoot," whispered the boy. "big 'tick bess for 'nake." we advanced very cautiously, with our eyes searching the ground, but there was nothing in sight, and after selecting a comfortable place where the sand had slowly been washed down from the bluff till it lay thick and dry as when it is drifted on the seashore, we sat down, the fine grains feeling delightful to our limbs, and made a hearty meal of the remains left in the wallet. it was wonderfully still there, the trees being quite motionless, and the only sounds heard being the hum of some insect and the ripple of the water a dozen yards away. high above us through the thin tracery of an overhanging tree the sky looked of a brilliant blue, and away to left and right extended the forest. pomp was lying face downwards, lazily scooping a hole in the sand, and watching it trickle back as fast as he scraped it away, just as if it were so much dry water in grains. i was lying on my back where the sand sloped up to the bank; and as i gazed at the trees, half expecting to see our boat sticking somewhere up among the branches, it seemed to me as if i had never felt so happy and contented before. perhaps it was the soft, clear atmosphere, or the fact that i was resting, or that i had just partaken of a pleasant meal. i don't know. all i can say is that everything felt peaceful and restful; even pomp, who as a rule was like a piece of spring in motion. there was a lovely pale blue haze in the distance, and a warm golden glow nearer at hand; the sun was getting well to the west; and i knew that we must soon start and walk fast, so as to get back, but i did not feel disposed to move for a few minutes. we should be able to walk so much better after a rest, i thought, and we should not stop to look for the boat, or at anything, but keep steadily walking on, so that it would not take us a quarter of the time; and if night did come on, the moon would rise early, and we could easily get to the house. how deliriously faint and blue that looked right away there in the distance, and how still it all was! even pomp enjoyed the silence, and i would not disturb him yet, but let him rest too. no fear of any snakes coming if we were there, and in a few minutes i'd jump up, tell pomp, and we'd go and have a delicious bathe, and dry ourselves in the warm sand; that would make us walk splendidly. but i would not wake him yet--not just yet--i'd wake him presently, for he was so still that he must have gone to sleep. there he lay with his face to the sand, and his fingers half buried in the hole he had been scraping. "what a fellow he is to snooze!" i thought to myself. "lucky i'm not so ready to go to sleep. how--how long shall i wait before i wake him?--how long--how long--how--" chapter twenty five. a jerk! then a hasty movement. i must have left the window open, and a fly or a beetle had got in and was tickling my ear. now it was on my cheek--then on the other cheek--my neck again--my ear--my eyes--and now-- "ertchsshaw--ertchsshaw!" it was right on my nose, and i start up to brush it away, and in the gloom recognise the figure of pomp, who burst into a roar of laughter. "mass' george tiddle lil nigger; now lil nigger tiddle mass' george." "why, pomp," i said, sitting up and staring, "i--i thought i was at home." "no, mass' george. home long a way. been sleep, and pomp been sleep." i shivered, got up, and stamped about. "yes, mass' george, um dreffle cole." "here, get the powder and shot, and let's go back." pomp shook his head. "no good go now. get 'tuck in de forn, or tumble in de ribber." "but we must go." "no see de way; an' all de big 'gator go out for walk now, mass' george." "what time can it be?" "dunno, mass' george, o'ny know not morrow mornin' yet." i looked about me, and tried to make out the forest path by which we should have to go; but all was dark as night could be, except overhead where a faint gleam showed where the moon should have been giving her light, had not the clouds and mist interposed. i did not like the look of it, but on the other hand i was afraid to give up; i knew that my father would be anxious, perhaps setting out in search of me. that last thought fixed me in my determination, and taking up the gun, i said firmly-- "come along." "mass' george go shoot somefin?" "no; let's get back home." "no get home now. too dark." "but we must get home." "mass' george say muss get home, but de dark night say he no get home." "let's try," i said. pomp was obedience itself, and he followed me as i strode back to the edge of the forest, entered the dense thicket close to the river, and had not gone a hundred yards before just in front of me there was a crashing, rustling noise, and a dull sullen plunge. "i yah, ugly ole 'gator. take care, mass' george, he don't hab you." i felt my heart beat fast, but i tried to fix it upon my mind in the foremost place that the reptiles fled from me, and were perhaps more alarmed than i was; but as i pressed forward, pomp suddenly said, piteously-- "no got shoe like mass' george. poor pomp put him foot in 'gator mouf. oh!" pomp caught hold of me tightly, for from somewhere in front there came a low snarling roar, which i had never before heard; but report had told of different savage creatures which came down from the hills sometimes, mountain lions, as the settlers called them, and to face one of these creatures in the dark was too much for my nerves. "it's unlucky," i said to pomp; "but we can't get back to-night. we had better get out from among the trees." pomp wanted no second hint; he was behind, and he turned at once, and led the way back to the sandy bluff, where he stood shivering. "what was dat, mass' george?" "i don't know," i said. "some kind of great cat, i suppose." "pomp tink he know. it great big monkey like in him country. great big as fader, and big long arm, an um shout _ooooor_! like dat." he uttered as deep-toned a roar as he could, and made a snatch at me directly and held on, for from out of the forest came an answering roar that sounded terrific to us, as we stood there shivering with cold and fear. "mass' george! mass' george!" whispered pomp, with his lips close to my ear, "tell um i berry sorry. i no do um no more." "hush!" i said, and i stood ready with the gun presented, fully expecting to see a dark shadowy form crawling over the light-coloured sand, and trying to get within range for a spring. but all was still once more, and we waited in expectancy for some minutes before there was a great floundering splash in the water to our right; and then away to the left where the river ran black and mysterious in the night--where all was bright and beautiful by day-- there came evidently from three different parts as many bellows, such as must have been given by alligators of great size. "come 'long, mass' george," whispered pomp. "no," i said, "we must wait till day." "dey come and hab us bofe, mass' george, we 'top here. come 'long." "but it is impossible." "yes, mass' george, um possible; come and get up dat big tree." the proposition seemed so much in unison with my feelings that i followed my companion at once, and he paused under a great oak a little farther from the river, and beyond the bluff. "dah, mass' george, make base up an' let me come. i dreffle frighten." "then go first." "no, mass' george, you go firs', you de mas'r." "then i order you to go first, pomp," i said. "den we bofe clime up togedder, mass' george. you go one way, and pomp go oder way." there seemed to be no time for discussion on questions of precedent, so we began to climb together, reaching a great branch about twenty feet from the ground, no easy task for me, encumbered as i was by the gun. "ha ha!" cried pomp, who seemed to have recovered his courage as soon as he was up in the tree; "no 'gator catch um up here, mass' george. nebber see 'gator, no, not eben lil 'gator, climb up tree." "no," i said in a low tone, which impressed the boy so that he sat speechless for some time; "no, but the panthers can, more easily than we do, pomp." i don't know what sort of a shot i should have made; probably i should have been too nervous to take good aim up there in the dark; but for what seemed a terrible length of time i sat there gun in hand, ready to fire at the first savage creature i could see, and a dozen times over i conjured up something stealthily approaching. but it was not until we had been up there about an hour that i felt quite certain of some great cat-like creature being beneath the tree. it was not creeping forward, but crouched down as if watching us, ready at our first movement to change its waiting attitude into one of offence. pomp made no sign, but he was so still that i felt sure he could see it too, and i was afraid to call his attention to it, lest it should bring the creature on me so suddenly that it might disorder my aim. so i sat on with the piece directed at the object, my finger on the trigger, hesitating, then determined to fire, when all at once it seemed to me that the animal had grown plainer. this, though i had not detected the movement, must mean that it was getting nearer and about to spring, so casting all hesitancy to the winds, i raised the gun to my shoulder, and then quite started, for pomp said aloud-- "mass' george going shoot?" "yes," i said, in a husky whisper. "keep still; do you see it?" "no. where be um?" "there, there," i whispered; "down straight before us." "what, dat?" "yes. be still, or you'll make it leap at us." "why, dat lil tree." there was a tone of such astonishment in the boy's voice that i bent lower and lower down, knowing how much better pomp's eyes were than mine; and as i looked, i saw that the object was clear, and that it was indeed a low patch of shrub getting plainer and plainer rapidly now, for it was morning once more. chapter twenty six. "now, mass' george," said pomp, as we stood at the foot of the tree, and stamped about to get rid of the stiffness, and cold brought on by our cramped position on the branch, "de fuss ting am breckfuss. i so dreffle hungry." "but we ate everything last night," i said. "neb mind; plenty duck in de ribber. you go shoot four lil duck, dat two piece, while pomp make fire to roace um." "but how are we to get a light?" "you see," he said, as he busily began to get together all the loose sticks he could find lying about, at the same time showing me a stone and his knife with a little bag full of tinder. "i soon get light, mass' george; i get big fire much soon you get de duck." the proposition was so sensible that i went off with the gun, and following the course of the river beyond the bluff, i was not long before i heard a familiar noise, and creeping forward in the grey dawn, i was soon crouching behind the low growth by a wide pool of the river, where quite a flock of ducks were disporting themselves, preening their feathers, diving, making the bright drops run over their backs like pearls, and ending by flapping and beating the water heavily with their wings, exactly as i had seen them perform in the pond at home. i waited my opportunity, lying flat now on my chest, and at last, after nearly firing three or four times and always waiting for a better chance, i drew trigger upon a knot of the ducks after getting several well in a line. there was a deafening report, a sensation as if my shoulder was broken, and a thick film of smoke hid everything from my sight. but as the shot went echoing along the side of the forest, i could hear the whistling and whirring of wings where the ducks flapped along the water, rose, and swept away over the trees. then the smoke rose, and to my great delight there lay five of the unfortunate ducks; three perfectly still, and floating slowly to the shallow below the pool, the other two flapping wildly and trying to reach the farther shore. to get the three was easy. i had but to wait and then wade in over the shallow to where i could see the sandy and pebbly bottom quite plain. to get the wounded ducks meant a swim, and perhaps a long hunt. "better shoot at them again," i thought, when i shuddered, for something dark appeared behind one; there was a snap, and it disappeared, while almost at the same moment the other, which must have been nearly twenty yards away, was suddenly struck down beneath the water by something which puzzled me at first, but which the next minute i knew to be an alligator's tail. i turned to my three, now well over the shallows, and hesitated as to whether i dared risk going after them, not knowing but that an alligator might make a rush out of the deep black pool and seize them first, or failing them perhaps seize me. but i was hungry too, and leaping in, i secured all three birds after splashing through the water a bit, and reached the shore again in safety, but not without many an excited look round at the deep place where i knew the monsters were lurking; and as i shook the water from my legs, and stamped about on the bank, i found myself thinking what a pity it was such a lovely country should be marred by dangerous beasts and horrible reptiles like the rattlesnakes and alligators. then i thought of the ducks, and as i held them all three by their orange legs, and looked down at their beautifully-coloured plumage, all soft browns and chestnuts, and with wing-spots of lovely green, and having a head of the same colour, my conscience smote me, and i found myself wondering what the ducks thought that beautiful morning when they were having their baths and preening themselves ready for a long flight or a good swim. and i seemed to see them all again playing about, and passing their heads over their backs, and rubbing the points of their beaks in the oil-gland to make their plumage keep off the water. and how soft and close it was! "what must they have thought," i said to myself, "about a monster who came with a horrible, fire-dealing weapon that strikes them down like a flash of lightning? not much room for me to complain about the alligators!" i exclaimed. "but if i had not killed the ducks they would have killed all kinds of insects and little fishes, and if they did not kill the insects and fishes, the insects and fishes would have killed smaller ones. everything seems to be killing everything else, and i suppose it's because we are all hungry, as i am now." i walked sharply back along the river-bank with the sun now well up, and before long came in sight of a little cloud of smoke rising softly above the trees, and soon after i could hear the crackling of wood, and as i drew near, there was pomp dodging about in the smoke, piling up pieces of dried stick, and making a roaring fire. the sight of this took away all my feelings of compunction, and in imagination i began to see the brown sides of the well-roasted ducks, to smell their appetising odour, and to taste the juicy, tender bits about the bones. "i heard you shoot um, mass' george," cried pomp, excitedly. "got lubbly fire. how many?" "three," i said. "oh!" "what's the matter?" "on'y got flee. dat two mass' george, and on'y one for pomp, an' i so dreffle hungly, i mose eat bit a 'gator." "there'll be plenty," i said. "i shall only eat one." "eh? mass' george on'y eat one duck-bird?" "that's all." "mass' george sure?" "yes. let's cook them." "but is mass' george quite sure?" "yes--yes--yes!" "oh! den mass' george hab dis bewfler one wid um green head. dat's biggess and bess." "here, what are you going to do?" i cried, as pomp suddenly seized the three ducks and threw them into the fire. "that's not the way to roast ducks." "pomp know dat, mass' george," cried the boy, poking the birds about with a long, sharp-pointed stick, one of several which he had cut ready. "pomp fader show um how to do ober dah." "ober dah" evidently meant africa. "dat a way to get all de fedder off fuss. dah, see dat?" he cried, as he turned one out scorched brown. "now mass' george see." as i watched him, he cleverly ran his sharp-pointed stick through this first duck, stuck the point down into the sand, so that the bird was close in to the glowing embers, and then deftly served the others the same. "mass' george shoot um duck, pomp cook um; same pomp cook and make de cake at home. pomp fader nebber cook. pomp cook de fis, and de yam, and make um hominy. pomp berry clebber 'deed, mass' george. ah, you try burn you 'tick an' tummle in de fire, would you, sah? no, you don't! you 'top dah an' get rock nice for mass' george." as he spoke he made a snatch at one of the sticks, and turned the bird, as he stuck it afresh in the sand, closer to the glowing embers, for the flame and smoke had nearly gone now, and the ducks were sputtering, browning, and beginning to give forth a tempting odour. as the boy was evidently, as he modestly said, so "clebber," i did not interfere, but took off my shoes and stockings, wrung the latter well out, and laid them and the shoes in the warm glow to dry, a little rubbing about in the hot dry sand from the bluff soon drying my feet. then i carefully reloaded the gun, in accordance with morgan's instructions, making the ramrod leap well on the powder charge and wad, while pomp looked on eagerly, his fingers working, his lips moving, and his eyes seeming to devour everything that was done. "pomp load um gun," he said all at once. "you go on with your cooking," i replied; "that one's `burning um 'tick.'" pomp darted at the wooden spit, and drawing it out replaced it in a better position. "dat duck lil rarksle," he said, showing his teeth. "dat free time try to burn um 'tick and tummle in de fire, rock umself. dah, you 'tan 'till, will you? oh, i say, mass' george, done um 'mell good?" "yes; they begin to smell nice." "dat de one hab green head. he berry juicy 'deed; dat one for mass' george. what mass' george going to do?" "put the gun and powder and shot farther away from the fire." "what for?" "a spark might set the powder off." "oh!" ejaculated pomp. then, "what powder do if 'park send um off?" "blow the fire out and send the ducks into the river." "what? an' de 'gator get um? pomp not cook de duck for 'gator. 'gator eat de duck raw, and no pick um fedder. take de gun away." i was already doing so, and standing it up behind us against a patch of low bushes, i hung the powder and shot pouches by their straps to the iron ramrod. then going back to my place i sat watching the cooking, as the boy turned and re-turned the birds, which grew browner and more appetising every moment. there were faults in that cooking, no doubt. there was neither plate nor dish, no bread, no salt or pepper, and no table-cloth. but there was something else--young, healthy appetite, as we sat at last in the bright morning sunshine, drawn back now from the fire, pomp and i, each with a roasting-stick in one hand, his knife in the other, cutting off the juicy brown bits, and eating them with the greatest of gusto, after an incision had been made, and the whole of the hardened interior had been allowed to fall out into the fire. we hardly spoke, but went on eating, pomp watching me and cutting the bird exactly as i did mine; then picking each bone as it was detached from the stick, and so on and on, till we had each finished his duck. our hands were not very clean, and we had no table napkins for our lips; but as we ate that meal, i can safely say for myself that it was the most delicious repast i ever had. then we sat perfectly still, after throwing our sticks into the remains of the fire, reduced now to a few glowing embers. but there is one thing more of which i must speak, that is the third duck, which, certainly the best cooked and least burned of the three, had been served to table; that is to say, its burnt stick had been stuck in the sand between us, and there it was, nicely cooling down, and looking tempting in the extreme. pomp looked at me, and i looked at pomp. "i dreffle glad we come an' 'top out all night," he said, showing his white teeth. "mass' george, go an' shoot more duck, an' pomp cook um." "we haven't finished that one," i said. "no, mass' george, no hab finish dat oder duck." "well, go on; i've had quite enough." "pomp had quite nuff too." "then we'll wrap it up in the napkin, and we'll eat it by and by for lunch." "yes; wrap um up an' eat um bime by." i drew out the napkin, and pomp shot the duck off the wooden spit on to the cloth, which, with due care to avoid the addition of sand, was folded up, and then i said-- "now, pomp, we must find the boat as we go back." "mass' george go back?" he said. "yes, of course; and get there as soon as we can." "yes, mass' george," he said, sadly. "pomp wouldn't mind 'top if mass' george say 'top here." "we'll come again," i said, laughing. "let's find the boat if we can, but we must make haste back." "hi! ohey!" he shouted. "what's the matter?" i said. "wha dat all gun?" chapter twenty seven. i looked sharply round at the bush, hardly comprehending my black companion's remark. "what?" i said, in a confused way. "wha dat gun?" "i stood it up against that bush," i said; and then, shaking off the dull stupid feeling which troubled me, darted to the bush, expecting to see that it had slipped down among the little branches. the gun was gone, and i looked round at the other bushes dotted about. "i put it here, didn't i?" "yes; mass' george put um gun dah. pomp know," he cried, running to me, and dropping on his knees as he pointed to the impression left in the dry sand by the butt. "gun gone down dah." he began scratching up the sand for a few moments, and i watched him, half hoping and believing that he might be right. but the boy ceased as quickly as he had begun. "i know, mass' george," he cried, starting up and gazing toward the river. "'gator 'fraid we come shoot um, and come out of de ribber and 'teal a gun." "nonsense! an alligator wouldn't do that." "oh, i done know. 'gator berry wicked ole rarksle." "where are the marks then?" i said. "ah, pomp find um foots and de mark of de tail." he looked sharply round, so did i; but as he searched the sand i examined the bushes, feeling that i must be mistaken, and that i must have laid the gun somewhere else. it was very stupid, but i knew people did make such mistakes sometimes; and quite convinced now that this was a lapse of memory, began to cudgel my brains to try and recall the last thing i had done with the gun. pomp settled that, for he came back to me suddenly, and said-- "see mass' george put de gun dah!" "you are sure, pomp?" i said, as he stood pointing his black finger at the bush. "yes, pomp ebber so sure." "did you find any alligator marks?" "no, mass' george, nowhere." "then some one must have come and stolen it while we were eating." "how people come 'teal a gun wif pomp and mass' george eatin' um breakfast here?" "i don't know. come and look for footsteps." "did; and de 'gator not been." "no, but perhaps a man has." "man? no man lib here." "let's look," i whispered--"look for men's footsteps." the boy glanced at me wonderingly for a moment or two, then nodded his head and began to search. where we stood by the bush, saving that the ground had been trampled by my feet, the task would have been easy enough, for everything showed in the soft dry sand; but the bush was at the edge where the sand began running from the foot of the bluff to the river, and everywhere on the other side was dense growth; patches of shrubs, grass, dry reed and rush, where hundreds of feet might have passed, and, save to the carefully-trained eye of an indian, nothing would have been seen. certainly nothing was visible to me, but the fact that it was quite possible for a man to have crawled from the forest, keeping the patches of shrubby growth between him and us, till he reached the bushes, through which he could have cautiously stolen, and passing a hand over softly, lifted the gun and its pouches from where i had stood them, and then stolen away as he had come. one thing was evident, we had an enemy not far away; and, unarmed as we were, saving that we had our knives, the sooner we took flight the better. all this was plain to me, but as i gazed in pomp's face i found it was not so clear to him; there was a strange look in his eyes, his skin did not seem so black as usual, and he was certainly trembling. "why, pomp," i said, "don't look like that." for though i felt a little nervous, i saw no cause for the boy's abject dread, having yet to learn that anything not comprehensible to the savage mind is set down at once as being the work of some evil spirit. he caught my arm and looked round, the whites of his eyes showing strangely, and his thick lips seemed drawn in as if to make a thin line. "come 'way," he whispered. "run, mass' george, run, 'fore um come and cotch us." "who? what?" i said, half angrily, though amused. "hush! done holler, mass' george, fear um hear. come take us bofe, like um took de gun." "i have it," i said suddenly. "your father has come up the river after us, and he has taken the gun to tease us. hi! hannibal--vanity--van!" "oh, mass' george! oh, mass' george, done, done holler. not fader. oh, no. it somefing dreffle. let run." "why isn't it your father playing a trick?" "him couldn't play um trick if him try. no, mass' george, him nebber play trick. it somefing dreffle. come 'way." "well, we were going back," i said, feeling rather ashamed of my eagerness to get away, and still half uneasy about the gun, as i looked up at the tree where we had slept to see if i had left it there. no; that was impossible, because i had had it to shoot the ducks. but still i might have put it somewhere else, and forgotten what i had done. i turned away unwillingly, and yet glad, if that can be understood, and with pomp leading first, we began our retreat as nearly as possible over the ground by which we had come. for some little distance we went on in silence, totally forgetting the object of our journey; but as we got more distant from the scene of our last adventure, pomp left off running into bushes and against trees in spite of my warnings, for he had been progressing with his head screwed round first on one side then on the other to look behind him, doing so much to drive away such terror as i felt by his comical aspect, that i ended by roaring with laughter. "oh, mass' george," he said, reproachfully, "you great big foolish boy, or you no laugh like dat all. you done know what am after us." "no," i said; "but i know we lost one of our guns, and father will be very cross. there, don't walk quite so fast." "but pomp want to run," he said, pitifully. "and we can't run, because of the bushes and trees. i don't think there was anything to be afraid of, after all." "oh! run, mass' george, run!" yelled pomp; and instead of running i stood paralysed for an instant at the scene before me. we were pretty close to the river-bank, and forcing our way through a cane brake which looked just as if it must be the home of alligators, when a man suddenly stood in the boy's path. quick as thought the brave little fellow sprang at him, seeing in him an enemy, and called to me to run, which of course i did not do, but, as soon as i recovered from my surprise, ran on to his help. as i did so the path seemed darkened behind me, i heard a quick rustling, my arms were seized, and the next moment i was thrown down and a knee was on my chest. "oh, mass' george, why didn't you run?" poor pomp's voice rang out from close beside me in despairing tones, and i wrenched my head round, just catching a glimpse of him through the canes. then i looked up in the stern faces of my captors, thinking that i had seen them before, though no doubt it was only a similarity of aspect that struck me, as i realised that we had fallen into the hands of the indians once more. they did not give us much time to think, but after taking away our knives twisted up some lithe canes and secured our wrists and arms behind us, two holding each of us upright, while another fastened our hands. then they drew back from us, and stood round looking at us as if we were two curiosities. "well, this is a nice game, pomp," i said at last. "yes, dis nice game, mass' george. why you no run away?" "how could i?" "how you could? you ought run, jump in libber and go 'cross. wish i run and tell de capen an' mass' morgan." "ah!" i ejaculated. "you tie too tight, mass' george?" "yes, but i was thinking of something else. pomp, those indians are going to attack our place and the settlement, and no one will know they are coming." "pomp hope so," he said, sulkily, and screwing himself about with the pain caused by his tight bonds. "what?" "den de capen an' mass' morgan shoot um, an' serb um right." "but they will take them by surprise." "wait bit. we soon get dese off, and go down tell 'em injum come." "i'm afraid we shall not have the chance." just then a firm brown hand was clapped on my shoulder, and a stalwart indian signed to me to go on through the canes. i obeyed mechanically, seeing the while that the half-dozen indians who had captured us had silently increased to over a dozen quietly-moving, stealthy-looking fellows, who passed through the dense thicket, almost without a sound, and with their eyes watchfully turned in every direction, as if they were always on the look-out for danger. and so i walked awkwardly on, feeling, now that my arms were bound behind me, as if at any moment i should stumble and fall. the mystery of the gun's disappearance was clear enough now, without the proof which came later on. it was quite plain to me that some of these strange, furtive-looking savages had crawled up behind the bush and carried off the piece, after which they had lain in ambush waiting for us to retrace our steps along the track we had broken down the previous day, and then pounced upon us and made us prisoners. at my last encounter they had contented themselves with following us home, but now everything seemed to betoken mischief. they seemed to me to be better armed, and had begun to treat us roughly by binding our arms, and this it struck me could only mean one thing--to keep us from getting away and giving the alarm. i felt too now--for thoughts came quickly--that the report of the gun that morning had guided them to our temporary camp, that and the smoke of the fire; and as i felt how unlucky all this was, i found that we were getting farther and farther from the river, and in a few minutes more we were in an open portion of the wood, where about fifty more indians were seated about a fire. a shout from our party made them all start to their feet and come to meet us, surrounding and staring at us in a fierce, stolid way that sent a chill through me as the question rose--would they kill us both? in a dull, despondent way the answer seemed to me--_yes_; not just then, for we were both placed back against a young tree, and hide ropes being produced, we were tightly bound to the trunks and left, while the indians all gathered together in a group, squatted down, and sat in silence for a time smoking. then all at once i saw one jump up, axe in hand, to begin talking loudly, gesticulating, waving his axe, and making quite a long address, to which the others listened attentively, grunting a little now and then, and evidently being a good deal influenced by his words. at last he sat down and another took his place, to dance about, talking volubly the while, and waving his axe too, and evidently saying threatening things, which, as he pointed at us now and then, and also in the direction of the settlement, i felt certain must relate to their expedition. in spite of my anxiety about my fate, i could not help feeling interested in these people, for everything was so new and strange. but other thoughts soon forced themselves upon me. they must, i felt, be going on to the settlement, and it was my duty at any cost to get away, and give the alarm. but how? "pomp," i said, after a time, "do you think we could get loose and run back home?" the boy looked at me with his face screwed up. "pomp done know," he said. "could you get the knots undone?" "pomp 'fraid try. come and hit um. going to kill us, mass' george?" "oh, no; i don't think there's any fear of that." "then why they tie us up?" "don't talk so loud. it makes them look round." "look dah!" "what at?" "dah de gun. dat big ugly injum got um. him fief." "never mind the gun," i said. "let's think about getting away." "yes; dat's what pomp do fink about, mass' george." "if they had not taken our knives, i might perhaps have cut ourselves free. oh, i'd give anything to let them know at home. look here; if you can get loose, never mind about me; run back home, and warn my father to escape to the settlement." "you tell um," said pomp, shortly. "but i mean if you can get free without me." "what, you fink pomp run 'way and leab mass' george all 'lone?" "yes; it is to save those at home." "capen flog um for going." "no, no; he would not." "fader knock um down an' kick um." "i tell you he would not. try all you can to get loose and creep away when they are not looking." "always looking," said pomp, shortly; and it was quite true, for some one or other of the indians always seemed to be on the watch, and after trying to wrench myself clear, i stood resting my aching legs by hanging a little on the rope, for the hours were slowly gliding by, and afternoon came without relief. at last a couple of the men brought us some water and a piece each of badly-roasted and burned deer-flesh, setting our hands at liberty so that we could eat and drink, but leaving the hide ropes holding us tightly to the trees, and sitting down to watch us, listening intently as we spoke, but evidently not understanding a word. "well," i said, after a few minutes, during which i had been eating with very poor appetite, "why don't you eat, pomp?" "done like um. 'mell nasty." "it's only burnt," i said. "how mass' george know what um eat?" "what?" i said, looking curiously at the meat. "pomp fink it poor lil nigger been kill and cook um." "nonsense; it's deer's flesh." "mass' george sewer?" "yes, quite." "oh!" that was all the boy said, for he set to work directly and soon finished his portion, taking a good deep drink afterward; and as soon as he had done one of the indians secured his hands again, a task which necessitated a loosening of the hide rope, pomp submitting with a very good grace. then came my turn, and as soon as i was secured, the indians went slowly back to where the others were grouped, and squatted down to listen to the talking going on. it was a weary, weary time; the sun was getting lower, and birds came and chirped about in the dense branches of the trees to which we were bound, and i felt a strange feeling of envy as i looked up from time to time and thought of their being at liberty to come and go. and all through those painfully long hours the talking went on constantly about the fire, which one or the other of the indians made up by throwing on some branches of wood. as i watched them, i saw that they kept going and coming in different directions, so that the number in the camp did not vary much, and though the day wore on, there was no cessation of the talking, for there was always a fresh indian ready to leap to his feet, and begin relating something with the greatest vehemence, to which the rest listened attentively. "they must be going on to the settlement to-night," i thought; and as i noted their bows, arrows, axes, and knives, i conjured up horrors that i felt would be sure to take place if we could not get free and give the alarm. all sorts of plans occurred to me. the forest would, i felt, be full of the enemy, and if we could get loose there would be no chance of our stealing away without being captured. but could we get across the river in safety, and make our way along the farther bank; or could we swim down? i shuddered as i thought of what would be the consequences of trying such a feat. then my ponderings were interrupted by the coming of a couple more of the indians, who examined our fastenings and then went back. "mass' george 'leep?" said pomp suddenly, in a low voice. "asleep? no. who could go to sleep like this?" "no, not nice go 'leep 'tanning up," said pomp, coolly; and there was a long pause, with the monotonous talking of the indians still going on. all at once one of the indians who had last examined our bonds came back, peeping about him inquiringly, examining our ropes, and looking about our feet for some minutes before going back, carefully scanning the ground and bushes as he went, and after a good deal of hesitation reseating himself. by this time i was utterly wearied out, and hung forward from the rope with my head upon my chest, gazing down hopelessly at the thick moss and other growth at our feet. "mass' george 'leep?" whispered pomp again. "no, no," i said, sadly; "i could not sleep at a time like this." "'cause mass' george no go to sleep." i looked at him despondently, and saw that he was amusing himself by picking the moss and leaves with his toes, getting a tuft together, snatching it off, and dropping it again, almost as cleverly as a monkey would have done the same thing. then i ceased to notice it, for i saw a couple of the indians get up from the fireside, and come to examine us again. they felt all the knots, and appeared satisfied, going back to the fire as before, while others threw on fresh sticks. then the smoking and talking went on, and the flames cast their shadows about, and on the trees now in a peculiarly weird way. we were almost in darkness, but they were in what seemed to be a circle or great halo of red light, which shone upon their copper-coloured skins, and from the axes and the hilts of the knives they had stuck in the bands of their deer-skin leggings. "soon be quite dark now, mass' george," whispered pomp; "den you see." "see? see what? their fire?" "wait bit--you see." my heart gave a great throb, and i wanted to speak, but the words in my agitation would not come. it was evident that the boy had some plan afoot, and as i waited for him to speak again, feeling ashamed that this poor black savage lad should be keener of intellect than i, he suddenly began to laugh. "pomp," i whispered, "what is it?" "you mose ready, mass' george?" "ready? what for?" "you see dreckerly. you know what dat injum look about for?" "no." "lose um knife." "well?" "pomp got um." "you have? where?" "down dah," he said, making a sign with one foot toward the loose moss and leaves he had picked. "why, pomp," i whispered, joyfully, "how did you manage that?" "ciss! coming." two of the indians had risen again from the fire, and once more approached, feeling the knots, and to my despair, binding us more securely with a couple of fresh ropes of hide. then i saw their dark figures go half way to the fire, return and pass near us, and out along the banks of the river toward the settlement. then six more rose and went slowly out of sight among the trees, and i felt that these must be going to form outposts to guard the little camp from attack. "now, mass' george," whispered pomp--"ah, look dah." i was already looking, and saw that about a dozen more left the fireside to go out in different directions, their tall dark figures passing out of sight among the trees. "what are you going to do with the knife?" i whispered softly. "'top; you see," said the boy. "but how did you get it?" "you see dat injum come feel de rope. he 'tuck pomp head down under um arm while he tie de knot hurt um, so pomp mean to bite um; but pomp see de handle ob de knife 'tick up close to um mouf, and um take hold wid um teef, pull um out, and let um fall and put um foot ober um." "oh, pomp!" i said. "den he gone, pomp push um out ob sight and put um foot ober um again, and now i juss pick um up wid pomp toe." i heard a faint rustle, and then he whispered after a faint grunting sound-- "got um." i stared sidewise at where he was--only about six feet away--and half fancied that i could see him pick up the knife with his toes, and bend his foot up till he could pass the blade into his hand. "hff!" "what's the matter?" i whispered, as i heard a faint ejaculation. "pomp cut umself." then i heard a curious sawing sound, which seemed to be loud enough to reach the indians' ears, but as i looked, they were all talking, and i turned my eyes again in the direction of my companion, whose black body and light drawers had stood out plainly in the faint glow of the fire a minute before, and i could only just restrain an exclamation, for he was not there. at the same moment his lips were at my ear-- "'tan 'till." i obeyed, and felt the tension and loosening as he rapidly cut through the hide rope and the cane bonds which held me; but i was so stiff, and my wrists were so numbed, that the feeling had gone from my hands. "mass' george ready?" "no; yes," i said, as i gazed wildly at the group about the fire, and felt that our movements must be seen. but the indians made no sign, and pomp went on-- "injum ebberywhere now. can't run away." "but we must," i whispered. "catchum gain, dreckerly. dis here tree. mass' george go up fuss." "up the tree!" i faltered. then grasping the cleverness of the boy's idea, i stretched out my arms, seized a branch overhead, and in spite of my numbness, swung myself up and stood on it, holding by the branch of the great pine close behind the two small trees to which we had been bound. pomp was beside me directly. "up!" he whispered; and as silently as i could, i crept on toward the dense crown, the many horizontal branches giving good foot-hold, and the fire gleaming among the needle-like foliage as i went higher, with pomp always ready to touch me and try to guide. it was a huge tree, quite a cone of dense foliage, after we were some distance up, and we had just reached the part where great, flat, heavily-laden boughs spread between us and the ground, when pomp drew himself quickly to my side, and laid his hand on my mouth. it was not necessary, for at the same moment as he i had noted the danger, just catching sight of two black shadows on the ground, which i knew were those of a couple of the indians approaching our trees from the fire. then we could see no more, but remained there clinging to the boughs as if part of the tree itself, wondering what was to come. it seemed quite a space of time before from just below i heard a discordant yell which thrilled through me, and actually for the moment made me loose my hold. but i was clinging fast again directly, as the yell was answered by a couple of score of throats; there was the rapid beat of feet, the crunching of dead sticks and crushing of bushes, and i clung there with closed eyes, listening to a confused gabble of excited voices, and waiting for what i seemed to know would come next. for in my excitement i could in fancy picture the indians examining the cut thongs lying where they had dropped by the trees, and then one great stalwart fellow took a step out from the rest and pointed up to where we two clung forty feet from the ground, and i saw a score of arrows fitted to the bow-strings, and their owners prepare to shoot and bring us down. i cannot attempt to describe the sensation that thrilled through me in what was almost momentary, nor the wild thoughts flashing in my brain. i only know that i wondered whether the arrow which pierced me would hurt much, and thought what a pity it was that the tree we were in did not hang over the stream, so that we might have fallen in the water. but no flight of arrows rattled among the boughs, and all we heard was the gabble of excited voices. then came yell after yell from a little distance farther away from the settlement, and from the excited questioning which seemed to follow, i knew that a number of the indians had returned to the camp to talk hurriedly to those beneath the tree. then there were a couple of yells given in a peculiar tone, and a faint series of sounds reached us, suggesting to me that the whole party had spread out, and were quickly and cautiously creeping along through the forest from the edge of the stream for some distance in, and then all was still. chapter twenty eight. a pair of warm lips at my ear made me start again. "dey all 'tupid, dem injum. i know dey nebber tink we get up tree. think we run home. all gone. come down." "no, no; it is not safe," i whispered. "yes; all gone dat way. we go oder." he was already descending almost as rapidly as a monkey, and i followed as fast as i could, fully expecting to be seized; but all was silent, and the fire had sunk quite low as we bent down and crept along by the edge of the opening, and directly after were well in the shelter and darkness of the trees, with the fire behind only making its presence known by a dull glow. "where are you going?" i whispered at last. "get away from injum. come!" he said this shortly, and i began thinking that it was our wisest course to get right away, and, as soon as we could find a spot at daybreak, cross to the other side, and then try to thread our way back home. but a curiously dull, deadening feeling came over me, as i felt that the indians must now get there first, and that we should be too late to give the alarm. i was just thinking this when pomp stopped short. "mass' george take off um shoes," he whispered. "carry um. injum no see footmarks a-morrow." i hurriedly did as he suggested, for there was wisdom in what he said, and i hoped that the print of my stockinged feet, if our trail was found and followed, might pass for the impressions made by moccasins. i did not know much then about such matters, but still i had heard a good deal of talk about the skill of the indians in tracking, and naturally felt nervous as i immediately began magnifying their powers, and fancied that as soon as it was day they would take up our trail like a pack of hounds, and follow it step by step, first my clumsy shoe-prints, then pomp's bare feet, with the great toe spreading wide out from the others, which all seemed long and loose, as i had often noticed and laughed at when i had seen them in the mud or sand. in fact, i had more than once followed him by his footprints, and as i recalled all this, i seemed to see the fierce-looking savages coming on swiftly, and urged pomp to make haste, though my heart sank as i felt that every step took us farther into the wilderness, and with the exception of the knife the boy had secured, we were without arms. "can't go no fasser, mass' george," he said; "so dark. but done you be 'fraid. dem on'y 'tupid savage. pomp too clebber let um cotch him 'gain." in spite of my anxiety i could not help smiling at my companion's conceit, and his reference to "'tupid" savages. pomp's connection with civilisation was making its mark upon him in other ways beside the rapid manner in which he had acquired our tongue. and so we tramped on hour after hour, going, as i knew by the stars whenever we got a glimpse of them, nearly due west, and trying to avoid breaking branch or trampling down thick patches of growth by making a detour. of course this hindered us a good deal, but still it was the surest way of avoiding recapture; and at last, after our long, weary walk, whose monotony i had relieved by softly chafing my arms and wrists to get rid of the remains of the numbness produced by the bonds, there came a familiar note or two from the trees overhead, and i knew that in a very short time it would be light. "tired, pomp?" i said. "no, mass' george, but i dreffle hungly 'gain. oh! dem ugly tief 'teal de gun. no get duck for breakfass, eh?" "let's think about escaping and getting back to the house before these savages.--ah, it's getting light." i remember how eagerly i said this, as i saw the pale grey appearing through the leaves, and making the tall, gloomy-looking trunks stand up like great columns in all directions. "now," i said, "where do you think the river is?" "ober dah," said pomp, without a moment's hesitation; and he pointed to the left. "is it far?" "no, not far." "let's get to it at once then." we struck off again, bearing to the left, and just at sunrise found that we were at the edge of the forest once more, with a well-defined track, showing where the river ran. where we stood we were under the shade of the great trees, where scarcely anything grew beneath the spreading, tangled branches, while just beyond them there was a dense thicket of succulent growth glittering in the sunshine, where the leaves were still moist with dew, and some hundred or a hundred and fifty yards away there once more was the other edge of the forest, rising up over a rich band of growth similar to that which was close to where we stood. the river lay between, i knew, though invisible from where we stood; and for the moment i felt more hopeful, for, after the long, dark tramp through the wilderness, we seemed to be now on the broad high-road which led straight past home. then my heart sank again, as i felt that perhaps the indians were already on our track, and that even if they were not, they were between us and safety. my reverie was interrupted by pomp, who said briskly-- "now, mass' george, what you tink?" "we must get across the river at once." pomp made a grimace. "how we 'wim ober dah wid de 'gator all awaiting to hab us for breakfass, mass' george?" i shuddered as i thought of the task, but it seemed as if that was the only thing to do, and then tramp along the opposite bank downward. "what are you doing?" i said, as the boy began to step about, cautiously penetrating once more into the forest, and stopping at last beside a moderate-sized pine, whose trunk was dotted with the stumps of dead branches, till about fifty feet from the ground, where it formed a pretty dense tuft, whose top was well in the sunlight. "now we go up dah and hide, and rest a bit." "but why not try that tree, or that, or that?" i said; and i pointed rapidly to three or four more, all far more thickly clothed with branch and foliage. "if injum come he fink p'raps we hide in dah, an' look. no fink we get up dat oder tree. injum berry 'tupid." "but hadn't we better try and get across or down the stream?" pomp shook his head. "see injum, and dey dreffle cross dat we run 'way. wait a bit, mass' george." "but my father--yours--and morgan?" "well, what 'bout um, mass' george?" "we ought to warn them." "dey must take care ob demself. no good to go and be caught. dat not help um fader." there was so much truth in this that i did not oppose pomp's plan of getting up in the tree, and hiding until the pursuit was over. for it was only reasonable to suppose that after a thorough hunt in one direction, the indians would come in the other. besides, i was utterly wearied out the previous evening, and glad to rest my tired limbs by hanging against the rope, and taking the weight off my feet. since then we had tramped through the night many dreary miles, made more painful by the constant stress of avoiding obstacles, and the sensation of being hunted by a pack of savages whose cries might at any moment rise upon the ear. it was not a comfortable resting-place for one who felt as if he would give anything to throw himself down and lie at full length, but it promised to be safe, and following pomp's lead, i climbed steadily up the tree to where the dense head formed quite a scaffolding of crossing boughs, and here, after getting well out of sight of any one who might be passing below, we seated ourselves as securely as possible, and waited for what was to come next. "wait injum gone, and we kedge fis' and roast um for dinner," said pomp; and then we sat for some little time in silence, listening for the slightest sound. birds we heard from time to time, and now and then the rustle of a squirrel as it leaped from bough to bough, but nothing else till there were, one after the other, four ominous splashings in the river, which gave me a very uncomfortable feeling with regard to crossing to the other side, and i looked at pomp. "dat 'gators," he said shortly. "no 'wim cross de ribber." then quite a couple of hours must have passed, and pomp began to fidget about terribly, making so much noise that if the indians had been anywhere at hand, they must have heard. "hush!" i said; "sit still." "can't, mass' george," he said sharply. "i so dreffle hungly." "yes, so am i. what are you going to do?" "get down again. injum no come now." i hesitated; and as i was heartily sick of waiting, and famished, i made myself believe that our enemies were not pursuing us, and descended quickly to look at my companion. "what we do now, mass' george--kedge fis?" "if we can," i said; "but how?" "pomp show mass' george." he led on through the thick growth just outside the forest edge, and looking sharply from side to side, soon pitched upon a couple of long, thin, tapering canes, which he hacked off and trimmed neatly, so that they formed a pair of very decent fishing-rods, and he looked at me triumphantly. "dah!" he said. "but where are the hooks and lines?" pomp's face was wonderful in its change. "wha de hookum line?" he said. "yes, you can't catch fish like that." scratching the head when puzzled must be a natural act common to all peoples, for the boy gave his woolly sconce a good scratch with first one hand and then the other. "dat berry 'tupid," he said at last; "pomp no 'tink of dat. what we do now?" i stood musing for a few minutes as puzzled as he was. then the bright thought came, and i took the lighter of the two canes, cut off the most pliant part, and then tearing my silk neckerchief in thin strips, i split the end of the cane, thrust in the haft of the knife, so that it was held as by a fork, and bound the cane tightly down the length of the knife-handle, and also below, so that the wood should split no farther; and as the knife was narrow in blade, and ran to a sharp point, we now had a formidable lance, with shaft fully twelve feet long. "there!" i said triumphantly in turn, as i looked at pomp. "'tick um froo de fis?" he said. "yes. we must find some deep pool, and see if we cannot spear something, so as to be food for the day." "mass' george 'tick um fis, pomp find um." i nodded, eager enough to try and get something in the way of food, so that we might be better able to bear our day's journey, for i felt that somehow we must get back; but i always hesitated from starting, lest we should be seen by pursuing indians, and being recaptured, have no chance of giving the alarm at home. pomp was not long in finding a deep hole close under the bank, in whose clear, tree-shaded water i could see about a dozen fish slowly gliding about. they were only small, but anything was food for us then; and introducing my lance cautiously, i waited my opportunity, and then struck rapidly at a fish. vain effort! the fish was out of reach before the point of the knife could reach him; and a few more such strokes emptied the hole, but not in the way i intended. "find another," i said; and pomp crept along, and soon signed to me to come. as he made way for me, and i crept to the edge, i felt a thrill of pleasure, for there, close under the bank, just balanced over some water-weed, was a fine fish about a foot and a half long. "if i can get you," i thought, "we shall do." carefully getting my spear-shaft upright, i lowered the point, and aiming carefully, i struck. whether i aimed badly, or the refraction of the water was not allowed for, i cannot say, but there was no result. i only saw a quivering of the surface and the fish was off into the river. the same result for a dozen more tries, and then pomp said protestingly-- "i nebber tink dat ob any good." "but it is good if i could strike one," i said, testily. "um on'y tummle off 'gain, mass' george." "never mind; try and find another good hole, i'll do it yet." he gave his head a rub and went on along the river-side, peering among the overhanging bushes, and one way and another we made a trail that any one could have followed; but likely holes and pools were scarce now, and i was getting hot, faint, and weary, when, after creeping close to the edge of the stream again, pomp signed to me to give him the lance. i hesitated for a moment, not liking to give up, but ended by passing the spear; and, taking it, pomp lay flat down, crept to the edge where the bank overhung the river, as it proved, very gently thrust his eyes beyond, drew back, and quickly picked a good-sized bunch of long grass, which he bound at one end, opened the bunch at the other, and put it on like a cap, the result being that the long grassy strands hung right over his face loosely. he laughed at me, and crept back again, moving his head slowly to and fro for a few moments, as if to get the occupants of the pool used to his presence. then very slowly and cautiously he manipulated the lance shaft, so that it was upright, and holding it with both hands lowered the point down and down till six feet had disappeared, then seven, eight, nine at least; and as i was thinking how deep it must be down there, the long cane became stationary, with the boy's hands holding it above his head. i stood leaning forward, wondering what luck he would have, and full of hope, for i was too hungry to feel envious and hope that he would miss. but still he did not strike, and the moments glided on till i was getting quite out of patience, and about to creep forward and look down to see how big the fish might be, when, quick as thought, down went the shaft with a tremendous dig, and then, with the cane quivering exceedingly, pomp seemed to be holding something he had pinned tightly down against the bottom, till its first fierce struggles were at an end. "got him?" i exclaimed, joyfully. "pomp 'tick knife right froo um," he panted; and then springing up, he rapidly drew the shaft from the water, hand over hand, till, to my intense astonishment, he raised to the bank, muddy, dripping, and flapping heavily, the largest terrapin i had seen, and putting his foot upon it, he drew out the spear, which had transfixed it right in the middle of the back. "dah!" he exclaimed; and seizing his capture, he led the way into the forest, where, risking discovery, we soon had a fire of dead sticks and pine-needles blazing merrily over the shell of our terrapin, off which we made at last, if not a good meal, a sufficiently satisfying one to give us spirit for trying to get back home. chapter twenty nine. "now, pomp," i said, after we had each lain down and had a good hearty drink of clear water, "the way to get home is to make a raft and float down the river." "don't want raft--want um boat," he said. "do you know what a raft is?" i said. "no, mass' george." i explained to him, and he shook his head. "'gator come and pick pomp and mass' george off." "we must make it so big that they could not." "how make big raft?--no chopper to cut down tree." "we must cut down and tie together bundles of canes," i said, after a long pause, well occupied by thinking. "they will bear us if we lie down upon them. we have a knife; let's try." it was no easy task to get the knife free, for the threads by which it was bound into the split end of the cane had swollen; but it was clear at last, and selecting a suitable spot where the shore was quite a cane brake, we toiled away cutting and tying together bundle after bundle of canes, till we had six which roughly resembled as many big trusses of straw. these we secured to four of the stoutest canes we could find, passing them through the bands crosswise, and after a good deal of difficulty, and at the risk of undoing our work, we managed to thrust it off the bank into the river, where, to my great delight, upon trying it, the buoyancy far exceeded my expectations. in fact, though we could not have stood upon it, lying down it supported us well, and without any hesitation, after cutting a couple of light poles for steering or directing, we thrust off from the side, and began gliding down the stream. from that moment it seemed as if our troubles were over, for we had little difficulty in keeping well out from the overhanging boughs, while a thrust or two with our poles enabled us to avoid fallen trees and patches of growth rising from the river shallows. i soon felt convinced that if the bands we had made would hold out, we should have no difficulty in floating down, for i could recall no rapids or falls likely to give us trouble. certainly we had seen nor heard neither. our risks were from the collapse of our raft, from the reptiles that we kept seeing from time to time as we glided slowly on, and from the indians, whom, as i scanned the bank, i expected moment by moment to see start from the dense growth which fringed the sides with a yell. if we could have felt secure, the ride down the river would have been delightful, for it was all in the bright sunshine, with a wall of the loveliest verdure on either side. flowers hung in clusters, or sprang from the moist banks; birds flitted here and there, and every now and then some great heron or crane sprang up with flapping wings and harsh cry at being disturbed while fishing. but every now and then an excited movement on the part of pomp told me that an alligator was in sight, sunning himself on a shoal, or where he had beaten down the reedy growth as he had crawled out upon the bank. such movements on the boy's part were perilous, the side of the raft going down slowly and steadily, till i forced him to lie still. "they will not touch us," i said, "unless we are struggling in the water. do you want to fall in or upset the raft?" he shuddered, and his eyes rolled a little, but he lay still, and we glided on till we must have gone down a couple of miles, when all at once pomp uttered a cry. "hush!" i said, despairingly. "you will be heard." "nebber mind. quick, mass' george! push! push!" i could not understand what he meant, but it was evident that something was wrong, and there was no time to ask for an explanation; so i helped all i could to push the raft toward the farther shore, convinced that the indians were upon us, and that we must seek safety in the forest once again. it was easy enough to float with the stream, but hard work to make the raft to move as we wished, and we must have gone down fully a hundred yards farther before there was a chance to seize an overhanging branch, and tow the raft to a clear piece of the farther bank, on to which pomp scrambled at once. "quick, mass' george, quick!" he cried; and leaving me to follow, he disappeared at once in the dense cane and bush. i was not long in following; and as i got ashore i saw the raft caught by an eddy, as it rose relieved from my weight, and as i plunged into the thicket i had a glimpse of it being carried out into the swift stream. i was too much excited and hurried to follow pomp, whom i heard crashing on before me, to pause to think about our retreat being now cut off by water, unless we made a new raft. the indians must be there within view, i felt; but why did no arrows come; and why did not my companion plunge at once into the forest? the explanation came directly, as i struggled on, seeing my route marked by trampled down reed and broken twig, for pomp suddenly shouted-- "i got um, mass' george." what had he got? something eatable, i felt, for he was always hungry; and to obtain this we had lost our raft, and should have all the work to do over again. "hush!" i whispered, angrily; "you will be heard." "done matter now," came from close at hand, though i could see nothing yet. "pomp fine um." i struggled out of the low brushwood, and came into a more open part of the bank, and there stood in astonishment, to find my companion dancing with delight, and pointing to where, six feet above my head, just as it had been left by the subsiding of the water, and on a nearly even keel, was the lost boat, perched among the bushes, and apparently none the worse for its journey. "oh, pomp!" i cried, as excited now as he, "this is a find." "see juss lit' bit ob um back up dah, mass' george," he said. "come try and get um down." i beat and pressed down the bushes as much as i could, and together we reached the stern of the boat; but as i touched it a fresh thought arose to damp my spirits. there was the boat, but in what condition was it? it did not seem possible that it could have been drifting about in that flood and left here without damage--a hole made by some jagged projecting tree branch, or a plank started. "now den, mass' george, pull." i dragged at the stem, and then uttered a warning cry and threw myself back, for the boat was so lightly perched on the bushes that it came down with a rush, and as we started up again, and examined it, as far as i could see it was completely uninjured, and even the oars were in their places beneath the thwarts. the rest of the journey toward the water was not quite so easy, but we tugged and lifted, and by degrees got it on the few yards farther, and at last had the satisfaction of sending it crashing down into a bed of reedy growth, and springing in to push it onward into the stream, where, once clear of the dense water grasses, it began to glide down easily and well. now that the excitement of the discovery and launching of the boat was over, it all seemed to have been a kind of day-dream; and though i took my seat on a thwart, and got an oar over the side, i could hardly believe it real till i recalled that it was possible that our actions had all been watched, and that amongst the trees and bushes of the other side dozens of keen eyes might be aiming arrows at us, and the oar almost dropped from my hand. pomp was thinking of our enemies too, for, as he got his oar over the side, and was looking down stream, he exclaimed suddenly-- "yah! who 'fraid now? look, mass' george, dat big ugly ole 'gator, dah." "pomp!" i cried, in an excited whisper; and i half rose to fling myself down, to lie in shelter of the boat's side. for at that moment, from some distance off, came a cry that i recognised as an indian yell. chapter thirty. i do not suppose that many who read this have ever heard a red indian's cry, and i hope those who have not never will. it was no doubt invented on purpose to scare an enemy, and it answers its purpose thoroughly. to me it sounded blood-curdling, and a curious sensation ran through me, as if the blood was chilling in my veins. but on thinking of it afterwards, i did not believe that it curdled, and on talking the matter over just before sitting down to write this narrative of my boyish adventures, my doctor said it was all nonsense; that the sensation was produced by the nerves, and that if a body's blood curdled there would be an end of him at once. of course the doctor was right, for the effect of that cry was to make me drop down in the boat again, whisper to pomp to pull, and row with all my might. then another yell came from our right, and was answered from the forest, the indian who shouted evidently being not very far away. "hear dat, mass' george?" said pomp. "yes; pull hard. it is the indians." "well, who car' for old injum? dey can't cotch us now." "don't be too sure," i whispered. "there may be some of them waiting to shoot at us with their bows and arrows." pomp turned his head quickly over his right shoulder to look at the low bushes and reedy plants by the river-bank, and in doing so thrust his oar too deeply down, with the result that he received a blow in the chest, his legs rose up in the air, and his head went down between my legs. he lay on his back for a moment staring wildly up at me over his forehead, his eyes rolling and his mouth wide. "why mass' george do dat?" he cried. "i didn't, you stupid little nigger," i cried, angrily. "get up and mind your oar. you caught a crab. pull!" pomp scrambled back in his place, and began to pull again as hard as he could, for my voice had rather startled him. "what mass' george say?" he whispered. "pull!" "yes, i pull; but what mass' george say 'fore dat?" "i said you caught a crab." "didn't! it was great big terrapum." "i mean you put your oar in too deep." "den what for say catch um crab? mass' george say injum in de bush shootin' at pomp, and den he look round an' no injum dah; mass' george play trick to fright um, and den call poor pomp 'tupid lil nigger." "will you hold your tongue and row?" i whispered fiercely. "pomp can't hold um tongue and pull de oar bofe togedder." "hush!" _pow_--_ow_--_ow_--_ow_--_ow_--_ow_! came faintly from among the trees, and pomp turned sharply round, with circles of white showing round the dark part of his eyes; but this time he kept his oar out of the water, and the boat instead of turning toward the side continued to glide swiftly down the stream. "dat de injum?" he whispered. "yes. pull--hard!" he swung round in his place, and began to row again so sturdily that i had to work hard to keep the boat's head straight; and the stream favouring us, we went on down at a rapid rate, though every now and then i was obliged to whisper to him to easy as we neared some sharp curve or sandbank, to avoid which obstacles i had to keep turning round to look ahead. we had been rowing steadily like this for some time now without hearing the cries of the indians, but i did not feel any the more confident, for i knew enough of their habits to think that when they were most silent the greatest danger might be near. the banks glided slowly by us, and we had this great advantage, that even if we slackened speed the boat still travelled fast. but pomp worked hard, and evidently believing that the danger was entirely past, his spirits rose again and he began to laugh. "poor ole injum," he said; "i berry sorry for um. poor ole injum lose um knife. pomp wonner what um say. how soon we get home now, mass' george?" "oh, it will take hours yet," i replied; and just then i turned my head to see that we were rapidly approaching a ridge of sand right in the middle of the river. i was about to give my oar a vigorous tug, when i noted that the stream divided, and ran in two swift currents on either side of the ridge. as we then were, i saw that the boat would go through the narrower one--the swifter evidently; and at the same moment a pile of wood and dead rubbish on the sandspit ceased to obstruct the view, and to my horror i saw that the little long islet, whose sands were only just above the level of the water, was occupied by a group of seven or eight alligators, the nearest being a monster, the rest varying to the smallest, which was not above three feet long. i involuntarily ceased rowing and pomp did the same, just as we were entering the narrow channel, and so close to the sandspit, that the blade of the boy's oar held ready for the next dip swept over the sand. pomp was gazing in the other direction, scanning the river-bank; and as i saw what was about to happen, i said in a quick whisper-- "look out!" almost as i spoke, the blade of pomp's oar swept over the rugged horny coat of the largest alligator, which, like the rest, was sleeping in the hot sunshine perfectly ignorant of our near approach. the effect was instantaneous. as the boy turned sharply round to look out, the great reptile sprang up, opened its huge jaws, and made a snap at the oar-blade, whisked round its tail, striking the boat, and then made a series of plunges to reach the water on the other side, its actions alarming the rest, which on their retreat made the sandspit seem alive, and the water splash and foam; while pomp uttered a yell of horror, loosed his hold of his oar, and dived down into the boat, to rise again and stare over the stern as soon as i told him the danger was past. it was all the work of a few moments, during which i was startled enough, especially when i saw the gaping jaws of the great reptile, and heard the snap it made at the oar-blade; but we were going swiftly by, and mingled with the terror there was something so comic in pomp's actions, that in the reaction i began to laugh. this brought pomp's face round directly, and his reproachful black eyes seemed to ask me what i could see to laugh at. "come," i said, "you can't tell me i was playing tricks then.--why, pomp, your oar's overboard," i cried as i realised that fact. "yes, mass' george. dat great 'gator 'wallow um." "nonsense!" i cried, as i tried to check the progress of the boat on catching sight of the oar gliding swiftly down stream twenty yards away. "there it is. wait till it comes close. i'll try and manage to get you near it." "dah it am! whah?" "there, just off to your left." "so um are, mass' george. 'gator no like um, an' 'pit um out 'gain." "there: mind! now then, quick! catch hold." i had managed to check the boat enough to let the oar overtake us, and pomp made a snatch at it, but drew back sharply with a low cry of horror. "what's the matter now?" i said. "make haste; you'll lose it." "great big injum down dah," he whispered, hoarsely. "um want to bite off poor pomp arm." "nonsense! how could an indian be there?" i said, as we floated on side by side with the oar. "injum? pomp say great big 'gator. you look, mass' george." "you said indian, pomp," i continued, as i drew in my oar, picked up the boat-hook, and went cautiously to the side to look down into the transparent water, where, sure enough, one of the reptiles was swimming along; but it was quite a small one, and a sharp dig down with the boat-hook sent it undulating away, and i recovered the oar, passing it to pomp with a gesture, as there arose once more a cry from the forest right away back, and it was answered in two places. pomp took the oar and began to row again steadily, staring back at the sandspit, now fast growing distant. then all at once, as the faint cry arose from the forest-- "dat not injum," he cried sharply; "dat fock." "fox!" i said, recalling the little jackal-like creatures, of which i had seen one or two that had been shot by morgan. "yes, dat fock. um shout like dat to noder fock in um wood when um lose umself." "yes, but that would be at night," i said, wondering whether he was right. "'pose um lose umself in de day. make um cry?" "no," i said, thoughtfully. "it is like the cry of the fox, pomp, but i think it's the indians making it." "why injum cry out like fock when um can cry like injum?" "to deceive any one who hears them." "what deceive?" said pomp. "cheat--trick." "oh!" he said, and we rowed on steadily hour after hour, realising how we must have increased our distance from home in the night. sometimes as we swept round one of the river bends we encountered a breath of fresh air, but mostly deep down in that narrow way winding through the forest the heat was intense; and there were times when, as i paused to sweep the perspiration from my face, i felt that i must give up, and lie down at the bottom of the boat. but almost invariably at these times i heard faintly what i believed to be the indians calling to each other as they came on through the forest; and in the hope that perhaps after all we had got the start, and would reach home in time to give the alarm, i tugged at my oar again, and so long as i rowed pomp never for a moment flagged. but i could not keep his tongue quiet. now he would be making derisively defiant remarks about the 'gators; then he had something disparaging to say about the indians; and when i spoke to him angrily he would be quiet for a time, but only to burst out with reproaches at me for calling him a "'tupid lil nigger." nothing ever hurt pomp's feelings more than that term, which seemed to him the very extreme of reviling, and always went straight to his heart. it was getting toward evening, and a rich orange glow was beginning to glorify the long reach of the river down which we were rowing-- sluggishly now, for we were both tired out--when it struck me that i had not heard the cry for some time now, and i made the remark to pomp. "no; fock gone asleep now till de moon get up. den fock get up too, an' holler." "no, pomp," i said, "it's the indians, and they are silent because they are getting near the house now." "so pomp get near de house, and don't care for de injum. he so dreffle hungry." so was i; but my intense anxiety drove away all that, and i tried to tug harder at the oar, for i knew that we were near home now; familiar trees and corners of the stream kept coming into view, and i was just thinking that very soon i should be able to look behind me and see our landing-place, when a faintly-heard hail came along the river. we both turned sharply, and pomp exclaimed in words what i only too gratefully saw-- "dah de capen an mass' morgan in 'noder boat. wha my fader too?" i stood up for a moment and waved my hand, and then sat down, and we both pulled our best, after pomp had grumbled a little, and wanted to let the boat float down alone. a few minutes later i was holding on to the gunwale of the strange boat in which my father was seated, almost too much exhausted to speak. "i was getting uneasy about you, my boy," my father said, "for there have been some fresh rumours at the settlement about indians, and morgan went round and borrowed this boat; we were coming on to see after you. why, george, is anything the matter?" "yes, father," i panted. "the indians--they are coming on." "no," said pomp sharply, and he struck his hand on the side of the boat to emphasise his words. "mass' george hear de fock--lose him lil self an holler, and he only tink it de--ah, look! look, mass' george, look! who dat?" he pointed back up the steam, where at the edge of the bank that the river swept round previous to passing along the straight reach, there stood two tall figures, their feathers and wild dress thrown up by the bright glare of the setting sun. they were evidently reconnoitring, and though we saw them clearly for a few seconds, the next moment they seemed to have died away. "indians," said my father, drawing in his breath with a low hiss; "and we must not neglect this warning. morgan, i'll get in here with the boys; you go back, make your boat fast at the landing-place, and run up to the house, and bring your wife and hannibal down." "but the things in the house, sir?" "lives are of more importance than chattels, man," said my father, in his sternest and most military way. "tell your wife she is to stop for nothing, but to come." "an' s'pose she won't, sir?" said morgan sharply. "carry her," said my father laconically, as he stepped into our boat and pushed the other off. "but bring nothing else, sir?" said morgan, piteously. "yes; two guns, and all the ammunition you can carry; but be quick, man, we shall be waiting at the landing-place. the indians are coming in earnest now. we shall stop till you come, and open fire if it is necessary." my father capped the gun he had brought from the boat. "stop. hand me your gun and pouches." morgan gave a stroke or two with his oar, and brought the boats alongside of each other again, then handed the gun to me. "now then," said my father, "off! remember, i shall be trying to keep the indians at bay if they show, and delay on your part may mean the loss of our lives and--your own." morgan gave his head a sharp nod, bent to his oars, and my father turned to me, and cried, as if he were addressing a line of men-- "load!" chapter thirty one. i believe my hands trembled, but i stood up firmly in the boat and charged the heavy piece, making the ramrod leap, as i had been told, examined the priming, and then, in obedience to my father's sign, sat down. pomp had taken both oars, and was dipping them gently from time to time, to keep the boat's head straight, and after a long look up the reach, my father sat down too. "let's see, george," he said, "we are about a mile above the landing-place, and we must give morgan plenty of time to get there, up to the house, and back. hold up your gun, and let the indians see it if they are watching, and i suppose they are. these bow-and-arrow people have a very wholesome dread of powder." "but suppose they keep creeping near us under shelter, father," i said, "and shoot?" "they will in all probability miss; let's hope so, at all events. come, my lad, you have a gun, and you must play soldier now. will you lie down under shelter of the boat's side?" "soldiers don't lie down," i said firmly, though i wanted to do so very badly indeed. "oh, yes, they do sometimes. we will as soon as it is necessary; but what i want to do now, my boy, is to gain time. if we row swiftly to the landing-place, the indians will come on rushing from tree to tree, and be upon us in a few minutes, for i presume they are in force." i told him quickly how many we had seen. "it is a mercy that you went and were taken, george," he said; "it has saved our lives, no doubt. but as i was saying, we want to gain time, and while we sit here slowly drifting down, with these menacing guns pointing in their direction, they will advance very slowly, and keep under cover. if it becomes necessary, i shall have the boat turned, and advance to meet them." "and then, father?" "they will retire for a time, not being able to understand so bold an advance, and think that an attack is about to be made upon them from the other side. we must keep them back, and it is to be done by preserving a bold front. they are cruel and treacherous, and can fight well when they think they are in strength over a weak adversary; but from what i learned of those who have had to do with them, they are as cowardly as they are cruel. look!" i gazed sharply up the wooded bank of the river, but i could see nothing, and said so. "no; they were gone directly. they were two spies who had stolen closer up. it means war in earnest now, i am afraid." he changed his position a little, and examined his gun. "mass' goin' shoot dat gun?" said pomp, excitedly, after watching and listening with all his energy. "yes, my lad," said my father, smiling. "mass' won't shoot pomp?" "no. attend to the oars, and keep the boat's head straight. don't speak." "no, massa. oh, look, dat dah!" pomp's loud exclamation was due to the fact that an arrow came flying from a low clump of bushes nearly two hundred yards away, its reed shaft glistening in the ruddy light, and its wings looking as if of fire, till it dropped without a splash into the river, far away from where we sat. "now i should like to return their fire," said my father, "but i am very doubtful about my gun doing any harm at this distance, so we must wait. pull a little, boy, but very gently, so that they will hardly be able to see that we are doing anything to get away." pomp dipped the oars, and i sat with my heart beating, waiting to see another arrow come, but for quite a minute there was no sign. "good practice for one beginning a frontier life, george," said my father. "sweep the bank well, and note the smallest movement of a bough. you see there is no wind to move them now." "i am watching, father," i said, "but i cannot see anything." "pomp see lil bit o' one," came from behind us. "where, boy?" "dah by dat big tree. see um arm. going to shoot." almost as the words left the boy's lips, an arrow came spinning through the air, describing a good arc, and falling in a direct line with the boat, some twenty yards short. "that's better," said my father, coolly resting his gun on the stern, and half lying down in the boat. "hah! i could see that." i had also seen what appeared to be a quick movement of the bushes a short distance from the edge of the bank, a movement which seemed such as would have been made by an animal dashing through. the waving of the foliage stopped just by a great swamp oak, and upon this tree i fancied that my father fixed his eye. "dah again," said pomp, excitedly. "going shoot um bow an' arrow." _bang_! the boat rocked a little with the concussion, and as the smoke lifted, i saw an arrow drop into the river a long way to our left. "i don't think i hit him," said my father; "but i disarranged his aim, and it will check him for a bit." his words proved correct, for though he stood up in the boat to re-charge his piece, and offered a striking object for the indian's arrows, none came; and as we floated on and on, it began to seem as if the one shot had been enough to scare the enemy. i said so, but my father shook his head. "no such good fortune, my boy." "what are you going to do, father?" i said, after some minutes' watching, and thinking how strange it was that my calm, quiet father, who was so fond of his studies and his garden, should in a time of emergency like this prove himself to be a firm soldier, ready to fight or scheme against our dangerous foes. "escape to the settlement if we can get safely away." "but--" i stopped short. "well?" he said. "i was thinking about the house and garden, the furniture and books, and all our treasures." "doomed, i'm afraid, george," he said with a sigh. "we must think about saving our lives. we can build up the house again." "build it up again, father?" "yes, if it is burnt, and replace our books; but we cannot restore life, my boy. besides, all these things that we shall lose are not worth grieving over. there, i think we have waited long enough now to give them time, and we are near the landing-place. pull steadily now, boy, right for the posts." pomp obeyed, and the boat glided on, swept round a wooded point, and the landing-place with its overhanging trees was in sight. "are they there?" said my father, sharply. "i can't see them, father." a sharp stamp with his foot on the thwart of the boat told of the excitement he felt, and made me realise more than ever the peril we were in. "pull, boy--pull!" he said. i sat down in front of pomp, laid my gun across the thwarts, and placing my hands on the oars, helped with a good thrust at every tug, sending the boat well along, so that in a couple of minutes more we were at the landing-place, where i leaped out, and secured the boat by passing the rope through a ring-bolt. "don't fasten it tightly," said my father; "leave it so that you can slip it at a moment's notice. no, no, boy, sit still ready to row." pomp, who was about to spring out, plumped down again, his brow wrinkled up, and his twinkling dark eyes watching my father, of whom he stood in terrible awe. "they ought to have been here; they ought to have been here," said my father, unfastening the other boat, and making a loop of the rope that could be just hung over one of the posts, besides bringing the boat close in. "i cannot go, george," he said sharply. "this is our only means of escape, and it would be like throwing it away: they ought to have been here." "pomp hear um come," cried the boy eagerly; and we both listened, but for a few moments i could make out nothing. then as my father was eagerly scanning the edge of the river, gun in hand, on the look-out for the first approach of the indians, i heard _plod_--_plod_--_plod_--_plod_, and directly after morgan came into sight laden with the guns and ammunition, followed by hannibal with a box on his shoulder; and lastly there was sarah, red-faced and panting, as she bore a large white bundle that looked like a feather-bed tied up in a sheet. "what madness!" cried my father, angrily stamping his foot. "quick, morgan! quick!" morgan broke into a trot, and soon reached us, rapidly placed his load in the boat, and took up one of the pieces. "how could you waste time by letting that woman come loaded in this ridiculous way?" "she would bring them, sir; she wouldn't come without." "no," said sarah, who came up completely breathless, "i wasn't going to." "into the boat," cried my father, "if you value your life!" hannibal was already in with his box, and my father tried to drag the bundle from sarah, but she held on with such tenacity that she was forced in bundle and all. hannibal placed the huge white sphere in the stern, where it rose up high and projected far over the sides. then, in obedience to my father's orders, he seized the oars and sat down. "quick, morgan!" said my father; "be ready to fire steadily as you can if i give the order. stop!" he cried quickly, as a sudden thought struck him; "pass that box into this boat. there, across the stern, as you have placed that bundle." the boats were drawn together, and the transfer was made, while my hands grew wet with perspiration as i scanned the edge of the forest, fancying i could hear the breaking and rustling of twigs and leaves. "here dey come," said pomp, huskily, just as my father exclaimed, "cast off!" and the boats were thrust out into the stream. it was only just in time, for as our boat was being thrust away with the oar there was a fierce yell, and a score of savages rushed out of the edge of the forest, ran rapidly over the bushy ground between, and the two first sprang into the shallow water, one of them seizing an oar, the other coming further out, and catching at the boat's side with one hand, striking at my father with an axe at the same time. i felt as if the blow had struck me, so keen was the agony i endured; but relief came on the instant, for the axe edge was warded off by the barrel of the piece my father held, and before the savage could strike again he received the butt of the piece full in his forehead, and dropped back into the water. meanwhile the other savage was trying to tear the oar from pomp's grasp, and he would have succeeded had not the boy drawn the knife he had stuck in his waist, and given the indian quickly a sharp cut across the hands, making him yell and loosen his hold. the others were so near that we must have been captured had it not been for the sharp stream which had caught the boat, and was bearing us away. in the second boat another struggle had taken place, three of the indians, as i saw at my second glance, making for it; but they fared no better than their companions. hannibal had already pushed off, and was standing up with one oar in his hand. this he swept round as if it were a huge two-handed sword, and one indian went down at once; the second caught and clung to the oar, and he too struck at hannibal with his axe; but the great black caught the handle, gave it a wrench round, tore it from the man's grasp, and i closed my eyes for a moment as i saw what was about to follow. when i opened them again the indian was floating in the river, and a companion was drawing him to land, while another was helping the indian who had attacked morgan, and was struck down by a blow with the gun-barrel. the boats were now moving fast, and as i saw the indians all there bending their bows, my father shouted "fire!" our three pieces went off nearly simultaneously with a tremendous roar, and when the smoke rose i saw three men on the ground by our landing-place, and the others in full flight for the forest. i stared at these three in horror, when, to my surprise, they leaped up and ran after their companions. but three others lay where their comrades had dragged them half drowned, and stunned by the blows they had received. those who got up and ran were no doubt knocked down by their companions in their flight and dismay, for i do not think our fire did them any harm. but i was brought to myself by a sharp command to reload. "quick! crouch down!" said my father; and as he spoke a shower of arrows whistled by, fortunately without doing hurt. "morgan," continued my father, "make a breastwork of that bundle; it will protect you. hannibal, row straight out, so as to get that bundle between you and the enemy." the great black's response was a pull or two with one oar, while, in obedience to my father's instructions, pomp did the same; and i now saw the good of the box placed across the stern, behind which we two sheltered, and kept up as rapid a fire as we could, doing but little harm, for the indians were well sheltered among the trees, and rarely showed more than a hand and arm with one side of the face, the rest of the body being always hidden behind the trunk of some great tree. but our shots did good to this extent, for whenever the enemy made a determined rush, as if to reach a spot opposite to where the boats glided down stream, a little volley invariably sent them back to cover. still by darting from tree to tree, or crawling under the thick bushes, they kept close in our wake, and poor sarah's encumbrances proved invaluable, the box and huge bundle forming excellent shelter, from behind which we could fire, saving the woman too as she lay right in the bottom of the boat; for the arrows came fast--_whizz, whizz, whizz_, now sticking in the box with a hollow sounding rap, or into the big bundle in the other boat with a dull, thudding sound, till both box and bundle actually bristled with the missiles. "keep your head down, my boy," my father kept saying to me. "only look up when you are going to fire." this was good advice, but i did not see that he took it to himself, and i kept feeling a curious shrinking sensation as some better-aimed arrow than usual struck the box close to his head. and so we went slowly on, my father dividing his time between loading, firing, and directing pomp and hannibal how to row, so as to keep the boats one behind the other, and diagonally across the stream, so that our sheltering defences might be presented square to the enemy, who followed us along the bank. i'm afraid--and yet i do not know that i ought to speak like that of a set of savages who were thirsting for our blood--several of the indians went down severely wounded, not from my firing, but from that of morgan, for i saw them stagger and fall three times over after his shots. what happened after my father's i could not see, for we were close together, and the smoke obscured everything. for fully ten minutes this duel between lead and arrow went on, but no one on our side was hurt, though we had some very narrow escapes. i felt one arrow give quite a twitch at my hair as it passed close to my temple, and another went through my father's hat. in the other boat too morgan kept answering to our inquiries, and telling us that all was right, only that some of the arrows had come, as he termed it, "precious nigh, look you." "we shall not shake them off," said my father, "till we reach the mouth and get into the big river, when i hope our firing will be heard and put them on their guard at the settlement. so don't spare your shots when we get well out. they will be doing double duty--scaring the enemy and warning our friends. that's right, pompey, my lad, pull steadily." "iss, massa, pull berry 'tead'ly," said the boy, grinning. "as soon as we get a little farther we will relieve you, my lad; and then, george," he said, turning to me, "we must row hard for the settlement, unless," he added, sadly, "the enemy are before us, and then--hah!" i started at the moment when my father uttered that ejaculation, for an arrow dropped between us, and stuck quivering in the thwart, standing nearly upright, as if it had fallen from the clouds. "they have altered their tactics," said my father. "look there." another arrow fell with a faint _plop_ into the river close to the edge of the boat. "they find our breastwork too much for them," said my father; "and they are shooting up right over us, so as to try and hit us that way." "oh! oh! oh!" came in wild yells of pain from pomp, as i heard a dull thud just behind me; and turning sharply, there was the boy dancing about in his agony, and tugging to free his hand from an arrow which had fallen and gone right through, pinning it to one of the oars. "stop! don't struggle, boy," cried my father, laying his gun across the box. "but um hurt dreffle, massa. oh, mass' george, lookye here--lookye dah." the boat was drifting now, and turning slowly side on to the shore, when my father made a sign, and i left my gun lying across the box and crept into pomp's place, while my father seized the boy's hand, held it tightly, detached the arrow with a tug from where it stuck in the oar, and then as i began to row he pulled pomp down into the bottom of the boat, the boy sobbing with the pain. _whizz_! an arrow made me duck my head, and i don't know how i looked, but i felt as if i must have turned pale. "pull your right, george; pull your right," said my father, coolly. "now, pomp, my boy, let me look. come, be a man." my father took his hand, and the boy jumped and uttered a cry of pain, but he evidently mastered himself, and rising to his knees, he resigned himself to my father, but doubled his other fist and shook it in the direction of the shore as he shouted fiercely-- "ah, you wait bit, great big coward--great big ugly injum tief. you wait bit--pomp and um fader get hold you, gib you de 'tick. hab you flog--hab you--oh! oh, mass' capen, done, done," he cried piteously, changing his tone and appealing to my father, as he saw him take out and open his great gardening knife, which was as sharp as a razor. "be quiet," said my father; "i will not hurt you much." "no, no," whimpered pomp. "mass' george, ask massa not cut arm off. cut off lil toe, massa capen; cut off um foot. what poor lil nigger do wif ony one arm?" "be quiet, you cowardly little rascal," said my father, smiling, as with one sharp cut he took off the head of the arrow, and then easily drew the shaft back from where it had passed right through pomp's black hand. as soon as he saw the arrow-head cut off, and understood what my father meant, pomp knelt there as coolly as could be. "hurt much?" said my father, pressing his finger and thumb on the wound at the back and palm of the boy's hand. "um tickle, sah: dat all. pomp tought you cut um arm off. hi! you dah," he shouted excitedly; "you wait till pomp get lil bit of rag round um hand, you see how i serb you. yah! you big coward injum tief." my father rapidly drew his handkerchief from his pocket, tore a piece off, divided it in two, and making the two pieces into little pads, applied one each to the back and front of the boy's hand before binding them securely there. as soon as this was done, pomp looked up at him with his eyes sparkling and showing his teeth. "pomp not mind a bit," he said. "here, mass' george, come here an' shoot um. let pomp hab de oars." "no," said my father. "sit down there in the bottom of the boat. hah!" he seized his gun and fired; then caught up mine, waited till the smoke had risen a little, and fired again, a shot coming almost at the same moment from the other boat. it was quite time, for the indians, encouraged by the cessation of the firing, and seeing that some one was wounded, were coming on well abreast of us. but the first shot warned them, and the two which followed sent them once more back under cover, leaving one of their number, to pomp's great delight, motionless among the canes. "ha, ha!" he laughed; "you cotch it dis time, sah. how you like feel de shot, eh? you no 'tick arrow froo poor lil nigger hand again, you no-- oh, mass' george, look dah!" for the prostrate man suddenly rolled over, half rose, darted amongst the canes, and we could see by his movements that he was rapidly getting ahead. then another and another darted to him, and to our misery we saw that they were making for a wooded point a couple of hundred yards ahead. "mean to take us between two fires," said my father, who was coolly reloading, in spite of the arrows which kept on dropping down in and about the boat as the indians sent them right up in the air. "morgan!" shouted my father. "yes, sir." "turn your fire in the other direction, and drive those fellows out of that clump of trees on the point." "yes, sir." the next minute there was a sharp report, and then another. "that's right, boy," said my father to pomp, who was eagerly watching him reloading, and handing the ammunition. "why, george--ah, that arrow was near; did it hurt you?" "only scratched me, father," i said, as i winced a little, for one of the indians' missiles had fallen, ploughed my leg a little, and pinned the fold of my breeches to the thwart on which i sat. pomp crept to my side and pulled out the arrow, examining the hole in the thwart, and saying merrily-- "i no 'tink you want lil bit rag round you, sah." "no, pomp; go back and help to load." _bang_--_bang_! was heard again from the foremost boat; but arrows came now fast from the wooded point we were approaching. "how does morgan manage to load so quickly?" said my father, who kept on talking calmly, as i believe now to encourage us. "i think morgan is--i mean i think sarah is loading for him," i replied, rather confusedly, as the trees and the wooded bank began to grow misty and dim. "ah, very likely. great--" the one word came in a very different tone of voice, as a wild shriek rang out from the foremost boat, followed by a momentary silence. "what is it?" said my father, sternly. his demand was almost accompanied by a couple more shots in close succession. "one down, sir," said morgan, coolly; but his voice sounded to me distant and strange. "pull hard, george, my lad--your right. we must give that point as wide a berth as we can." i obeyed as well as i could, and half wondered at the singing noise in my ears. _bang_! came from the foremost boat, and i seemed to know that morgan had no one to load for him now, and that poor sarah had uttered that shriek we had heard. then i saw that my father was resting his gun on the foremost part of the boat, and he too fired at the woody point, from which arrow after arrow came in quick succession. and still i rowed hard, with the perspiration streaming down to soak me. _whizz_--_thud_--_whizz_--_whizz_, and an angry ejaculation from my father; i did not know why, nor yet why pomp uttered a shrill ejaculation, for i was pulling with all my might like one in a dream. i felt once as if i should like to look back and see how near we were to the point that i knew must be close at hand; but everything was getting dark, and a horrible sensation of sickness was coming on. then the sharp report of my father's piece made me start and pull harder, as i thought, and i tried to look toward the shore, where a wild yelling had arisen; but pomp's words uttered close to me took my attention, and in a dreamy way i supposed that another indian had been killed. then the boy spoke again in a low whimpering way-- "massa--massa--look at de blood. oh, mass' george! mass' george!" chapter thirty two. "better, my lad?" i did not answer, but looked in my father's face, wondering what was the matter--why i felt so deathly sick, as i lay back feeling water splashed in my face, and seeing a black hand going and coming from somewhere at my side. "come: try and hold up," said my father. "yes," i said. "what's the matter?" "nothing very serious for you, my lad. we have been playing at soldiers in earnest, that's all, and you have been wounded." "i, father--i? ah yes, i remember," i said, essaying to sit up. "but i did try hard to bear it." "i know--i know, my lad. i didn't know you were hurt like that." "but--but the indians?" i said, struggling up, and then catching at my father's hand, for i felt a burning pain run through my leg, and the sick sensation returned. "we have left them behind," he said, "and are out of their reach for the present. now sit still, and the faintness will go off. i must go to the other boat." i looked sharply round, and found that the wooded point was far behind, and also that we were well out of our stream, and floating steadily down the big river toward the settlement, whose flagstaff and houses stood out in the sunshine on our left about a mile away. i saw too that a rope had been made fast to the end of the other boat, and that we were being towed, but by whom, or what was going on there, i could not see for the great bundle in the white sheet which filled up the stern, and was still bristling with arrows. "hold hard!" shouted my father, and our boat began to glide alongside of the other. "can you sit up, my lad?" "yes, father," i said. "pomp take car' of him, massa." "yes, but you are wounded too," said my father. "oh, dat nuffum," said the boy contemptuously. my attention was riveted now on sarah, whom i could see as the boats were alongside lying crouched back in the bottom, looking deathly white as morgan knelt by her, holding a handkerchief pressed to her shoulder. "now let me come," said my father. "are both your pieces loaded?" "i have that charged, sir," he said aloud. then i heard him whisper, "you don't think she's very bad, do you, sir?" my father made no reply, but took morgan's place. "go and take an oar," he said then. "help hannibal; and try and get us to the fort if you can. yes," he continued, after shading his eyes with his hand, "the flag is still flying; the indians cannot be there yet." "boat coming," cried pomp; and to our great delight, we saw a well-manned boat shoot out from the shore, and begin to head in our direction. my father uttered a sigh of relief, and i heard him mutter "thank god!" as he proceeded to bandage the poor woman's shoulder as well as he could; and in a momentary glance i saw that an arrow, with the shaft sticking out, broken short off, was still in the wound. i wondered why my father did not draw it out, but of course said nothing, only sat gazing from the coming boat to the shore, which all seemed peaceful and calm now, there being no sign of indians or trace of the trouble, save on board our boats. just then, as i was reviving more and more, and fully learning the fact that i had received what might have proved a dangerous wound had not the bleeding been stopped, a hail came from the approaching boat, which proved to be colonel preston's. "anything the matter? what's all that firing about?" cried the colonel, as his boat's way was checked. "indians!--attacked!" said my father, speaking excitedly as he waved his hand toward his wounded; and then, "don't lose a moment. help us ashore, and there must not be a soul out of the fort in half an hour's time." there was a disposition in colonel preston's manner to make light of the matter, but the sight of the arrows bristling about the defences checked him; and ordering a couple of men out of his own boat to help row ours, he stayed with us to hear the narrative of our fight. "they are good marksmen too," he said; and then, turning to my father, i heard him whisper, "that woman--wound dangerous?" "i am afraid so," my father replied. "she must have better attention than i can give her." i turned to gaze on the poor sufferer lying there close beneath the bundle which she had insisted upon bringing--the great pile of soft things which had been a protection to those with her, but had not saved her from the indians' arrow; and as i watched her i forgot my own pain and suffering, and thought of how good and kind she had always been to me in spite of her quaint, rather harsh ways; and the great hot tears came into my eyes, to make things look dim and misty again, as i thought of my father's words. a sharp look-out was kept, and the colonel and his men armed themselves with some of the pieces we had in the boats; but the indians were in the forest right at the back of the settlement, and had not kept along the bank when we reached the great river. quite a little crowd was awaiting our coming at the wharf, and as soon as the news spread, the excitement was tremendous; but almost before poor sarah had been carried up to the great block-house, and i had limped there, resting on hannibal, a bugle had, rung out, and having been drilled by the general in case of such emergency, men, women, and children, followed by the black slaves, ran scurrying to the entrance-gates, carrying such little household treasures as they could snatch up in the hurry. as the women and children took refuge inside the strong palisades, the able-bodied men formed up ready outside, all well-armed; and looking a thoroughly determined set, as they were marched in, guard set, and ammunition served out. the military training of many of the settlers stood them in good stead, while the general, who the last time i saw him was superintending his slaves in the cotton-field, was hurrying about now giving his orders; and in an amazingly short time scouts were sent out, arrangements were made for barricading the gates, and every musket that could be procured was stood ready to battle with the savage foe. colonel preston and my father were, i soon saw, the general's right-hand men, and each had his particular duty to do, my father's being the defence of the gates, just outside which i was standing in spite of my wound, pomp being close at hand, ready, with several other of the black boys, to fetch ammunition, to carry messages, and, with the guarding force outside the gates at the present, being sent to first one and then another of the abandoned houses, to bring out valued articles, such as could be hurriedly saved. i was in a good deal of pain, but everything was so exciting that i could not find it in my heart to go into the great barrack-like wooden fort in the centre of the palisaded enclosure, but stood watching the preparations, and thinking how rapidly the settlement had increased since we came. one thing i heard over and over again, and that was the people bemoaning their fate at having to leave their comfortable houses just as everything had been made homely and nice, to be pillaged and burned by the indians. "and they'll pillage and burn our place," i thought, "perhaps the first." and i was thinking bitterly of all this, and that we had far more right to complain than the rest, when pomp came strutting up with his arm in the loose sling, of which he seemed to be very proud. he stopped short as he came quickly up, having been summoned away a few minutes before; and now he pointed at me, and turned to a quiet, keen-looking youngish man, who wore a sword, but had his pockets stuffed full of bandages and bottles, for i heard them chink. "dat mass' george, sah," he cried. "ah, that's right. your father wished me to examine your wound." "are you a doctor?" i said eagerly. "well, yes--a surgeon." "come with me, then," i cried. "there's some one who was wounded in one of our boats." "the woman? yes, i have seen her and attended to her. now then, quick, my lad. lean on me, and let's see about you." i limped beside him to the part of the block-house set apart for such troubles, and after giving me no little pain, he said-- "there, you can sit somewhere and load guns. you will not hurt now." "it's not dangerous then?" i said. "not at all; but if it had not been sharply attended to by your father you would have bled to death." "and how is our sarah?" i said, eagerly. "if you mean captain bruton's housekeeper, she is badly wounded, but i have removed the arrow-head, and i think she will do. i suppose you are master george?" "yes." "then as soon as you can you must go and see the poor woman. she was talking constantly of you, and begged me to send you if we met." i thanked him, and left him emptying his pockets of strips of linen, threads, a box of something that made me think about pistols in the case at home, and then of some bottles, all of which he laid about in the most orderly manner, and i left him with a shudder, as i thought of what they were for. as soon as i got outside i was accosted by pomp, who came up to me, saying-- "leg quite well now?" "no; nor likely to be, pomp." "mass' george better wear um in fling like pomp arm. missie sarah want mass' george." he took me to where the poor woman lay, very white and exhausted, but she brightened up as soon as she saw me approach, and the black nurse who was attending to her drew back. "ah, sarah," i exclaimed, as i went to her side, "i am sorry to see you like this." she paid no heed to my words of condolence, but caught me by the wrist. "where is that box?" she said eagerly. "the box? the one hannibal carried down?" "yes; where is it?" "i don't know," i said. "what? you don't know? oh, master george!" "it was brought up from the boat, and put in the enclosure somewhere." "thank goodness," she said with a sigh. "and the bundle?" she suddenly exclaimed. "ought you to worry about such things now?" i asked. "what does it matter?" "matter?" she gasped. "yes. do you know your waiting to get those things made us nearly caught by the indians?" "if it did, they saved you all from being shot by them as i was with that dreadful arrow." "well--yes, they did keep off the arrows; but if you had been quicker we should not have been shot at. you shouldn't have stopped to worry about your clothes. my father would have paid for more." "and me so weak and ill, master george, and you to reproach me like that," she said, with the tears brimming over on to her cheeks. "nonsense!" i said, taking her hand, to feel her cling to mine affectionately. "i was not reproaching you, and we are all safe, and nothing to mind." "nothing to mind? ah, my dear, think of what our poor house will be like when we get back." "i don't think i will," i said dryly; but she did not heed, and went on-- "it was bad enough after that dreadful flood. what will it be now? and so much pride as i took in it, and such a home as it had become. and then, my dear, for you to go and think that i should keep those two waiting while i got together things of my own." "well, you know you did," i said, laughing. "for shame, master george! that box has got everything in that i knew you would like to save." "oh, sarah!" "and in that bundle is all the best of the linen, and right in the middle, your poor dear father's uniform." i did not know which to do--to laugh at the poor woman for her kindly but mistaken thoughts, or to feel affected, so i did neither, but pressed her hand gently, told her she must sleep, and rose to go; but she clung to my hand. "you'll take care, and not go into danger," she said. "you have been hurt enough." "i'll try not," i said, as she still clung to my hand, looking wistfully at me. i seemed to understand what she meant, stooped over and kissed her, and made her cry. "poor old nurse!" i said to myself as i limped out, and across the enclosure, where the people were gathered in knots discussing the possibility of an attack. in one part all the blacks were together--the women and the younger boys; in another part the ladies with their children; while on the rough platforms erected at the corners of the great palisade sentries were stationed, keeping a vigilant look-out; and i now saw that to every white man there were two armed blacks, and i could not help thinking that we should all be massacred if the blacks sided with the savages against those who had made them their slaves. at one of these corners i saw that our hannibal was placed, his great bulk and height making him stand out prominently from his companions; and feebly enough, and with no little pain, i went towards him, thinking very little of my injury in my boyish excitement, though had i been older, and more given to thought, i suppose i should have lain up at once in the temporary hospital. i signed to hannibal to come to me, and the gentleman mounting guard with him giving permission, i took him aside. "well, han," i said, as he smiled at me in his quiet, grave way, "you've got a gun, and are going to fight then?" "yes, mass' george, going to fight." "and will the other people fight too?" "yes; all going to fight," he said. "capen say must fight for us, hannibal, and hannibal going to fight for capen and mass' george." "but--" i checked myself, for it seemed to come to me like a flash that it would be foolish to ask the question i intended about the blacks being faithful. "it would be like putting it into their heads to be false," i said to myself; and then, as the great fellow looked at me inquiringly, i continued aloud-- "try and protect my father if you can, han." he gave me a quick look, and the tears stood in his eyes. "han die for capen and mass' george," he said. at that moment there was a bustle and excitement at the gate, and i tried as quickly as my injury would allow to join the group who were hurrying that way. chapter thirty three. it was the scouts coming back from different directions, with the same report that no enemy was in sight, though they had penetrated in one or two instances right to the forest. "isn't a false alarm, is it, captain bruton?" said one of the newer settlers. "two of us went right to your little plantation." "well?" said my father, eagerly. "well, sir, you were not at home, so we did what i hope you approve of-- treated ourselves as you in your hospitality would have treated us. we sat down, ate and drank, and after we were refreshed we came back, but we saw no enemy." i felt hot and cold with indignation as i listened to this man's cavalier treatment of my father, and to see that many of those present were ready to join this scout in believing it to be a false alarm. "i am glad, sir, that you have returned in safety to make your report," said my father, coldly. "oh, come, winters," said colonel preston, warmly, "if you had seen those boats bristling with arrows you would not think our friend bruton had been crying wolf." "and if he will go into our temporary hospital he will see one of the wounded lying there seriously injured." "but i do not want to cast doubts on captain bruton's report." "then why did you try, sir?" i said hotly. "ask the doctor if it was a sham wound from an arrow that i got in my leg." "george!" said my father, sternly, "remember what you are." "i do, father," i said vehemently; "but this man seemed to think you had not spoken the truth." "no, no," said the settler, flushing up, "only that he might have been deceived." "i only wish you had been tied up for hours to a tree as i was, sir," i said, "expecting to be killed by the indians. i believe even now you can't believe it is true." "hush!" said my father, sternly. "i'm afraid, gentlemen, that though nothing has been seen of them, the indians are hiding in the forest, ready to descend upon us at what they consider a favourable opportunity, and i beg, i implore, for your own sakes--for the sake of all whom you hold dear, not to treat what i have said as being exaggerated." "we shall not, bruton," said the general firmly, after standing listening in silence all through. "i have plenty of faith in my young friend, your son, and you may rest assured that i am not going to treat what has taken place as a false alarm. gentlemen, to your posts. colonel preston, the gate must be closed at once, and every other man will remain under arms till ten to-night, when the second half will relieve them. gentlemen, i consider that the siege has begun." the evening came in dark and gloomy, and night fell as if almost at once. all was still but the faintly-heard lapping of the water on the strand, and the customary croaking and hollow bellowing from the forest; and it seemed to me, feverish and ill at ease now, that a feeling of awe had come upon the occupants of the enclosure, who were seated about in groups of families, discussing their strange positions in whispers, and waiting at the first alarm to obey the general's command, and take shelter in the great block of wooden buildings constituting the fort--a building which had been gradually enlarged as the settlement had increased, so that, in addition to shelter and protection, there might be ample room for magazines, armoury, and stores. i was seated with pomp and my father, where we had partaken of the food that had been served out, thinking of my bed at home, and of how dearly i would have liked to be lying there instead of upon the hard ground, when an alarm was given, and the officers, my father amongst them, hurried up to the fort to ascend to the roof, and watch the glow which had suddenly begun to appear in the southwest. i had followed my father and stood by him, as i heard the general say sharply, in answer to a remark made by some one of those present, upon whose faces the faint glow was reflected-- "forest fire, sir? no; i am afraid it is--" "my house, gentlemen," said my father, calmly. "the attack has begun." a dead silence followed my father's words, and it was almost a minute before the general said gravely-- "yes, bruton, the attack has begun, and in a way i dreaded. well, we must beat it off. i am sorry that your pleasant home should be one of the first to fall a victim to the enemy; but as it was built up, so it can be built up again. there will be plenty of willing hands to help one of our most trusty brothers." a murmur of warm assent followed this remark, and then the general spoke again. "is mr winters here?" he said. "yes, general." "what have you to say, sir, now?" "that i beg captain bruton's pardon, sir; and that i will be one of the first to help restore his house, if it please god i live through the trouble that is to come." "thank you, mr winters," said my father, quietly. "if we are staunch to each other i have no fear for the result." "look--look!" came in a low murmur, and my heart sank, for it seemed so piteous to see the bright glare rising over the forest, as the poor house over which so much pains had been taken seemed, in spite of the distance, to be sending up wreath after wreath of golden smoke, while for a short time there was a ruddy light spreading high up into the sky. but it all faded out as rapidly as it had arisen, and i went down into the enclosure, to stumble soon after upon morgan, who said grimly-- "didn't think after that soaking, look you, she would have burnt out so quick, master george." "oh, don't talk about it, morgan," i said. "there, i must lie down now; i am too weak and tired to stand." "come this way then, my lad, and lean on me," he said gently; and he helped me to where i could see something white lying on the ground. it was the great bundle sarah had made, and close by it lay pomp fast asleep. "burned so quickly after the soaking it had had," seemed to be buzzing in my brain, and the ruddy glow flashed up before my eyes once more; but only in imagination, for i believe that as my head touched that great soft bundle, regardless of danger from tomahawk or arrow, i went off fast asleep, and slept on hour after hour, nor opened my eyes again till it was broad day. chapter thirty four. it was a miserable scene upon which i gazed, in spite of its being a bright clear morning; but as i grasped where i was, and shook off the drowsy confusion, there was a feeling of thankfulness in my heart, for the dark night had passed away, and we had not been attacked by the indians. but the moment i had felt more cheerful, down came a depressing cloud, as i remembered our row for life, our narrow escape, and the reflection of the fire i had seen. "poor old house!" i sighed to myself, for it was so terrible that the beautiful little home should have been utterly destroyed; and it all seemed to come up before me with its high-pitched gable ends, the rough pine porch, the lead-paned windows that came over from england; and as i saw it all in imagination once more, i fancied how the passion-flowers and other creepers must have looked crisping and curling up as the flames reached them; and what with my miserable thoughts, the stiffness i felt from my previous day's exertions, and the pain from my little wound, if ever i had felt horribly depressed, i did then. "mass' george hungly?" said a familiar voice; and there was pomp's contented face before me, as he came up hugging to him some slices of bread. "no," i said, ill-humouredly, "i can't eat; my leg hurts me so." "pomp can," he said; "and him hand hurt too. missie morgan want to see mass' george." i took one of the pieces of bread pomp gave me, and began to eat mechanically as i walked across the enclosure by the various little groups of settlers and their families, to where my father was busy with the other officers superintending the construction of a barricade outside the gate, so as to divide the indians in case of an attack, and force them to come up to the entrance one by one. "ah, my boy," said my father, quickly, "how is the leg?" "hurts," i said, in an ill-used tone. "naturally," he cried with a laugh. "there, don't be down-hearted about a little pain. i came and had a look at you, but you were asleep. there, do you see how we are getting ready for your indian friends? we hope to give them such a severe lesson that they will leave us alone in future." "then you think they will attack us, father?" i said. "some one just now told me that all was quiet, and that the indians had gone." "that is the very reason why i think they will attack us, my boy, and the sooner the better, george. it must come, and i should like them to get their sharp lesson and go; for i want to hang this up for an ornament or to turn it into a pruning-hook." he touched his sword as he spoke, and turned to morgan, who came up. "how is she?" "doctor says she's very feverish, sir, but he thinks she is going on all right." "i am very, very sorry, morgan," said my father, sadly. "i feel as if i were to blame for bringing you people out to this wilderness." "i teclare to cootness, sir," began morgan, in a high-pitched welsh fashion; but he checked himself and smiled. "there, sir, don't you talk like that. wilderness? why, it's a pleasure to do a bit of gardening here. see what rich deep soil it is, and how the things rush up into growth." "very poor consolation for your wife, morgan," said my father, dryly. "all that does not make her wound the more bearable." "bah! nonsense, sir! she don't mind. why, as she said to me just now, she wouldn't have got a wound from an indian's arrow if she had stopped at home, but the knife might have slipped, and she might have cut herself, or upset a pot of boiling water over her, or failed down the cellar steps and broken a dish and run a piece into her side." "well, that's good philosophy, morgan, and very comforting to me. what do you say, george, are you sorry you came?" "no, father, not at all," i replied, for unwittingly i had finished the big slice of bread, and felt all the better for the food. "i only wish i were a man, and could fight." "don't wish that, my lad," he said quickly. "there is nothing more glorious in life than being a boy. but there, i have no time to waste in preaching to you about that," he said, laughing. "it would be labour thrown away. no boy can believe it. he has to grow into a man, and look back: then he does. there, don't worry yourself till your leg is better, but do any little thing to be useful, and if an attack is made, keep with morgan. you can load." "yes, i can load," i said to myself, as i limped off with pomp following me, looking very proud of his hand being in a sling, and we went into the part of the block-house where poor sarah was lying. as i crossed the enclosure i seemed to understand now why it had been contrived as it was to form an outer defence, which, if taken, only meant that the enemy had a more formidable place to attack, for the block-house seemed to my inexperienced eyes to be impregnable. as i quietly entered the place, i encountered the doctor. "ha!" he said; "come to see me?" i explained that i had come to see our housekeeper. "asleep," he said. "don't disturb her. let's have a look at your wound." he drew me into his rough room, and gave me no little pain as he rebandaged my leg, pomp standing by and looking on. "oh, that's all right, my lad," said the doctor. "smarts, of course, but you'll soon mend up. very different if it had gone into your chest. now, ebony, let's look at your hand." "pomp, sah," said the boy with dignity, "not eb'ny." "oh, well then, pomp. now then. how's the hand?" "on'y got lil hole in um, sah. hurt lil bit. oh! hurt big bit, you do dat." "yes, i suppose so," said the doctor, examining and rebandaging the wound. "there, that will soon be well if you do not use it. well, young bruton, so they burnt you out, did they, last night?" "yes," i said, bitterly. "oh, never mind. you heard what was said. well, let's go and see what they are doing. we're non-combatants, eh?" we walked out into the open square, after the young doctor had admonished the black woman who had been appointed the first nurse to be watchful and attentive to her patient. there was something going on down by the gate, and i forgot all about the pain in my leg as i accompanied the doctor there, continuing my breakfast on the second slice of bread pomp handed to me. we soon learned what caused the bustle. a strong party of well-armed scouts was out in the direction of the forest, which lay some distance back from the block-house now, as clearing after clearing had been made, and turned into plantations; and these scouts, with a second line in support, were ready to give the alarm and arrest the first attack, their orders being to fall back slowly to the gate, so that ample time would be given at the alarm of the first shot for the busy party now being sent out to retreat and get under cover. for now that every one was safe, it had been decided to try and bring in, as far as was practicable, the most valuable things from the nearest houses. i was not long in mounting to a good place inside the great palisade, where i could command a view of what was going on, and soon saw that a couple of lines of men had been made with military precision, extending from the gate to the general's house, which had been voted the first to be cleared; and between these lines, under the command of colonel preston, a strong body of the slaves--men only at first, but as the work went on women too--were soon going and coming, bearing the most valuable of the household chattels, and these were so stacked in the centre of the enclosure that they would be safe so long as the palisade kept the enemy at bay, and would afterwards act as a line of defence. in little over half an hour another house was treated in the same way, and all through that day the work went on, till a goodly stack of the best of the things had been brought in, along with stores of provisions, that in the first hurry had been left behind. as this went on the people who had been sick at heart and despondent began to look more hopeful, and family after family had their goods arranged so that they were able to make comfortable bivouacs out in the middle of the square; but these were all arranged under the orders of the general and his officers, so as to form places of defence, to which the defenders of the palisade could flee and be under cover, the whole of the new barricade being arranged so that a way was left leading up to the main entrance of the block-house. i grasped all this from my position of looker-on, pomp never leaving my side, and asking questions which i tried to answer, so that he could understand. and he did comprehend too, much better than i should have expected, for toward evening, after the day had passed, with the scouts relieved twice over without having seen the slightest token of indians being near, all at once he said to me-- "when injum come an' shoot an' get over de big fence, all dat make great big fire." my father's words about the great enemy we had to fear came back to me at this, and it was with a curiously uncomfortable feeling that i left my look-out place for the second time to go and partake of the food that had been prepared. for the garrison of the fort were rapidly settling down to make the best of their position, and all was being done as to the serving out of food with military precision, the general having drilled his followers in the past, so that they might be prepared for such an emergency as this; and it was quite wonderful how soon the confusion and disorder of the first hours had changed to regular ways. and now the night would soon be here--a time looked forward to with the greatest of anxiety by all. the scouts were called in by sound of bugle, and at sundown the gates were barricaded, and sentries placed all round our defences. fires were put out, and as darkness fell, and the customary chorus of the reptiles arose from the forest and distant swamps, a curious feeling of awe came over me where i sat watching by my father, who, after a long and arduous day's work was sleeping heavily, morgan close at hand, with pomp and hannibal too. i could not sleep, for there was a dull, gnawing pain in my wound; and so i sat in discomfort and misery, thinking that though the sentries were all on the watch, the place would not be so safe now that my father was asleep. the moon was hidden, but the stars shone down brightly, and i sat back, leaning against sarah's big bundle, in which some of the arrows were still sticking, gazing up at the spangled heavens, listening to the bull-frogs, and thinking how far off they sounded as compared to when i had heard them at home. i was listening and wondering whether the indians would come, when i heard a rustling sound close by, and directly after a low muttering. but i did not pay any heed, thinking that morgan or one of the blacks had turned in his sleep; but the noise came again and again, and then there was a loud ejaculation, and directly after i heard a familiar voice exclaim-- "bodder de ole han'! oh, how um do hurt!" "can't you sleep, pomp?" i whispered, as i crept softly to his side. "dat you, mass' george?" "yes; i say, can't you sleep?" "yes, mass' george. pomp can't sleep ebber so, but dis 'tupid han' won't let um." "does it hurt?" "yes. big hot fly in um keep goin' froo. pomp goin' take off de rag." "no, no; let it be; it will soon be better. go to sleep." "han' say no go sleep. let's go an' try find de coon." "no, no; we are not at home now. we can't go out of the fort." "out ob de fort?" "well, outside of the big fence." pomp gave a little laugh. "why, pomp go over easy 'nuff." "but it's against orders," i said. "here, i can't sleep either. let's go and have a talk to the sentries." pomp jumped up at once, and without waking the others, we walked slowly to the gate, where one of the sentries challenged us and let us go on, after recognising me, the man saying with a laugh-- "that anybody with you, sir?" "yes," i said; "our boy pompey." "oh! shouldn't hardly have thought it. looks like a bit o' the black night out for a walk in a pair o' white cotton drawers." "him laugh at pomp," said the boy, as we went on. "yes; it was only his fun." "but what um mean 'bout de dark night in cottum drawer?" "oh, nothing. nonsense!" "yes, nonsense; pomp know better. night can't wear cottum drawer. all 'tuff." "hush! don't talk so loud." "den why say dat, an' make fun ob poor lil nigger? i know dat man. wait bit; i make fun ob him, an' mass' george an' me laugh den." "will you be quiet, pomp?" "yes; pomp be ebber so quiet. wait till laugh at him." "who goes there?" came from just ahead, out of the darkness. "mass' george an' me," said pomp, promptly. i hastened to give the word, and we were allowed to pass on, to be challenged again and again, till we reached the part of the palisade on the farther side of the block-house. here the sentry proved to be one of the men who had rowed out to us in colonel preston's boat; and as he asked about my wound and pomp's hand, we stopped by him where upon the raised platform he stood, firelock in hand, gazing over the great fence toward the forest. "so your hurts wouldn't let you sleep, eh?" he said. "well, we must pay the indians off for it if they come nigh; but it's my belief that they won't." then he fell to questioning me in a low tone about my adventures, and i had to tell him how pomp and i escaped. "i should have liked to have been with you, my lad," he said. "i'm not fond of fighting; had too much along with colonel preston; but i should have liked to have been with you when the arrows were flying." "i wish you had been," i said. "do you? well, come, i like that; it sounds friendly. yes, i wish i'd been there. the cowards, shooting at people who've been soldiers, but who want to settle down into peaceable folk, and wouldn't interfere with them a bit. i only wish they'd come; i don't think they'd want to come any more." "that's what my father says," i observed. "he thinks the indians want a good lesson." "so they do, my lad, so they do. let's take, for instance, your place, which they burned down last night. now what for, but out of sheer nasty mischief! there's plenty of room for them, and there's plenty of room for us. if they think they're going to frighten us away they're mistaken. they don't know what englishmen are, do they, little nigger?" "how pomp know what de injum tink?" said the boy, promptly. the man turned to me and gave me a nudge, as he laughingly continued, in the whisper in which the conversation was carried on-- "ah, well, they don't know, but if they'd come, i think we should teach them, for every one here's fighting for his home, without thinking about those who are fighting for their wives and children as well. you don't understand that yet, squire." "i think i do," i said. "i suppose a man would fight for his wife and children in the same way as i would try and fight for my father." "well, suppose it is about the same. you'll have to fight some day, perhaps." "mass' george fight dreffle," put in pomp. "shoot lot of injum." "nonsense, pomp!" i said, hurriedly. "not nonsense. pomp see um tummle down when. mass' george shoot um." "why, you didn't fire on the indians, did you, squire?" said the man. "lot o' times," said pomp, quickly. the man let his firelock go into the hollow of his left arm, and he shook my hand warmly, as pomp stood staring over the fence into the darkness. "i like that," he said, as i felt very uncomfortable and shrinking. "but then i might have known it. your father and colonel preston didn't hit it very well together, but the colonel always said your father was a very brave officer, quiet as he seemed--and like father, like son. feel chilly?" "no," i said. "well, it isn't cold, but after being so hot all day it feels a bit different. heigho! i shouldn't at all mind having a good sleep. one gets tired of watching for nothing." "sit down and have a sleep," i said. "i'll hold your gun and keep guard." "will you, my lad?" he said, eagerly. "yes; i can't sleep, and i'll wake you directly if there is anything wrong." "come, that's friendly," said the man. "i like that, and i'd give anything for an hour's sleep. catch hold; i'll lie down here. you'll be sure and call me?" "you may trust me." "bah!" cried the man in an ill-used tone, and snatching back his firelock, "that's done it." "what is the matter?" i said, wonderingly. "you said you may trust me." "yes; i did." "that did it. it's just what i said to the colonel when he asked me if i could keep on sentry without going to sleep." "but you would not go to sleep without leaving some one else to watch." "no," he said, sternly, "and i won't skulk. i've been digging and planting so long that i've forgotten my soldiering. no, sir, a man who goes to sleep at his post when facing the enemy ought to be shot, and," he added with emphasis, "he deserves it." "here um come, mass' george," whispered pomp just at that moment. "what--to relieve guard?" i said, quickly, as i thought of the sentry's mistake. "no, mass' george, de injum." chapter thirty five. the sentry craned his neck forward over the great fence staring out into the gloom, and i followed his example, my heart beating heavily the while, the regular throbs seeming to rise right up to my throat in a way that was painful; but i could see nothing. there was the great star-specked sky reaching down towards earth, and ending suddenly in a clearly defined line which i knew was the edge of the forest beyond the plantations, which all lay in darkness that was almost black. i strained my eyes, and held my breath, looking and listening, but could make out nothing, and at last i placed my lips close to pomp's ear. "where are they?" i said. "dah!" as he uttered that one word he stretched out his black hand, pointing straight away toward the forest; but still i could see nothing, and there was not a sound. at that moment the sentry laid his hand upon my shoulder, and said softly, "is he playing tricks with us?" "no," i answered; "he thinks he sees them. his eyes are wonderful by night." "well, mine are not, for i can see nothing or hear anything either." "are you sure, pomp?" i whispered. "yes; sure," he said. "big lot of injum coming to fight." "hadn't you better give the alarm?" i said to the sentry. "i can't give the alarm till i'm certain there's danger coming," he said, rather sulkily. "i haven't got eyes like a cat, and i don't know that he can see them yet." i could not help sympathising with the man as he continued-- "'spose i fire," he said, "and the enemy don't come on; nobody has seen them, and nice and stupid i should look." "but pomp says he's sure." "i'm not," said the man, gruffly. "be ready then, and fire the moment they begin to make a rush," i said, excitedly. then, turning to the boy, i whispered, "now then; tell me once more, can you see the indians?" "yes, dah," he said, quietly. "you are sure?" "yes, suah. dey come now. let pomp shoot." "no, no; come with me," i said, catching hold of his arm. "let's run to my father." the boy was so accustomed to obey me, that he left the place directly, and hurried with me across the enclosure in and out among the camping groups, to where our few poor belongings lay, and i at once awakened my father. "pomp has seen the indians coming on," i said. he started up, and so dull and heavy had been his sleep that he did not understand me for the time. "the indians, father," i said. he sprang up on the instant then, and felt for his sword. "you say the boy saw them?" "yes, coming on. we were with one of the sentries." "but he has not fired. i should have heard." "no, father, he would not believe pomp could see them." "pomp could see um--big lots," said the boy. "that is enough," said my father. "tell the bugler--no; we will not show them that we know," he said. "come with me." we followed him to where the general was lying on a blanket or two in the midst of his possessions, and he was on his feet in an instant giving his orders, which were conveyed here and there to the various officers, from whence they spread to the men so rapidly and silently that in a few minutes, almost without a sound, a hundred well-armed defenders of the fort were on their way to the fence in twenty little squads, each of which reinforced the sentries, and stood waiting for the attack. so silent and unchanged was everything when i played the part of guide, and led my father and the general to where we had been watching, that my heart sank, and i felt guilty of raising a false alarm. then i half shrank away as i heard the general question the sentry, and he replied that he had neither seen nor heard anything. just then my father turned to me. "where's the boy?" "here, pomp," i whispered; but i looked round in vain, and after a few minutes' search i was fain to confess that he had gone. "it is some trick," whispered my father, with suppressed anger. "i cannot hear a sound." "no; i feel sure he was in earnest. he certainly believed he saw the indians." my father turned to the general, and they conversed together in a low voice for some minutes, during which i stood there feeling as if i were wrong, and forgetting that even if i were it was only a case of being over anxious in our cause. "no, no," i heard the general say quietly; "don't blame the boys. of course it is vexatious, and seems like harassing the men for nothing; but it has its good side, for it proves how quickly we can man our defences. well, what do you say--shall we go back to our beds? there seems to be no danger. ah, here is preston. well, have you been all round?" "right round, sir, and there does not seem to be anything moving. a false alarm, i think." "yes," said the general, "a false alarm, and--what is it?" my father had caught his arm in a strong grip, and pointed over the palisade. "i don't know what it is," he whispered; "but something is moving out yonder, a hundred yards away." amidst a dead silence every eye was fixed in the direction pointed to by my father; but no one else could make anything out, and the general said-- "no; i cannot see it." "are you sure?" whispered my father. "george, are you there?" i replied in a whisper too, and crept to his side. "look. can you make out anything?" he said. i looked long and intently, and was obliged to answer-- "no." "quick! try and find that boy," said my father, angrily now. "he ought to have been here." _bang_! _bang_! then report after report, followed by a volley quite from the other side of the enclosure; and, horrible as it seemed, followed as it was by a burst of yells, i felt my heart leap with satisfaction. there was a rush being made for the spot whence the firing had come; but my father's voice rang out, calling upon the men to stand fast, and it was well that his order was promptly obeyed, for almost immediately after there was a whizzing sound that i well knew, accompanied by a sharp series of pats as of arrows striking wood, and we knew that the indians were attacking on our side too. then followed the quick firm command, and the darkness was cut by the flashes of a dozen fire-locks, whose reports went rolling away, to be echoed by the great trees of the forest beyond the clearings. then nothing was heard but the quick beating and hissing of the iron ramrods in the guns, while i stood close under the shelter of the fence, listening intently in the terrible silence, and trying to make out whether the indians were near. again came the report of a firelock, and a volley from nearer the gate, followed by a burst of yells; and a minute later a fresh volley, and the same defiant shouting, just as if the indians had made their attack in four different places, but had been checked by the watchfulness of our men, who had been thoroughly prepared for the attacks. i was wondering to myself whether the indians were in a body, and had come on in one place, and then hurried on to the others, or were in four different bodies; but my wonderings soon ceased, for i quite started at hearing a voice close to my ear. "no got arrow 'tick in um dis time, mass' george. tell um injum coming again." "where? where?" i whispered. "pomp see um crawl 'long de groun' like 'gator," he said. "dah--one, two, tick, nineteen, twenty." i gazed intently over the fence, but could only see the dark ground; but pomp's warning was too valuable to be trifled with. he had proved himself now, and i hurried to where my father stood ready with twenty of our men, and told him. he gave orders, and half the men fired slowly, one after the other, the instructions being to those who held their fire, that if they could make out the bodies of the crawling indians by the flashing of their comrades' pieces, they were to fire too. the rapid scattered reports were followed by a furious burst of yells; there was the rush of feet, sounds as of blows struck against the stout poles, and directly after, dimly-seen against the starlit sky, dark grotesque-looking heads appeared as at least a dozen of the indians gained the top of the defence, but only to be beaten back by the butt-ends of the men's fire-locks, all save two who dropped over in our midst, and fought desperately for a time before they were despatched. as silence--an ominous silence full of danger and portent--fell upon us again here, we could tell that quite as desperate a struggle was going on at other points of the palisading. flash was succeeded by report and yell, so loud and continuous that we knew now that the indians were delivering their attack in four different places; and more than once i shuddered as i felt how terrible it would be should one of these bands gain an entry. i knew enough of such matters from old conversations with my father, to be able to grasp that if a party did get in over the stockade they would desperately attack one of our defending companies in the rear, and the others in response to their yells would come on at the same moment, when our numbers and discipline would be of little value in a hand-to-hand attack with the lithe savages, whose axes and knives would be deadly weapons at close quarters. for quite half an hour the firing and yelling continued. then it ceased as quickly as it had begun, and the indians seemed to have retreated. but there was no relaxation of our watchfulness, for we could not tell but that in their silent furtive way the enemy were preparing for a fresh assault, or perhaps merely resting and gathering together to come on in one spot all at once. "more likely to make a feint somewhere," i heard the general say to my father. "if they do it will be to make a big attack somewhere else, and that is where the supports must be ready to flock down." "you will see to that, sir?" said my father. "yes. you and preston cannot do better service," continued the general, "so keep your places." "pomp," i whispered; "where are you?" "here, mass' george." "let's go all round, and you can tell me where the indians are gathering now." "pomp go outside," he said, softly. "climb over." "no, no; they would see and kill you." "no. dey too 'tupid. i go ober. you gib leg lil hyste up." "i tell you no. come along with me, and let's try and find out where they are." "much too dark, mass' george, but i look all de same, try and fine em." "quick then; come!" we started off, creeping along silently close inside the great palisade, and stopping to listen from time to time. we had left one of the parties that defended the palisade close to the far side of the gate behind for about twenty yards, when pomp, who was first, suddenly stopped short, caught me by the wrist, and said softly-- "you listum. injum dah." i placed my ear close to the paling, and stood for a few moments unable to make sure that the dull heavy rustling i heard meant anything; but at last i felt at one with my companion, for i felt convinced that a strong party was once more creeping up to the attack, and just to a spot where the sentries had not been placed. chapter thirty six. certainly there was a body of our defenders five-and-twenty yards away in one direction, and sixty in another; but while the alarm was spreading a dozen active indians would be able to scale the fence. at least so it seemed to me, as without hesitation i uttered a wild cry for help, pomp raising his voice to supplement mine. "here! this way! here! indians!" i shouted; and i heard the sound of hurrying feet, and a sharp decisive order or two being given; but at the same moment there was a peculiar scraping sound on the rough fence which told me that the indians were climbing over, and i stood hesitating, puzzled as to whether it was my duty to run or stop where i was, so as to keep up the alarm and guide our people through the darkness to the exact spot. all this was a matter of moments, and i hesitated too long. i was conscious of our people being close at hand; then of feeling pomp dragging at me, and saying something excitedly. then it was as if a big mass had fallen from above, and i lay crushed down and senseless in a darkness far greater than that of the night. when i came to my senses again, i found that i was lying on my face with something heavy across me, from beneath which i managed to creep at last, shuddering the while, as i felt that it was the body of a dead or wounded man. everything about me was still, but i could hear voices at a distance, and i wondered what had taken place, and why i was left there like that. it was very puzzling, for my head was so confused that i could not recollect what had taken place before, so as to understand why it was that i was lying out there in the darkness, close to this wounded man. at last i concluded to shout for help, and my lips parted, but no sound came. this startled me, and i began to tremble, for it was all so new and strange. but by degrees my brain grew clearer, and i began to have faint rays of understanding penetrate my darkened mind. these grew brighter and brighter, till at last i was able to understand that i had been struck down by a tremendous blow on the head, the very realisation of that fact being accompanied by such acute pain, that i was glad to lie there perfectly inert without thinking at all. but this fit did not last long, and i could see now the matter in its true light, and it all came back about how i gave the alarm, and must have been standing there as the indians came over, and i was struck down at once. then as i lay there in the darkness, i began to recall how i had been lying with some one across me, and half suffocating me. i had crawled away a few yards in my half insensible condition, but now a shuddering desire came over me to creep back, and find out who it was that lay there dead or dying. it was terrible, that feeling, for i felt that i must go, and as i crept back, it was with the idea that it was probably one of those who would be the first to rush to the defence of the palisade, and in a confused, half-dreamy way, i found myself combating the fancy that it might be my father. i paused when about half-way back, afraid to go farther, but the intense desire to know the worst came over me again, and i crept on and then stopped with my hand raised, and held suspended over the prostrate figure, afraid to move it and touch the body. at last, and i uttered a faint sigh full of relief, for my hand had fallen upon the bare breast of a man, and i knew that it must be one of the indians. it was puzzling that he and i should be there, and no one near, for i could not detect the presence of either of the sentries. where was everybody? some one was coming, though, the next minute, for i heard soft footsteps, and then the murmur of voices, which came nearer and nearer till i heard a familiar voice say-- "oh, mass' george, do 'peak." i tried to obey, but no sound would come, even now that i felt a vast sense of relief, for i knew that i must have been hurt, and the two blacks were in search of me. "ah, here him are," suddenly cried pomp, and i next felt two great hands lifting me gently, and i was carried through the darkness to what i knew must be the block-house, where i had some recollection of being laid down. then i directly went off to sleep, and did not awake till nearly day, to see a black face close to the rough pallet on which i lay, and as the day grew broader, i made out that it was pomp watching by my side. "mass' george better now?" "better? yes; i am not ill," i said, and i tried to get up, but lay still again, for the effort seemed to give me a violent pain in the head which made me groan. "mass' george not seem very better." "but i am. i'll get up directly. but tell me, pomp, how was it all?" "how was?" "yes; how did it happen?" "done know, mass' george. 'pose injum come over big fence and jump on and knock poor lil nigger and mass' george down. den um hab big fight an kill de injum, an noder big fight by de gate an kill more injum, and den injum say good-night, time go to bed, an dat's all." "the indians gone?" "yes; all gone." "then we have beaten them. hurrah! oh, my head!" "hurrah--oh my head!" cried pomp, in imitation. "why say `hurrah! oh, my head'?" "oh, don't, pomp. you make me laugh." "dat right; glad see mass' george laugh. mass' george couldn't laugh lil bit when pomp fess um fader carry um." "no; i remember now. i had forgotten." "mass' dockor say good job mass' george got tick head, or kill um." "did the doctor say that, pomp?" "yes, mass' dockor say dat. injum hit um wif um lil chopper, same time some one shoot and kill injum; den pomp knock down, and all jump on um, and dey pick um up, and take um 'way, and bring um here." "then were you hurt too?" "yes, hurt dreffle, and dockor laugh, and say nuffum matter wif um, and send um 'way 'gain. den pomp go an' fine um fader, and come an' fine mass' george, and bring um here. dockor no laugh at mass' george, ony say, `poor fellow!' and `put um to bed,' an' `good job um got such tick head,' and put plaster on um." i raised my hand to my head, and sure enough there was some sticking-plaster there. "does my father know?" i said, as a sudden thought occurred to me. "pomp done know, mass' george. haben see mass' capen long time." our conversation was checked by the entrance of the doctor, who smiled as he saw me sitting up on the rude bed. "well, squire," he said, "you seem determined to be a patient. how are you now?" "my head aches a good deal." "no wonder, my lad, you got an ugly crack with the flat of a tomahawk. the man must have slipped as he was leaping from the fence. a narrow escape for you." "but the indians are beaten off," i said, eagerly. "for the present at all events. but they may attack again to-night, and i am beginning to be busy." "must i stop here, sir?" "certainly not, if you feel well enough to get up." at that moment a shadow darkened the door, and my father came in quickly, followed by hannibal. "george? hurt?" he exclaimed, huskily. "not much, father," i said, "and the doctor says i may get up." "thank heaven!" muttered my father. then aloud, "i have only just heard from hannibal here. you gave me a terrible fright." my father took hold of my hands to hold them in his for a few moments, as he looked full in my eyes; and i wondered at it, for i was not old enough then to understand his emotion, nor to think i was bad enough to stop in bed. ten minutes later i was out in the enclosure, and learned a little more about what had taken place after i was knocked down insensible. how there had been several hand-to-hand encounters where the indians had determinedly climbed over and gained a footing, from which they were dislodged directly, with the result that several were killed and wounded--four of our party also having ugly wounds. as i was going across the enclosure, hearing how the enemy had been finally beaten off, and had retreated into the forest, where it was not considered safe to follow them, colonel preston met us, looking jaded and anxious, but his face brightened up as he saw me, and he came up and shook hands. "why, george bruton, you are a lucky fellow," he cried, laughingly. "two wounds. this is grand. of course he must be promoted, bruton, as soon as peace is proclaimed." "why, george," said my father, as we went on, "what's the matter?" "i don't like to be laughed at, father," i said; "and colonel preston was making fun of me, as if i were a little child." "he did not mean it unkindly. there, come and have some light breakfast, and you must keep out of the sun." chapter thirty seven. that day passed quietly enough, with scouts going and coming to report that the indians' trail was plainly to be seen going along the north bank of our little stream, as if they were making right away for their own country, and after the scouts had gone as far as they dared, they had returned with their good news. this was quickly debated in a little council, and the result was a firm determination not to put any faith in appearances, but to keep everything on a war footing, scouting carefully so as not to be surprised by an enemy full of cunning and treachery; and though there was some little demur amongst those whose houses and plantations were farthest from the fort, all soon settled down to what resolved itself during the next week into a pleasant kind of camping out. rough tents were rigged up, and the different parties vied with each other in their efforts to make their homes attractive. fresh things were brought in by the help of the slaves from the most outlying of the houses, and when lights were lit in the evening the place looked pretty in the extreme, so that more than once i found myself thinking that we were to be the only sufferers from the indian attack, and wondered, now that the enemy had had so severe a lesson read them, how long it would be before my father decided to go back and get our neighbours' help to rebuild the house. a fortnight glided by--fourteen days of uninterruptedly fine weather. i had almost forgotten my injuries. pomp had taken his wounded limb out of the sling, and only remembered the injury when he tried to move his hand, when he would utter a cry and begin softly rubbing the place. sarah too was recovering fast, and i knew no reason now why we should still go on living such a military life, with the general and his officers seeming to take delight in drilling, practising the men in the use of their weapons, and setting guards by night, and sending out scouts by day, with the gates closed rigorously at a certain time. there was another thing done too, the idea being suggested by my father--a lesson taught by our own misfortune--and this was that every tub and cask that could be obtained in the settlement should be put about in handy places, and kept well filled with water always, these being supplemented by pails and buckets, which every one was bound to set outside his place full of water every night, while the men were all well practised in the extremely simple art of passing and refilling buckets--so as to be ready in case of fire. "there's some talk of giving up all this here playing at soldiers, master george," said morgan to me one day. "is there?" i said, eagerly. "yes, and if you ar'n't tired of it, i am. never so much as had a chance to go out and scout like the others have." "well, i haven't either, nor hannibal, nor pomp." "no, my lad; but if you don't tie down that jockey or chain him by the leg, he'll be off one of these days. i'm always finding him sitting a-top of the fence like a crow with his wing cut, thinking he wished he could fly." "looking out for the indians," i said. "not him, sir; he's thinking about games in the woods; hunting snakes, catching 'gators, or killing 'coons. he's getting a nice howdacious one, he is. if it wasn't for his black skin, you might think he was a reg'lar boy." "so he is," i said; "what difference does his skin make? i like old pomp." "well, sir," said morgan, thoughtfully, "i like old hannibal--old vanity, as you call him; but you know he is black." "of course." "very black, master george. why, i should say he's got the blackest skin and the whitest teeth of any one i ever did see." "and i dare say he thinks you've got the whitest skin and the blackest teeth he ever saw." "now--now--now--now--master george; gently there, if you please. my skin's getting redder and browner every day, so as i don't half know myself when i shaves; and as to my teeth, just wait till you've used yours five-and-forty year, and had to eat such beef as i've had to eat in the army, and you won't be quite so proud of them bits o' ivory of yours, look you." "why don't you leave off saying `look you,' morgan? it's always `look you,' or `teclare to cootness,' and it does sound so stupid." "not it, my lad," said morgan, proudly. "it's that which shows i belong to the ancient british." "nonsense! you're a welshman." "ah, you call me so, my lad, but i belong to the genuwyne old british stock. you ask the captain if i don't. and as to my teeth, why, when we was out with the army, i believe they used to buy all the old bulls, and the older and harder they were the better they used to like 'em." "why?" "because they used to go the further. ah, we did a lot of fighting on it though, and i thought i'd come to the end of that sort of thing; but it don't seem like it. oh, how i do long to have a spade or a hoe in my hand again. i say, master george." "well?" i said, as i lay in the sun enjoying my returning strength, for it came back fast. "think the master really means to go back and build up the house again?" "yes, i'm sure of it," i said. "that's a good job, my lad, for it would be heartbreaking to know that all we've done out there, planting fruit-trees and getting the place in such nice trim, should be 'lowed to go back again to ruin, and grow over into forest wilds, as it would in a year or two." "ah, that would be a pity, morgan," i said, eagerly, as i thought of the fruit-trees and the vines. "i say, look here, master george, i'm 'bout heart-broke over that garden. i want to see what it's like. we all might go for a day and torment some of them weeds, and keep things from getting worse, and see what mischief the indians did." "yes; i should like to go and see that," i said, thoughtfully. "should you, my lad? then let's go." i shook my head, for i saw a lot of difficulties in the way. "nay, nay; now don't do that, lad. i teclare to coot--" "morgan!" i shouted. "well, look you, dear boy--" "morgan!" "oh, dear me, how is a man to speak! i was going to say, i did ask some of them who went scouting, and they'd got it all pat enough about how the house was a heap of ashes, but i don't believe one of 'em so much as looked at the garden, and i know there's things ready in those beds as would be a blessing to us now." "a heap of ashes!" i said, sadly. "yes, master george; but think of the barrow-loads there'll be, and they'll be worth anything for the garden nicely spread about." "i should like to go and see the old place," i said, thoughtfully. "then ask the captain, lad. do. he's just over yonder talking to the colonel. hist! here he comes. ask him--do." "well, george," said my father, coming up. "ah, morgan. want to speak to me?" "well, sir, i--er--that is, i think master george does." "no, father; it's morgan, only he's afraid." "nay, nay, not afraid, master george. don't say that. on'y a bit okkard over it. but i will speak if you're afraid to." "what is it?" said my father. "well, father, it's this; morgan--" "oh, master george!" "--and i think we should like to go over to the old place and see what it looks like." "and take a tool or two, sir; and go early and tidy up the garden a bit." "well," said my father, thoughtfully, "i don't see why you should not. i was thinking of something of the kind, now that the indians seem to be gone for good." "then when may we go, father?" "i'll speak to the general, and if he sees no objection you shall go to-morrow morning, first thing, if you feel well enough." "oh, father!" i exclaimed, with a thrill of delight running through me, for it was as if i was to be freed from prison. "you will not be able to do much, morgan," said my father, thoughtfully; "but you might take a billhook and cut back a little of the overgrowth, for we must not be beaten. george, my boy, we must go back and make the place more beautiful than it was before; for it is a beautiful land, if man would not blot it with his cruelties and evil deeds." i saw that his eyes were fixed upon the corner of the enclosure, where the blacks were gathered. "then we may go, father?" i said. "if the general approves. no one can stir outside the gates without his orders now." he turned and walked to the central part where the general's furniture was piled up, and he had been living as humbly as the rest; and in less than half an hour he was back, just in fact as morgan was saying, grumblingly-- "it's all over, my lad; the governor won't let us go." "the general gives his consent," said my father, "provided that you are very careful; so the next thing is, how do you propose to go?" "walk across," i said. "no; decidedly not. you will take the boat. there she lies safe enough with the others. you can have hannibal and pompey to row, and morgan and the black can be both well-armed, for that man is very trustworthy. but of course you will all be very cautious. you can send out that boy in different directions to scout; not that there is any danger, but we must treat this as an enemy's country, and be prepared." "yes, father, we'll be very careful; and we may go soon in the morning?" "as soon as you like. get your bag of provisions ready to-night. morgan, you can be passed through the gates now. have the boy with you, and see that the boat is baled out and cleaned." "yes, sir," said morgan; and as soon as my father had gone we two shook hands in our delight, for morgan was as excited as i. "hurrah, master george!" he cried. "what a day we will have! i'm off to find pomp. you go and tell old han. won't they be just pleased too!" we parted on the instant, and five minutes later i found father and son together, and told them my news, with the result that hannibal smiled with pleasure, and pomp threw himself down on the ground to writhe and twist and worm about till he heard morgan's voice summoning him to go and help to bale out the boat. chapter thirty eight. i lay down to sleep that night quite satisfied of my ability to wake up in good time; but it was still dark when pomp was shaking my arm. "make hase, mass' george," he cried, with his lips to my ear, "um gettin' so dreffle late." "eh? now, no tricks," i said, in that irritable state of sleepiness when one wants just an hour longer. "why, i have only just lain down." "why, you've been seep all de night. you call me laze lil nigger if i say dat. get up!" "but is it nearly morning, pomp?" i said, with my eyes closely shut. "ah, you do dat 'gain! you roll ober de oder side for? you tink um dis week when it morrow morning." "but it isn't really morning." "yes; bror daylight. able see dreckly." "it isn't," i said, opening my eyes and looking from under the boat-sail that made our tent, and seeing the stars burning brightly. "i neb see such dreffle man," whispered pomp, for fear of rousing my father. "get late. sun get up soon 'fore we get dah. mass' morgan an' pomp fader gone down to de boat, and carry big bag somefin to eat. pomp got de fishum-line, and dey say you'n me bring free guns and de powder shot." "eh! gone down to the boat?" i said, rising hurriedly, for this was suggestive of being left behind; and hurrying my preparations--my dressing-room being outside the tent--i was soon ready, took the pouches and the three guns i had undertaken to have ready, and in a very few minutes we two were marching toward the gate, i carrying one firelock under my arm, and pomp stepping out proudly with one on each shoulder. "how long is it since morgan and our man hannibal went through?" i said to the guard at the gate. "'bout half an hour," said the man, rather sourly. "nice to be you, young gentleman, going out like that instead of keeping watch here." "oh, that will soon be over," i said. "come along, pomp." it was for the sake of saying something, for pomp was already outside, waiting. but i wanted to get down to the boat, and not stop to be questioned by the guard as to what we were going to do. as we went on down toward the wharf, the stars were still making their reflections glimmer in the smooth water of the big river, and a sculling sound and the rattle of an oar being heard, told me where the boat lay. "that you, master george?" said a familiar voice. "yes; but isn't it too early?" "not a bit, sir. but it'll be daybreak directly, to be sure. see there?" i could see a very pale streak right away down and over the big river in what i knew to be the east, but i was still too drowsy to feel much interest in our excursion, and consequently replied rather gruffly to hannibal's good-natured-- "morn', mass' george." just then the boat's keel grated on the pebbles, hannibal jumped out, took the guns which pomp parted with unwillingly, and passed them to morgan, who stowed them in the stern. then mine was passed in, and hannibal bent down. "jump on, mass' george, no get foot wet." i leaped on his great broad back, thinking that he was getting his feet wet, but that it did not matter as they were bare; then wash, wash went the water on both sides as the great black and his boy waded out. i was dropped into the boat, the two blacks ran it out a little and stepped in, morgan came aft to me, and the others backed water a while, and after turning, rowed out a little but kept pretty close, so as to be out of the swift current running down toward the sea. "talk about early," said morgan, pointing to the increasing pallor of the sky; "why, it will soon be broad daylight, and i want to get to the mouth of the stream by that time." they rowed on, and the freshness of the air, the motion of the boat, and the thorough feeling of change soon made me forget my discomfort, and as the pale dawn spread and showed the thick mist hanging over the low growth at the edge of the river, the memory of the last time i came by there started to my mind, and i looked eagerly at the near shore, thinking of hidden indians ready to send flying their keenly-pointed arrows. morgan saw the direction of my glance, and said with a laugh-- "no; not this time." "what?" i said sharply. "indians. that was a nice row we had that day, though, master george." "mass' george going have fishum-line?" said pomp, suddenly, as the dark line of forest began to look green, and higher up there was a tiny point of orange mist. "no," i said; "we'll get right on home." pomp seemed so disappointed that i added, "perhaps we will fish later on." vague as the promise was it sufficed to raise pomp's spirits, and he tugged well at his oar, while i watched the splashing of fish in the river, heard the low, floundering noise made by the alligators, and listened to the fresh, clear song of the birds which were welcoming the coming of another day. then slowly the sun rose to glorify the dripping reeds and canes, and fringe them as if with precious stones; the different kinds of ducks and cranes disturbed by our boat fled at our approach with much flapping of wings and many a discordant cry. and before i could fully realise it, and think of anything else, it was bright, beautiful morning; all glorious, free, fresh, and delicious, with the moss draping the sunlit trees, the water sparkling, and the sensation growing upon me that i had just escaped from prison, and was going home. "not sorry you got up so soon, are you, sir?" said morgan, smiling, as he saw how eager and excited i had grown. "sorry? no," i cried. "here, you two, are you tired? morgan and i will row." "no, no," said hannibal, showing his white teeth. "we row mass' george boat all away." "look, mass' george," cried pomp, as there was a scuffle, a splash, and a good-sized alligator startled by our coming hurried into the river. "you like shoot um?" "no, no. let's get right away home first." "all the same, sir, we'll load the guns," said morgan. "i don't think we shall want to use 'em, but there's a few marks about this boat to show that sometimes it is necessary." he pointed laughingly to the holes left where the arrows stuck in the sides and thwarts. "i broke out an arrow-head this morning," he said; and he picked it up from where it lay. pomp watched us eagerly as we charged all three pieces, and laid them down in the stern, after which i sat thoroughly enjoying the scene, which was all as fresh to me as if i had never been there before. but at the same time, as we went on, i recognised the different spots where the indians had made their stand to harass us during our memorable escape down the river, notably at the wooded point we passed round just before reaching the mouth of our stream, and leaving the main river behind. then, as the space contracted and the banks seemed to draw gradually closer together, we soon began to get into more familiar parts, and at last the higher trees and points and bends were all memorable, known as they were to pomp and myself in connection with fishing excursions or hunts for squirrel or nest. the stream here ran swiftly, and swirled round some of the bends, at times well open, at others so close did the forest come that we seemed to be going along between two huge walls of verdure; and i don't know whether they would have noticed it, but just before we turned into our lesser river, something induced me to begin talking rather rapidly to both pomp and hannibal, for we were passing the place where the slaver had lain, and as we came by, it seemed to me that the poor fellows must begin thinking of the horrors of that day when we brought them up in that very boat, one dying, the other as wild as any savage creature of the forest. "here we are at last," i cried, as we came close up to the cut-down trees on the bank which served as posts to our landing-place. "yes. take your piece, master george," said morgan, "and don't shout aloud. let's have a good look round first." it was good advice, and we made our rowers take the boat up a couple of hundred yards past the landing-place, and then let her drift back. but all was still. there were two or three busy squirrels, and some birds, but no sign of lurking enemy. "it's quite safe, i think," i said. "yes, sir, safe enough. no indian here, or we should have had an arrow at us before now." "we may fasten the boat there, and leave it?" i said. morgan hesitated. "well, yes," he said; "we had better keep all together. it would not be fair to leave those two alone to mind her in case the indians did come." "if they do," i said, "we must retreat overland if we can't get to the boat." "or they get it first," said morgan, grimly. so we landed at the familiar place, the boat was made fast, and with hannibal carrying one of the guns, we started for the old home, all eager and excited except pomp, whose brow puckered up, and i knew the reason why--he had no gun to carry. "here, pomp," i said; "you keep close to me, and carry my gun." the sun was shining brilliantly over the river; now it began to shine in the wood all over pomp's smooth black skin, out of his dark eyes, and off his white teeth, as he shouldered the piece, now the very embodiment of pride. we had not far to go, and as we went on and found everything as we had left it, and no signs of enemy, the shrinking feeling which had haunted me, and made me fancy i saw a living savage behind every great tree, passed away, and i strode on till we reached the clearing where morgan and i killed the rattlesnake, and there the same shrinking feeling attacked me again, for it was here that we had long back made our first acquaintance with the enemy. my eyes met morgan's, and he was evidently thinking the same thing as he gave me a nod. "no rattlesnakes here to-day, sir," he said, and he smiled meaningly, "not of any sort. shall i go first?" "no," i said, rather unwillingly, for i felt that i ought to lead; and, taking the firelock now from pomp, i went toward the path leading through the forest trees to our larger clearing where the house and garden stood. "mass' george let pomp go firs and see if any-boddy dah," whispered the boy. "no," i said; but morgan turned to me quickly, as pomp looked disappointed. "why not let him go on? he'll creep through the trees like a snake, and get there and back unseen if there's danger." "nobody see pomp if him hide." "go then," i said; and the boy darted off at once through the densest part, while we followed cautiously, for there was the possibility of some of the indians lurking about still. but in a few minutes pomp was back, looking very serious, but ready to tell us at once that no one was there. upon this we pushed on rapidly, and soon stood in the midst of our lovely clearing, framed in by the forest, where everything seemed more beautiful than ever, except in one place, where, with the strands of creepers already beginning to encroach on the blackened ruins, lay a heap of ashes, with here and there some half-burned timbers and ends of boards. i felt a choking sensation as i looked at the ruins, and thought of how many pleasant hours i had passed there with my father, and now i could only just trace out where the rooms had been, so complete was the destruction the fire had made. not that it was surprising, the whole place having been built solidly of the finest pine from the sandy tract between us and the little river-- wood that i knew would blaze up when dry and burn with a fierce resinous flame. but it seemed so pitiful that the delightful little home, with all the pleasant surroundings, over which my father had toiled to make it as much as possible like an english country home, should have been entirely destroyed. and for what? ah, it was a hard question to answer. but i supposed then that as we had come into the land the savages looked upon as their special hunting-ground, they considered that they had a right to destroy. i tore myself away from the heap of black and grey ashes, and rejoined morgan, who said nothing, but accompanied me then around the garden, which to our great surprise we found untouched. it was weedy, and beginning to show a great want of the master's hand, but otherwise it looked delightful after the desolation i had just left. "seems hard as my part should have escaped, and your part be all burnt up, master george," said morgan, slowly. "but it ar'n't my fault. i'd almost rather they'd ragged the garden to pieces, and cut down the trees, than have burnt the house." "it can't be helped," i said, thankful for the sympathetic way in which the man spoke, and at the same time a little amused at his considering the garden his part, and the house wherein he always lived too as being ours. we went all round and were on the way to the hut where the blacks slept, when i suddenly noticed that pomp was not with us, and i drew morgan's attention to the fact. "he was here just now, because i saw him stoop down and pick up something to throw at a bird." "no, no: don't shout," i said. "i dare say he'll be here directly, and one don't know how near the enemy may be." but hannibal did not seem satisfied, and he began looking round the garden and peering about close up to the trees in search of the boy, though without success. i had taken little notice of this, for i had been talking in a low voice to morgan about the garden, and whether it was worth while to do anything, seeing that beyond a little weeding nothing hardly was required. "i thought the fences would all be down, and the place trampled, and that i should have to cut rails and stakes to save the place from desolation." so said morgan, and i agreed that as far as the garden was concerned we had met with a pleasant surprise. "we'll have a good meal now," i said. "let's sit down under the big cypress," and i pointed to the great tree which had proved so good a friend during the flood, and unslinging the bag which he had been carrying, morgan led the way toward the resting-place. "why, hannibal's gone now," i said, looking round wonderingly. "oh, i know," i added, laughing; "he heard me say we would have something to eat, and he has gone to look for pomp." we were soon comfortably seated with the food spread before us, and as i cut some of the bread and salt pork we had brought, i said-- "it's of no use to go looking out for indians, i suppose. we must chance their being near." "if we go looking for them, master george, we shall have to spend all our time over it. i'm beginning to hope we shan't see them any more." then morgan's mouth became too full for him to talk with comfort, and i'm afraid mine was in a similar condition, for the long row, the fresh air, and the absence of breakfast before starting had had a great effect upon my appetite. "i wish they'd come now," i said, as i half turned to morgan, who was leaning forward with his head thrown back in the act of drinking from a bottle, when i felt as if turned to ice--frozen--motionless--gazing up at a great muscular brown arm raised to strike; and i don't know how to explain it, for the space of time must have been short as that taken up by the flashing of lightning; but all the same, the time seemed prolonged to me sufficiently for me to see that the owner of that arm was half concealed behind the tree; that the hand belonging to that arm held one of the keen little axes used by the indians; that the blow was intended for my head; and i knew that before i could utter a word to alarm my companion, all would be over. a good deal to think in that moment of time, but people do see and think a great deal instantaneously, just as they have quite long dreams in a few instants of time; and as i tell you, i thought all that as i saw the raised axe, and i could not stir, though it was in motion to strike me down. a loud report set me free, the sound of a shot from the forest, and the indian sprang forward between me and morgan, turned half round, struck at the air with his tomahawk, then twisted back so that i had a full view of his hideous, distorted face, and then it was hidden from me, for the little axe escaped from his hand, and he fell clutching and tearing at the grass and leaves. by this time morgan and i had seized the fire-locks we had stood against the trunk of the tree, and stooped down to shelter ourselves with its trunk, as we presented the barrels at where we heard some one crashing through the bushes. but it was han. "mass' george not hurt?" "no, no," i said. "did you fire?" he nodded shortly, and gave me the piece to reload as he picked up the axe the indian had let fall, and took the savage's knife from his belt to stick it in his own. "if there's one indian there's more," said morgan, excitedly. "quick, sir, ram the bullet well down. we must make for the boat. where's that boy pomp?" "no," said hannibal, shaking his head; "gone, gone. han look for him; saw indian and mass' george." "and you fired and saved my life," i cried, catching his hand, as i gave him back the reloaded piece. he smiled at me, and shook his head sadly as i exclaimed-- "now then to find pomp, and get back to the boat." i had hardly uttered the words when there was a yell, and four savages dashed out of the forest toward us, knife in one hand, axe in the other. they were not twenty yards away, and i raised my heavy piece to my shoulder as i saw morgan let his barrel fall into one hand and fire. a hideous yell followed, and one of the indians leaped in the air. i saw no more for the smoke, but i drew trigger too, and staggered back with the violent concussion of the piece. then i stood aghast at what followed, for as the smoke lifted i saw an indian spring on morgan, and hannibal drop the gun he held as the other two indians rushed at him axe in hand, yelling horribly. then in what seemed to me was a nightmare dream, i saw morgan seize the indian's hand, and they closed in a desperate struggle, while on my other side hannibal was battling with two, and i was helpless to assist either, and--well, i was a boy of sixteen or so, and how could i at close quarters like that try to shed blood? true, in the excitement of the flight in the boat, i had loaded and fired again and again as the indians kept sending their arrows at us; but all i could do now was to drop my own piece and run to pick up the one hannibal had dropped. but i did not fire it. i could only stand and gaze first at one, and then at the other, as i saw the great calm black now frenzied with rage and the thirst for battle. he was bleeding from blows given by the knife of one indian and the axe of the other, but his wounds only seemed to have made him furious, and he stood there now looking like a giant, holding one of his enemies by the throat, the other by the wrist, in spite of their writhings and desperate efforts to strike him some deadly blow. he looked to me then like a giant in strength; but the indians were strong too, and though he was rapidly subduing the one whose throat he grasped, the other was gradually wriggling himself free, when, seizing my opportunity, rendered desperate by the position, i raised the heavy piece i held as if it were a club, and brought the barrel down with all my might upon the indian's head. i stepped back sickened by what i had done, as his arm relaxed and he fell prone, while, freed now from one adversary whose axe would the next moment have brained him, hannibal grasped his remaining enemy with both hands, raised him up, and dashed him heavily upon the earth. it was time, for morgan was down, the indian upon him, his knife raised high to plunge into the poor fellow's throat, but held back by morgan's hand, which was yielding fast. i stood paralysed and watching, when, with a roar like a wild beast, hannibal dashed at this last man, and with the axe he had at his waist struck him full in the temple, and he dropped down sidewise quivering in death. i remember thinking it very horrible as i saw all this bloodshed, but i knew it would have been far more horrible if the savage wretches had killed us. then every other thought was driven out of my head by the appearance of hannibal, who was quite transformed. as a rule he was the quiet, gentle-looking black, always ready to obey the slightest command; now he seemed to tower up a ferocious-looking being, with wild glaring eyes looking about for something else to destroy, and had i not caught hold of his arm he would have used the axe he held on the fallen men. "under cover, my lad," said morgan, who was panting heavily. "don't leave that gun. now hannibal, quick!" he led the way in among the trees, where we quickly loaded the discharged pieces, crouching down under bushes, while hannibal knelt beside us keeping watch, his wild eyes glaring round in every direction for some fresh enemy to attack. "nice--narrow--escape that! master george," said morgan, in a low voice, as he gave the ramrod a thud between every two words. "pretty object i should have looked if i'd had to go back to your father and say you were killed by the indians. oh dear! oh dear! i did hope i'd done killing people to the end of my days, and now look yonder." "it was forced upon you, morgan," i whispered, as i finished charging one of the pieces. "upon me!" cried morgan. "oh, come now, master george, play fair. don't get putting on all down to my account. my word! who'd have thought old hannibal here could fight like that?" the great black looked fiercely round, but smiled sadly as morgan held out his hand and said-- "thank you, old lad." "yes! thank you, hannibal, for saving my life," i whispered. "mass' george save han's life," was the reply in deep tones. then the smile passed from the great fellow's face, and a terrible expression came over it again as his eyes rolled round, and he said in a deep, low, muttering voice-- "come--quick find pomp." "and i was just going to say, let's make a run now for the boat," said morgan. "but we can't leave the boy, master george." "no," i said. "here, take your gun, han." i passed the firelock to him, and followed his gaze as he glared round among the trees from behind whose trunks i expected to see the enemy peering, ready to take revenge for the death of their companions. but there was no one near as far as i could see, and we rose cautiously to get a better view round through the clustering boughs whose heavy foliage cut off the light, so that we were gazing down glorious vistas that ended far away in the deepest shade. "might hide an army there, and no one could see 'em," muttered morgan. "find pomp?" said hannibal, looking at me inquiringly. "yes," i said; "try and find him. go on." the great fellow drew a deep breath, and led off at once with the firelock in his left hand, the axe in his right; and i knew that if we had a fresh encounter, the modern weapon would be useless in his hands, while the axe would be terrible. to my great horror, the course he chose was out by where the desperate struggle had taken place, and my first instinct was to close my eyes and not look at the dead indians; but i told myself i was a soldier's son, and that these men had fallen as we were fighting for our lives. but it was very terrible to see them lying there as they had fallen, two of them still grasping their weapons, and with a look of savage hatred in their faces. hannibal led on, morgan followed, and i was last, and i was beginning to feel glad that we were leaving the dead behind, where they lay beneath the great cypress, when hannibal turned round and raised his axe to point as it seemed to me in the direction of the forest beyond the garden, and to my horror it appeared as if the man had been seized with a fresh desire to shed blood, for his great lips were drawn away from his glistening teeth, his eyes opened widely showing broad rings of white round the dark irides, and throwing up the axe ready to strike, he dropped the gun and literally bounded at me. with a faint cry of horror as i saw the awful-looking object leaping at me, the firelock dropping from his left hand, and the blood glistening on his great arms, i dropped sidewise just as a knife flashed by my cheek and over my left shoulder. it was then that i realised the truth, and drew my breath hard, as i saw hannibal's axe descend; there was a terrible crashing sound and a heavy fall, and as, sick and seeing dimly, i looked down to my left, the great figure of the black was bending over a grinning object in the bushes at the forest edge, his foot was pressing back one of our enemies, and he dragged the axe free. "is he dead now?" morgan whispered, hoarsely, and his face looked ghastly as he caught me by the arm. hannibal uttered a low deep sound, and drew himself up to his full height. then he bent down again, and i saw him tear a glittering knife out of a brown hand, which with its arm rose above the bushes and was clinging still to the haft. "morgan," i said, faintly, as the great black strode back toward where we had had the struggle first, "stop him. what is he going to do?" "i want to stop him, lad," whispered the faithful fellow, in low, awe-stricken tones; "but i can't try; i daren't. it must be done." "but that was another indian," i whispered, as i saw hannibal bend down, rise up, take a step or two, and bend down again, and then everything swam before my eyes. i could hear morgan's voice though as he went on-- "it was horribly near, sir," he said. "it wasn't another indian, but one of those shamming dead, and as soon as we'd got by he must have crawled after us, and old han turned just in time, and went at him as he was striking at you with his knife. it's very horrid, my lad, but these savages don't understand fair fighting and giving quarter to the wounded. there, come away, and don't look angry at the black when he comes back. he has just saved your life again, and what he is doing now is to make sure you are not attacked again." i stood speechless, resting on the piece i held in my hand till the great negro came back with the knife stuck in his waist-belt, to stoop and pick up the gun he had dropped; and then he pointed again with the axe toward the forest beyond the garden. "come," he said, quietly. "find pomp." he looked at me once more with so grave and kindly an aspect that i tried to smother the horror i felt, and taking a step or two forward, i drew out a handkerchief and pointed to his bleeding arms, which were gashed by two blows of axe and knife. he smiled and nodded half contemptuously as i tore the handkerchief in two, and he held out his arms one by one for me to bind them tightly. "now," he said, "find pomp." i held up my hand and we listened to a low, hoarse, gurgling noise, which seemed to come from a distance in the forest, and i shuddered as i fancied for a moment that it must be one of the indians dying; but i knew that the sound came from a different direction. we listened intently as we stooped under cover and kept a watchful gaze in every direction for danger. but the sound had ceased and for the moment we were safe, for no leaf was stirring, and the deep shadowy wood appeared to be untenanted. hannibal shook his head, and was in the act of turning when the curious hoarse gurgling sound came again. it was like nothing i had ever heard before, and what was more strange, it was impossible to make out whence it came, for it rose and fell, rose again, and then died out. "what is it?" i said to morgan. "an indian cry?" "no," he replied. "hark! there it is again." yes; there it was again, but appeared to be from a fresh direction. "is it something down amongst the bushes--a frog or a young 'gator?" "no; i don't think it can be that, sir. i've heard nearly every sound they make, and it isn't anything like that." all was still again, and we moved on slowly farther into the forest, going cautiously in and out among the trees, our weapons ready, and a strict look-out kept for the enemy. for it seemed to me that the main body could not be far off, our encounter having been with a skirmishing party. "there again," i whispered. "what is it, hannibal?" he was kneeling down now listening; and as he looked up at me, i could see that he was puzzled, for he shook his head. "han done know," he said. again the sound came--a hoarse, gurgling, faint noise, as from a great distance, but somehow we were as far off from understanding what it meant as ever. "never mind," said morgan. "it isn't what we are looking for. go on, han; we must find that boy, and escape for our lives." the great black nodded and started off at once, morgan and i going to right and left of him, and we searched through the great trees, working away round the opening cleared from the forest for our house, but though the sound continued, we could find no trace of the cause nor yet of the poor boy, who had dropped completely out of sight. my heart sank as i felt sure that the indians must have surprised him, and moment by moment, as we started again into the forest, making now toward the rattlesnake clearing and the path leading to the landing-place, i expected to come upon him lying dead where he had been struck down. but we examined the place again and again in every direction without success, and we were neither of us sufficiently skilled to attempt in the gloom beneath the trees to find him by his tracks. the sound had nearly ceased now, only occurring faintly at intervals, and still it was as confusing as ever, for we could not make out whence it came. at last we stopped at the edge of the rattlesnake clearing, near where the path struck out leading to the water-side. "what are we to do, master george?" said morgan. "i want to find that boy, and at any moment we may be attacked by enemies, and it seems to be our duty to get down to the boat, row back as fast as we can, and give warning that the indians are still near at hand." "yes, go," said hannibal, who had been listening intently to morgan's words. "boat. injum. han 'top find um boy." morgan looked at me, but i shook my head. "no," i said; "we will not go--we cannot, and leave him here. will you come, hannibal?" "to find um boy," he said, frowning. "and we'll stop too, morgan," i said. "we may find him at any moment, and it is impossible to go and leave the poor boy like this." hannibal did not speak, but i saw his eyes fixed on me as morgan spoke. "i don't want to go and leave him, master george," he said, "because it's like leaving a comrade, and old soldiers don't do that. but soldiers has their duty to do, and duty says--go and let them know at the settlement. besides, my duty to your father seems to say, get you out of this as quick as you can." "yes, i know that, morgan," i said. "and the indians may be on us at any moment." "yes, but we can't leave him," i said; "and--ah, there's that noise again. i'm sure it came from right in there." i pointed back toward the other side of the clearing, toward which spot hannibal immediately rushed, and we followed as quickly as we could, for something seemed to tell us that a discovery was at hand. it was close by the part of the forest through which morgan and i had made our way cautiously and silently when we were going to kill the rattlesnake; and as we reached the edge, and passed in amongst the densely growing trees, all was silent, dark, and mysterious-looking; but there was nothing to be seen but tree-trunks, and we crept up to where the great black stood bending down and listening. all was silent. then there was a faint rap as a squirrel dropped a fir-cone from high up somewhere invisible to us. as far as we could see there were the gloomy aisles of great growing pillars, and we knew that we had passed through this portion of the forest again and again, though it was quite possible that we might have missed parts. "well, do you hear it?" i said, in a whisper. hannibal shook his head despondently, and then his face lit up as we heard from our right, and quite close at hand, the same faint, gurgling sound, now evidently a cry. the black rushed on in and out among the trees, a gleam of sunshine catching his black skin once, just as we were passing the gloomiest part; and then, as i was close behind him, he disappeared beyond a group of great pillar-like pine-trees, and when i reached them i came upon him suddenly in a hollow, deep with fir-needles--a natural hole formed by the fall of a monstrous tree, whose root still lay as it had been wrenched out when the tree fell, but the trunk itself had gradually mouldered into dust. and there was hannibal busily cutting the hide thongs which bound pomp, who was lying helpless at the bottom of the hole, with a blanket and a rough skin garment close by him, and beside these five bows and their arrows. it was evidently the lurking-place of the indian scouting party, who had suddenly pounced upon the boy, gagged and bound him, for his jaws were forced wide apart, a piece of ragged blanket was thrust into his mouth, and this was kept in by another hide thong tied round and round his face and neck, passing between his jaws as if he were bridled with a leather bit, while his arms and wrists and legs were so securely tied that the poor fellow was perfectly helpless. "can't say he's black in the face, in the way we mean," said morgan, sympathetically, "because, poor lad, it is his nature to be so, look you, but he's half dead." i was already down on my knees chafing the wrists set at liberty, after the hide had been cut away from the boy's cheeks and the gag taken out, but he made no sign whatever, and we were still rubbing him, and trying to restore the circulation, when morgan said quickly-- "we can do that in the boat. up with him, han, i'll carry your gun. there must be more indians near. these were on the advance, i'll lay, and i wouldn't say we don't have a fresh attack to-night." without a word hannibal handed the gun, took pomp by the arms, gently swung him on his back, and tore off a strip of blanket with which he tightly bound the boy's wrists together upon his own chest, so that it left the black's hands at liberty should he want to use them. "go on now," he said; and he held out his hand for his gun. it was only a short distance from where we were to the boat, but it was really to be the most anxious part of all, and as we approached rattlesnake clearing, i involuntarily checked the others to look out cautiously before we left the dark pine-shade. but all was still, the beautiful young growth glistening in the hot sunshine; and striking the path on the other side, gazing watchfully as we could, ready for attack, and fully expecting to see the indians in possession of the boat, we finally reached the landing-place, where pomp was laid in the stern, the weapons were placed ready, and faint and dripping with perspiration, i sank down beside pomp as the rope was cast off. chapter thirty nine. my eyes were for ever running from tree to bush, and plunged into the windings of the path, as hannibal and morgan seized the oars, sat down, and, after the head had been pushed off into the current, began to pull a heavy stroke that sent the boat rapidly along and out into the middle of the stream. for after my old experiences of starting from that landing-place, in addition to that which i had gone through that day, the nervous tension was so great that my imagination ran riot at first, and i saw dark faces peering out from among the canes, bronzed arms holding bows, while others drew arrows to the heads, and the loud yells of the indians seemed to ring through my dizzy brain. but as, after we had reached the farther side of the stream, the boat surged on through the water with no sound really heard but the splash of the oars, i began to grow more calm, the more so that we passed clump after clump, and patch after patch of undergrowth, from which arrows came whizzing last time, to strike into the sides of the boat, or fix themselves in the box with a hollow sounding rap. as soon as i could collect myself a little, i plunged my hands over the side and bathed my face, and drank. then hurriedly turning to poor pomp, i placed his head more easily, hannibal's great dark eyes watching me the while, and then took the tin baler, filled it with the cold, clear water, and began to bathe the boy's temples, pausing again and again to trickle water between his closely-set teeth. but for a long time he gave no sign of recovery, but lay back breathing faintly, and with his eyes tightly closed. "coming to, master george?" said morgan. "no," i had to reply again and again. and each time at my response i heard the boy's father utter a sigh. but hannibal did not cease to row a steady stroke, though i saw his forehead wrinkle up, and there was a wild look of misery in his eyes. we had passed round the wooded point in safety, and soon after were well out of our stream and in the big river, when, seeing that we were beyond the reach of arrows, the rowing was slackened a little, just as, to the great delight of all, pomp showed signs of recovery. i was bending over him after dipping the tin full of water once more, and began to trickle a little water on his forehead, when _flip_, the tin went flying, the water sparkling in the sun, and a quantity of it sprinkling hannibal where he sat, while it was all so sudden that i burst out laughing, for pomp's familiar voice rang out sharply and angrily-- "don't do dat." then memory must have come back like a flash, for the boy's hands seized me as i bent over and touched him, his eyes opened and glared at me, he showed his teeth viciously, and then let his hands drop, and he sank back. "mass' george!" he said, feebly. "ah, pomp know all de time. mass' george play trick. pash water, and--" then with a sudden fierce change of manner--"run, mass' george--run--quick--what gone long dem injum?" he looked round wildly. "they are gone, pomp," i said; and i shivered a little as i spoke. "we're quite safe now. drink a little water." i raised his head, and held the refilled water-can to his lips, when he drank with avidity. "are you better?" "eh? better, mass' george? injum cotch pomp, and 'tuff mouf full. couldn't holler. tie um all up tightum. no move, no breve, no do nuffum." "yes; don't talk now. we found you. no; lie still. what do you want?" "go kill all de injum." "sit still," i said, with another little shiver, as i recalled the scene of the struggle. "no; pomp won't sit 'till." he rose to a sitting position and began rubbing his wrists, staring at his father the while, as the latter rowed steadily on with his arms bandaged and showing stains. "what matter wif yo' arm?" hannibal said something to the boy in his own tongue, and pomp leaned forward, still rubbing his numbed wrists softly, and evidently listening intently till his father had done, when he clapped his hands together and uttered a harsh laugh. "ah," he cried; "dat a way. dey no come try kill mass' george 'gain." then reverting to his own injuries, he felt all his teeth gently with thumb and finger, as if to try whether they were loose. "'tick 'tuff, great big dirty bit blank in pomp mouf," he said, angrily. "no couldn't breve." he gave himself another rub or two, worked his head about, rubbed behind his back, and opened and shut his jaws softly. then giving himself a final shake, he exclaimed-- "pomp quite well 'gain." "want something to eat?" i said, smiling. "yes, mass' george. pomp dreffle hungly now." "oh well, we'll soon settle that," i said; and i looked round for the food, much of which was then lying under the big cypress, close to the heap of ashes i had once called home. "i'm afraid there is nothing left, pomp," i said, apologetically. "eh?" "i'm afraid there is nothing to give you," i said. "what? no go eat all dat and hab not bit for poor pomp! oh!" he swung himself round, threw himself down on his face, and groaned. hannibal said a few words in a deep stern voice, and the boy moaned out-- "but poor pomp so dreffle hungly." there was something so childishly absurd in his anger that i could not help laughing, the effect being that in his excitable state he turned upon me with a fierce gesture that reminded me of the day he was landed from the slaver. but at that moment hannibal's deep firm voice rose in so stern a tone that the boy shrank down again in the boat. hannibal spoke again as he continued rowing, and as i listened to the curious sweet-sounding barbarous tongue, i felt as if i would have given anything to have been able to understand what was said. but though i did not comprehend the words, i did their sense, for pomp came crawling up closer to me like a beaten dog, and held up one hand deprecatingly. "pomp dreffle sorry," he said. "don't mass' george flog lil nigger for get in pashum. pomp so dreffle hungly." "oh, i'm not cross," i said, good-temperedly. "and mass' george not flog poor lil nigger?" "i will if you ever say so again," i cried. "oh!" "when were you ever flogged? did i ever flog you?" "no, mass' george." "then why did you say that?" "mass' george often look going flog lil nigger." "then don't say it again, and you shall soon have something to eat. we are close to the wharf." for there in full view was the flag flying on its pine-tree staff, and the boats lay off anchored in the river. but the place looked singularly deserted, and it seemed very strange for there to be no one visible idling about, boating, or at work in the plantations; not a single person being in sight till we got some distance farther on, and the block-house and palisade seemed to come out from behind the trees, when the sentries could be plainly seen, and the group by the open gates, while the interior of the enclosure looked like a busy camp, so crowded was it with people and their household goods. we left the two blacks to moor the boat, after telling pomp to make haste up and have some dinner, and morgan and i hurried up to my father's quarters. he was not there, and we learned that he was with the general. under the circumstances we did not hesitate to go to the latter's tent, where we found that a little council was being held, and that colonel preston and the principal part of the other gentlemen of the expedition were there. "well, sir," i heard colonel preston say, "my opinion is that further inaction would be cowardly." "i am sorry to go against my friend, colonel preston," said my father, his voice coming clearly to me from under the looped-up sail which made the tent, "but i feel convinced that in spite of the lesson they have received, the indians will attack again, and it would be extremely unwise to leave our strong quarters and go to our homes until we are satisfied that we can be safe." "i must say, gentlemen," said the general, gravely, "that in spite of the adverse opinions i have heard--some of which sounded to me rather rash--i agree with captain bruton." there was a loud murmur here. "we have our women and children to think of." "of course, sir," said colonel preston; "and i think of mine as seriously as any man here. but our close confinement is getting painful for them all. we shall be having another enemy in our midst--fever--if we do not mind. now with all respect for captain bruton, i must say he is carrying caution too far. at the slightest alarm we can again take refuge in the fort." there was a chorus of approval here. "our scouts have been out in every direction, and i am convinced that there has not been for many days past an indian within a hundred miles." "you are wrong, sir," i said excitedly, as i stepped forward with morgan close behind me; and at the sight of us both, and what i had not thought of till then, our blood-stained garments, there was a loud buzz of excitement. "what? speak out. are you wounded, boy?" cried my father, excitedly. "no, father; i have escaped." "but the indians; you have seen them?" "yes," i said; and in the midst of a breathless silence, morgan and i told of our terrible adventures that day. chapter forty. "i am wrong, bruton," said colonel preston, as i finished my narrative, and the last question had been answered--"quite wrong, gentlemen all. i was longing to get back to my comfortable home. come along. i suppose we may have a fresh visit at any time." the meeting broke up, and my father led me back to our quarters. "i ought not to have let you go," he said. "the risk was too great, but i was influenced by the general opinion. ah!" he continued, as he saw hannibal standing by our rough tent, "why, my good fellow, you are wounded." he laid his hand upon the black's arm, and said something in a low voice, but i could not catch his words. i saw hannibal's eyes brighten, though, and a look of pleasure in his face as he suffered himself to be led to the temporary hospital; and i followed, to find our sarah sitting up and ready to welcome me with a few sharp snappish words, after her fashion. i have often laughed since at the way in which she showed her affection for me; for that she was fond of me she often proved. "you've come back then?" she said, as i seated myself upon a box. "yes; and i'm as bad as pomp now," i replied. "oh, i don't doubt that a bit, master george. what new mischief has he been at now?" "getting himself taken by the indians, and nearly killed." "and you have too?" "not taken, but nearly killed." "well, it serves you both right," she cried, with her lips working. "it was bad enough to come to this terrible place without you two boys going and running into all kinds of risks, and getting yourselves nearly killed. i don't know what the captain has been about, i'm sure." "about here," i said, good-humouredly. "but tell me at once, sir. what do you mean about being as bad as that impudent black boy?" "oh, only that i'm dreffle hungry," i said, laughing. "hungry? then why didn't you have some food as soon as you got back?" "because i had to go and tell them my news; and then i wanted to see how you were. how is your wound?" "oh, it don't matter about me a bit. i'm in hospital, and being attended to, so of course my husband can go on pleasure-trips, and leave his poor wife to die if so inclined." "curious sort of pleasure-trip, sarah," i said. "i say, you should see how morgan can fight." "fight? did he have to fight?" "yes;" and i told her what he had done. "oh, what a foolish, foolish man! how could he go leading you into danger like that?" "he didn't. i led him." "then you ought to be ashamed of yourself, master george. but tell me; why did you go back home?" "to see what the place was like, and whether it could be built up again." "built up? why, it hasn't been blown down." "no; burnt down." "burnt! what, our house?" "yes." "but not my kitchen? oh, master george, don't say that my kitchen has been burned too." "there's nothing left of the place but a little firewood and a few scuttles of ashes." sarah wrung her hands. "oh dear--oh dear!" she cried, "why wasn't i told before?" "never mind; you'll soon be well again. you were not told for fear of worrying you; and as soon as we have got rid of the indians my father will have the place all built up again, and it will be better than ever." "never!" said sarah, emphatically. "but you were not hurt, my dear, were you?" "no," i said, "only horribly frightened." "no," said sarah, emphatically, "you may have been startled, my dear, but i'm not going to believe that you were frightened. and you are hungry, too, and me not able to get about and cook you a bit of food." "oh, never mind. now i know you are better i'll go and get something to eat." "yes, do, my dear, do," she cried, "and make haste. it was very kind of you to come. but do, please, do take care of yourself, my dear, and don't go running any more of these dreadful risks. then you killed all the indians?" "they did," i said. "that's a comfort," said sarah. "i'm sorry for the poor savages, but it's their own fault. they should leave us alone. the cowards too-- shooting a poor woman like me. well, there's an end of them now." "of that party," i said. "we are afraid that there will be another attack to-night." "what? oh dear me! now i ask you, master george, how can i get well with such goings-on as this?" i did what i could to cheer her up, and went out to find hannibal just leaving the doctor, and ready to laugh at the wounds upon his arms as being too trifling to be worthy of notice. in fact the pains he suffered did not prevent him from partaking of a hearty meal, at which pomp stood looking on regretfully. i happened to catch his eye just as i was eating rather voraciously, the excitement and exertion having given me a tremendous appetite. "have some, pomp?" i said, feeling half guilty at sitting there eating, while the poor boy who had suffered so much in our service should be only looking on. "what mass' george say?" he replied, coming nearer. "i say, will you have something to eat?" pomp sighed. "what's the matter?" i asked. "poor pomp can't." "can't? why not? if i like to give you some now, no one will say anything." "poor fellow," i added to myself, "how he remembers that he is a slave!" all the time i was cutting him one of the solid slices of bread in which i knew from old experience he delighted so much, and then carved off a couple of good, pink-striped pieces of cold salt pork. but he drew away with a sigh. "why, what's the matter, pomp?" "eat much, too much now," he said, quaintly. "pomp can't eat no more." the mournful way in which he said this was comical in the extreme, for he accompanied it with a sigh of regret, and shook his head as he turned away, unable to bear longer the sight of the good food of which he was unable to partake. i had hardly finished my meal, and begun to feel a little rested and refreshed, before i was attracted out into the enclosure where the ladies and children, whom i had seen only the day before looking cheerful and merry, were wearing a wild, scared look as they were being hurried into the block-house, while the most vigorous preparations were carried on. "they don't mean to be taken by surprise, morgan," i said, as i ran against him, watching. "the indians may not come after all." "not come?" he said. "what! haven't you heard?" "i--heard?" "the message brought in by one of the scouts?" i had not heard that any had been sent out, and i said so. "the general sent them out directly, and one has come back to say that they had found signs of indians having been about, and that they had been round by our clearing." "yes! well?" i said. "the dead indians were gone." i started at the news. "perhaps they did not go to the right place." "oh, yes, they did," said morgan, seriously, "because two men told me about finding the marks close beside the big tree where we had our fight." "marks?" i said. "yes; you know. well, they are keeping a good look-out, spread all round, and keeping touch with each other. so you may be sure that the enemy is not far off, and we expect them down upon us before long." the thought of all this made the evening look gloomy and strange, though it was a glorious sunset, for the clouds that gathered in the west were to me like the smoke of burning houses touched with fire, and the deep rich red glow like blood. and as i watched the changes, it seemed that the softened reflections had turned into one fierce fiery glow that told of the destruction of the fort and the houses of the settlement, till, as it all died out, the light growing paler and paler, there was nothing at last but the cold grey ashes to tell of where the houses had been. chapter forty one. i quite started as a hand was laid upon my shoulder. "thinking, george?" said my father. i told him i had been watching the sunset. shame kept me from saying more. "ah, yes," he said, sadly. "it was very glorious. what a pity that the beautiful land over which such a sun shines should be spoiled by bloodshed!" "do you think the indians will come to-night?" i said, a little huskily. he was silent for a few moments, and stood gazing in my face. "afraid?" he said, with a smile. "yes, father," i said, frankly. "it makes me feel afraid. but when all the fighting and excitement is going on i don't feel to mind it half so much." "that is human nature, my boy," he said, smiling. "no doubt there are men who never know what fear is, but they must be very rare. i have known very few." "but you, father?" i said, excitedly. "you never knew what it was to be afraid?" he laughed as he pressed my shoulder with his hand. "always, my boy, when i am going to encounter danger, and from the general downward, i think i may say we all feel fear. it is no disgrace to a brave man to shrink from that which he has to encounter. why, my experience teaches me that those men who think and feel in this way do the bravest deeds." "then i needn't be ashamed of feeling a little alarm--i mean being a bit of a coward now, father?" "no," he said, with a peculiar smile. "but as it is highly probable that we shall be attacked to-night, it would be as well to be careful. the women and children are all in the block-house now; the men will be strongly posted at the gates and palisade, while the reserves will be in front of the block-house, in our rough outer works, ready to go to any menaced point or to cover their comrades if they have to retreat, and we are compelled to take to the block-house as a last resource.--there: i must go. you are tired, boy. you have had a long and perilous day. i'll excuse you from everything to-night, and you had better get to the block-house and have a good night's rest." "oh, don't say that, father," i cried, dolefully. "go and be shut up there with the women and children!" "what do you wish to do, then?" he said, still smiling in a peculiar way. "be about here, and go round to the different sentries." "with arrows flying, perhaps." "but it will be dark, and they are not likely to hit," i said. "besides, i might be useful fetching ammunition and helping to load." "you can stay about," he said, clapping both hands on my shoulders, and laughing. "i don't think you need be ashamed of your cowardice, my boy." he walked away, leaving me feeling puzzled, for i hardly knew what he meant, whether he was joking me or laughing at me for what i said. but it was all put out of my head directly by a little bustle at the gate, where the men who had been scouting were beginning to return, so as to be well in shelter before it grew dark; and as i followed them up, the report they made to the officers soon reached my ears. it was very brief: they had seen no indians, but had followed the track of those who had fetched away the bodies of their dead, and traced them to a portion of the forest some six miles away, when, not feeling it wise to follow farther, they had come straight across country home. there was neither moon nor star that night, as, with every light carefully extinguished in camp, patient watch was kept, and every eye fixed from three of the sides upon the edge of the forest beyond the plantations. so still was everything that, save when a faint whisper rose when an officer went round, the place might have been unoccupied. but the hours glided by with nothing to occasion the slightest alarm, as we all listened to the faint sounds which came from distant forest and swamp. so still was it that even the splash of some great fish in the river reached our ears as we leaned over the great fence by the gateway. i had been round the enclosure with my father twice in the course of the evening, for though tired i was too much excited to sleep. then i had been and had a chat with our sarah, in the hospital-room, and after that gone to the little side shelter by our tent, where hannibal and pomp were both sleeping as peaceably as if there were no danger in the air. as i stood looking down at them, it was with something like a feeling of envy, for i was terribly heavy, and would gladly have lain down to sleep, but it was impossible then; and as i left them and crossed the great enclosure, i heard a low whispered conversation going on just in front, and as i stopped short a hand caught mine, and said sternly-- "who is this? oh, it's you, young bruton. no alarm, is there?" it was colonel preston who spoke, and after telling him that all seemed quiet i passed on, and in an uneasy way went from sentry to sentry to say a word or two to each, as i inquired whether my father had been by. he had not, so i went on till i came to the corner of the enclosure farthest from the forest, where i could dimly see the man on duty straining himself over the great fence; and so occupied was he in gazing into the distance that he did not notice my presence till i spoke. "you, master george?" "you, morgan?" "why, i thought you'd ha' been asleep." "no; i could not go," i said. "but why were you looking out there?" "i don't know, my lad," he whispered. "this sort of work puts one all on the screw and fidget. i do nothing else but fancy all sorts of things, and keep finding out i'm wrong." "but the indians are not likely to come this way," i said. "it is too far from the forest." "then the more likely, my lad. but speak lower. now look straight out there, and try if you can see anything." i looked out in the gloom in the direction indicated, and said softly-- "yes, i am looking." "well, what can you see?" "a house." "yes, that's right; just dimly showing against the sky." "well, what of it? it is colonel preston's." "i didn't know for certain, but i thought it was his. well, look again; can you see anything about it?" i looked, making a telescope of my hands, and then laughed to myself. "as i watched it, master george, it seemed to me as if there was some one moving about it. i'm sure i saw men against the sky." "why, morgan," i said, "what you see is those tall, thin cypress trees standing up at the ends. they do look something like people, but they would be folks twenty feet high." "nonsense, sir! look again." i did look again, and, very dimly-seen against the sky, i fancied i could see something moving, and i had no doubt now about its being the colonel's house, for it was the only one standing on raised ground. "well," whispered morgan, "what do you make of it now?" "nothing. one's eyes get dizzy and misty with looking so long. i believe it is only fancy." morgan gazed long and eagerly for quite a minute before he said in a low, excited whisper-- "then fancy's precious busy to-night, master george. i got to be wonderful powerful in the sight during the wars, being out on vidette duty. i say there's something wrong there." i looked again, but i could not distinguish anything, and i said so. "look here, sir," whispered morgan, "i don't like to give an alarm for nothing, but i can't rest over this. will you ask the captain to come?" "tell you what," i said; "i'll fetch pomp first. he has eyes like a cat." "the very thing, sir. fetch him," whispered morgan, and i hurried back to our quarters, roused up pomp, who was ill-tempered at being disturbed, and taking him by the wrist i led him to morgan's post, telling him in whispers the while what i wanted of him. "but it all dark," he said, peevishly. "how pomp go to see in um dark? wait till a-morrow morning." "come, pomp," i said; "don't be foolish. you have such good eyes, and we want you to see." "no; not good eyes," he said. "all seepy now out ob 'em." "hush! don't talk," i said, gently. "how pomp see which way um go if don't talk lil bit? i tink you berry cross on poor lil nigger, mass' george." "hist! here we are." "hah! now we shall see," said morgan, eagerly. "come, pomp, look over yonder--straight away beneath that tall tree that goes to a point. now then, what can you see?" "house," replied the boy, shortly. "well, what else?" "lot man coming and going way 'gain." "there!" said morgan, triumphantly. "now, master george, was i right?" "who are they, pomp?" i whispered. "look, quick!" "pomp can't look, so 'leepy." "but you must." "pomp go back--go 'leep." "no, on, please look again. oh, pomp!" "mass' george want pomp look?" "yes, yes." "mass' george won't call pomp 'tupid lil nigger 'gain?" "i'll promise anything, only pray look." the boy rested his chin on the fence, and gazed again, while i could hear my heart going _thump_, _thump_ with excitement. "lot men. all black dark." "black?" i said, eagerly. "you don't mean the slaves?" "pomp nebber say dey nigger. pomp say all black." "don't talk so loudly," whispered morgan, eagerly. "pomp no want talk loud. pomp go back 'leep." "no, no, pray look again and tell me, pomp," i whispered. "mass' morgan talk sabbage. want to flog pomp." "no, no, he does not, and i want you to look and tell me." "pomp look and tell mass' george, but now too 'leepy, an' eye all 'tick togedder much, tell mass' morgan." "then tell me," i whispered. he looked again, then seemed suddenly to grow interested, and as excited as we were, as he caught my arm. "dem injum!" "there, master george. quick! fetch the captain." "no, no, fire and give the alarm," i said. "no. better not. it will alarm them too. go and fetch the captain." i hurried away, closely followed by pomp, and luckily found my father on his way to go the rounds in company with colonel preston. i told them what we had seen, and they hurried with us to the spot where morgan was on duty. "it can only mean one thing," said the colonel, excitedly. "they would not trouble much about plunder." "what do you mean then?" said my father; "a point from which to attack?" "no," said the colonel, hoarsely. "that!" as he said the words, there was a faint gleam of light in the direction of the house, a flash, then quite a burst of ruddy flame; and by the time we reached morgan, his face was lit up by the glow as the wooden structure blazed away rapidly, and the flames like great golden tongues licked at porch and veranda; while from one window, which showed quite plainly, so great a volume rushed out that it showed where the house had been fired. there was no need to sound an alarm, the great golden fire-flag which floated in the darkness of the night brought every man out to gaze; and as the flames mounted higher, illuminating the settlement far and near, the other houses stood forth plainly, the trees seemed turned to gold, and the wavy corn and cane came into sight and died out again in a way wonderful to behold. "preston! bruton!" said a firm voice, "round to the men. every one on his guard. reserves in the centre ready. this is a ruse to take our attention prior to an attack." i looked up admiringly at the stern old man, who gave his orders so promptly, and then saw my father and the colonel hurry off, while the general shaded his eyes, and looked keenly over the place. "no," he said, as if to himself, as he drew back. "ah, you boys! your eyes are young and sharp. try if you can see the indians crossing along by the edges of either of the plantations, or coming this way." "no, sir," i said, quickly. "i have been trying to see them." "injum gone round dah," said pomp, pointing. "ah!" cried the general; "you saw them?" "yes; gone dat big house." "mine," said the general, with a quick catching of the breath. "yes; there is no doubt about that." for as we were speaking, a tiny tongue of fire began to creep up one of the pine-tree supports of the porch, which, quite invisible before, now stood out plainly, and in a very few minutes was blazing furiously, while a light from the back showed that it had been fired there as well. "watch for the men who are doing this, my boy," said the general. "here, sentry, can you use that piece of yours?" "middlin', sir, middlin'," replied morgan. "then wait till you see one of the wretches, and try and bring him down. no," he said, directly after, "it would be useless. it would have no good effect." the indians who had fired the general's house must have stolen off by the back, for pomp did not see them go; and we were not long in learning that they were busy still, for at intervals of only a few minutes, six more of the best of the settlers' houses were blazing furiously, lighting up the whole of the clearings, while the sparks ascended in great clouds, and floated gently away as if a fall of snow had been suddenly turned into gold. overhead a cloud of wreathing smoke rolled over and over, turned ruddy by the burning homes, as if a second fire were in the heavens, and reflecting the light so that the block-house and the encumbered enclosure, with its piles of boxes and rough furniture, with here and there a tent, rapidly grew lighter and lighter, but with shadows of intense blackness marked out where the light did not fall. so clearly did the defenders' faces show now, as they sheltered behind the defences, that had there been high ground near that the enemy could have held, our position would have been bad, so excellent a mark should we have made for the indian arrows. but, fortunately for us, save where colonel preston's house stood, the land round the fort was absolutely flat, and the indians could not very well get into position for attack without exposing themselves to a rain of bullets. our officers were soon fairly well satisfied that if an attack were coming it would be from the dark side, and there our forces were concentrated to stand waiting, while scarcely any one but the sentries stood at the fence nearest the house and watched the flames. had the houses been together, the whole place would have been rapidly burned down; but, fortunately for us, each little house stood in the middle of its own plot, fifty, a hundred, and sometimes several hundred yards apart, so that they burned as so many separate fires, others springing up in various directions till twelve were blazing, and no effort could be made to check the flames. "it would only be sending men to their death," i heard my father say as i stood near, hot with impotent rage. "yes. it is impossible to do anything," replied the general. "if we were free to act, our whole force could not save the houses; and i cannot set the men to work with their buckets in the blazing light, to be shot down by the arrows of the indians hidden somewhere in the darkness." as the twelfth house blazed up, with the indians still cunningly keeping out of sight and crawling among the trees or crops, we all stood watching the houses left, wondering which would be the next to burst out into flame; but now we waited in vain, for the destruction had ceased as far as fresh additions were concerned. but the doomed dwellings crackled and flashed, and every time a beam or a ceiling fell in, the heavens were brilliant with the great bursts of sparks, which eddied and rose higher and higher, to join the great cloud floating quietly toward the now golden river. still there was no sign of indians; and at last my father walked round to the other side to join the most keen-sighted of our men in the look-out for the enemy, who was momentarily expected to be detected creeping up. from where i now stood i could hear the buzz of voices in the block-house, where the whole of the occupants were watching the destruction--in twelve of the cases this being the sweeping away of a treasured and peaceful home. by degrees the exclamations and words of sorrow--more than once mingled with sobs--grew fainter, and there was a terrible silence, through which came the sharp hissing and crackling of the burning wood, with again and again a dull thud as some beam went down. at such times the flames seemed to glow with twofold brilliancy, and the sparks were doubled in size, while after a few minutes the fire, that had been temporarily damped, blazed up higher than ever. "if we only had the orders to shoot," i heard one man say to another, "i wouldn't care then." "but there's nothing to shoot at," was the reply. "i say, though, i've been thinking." "what?" "suppose that they could manage to set fire to the block-house here." "don't talk about it, man. what? with those women and children there! no; we must shelter them from that, even if we die for it." i was standing with my father when colonel preston's house had been reduced to a glowing heap of embers, and he came up to my father to say in a light, cheerful way-- "ah, i've been looking for you, bruton. i wanted to tell you that i thoroughly understand now what your feelings must have been like the other night." "don't talk about it," said my father. "oh, i don't know," said the colonel. "it's painful, but one knows the worst." "no," said my father, sadly; "unfortunately we do not know the worst." "what do you mean? we can soon set to work and rebuild. the ground is clear. we cannot be so badly off as when we first landed." "i was thinking," said my father, in a low voice, "that the enemy has achieved his work for the night, but to-morrow they will continue this horrible destruction, and the next night and the next night, till the palisade and the block-house only remain. then the worst will come." "they will try and fire that?" said the colonel, in a whisper. "yes. we have a deadly foe to combat, and one full of cunning." "but we must never let him and his fire-fiends approach the place,--we must make an outer palisade." "of brave men?" said my father. "yes; i had thought of that; but the danger cannot be stopped that way. they will fire the place without coming close." "how?" cried the colonel. "with winged messengers," said my father; and i felt what he was going to say before he spoke. "fiery arrows? i see what you mean. pray heaven they may not think of such a hideous plan. but if they do, bruton, we are englishmen, and know how to die." "yes," said my father, sadly. "if the worst comes to the worst, we know how to die. well, there will be no attack to-night," he continued; and he turned round and seemed to realise the fact that i was there, having forgotten my presence in the earnestness of his conversation with the colonel. "ah, george," he said, "i did not think that you were there to hear what i said. did you catch it?" "yes, father," i said in a hoarse voice. "what did i say?" "that we should know how to die." there was silence then, and the ruddy glow in the smoke-clouds began to die away, leaving everything dark, and cold, and depressing; so that the cheerful words of the various officers now, as they talked encouragingly to the men, appeared to have lost their power. chapter forty two. morning at last, after the horrors of that eventful night. every one looked jaded and despondent; but as the sun rose, and the women and children were allowed to leave the confinement of the prison-like block-house to return to their larger tents and shelters, a good deal of the misery and discomfort was forgotten. for as soon as it was day a couple of scouting parties issued from the gate and advanced cautiously through the plantations, tracing the course of the indians easily enough, and following it up to the forest. the advance was made with the greatest precaution, the men stealing from garden to plantation, and from fence to fence, expecting to receive arrows at any moment, and with their fire-locks ready to reply to the first inimical shot. but no arrow sped toward them as they scouted on past the ruined houses; and the men's countenances grew sadder as they passed the smouldering heaps of ashes, and grasped their pieces more firmly, longing for an opportunity to punish the wretches who were destroying our homes. my father took command of one of these scouting parties, and after a little persuasion he gave me his consent that we two boys should accompany it. he refused at first, but on my pointing out how keen pomp's sight and sense of hearing were, he reluctantly said yes, and we went slowly on. we stopped at each burned home we passed, to see how complete the destruction was; and, though i said nothing to my father, i could not help comparing the piles of newly-charred wood, and ashes to what i had seen at our own clearing. it was exciting work as we went on, with our eyes fixed upon every spot likely to afford shelter to an indian. the men spread out, and worked round clump of trees or patch of cane. but no indian was seen, and at last we approached the forest. here pomp was invaluable. he seemed to have no sense of fear, in spite of the experiences he had gone through; and again and again he had to be checked and kept from rushing among the trees, where the enemies might have been lying waiting in force. he was not long in pointing out the place where the indians had left the shelter of the forest, and soon after he found out another spot where it was quite as plain that they had returned--evidently working in a regularly organised way; and at first sight, as we gazed down at the footprints, one might have thought that only one man had passed, but my father explained to me how one seemed to have stepped in another's track, which had grown deeper and broader, till it was plainly marked wherever the soil was soft. as soon as pomp had pointed this out, he was for diving in among the densely-clustered trees, which began directly cultivation ended, just beyond where their fellows had been levelled and dragged away, leaving the stumps in many cases standing out of the ground with the crops between. but my father sternly called him back, and, satisfied that the enemy was not within touch, as proved by the fact that no arrow had sped towards us, the word was passed along the widespread line from our centre to the extreme ends, and we retreated, leaving three videttes under shelter in commanding positions, where they could at once see if any indian scouts left the edge of the forest, and so give the alarm. as we marched back toward the fort through the plantations, which were already displaying the effects of neglect, i asked my father if he did not think it possible that the indians might be watching us all the time. "they were watching morgan and me that day when we killed the rattlesnake," i said. "it is quite possible," he replied, turning to me directly; "but we could do no more. my orders were to search the ground, and make sure that no indians were lurking in the plantations. i have done that. to have attempted to enter the forest with the few men under my orders would have been to invite destruction without doing any good." "yes, i see, father," i replied. "they may have been lying in hiding only a short distance in, but i scarcely think so. the temptation to destroy from their lurking-places, whence they could shoot at us unseen, would have been too great." by this time we had reached the gate, and we filed in for my father to go and make his report of what he had done to our commanding officer, while i went with pomp to where hannibal was playing the part of cook, and waiting our return. "what's the matter?" i said to my companion, who was looking disturbed and sulky. "why come back?" he said. "why not go shoot all um injum, and--" pomp stopped short and gave a loud sniff. he had smelt food, and nothing else had the smallest interest for him now till his wants had been supplied. a busy day was spent in perfecting our means of defence against the enemy we dreaded now the most. blankets were laid ready by twos, and men were drilled in the use to which they were to be put if the block-house was fired. for they were to be rapidly spread here and there and deluged with water, scouting parties being sent out to each of the uninjured homes in turn to collect any tubs or barrels that had been overlooked before. the men worked well, and a cheer was sent up whenever some barrel was rolled in from one of the farther dwellings and carried up to the block-house roof, and filled ready. but at last there was nothing more to be done in this direction, and we rested from our labours. so great had been the stress of the previous night, that the men were ordered to lie down to sleep in turns, so as to be prepared for a fresh alarm; but it was a long time before i could close my eyes as i lay under the canvas. i was weary, of course, but too weary, and though i closed my eyes tightly, and said i would go to sleep, there was always something to battle against it. at one time, just as i fancied i was dozing off, there was the sound of footsteps and a burst of laughter from some of the children, who raced about in the hot sunshine untroubled by the dangers that threatened. as i lay listening, and recognising the sport in which they were engaged, i could not help wishing that i was a child, and not mixed up with all these terrors just as if i were a man. "if we could only be at peace again!" i thought; and i lay wakeful, still thinking of the garden, the growing fruit, the humming-birds that whirred about like great insects among the flowers, and emitted a bright flash every now and then as the sun glanced from their scale-like feathers. then i pictured the orioles too, that pale yellow one with the black back and wings, and the gay orange and black fellow i so often saw among the trees. "how beautiful it all used to be!" i sighed. "why can't the indians leave us alone?" at last i grew drowsy, and lay dreamily fancying it was a hot, still night at home with the window open, and the cry of the whip-poor-will-- that curious night-jar--coming from out of the trees of the swamp far beyond the stream where the alligators bellowed and the frogs kept up their monotonous, croaking roar. _buzz_--_oooz_--_oooz_! "bother the flies!" i was wide-awake with the sun glaring on the canvas, and a great fly banging against it, knocking and butting its head and wings, when all the time there was the wide opening through which it had come ready for it to fly out. "ugh! you stupid thing," i muttered, pettishly, as i lay watching it hardly awake, thinking i would get up and catch it, or try to drive it out; but feeling that if i did i should only kill it or damage it so that its life would be a misery to it, make myself hotter than i was, and perhaps not get rid of the fly after all. "well," i cried, pettishly, "that's too bad!" for there was a fresh buzzing. another fly had dashed in, and the two were playing a duet that was maddening to my overwrought senses. "now, what can be the use of flies?" i said, pettishly. "they are insufferable: buzzing, teasing, and stinging, making the whole place miserable." i was in such an overstrung state from want of rest and excitement that i found myself thinking all kinds of nonsense, but there was some common-sense mixed up with it, like a few grains of oats amongst a great deal of the rough tares in which they grew, and i began to look at the state of affairs from the other point of view, as i watched those two flies darting here and there in zigzag, or sailing round and round, to every now and then encounter with a louder buzz, and dart off again. and in spite of my vexation, i found myself studying them, and thinking that small as they were their strength was immense. compared to mine it was astounding. i walked a few miles and i was weary, but here were they apparently never tiring, darting here and there with their wings vibrating at such an astounding rate that they were invisible. _whizz_--_whuzz_--_dash_!--here, there, and everywhere with lightning-like rapidity. "it's wonderful," i said at last, and i thought how strange it was that i had never thought of such a thing before. "now i dare say," i found myself saying, "they think that we are as great a nuisance as we think them, for putting up a rough canvas tent like this, and catching them so that they cannot get out. stuff! i don't believe flies can think, or else they would be able to find the way out again." _buzz_--_buzz_! _buzz_--_buzz_! a regular heavy, regular long-drawn breathing that grew louder now after a rustling sound, and i knew at once that it was pomp who had turned round, got into an uncomfortable position, and was now drawing his breath in a way that closely resembled a snore. "oh, you tiresome wretch!" i muttered. "how dare you go and sleep soundly when i am so tired out that i can't?" at last in utter despair i rose, pulled off my loose coat so as only to retain shirt and breeches, bathed my face in a bucket just outside, and could not resist the temptation to sprinkle a few drops on pomp's face as he lay there fast asleep in the shade. but they had not the slightest effect, and i crept into our rough tent again, smoothed the blanket, and lay down and closed my eyes once more, while the two flies were joined by another, and the buzzing was louder than ever. "go on," i said; "i don't care. one can't go to sleep in the daytime, but one can rest one's legs;" and as i said this pettishly i knew it was not true, for pomp's heavy breathing came plainly through the canvas to prove how thoroughly i was in the wrong. so giving up all idea of going to sleep, i lay there on my back, looking up at the fabric of the canvas, through which every now and then there was a faint ray of sunshine so fine that a needle-point would have been large in comparison. then i began to think about my father, and what a deal of care and anxiety he seemed to have; how sad he generally was; and i set his grave manner down to the real cause--my mother's death. then i began to think of how hot it was, and that as near as i could guess it must be two hours after noon. then about how pleasant it would be to begin rebuilding our house, and how long it would take, and about hannibal and pomp, and what a gentleman the former seemed to be by nature in his stern, quiet way; always willing to do anything for us, and watching me whenever he saw me, to know if there was anything i wanted; and so big, and strong, and brave. then i thought of our terrible experience under the great cypress tree, and at one time it was very horrible, but directly after not at all so. "it seems very terrible to kill any one, but han knew that if he did not kill them they would kill us, and i do believe he would sooner be killed himself than let any one hurt either father or me. and what a rum little fellow pomp is," i thought; "and how he gives up directly hannibal says anything in his language. "i wonder what his language is! one can't call it black language, because it isn't black--only what black people speak. i wonder whether i could learn it. seems to be all _ing_, and _ung_, and _ang_, and _ng_, without any letters before it. i'll make hannibal teach me to speak like he does. he would if i asked him. s'pose i should have to learn it without books, and one couldn't write it, and--oh, dear me! how hot, and tired, and thirsty i am! "i wish pomp wouldn't buzz so. "no, i mean i wish the flies wouldn't snore so. "no; i mean the indians--the--" i started up, and looked round confusedly, to see the flies darting here and there, and buzzing more loudly than ever, while pomp had settled into a decided snore. it was hotter than before, and great drops stood on my face, and tickled as they ran together and made greater drops. the children too were still playing about, and laughing merrily, and i went on thinking that the flies must be teasing pomp very much, and that those children would laugh and play if the indians came and buzzed round the tent; and that one which had settled on the canvas just over my head didn't frighten them by swelling out so big, and opening and shutting his great jaws with such a loud snap. what a number of fish he must eat in a day, and how i should have liked to watch him when he beat the water with his tail, so as to stun the fish and make them easy to catch! "and so that's where you live, is it, my fine fellow? pomp and i will come with a stick, and thrust it down the hole, and make you bite, and drag you out. we should want a rope ready to put round your neck, and another to tie your jaws, and one of us would have to slip it on pretty quickly before you spread your wings and began to fly round the tent, and began talking in that ridiculous way. whoever heard of an alligator imitating morgan, and trying to deceive me like that, just as we were going to catch him on the canvas where it was so tight? eh! what say? why don't you bellow? what!--no, i shan't. he is very comfortable here, and--ah!" that alligator had crept over into the tent, planted its foot upon my chest, and was moving it heavily, as it said out of the darkness in morgan's voice-- "oh, master george, do wake up, my lad, and come! be quick, pray!" chapter forty three. quite dark. my head confused. the alligator's foot on my chest. no; it was the butt-end of a gun pushing me. "here! don't! what's the matter?" "i thought i should never get you to wake, sir. come along. the indians are here." i sprang out of the tent, with it gradually dawning upon me that i had been sleeping heavily from early afternoon right into the darkness of night, and dreaming away in a heavily confused fashion of the various objects that had just filled my eyes and ears. "you said the indians were here?" i said, excitedly. "yes, my lad. look!" i gazed in the direction pointed out, and saw there was a bustle going on at the block-house, where by a faint blaze men were throwing buckets of water. "just caught it in time, sir," continued morgan. "they mean mischief now." "yes, i know. they fired arrows at it blazing." "how did you know when you were asleep?" "my father expected they would; i heard him say so." "ah, well, they won't do it again. we're going to soak blankets, and lay all over the top." "morgan, look--look!" i exclaimed, as three fiery long-tailed stars came swiftly sailing through the air from one direction; and as if they had been sent as a signal, three more came from the opposite quarter, and directly after two more threes, and all fell blazing on different parts of the block-house, the indians evidently aiming for the spot where the first blaze appeared--that which was rapidly being extinguished as i crept out of our tent. these fiery arrows had no doubt been prepared with tufts of cotton saturated with some resinous gum, which, after being lighted, burned furiously in its rapid passage through the air, and seemed to resist the efforts of those who were on the roof trying to extinguish the patches of glowing fire. in fact their efforts soon became useless, for the first twelve arrows were followed by dozens more, and then by hundreds, till at one time quite a fiery shower descended on the doomed place; while, emboldened by their success, amidst a fierce yelling, some of the indians ran from their cover, their progress being marked by tiny specks of light which seemed to glide like fireflies over the fields. then they made a sudden dart, blazed out, and stuck in the sides of the fort. this was repeated again and again before sharp orders were rung out, and from that moment whenever one of these sparks was seen gliding along toward the palisades, it was met by shot after shot, sometimes by a regular volley. twice over as i watched i saw one of these sparks drop to the ground and begin to burn, showing by it the body of an indian; but though scores of shots were fired, these were the only two which checked the savages, who, encouraged by their success, kept on running in and shooting at the fort. "hard to hit a man running with a bullet," said morgan, in answer to one of my ejaculations of impatience. "but why are you here, morgan?" i said, suddenly, as i felt that most of the defenders were either at work firing, or busy with buckets and water. "because i was sent here, sir," said morgan, gruffly. and though i questioned him, he said no more, but chuckled a little when i made a guess, and said that my father must have sent him to look after me. the men on the roof of the block-house worked splendidly amidst the fiery shower, though they were checked several times by the horrible missiles taking effect, inflicting wounds and burning the poor fellows' clothing as well; but they returned to their duty as soon as their comrades were passed down below into the fort, and wherever the flames got hold they were extinguished. but that which the falling arrows sent high in air, to drop almost perpendicularly on the fort, failed to do, though shot with wondrous skill, was accomplished by the arrows sent in the ordinary way point-blank against the walls. i was watching the progress of the attack with morgan, and we were uttering congratulations about the admirable way in which the men on the roof worked, and how cleverly each fiery messenger was quenched now almost as soon as it fell, when there was a fresh attack. "yes; we've done 'em, clever as they are, this time, sir," said morgan. "i tell you what: if i'd had the management of that affair i'd have had young pomp up there." "where is he?" i said, for i had forgotten all about him. "'long of his father carrying water, sir. but as i was saying, i'd have had young pomp up there with a small bucket as he could handle easy, half full o' water, and set him to catch the arrows as they fell. he's quick as lightning, and i'll be bound to say he'd have caught the arrows one by one in his bucket." "look--look!" i cried excitedly. "eh? what? ah!" ejaculated morgan, as evidently from behind one of the houses, quite invisible in the darkness, we saw quite a little group of specks glide out, and almost simultaneously another group--and there seemed to be about thirty in each--came out from the other side, the two parties joining with almost military precision, and gliding as it were over the fields till quite close in, when there was a perfect blaze of light as a golden cloud of trailing lights was discharged straight at the wooden wall of the fort, and in a few seconds it was wrapped in fire from top to bottom. a tremendous yell followed this successful discharge, but it was drowned by the rapid firing which succeeded, and as i looked on excitedly, longing to go and assist, and wondering why i had received no orders, i had the satisfaction of seeing figures flitting to and fro before the blazing pine-trunks, and hearing the hiss of the water as bucketful after bucketful was discharged. "why, morgan!" i exclaimed suddenly; "the women and children?" "well, sir, they'd be safe enough." "what, if the fire is not put out?" "oh, it'll be put out, my lad. look, they're battering it now. it aren't so fierce, but they don't happen to be there; the captain spoke to the governor this afternoon." "to the general?" "yes, sir. we're getting to call him the governor now; and the captain told him, i hear, that he was afraid the main attack would be on the block-house, and it was settled to have all the women and children out; and they're all safe behind barricades in the middle there. yonder, you see." "see? no," i said; "how can i see through this terrible darkness?" "darkness?" said morgan, in a peculiar tone. "i was just thinking that it was a bit lighter now, and yet they seem to be getting the fire a bit under." "yes," i said; "and now the clouds of steam are rising; you can see them quite plainly now. perhaps they are reflecting the light down upon the building. oh, look!" i could hold back no longer, but started off at a run, closely followed by morgan, so as to get to the other side and see what was going on there. for i had suddenly grasped the meaning of the light that had puzzled me. it was plain enough now. with their customary cunning, the indians had fired such a flight of fiery arrows that they had forced our people to combine their forces to put out the blazing side of the block-house, and then combining their own forces, the enemy had sent low down on the opposite side, after creeping close in, a tremendous discharge, which at once took hold, and the flames as i got round were already running up the building, fanned by the wind which seemed to be rising, and there was a fluttering roar which sounded like the triumphant utterances of the flames. "that comes of using pine-logs," said morgan, in a low voice, as amidst the shouting of orders, the tramp of men, and the hissing of the fire, volley after volley was fired from the palisades; but naturally these shots sent forth into the darkness were aimless, and in imagination i could see the enemy, after sending in their arrows, crawling away unhurt. the progress of this last fire was rapid. something was done to check it at first with the buckets, and the brave fellows on the roof made desperate efforts by hanging the saturated blankets over the side, but they were soon driven back by the heat and smoke; all but one, whom i saw--after working desperately, the leader evidently of the shadowy-looking, blackened band--topple forward and fall into the flames at the foot, just as a herculean black approached, bearing two buckets of water. then there was a rush, a deal of confusion and shouting; and as i neared i saw the black coming through the crowd bearing some one on his shoulder. i needed no telling that the slave, whoever he was, had dashed in and dragged the fallen man away, and, roused to enthusiasm by the daring act, i was approaching the group, when i heard murmurs running from one to the other of the line of men we had approached, men whose duty it had been to pass water from the well to those whose task it was to scatter the fluid on the flames. "what--what did they say, morgan?" i whispered. "water's give out, sir." "what! just as it is needed most?" "ay, my lad, that's just when it would be sure to go. they've been too generous with it t'other side." "but look!" i said; "the fire's getting firmer hold. can nothing be done?" "not that we can do, sir," said morgan, sadly. "it's got it tight now." it was too true. started by the indians' fiercely-blazing arrows, the pine-logs were beginning to blaze well now, dispiriting those who had worked so bravely before; and, seeing that their attack hail been successful, the indians ceased now to send in their fiery flights, for moment by moment the flames increased, completely enveloping one corner of the block-house, and displaying such fierce energy that we knew the place was doomed. and now, not to solve a puzzle that had troubled me, but of course to strike fresh terror into their enemies, the indians made it plain how they had managed to keep up their supply of fiery shafts. for, all at once, a house standing back in the plantation, on each of the three sides of the fort away from the river front, began to stand out clear in the darkness of the night. one of them was the place from behind which i had seen the two groups of sparks glide out, and in these they had cunningly had parties preparing the fiery arrows ready to start alight for others to discharge. yell after yell now arose from a distance as the three houses rapidly began to blaze and add to the lurid glare that was illumining the whole interior of the enclosure, while groups of smoke-blackened men were watching the destruction going on. "better seek cover, my lads," cried colonel preston. "get your pieces, and be ready. we can do no more there. it must burn." the men showed their military training by rapidly getting their piled weapons, and taking their positions behind the barricades which surrounded the temporary quarters of the women and children. "i don't think they'll attack," said colonel preston to the general, who came up now. "no," he said, calmly. "the men are standing well to their places round the palisades, but i have no fear of an assault to-night. by the way, how is bruton?" i heard the words, and my throat seemed to grow dry. "bruton? i don't know. tired out, i suppose." "what!" said the general; "didn't you know?" "nothing; only that we have all been working like slaves to put that fire out." "great heavens, preston, didn't you hear?" "hear?" cried the colonel, excitedly; "is he wounded?" "not wounded, but badly hurt, i fear. didn't you see a man fall from the roof right into the flames?" "yes, but--" "it was bruton." "ah!" i felt as if i should have dropped, but at that moment, as i was trying to get over the horrible feeling of sickness, and to make my way to the place the doctor had been forced to take as his temporary hospital, i felt a thrill of delight run through me, for a voice exclaimed-- "gentlemen, are you all mad?" "bruton!" exclaimed preston, hoarsely; "then you are not badly hurt?" "badly enough," said my father; "but look--look! of what are you thinking?" "thinking?" cried the general. "we can do no more; the place is doomed." "but are we to be doomed too, man?" cried my father, furiously; and he looked as if he might have had the question he had first asked put to him. for his face was blackened and wild, his long hair burned, and a terrible look of excitement was in his starting eyes. "doomed?" exclaimed the general and the colonel in a breath, as the men gathered round. "yes; the women--the children. this enclosure will be swept away. have you forgotten the powder--the magazine?" chapter forty four. there was an involuntary movement amongst those within hearing at this, and for the moment it was as if every one present was about to seek safety in flight, as my father stood pointing wildly toward the blazing fort. then, recovering himself from the shock of my father's words, the general exclaimed, hoarsely-- "i had forgotten that." and then in his customary firm way, he said, "the reserve supply of ammunition is in the little magazine, men. twelve volunteers to bring it out." a deathly silence for a few minutes, only broken by the terrible crackle and roar of the flames; and then my father stepped toward the blazing building. "i am too much hurt to carry," he said, "but i will lead. now, my lads, for old england!" "hurray!" shouted morgan, darting to his side, "and bonny cymrw." a great black figure with torn and scorched cotton garments was the next to step forward, and, carried away by a strange feeling of enthusiasm which mastered the horrible dread i felt, i ran to my father's side. "no, no, no, my boy," he groaned. "go back!" "with you, father," i said; and he uttered a sob as he grasped my hand. "god be with us!" i heard him whisper; and he said no more, but halting and resting wearily on me, as a dozen men now came forward with a cheer, he led the way to the door of the blazing pile. twice over i felt my legs tremble beneath me, but the tremor passed away in the excitement, and with the flames seeming to roar more fiercely, as if resenting an attempt to save that which was their prey, we passed from the eye-aching blaze of light through the strong doors into the black darkness of the fort, all reeking with smoke and steam. chapter forty five. i often sit back in my chair pondering about those old days, and thinking about them in a very different way to that in which i looked upon them then. for to be quite frank, though something in me kept tugging me on, and seeming to say to me, "be a man; go bravely on and support your poor lame, suffering father, who is going to risk his life to save the poor people around!" there was something else which would keep suggesting that i might be killed, and that i should see the bright sunshine no more; that i was bidding farewell to everything; and i know i felt as if i would have given the world to have heard him say, "go back. it is too dangerous for you." but he only hesitated a few moments, and then, as i have said, he grasped my shoulder as if glad of my help, and went on into the great dark place. on thinking over these things, i often tell myself that though my father may not have been a hero--and i don't believe much in heroes myself--i know they do brave deeds sometimes; but i have often found that they have what an american friend from the north--pennsylvania way--called a great deal of human nature in them, and that sometimes when you come to know them, you find that they are very much like looking-glasses. i do not mean because they pander to your vanity and show you your own face, but because they are all bright and shining and surrounded by gold that is not solid, and have a side, generally kept close to the wall, which is all rough wood, paint, and glue. let me see! where have i got to? ah, i remember. i said my father may not have been a hero, but he had a great deal of that sterling stuff in him which you find in really sterling people; and in addition, he performed his brave acts in a quiet, unassuming way, so that often enough they passed unnoticed; and when he had finished, he sank back into his perfectly simple life, and never marched about in metaphorical uniform with a drawn sword, and men before him beating drums, and banging cymbals, and blowing trumpets for the people to see, and hear, and say, "oh, what a brave man!" some may think it was not the act of a brave, self-denying man to let his young son go with him into that awful place to try and remove the powder. i am not going to set up as his judge. he thought as a true man thinks, as a soldier, one of the thousands of true men we have had, who, without a word, have set their teeth fast, and marched for their country's sake straight away to where cannons were belching forth their terrible contents, and it has seemed as if the next step they took must be the last. my father no doubt thought that as he was so weak he must have help, and that it would be better for his son to die helping him to save the lives of hundreds, than to hang back at such a time as that, when we marched straight into the steam and smoke of the burning block-house. i can remember now that, although overhead the logs were burning and splitting and hissing in the fierce fire, and i knew that almost at any moment the burning timbers might come crashing down upon us, or the fire reach the little magazine of spare powder, the feeling of cowardice gave place to a strange sensation of exaltation, and i stood by my father, supporting him as he gave his orders firmly, the men responding with a cheer, and groping their way boldly to the corner of the building beyond the roughly-made rooms, where the good-sized place, half cellar, half closet, had been formed. it was quite dark, and the men had to feel their way, while the air we breathed was suffocating, but we had to bear it. my father, morgan, and i were the first to reach the place, and there and then seized the cumbrous door which was made on a slope, like a shutter, to slide sidewise, while just above was a small opening leading into a rough room beyond, between the magazine and the outer wall, in which was a sort of port-hole well closed and barred. "shall i get through and open that port, sir?" cried morgan, his voice sounding muffled and hoarse. "it will give us fresh air and light." "yes, and perhaps flames and sparks," cried my father. "no, no, down with you and hand out the powder-kegs. form a line, men, and pass them along to the door." "hurrah!" came in muffled tones; and directly after, from somewhere below, morgan's voice cried-- "ready there! one!" "ready!--right!" cried a man by me, and a quick rustling sound told that the first powder-keg was being passed along. "ready!--two!" cried morgan; and i pictured in my own mind morgan down in the half cellar, handing out keg after keg, the men working eagerly in the dark, as they passed the kegs along, and a cheer from the outside reaching our ears, as we knew that the dangerous little barrels were being seized and borne to some place of safety. not that in my own mind i could realise any place of safety in an open enclosure where sparks might be falling from the burning building, and where, if the indians could only guess what was going on, flaming arrows would soon come raining down. it was a race with death within there, as i well knew; and as i stood fast with my father's hand clutching my shoulder, and counted the kegs that were handed out, my position, seemed to me the most painful of all. if i had been hard at work i should not have felt it so much, but i was forced to be inert, and the sounds i heard as i stood breathing that suffocating air half maddened me. hissing that grew fiercer and fiercer as the fire licked up the moisture, sharp cracking explosions as the logs split, and must, i knew, be sending off bursts of flame and spark, and above all a deep fluttering roar that grew louder and louder till all at once there was a crash, a low crackling, and then, not two yards away from where i stood, a broad opening all glowing fire. the men nearest to us uttered a yell, and there was the rush of feet, but my father's voice rose clear above all. "halt!" he cried; and discipline prevailed, as through the smoke i could now see all that was going on; morgan still in the magazine, and hannibal standing ready to take the kegs he passed out, while the men, instead of being in line, had crowded together by the entrance. "how many more, morgan?" said my father, calmly, as he backed a little toward the fiery opening at the end where i could feel the fierce glow on my back. "three more, sir. shall we leave them and go?" "leave them? come, my men, you can see what you are doing now. morgan--hannibal--the next keg." it looked to be madness to bring out that keg into a low, earthen-floored room, one end of which was blazing furiously, with great tongues of fire darting toward us. but it was done; for morgan stooped down and reappeared directly with a keg, which he handed to the great black, who took it quietly as if there was no danger, but only to have it snatched excitedly away by the next man, who passed it along the line. "steady, men!" said my father. "don't make danger by being excited and dropping one of those barrels." those moments seemed to me to be hours. the heat was terrific, and the back of my neck was scorching as the second and third kegs were handed out. "last," shouted morgan, with a wild cry of thankfulness. "look again," said my father. "stand fast all." morgan dropped down again, and as he did so there was another crash behind us, a shower of sparks were literally shot into the place, and one burning ember fell right into the opening of the magazine, to be followed as morgan leaped out by a quick sputtering noise, and then the smell of powder. there was a rush for the door, and we four were alone. "only a little loose powder lying about," said morgan, huskily. "that was the last. look out, master george--quick!" the task was done, the place saved from hideous ruin by an explosion; and as the last man rushed from the place, the energy my father had brought to bear was ended, and i had just time, in response to morgan's warning, to save him from falling as he lurched forward. but there was other help at hand, and we three bore him out fainting just as a burst of flame, sparks, and burning embers filled the place where we had stood a minute before, and we emerged weak and staggering, bearing my father's insensible form out into the bright light shed by the burning building. "bravely done! bravely done!" we heard on all sides; and then there was a burst of cheering. but i hardly seemed to hear it, as i was relieved by willing hands from my share in the burden, and i only recollected then finding myself kneeling beside a blanket under the rough canvas of our extemporised tent, waiting until the surgeon had ended, when i panted forth-- "is--is he very bad?" "very, my lad," said the surgeon as he rose, "but not bad enough for you to look like that. come, cheer up; i won't let him die. we can't spare a man like your father." chapter forty six. everybody considered it was all over then, as we stood regularly at bay behind our palisades and barricades of boxes, cases, and furniture with which the women and children were surrounded, watching the flames of the great block-house rising higher and higher in the still night air, in a way that to me was awful. so there we were waiting for the final onslaught, gloomy, weary, and dispirited. the men were chilled, many of them, with the water, and worn out by their efforts, and as i went round from group to group silently, in search of some one i knew to talk to, i could not help seeing that they were beaten, and thinking that the indians would have an easy task now when they came. "it's very horrible," i thought; and i went over the past, and dwelt upon the numbers that we must have killed. i knew that there would be no mercy; that the men would all be butchered, and the women and children, if they escaped that fate, would be carried off into a horrible captivity. pomp seemed to have disappeared, for though i came upon group after group of black faces whose owners sat about in a stolid indifferent way, as if the affair did not concern them, and they were resting until called upon to work once more, i did not see our boy. i could not see colonel preston, and morgan had gone away from my side on being summoned by one of the men. there were plenty of our people about, but all the same i seemed to be alone, and i was wandering along in the fitful glare of the fire, when i saw at last a group of men standing together by a pile of something wet and glistening, over which one man was scattering with his hand some water from a bucket as if to keep the surface wet, and in this man i recognised morgan. "what's he doing?" i asked myself; and it was some few moments before i could grasp the truth, and then in a shrinking manner, with sensations similar to those i had felt when i was going into the burning block-house, i slowly advanced toward the group. sparks were being hurled high in the air at every fall of beam or timber, and they rushed round and round, as if agitated by a whirlwind, to be carried far away, but every now and then flashes of fire that escaped the whirl floated softly here and there, making it seem horrible to me as i watched them drop slowly to earth, some to be extinguished and disappear just as a great pat of snow will melt away when it touches the moist ground, while others remained alight and burned for a few moments. "if one did," i said to myself as i approached timidly, for i knew now that i was opposite to the little heap of powder-kegs that had been brought out of the magazine with so much risk, and were lying covered over with canvas and a tarpaulin, whose surface was being kept wet. "the powder, morgan?" i said, as i approached, just as the men were talking earnestly together, morgan standing by and holding his empty bucket. "yes, sir; the powder," he replied, turning and giving me a nod before looking back at his companions and saying sadly-- "then you do mean it, my lads?" "i do," said one of the men, sternly; "and i think it's what we ought to do." "without waiting for orders from our officers?" "i shouldn't say do it while they can lead us and help us to fight and drive these demons back. i say when all's over and we've got to the last. i mean when the indians have got in and are butchering us." "yes, yes," came in a murmur from one man, "it will be quite right then, and they'll feel it too." "yes," said the first, "it wants doing just as they've crowded into the place, and the lad among us left living must swear he'll do it." "don't need any swearing," said morgan, in a low deep voice. "i'm afraid that you're right, my lads, and for one i'll promise to do it when it's all over." "do what?" i said in a whisper, though i felt that i did not need telling. morgan looked round at the others. "there's no harm in telling him," he said. "not a bit. tell him." morgan coughed as if to clear his throat, and he raised the bucket and threw a few drops from the bottom on the glistening heap. "you see, master george," he said, "we're afraid that we're getting close to the time when the indians will quite get the better of us, and we shall be beaten." "englishmen are never beaten," i said, looking round proudly. "ah, that's only a bit of brag, master george," said morgan, quietly. "that's what we all say, and perhaps we never are in spirit, but our bodies aren't much stronger than other men's bodies, and there are times when the enemy gets too strong for us. i've been beaten many a time, and i've beat many a time. this is one of the times when i've been beat." "but we are not beaten yet," i said, excitedly. "when the indians come and attack we shall drive them off." "if we can, my lad--if we can. eh, my lads?" "yes, yes," came in a loud murmur. "don't you be afraid about that. as long as our officers can lead us we shall fight, and some say we shall do our best when we haven't one left to lead us. in plain honest english, master george, we shall fire as long as we can load; when we can't use our guns we shall use our fists, and when we can't raise an arm we shall kick." "yes, i know, i know," i said, excitedly. "but what you are thinking of it so dreadful." "so's lying down beat out to let savages knock out your brains, my lad; and so we've all made up our minds that when the worst comes to the very worst, it will be an act of kindness to everybody and a big lesson to the indians to let settlers alone, and perhaps be the means of saving the lives of hundreds of poor creatures in times to come, if one of us--" "yes, i know," i half groaned--"sets fire to this powder and blows everything away." "that's it, master george, and the right thing too." "oh!" i cried, with a shudder. "don't take on, my lad," said morgan, gently. "it's fate, that's what it is. we shan't do it till the place is full of indians, and they've begun their terrible work; then one touch with a spark and it'll be all over." "morgan!" i cried. "ay, my lad, it seems very horrid, and i don't want to have it to do; but when we're all half dead, and can't lift a hand, it will be a mercy to every one; and i know if your poor father was here and listening to what we say, he'd think so too." "but--but--" i faltered, despairingly, "i don't want to die." "more don't i, my lad," he said, taking my hand; and i saw by the light of the burning building that the tears stood in his eyes. "i'd give anything to live, and go back yonder and work like a man to put everything straight again, and see my trees and plants growing more beautiful every day in god's bright sunshine; but if it aren't to be, master george, why, it aren't. i haven't been a man who hasn't done his duty." "no, no," i said; "they've all fought bravely." "ay, that they have, and are going to fight bravely to the very end. why, look at those poor niggers too. see how they've fought, brave lads! no one would have thought they were slaves to see the way they've gone at it, just as if this was their own place, and they'd never been sold and bought. there, my lad, once more, don't you go thinking we're all going to turn cowards, because we're not. our officers have done their duty by us, and we've tried to do our duty by them; and if it comes to the worst, i say what's been proposed is only doing our duty still; what say you?" "ay, ay," came in a chorus; and i could not say a word. i felt choked as i looked round at the enclosure, all lit up by the glow, with black shadows cast here and there by the various piles of cases and the tents, and then i seemed to see beyond the great fence, and the black and pale-faced men, right away through the forest to our own bright home, close to the pleasant river, where all was sunshine, and glorious with bird and flower and tree. it was impossible to believe that i was never to see it all again, never to wander through the forest, never to ride on the stream and pause to watch the brightly-plumaged birds and the glittering insects or the gorgeously-scaled fish gliding through the clear waters, down where i had so often seen them amongst the roots of the overhanging trees. it all came back like some bright dream--the creeper-covered house, my father seated at his window, about which the flowers bloomed, as he sat and studied some book, morgan and hannibal busy in their long fight with the weeds, and a magpie-like patch under some tree, where black pomp lay asleep in his white shirt and short drawers, while from the end of the house came the busy sounds made by poor sarah. i think it was at that moment most of all that i quite thoroughly realised what a delightful home we had built up in the wilderness. and now it was a heap of ashes; my father, hannibal, and poor sarah seriously hurt; pomp gone too for aught i could tell; and morgan here talking so calmly and coolly of setting alight to the pile of destruction lying there by our side. was it all true? i asked myself, and felt ready to rub my eyes and try to rouse myself from the horrible nightmare dream from which i was suffering. i was awakened sufficiently the next moment by morgan's words, as he said in a quiet, decided manner-- "yes, master george, we've done our duty as far as we can, and there's only one more thing left to do--when the time comes, sir; when the time comes." just then, to my utter astonishment, there was a movement among the men, and one of them came up close to me. "you'll shake hands, sir," he said. "i've taken a deal of notice of you, different times." i held out my hand mechanically, felt it warmly wrung, and then had it seized in turn by the others, while i was struggling to speak words that would not come. at last though they burst forth. "but the women and children!" i cried, as my heart seemed to stand still. "better than being butchered by those savages," said morgan, gloomily. "i'd sooner see my poor wife die than fall into their hands." his words silenced me, for i knew that they could expect no mercy. then feeling utterly exhausted, i was munching a piece of bread, where i sat on a rough case, and sipping a little water from time to time, when just as the fire was at its height, with great waves of flame floating gently away from the great pine-wood building and illumining the wide clearing all round, i heard a familiar voice behind me say in his droll, dry fashion-- "what pity!" "ah, pomp!" i cried, turning to him; "you there?" "iss, mass' george. when we go home again? pomp done like dis place 'tall." "no, nor nobody else, boy," said morgan, sadly. "hark! hear anything?" he seized his gun as he spoke, but it was only a hissing scream made by one of the water-soaked timbers as the steam was forced out. "nobody come. injum all gone away." "how do you know?" i cried, eagerly. "pomp done know. tink um all gone. no shoot arrow now." "wrong, boy," said morgan. "they are hatching some fresh scheme, and they'll be down upon us directly." there was a pause. "and then it will be all over," muttered morgan, as he turned towards pomp, looked at him firmly, and then held out his hand. "come here, boy," he said. "wha' for? pomp no do nuffum. can't do nuffum here." "come and shake hands." pomp laughed and held out his hand, which morgan took. "if i don't see you again, boy, good-bye, and i'm sorry i've been so rough to you sometimes." "mass' morgan go walking out in wood? take pomp." morgan heaved a deep sigh. "ah, you don't bear any malice," he said. pomp shook his head, and looked at me, for it was greek to him. "not so bad as that," i said. "come, cheer up." "can't any more, my lad," said morgan. "no one can't say, look you, that i haven't cheered up through thick and thin. but, look here, master george, speaking fair now, what is the good of injuns?" "injum no good," said pomp, sharply. "right, boy; no good at all. phew!" he whistled; "how them logs do burn!" "ah! no duck, no fis', no turkey roace on 'tick!" said pomp, regretfully. "shoot, shoot, shoot, lot time, an' no shoot nuffum to eat. pomp dreffle hungly." "there's plenty of bread," i said, smiling at the boy's utter unconcern about our position of peril. "yah, 'tuff! nas' 'tuff. pomp too dreffle hungly eat any more bread. why no go now and kill all injum? pomp fine de way." the boy looked quite vexed at his proposition being declined, and squatted down to gaze at the fire, till after a time he lay down to look at it, and at last morgan said to me-- "don't trouble him much, lad. fast asleep." it was quite true. there lay pomp enjoying a good rest, while we watched the progress of the flames, which rose and fell and gleamed from the pieces of the watchful men dotted round the great place, then left them in shadow, while a terrible silence had now fallen upon the camp. the fierce fire crackled and roared, and the flames fluttered as a great storm of sparks kept floating far away, but no one spoke, and it was only when an officer went round to the various posts that there seemed to be the slightest motion in the camp. "takes a cleverer man than me to understand injun," said morgan at last, just before daybreak, as i returned from the tent where my father was sleeping peacefully, and hannibal outside wrapped in a blanket quite calmly taking his rest. "what do you mean?" i said, wearily. "i mean i can't make out the ways of injuns. here have we been watching all night, expecting to have a big fight by way of finish up, and pomp's right after all. they seem to have gone." "if i could only think so!" i replied, with a sigh. "well, lad, i think they are," said morgan. "they might have had it all their own way, and beaten us pretty easy a time back, but they've let their chance go by; and i suppose they're satisfied with the mischief they've done for one night, and have gone back to their camp to sing and dance and brag to one another about what brave fellows they all are." it soon proved to be as morgan had said, for the day broke, and the sun rose soon after, to shine down warm and bright upon as dejected, weary-looking, and besmirched a body of men as could have been seen. for they were all blackened with powder and smoke; some were scorched, and in every face i could read the same misery, dejection, and despair. but the general, colonel preston, and several of the leading gentlemen soon sent a different spirit through the camp. a few orders were given, the sentries changed, three parts being withdrawn; the women, who looked one half-hour haggard, pale, and scared, wore quite a changed aspect, as they hurriedly prepared food for their defenders; and in a very short time cries and shouts from the children helped to make some of us think that matters were not quite so desperate after all. chapter forty seven. it is astonishing what can be done in the most painful times when there are good leaders, and a spirit of discipline reigns. i remember how i noted it here that noontide; when, after food and rest, the fresher men relieved sentries, and strove to listen to the general as he pointed out that though the block-house was gone and our retreat cut off, we were in nearly as good a position of defence as ever, for our barriers were firm, and it was not certain, even in the most fierce of assaults, that the enemy could win. in addition, he pointed out that at any hour a british ship might appear in the river, whose presence alone would startle the indians; while if the worst came to the worst, there would be a place for us to find safety. "there, morgan," i said, feeling quite inspirited, as i noted the change which seemed to have come over the men. "you see how mad all that was last night." he smiled as he laid his hand on my arm. "look you, master george," he said, "you always forget that i only talked of that as being something to be done if it came to the worst." "and it has not come to the worst," i said. "and i hope it never may," he replied. i hurried to my father's side to tell him what had gone on; and i found him in a great deal of pain, but apparently quite cheerful and grateful to the big black, who now declared himself well enough to attend to "de massa," and forgetful of his own injuries, which were serious enough, the cuts on his arms being still bad, while he had been a good deal scorched by the fire. "i can never be grateful enough to you, hannibal," said my father again. "you saved my life." "massa sabe hannibal life," said the great negro, with a grave smile. "can't say well, but tink great deal 'bout all massa done for us." "don't talk about it," said my father, quietly. "no, sah," replied the great black, turning to me, "not talk 'bout; tink about much--much more." "well, hannibal, if we live to get clear of this dreadful trouble, i will try to be fair to--" he stopped for a few moments, wincing evidently from pain. "better now," he said, with a smile. "i was going to say, i have never considered either you, hannibal, or your boy as slaves." "no, massa," said the big black, calmly. "but you are considered to be so here; and from this day i give you both your liberty." hannibal smiled, and shook his head. "do you not understand me?" "massa give holiday. han done want holiday," said the black, laboriously. "no, no; i set you both perfectly free." "massa tink pomp lazy--hannibal no fight 'nuff?" "my good fellow, no," said my father, drawing his breath hard. "you do not fully understand. you were brought to this place and sold for a slave." "yes, understand. massa bought hannibal." "then now you are quite free to go where you like." "where go to, sah?" "as soon as we have beaten off these indians, back to your own country." the black shook his head. "you would like to go back to your own country?" "no," said the black, thoughtfully. "'top fight for capen and mass' george." "but we shall have done fighting soon, i hope, and then you can go in peace." "no peace in han country." "what?" "alway fight--make prisoner--sell slave. han want pomp here talk for um." "ah, well, wait till we get peace, and things are getting on smoothly again, then we can talk." "capen cross wif hannibal?" "cross? no; grateful." "han stay here 'long massa and mass' george." "ah, george, any good news?" said my father, turning to me. "you see i am forced to be a slave-owner." i shook my head rather sadly as i thought of morgan's words. "oh, don't despair, my boy," he said, cheerfully. "it has seemed very desperate several times, but the indians are still at bay, and we are alive." "yes, father, but--" "well?" "the fort is burnt down." "yes; the enemy got the better of us there, but we are not beaten yet. things looked black last night; after rest and food they are as different as can be. when shall you be ready to start home to begin rebuilding?" "you are only talking like that, father, to cheer me up," i said, sadly. "do you think i don't know that it is all over?" "i do not think--i am sure you don't know, my boy," he said, smiling. "how can you? a battle is never lost till it is won. did you ever see two cocks fight?" "yes; once or twice, father," i said, wonderingly. "so have i," he replied, "not in the case of so-called sport, but naturally, as such birds will fight; and i have seen one beaten down, apparently quite conquered, and the victor as he believed himself has leaped upon his fallen adversary and begun to crow." "yes, i know," i cried, eagerly; "and then the beaten bird has struggled and spurred the other so fiercely that he has run away in turn." "yes; you have finished my anecdote for me. it is too soon yet for the indians to begin to crow. they are still outside our place, and the powder is plentiful yet." i shivered a little at the mention of the powder, and tried to tell him what i had heard, but somehow the words would not come, and soon after as he dropped asleep i went down into the open space about the block-house. to reach it i had to pass the powder, which still lay covered as before, and it seemed to me that some fresh place might be found for it, since if the indians began to send their fiery arrows into the camp again, one might fall there, and the destruction talked of befall us at once. but a little thought told me that if arrows came now, they would be aimed at men and not at buildings. there was nothing more within for the fire to burn, so i went in and walked round the pile of smouldering ashes, and tried to recall the scene of the previous night, and the position of the magazine. but it was rather hard to do now, there being nothing left by which i could judge, and i was going on, when i caught sight of something which made me alter my course, and walk softly up behind where pomp was busy with a shovel at the edge of a great heap of smouldering ashes. "what are you doing?" i said. "eh? mass' george 'top bit and see." "no, i can't stop," i cried. "what are you doing with that shovel?" "dat to 'crape de fire up. you no see? pomp bake cake for de capen." "what?" "oh yes. plenty cake in de hot ash. hot bread for um. 'top see if um done." he looked up at me and laughed as merrily as if there was no danger near. "mass' george see more injum?" "no," i said. "they are in the forest somewhere." "pomp like roace all de whole lot. come burn fellow place down like dat. ah, you don't want come, sah! hah, i pob you in dah lil soft wet dab ob dough, and now you got to come out nice cake all hot." he felt about in the fine embers with the shovel, and directly after thrust it under something invisible, drew it out, blew off a quantity of glowing ash, tossed his find round and brown up in the air, caught it again on the shovel, and held just under my nose a hot, well-cooked bread-cake, showing his teeth the while, as he exclaimed triumphantly-- "dah!" "bread," i said, mechanically. "nice hot cake, sah, for de capen, and pomp got fibe more juss done. dat one for capen, one for mass' george, one for pomp fader, one for pomp. how many dat make?" "four," i said, in the same mechanical way. "four, and den dah two more for a-morrow mornin'." "oh, pomp," i said, "how can you think of such things now!" "eh? cos such boofle fire, and pomp know where de barl ob flour. mass' george not glad to hab nice hot cake?" i shook my head, but the boy was too busy fetching out his loaves, and soon had the whole six, well-cooked and of a delicate creamy-brown, beside him ready to be replaced in a little heap on the shovel. "dah!" he said; "now go take um home ready for tea." "why, pomp," i said, sadly, "suppose the indians come, what then?" "what den? dey 'tupid 'nuff to come, we shoot dem all, sah. pomp don't fink much ob injum." "do you think they'll come to-night?" "pomp done know. 'pose so." "you think so, then?" "yes, mass' george. injum very 'tupid. come be shot." evening was coming on so fast that it would soon, i felt, be put to the proof, and followed by the boy with his cakes balanced on the shovel held over his shoulder, i went back to our apology for a tent. my coming in awoke my father, and he sat up wincing with pain, but trying hard directly to hide his sufferings from me. "give me your hand," he said. "i must get out now and help." i gave him my hand, and he rose, but sank back with his eyes half closed. "no," he said, sadly; "i have no strength. go out and see what preparations are being made, and--" "here is colonel preston, father," i whispered. it was he, but he was not alone, for the general was with him, and both exclaimed loudly against my father attempting to move, but stayed both of them some time discussing the position, and asking his candid opinion about certain things which they had done for strengthening the defences, and they ended by proposing that i should accompany them as a sort of aide-de-camp, and bear messages to and fro. i followed them, and was soon after going with them from post to post, to see that the men were well supplied with ammunition; and i could not help noticing that in spite of all they had gone through, they looked rested and self-reliant; quite ready in fact for a fresh encounter with our hidden foe. for as the setting sun turned the plantations and edge of the forest to ruddy gold, all was perfectly calm, and for aught we could see there was no sign of an enemy. in fact to judge from appearances the indians might have departed finally to their home, satisfied with the harm they had done. as night fell all fires were extinguished, and we then commenced our dreary watch, every one feeling that the attack was coming, but how soon or from what quarter it was impossible to say. chapter forty eight. i passed the early part of that night now seated in the darkness by my father, now stealing away when i believed him to be asleep, and joining morgan, who was acting as one of the sentries, and had kept pomp by his side so as to make use of his keen young eyes, which seemed to see farther through the darkness of the night than those of any one else in the camp. and as i stood at morgan's side i could not help thinking of the great change that had taken place. only a few hours before the fort was crackling and blazing, huge logs splitting with a loud report, and wreaths of fire and smoke circling up into the lurid sky, while all within the enclosure was lit up, and glistened and glowed in the intense light. now all was gloom, depression, and darkness--a darkness so thick that it seemed to me as if the indians had only to come gently up and select the place to climb over and then carry all before them. i was tired and despondent, and that made me take, i suppose, so dreary a view of my position, as i waited for the enemy's advance. and yet i think my despondency was warranted, for i felt that if the indians attacked they would carry everything before them; and if they did i could not doubt the determination of morgan and his companions. and there i found myself standing beside the man who was ready to put a light to the powder and send everything into chaos--for that he would do it in the emergency i felt sure. i had been backwards and forwards several times, and was standing at last gazing over the fence in silence, trying to convince myself that some objects i saw in the distance were bushes and not indians, when pomp suddenly yawned very loudly. "hush!" whispered morgan, sternly. "pomp can't help um. so dreffle tire." "then keep a sharp look-out, and try if you can't see the indians." "pomp did, but eye got blunt now. why not go look for injum?" "i wish the general would let the boy go," whispered morgan. "he might be able to get in some news." "pomp nebber see noting here. may pomp go, mass' george?" "of course you can't, boy," said morgan, shortly. "go and ask the commanding officer, and see what he'd say to you." pomp yawned, put his arms over the edge of the fence, after getting his feet into a couple of notches, and drawing himself up and resting his chin upon his fists, he stared out into the darkness. "here de injum," he said; and a thrill ran through me as i followed the boy's pointing finger, but could see nothing. "can you, morgan?" "see? no!" he said, pettishly; "but you'd better go and give warning, sir." i hurried off, and found colonel preston with the general, who received my news, and word was passed round to the various sentries, while the colonel made for the reserves in the centre of the enclosure, where in utter silence every man seized his piece, and stood ready to march to the point threatened, while i guided the general to where morgan was stationed. "no, sir. not seen anything, nor heard a sound," said the latter, on being questioned. "it was this boy who saw them." "yes, ober dah," said pomp, pointing. "can you see them now?" "no, sah. all gone." this was unsatisfactory, but the general seemed to have perfect faith in the boy's declaration, and a long exciting watch followed. the indians' habits had grown so familiar that every eye and ear was on the strain, and finger upon trigger, as tree, shrub, and grassy clump was expected momentarily to develop into a foe. the secretive nature of these people made our position at times more painful and exciting, as we knew that at any moment they might come close to us in the darkness, and almost before the alarm could be given, dash up to the palisade and begin climbing over. but the weary hours crept on without any fresh sign, and the opinion began to spread that it was a false alarm, while pomp was so pressed with questions that he slunk away into the darkness. i followed him though, just making him out by his light, white cotton clothes, and saw him at last throw himself down on his face; but he started up into a crouching position, ready to bound away as i came up to him. "no good, mass' george," he said, angrily. "i 'tupid lil nigger, and done know nuff talk. nebber see no injum; nebber see nobody. keep ask say--`are you suah?' `are you suah?' pomp going run away and lib in de tree. nobody b'leeve pomp." "yes, some one does," i said, as i sat down beside him in the darkness; and for the first time i noticed that we were close to the tarpaulin and canvas spread over the powder-kegs. "no. nobody b'leeve pomp. um wish injum come and kill um." "no, you don't," i said; "because you know i believe you, and have often seen that you have wonderful eyes." "eh? mass' george tink pomp got wunful eye?" "yes; you can see twice as well in the dark as i can." "no; mass' george tink pomp 'tupid lil nigger; no good 'tall. pomp go run away." "i shall call you a stupid little nigger if you talk like that," i said. "don't be foolish. i hope the indians will not come any more, and that we shall soon go back home." "injum coming; pomp see um. dey hide; lie flat down on um 'tummuck so; and creep and crawl um." he illustrated his meaning, but crouched down by me again directly. "dat on'y pomp fun," he whispered. "pomp nebber run away from mass' george, and ah!--look dah!" he pointed away into the darkness so earnestly that i stared in that direction, but for some little time i could see nothing. then, all at once, i made out a figure which came cautiously toward where we sat, but turned off and went round to the opposite side of the heap out of our sight, and it was evident that we were not seen. i was going to speak, but just as the words were on my lips i recognised morgan, who must have just been relieved; and as i fully grasped now where we were, i turned cold as ice, and a peculiar feeling of moisture came in the palms of my hands. i wanted to speak, but i could not; i wanted to cry to him hoarsely, but no words would come; and if ever poor fellow suffered from nightmare when he was quite awake, it was i in those terrible moments, during which there was a peculiar rustling, then a loud cracking sound, as if something was being wrenched open and broken, and the tarpaulin was agitated and shaken. my ears were strained to listen to what came next, and that would be, i felt sure, the clicking of a flint and steel; but the sounds did not come, and just as i was at last feeling as if i could bear all this no longer, there was a sound of the tarpaulin falling on the earth, and morgan came softly round and close by again without seeing us, while i crouched there ready to faint, and fully expecting every moment to be swept away by a terrific explosion. "what mass' morgan want?" said pomp at last, as a sudden thought struck me, and mastering the feeling of paralysis which had held me there, i made a dash round to the other side to tear away the slow match which the man must have started, and which would, i supposed, burn for a few moments and then start a train. to my surprise i could see no sparkling fuse nor smell smoke, but concluding that it must be under the tarpaulin, i raised the edge with trembling hands, when pomp said quietly-- "dat powder, mass' george; pomp know. mass' morgan come fess lot more; and oh! what lot tumble all about." his quick eyes had made out that which was invisible to mine; and, after stooping, he held a handful before me. i drew a breath full of relief. i knew now. he had not come to fire the fuse, but to tear open one of the kegs and let a portion of the powder lie loose, so that whoever came to do the terrible deed would only have to discharge his firelock down amongst it, when a spark would explode the whole. "only to be quite ready," i thought, as the desire for life thrilled through my veins. "pomp 'crape it up and put in mass' george pocket," said pomp; and then we both stood away, for there was a flash and the sharp report of a gun. "pomp did see injum, mass' george," said the boy; "and here dey come." another shot, and another, and my heart seemed to leap as i felt that morgan's plan might not be long before execution after all, if the indians made a desperate assault. one minute before, the great enclosure was perfectly still, now it was all excitement; orders rang out; there was the tramp of armed men, as they hurried toward the spot from whence the firing had come. then came a shot from quite the opposite side, fresh orders were shouted, and there was a tramp of feet in that direction, the enemy evidently attacking in two places at once so as to divide our little force. flash after flash now cut the darkness to right and left, and we both stood listening to the quick orders and the curious ringing sound made by the ramrods as the men reloaded. the firing was not rapid, our men seeming to have had instructions to be very careful and only fire when they saw a good chance; but it was kept up steadily, and it was evident that the indians had not succeeded in gaining a footing as yet. "let's run and tell my father what's going on," i said. "he'll be so anxious." i made for the tent, with pomp following, and found my father standing at the entrance, supporting himself on hannibal's arm. "ah, george, my boy," he said, excitedly. "it's hard not to be able to help. who is at the front?" "at the front?" i said, wonderingly. "yes. is any one protecting the palisade between the two points attacked? go and see how many are there; and if few, tell colonel preston to draw the general's attention to the fact. if there are people there, ask his forgiveness for my interference. it is solely from anxiety for our safety." i ran off, followed by pomp, and soon found colonel preston and gave him my father's message, as he was leading some more men to where the firing was fiercest. "yes, yes, of course," he said, angrily. "it is not likely it has been forgotten." i drew back at his words, and felt that i should like the general to have heard my father's message; and just then i came upon morgan running, loaded with ammunition, to the other side. "where is the general?" i asked. "over here, lad, where i'm going. don't stop me." but i did stop him to tell him my father's words. "of course it is!" replied morgan, as sharply as the colonel had spoken. and i have often thought about it since--that such a slip should have been made by two gentlemen, both of whom had had great experience in military matters. but, of course, in the excitement of the double advance, and with so few men at their call, it was easy to think of nothing but repelling that attack, the more especially as there were men posted all round. my answers were so unsatisfactory for taking back to where my father was, that i determined to go over to the part in question, and see how it was for myself. as i hurried on, my course lay round the heap of ashes and burnt wood which had formed the block-house; and curiously weird it all seemed to be, with the flashes and heavy reports of the pieces to right, and left, mingled with the savage yells of the attacking indians, who, as far as i could tell, seemed to be striving to beat back our men from the fence. it was darker than ever as i got round the remains of the fort, and knowing that the ground there was free from impediment, i was in the act of breaking into a trot, when there was a curious stifled sound in front--a noise as of an axe falling on wood; and my companion sprang at me and dragged me back. "mass' george," he whispered, "injum dah. come ober big fence." i was too late, and yet not too late to give warning. "run and tell colonel preston," i said in a whisper. "quick." pomp was too well accustomed to obey to hesitate, and he ran off in one direction round the ruins to where the colonel was defending the palisade, while i darted off in the other, rushed right up to where the general was standing calmly enough giving directions. as i reached him i heard him utter the word, "forward!" and about twenty men moving round, and were evidently going up to the part from which i had come. my news resulted in their recall, and that of the men defending the palisade, orders being given to fall back toward the rough defence made in the centre of the enclosure, which we reached in safety, just as we found that colonel preston's men were falling back towards us, firing as they came, but toward the direction from which the new danger threatened. the way in which the defence had been planned stood us in good stead now, for as our party was halted, waiting for the colonel's men, a loud yelling came from behind the block-house ruins, and the rapid beat of feet told plainly enough that a large body of the enemy had clambered in and were coming on. any want of promptitude would have resulted in the indians getting between our two little forces; but a sharp order was given, and a volley rattled out--the flashing of the pieces showing in a dimly-seen line the fierce faces of our enemies, who appeared to be thrown into confusion, but who still came on, when a second volley was poured into them, and that was followed by one from the colonel's men, the last checking them so effectually that we had time to get well behind the breastwork and reload. i say we, though i was unarmed, but still i had played my part; and as soon as i could get through the men crowded behind our last defence, i hurried to where my father was anxiously awaiting my return, and the report which i had to make. chapter forty nine. "it was a mistake--a mistake," said my father, excitedly; "but i might have made it if i had been in the hurry and excitement there. resting here i had plenty of time to think." at that moment the firing began to be fiercer, and my father groaned aloud. "oh, it is pitiable!" he said, "obliged to lie by here, and not able to help. here, george, go to the front; don't get into danger. keep well under cover. i want you to take pity on me, my boy. do you hear?" "yes, father; but i don't understand." "can't you see my position? i am helpless, and my friends and companions are fighting for our lives. i want you to keep running to and fro so as to let me know what is going on, and--mind this--keep nothing back." "nothing, father?" i said. "nothing." i hesitated a few moments, and then with the reality of the horror impressed more and more by the shouting, yelling, and rapid firing going on, i told him about morgan and the other men, even to finding the opened keg and loose powder. "great heavens!" he muttered as i finished; and i looked at him to hear what more he would say, but he remained silent. "shall i send morgan to you, father?" i said. he remained silent for a few moments, and then said softly-- "no." there was another pause, during which the firing grew more fierce. "george." "yes, father." "go to and fro, as i told you, and keep me well informed till you think matters are growing desperate. then seize your chance, run down to the water's edge, swim to one of the boats, and try and escape." "without you, father?" he caught my hand. "you could not escape with me, my boy," he said. "there, do as i command. i can give you no farther advice, only use your own judgment as to where you will go." "but, father--" "silence! is hannibal there?" he said, raising his voice. "yes, massa." "here, my man," continued my father, as the great black came to him. "you will try and serve me, will you not?" "massa want han do somefin?" "yes. there is great danger from the indians. i want you to stay with and help my son; when the time comes, you will swim with him to a boat, and try and get away." "and carry massa down to the boat?" "no. save my son. now go with him at once." his words were so imperative that we both left him, and i went back toward where the fighting was going on, with han following me like a great black shadow, till, all at once, he touched me on the arm. "yes," i said. "mass' george won't go 'way an' leave his fader?" "no," i replied, fiercely. "we must get him away too, han, and pomp." "suah, suah," said the great fellow, quietly. "could carry de capen down to de boat. find pomp and make him swim out for boat all ready." "yes," i cried, eagerly, "we must save them both." the next minute we were close to where our men fought bravely, driving back the indians, who were close up now, avoiding the firing by crawling right in, and then leaping up suddenly out of the darkness to seize the barrels of the men's pieces, and strike at them with their tomahawks. but they were always beaten back, and twice over i was able to go and tell my father of the success on our side, hannibal following close behind me; but these checks were only temporary. the indians literally swarmed about the frail stronghold, and as fast as they were driven back in one place, they seemed to run along the sides of our defences and begin a fresh attack somewhere else, while our men's firing, being necessarily very ineffective in the darkness, began to lose its effect; the savages, finding how few of them dropped from the discharges, beginning to look upon the guns with contempt. their attacks grew so bold at last, that twice over, as i saw dimly one of our poor fellows go down, i felt that all was over, and that the time had come for me to go and try whether i could get my father away before the last terrible catastrophe, though how it was to be contrived, with the place surrounded as it was by indians, i could not tell. can you think out what my position was, with all this firing and desperate fighting going on, our men striking desperately at the indians to keep them out as they swarmed and leaped up at us; and all the time there were the women, children, and wounded huddled up together in the inner shelter formed of barrels, boxes, and half-burned planks? it was horrible. minute after minute crept by, and i began to blame myself for not going. then a lull would make me determine to wait a little longer, just perhaps as some louder burst of firing made me believe that it was the first keg of powder gone, till a round of cheering told me that it was not, and i was able to go and report that our men were still holding their own. i was returning from one of these visits to my father, picking my way in the darkness over broken guns snapped off at the stock through being used as clubs, and in and out among groaning men over whom the doctor was busy, when all seemed to me to be unusually silent, and then i found that i was able to see a little more as i got right forward to where colonel preston was making his men close up together, and handing fresh ammunition. it was rapidly growing lighter, and i saw dimly enough at a short distance, just behind where the block-house stood, the misty-looking figures of a large body of indians. "look, quick!" i panted. "ah!" exclaimed the colonel. "good! you can see now, my men. hold your fire till they are close in, and then let them have a volley." a low murmur ran along the line of men, and a feeling of elation thrilled me, but only for a deathly cold chill to run through every vein. for this was evidently such a desperate season as morgan or his confederates might choose. i could not stir for the moment. then, as i mastered the horrible feeling of inaction, i drew back and made my way through the confusion within our defences to where i could be opposite to the covered-in kegs, which lay not twenty yards away untouched. the light increased rapidly as it does down south, and i caught sight of a dark figure crawling half-way between our rough works and the tarpaulin. one moment i thought it was a dead or wounded man; the next i recognised morgan by the back of his head, and a cry arose to my lips, but it was drowned by a deafening volley followed by a cheer. i glanced to my left, and saw the body of fully a couple of hundred indians checked and wavering, when a second volley was fired and they fled. the smoke hid the rest from my eyes, and when it rose, morgan was standing close beside me watching the indians, who had all crowded through the palisade where a great piece was torn down, dragging with them their dead and wounded. chapter fifty. "morgan," i whispered, and he started and looked at me wildly, the morning dawn showing his face smeared with blood, and blackened with the grime of powder. "yes, my lad," he said, sadly; "i thought it was all over, and as soon as they were well at their work i meant to fire it." i could not speak, and i knew it would be useless, so i shrank away, and crept back past scores of despairing faces, to where my father lay eagerly waiting for news. as i went i saw that the officers were giving orders for restoring portions of our torn down defences, and that the day had given the men fresh energy, for they were working eagerly with their loaded pieces laid ready, while food and drink were being rapidly passed along the front. "only a temporary check, i'm afraid," said my father, as i described everything. "brave fellows! what a defence! but you have waited too long," he said. "where is that man?" "hannibal?" i exclaimed; "i had forgotten him." for he had evidently glided away in the dark; but almost as i spoke he came up. "boat ready, mass' george," he said. "pomp swam out and got him. waiting to take mass' george and capen." a warning cry just then rang out, and my father caught my arm. "go and see," he whispered; "don't keep me waiting so long." i hurried to the front again, seeing morgan and another man in earnest conversation, but they separated before i reached them, and as morgan went in the direction from whence he would pass out from our piled-up defence to get to the powder, i followed him, seeing now clearly enough he had his gun in his hand. i forgot about my own escape--the coming on of the indians, of whom i had a glimpse outside the palisades--everything, in my intense desire to stop this man from carrying out his terrible plan. i was very near him now, and should have caught him up had i not stumbled over a poor fellow lying in my way, and nearly fallen. as i recovered i could hear a fearful yelling, and saw morgan's hard-set face as he climbed backward down from the boxes, one of the men, whom i recognised as his confederate, helping him by holding his gun. in a wild fit of despair, as i saw morgan's hard-set face, i shouted to him to stop, but my voice was drowned by the yelling of the indians now coming on again with a rush, brandishing their axes, and evidently bent on carrying all before them. as i reached the edge, morgan was half-way to the powder, crawling on his chest, the indians to our left, and the men i was trying to pass firing over morgan's head. they shouted to me, but i glided between two of them; and as they tried to pull me back, han pressed them apart, and the next moment i was creeping after morgan. the firing went on over us, and the indians dashed forward on our left, yelling more loudly than ever. then i heard a volley, and just caught a glimpse of the half-naked figures passing through the smoke. it was but a glance, for my attention was fixed upon morgan, who had now reached the tarpaulin and canvas, thrown it partly aside, examined the priming of his gun, and i thought he was about to fire right into the midst of the powder-kegs, but he turned first to see whether the fight had yet reached the most desperate stage. that was my time, and i leaped upon him, and tried to wrench the gun away, as his wildly desperate face looked into mine. "no, no, morgan," i cried. "you must not; you shall not do that." "let go!" he cried, roughly; and the eyes that glared at mine seemed almost those of a madman. "no," i cried, "i will not." "don't you hear, master george? hark at them; the wretches have begun their work." i still clung to the gun, and turned my head as a wild burst of shrieks rose from behind--the firing had ceased, but the shouting and yelling were blood-curdling, as in that horrible moment i felt sure that our men were beaten, and a massacre had begun. but my father was there, and it seemed too horrible for such a deed as this to be done. if we were to die by the indians' hands, i felt that we must. but quietly stand by and let morgan do this thing i would not, and i clung to the gun. "let go before it's too late, boy," panted morgan, tugging fiercely now to get the gun from me. "no," i panted; "you shall not." "i must, boy. there: hark at them. i shall be too late. look, boy; run for your life. i'll wait till i see you over the big fence first." "no," i panted again; "you shall not." "will you run for your life?" "no!" i cried, as i seemed to see my helpless father stretching out his hands to me. "then i must have it," cried morgan, fiercely, and as we knelt together, he twisted the gun in one direction, then in the other; and, boy as i was in strength, in another moment he would have torn it from my grasp, when a great black hand darted from just behind me, caught morgan by the throat, forced him back, and with a cry of triumph i dragged away the piece, and fired it right away from the powder. "hold him, han," i panted; "he is mad." as if my shot had been the signal, a tremendous volley rang out from beyond the palisade; then another, and another; and the indians, who the moment before were battling desperately, and surmounting our defences as a wild hand-to-hand fight went on, began to give way; then they turned and fled for the gap they had made, while, led by colonel preston, our men dashed after them. "look," i cried. "morgan, we've won!" we all gazed wonderingly as the indians disappeared through the gap in the great fence, when another sharp volley rang out, but the smoke rose from outside. "help has come!" i shouted, and feeling no fear now of morgan putting his desperate plan into action, i ran to join our men and learn what it meant, closely followed by hannibal, morgan coming last. chapter fifty one. our party was cheering loudly as i got up in time to see the indians in full flight toward the forest, and a strong force of men in pursuit, stopping and kneeling from time to time to fire on the retreating savages, who did not attempt to make a stand. for some minutes i could not understand what it meant, nor who our rescuers were, but directly after the word ran round from mouth to mouth--"spaniards--spaniards!" and i turned to see a large ship lying in the river as i ran back to our defences, and past the dead and wounded, to bear my father the news. "one enemy to save us from the other," said my father. "well, better to fall into the hands of civilised people than savages. in this case it will be prison, in the other it would have been death." "but shall we have to give up to them?" i said. "in our helpless state i am afraid so, unless the general and preston hold that we are englishmen still. oh, if i could only get to their side, and join in the council!" "hannibal carry capen," said the great black, who in strict obedience to his orders was at my back. "can you?" cried my father, eagerly. hannibal smiled and took my father up as easily as if he had been a child, starting to carry him just as morgan came up. "stop!" said my father; "let me go in a more dignified way if i can. here, morgan, pick up one of these fire-locks. hannibal, my man, set me down again;" and, after giving his orders, morgan and the black each took hold of one end of the firelock, holding it across him, and my father sat upon it, supporting himself by passing his arms through those of his bearers, and in this fashion he reached the group at the gap in the fence. here an earnest conversation was going on, while the spaniards were still in full pursuit of the indians, chasing them right into the forest, and their shots growing more and more distant. "ah," cried the general, as my father reached the group, "i am glad you have come, bruton. i feel bound in our present strait to take the opinion of all. we are terribly shaken in our position; there are many wounded, and the question we debate is, whether now we surrender quietly to the spaniards, or make one more bold stand." "what does colonel preston say?" said my father, quietly. "fight, sir," cried the colonel, fiercely, "as long as we can fire shot or lift an arm; but the majority are for giving up. what does captain bruton say?" my father was so weak that he could not stand alone, but his eyes were bright still, and he drew back his head as he looked round. "first let me hear what others have to say." one of the settlers took a step forward. "that we have fought like men, sir, but it is too much to attempt more. we have failed in our attempt to establish this colony, so now let us make the best terms we can with the spaniards, and try to get back home. come, captain bruton, you are terribly hurt; you have done all you can. speak out now, sir, like a brave man, who wishes to save further slaughter. you agree with me?" every eye was turned on my father, who, in spite of his quiet ways, had gained enormous influence, and even the general seemed to look at him anxiously as he spoke. "i quite agree with you, sir, that we want peace, and to return home; but this is home--this country that we chose and obtained the king's charter to hold, and to defend against all comers. the spaniards' descent has been most fortunate; but when they come back and arrogantly order us to surrender, there is not surely an englishman here who will give up? i say no. we have our defences nearly perfect still, and half an hour to repair this breach. ammunition in plenty; provisions still for quite a siege. who says surrender? not i." there was a cheer at this, and the general laid his hand on my father's shoulder, crying-- "no one says surrender. quick, men! work!" he issued his orders sharply; they were readily obeyed, and in a very short space of time the gap in the palisade was filled with board, plank, and barrel from the central defence that had been so hotly contested that morning. the barrels were stood up on end and filled with earth, and by the time the spaniards' firing had ceased, and they were returning, our men were posted here and there; and our weakness being hidden, we presented a formidable appearance to the spanish force, as it marched back, and without coming near our weakest part at the back, formed up at a short distance from the well-manned gates. quite a hopeful feeling seemed to have come over men who had been in despair a short hour before, as the ladies and women were put in the enclosure, busy, with the black people, obeying the surgeon's orders. for it was felt that if another encounter took place, it would only be after due warning, and then that we had ordinary enemies to contend against, not the savages, who had received a severe enough lesson to perhaps check further attack. a strong desire too was manifested to make the best of things in our enemies' sight, and stores were attacked, rations served out, and every man who was wounded was disposed to treat it lightly. i cannot explain it, but i know now that in the reaction, all felt as i did--ready to forget pain, weariness, and the peril through which we had passed. we knew that another enemy had come; but though he had driven off the savages, he did not seem at all formidable; and the blacks in their quick, childlike way, taking their tone from us, were soon laughing and chattering, as they made fires, fetched water, and busied themselves about the camp as if nothing unusual was the matter. after seeing my father comfortably lying down and refreshed, i left him to go and find out what was going on in front of the gate, where morgan was one of the little party on guard. as i went up to him he stared at me curiously, and i looked at him, each of course thinking of our encounter, and it appeared to me as if it was something that had occurred a long time ago, and that i ought not to refer to such a horror--at least not till some time in the future, when we could speak of it calmly, as of some adventure of the past. the change in his aspect was striking as i spoke, his face lighting up; and he looked like the morgan of old, as i said, quietly-- "what are the spaniards doing?" "smoking, some of 'em, master george," he said, eagerly. "and some of 'em's eating and drinking; and, look you, the big dons are all together yonder having a sort of confab. think it'll come to a fight with them, sir?" "i don't know. but hasn't any one been up to the gate or brought a message?" "no, sir, and they don't seem to be in any hurry. look!" he made way for me to look over the gate at the little force, which lay about half-way between us and their boats at the river-side, while about a couple of hundred yards away lay their ship, with the spanish flag blown well out by the breeze. the men were standing or lying down, and, as far as i could see, no one had been hurt in their encounter; in fact it had been confined to firing upon the retreating savages. they were taking matters very coolly, all but their leaders, who were evidently holding a council before deciding on their next step. "strikes me, master george," said morgan, "that they're thinking that winning one little battle's enough work for the day, and i shouldn't be much surprised if they went back on board. they don't want to fight us, only to frighten us away." "think so?" i said. "they attacked the indians very bravely." "don't see much bravery in a hundred men firing at a lot of savages who are running away. they never expected to find us all ready for them in a stout stockade, with every man jack of us standing to arms, in full fighting rig, and with our war-paint on." he said this last meaningly, and i shuddered as i thought of what i had seen. "well, i must go back," i said. "my father is anxious to know." "yes, of course sir. then you go and tell him what you've seen, and that i say i don't think they mean fighting; but that if they do, it won't be till after they've had a good parly-parly, and asked us first whether we mean to go." just then there was a burst of talking close by us, and a laugh; the officer in command gave an order or two, and a couple of the men leaned over and held out a hand each. then there was a bit of a scramble, and a curly black head appeared above the gates. the next moment its owner was over, and had dropped down, caught sight of us, and run up. "why, pomp!" i said; "i had forgotten you." "what for send pomp out to boat and no come? pomp dreffle tire, and come back." "i say i had forgotten you." "ah, pomp no forget mass' george," he replied, reproachfully. "eh? lil fire--two lil fire--twent lil fire," he cried, excitedly. "'mell um cook suffum. come 'long, mass' george, i dreffle hungly." i led the way in and out among the busy groups, where, chattering over the fires they had lit, the blacks were making bread or cooking, and every now and then i had to catch hold of pomp's arm and half drag him along, so great was the interest he took in what was going on; for he evidently felt no modesty or shrinking about making his presence known. i soon had my father fully acquainted with the state of affairs, and while i was talking to him, colonel preston came to sit down upon an upturned barrel, and talk for a time about the state of affairs. chapter fifty two. our officers and gentlemen made a very shabby parade that evening, when just before sundown word was passed from the sentries that a party was approaching from the spaniards, and it was decided to go outside and meet them, so as not to show the poverty of our resources within the defences, and the sore straits to which we had been brought. so the general and colonel preston, with about half a dozen gentlemen, went out to meet the new enemy, while morgan contrived that i should, as captain bruton's son, be where i could see and hear all that was going on. and, as i said, our officers and gentlemen made a very shabby parade, for their clothes were torn and stained, and there were no brave uniforms now, such as they wore the last time the spaniards from the south came to demand that we should leave the place. but if they had no scarlet and gold to show, there was a grim sternness about our people that was very impressive, something which taught the visitors that ours were no feather-bed soldiers, but men who could face fire and use the sword. of that party of six who went out to meet the spaniards, there was not one who was not injured, though slightly, while the little body-guard of eight soldiers who followed them was in similar plight. our numbers were hastily selected by the general, on seeing that while a larger number had come away from the main body of the spaniards, only eight approached the gates. everything was done so deliberately that i noticed that the general carried his left arm in a scarf, and that the hair had been all cut away in a patch at the back of colonel preston's head, so as to admit of its being strapped with plaister. another officer had a cut on his left cheek which had divided the lip; another wore a bandage in the shape of a red silk handkerchief, and another carried his injured hand in his breast. one and all had been wounded, but there was not a man who did not seem full of fight, and ready to stand his ground come what might. on the other hand, although they had been in an engagement that day, and had pursued the indians, the spaniards were smooth-looking and well-dressed; not a hair seemed to be out of place, so that they presented a remarkable contrast to our grim-looking set. they paused at a few yards' distance, and i stood gazing over the top of the fence at their dress and weapons, all of which looked clean and well-kept, quite in keeping with the dignified, well-dressed wearers, who were looking at our people with a kind of tolerant contempt. as they drew near, i recognised two of them as being of the party who had come before, and these two spoke to a broad-shouldered, swarthy-looking man, who nodded from time to time as if receiving his instructions. then he stepped forward, looking from one to the other, and said, bluntly-- "which of you is captain?" there was a pause, every one being surprised at hearing our language so plainly spoken. "you can address yourself to me," said the general, quietly. "oh, that's all right then. you see--" "stop a moment," said the general. "you are an englishman?" "i was," said the man; "but i've thrown in my lot here now, and i'm a spaniard." "indeed?" "yes; that's it. i'm settled among them, and they're not bad sort of people, let me tell you. i just say this by way of advice to all of you, who seem to be in a tidy pickle." "were you instructed to say this, sir?" said the general, coldly. "well, no, not exactly; only having once been an englishman, and meeting englishmen, i wanted to do you a good turn if i could." "thank you. now your message." "oh, that's short enough. the don here says i'm to tell you that he is glad he arrived in time to save your lives, all of you, for if he hadn't come you'd all have been massacred." "go on," said the general. "and that he supposes you see now what a mad trick it was to come and settle down here among the indians. let me see; what was next?" muttered the man; and he turned sharp round, and spoke to the spanish leader for a minute or so, and then came back and went on-- "that he came once before and gave you fair warning that you were trespassing on the lands of his majesty the king of spain, and that he wants to know how soon you are going." "is that all?" "yes," said the man, "i think that's about all. it isn't exactly what he said, because spanish lingo's awkward stuff to put into plain english; but that's about what it all meant; and, speaking as a friend, i should advise you to get a passage up north as soon as you can." "thank you." "shall i say you're going to sheer off?" "tell your leader or officer, sir," said the general, coldly, "that his message is insulting." "oh, come, now," said the man, "it was as civil as could be." "that we are here in the dominion of his majesty the king of england, upon our own lands, and that his demand is absurd. i do not wish to be insulting in return for the service he has done us and his own people by giving these savages so severe a lesson, but you may ask him what he would say if i came down with a strong party and ordered him and his people to quit the spanish settlement." "am i to tell him that?" said the ambassador. "yes; and that we are here, and mean to stay, even to holding our homes by force of arms if it is necessary." "oh!" said the man, staring and looking from one to the other. "isn't that foolish talk! you see we are very strong, while you are--" "not so very weak as you think for, sir." "but i'm sure you don't want us to turn you all out by force, and burn down your settlement, though it seems to me as if there isn't much left to burn," he added, as he glanced round at the distant heaps of burned timber and ashes. "we will build it all up ready for you, sir, against your expedition comes," said colonel preston, sharply. "oh, come, come," said the man; "that's all brag. look here: take my advice, make friends with the dons here, and let me say you'll pack off quietly, because they mean mischief if you do not go." "you have had my answer, sir," said the general, haughtily. "tell your leader that, for his own sake, i hope he will not drive us to extremities. we are prepared to fight, and fight we shall to the end." "oh, very well," said the man, in a grumbling tone; "i'm only a messenger. i've given our people's orders, and now i'm ready to take back yours. only don't say, when you're all made prisoners and marched off to our plantations, that i didn't as an englishman give you a timely hint." the general bowed, and the man stood staring at him for a few moments, and then from one to the other, in an undecided way. "then you won't go?" he said at last. the general made a sign to colonel preston. "no, sir; we will not go," said the latter, firmly. "oh, very well. 'tarn't my fault. i like peace, i do; but if you will have it rough, why, it's your own fault." he turned away, and talked to the two leading spaniards for a few moments, the elder of the two stamping his foot imperiously as he frowned and pointed to us. the man shrugged his shoulders, and came back. "look here," he said, roughly; "the dons say they won't stand any nonsense, and you are to go." "tell him he has had his answer, preston," said the general. "oh, yes, i know about that answer," said the man; "and i'm to tell you that if you do not give up at once, you will all be driven off, and you must expect no mercy then." the colonel glanced at the general, who nodded, and the former said, half-mockingly-- "tell your leaders we are here, and if the king of spain wishes for this part of his britannic majesty's possessions, he will have to send a stronger force than you have brought, to take it; and as for you, my friend, your position as a kind of envoy protects you; but if i were you i should be careful. your speech tells me plainly that you have been a sailor." "well, suppose i have," said the man, sharply. "and i should say that you have deserted, and become a renegade." "what?" "i would not speak so harshly to you, but your conduct warrants it. an englishman to come with such cowardly proposals to your fellow-countrymen! faugh!" the man seemed to grow yellow as he gazed at the colonel; then, turning away, he spoke hurriedly to the two spanish officers, who stood gazing at our party for a few moments, then bowed, and stalked back. "well, preston," said the general; "shall we have to give up?" "to them?" cried the colonel, sharply. "no! do you know what bruton will say?" "how can i?" "well, sir, he will say, `let them come, and if they drive us out of here, we will retire into the forest.' but, bah! i am not afraid. all spanish bombast. ah, young bruton, what do you say to this?" he continued, as they entered the gates, and he caught sight of me. "i'm not old enough to say anything about it," i replied; "but i think a great deal." "and what do you think?" said the general, smiling, as he laid his hand upon my shoulder. "that they will be afraid to fight, sir." chapter fifty three. a strict watch was kept on the spaniards, while everything possible was done in the way of preparation for an attack, possibly a double attack for aught we knew. it was quite probable that, in spite of their defeat, the indians would return that night, perhaps in greater strength, to come on just at the same time as the spaniards. "and then," said morgan, "what the officers ought to do is to keep us all out of the way, and let 'em fight it out between them." but that such an encounter was not likely to occur i soon saw, for the spaniards after a long talk together slowly marched back to their boats, and rowed to the ship lying at anchor in the river; and after a night of watchfulness, the sun rose again without our being assailed either from water or land. as soon as it was light, work was recommenced, and our defences strengthened; but it was soon found that the defenders would be much fewer in number, for many of the men who, in spite of their wounds, held up on the previous day, were unable to leave their rough couches, and had to resign themselves to the surgeon's orders, to have patience and wait. all the same though, a fairly brave show was made, when towards midday boats were seen to leave the ship again and row to the shore. then, after landing a strong body of well-armed men, they put back a little, cast out grapnels, and waited while those landed marched right for the enclosure. there appeared to be no hesitation now, and as memories of the brave old deeds of the spaniards came up, it was felt that in all probability a fiercer fight was in store for us than those which we had had with the indians. but not a man flinched. the perils they had gone through seemed to have hardened them, and made them more determined. so that our stockade was well-manned, and in breathless silence all waited for the attack. it was dangerous, of course, and i knew the risk, but i could not resist the temptation of trying to see the encounter, and, well down to one side of the gateway, i watched the coming on of the spaniards. there was no waiting for dark, or stealthy approach; they did not even spread to right and left to search for a weaker point, such as they would have found right at the back, but came boldly up toward the gate, as being the proper place to attack, halted about a hundred yards away, and then an officer and two men advanced, in one of whom i recognised the interpreter of the previous day. they came right on, the englishman shouting to us not to fire, and then asking, as he came close, to speak with an officer. colonel preston appeared, and the messenger called upon us to surrender. "and if we do not?" said the colonel. "the gate will be stormed at once, and very little mercy shown," said the man, speaking dictatorially now, as if he had caught the manner of his spanish companions. "very well," said the colonel. "you can storm, and we'll defend the place." the envoys went back with our defiance, and there was a short consultation, followed by a rapid advance, a halt about fifty yards away, and then a volley was fired by about fifty men, who uttered a shout, and made a rush for the gate. i heard the word "fire." there was a scattering answer to the spaniards' volley; but instead of its proving harmless, about a dozen men fell, and began to crawl or limp back, after rising, to the rear. this checked the advance by quite half, and only half of these came on much farther, the rest dropping back rapidly till of the brave force who attacked, only one ran right up to the gate, and he, a handsome-looking young officer, struck it fiercely with his sword, shouted something in spanish, and then began to go back, but keeping his face to us defiantly all the time. a dozen pieces were raised to fire at him, but the colonel struck them up, and showed himself above the gate, to raise his hat to the young officer, who, half laughingly, half bitterly, returned the salute. morgan told me afterwards what colonel preston said: that if there had been fifty men like this one the stockade could not have been held. but there were not, for when the wounded spaniards had been carried down to the boats, and a line was formed for a fresh attack, a loud murmur arose; and, as plainly as if i had heard every word, i made out that the men would not advance, and that the officer threatened to go alone. then one man only ran to his side, and they two advanced together, trying to shame the spaniards to attack. but they were not shamed a bit, but let those two come right on, when, as they reached to within twenty yards of the gate, our men sent up a hearty cheer, for the one who accompanied the spanish officer was the englishman. "bravo!" cried colonel preston. "hallo, there, you renegade; you're a brave man after all. tell the spanish officer i salute him as one worthy of all respect." the officer raised his hat as this was interpreted to him. "now tell him," continued the colonel, "not to risk his life in another advance. an accidental shot might injure him, and i should be most grieved." "are you mocking him, sir? he says," shouted the man. for answer, colonel preston leaped down from over the gate and advanced, morgan following him. i saw the spanish officer start at this, and advance sword in hand to the attack; but colonel preston sheathed his. "tell him," he said aloud,--"no, there is no need to tell him; he can understand this.--sir, i wish to take the hand of a gallant officer in mine," and he stretched out his hand. the spanish officer lowered the point of his sword, and after a moment's hesitation changed it into his left hand. "you can tell him that i do not mean treachery or trying to take prisoners," said the colonel. his words were interpreted, and the spanish officer said something hastily in reply. "says, sir, that he cannot take your hand, but respects you all the same." at that moment the spaniards began firing, and this roused our men into replying, a sufficiently perilous position for the group between them, till the young officer ran towards his men, holding up his sword; but before the spaniards had ceased our fire was silenced, for i saw the general run here and there, shouting angrily. "that was a risky proceeding of yours, preston," said the general, as the colonel came back within the fence. "yes, sir; a foolish, undisciplined act," replied the colonel; "but i felt carried away by the bravery of that young fellow, deserted as he was by his cowardly crew." "i cannot blame you," said the general, "for i felt similarly moved." little more was said, for every one was intent upon the proceedings of the enemy, who drew back about a hundred yards, and then formed up with military precision, apparently previous to making a determined advance together; but a full hour passed, and no advance was made. two officers came ashore from the ship with ten more men, and we were all kept in a state of tension, momentarily expecting to have to defend ourselves against a desperate attack. but none came, and soon after the whole force marched down to the boats and embarked, while a couple of hours later the ship was going slowly down the big river with the tide. now it might have been expected that on seeing this our men would have burst into a triumphant cheer, but they did not, but stood watching the ship in silence. for there seemed to be something too solemn for words or any display of exultation. utterly worn out with fighting and watching, and feeling as if we had all been rescued from death, men moved about gravely and quietly, and i saw group after group where gentlemen and ordinary working men, old soldiers who had come out there to that pleasant land believing they had for ever turned their swords into shares and pruning-hooks, were seated holding the hands of their wives, and with their children on their knees, their heads bent, and the tears streaming down the women's faces; and i know that a heartfelt thanksgiving went silently up to heaven that night for the escape we had all had. but still there was the feeling of insecurity afloat, which caused the greatest precautions to be taken. the forest was not far distant, and for aught we knew the indians might again come on. so sentries were placed, to be relieved after short watches, and i fully intended to take my turn when i lay down; but, just as it was once before, almost as i began thinking, all became blank, and the next thing i remember was waking up, feeling ashamed of my neglect, to find that once more it was broad day. chapter fifty four. morgan and i had more than one long talk that next day about the spaniards and the pusillanimous way in which they had behaved; but not until a good deal had been done to make our tent comfortable, and that in which poor sarah was lying, mending fast, but still very weak. a great deal too had to be done for the wounded, who bore their sufferings with wonderful patience, and were delighted when i went and sat with them, and talked over the different phases of the fight. morgan was sentry once more in the afternoon, and after seeing my father comfortably asleep, i went across to him, where he was keeping a sharp look-out for the indians; but so far there had been no sign, and we began talking about the wounded, and how long it would be before they were stirring again. "ah, a long time, sir," he said. "you can make a man weak with a shot or a cut with a sword. it's done in a moment, but it takes months to make one strong." "i say, morgan," i whispered, "don't you think the general ought to have a place dug and made for that powder?" he turned sharply and looked me full in the eyes, but instead of answering my question, he said-- "you see, master george, they were regularly cheated over us." "who were--the indians?" "the indians? no; the spanish." "he will not talk about the powder business," i said to myself. "he always turns it off." "you see, sir," he continued, as he softly rubbed the barrel of his piece to get rid of some of the rust that had encrusted it, "they expected to find us a set of quiet spade-and-hoe-and-wheelbarrow sort of people, quite different to them, as are looked upon as being so warlike and fierce." "and so we are, morgan." "and so we are, lad. we came out here to dig and live, and be at peace, with our barrows; but that doesn't mean that we haven't got the fighting stuff in us, ready for use when it's wanted. i don't want to fight, and i save my fists for digging, but they are fists all the same, sir." "yes, of course." "yes, of course, sir. but they spanish didn't understand that. they thought that in spite of what was said last time they came, all they had to do was to make a show, and order us off, and we should go; so they made a show by shooting at the indians; and i'll be bound to say that every time the spanish officers cried `fire!' they thought they were frightening us too." "but they didn't, morgan." "not a bit, sir. wrong stuff. they made a great big mistake, and when they get back to flori--what is it?" "florida." "ah, florida, i should say there'll be a good bit o' trouble, for they were meant to do more than they contrived. you see, when they fired, the indians ran, and they followed them up, and fired again, and the indians ran faster. then by and by they came and fired at us." "and we did not run, morgan." "no, sir, not a bit; and as somebody had to run--one side must, you see--why, they did. you see we didn't look nice. we'd been at it, look you, and got the marks of battle on us to show that we could do something, and it was rather startling to men coming on to attack a place. first beginning of fighting one feels a bit squeamish; after that one don't. we'd got over our squeamishness; they hadn't, for i don't count their bit of firing as anything. think they'll come back, sir?" "if they do, it will be with a war-ship, and great guns," i said. "not as they did this time." "then i don't think they'll come at all, sir, for bringing a war-ship means big business, and our having war-ships too to keep them off. do you know, i begin to think that we shall have a holiday now, so as to go back home." day after day glided by, and in the rest and relief it seemed as if quite a new life was opening out for us. my father was mending rapidly, and sarah was well enough to insist upon busying herself about many little matters to add to our comfort. hannibal only seemed to me to be dull and quiet, while pomp was at me every day about going out somewhere, and looked as if he were a prisoner chained by the leg when told that he must not stray from camp. there had been repeated discussions, so my father told me, over the all-important question of giving up our watchful life, and beginning once more to take to that of peace; but it was still deemed advisable to wait, and another week glided away, made memorable by the deaths of two of the brave fellows who had been wounded. it was the evening after the last of these two had been sadly laid in his resting-place, that morgan startled me by saying suddenly-- "he's only a black, certainly, master george, but somehow one's got to like him." "why, what has pomp been doing now?" i said. "i was talking about his father, sir." "hannibal? well, what of him? i haven't seen him to-day--no; now i come to think of it, nor yesterday neither." "no; he hasn't been up." "why, morgan," i said, "i was out round the plantations yesterday with colonel preston, and i've been with my father and sarah all to-day; is poor old hannibal ill?" "very bad, i think, sir. i asked the doctor to go and see him." i ran off to the rough tent he and pomp had contrived for themselves, and to my horror i found the doctor inside, and that my father had contrived to get there by the help of a couple of sticks. "i didn't know han was ill," i exclaimed. "hush! don't speak loud," said the doctor. "the poor fellow is in a serious condition." i crept into the hut to find pomp on his knees by his father's head, and with his face buried in his hands, while a startled feeling came over me as i saw how still and helpless the great broad-shouldered giant lay, his brow wrinkled up, and his cheeks hollow; but his countenance changed as he caught sight of me. "mass' george," he said, and he tried to raise one of his hands. "oh, hannibal!" i cried. "i did not know you were so ill. pomp, why didn't you tell me?" the boy raised his face all wet with tears, and his eyes swollen. "how pomp know?" he cried. "fader nebber tell um." "don't talk, hannibal, my man," said my father, gently. "we none of us knew, my boy. the poor fellow was wounded, and has been going about all this time with an arrow-head in his side, saying nothing, but patiently bearing it all. my poor brave fellow," he continued, taking the man's hand, "you have always been risking your life in our defence." "han belong to mass' capen," he said, feebly, as he smiled at us. "if arrow not hit um, hit massa." "what!" said my father, eagerly, as if he suddenly recollected something; "was it that night when you dragged me back, as the arrows flew so fast?" hannibal smiled, and clung to the hand which held his. "yes; i remember now feeling you start," said my father. "yes--what is it?" he leaned over the rough bed that had been made for the wounded man, for the black's lips moved. "massa do somefin for han?" he said. "my poor fellow, only speak," said my father, who was much moved, while i felt choking. "if han die, massa be kind to pomp?" "no," cried the boy, with a passionate burst of grief, "pomp die too." "and massa george be good to um." "oh, han," i cried, in a broken voice, as i knelt on the opposite side to my father, and held the poor fellow's other hand. he looked keenly in both our faces, and though neither of us spoke, he was satisfied, and half closed his eyes. "han sleep now," he said. just then the doctor bent in at the opening of the tent, and signed to us to come out, and we obeyed. "let him sleep, boy," he whispered to pomp. "don't speak to him, but if he asks for anything fetch me." pomp nodded; he could not answer, and we accompanied the doctor to his rough tent only a few yards away. "well?" he said to me as i caught his hand, and questioned him with my eyes. "do you mean can i save him? i don't know; but i do know this-- if it had been a white his case would have been hopeless. the poor fellow must have been in agony; but i have extracted the arrow-head, and these blacks have a constitution that is wonderful. he may recover." "please god!" i said to myself, as i walked right away to try and get somewhere quite alone to sit down and think. for i was beginning to waken to the fact of how much i cared for the great kind-hearted, patient fellow, who had all along devoted his life to our service, and in the most utter self-denial offered that life in defence of ours. ever since the departure of the spaniards i had slept soundly, but that night i passed on my knees by poor old hannibal's pillow. it was a strange experience, for the poor fellow was delirious, and talked rapidly in a low tone. his thoughts had evidently gone back to his own land and other scenes, but i could not comprehend a word. pomp was there too, silent and watchful, and he whispered to me about how the doctor had cut his father's side, and it took all my powers of persuasion and insistence, upon its being right, to make the boy believe that it was to do the wounded man good. "if mass' george say um good," he said at last, "pomp b'leeve um. oh, pomp poor fader. pomp die too," he sobbed. "he shan't die," i cried, passionately. "don't talk like that." there was silence for a time, and then the poor fellow began to mutter again. "what does he say?" i whispered; but the boy broke down, buried his face in his hands, and sobbed. but after a time, in broken tones, he told me that his father was talking about dying down in the hold of the stifling ship, and about being brought ashore. "dat all pomp hear," whispered the boy. "talk 'tuff. done know what." it was a long, long, weary night, but towards morning the poor fellow slept peacefully, and soon after daylight the doctor was there, as indefatigable in his attentions as he had been over my father, for the colour of a man's skin did not trouble him. "less fever," he said to me. "i've got a nurse for him now, so you go and get some sleep." i was about to protest, but just then i saw who the nurse was, for sarah stooped down to enter the shelter, and i knew that poor old hannibal would be safe with her. chapter fifty five. that day the embargo was taken off, and one by one the settlers began to return to their homes, those whose houses were standing sharing them with the unfortunates whose places had been burned, so that at night the camp wore a peculiarly silent and solemn aspect, one which, depressed as i felt by hannibal's state, seemed strange indeed. a certain number of men stayed in the enclosure, and there were ten wounded in our temporary hospital; but the doctor set others of those who had crowded the place free. one thing struck me directly, and that was the change in pomp, who could hardly be persuaded to leave his father's side, but sat holding his hand, or else nestled down beside him, with his black curly head just touching the great black's arm, and gently raising it whenever i went to the tent. i can recall it all very vividly as i now write these my recollections of the early incidents in my life, and how in the days which followed i gradually found that hannibal fully justified the doctor's words about his fine healthy state; for after the first few days, during which his life seemed to be on the balance, he rapidly began to mend, and his being out of danger was the signal for a change. my father had been talking about it for quite a month, but our friends at the settlement persuaded him to stay in the quarters that had been rigged up for us, and nothing could have been kinder than the treatment we received. it was always pointed out by the settlers that at any time the indians might return, and a fresh expedition be on foot from florida, though this was looked upon as of little consequence, every one feeling that if the block-house were rebuilt, and the enclosure strengthened, we could laugh any spanish attack to scorn. with this in view, and with an eye to the attack of the indians, very little was done in the way of rebuilding houses and cottages, but the whole strength of the settlement was devoted to the rebuilding of our little fort, and the strengthening of the stockade; and so much energy was thrown into the work by the little white and black population that a stronger building was erected, and left to be finished off afterwards. i remember well standing with morgan one day, and seeing the powder-kegs, which had for safety been buried under a heap of sand, disinterred and borne into the new cellar-magazine prepared for them early in the making of the block-house. nothing was said for some time, but all at once, as our eyes encountered, morgan exclaimed-- "there, it's of no use for you to keep looking at me like that, master george; i know what you are thinking about." "do you?" "yes, i just do; and i teclare to cootness, i feel as if it would have been right. the only thing against it that i can see is, that i was rather in too great a hurry." "but it was utter madness," i said, with a shudder. "ah, you say so now, sir, because help came, and we were saved; but how would it have been if the indians had got the mastery, as they nearly did? there is nothing that they stop at in the way of torture and murder, and it would have been a blessing for an end to have been made of us all at once." "well," i said, "don't talk about it. let's be thankful we were saved." "oh, i won't say another word, sir, and i wouldn't have spoken now, only you're always looking at me in an aggravating manner." "ah, well, morgan," i replied; "the powder's being put out of sight now, and i will not think about it any more." "yes, sir," he said, as a man lifted a keg; "and if i had my way in the world, it should never be brought out again." "and suppose the indians came?" "didn't i say if i could have my own way in the world, sir? if i did the indians wouldn't come, nor the spaniards neither--you said it was spaniards didn't you? i always thought it was spaniels." "yes; spaniards. and suppose they come?" "bah! who cares for them? why, i'd send them flying with a regiment of men armed with spades, and strict orders given only to use the flat side." i burst out laughing, for somehow everything seemed bright and happy once more, and in the midst of my mirth a quick, eager voice exclaimed-- "what mass' george laugh upon? tell pomp. pomp want laugh too." i told him, and as he could not appreciate the comicality of morgan's remark, he looked sulky and full of doubt for a few moments, but showed his white teeth directly after. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ it did not seem long after that the four largest boats of the settlement were loaded deep down with timbers and planks, to supplement those which lay just under the trees by the rattlesnake clearing, and now well seasoned and dry. many of them had been carried here and there during the flood, but being ready cut down when the clearing was made, they were hunted up at the first thought of the return to build up our house, and dragged out of spots where they had been overgrown with the rapidly-sprung-up verdure. expeditions had been sent out several times toward the indians' country, but as no signs of the savages were seen, our confidence rapidly increased, and some of my happiest hours were passed with pomp, hunting out these logs and planks, and marking the spots with a blaze from an axe on the nearest tree. then a strong party came over from the settlement on the day the boats were despatched, travelled across rapidly, knocked up a shed of the planks and newly-sawn-up boards unloaded at our landing-place from the boats, and i honestly believe the two happiest people there that day among the strange party of blacks, who carried the wood along the forest path, were pomp and hannibal, who, though far from strong, insisted upon his being well enough to help. so many willing bands were there who came over in a couple of boats morning by morning, that with the help of the blacks camped in the rough shed, a fortnight had not passed before the nucleus of our home was up, sufficient for shelter, the finishing and improvements being left to come by degrees. i believe that the sight of our home slowly rising from the ruins did more to give my father back his strength than anything done by the doctor, but perhaps that is ungrateful. but be that as it may, it was a pleasure to see him. "only look at the captain," morgan said to me one morning, two days after our friends had gone back. "don't he look lovely again, sir?" "well, i don't know about lovely. i thought that about sarah." "now, don't you make fun," said morgan, giving a heap of wood ashes a tap with his spade, to make it lie close in his rough barrow, whose wheel was a section sawn off the end of a very round-trunked pine, and tired by nailing on the iron hooping from a cask. "don't you send that ash flying and smothering me," i cried, as pomp, who was helping load and wheel the heap to the garden, began to sneeze violently. "then you shouldn't make fun of a woman, sir, because she's plain." "i didn't," i said, stoutly. "i meant lovely and well. and if you say your wife's plain again, i'll go and tell her so. she's the dearest old motherly body that ever lived." morgan drove his spade down into the earth, took my hand, and shook it solemnly, pomp, who had ceased sneezing, looking on wonderingly the while. "thankye, master george, thankye, sir; so she is--so she is." pomp came forward and held out his hand. "well, what now?" growled morgan. "tought mass' morgan want shake hand," said the boy. "get out with you, sir. wheel that barrow right on to the bed next to the last load." pomp seized the handles, went off with the barrow, caught the edge against the stump of a tree, one of the many not yet grubbed up, upset the ashes, and bounded off into the forest, to stand watching us from behind a tree, as if in dread of punishment; but seeing me roaring with laughter, he came cautiously back, grinning as if it was after all an excellent joke. "there, shovel it up again, boy," said morgan, good-temperedly; "it was an accident." "iss, mass' morgan, all um axden," cried the boy, working away. "one can't be very cross with him, master george; he's such a happy young dog, and somehow, after all the trouble, i feel too happy, and so does sarah; and to see her smile, sir, at getting a bit of a shelf put up in her new kitchen, and to hear her talk about the things the captain sent for from england--lor', sir, it would do you good." "lubbly 'tuff!" cried pomp, as he scraped up the fallen wood ashes. "what's lovely stuff?" i said. "all dat, mass' george. mass' morgan say make um rings grow, and wish dah twenty times as much." "ah, that i do," cried morgan. "wish i had--" "mass' morgan like injum come burn down house 'gain make more?" "no, you stupid little nigger," cried morgan; "of course not." _flop_! down went the spade, and pomp began to stalk away sulkily, working his toes about--a way he had of showing his annoyance. "hi! stop!" i cried; "where are you going?" "pomp go jump in um ribber, and let de ole 'gator eat um." "nonsense! what for?" "mass' morgan call um 'tupid lil nigger. allus call um 'tupid lil nigger, and hurt pomp all over." "no, no; come along. morgan didn't mean it." "eh? you no mean it, mass' morgan?" cried the boy, eagerly. "no, of course not. you're the cleverest boy i ever knew." "dah, mass' george, hear dat. now see pomp wheel dat barrow, and neber spill lil bit ob ashums, and nex' time he go over oder place, he bring um pockets full for mass' morgan garden." "he's a rum un, sir," said morgan, "but somehow i like him. rather like to paint him white, though. lor', master george, what a treat it is to be getting down the weeds again. look at old han, how he is giving it to 'em. i'm 'bliged to check him a bit though, sometimes; he aren't quite strong yet. here's the captain." "well, morgan," said my father, as he came up, "how soon do you think we might plant a few creepers about the house? the finishing and glazing need not interfere with them." "oh, we can't put in any more, sir." "what? why not? i particularly want two of those wild vines to be put in." "did put 'em in before you come out this morning, sir, and the 'suckle and passion-flowers too. they'll be up a-top of the roof before we know where we are." my father looked pleased, and turned to examine the young plants that had been set. "does me good, master george, to see the captain coming round as he is. quite takes to the garden again. but dear, dear! it's in a melancholy state." "nonsense!" i cried; "why, it's wonderful how well it looks." "wonderful? well, sir, i wouldn't have thought you could talk in that way of such a wilderness. why, even old han there, in his broken english savage way, said he was ashamed of it." "oh, well, i'm not," i said. "it's glorious to be able to get back once more to the dear old place. i say, though, you don't want pomp any longer?" "ah, but i do, sir. why?" "i want to row up and have a bit of fishing. it does seem so long since i've had a turn." "eh? who said go fis?" cried pomp, sharply. "mass' george go fish? catch terrapum, and take de gun?" "morgan says he can't spare you." "oh!" exclaimed pomp; but morgan smiled one of his curious dry smiles, as he took off his hat and pointed with the corner. "just you go to the far end of the shed, pomp, and you'll find in the damp place an old pot with a lot of bait in it as i put ready. on'y mind this, it's not to be all games." "what do you mean?" i said, for pomp had rushed off to get the bait. "bring us a bit o' fish. be quite a treat." half an hour after pomp and i were pulling up the river close in beneath the over-spreading boughs, ready to shout for joy as the golden sunbeams came down through the leaves and formed a lace-work of glory on the smooth deep water. every now and then there was a familiar rustle and a splash, a flapping of wings, and a harsh cry as a heron or stork rose from his fishing-ground; then some great hawk hovered over the stream, or we caught sight of the yellow and orange of the orioles. pomp was for rowing on and up to a favourite spot where there was a special haunt of the fish, where the stream curved round and formed a deep pool. but i felt as if i must stop again and again to let the boat drift, and watch humming-birds, or brightly-painted butterflies and beetles, flitting here and there, so that it was quite a couple of hours before we reached the spot, and suddenly turned the curve of the river into the eddy. as we did so silently i turned to look, and sat there petrified for a few moments, before i softly laid my hand on pomp's arm. he turned round sharply and saw what i did--a party of six indians on the opposite bank. before either of us could dip oar again we were seen; there was a deep, low exclamation, and the party turned and plunged into the forest and were gone. with one sweep of my oar i sent the boat round into the stream, and we rowed back as rapidly as we could, expecting to hear arrows whizzing by us every moment. but we reached the landing-place in safety, secured the boat, and ran to the newly-erected house to give the alarm. i saw my father's brow contract with agony, but he was prompt in his measures. "we will face them here," he said, "if they come." and, summoning in morgan and hannibal, the door and windows were barricaded, the weapons loaded, and we waited for the attack. but we waited in vain. the severe lesson dealt to the indians by our people and the spaniards had had its result, and though i had not understood it then, the savages were more frightened of us than we of them; and the very next day, while we were still expecting attack, colonel preston came over from the settlement in company with the doctor, who wished to see his three patients once again, while the former announced a visit from some of the chiefs to make peace with our people, and to ask permission to trade. that was the last alarm we had from the indians, who would often come afterwards to barter skins, and some of their basket-work, with venison and fish, for knives and tobacco. and in the course of time my father and i had them for guides in many a pleasant hunting expedition, and for allies against the spaniards, when they resumed their pretensions to the country, and carried on a feeble, desultory warfare, which kept the settlement always on the alert, but never once disturbed us, for our home lay quite out of their track and beyond them, when they came up the river upon one of their expeditions. at such times my father always answered the call to arms; and as time went on, in addition to morgan and the black, he had two great strapping fellows in pomp and me--both young and loose-jointed, but able hands with a firelock. such calls were exciting; but after two or three, so little damage was done, that they ceased to cause us much anxiety; and after a bold attempt or two at retaliation, in which the war was carried right into the spaniards' own land, and away up to their floridan fort, matters gradually settled down. for our settlement had prospered and increased, the broad savannahs grew year by year into highly-cultivated cotton land; the sugar-cane nourished; coffee was grown; and as the plantations spread, the little settlement gradually developed into a town and fort, to which big ships came with merchandise from the old country, and took back the produce of our fields. then as the town increased, and the forest disappeared in the course of years, we found ourselves in a position to laugh at the pretensions of the spaniards. but over all that there seems to hang a mist, and i recall but little of the troubles of those later days. it is of the early i write--of the times when all was new and fresh; and i have only to close my eyes to see again our old home surrounded by forest, that was always trying to reclaim the portions my father had won; but the skirmishers of nature gained nothing, and a pleasant truce ensued. for my father was too wealthy to need to turn his land into plantations and trouble himself about the produce; he loved to keep it all as he had made it at first, save that now and again pleasant little additions were made, and the comforts of civilisation were not forgotten. but as time went on, and i grew up, my pleasant life there had to come to an end, and i was obliged to go out into the world as became a man. it was my great delight though as the years rolled on to get down south for a month's stay at the old place, and with hannibal and pomp for companions, and an indian or two for guides, to penetrate the wilds for days and days together, boating, fishing, shooting, and studying the glories of the wondrous water-ways of the forest and swamps. such trips seemed always fresh, and when i returned there was the delightful old home in which my father had elected to end his days; and i picture one of those scenes outside the embowered house with its broad veranda, and the pretty cottages a couple of hundred yards away beyond the noble garden, morgan's pride. the home was simple still, for my father did not increase his establishment, save that a couple of young black girls elected to come from the settlement to place themselves under old sarah's management. i should not have mentioned this but for one little incident which took place two years after. i had been in england for a long stay, and at the termination of my visit i had taken passage, landed at the settlement, made a hasty call on two old friends, and then walked across to my father's, where, after my warm welcome from within doors, including a kiss from our sarah for the great swarthy man she always would call "my dear boy," i went out to have my hand crunched by grey-headed old morgan, and to grasp old hannibal's broad palm as well. "why, where's pomp?" i said. "him heah, mass' george," was shouted from the direction of one of the cottages. "i come, sah, but she juss like 'tupid lil nigger. come 'long, will you; mass' george won't eat you." i opened my eyes a little as i recognised in the smart, pleasant-looking black girl by his side, salome, one of the maids i had seen at the cottage before i sailed for europe. "why, pomp," i said, laughing, "what does this mean?" "dab juss what i tell her, mass' george," he cried. "i know you be quite please, on'y she all ashame and foolis like." "but, pomp, my good fellow, you don't mean--" "oh yes, i do, mass' george; and i know you be dreffle glad--dat my wife." yes; i can picture it all--that old plantation life started by brave-enduring englishmen, who were ready to face stern dangers, and determined to hold their own--picture it all more vividly than perhaps i have done for you; but as far as in me lay, i have tried to place before you who read the incidents of a boy's life in those distant days; and if i have been somewhat prosy at times, and made much of trifles, which were serious matters to us, forgive my shortcomings as i lay down my pen. the end. christie redfern's troubles by margaret robertson ________________________________________________________________________ this author's books tend to be a bit religious, and this is no exception. on the mother's death the redfern family moved to canada, where there was a strong scottish tradition, with preacher and kirk much as they had been in scotland, and with many of the services in gaelic, the language which many of these scottish emigrants had spoken since their birth. the family settle on a small farm, bringing up the children, including christie, in a good christian manner. as with other of mrs robertson's books much of the action takes place in the young girls' minds, and we do not have a lot to do with the four boys of the family. there are neighbouring families, including the nesbitt's, in a similar status. the actual copy of the book used was in very good condition, and we scanned it in at a high resolution, but we discovered that some of the type-setting and the original proof-reading had not been too good for some of the punctuation marks were missing. i am referring to full stops at the ends of paragraphs, and that sort of thing. we have done our utmost to set this matter right, as well as dealing with places where the type had become damaged. the book makes a nice peaceful slow-moving audiobook. nh ________________________________________________________________________ christie redfern's troubles by margaret robertson preface. the requirement of the gospel is that, having first given ourselves to christ, we should then devote all we have, be it little or much, to his service. the largest gifts fall infinitely below what he deserves from us; the smallest will not be rejected by him. for it is the motive, not the gift, which our lord regards. the poor widow's mite was more acceptable to him than the ostentatious and lavish donations of the wealthy. yet the smallness, the seeming worthlessness, of our means is often pleaded as an excuse for withholding them altogether. because men can do so little, they do nothing. it was the servant who had received only one talent that wrapped his lord's money in a napkin, and buried it in useless, unprofitable obscurity. when the multitudes hungered in the wilderness, the disciples hesitated to bring the five barley loaves and two small fishes, asking, "what are they among so many?" they were taught, however, to produce their little all, utterly inadequate as it was to the exigencies of the case, and lay it in the hands of omnipotent love, that he might by his blessing increase it to the feeding of the five thousand. "god hath chosen the foolish things of the world to confound the wise; and god hath chosen the weak things of the world to confound the things which are mighty; and base things of the world and things which are despised hath god chosen, yea, and things that are not, to bring to nought things that are, that no flesh should glory in his presence." this great truth is admirably illustrated in the following pages. in the life of christie redfern we may see how the simple desire to serve god, felt and acted upon by a poor, suffering child, may give an almost heroic strength of character, and may produce results, the magnitude and grandeur of which are altogether out of proportion to the feebleness of the means employed. chapter one. christie's childhood. "i've heard folks say it--i've seen it in a book myself--and i heard my father read something like it, out of the bible, last sunday--`ask, and ye shall receive,' and in another place, `in everything by prayer and supplication let your requests be made known unto god.' i might try it, anyway." but the voice that spoke was by no means a hopeful one, and there was anything but a hopeful look on the face of the little girl who slowly raised herself up from a mossy seat, where she had been quite hidden by the branches of a tall birch-tree, that hung so low as to dip themselves into the waters of the brook at the times when it ran fullest. it was a very pretty place, and a very strange place for any child to look anxious or discontented in. but the little girl looked as if she were both; and there was, besides, a great deal of weariness in her manner, as she leaned for a moment against a branch, and then stooped to let the water flow over a spray of crimson maple that she held in her hand. "i might try it, anyway," she repeated, as she left the place. in some spring or autumn long ago, the swollen waters of the brook had quite washed away the soil from between the roots of the birch-tree; and the roots themselves, and the hollow place which the waters had made, were covered with grass and soft moss now. in this pretty natural seat, after an eager, half-frightened glance around, the little girl placed herself, kneeling. she closed her eyes, and folded her hands with a reverent gesture; but a doubtful, uneasy look passed over her face as she let her head droop, and murmured: "our father who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name, thy kingdom come"-- and so on to the end. then her head was raised; but the doubtful look had not passed away. "that's no' just what i'm needing," she continued. "i have my daily bread. i'm no' sure about the other things; and i canna mind another prayer. i would make one, if i knew the way. i need so many things!" there was a pause, and then she said, softly: "o lord, dinna let aunt elsie be vexed with me for biding here so long. i'm sure i need that. and, o lord, mind effie to bring home the book she promised me. oh, there are so many things that i need! and i'm no' sure that i'm asking right. but the bible says, `whatsoever ye ask in my name, believing, ye shall receive.'" she slipped from her kneeling posture, and leaned, with her eyes still closed, against the shining bark of the birch-tree. she lay quiet for some time, as if she were thinking of many things; then, kneeling again, with her head bowed down on her clasped hands, she said: "o lord, make me a good child, and take me to heaven when i die, for jesus' sake!" then she opened her eyes, and rose up with a sigh. "oh, how long the shadows have grown! i should have been at home a long while ago. but now i'll see if aunt elsie's no' vexed. if she doesna scold me, i'll ken that there is some use in praying. and if effie brings me a book, such a book as i like, i shall be sure, _sure_. then i shall know that god hears people when they pray; and that will be something." and, really, the tired, pale little creature looked as though she needed something to make her look more cheerfully on a world which generally seems so happy a place to the young--something to banish the look of discontent which seemed to have settled on her face. this was little christie redfern--just such a plain, common-looking child as one might see anywhere without turning to look again. her eyes were neither black nor blue, but grey, and dark only when the long lashes shaded them. her mouth was too wide to be pretty, and her lips were pale and thin. she might naturally have had a fair, soft skin; but it was tanned and freckled by exposure to the air and sun, and looked neither fair nor soft now. her brow was high and broad, and would have been pretty but that she gathered it together in wrinkles when she looked at anything closely with her short-sighted eyes. she wore a dark cotton frock and checked pinafore, and her feet, without stockings, were slipped into shoes that seemed a world too big for them. she would not have been pretty in any circumstances; but shuffling along in her big shoes and odd dress, she was a very queer-looking little creature indeed. but there was something about the child more to be deplored than the wide mouth, or the dim eyes, or the drooping figure. there was a look of unhappiness upon her face which, as any one might see, was in consequence of no momentary trouble. it seemed to be habitual. as she plodded along with her eyes cast down on the rough pathway, it never changed. once, when the sun, which she thought had set, flashed out for a moment through the clouds of purple and crimson, causing her to look up suddenly, the sad expression passed away; but when her eyes fell it was there again, and she sighed wearily, as though her thoughts were always sad. it was a long time before she looked up again. indeed, there was not very much in the scene around her to attract the attention of the child, even if her short-sighted eyes could have taken in the view. there were the clouds; but their crimson and purple glories had faded. there was the little grove of birch and maple by the side of the brook--the prettiest place on her father's farm, christie thought; and that was all. a bird's-eye view of the country for many miles around showed no variety of scenery, except the alternation of long, broad fields of grass and wheat, or, rather, fields where grass and wheat had been, with wide, irregular stretches of low-lying forest. there was scarcely a hill deserving of the name to break the monotonous level. it was a very fine country indeed in the estimation of the busy groups who were here and there gathering in the last sheaves of a plentiful harvest. the farmers of laidlaw were wont to boast, and with reason, too, of their wheat-crops, and their fine roads and fences, declaring that there was not in all canada a district that would surpass or even equal theirs in respect of these things. but beauty of this sort a child cannot be supposed to appreciate. christie's home for the first ten years of her life had been in a lovely scottish village, within three miles of the sea on one side and less than three miles from the hills on the other; and the dull, unvaried level, the featureless aspect of her present home, might well seem dreary to the child. but the contrast between the old life and the new was greater still; and here lay the secret of the shadow that seldom left the face of the little girl now. for in the old times, that seemed so long ago, christie had been the one delicate child in a large and healthy family, and therefore her loving mother's constant and peculiar care. and her mother was dead now. i need not say more to prove how sad and changed her life had become. i think that, meeting her on her homeward way that afternoon, one might have almost seen the motherless look in her pale face and drooping figure and in the lingering tread of her weary little feet. it was a look more painful to see than the look of sadness or neglect which motherless children sometimes wear. it was of a wayward temper grown more wayward still for want of a mother's firm and gentle rule. one could not doubt that peevish words and angry retorts fell very naturally from those pale lips. she looked like one who needed to be treated with patience and loving forbearance, and who failed to meet either. and, indeed, the rule to which christie was forced to submit was neither firm nor gentle. sometimes it was firm, when christie, as she not unfrequently did, ventured to resist it; but gentle--never. when christie's mother died, all their friends said the little redferns were very fortunate in having an aunt elsie to supply her place in the household; and in some respects they were. if a constant and conscientious determination to do her duty to her brother's motherless children would have made up to them for their loss, they would have been quite happy under aunt elsie's care. she made a great sacrifice of her own ease and comfort when she left her quiet home to devote herself to their interests; and if they had all been wise and good and thoughtful, they would not have needed to be reminded so frequently of her self-denial as aunt elsie seemed to think necessary. but few children are so wise, or good, or thoughtful as they ought to be; and there were oftentimes secret murmurings, and once or twice during the first year of her stay there had been open rebellion among them. it could hardly have been otherwise. no middle-aged woman unaccustomed to the care of a family, whose heart had never been softened by the helpless loveliness of little children of her own, could have filled the place of a mother, wise, firm, and tender, all at once; and so for a time their household was not a happy one. their father left his children to the care of their aunt, as he had always left them to the care of their mother; and if an appeal from any decision of hers were made to him, it very seldom availed anything. it was not so bad for the elder ones. they were healthy, good-tempered girls, who had companions and interests out of the home-circle; and they soon learned to yield to or evade what was distasteful in their aunt's rule. with the little children she was always lenient. it was the sickly, peevish little christie who suffered most. more than any of the rest, more than all the rest put together, she missed her mother: she missed her patient care and sympathy when she was ill, and her firm yet gentle management amid the wayward fretfulness that illness brought upon her. night after night did her weary little head slumber on a pillow which her tears had wet. morning after morning did she wake up to the remembrance of her loss, with a burst of bitter weeping, angry at or indifferent to all her aunt's attempts to console her or win her love. no wonder that her aunt lost patience at last, calling the child peevish and wilful, and altogether unlovable, and declaring that she had more trouble and unhappiness with her than with all her sisters put together. and, indeed, so she had. she rather enjoyed the excitement of keeping a firm hand over the elder ones, and she soon learned to have patience with the noise and heedlessness of the little ones. but the peevishness and wayward fancies of a nervous, excitable child, whom weakness made irritable, and an over-active imagination made dreams, she could neither understand nor endure; and so the first year after the mother's death was a year of great unhappiness to christie. after that, there was a great change in the family life. losses in business, and other circumstances, induced mr redfern to give up his home and to remove with his family to canada. though this decision was made contrary to the advice of his sister, she would not forsake him and his children: so she had come with them to the backwoods. a new and changed life opened to them here, and all the changes that came to them were not for the better. mr redfern knew nothing about practical farming; and so, though he had means to purchase a sufficient quantity of good land, it was not surprising to his neighbours that his first attempt should be unsuccessful. his children were of the wrong sort, too, his neighbours said; for only one of the eight was a lad, and he was only six when he came to his new home. no pair of hands could gather, from ever so good a farm, food enough to fill so many mouths; and more than one of the kind people who took the affairs of the new-comers into their especial consideration, shook their heads gravely over their prospects. and for a time they were badly off. soon after their arrival in their new home, aunt elsie was seized with an illness which lingered long, and left her a cripple when it went away; and her temper was not of the kind which suffering and helplessness are said sometimes to improve. it was a trying time to all. but winter passed over. spring came, and with it came a measure of health to aunt elsie. she could move about on a crutch and give directions in the house, and do many things besides, which a less energetic person would never have attempted. the elder girls, effie, sarah, and annie, proved themselves of the right sort, so far as energy, and strength, and a right good-will were concerned, and worked in the fields with their father as though they had been accustomed to it all their lives. so, when two or three years had passed away, the glances which the neighbours sent into the future of the redferns revealed by no means so dreary a prospect as formerly. a change for the better had come over christie, too. she would never be as hopeful or as healthy as her sisters, her aunt said; but in health and hopefulness, and in temper too, there was a great change for the better in christie at the end of the first three years of her canadian life. but christie was far from being what she ought to be in respect to the latter item even then, as her aunt often told her; and she had good cause to be of her aunt's opinion many times before the summer was over. it was, for several reasons, a time of trial to the child. her eldest sister effie, whom she loved best of all, was away from home as school-mistress in a neighbouring township, only returning home for the sunday, and not always able to do that. her absence made the constant assistance of sarah and annie indispensable to their father. so the work of the household, and the care of the dairy during the greater part of the summer, fell to christie, under the superintendence of aunt elsie; and a great deal more strength and patience was needed than christie had at her disposal. she would gladly have changed with her sisters for their harder places in the fields; but the cold of the spring and autumn mornings chilled her, and the heat of summer exhausted her, and there was no alternative but the work of the house. this would have been wearisome enough under any circumstances to a child not very strong; and it was sometimes rendered more than wearisome by the needless chidings of her aunt. not that her aunt meant to be unkind, or that her chidings were always undeserved or her complaints causeless. her mother could not have been more careful than her aunt was, that christie should not put her hand to work beyond her strength. but probably her mother would have felt that a child might become weary, even to disgust, of a never-ending, never-changing routine of trifling duties, that brought no pleasant excitement in their train, that could scarcely be named or numbered when the day was done, yet whose performance required time and strength and patience beyond her power to give. but if her aunt ever thought about this, she never told her thoughts to christie; and to the child the summer days often passed wearily enough. it is to be doubted whether the elder sisters, after a long harvest-day, went to bed more tired and depressed than did christie, who, in their opinion, had been having an easy time. not but that annie and sarah understood in some measure the troubles that might fall to christie's lot under the immediate superintendence of aunt elsie; and they were sometimes ready enough to congratulate themselves on their own more free life out of doors. but, strong and healthy as they were, they could not understand how the work which would have seemed like play to them could be such a burden to their little sister; and they sometimes sadly added to her discontent by making light of her troubles, and ascribing to indolence and peevishness the complaints which, too often, fell from her lips. there had not, during all the summer, been a more uncomfortable day than the one whose close found christie sitting so disconsolately under the birch-tree by the brook. it had begun badly, as too many of those days did. in looking for something in the garret, christie had found a book that had been missing for a long time. it was one of her favourites. she had read it often before, but not recently; and in those days new books were rare, and old books proportionably precious. sitting down on the floor, amid the scattered contents of the chest she had been rummaging, she forgot, in the charm of "the family tryst," that the dough of her batch of bread was fast approaching that stage of lightness that needed her attention, and that her oven was by no means in a proper state to receive it when that point should be reached. page after page she turned with a vague feeling that each should be the last, till even this half-consciousness of wrong-doing was lost in the intense enjoyment of the tale; and then--the charm was broken. aunt elsie's sharp, quick tones, coming suddenly upon her, must have startled the nervous child with a shock of pain quite apart from any thought of the consequences of her fault; and it was with hands that trembled violently that the book was hidden and the scattered contents of the chest were gathered together again. then she thought of her bread; and her heart failed within her. "oh, i'm so sorry!" she said to herself; but no such word was spoken to her aunt. indeed, to her she said nothing; and it was not sorrow for her fault, but sullenness or indifference, or something that might easily be mistaken for these, that her aunt saw on her face as she came down-stairs. it was very provoking. the bread was ready for the oven, but the oven was by no means ready for the bread. and now for the next three days, at least, the children and the hungry harvest-people must content themselves with sour bread, in consequence of christie's carelessness. it was christie's wilful disobedience, her aunt declared; and, really, the sullen, unrepentant look on the girl's face was almost enough to excuse her aunt's bitter words and the sudden blow that fell on her averted cheek. a blow was a very rare thing with aunt elsie. it was not repeated now. indeed, she would hardly have ventured to strike again the white, indignant face that was turned towards her. surprise and anger kept the girl for one moment silent; then, in a voice she could hardly make audible for the beating of her heart, she gasped: "i hate you, aunt elsie! i wish i were dead!" "be quiet, with your wicked words!" cried aunt elsie. "you are far from being in a fit state to die, you disobedient, bad child." but aunt elsie was vexed with herself for the blow she had given, and all the more vexed with christie on that account. christie was really sorry for her fault; but, quite forgetting that she had given no sign of sorrow, she called her aunt unjust and cruel, and bitterly resented both word and blow. anger and pride gave her strength to obey the command to carry the bread to a cool place, and to keep back a rush of tears till her task was done. but it failed her then; and, throwing herself on the ground, out of sight, she wept and sobbed, and uttered words as wicked and passionate as those which her aunt had reproved. this was the beginning; and after that nothing could be expected to go well. though her head ached and her hands trembled, the work of the house must be done; and more than her usual share fell to christie to-day. for aunt elsie's rheumatism was bad again, and much that she usually did was left to christie. but her aunt did not say she was ill. the added tasks were assigned with a voice and in a manner that seemed to declare them a part of the punishment for the fault of the morning; and we cannot wonder much that they were sullenly performed. "i don't care," repeated christie to herself, over and over again, that day. "there is no use in trying to please aunt elsie. it makes no difference. she's cross always. i never do anything right, she says; and i don't care!" but she did care, for all that. she was very wretched. she avoided her sisters when they came home to dinner, saying she had a headache, and didn't want any--which, indeed, was true; and her sisters, thinking that she and aunt elsie had had a falling-out which would be made up before night, left her to herself. so christie sat on the garret-floor, too miserable to read, her heart full of angry thoughts against her aunt, her sisters, and all the world. but into the very midst of her vexed and angry murmurs against them there came the feeling that all the fault was not theirs--that she was herself to be blamed. and by and by the anger passed away; but the misery remained, and oftener, and with more power, came the consciousness that she was a very cross, unamiable child, that she was not like her older sisters or the little ones, that she was a comfort to no one, but a vexation to all. if she only could die! she thought. no! she would be afraid to die! but, oh, if she had never been born! oh, if her mother had not died! and yet she might have been a trial to her mother, too, as she was to all the rest. but no! she thought; her mother would have loved her and had patience with her; and aunt elsie never had. amid a rush of angry tears, there fell a few very bitter drops to the memory of her mother. with a weary pain at her head and heart, she went about the household work of the afternoon. the dinner-dishes were put away, and the room was swept and dusted, in silence. the pans were prepared for the evening milk, and the table was laid for supper; and then she sat down, with a face so woe-begone and miserable, and an air so weary that, even in spite of her anger, her aunt could not but pity her. she pitied herself more, however. she said to herself that she was at her wits' end with the wilful child. she began to fear that she would never be other than a cross and a trial to her; and it did seem to aunt elsie that, with her bad health and her hard work among her brother's children, she had enough to vex her without christie's untowardness. it did seem so perverse in her, when she needed her help so much, to be so heedless and sullen. "and yet what a poor, pale, unhappy little creature she seems to be!" thought she. "maybe i haven't all the patience with her that i ought to have. god knows, i need not a little to bear all my own aches and pains." but her relenting thoughts did not take the form of words; and christie never fancied, when she was bidden go for the cows at once, and not wait for the coming of the children from school, that her aunt sent her because she thought the walk to the pasture would do her good. she believed it was a part of her punishment, still, that she should be required to do what had all the summer been the acknowledged work of will and her little sisters. so, though she was too weary and miserable to resist, or even to murmur, she went with a lagging step and a momentary rising of her old angry and resentful thoughts. it was not very far to the pasture through the wheat-field; and she was soon there. but when the cows had passed through the gate she let them go or not, just as they pleased, and turned aside, to think over again, by the side of the brook, the miserable thoughts of the afternoon; and the end of these was the murmured prayer with which my story began. her thoughts were not very cheerful as she plodded along. she had no wish to hurry. if she did, she would very likely have to milk brownie and blackie and the rest, besides fleckie, her own peculiar care. she said to herself, there was no reason why she should do her sisters' work, though it was harvest-time and they would come home tired. she was tired too--though nobody seemed to think she ever did anything to tire her. she could milk all the cows well enough. she had done it many a time. but it was one thing to do it of her own free will, and quite another to do so because her aunt was cross and wanted to punish her for her morning fault. so she loitered on the road, though the sun had set and she knew there was danger of the cows passing the gate and getting in among the wheat, where the fence was insufficient, in the field below. "i don't care," she said to herself. "it winna be my fault. the bairns should have been at home. it's their work, not mine, to mind the cows. oh, i wist effie was at home! there's nothing quite so bad where she is here. but i'll see to-night if my prayer is heard; that will be something; and then i'll begin again, and try to be good, in spite of aunt elsie." chapter two. the colporteur. the cows had not passed the gate. somebody had opened it for them, and they were now standing or lying in the yard, in the very perfection of animal enjoyment. the girls were not at home to milk them, however. christie had heard her father's voice calling to them in the lower field, and she knew it would be full half an hour, and quite dark, before they could be at home. so, with a sigh, she took the stool and the milk-pails from a bench near the door, and went to the yard to her task. if her short-sighted eyes had seen the long, low wagon that stood at the end of the house, curiosity would have tempted her to go back to see who might be there. if she had known that in that wagon her sister effie had ridden home a day sooner than she was expected, she would not have seated herself so quietly to her milking. [note: in america, any light four-wheeled vehicle is called a wagon.] christie was not lazy, though her aunt sometimes accused her of being so. when her heart was in her work, she could do it quickly and well; and her strength failed her always before her patience was exhausted. she knew she must finish the milking alone now, and she set to it with a will. in a surprisingly short time she was standing between two foaming milk-pails at the gate. to carry them both at once was almost, though not quite, beyond her strength; and as she stood for a moment hesitating whether she would try it, or go with one and return for the other, the matter was decided for her. "christie!" said a voice--not aunt elsie's--from the door. turning, christie saw her sister effie. surprise kept her riveted to the spot till her sister came down the path. "dinna lift them, christie: you are no more able to do it than a chicken. i'll carry them." but she stooped first to place her hands on her little sister's shoulders and to kiss her softly. christie did not speak; but the touch of her sister's lips unsealed the fountain of her tears, and clinging to her and hiding her face, she cried and sobbed in a way that, at last, really frightened her sister. "why, christie! why, you foolish lassie! what ails you, child? has anything happened?--or is it only that you are so glad to see me home again? don't cry in that wild way, child. what is it, christie?" "it's nothing--i dinna ken--i canna help it!" cried christie, after an ineffectual effort to control herself. her sister held the trembling little form for a moment without speaking, and then she said, cheerfully: "see, christie! it's growing dark! we must be quick with the milking." "why didna you come last week, effie?" said christie, rousing herself at last. "oh, partly because of the rain, and partly because i thought i would put my two holidays together. this is thursday night, and i can stay till monday morning--three whole days." christie gave a sigh, and smiled. "come," said effie; "i'll help you. i was waiting till you came from the pasture. i didna see you come." "no; i didna go in." it seemed to christie that a very heavy burden had been lifted from her heart. she smiled without the sigh, as soon as she met her sister's grave look. "did you walk home, effie?" she asked. "no; i got a chance to ride with the book-man. he was at the corner, and offered to bring me home, as he was coming this way. how beautiful your pans look, christie! will you need them all?" they were in the milk-house now. it was a large, low place, partly made by digging into the side of the hill. it was a cool, pleasant place in summer, and well suited to the purpose for which it had been built. it was dark, however, when the girls entered, and would have been very gloomy but for christie's shining milk-pans and the rows of cream-covered dishes beyond. they were all needed, and some new ones had just been brought from the tinman's. "i like them," said christie: "they're lighter than the earthen ones, and no' so easily broken. we've got much more milk since the cows went into the upper field. you'll see what a pailful fleckie gives." "fleckie is your favourite yet," said effie, smiling, as they left the dairy together. "oh, yes! she's the best of them all--and so gentle! and i'm sure she knows me. i don't think she likes any one to milk her half so well as me." "she'll let me milk her to-night, though," said effie, removing her cuffs and turning up her sleeves. "you'll spoil your pretty frock," said christie, doubtfully. "there's no fear. i'll take care. give me the stool." christie hesitated. "but there's blackie and brownie to do yet--unless you would rather milk fleckie." "i would rather milk them all," said effie. "i'm sure, child, you look as though you had had enough of it for one day." "oh, no; i expected to milk them all. i'm not very tired." christie ran for another stool, and seated herself beside her favourite. she was quite near her sister, too; and they went on talking. "i suppose this was churning-day?" said effie. "no; we churned yesterday, and we'll churn again to-morrow. it's harder, and takes longer, now that the nights have got cooler. but the butter is beautiful. we have the two tubs full, and we put the last we made in a jar. i'll show it to you when we go in." "i suppose annie and sarah have but little time to help you now? no wonder you are tired," said effie. "no; they cannot help us except on a rainy day. but i never churn alone. aunt elsie helps me. it took us three hours last time." "i shouldna wonder if that is the reason that aunt elsie's shoulder is worse," said effie, with a sigh. "is it worse?" asked christie. "she has said nothing about it." "no; she says there is no use in complaining. but i do hope she is not going to be ill, as she was before. it would be terrible for us all." "i hope not, indeed," said christie; and in a moment she added, "you would need to bide at home then, effie." effie shook her head. "no; i should need all the more to be away if that were to happen. what should we all do for shoes, if it werena for my school-money?" christie's countenance fell; but in a little time she said-- "but the harvest is a great deal better this year, effie." "yes; but there winna be much to sell. if we don't have to buy, it will be a great thing for us. and the shoes we must have, and new harness, and other things. i mustna think of staying this winter, i'm sure, christie." christie gave a long sigh, as she rose with her full pail. "i wish i was old enough and able to keep a school, or do something!" "do something!" echoed effie. "i'm sure you do a great deal. think of the butter! and you've made bread all the summer, and swept, and ironed, and washed the dishes." "but all that comes to very little," said christie, disconsolately. "indeed it does--to more than my school-keeping, i dare say. and i'm sure it's far pleasanter work." "pleasanter!" repeated christie; and there was such a protesting echo in her voice that effie could not help laughing; but she said, again-- "yes, pleasanter. don't you think it must be far nicer to be at home with all the rest, than to stay among folk that don't care about you, and have to bear your trouble alone?" christie opened her eyes wide. "but, effie, folk do care about you. and what troubles can you have to bear?" effie laughed softly; but she looked grave immediately. "well, i havena so many as i might have, i suppose." "i'm sure if i were you i should be perfectly happy," said christie. "that's only one of the mistakes you have fallen into," said effie, gravely. "do you remember the story of the burdens, and how every one was willing to take up his own at last?" nothing in the world would have convinced christie that her sister's lot was not much pleasanter than her own; and she said to herself, how gladly she would change burdens with her! but aloud she only asked-- "has anything new happened? what's troubling you, effie?" "oh, nothing has happened," said effie, cheerfully. "i'm getting on well. the worst of my troubles are those i find at home--aunt elsie's rheumatism, and your pale, tired face, and the wearing out of the children's clothes. and you have all these too: so i dare say my burden is the lightest, after all. now let me see your butter." it was well worth seeing. there was one tub made when the weather had been warm, and, for that reason, was pronounced by christie not quite so good. then there was a large one, with over a hundred and twenty pounds in it--so hard, and yellow, and fragrant! christie was not a little proud of it; and effie praised it to her heart's content. there was no better butter in all glengarry, she was sure. "and a hundred and twenty pounds of it! it's worth twenty-five cents a pound, at least. think of that, christie!--thirty dollars in all! that is something of your doing, i should think." "partly," said christie. "i only helped." but she was very much pleased. "if we could only sell it, it would get us shoes, and lots of things." "but i'm afraid we mustna sell it," said effie. "we shall have so little meat all the winter--and it is so dear, too; and we shall need the butter. and how many cheeses are there? five?" "five uncut. one is nearly done since the harvest. see, these two are better than the others. but it is getting so dark you canna see them. i think the cheese will be a great help. we had none last winter, you know." "yes, indeed!" said effie, heartily. "we shall have a better winter than the last was." "except that you winna be at home," said christie, desponding a little again. "well, i would like to be at home, if it were best; but we canna have all we would like, you know. if you have milk to skim, you will need a candle, christie." "no: i skimmed it before i went away. see, father and the girls have come home at last. how glad they will be to see you, effie!" yes, everybody was glad to see effie--though no one said much about it that night. indeed, it was rather a silent party that partook of the frugal supper. except that the book-man (as the colporteur was called) exchanged now and then a remark with mr redfern, little was said till supper was over and the bible laid on the table for worship. the redfern family had the custom of reading verse-about, as it is called, partly because lights were sometimes scarce, and partly because, after the work of a long summer day, both great and small were too tired to enjoy protracted reading; and it must be confessed that, at times, morning and evening devotions were both brief and formal. they were not so to-night, however; for they were led by mr craig, the book-man, a cheerful and earnest christian, to whom, it was easily seen, god's worship was no mere form, but a most blessed reality. indeed, so lengthened was the exercise to-night that the little ones were asleep before it was done; and so earnest was he, so elevated were his ascriptions of praise, so appropriate his confessions and petitions, that the elder members of the family, notwithstanding their weariness, could not but listen and join with wonder and delight. "_he_ believes that it is worth one's while to pray, at any rate," said christie to herself; and all at once it flashed upon her that a part of _her_ prayer had been answered. aunt elsie had not spoken one word of reproof for her long delay by the side of the brook. not a little startled, christie paused to consider the matter further. "she could hardly have scolded me while a stranger was here. and, besides, effie's here, too, and i wouldna have much cared if she had. and it's no' too late yet. she'll be sending me to my bed the moment the dishes are put by." but she did not. long after the little ones, and even annie and sarah, were asleep, christie was allowed to sit without rebuke, listening to the pleasant talk of her father and mr craig, and now and then saying a word to effie, on whose lap her head was laid. the only words that aunt elsie spoke to her that night were kind enough; and some of them were spoken while effie was not there. "so that it couldna be to please her," thought christie. "what if god should hear my prayer, after all?" the thought was quite as startling as it was pleasant. then she wondered if effie had brought the book. she did not like to ask her. she did so want to believe that she might fall back on god's help in all her troubles; but if effie had not brought the book she could not be sure that her prayer had been heard. "could it be possible?" she said to herself. it seemed altogether too good, too wonderful, to be true. and yet there were verses in the bible very plain, very easy to be understood--"ask, and ye shall receive; seek, and ye shall find;" and many more besides that. she repeated the words slowly and earnestly. that must be true, she thought. every one believed the bible. and yet how few live and pray and trust as though they really do believe it! she had heard discussions, many and long, between her father and some of their neighbours, on difficult passages of scripture and difficult points of doctrine. she had heard the scriptures quoted to support doctrines very different in their nature. she had heard passages commented upon and explained away to suit the views of the speaker, until she had come to think, sometimes, that the most obvious meaning of a text could not possibly be the true one; and she said to herself, what if she had been taking comfort from these promises too soon? what if they meant something else, or meant what they seemed to mean only to those to whom they were spoken? what if, for some unknown, mysterious reason, she were among those who had no part nor lot in the matter?--among those who hearing hear not, or who fail to understand? and before she was aware, the hopefulness of the last half-hour was vanishing away before the troubled and doubtful thoughts that rushed upon her. "i wish there was any one that i could ask about it! i wonder if effie would know? i'll see if she has brought me the book; and that will be something. maybe the book-man could tell me all about it. only i don't like to ask him." she turned her eyes towards him, as the thought passed through her mind. his face was plain and wrinkled and brown; but, for all that, it was a very pleasant face to look at. it was a grave face, even when he smiled; but it was never other than a pleasant one. there was something in it that brought to christie's mind her favourite verse about "the peace that passeth all understanding." "he has it, i do believe," she said, while she quietly watched him as he listened or talked. "it must be a weary life you live," aunt elsie was saying, "going about from morning till night, in all weathers, with those books of yours; a weary life and a thankless." "do you think so?" said mr craig, with a smile. "i don't think it is a harder life than most of the people that i see are living. no harder than the farmers have during this busy harvest-time. no harder than the pedlars of tin-ware and dry goods have, that go about the country in all weathers." "but it's different with the farmer, who tills his own land. he is working to some end. every tree he cuts, every sheaf he reaps and gathers in, is so much gain to him; and even these pedlars must have a measure of enjoyment when their sales are good. they are gaining their living by their travels." "well, so am i, for that matter," said mr craig, still smiling. "i am on equal terms with them there; though i cannot say that the greatest part of the pleasure i have in my work arises from the gain it is to me. but why do you say it is a thankless work?" instead of answering directly, aunt elsie asked, a moment after: "are you always well received,--you and your books?" "oh, yes; in this part of the country, always,--quite as well as other pedlars are, and sometimes far better, for my work's sake. i have been in places where the reception i met with was something worse than cold. but i now and then met, even in those places, some that welcomed me so warmly for the work's sake i was doing as to make me little heed the scoffs of the others." "you are sent out by a society, i think?" said aunt elsie. "it is mostly bibles that you sell?" "yes; it's mostly bibles that i carry with me." there was a pause. the colporteur sat looking into the red embers, with the smile on his face which christie had found so attractive. in a little while aunt elsie, not without some hesitation, said: "and is all the time and trouble and money spent by this society worth their while?" aunt elsie would have been shocked had any one expressed a doubt of her sincere respect for the bible. her respect was hereditary. not one day in her childhood or womanhood had passed in which she had not heard or read some portion of the holy book. nothing could have induced her to part with one of the several bibles that had been in her possession for years. one had been hers when a girl at school, one had lain in her seat at the kirk for many a year, and a third had lain on her parlour-table and been used by her at family worship when she kept house for herself. it would have seemed to her like sacrilege to let them pass into other hands. that the superiority of the scottish people over all other nations (in which superiority she firmly believed) was in some way owing to the influence of god's word, read and understood, she did not doubt. but her ideas of the matter were by no means satisfactory even to herself. that the bible, read and understood, should ever change the mixed multitudes of her new and adopted country into a people grave and earnest and steadfast for the right, was altogether beyond her thought. the humble labours of this man, going about from house to house, to place perhaps in careless or unwilling hands the bible (god's word though she acknowledged it to be), seemed a very small matter--a means very inadequate to the end desired. so it was a doubtful and hesitating assent that she yielded to the reply of mr craig in the form of a question. "is not god's word his appointed instrument for the salvation of men? and will he not bless it to that end? i do not doubt it," continued mr craig. "how can i doubt it, in the face of the promise that his word shall not return unto him void--that it _shall_ prosper in that whereunto he sendeth it? i never let a bible pass from my hands without asking from god that it may be made the means of a lasting blessing to at least one soul. and i have faith to believe that my prayer will be heard and granted." aunt elsie's motions expressed some surprise. "and is not that presumption on your part?" she asked. "which? the prayer, or the expectation?" said mr craig. "not the prayer, surely, when he says, `ask, and ye shall receive; seek, and ye shall find.' `whatsoever ye shall ask in my name, believing, ye shall receive.' `ask, and ye shall receive, that your joy may be full.' is it presumption to ask blessings for those whom god so loved that he sent his only begotten son into the world to die that they might live? `will he not with him also freely give them all things?' truly, i think the presumption would lie in _not_ asking, or in asking and not expecting to receive." in the pause that followed, christie, with a strange feeling at her heart, pondered the words. "well," said aunt elsie, in a moment, "i dare say it is as well that you have these thoughts to encourage you. the bible can do nobody harm, at any rate; and it may do good to the bairns at the school." mr craig opened his lips, as though he were going to answer her; but he did not. by and by he said--quite as much as though he were speaking to himself as to her: "yes; it is indeed a good thing to have god's promise to fall back upon. my work would be vain and weary work without that. and so would any work to which i could put my hand. there _are_ folk in the world who live with no hope or trust in god's promised blessing. how they do it i cannot tell." "god is good to many a one who thinks little of him or of his care; or what would become of the world and the thousands in it?" said aunt elsie, with a sigh. mr craig gave her a quick look. "yes: he is kind to the evil and the unthankful. but i was thinking of the blessedness of those who have the daily and hourly sense of god's presence with them and his fatherly care over them. in time of trouble, and at all times, indeed, it is sweet to know that we have his word and promise for all that we possibly need." "yes," said aunt elsie, uneasily, and rather coldly. "there is much truth in what you say." mr craig continued: "there is no fear of being forgotten. he who sees the sparrow when it falls, and does not forget to number the hairs of our heads, may well be trusted. and may we not trust in him who is not ashamed to call his people brethren? our elder brother! he who suffered being tempted--who is touched with the feeling of our infirmities! it is worth while to have his promise to fall back upon-- for me in my journeys, for you amid your household cares, and for this little maiden here amid whatever life may bring to her." in the interest with which she listened, christie had forgotten her shyness, and had drawn quite near; and now she sat with her eyes fastened on the good man's face, her own quite expressive of intense eagerness. "christie," said her aunt, as her eye fell upon her, "it is high time you were in bed. there will be no getting you up in the morning. your sisters are all asleep. haste away." christie would have given much for courage to ask one question; and perhaps a glance into the kind face that was looking down upon her might have given it to her, had her aunt not been there. perhaps he guessed her thought; for he said, as he put out his hand and laid it softly on hers: "yes, my lassie; it is not beyond belief that the kind care and the loving eye of this elder brother should be over you, if you are one of his little ones. are you?" the last words were spoken after a momentary pause, and the little brown hand was gently pressed as they were uttered. if christie could have found words with which to answer him, she could not have uttered them through the tears and sobs that had not been far from her all the evening. slowly obeying the admonishing touch of her aunt, she withdrew her hand from the gentle pressure that detained it, and crept away in the dark to the room where all her sisters, except effie, were already asleep. and what a tumult of glad, wondering and doubtful thoughts was stirring her heart as she seated herself on the floor and leaned her weary head upon her hand! could it all be true? did god see and hear and care for people? and for her too? the elder brother! what a sweet name to give to jesus! it seemed easier to believe that he would care for her, calling him by that name. and if it were really true that god heard her prayers and would answer them, certainly things would not go so badly with her any more. but was she one of his little ones? surely there was no one more helpless and hopeless and troubled--nobody that needed help more! "oh, if i could only be sure!" she whispered. "but i'll see to-night. aunt elsie wasna vexed to-night. and if effie has brought me the book, i'll take it for a sign. oh, i wish she would come!" and yet, when effie came in with a light in her hand, christie was in no haste to speak. effie moved about very quietly, for fear of waking her sisters; and then she sat down, shading the light from their faces. "haste you, christie dear," she whispered. "i thought you were in bed. it is more than time." christie slowly undressed, and after kneeling a little while, laid herself down on the low bed beside her little sister. but she did not sleep. she did not even close her eyes, but lay watching sometimes the motionless figure of effie and sometimes her shadow on the wall, wondering all the while what could keep her occupied so silently and so long. yet when at last the book was closed and effie began to move about the room, she could not find courage to speak to her at once. "effie," she said, by and by, "did you bring me the book you promised?" effie started. "christie, i thought you were asleep! do you know how late it is?" "did you bring me the book you promised?" repeated the child, eagerly. effie could not resist the beseeching face; and she came and seated herself on the side of the bed. "i wanted it so much," continued christie. "i thought you would bring it! did you forget it? or were you not up there this week?" "i was there, and i didna forget it; but--" "did you bring it?" cried christie, rising, in her eagerness. "where is it?" effie shook her head. "i didna bring it, christie." poor little christie! she laid herself back on her pillow without a word. the disappointment was a very bitter one; and she turned her face away, that her sister might not see the tears that were gushing from her eyes. she had all the week been looking forward to the pleasure of having a book--"the scottish chiefs"--a stolen glance or two of which had excited her interest to the highest degree; and the disappointment was great. but that it should have failed to come on this particular night was harder still to bear. "if god only hears half our prayers, and that the half we care least about, what is the use of praying at all? oh, dear! i thought i had found something at last!" "christie," said her sister, laying her hand on her shoulder, "why are you crying in that way? surely you have had tears enough for once? what ails you, child? speak to me, christie." "oh, you _might_ have brought it!" she exclaimed, through her sobs. "you almost promised." "no, christie, i didna promise. i didna forget it. but i am afraid-- indeed, i am sure--that the reading of the book would do you no good, but harm; and so i didna bring it to you. you are wrong to be so vexed about it." "is it a bad book?" asked christie. "i am not sure that it is a _bad_ book. but i think it might do you harm to read it. i am afraid your imagination is too full of such things already." this had been said to her in far sharper words many a time before; and christie made no answer. "you know yourself, christie, when you get a book that interests you, you are apt to neglect other things for the pleasure of reading it. almost always aunt elsie has to find fault with you for it." "aunt elsie always finds fault with me!" sighed christie. "but you give her reason to find fault with you when you neglect your duties for such reading, as you must confess you do; even to-day, you know." "i believe it grieves aunt elsie's heart to see me taking pleasure in anything," said christie, turning round passionately. "she never heeds when annie or sarah takes a book; but if i look the way of one, she's at me. i believe she would be glad if there was no such thing as a book in the house." "hush, christie! you are wrong to speak in that way. it is not true what you are saying. aunt elsie is fond of reading; and if she doesna object to annie and sarah taking a book, it is because they don't very often do so. they never neglect their work for reading, as you too often do." all this was true, as christie's conscience told her; but she was by no means willing to confess as much; so she turned away her face, and said, pettishly: "oh, well, i hear all that often enough. there's no use in saying anything more about it." effie rose, and went to the other side of the room. when she returned, she carried something wrapped in paper in her hand. "look, christie; i brought you a book--a better book than `the scottish chiefs.' turn round and look at it." slowly christie raised herself up and turned round. she was ashamed of her petulance by this time. something shone in the light of the candle which effie held. "what is it?" she asked; and her sister placed it in her hand. it was a bible, a very beautiful one, bound in purple morocco, with clasps and gilt edges. it was small, but not too small even for christie's eyes. "oh, how beautiful!" exclaimed christie, forgetting everything in her delight. "it is the very thing i have been wishing for!" effie said nothing, but watched her, well pleased. "but, effie," said christie, suddenly, "this must have been very dear. a plainer one would have done just as well. did it cost much?" "not very much," said effie, sitting down beside her again. "a bible is for one's whole lifetime, and so i got a good one, and a pretty one, too; you are so fond of pretty things. if i had known that the book-man was coming here i might have waited and let you choose it for yourself. we might have changed it now, but see, i have written your name in it." she turned to the fly-leaf, and read "christina redfern," with the date, in effie's pretty handwriting. she gave a sigh of pleasure as she turned it over. "no, i don't believe there is a nicer one there. it's far prettier than yours, effie. wouldna you have liked it? your old one would have done for me." "oh, no, indeed! i would far rather have my own old bible than the prettiest new one," said effie, hastily. "yes, i suppose so," said christie. "mother gave it to you." "yes; and, besides, i have got used to it. i know just where to find the places i want, almost without thinking of the chapter." "it is a perfect beauty of a bible; and such clear print! but i am afraid it cost a great deal--as much as a pair of shoes, perhaps?" she continued, looking at her sister. effie laughed. "but what comparison is there between a bible and a pair of shoes? you must read it every day, dear; and then you'll be sure to think of me." "i do that many times every day," said christie, sighing. "i'm glad you like it, dear. mr craig ask me if it was for myself; and i told him no, it was for my little sister at home." christie started. this, then, was one of the bibles that the book-man had said he asked god to bless for the good of at least one soul. and he seemed so sure that his prayer would be heard. and, then, had not her prayer been heard?--not just as she had hoped, but in a better way. the thought filled her with a strange glad wonder. could it be possible? her eye fell on the open page, and her hand trembled as she read: "ask, and ye shall receive, that your joy may be full." "effie," she said, softly, "i thank you very much. lay it in my little box; and good-night." the tears that wet her pillow were very different from the drops that had fallen on it a little while before. "nothing will be so bad again," she murmured. "nothing--nothing. whatever happens, i can always pray!" chapter three. about the sermon. the next two days passed pleasantly enough; as the days always did, christie thought, when effie was at home. there was plenty to do, more than usual; but the elder sister was strong and willing, and, above all, cheerful, and work seemed play in her hands. even aunt elsie forgot to scold when any little misfortune happened through neglect or carelessness, and effie's cheerful "never mind. it canna be helped now. let us do the best we can," came between her and the culprit. effie was not so merry as she used sometimes to be, christie thought; and very grave indeed she looked while discussing ways and means with aunt elsie. there was a good deal to be discussed, for the winter was approaching, and the little ones were in need of clothes and other things, and aunt elsie did effie the honour to declare that her judgment on these matters was better worth having than that of all the rest of them put together. certainly, never were old garments examined and considered with greater attention than was bestowed on the motley pile brought from "the blue chest" for her inspection. no wonder that she looked grave over the rents and holes and threadbare places, sure as she was that, however shabby they had become, they must in some way or other be made to serve for a long time yet. it looked like a hopeless task, the attempt to transform by darning and turning, by patching and eking, the poor remnants of last winter's frocks and petticoats into garments suitable for home and school wear. "surely no children ever grew so fast as ours!" said effie, after turning her little sister ellen round and round, in the vain hope of persuading her aunt and herself that the little linsey-woolsey frock was not much too short and scant for the child. "katie will need to have it, after all. but what can we do for nellie?" and effie looked sorely perplexed. "it's no' often that folk look on the growing of bairns as a misfortune," said aunt elsie, echoing her sigh. "if it werena that we want that green tartan for a kilt for wee willie, we might manage to get nellie a frock out of that." effie considered deeply. "oh, effie," whispered christie, when her aunt's back was turned, "never mind that heap of trash just now. you promised to come down to the burn-side with me; and it will soon be time for the milking." "but i must mind," said effie, gravely. "the bairns will need these things before i can get two whole days at home again, and my aunt and the girls have enough to do without this. duty before pleasure, christie. see; you can help me by picking away this skirt. we must make the best of things." christie applied herself to the task, but not without many a sigh and many a longing look at the bright sunshine. if effie once got fairly engaged in planning and patching, there would be no use in thinking of a walk before milking-time. "oh, dear!" she said, with a sigh. "i wish there was no such a thing as old clothes in the world!" "well, if there were plenty of new ones in it, i wouldna object to your wish being gratified," said effie, laughing. "but as there are few likely to come our way for a while, we must do the best we can with the old. we might be worse off, christie." "do you like to do it?" asked christie. "i like to see it when it's done, at any rate. there is a great deal of pleasure in a patch of that kind," she said, holding up the sleeve she had been mending. "you would hardly know there was a patch there." christie bent her short-sighted eyes to the work. "yes; it's very nice. i wonder you have the patience. aunt elsie might do it, i'm sure." effie looked grave again. "i am afraid aunt elsie won't do much this winter. her hands are getting bad again. i must be busy while i am here. never mind the walk. we'll get a long walk together if we go to the kirk." "yes, if it doesna rain, or if something doesna happen to hinder us." but she looked as though she thought there was nothing so pleasant in store for her as a long walk with effie; and she worked away at the faded little garment with many a sigh. sunday came, and, in spite of christie's forebodings, the day rose bright and beautiful. the kirk which the redferns attended lay three long miles from the farm. the distance and the increasing shabbiness of little garments often kept the children at home, and christie, too, had to stay and share their tasks. they had no conveyance of their own, and though the others might be none the worse for a little exposure to rain or wind, her aunt would never permit christie to run the risk of getting wet or over-tired. so it was with a face almost as bright as effie's own that she hailed the bright sunshine and the cloudless sky. for sunday was not always a pleasant day for her at home. indeed, it was generally a very wearisome day. it was aunt elsie's desire and intention that it should be well kept. but, beyond giving out a certain number of questions in the catechism, or a psalm or chapter to be learned by the little ones, she did not help them to keep it. it was given as a task, and it was learned and repeated as a task. none of them ever aspired to anything more than to get through the allotted portion "without missing." there was not much pleasure in it, nor in the readings that generally followed; for though good and valuable books in themselves, they were too often quite beyond the comprehension of the little listeners. a quiet walk in the garden, or in the nearest field, was the utmost that was permitted in the way of amusement; and though sometimes the walk might become a run or a romp, and the childish voices rise higher than the sunday pitch when there was no one to reprove, it must be confessed that sunday was the longest day in all the week for the little redferns. to none of them all was it longer than to christie. she did not care to share the stolen pleasures of the rest. beading was her only resource. idle books were, on sundays, and on weekdays too, aunt elsie's peculiar aversion; and, unfortunately, all the books that christie cared about came under this class, in her estimation. all the enjoyment she could get in reading must be stolen; and between the fear of detection and the consciousness of wrong-doing, the pleasure, such as it was, was generally hardly worth seeking. so it was with many self-congratulations that she set out with effie to the kirk. they were alone. their father had gone earlier to attend the gaelic service, which he alone of all the family understood, and annie and sarah, after the labours of a harvest-week, declared themselves too weary to undertake the walk. it was a very lovely morning. here and there a yellow birch, or a crimson maple bough, gave token that the dreary autumn was not far-away; but the air was mild and balmy as june, and the bright sunlight made even the rough road and the low-lying stubble-fields look lovely, in christie's eyes. "how quiet and peaceful all things are!" she thought. the insects were chirping merrily enough, and now and then the voice of a bird was heard, and from the woodland pastures far-away the tinkle of sheep-bells fell pleasantly on the ear. but these sounds in no way jarred on the sabbath stillness; and as christie followed her sister along the narrow path that led them by a near way across the fields to the half-mile corner where the road took a sudden turn to the right, a strange feeling of peace stole over her. the burden of vexing and discontented thoughts, that too frequently weighed on her heart, seemed to fall away under the pleasant influence of the sunshine and the quiet, and she drew a long sigh of relief as she said, softly: "oh, effie! such a bonny day!" "yes," said effie, turning round for a moment, and smiling at her sister's brightening face. "it seems just such a day as one would choose the sabbath to be--so bright, yet so peaceful. i am very glad." but they could not say much yet; for the path was narrow, and there were stones and rough places, and now and then a little water to be avoided; so they went on quietly till they reached the low stone wall that separated the field from the high-road. the boughs of the old tree that hung over it were looking bare and autumn-like already, but under the flickering shadow they sat down for a while to rest. "hark!" said christie, as the sound of wheels reached them. "that must be the nesbitts. they never go to the gaelic service. i dare say they will ask us to ride." there was an echo of disappointment in her tone; and in a moment she added: "it is such a bonny day, and the walk would be so pleasant by and by in the cool shade!" "yes," said effie. "but if they ask us we'll ride; for six miles is a long walk for you. and it will be nice to ride, too." and so it was. the long wagon was drawn by two stout horses. no one was in it but john nesbitt and his mother; and they were both delighted to offer a seat to the young girls. christie sat on the front seat with john, who was quite silent, thinking his own thoughts or listening to the quiet talk going on between effie and his mother; and christie enjoyed her drive in silence too. how very pleasant it seemed! they went slowly, for they had plenty of time; and christie's eyes wandered over the scene--the sky, the changing trees, the brown fields and the green pastures--with an interest and enjoyment that surprised herself. there was not much to see; but any change was pleasant to the eyes that had rested for weeks on the same familiar objects. then the unaccustomed and agreeable motion exhilarated without wearying her. and when at last they came in sight of the kirk, christie could not help wishing that they had farther to go. the kirk, of itself, was rather an unsightly object than otherwise. except for the two rows of small windows on each side, it differed little in appearance from the large wooden barns so common in that part of the country. the woods were close behind it; and in the summer-time they were a pleasant sight. on one side lay the graveyard. on days when the sun did not shine, or in the autumn before the snow had come to cover up the long, rank grass, the graveyard was a very dreary place to christie, and instead of lingering in it she usually went into the kirk, even though the gaelic service was not over. but to-day she sat down near the door, at effie's side, and waited till the people should come out. mrs nesbitt had gone into a neighbour's house, and the two girls were quite alone. "effie," said christie, "i think the minister must preach better in gaelic than he does in english. just look in. nobody will see you. the folk are no' thinking about things outside." effie raised herself a little, and bent forward to see. it was a very odd-looking place. the pulpit was placed, not at the end of the house, as is usual in places of worship, but at one side. there was no aisle. the door opened directly into the body of the house, and from the place where they stood could be seen not only the minister, but the many earnest faces that were turned towards him. the lower part of the place was crowded to the threshold, and tier above tier of earnest faces looked down from the gallery. no sound save the voice of the preacher was heard, and on him every eye was fastened. a few of the little ones had gone to sleep, leaning on the shoulders of their elders; but all the rest were listening as though life and death depended on the words he uttered. the minister was speaking rapidly, and, as effie knew, solemnly, though she could only here and there catch the meaning of his words. indeed, it must have been easy to speak earnestly when addressing such a multitude of eager listeners, who were hungry for the bread of life. "i dare say the difference is in the hearers rather than in the preaching," said effie, turning away softly. "but, effie, many of them are the very same people. i wish i knew what he was saying!" "i dare say it is easier to speak in gaelic, for one thing. the folk, at least most of them, like it better, even when they understand english. and it must make a great difference to a minister when he sees people listening like that. i dare say he says the very same things to us in english." christie still stood looking in at the open door. "it ay minds me of the day of judgment," she said, "when i see the people sitting like that, and when they come thronging out into the kirk-yard and stand about among the graves." she shuddered slightly, and came and sat down beside effie, and did not speak again till the service was over. what a crowd there was then! how the people came pouring out--with faces grave and composed, indeed, but not half so solemn, christie thought, as they ought to have been! the voices rose to quite a loud hum as they passed from the door. greetings were interchanged, and arrangements were made for going home. invitations were given and accepted, and the larger part of the crowd moved slowly away. the english congregation was comparatively small. the english sermon immediately followed; but, whatever might be the reason, christie said many times to herself that there was a great difference in the minister's manner of preaching now. he looked tired. and no wonder. two long services immediately succeeding each other were enough to tire him. christie strove to listen and to understand. she did not succeed very well. she enjoyed the singing always, and especially to-day singing out of the psalms at the end of her own new bible. but though she tried very hard to make herself think that she enjoyed the sermon too, she failed; and she was not sorry when it was over and she found herself among the crowd in the kirk-yard again. she had still the going home before her. to her great delight, effie refused a ride in the nesbitts' wagon, in order that some who had walked in the morning might enjoy it. she hoped to have her sister all to herself for a little while. she did not, however. they were joined by several who were going their way; and more than one lengthened their walk and went home the longest way, for the sake of their company. it was not until they found themselves again at the half-mile corner that they were quite alone. christie sighed as she leaned for a moment on the wall. "you are tired, dear," said effie. "it is well we didna have to walk both ways. sit and rest a while." "i am not _very_ tired," said christie; but she sighed again as she sat down. "effie, i wish i liked better to go to the kirk." "why, christie?" said her sister, in surprise. "i thought you liked it very much. you said so in the morning." "yes, i know; i like the walk, and the getting away from home; and i like the singing, and to see the people. but the preaching--others seem to like it so much; but i don't. i don't understand half that is said. do you?" "i don't understand always," said effie, a little doubtfully. "and sometimes i canna help thinking about other things--the foolishest things!--stories, and bits of songs; and sometimes i get _so_ sleepy." "it's wrong to think about other things in the kirk," said effie, scarcely knowing what to say. "but i canna help it! now, to-day i meant to try; and i did. some things i seemed to understand at the time; but most that he said i didna understand, and i have forgotten it all now. i don't believe i could tell even the text." "oh, yes, you could," said effie. "`therefore, being justified by faith, we have peace with god through our lord jesus christ.' don't you mind?" "yes; i mind now," said christie, turning to the verse in her new bible, and reading it, with several that followed. "do you mind what he said, effie?" "some things. he said a great many very important things." she paused, and tried to recollect. "he told us what justification meant. don't you mind?" "yes; but i knew that before, from the catechism." and she repeated the words. she paused a moment, considering, as if the words had a meaning she had not thought of before. "yes," said effie; "and he went on to explain all about it. i canna repeat much of it; but i understood the most of it, i think." "i was always waiting to hear something about the peace," said christie; "but he didna get to that." "no. he told us he had kept us too long on the first part of the subject. he'll give us the rest next sabbath." christie sighed. the chances were very much against her hearing what was to be said next sabbath. in a moment she repeated, musingly: "`pardoneth all our sins; accepteth us as righteous.' i never thought about that before. `the righteousness of christ imputed to us.' what is `imputed,' effie?" "it means put to our credit, as if it were our own," said effie. "i have read that somewhere." "do you understand all the catechism, effie?" asked christie, looking wonderingly into her face. effie laughed a little, and shook her head. "i don't understand it all, as the minister does, but i think i know something about every question. there is so much in the catechism." "yes, i suppose so," assented christie. "but it's a pity that all good books are so dull and so hard to understand." "why, i don't suppose they _are_ all dull. i am sure they are not," said effie, gravely. "well, _i_ find them so," said christie. "do you mind the book that andrew graham brought to my father--the one, you know, that he said his mother was never weary of reading? and my father liked it too--and my aunt; though i don't really think she liked it so much. well, i tried, on two different sabbaths, to read it. i thought i would try and find out what was wonderful about it. but i couldna. it seemed to me just like all the rest of the books. did _you_ like it, effie?" "i didna read it. it was sent home too soon. but, christie, you are but a little girl. it's no' to be supposed that you could understand all father can, or that you should like all that he likes. and besides," she added, after a pause, "i suppose god's people are different from other people. they have something that others have not-- a power to understand and enjoy what is hidden from the rest of the world." christie looked at her sister with undisguised astonishment. "what _do_ you mean, effie?" she asked. "i don't know that i can make it quite clear to you. but don't you mind how we smiled at wee willie for wanting to give his bonny picture-book to mrs grey's blind allie? it was a treasure to him; but to the poor wee blind lassie it was no better than an old copybook would have been. and don't you mind that david prays: `open thou mine eyes, that i may behold wondrous things out of thy law'? that must mean something. i am afraid most of those who read god's word fail to see `wondrous things' in it." effie's eyes grew moist and wistful as they followed the quivering shadows of the leaves overhead; and christie watched her silently for a while. "but, effie," she said, at last, "there are parts of the bible that everybody likes to read. and, besides, all the people that go to the kirk and listen as though they took pleasure in it are not god's people--nor all those who read dull books, either." effie shook her head. "i suppose they take delight in listening to what the preacher says, just as they would take pleasure in hearing a good address on any subject. but the word is not food and medicine and comfort to the like of them, as old mrs grey says it is to her. and we don't see them taking god's word as their guide and their law in all things, as god's people do. it is not because they love it that they read and listen to it. there is a great difference." "yes," said christie; "i suppose there is." but her thoughts had flown far-away before effie had done speaking. a vague impression, that had come to her mind many times before, was fast taking form: she was asking herself whether effie was not among those whose eyes had been opened. she was different from what she used to be. not that she was kinder, or more mindful of the comfort of others, than she remembered her always to have been. but she was different, for all that. could it be that effie had become a child of god? were her sins pardoned? was she accepted? had old things passed away, and all things become new to her? christie could not ask her. she could hardly look at her, in the midst of the new, shy wonder that was rising within her. yes, there were wonder and pleasure, but there was pain too--more of the latter than of the former. had a barrier suddenly sprung up between her and the sister she loved best? a sense of being forsaken, left alone, came over her--something like the feeling that had nearly broken her heart when, long ago, they told her that her mother had gone to heaven. a great wave of bitterness passed over her sinking heart. she turned away, that her sister might not see her face. "christie," said effie, in a minute or two, "i think we ought to go home. there will be some things to do; and if annie and sarah went to the sabbath-class, we should be needed to help." it was in christie's heart to say that she did not care to go home--she did not care to help--she did not care for anything. but she had no voice to utter such wrong and foolish words. so, still keeping her face turned away, she took her bible and began to roll it in her handkerchief--when a thought struck her. "effie," she asked, quickly, "do you believe that god hears us when we pray?" in the face now turned towards her, effie saw tokens that there was something wrong with her little sister. but, accustomed to her changing moods and frequent petulance, she answered, quietly: "surely, christie, i believe it. the bible says so." "yes; i ken that," said christie, with some impatience in her tone. "the bible says so, and people believe it in a general way. but is it true? do _you_ believe it?" "surely i believe it," said effie, slowly. she was considering whether it would be best to say anything more to her sister, vexed and unhappy as her voice and manner plainly showed her to be; and while she hesitated, christie said again, more quietly: "if god hears prayer, why are most people so miserable?" "i don't think most people _are_ miserable," said effie, gravely. "i don't think anybody that trusts in god can be very miserable." christie leaned back again on the stone, from which she had half risen. "those who have been pardoned and accepted," she _thought_; but aloud she _said_, "well, i don't know: there are some good people that have trouble enough. there's old mrs grey. wave after wave of trouble has passed over her. i heard the minister say those very words to father about her." "but, christie," said her sister, gravely, "you should ask mrs grey, some time, if she would be willing to lose her trust in god for the sake of having all her trouble taken away. i am quite sure she would not hesitate for a moment. she would smile at the thought of even pausing to choose." "but, effie, that's not what we are speaking about. i'm sure that mrs grey prayed many and many a time that her son john might be spared to his family. just think of them, so helpless--and their mother dead, and little allie blind! and the minister prayed for him too, in the kirk, and all the folk, that so useful a life might be spared. but, for all that, he died, effie." "yes; but, christie, mrs grey never prayed for her son's life except in submission to god's will. if his death would be for the glory of god, she prayed to be made submissive to his will, and committed herself and her son's helpless little ones to god's keeping." christie looked at her sister with eyes filled with astonishment. "you don't mean to say that if mrs grey had had her choice she wouldna have had her son spared to her?" "i mean that if she could have had her choice she would have preferred to leave the matter in god's hands. she would never have chosen for herself." "christie," she added, after a pause, "do you mind the time when our willie wanted father's knife, and how, rather than vex him, annie gave it to him? do you mind all the mischief he did to himself and others? i suppose some of our prayers are as blind and foolish as willie's wish was, and that god shows his loving kindness to us rather by denying than by granting our requests." "then what was the use of praying for mrs grey's son, since it was god's will that he should die? what is the use of anybody's praying about anything?" effie hesitated. there was something in christie's manner indicating that it was not alone the mere petulance of the moment that dictated the question. "i am not wise about these things, christie," she said. "i only know this: god has graciously permitted us to bring our troubles to him. he has said, `ask, and ye shall receive; seek, and ye shall find.' he has said, `he that asketh receiveth, and he that seeketh findeth.' and in the psalms, `call upon me in the day of trouble, and i will deliver thee, and thou shalt glorify me.' we need not vex ourselves, surely, about _how_ it is all to happen. god's word is enough." "but then, effie, there are prayers that god doesna hear." "there are many things that god does not give us when we ask him; but, christie, god does hear the prayers of his people. yes, and he answers them too--though not always in the way that they wish or expect, yet _always_ in the _best_ way for them. of this they may be sure. if he does not give them just what they ask for, he will give them something better, and make them willing to be without the desired good. there is nothing in the whole bible more clearly told than that god hears the prayers of his people. we need never, _never_ doubt that." but christie did not look satisfied. "`his people,'" she murmured, "but no others." effie looked perplexed. "i am not wise in these matters, as i have just told you," she said, gravely. "until lately i havena thought much about them. but i think that people sometimes vex themselves in vain. it is to the thirsty who are seeking water that god promises to open fountains. it is to the weary and heavy-laden that christ has promised rest. i am sure that those who feel their need of god's help need not fear that they will be refused anything--i mean, anything that is good for them." "there is a difference, i suppose," she added, after a pause. "we may ask for many a temporal blessing that might be our ruin if god were to grant it to us; and in love he withholds such, often. but when we ask for spiritual blessing, for the grace of strength to do or of patience to bear his will, if we ask for guidance, for wisdom to direct us, we need not fear that we shall be denied. and, having these, other things don't matter so much, to god's people." "`to god's people,'" repeated christie to herself again. "well, i am not one of them. it's nothing that can do me any good." she did not answer her sister, but rose up slowly, saying it was time to go. so she climbed over the low stone wall, and walked on in silence. effie followed quietly. not a word was spoken till they reached the bend of the brook over which hung the birch-tree. past this, her favourite resting-place, christie rarely went without lingering. she would not have paused to-night, however, had not effie, who had fallen a little behind by this time, called her. "oh, christie! look at the clouds! did you ever see anything so beautiful? how beautiful!" she repeated, as she came and stood beside her. "it was a long time before i could become used to the sun's sinking down in that low, far-away place. i missed the hills that used to hide him from us at home. how well i remember the sunsets then, and the long, quiet gloamings!" "home" was over the sea, and "then" was the time when a mother's voice and smile mingled with all other pleasant things; and no wonder that effie sighed, as she stood watching the changing hues near the low horizon. the "home" and "then" were the last drops added to christie's cup of sad memories; and the overflow could no longer be stayed. she kept her face turned away from her sister, but could not hide the struggle within, and at effie's very first word her sobs broke forth. "what is the matter, christie? there must be something you have not told me about. you are weary: that is it. sit down here again, and rest. we need not hurry home, after all." christie sank down, struggling with her tears. "it's nothing, effie," she said, at last. "i'm sure i didna mean to vex you with my crying; but i canna help it. there is nothing the matter with me more than usual. never mind me, effie." "well, sit still a little," said effie, soothingly. "you are tired, i do believe." "yes," said christie, recovering herself with a great effort. "it's partly that, i dare say; and--" she stopped, not being further sure of her voice. effie said nothing, but gently stroked her hair with her hand. the gentle touch was more than christie could bear, at the moment. "effie, don't!" she cried, vainly struggling to repress another gush of tears. in a little while she grew quiet, and said, "i know i'm very foolish, effie; but i canna help it." "never mind," said effie, cheerfully; for she knew by the sound of her voice that her tears were over for this time. "a little shower sometimes clears the sky; and now the sun will shine again." she stooped down, and dipping her own handkerchief in the brook, gave it to her sister to bathe her hot cheeks; and soon she asked, gravely: "what is it, christie?" "it's nothing," said christie, eagerly. "nothing more than usual. i'm tired, that's all,--and you are going away,--and it will be just the same thing every day till you come back,--going to bed tired, and getting up tired, and doing the same thing over and over again to very little purpose. i'm sure i canna see the good of it all." effie could not but smile at her words and manner. "well, i suppose that will be the way with every one, mostly. i'm sure it will be the way with me. except the getting up tired," she added, laughing. "i'm glad to say i don't very often do that. i'm afraid my life is not to much purpose either, though i do wish it to be useful," she continued, more gravely. "oh, well, it's very different with you!" said christie, in a tone that her sister never liked to hear. she did not reply for a moment. then she said: "it will be easier for you now that the harvest is over. annie and sarah will be in the house, and you will have less to do. and, besides, they will make it more cheerful." christie made a movement of impatience. "you are like aunt elsie. you think that i like to be idle and don't wish to do my share. at any rate, the girls being in the house will make little difference to me. i shall have to be doing something all the time--little things that don't come to anything. well, i suppose there is no help for it. it will be all the same in the end." poor christie! she had a feeling all the time that she was very cross and unreasonable, and she was as vexed as possible with herself for spoiling this last precious half-hour with effie by her murmurs and complaints. she had not meant it. she was sorry they had waited by the brook. she knew it was for her sake that effie had proposed to sit down in her favourite resting-place; but before she had well uttered the last words she was wishing with all her heart that they had hurried on. effie looked troubled. christie felt rather than saw it; for her face was turned quite away, and she was gathering up and casting from her broken bits of branches and withered leaves, and watching them as they were borne away by the waters of the brook. christie would have given much to know whether she was thinking of her foolish words, or of something else. "i suppose she thinks it's of no use to heed what i say. and now i have spoiled all the pleasure of thinking about to-day." soon she asked, in a voice which had quite lost the tone of peevishness: "when will you come home again, effie?" effie turned towards her immediately. "i don't know. i'm not quite sure, yet. but, christie, i canna bear to hear you speak in that way--as though you saw no good in anything. did you ever think how much worse it might be with you and with us all?" in her heart, christie was saying she did not think things _could_ be much worse, as far as _she_ was concerned; but she only looked at her sister, without speaking. "for, after all," continued effie, "we are very well off with food and shelter, and are all at home together. you are not very strong, it is true, and you have much to do and aunt elsie is not always considerate; or, rather, she has not always a pleasant way of showing her considerateness. she's a little sharp sometimes, i know. but she suffers more than she acknowledges, and we all ought to bear with her. you have the most to bear, perhaps; but--" "it's no' that, effie," interrupted christie. "i don't mind having much to do. and i'm sure it never enters into aunt elsie's head that i have anything to bear from her. she thinks she has plenty to bear, from me and from us all. i wouldna care if it came to anything. i could bear great trials, i know, and do great things; but this continual worry and vexation about nothing--it never ends. every day it is just to begin over again. and what does it all amount to when the year's over?" "hush, christie," said her sister. "the time may come when the remembrance of these words will be painful to you. the only way we can prove that we would bear great trials well is by bearing little trials well. we don't know how soon great trials may come upon us. every night that i come home, i am thankful to find things just as i left them. we need be in no hurry to have any change." christie was startled. "what _do_ you mean, effie? are you afraid of anything happening?" "oh, no," she said, cheerfully, "i hope not. i dare say we shall do very well. but we must be thankful for the blessings we have, christie, and hopeful for the future." "folk say father is not a very good farmer. is that it, effie?" christie spoke with hesitation, as though she was not quite sure how her sister would receive her remark. "but we are getting on better now." effie only answered the last part of what she said. "yes, we are getting on better. father says we have raised enough to take us through the year, with something to spare. it's all we have to depend on--so much has been laid out on the farm; and it must come in slowly. but things _will_ wear out; and the bairns--i wish i could bide at home this winter." "oh, if you only could!" cried christie, eagerly. effie shook her head. "i can do more good to all by being away. and my wages have been raised. i couldna leave just now. oh, i dare say we shall do very well. but, christie, you must not fret and be discontented, and think what you do is not worth while. it is the motive that makes the work of any one's life great or small. it is little matter, in one sense, whether it be teaching children, or washing dishes, or ruling a kingdom, if it is done in the right way and from right principles. i have read, somewhere, that the daily life of a poor unknown child, who, striving against sin, does meekly and cheerfully what is given him to do, may be more acceptable in the sight of god than the suffering of some whom their fellow-men crown as martyrs. if we could only forget ourselves and live for others!" she sighed as she rose to go. "but come, child: we must hurry home now." christie had no words with which to answer her. she rose and followed in silence. "if we could forget ourselves and live for others!" she murmured. that was not _her_ way, surely. every day, and every hour of the day, it was herself she thought of. either she was murmuring over her grievances, or pitying herself for them, or she was dreaming vain dreams of a future that should have nothing to vex or annoy. her life's work was worth little, indeed, judging it by effie's standard. she did all that she did, merely because she could not help it. as to forgetting herself and thinking of others-- but who did so? no one that she knew, unless, perhaps, effie herself. and effie had a great many things to make her life pleasant, she thought. perhaps her father? but then, her father did what he did for his children. all fathers did the same, she supposed. no; she doubted whether any one came near effie's idea of what life should be. it would be a very different world indeed if all did so. they were quite close to the house before christie got thus far; and a glimpse of her father's careworn face filled her with something like self-reproach. "i wish i could do him some good! but what can i do? he has never been the same since mother died. nobody has been the same since that--except effie; and she is better and kinder every day. oh, i wish i could be like her! but it's of no use wishing;--i can never be like her. oh, how tired i am!" she started at the sound of aunt elsie's voice asking, rather sharply, what had kept them so long. she turned away, impatient of the question, and impatient of the cheerful answer with which effie sought to turn aside her aunt's displeasure. she was impatient of annie's regrets that their long delay had spoiled their supper, and of sarah's questions as to who had been at the kirk, and answered them both shortly. she was impatient of the suppressed noise of the little ones, and vexed at her own impatience more than all. "i dinna think your going to the kirk has done you much good. what ails you, christie? one would think you had the sins of a nation to answer for, by your face." "whisht, annie," interposed effie. "christie's tired, and her head aches, i'm sure. dinna vex her--poor thing!" "well, if she would only say that, and no' look so glum!" said annie, laughing, as she set aside the bowl of milk intended for christie's supper. in a moment she returned with a cup of tea, and placed it where the bowl had stood. "there!" she said; "that will do your head good, and your temper too, i hope. i'm sure you look as though you needed it." christie would fain have resented both her sister's kindness and her thoughtless words, by taking no notice of the tea; but effie interposed again: "you are very kind, annie. what a pity you should spoil all by those needless words!" annie laughed. "nonsense!" she said. "i didna mean to say anything unkind. christie mustna be so testy. don't tell me that you like milk better than tea. christie will enjoy hers all the better if you take one too." and she placed it before her. "thank you. it's very nice," said effie. "but the milk would have done very well." the quick tap of aunt elsie's cane was heard approaching. "i doubt you are getting away from sabbath subjects," said aunt elsie. "haste you with your supper, bairns--your father's waiting to have worship. christie, if you are tired, you should go to bed at once." for once, christie did not wait for a second bidding. she was very tired; and long before the usual sabbath evening's examination was over, she had forgotten her doubts and fears and vexing thoughts in sleep. chapter four. orphanhood. when christie was complaining of the small vexations and unvaried sameness of her daily life, she little dreamed how near at hand was the time when effie's words were to prove true. before the frost came to hush the pleasant murmur of the brook, or the snow had hidden alike the turf seat and the sear leaves of the birch-tree beside it, christie was looking back over the stolen moments passed there on summer afternoons, with feelings with which were mingled wonder and pain and self-reproach. for the shadow of a coming sorrow was over their household. day by day they seemed to be drawing nearer to a change which all saw, but which none had courage to name. the neighbours came and went, and spoke hopefully to the awed and anxious children; but they were grave, and said to one another that the poor young redferns would soon be fatherless. the harvest was quite over, and the assistance of the girls was no longer necessary out-of-doors, when one day mr redfern went alone to bring home the last load of turnips from a distant field; and when his children saw his face again it was like the face of the dead. whether he had been thrown from the cart he had been driving, or whether he had fallen in some sort of fit, they could not tell. even the doctor, who had been sent for from the next town, could not account for the state of stupor in which he found him. two days of painful suspense passed; and then, contrary to the expectation of all, mr redfern opened his eyes and spoke. for a few days he seemed to revive so rapidly that the doctor had hopes of his entire recovery. it would be a work of time, he said. his back had been much injured by the fall. he could never expect to be so strong as he had been before; but he did not doubt that a few weeks would restore him to a good degree of health and strength again. and so they all took courage. effie, who had been summoned home, would fain have remained for the winter; but this did not seem best. the surplus of the harvest, over which she and christie had so lately rejoiced, would be required to pay the wages of the man who must for the winter take their father's place; and effie's increased salary would be of more value than ever to the family. with a face which she strove to make cheerful for the sake of those she left behind, she went away; but her heart was heavy, and when she kissed christie a good-bye and bade her keep her courage up for the sake of all, she could hardly restrain her tears till the words were spoken. those who were left at home needed all the cheerfulness they could gather from each other; for it was a very dreary winter that lay before them. the passing weeks did not bring to mr redfern the health and strength so confidently promised by the doctor and so earnestly hoped for by his children. in her brief visits, effie could see little change in him from week to week--certainly none for the better. he gradually came to suffer less, and was always cheerful and patient; but the times when he could be relieved from the weariness of his bed by changing his position to the arm-chair were briefer and at longer intervals. and, in the meantime, another cloud was gathering over them. aunt elsie's rheumatism, which during the autumn had given her much trouble from time to time, was growing daily worse. painful days and sleepless nights were no longer the exception, but the rule; and not long after the coming in of the new year, the help which for a long time she had positively and even sternly refused, became a necessity to her. she could neither rise nor lie down without assistance, and she was fast losing the use of her limbs. she was patient, or at least she strove to be, towards her nieces; but she murmured audibly against god, who had so heavily afflicted them. the firm health and cheerful spirits of the girls, annie and sarah, stood them in good stead during those long months of suffering. sarah was the housekeeper, and she fulfilled the many and complicated duties of her office with an alacrity and success that might well surprise them all. she planned and arranged with the skill of a woman of experience, and carried out her plans with an energy and patience that seldom flagged. indeed, she seemed to find positive pleasure in the little make-shifts which their straitened means made every day more necessary, and boasted of her wonderful powers in a way so merry and triumphant that she cheered the rest when they needed it most. annie's task was harder than her sister's. the constant attendance upon the sick-beds of her father and her aunt was very trying to a girl accustomed to daily exercise in the open air; and there were days when her voice was not so cheerful nor so often heard among them as it might have been. but she was strong and patient, and grew daily more efficient as a nurse; and though she did not know it, she was getting just the discipline that she needed to check some faults and to strengthen her character at the points where it needed strengthening most. as for christie, she was neither nurse nor housekeeper; or rather, i ought to say, she was both by turns. it was still her duty to attend to little items here and there, which seem little when done, but the neglect of which would soon throw a household into confusion. it was "christie, come here," and "christie, go there," and "christie, do this and that," from morning till night, till she was too weary even to sleep when night came. her sisters did not mean to be exacting. indeed, they meant to be very kind and forbearing, and praised and petted her till she was ready to forget her weariness, as well as their unmindfulness of it. she did try very hard to be gentle, and patient, and useful, and almost always she succeeded; and the homecoming of effie on saturday night was the one event to which all her thoughts turned through the week, whether she was successful or not. and, indeed, christie was not the only one of them whose chief pleasure was a glimpse of effie's cheerful face. it did them all good to have her among them for a day or two every week. all looked to her for help and counsel; and she seldom failed or disappointed any one. whatever sad thoughts of the present or misgivings for the future she might have, she kept them, during her visits at home, quite to herself. so they who needed it so much enjoyed the good of her cheerfulness, and she suffered the doubts and suspense and painful anxiety of an elder sister in silence. the winter passed slowly and sadly away to the two invalids, in spite of the hopes that spring might do for them what those long winter months failed to do. march came and passed, and april brought new cares and duties. the coming of the young lambs first, and afterwards the care of the calves and the dairy, gave annie and sarah full employment for a time. annie's cheeks, that had grown thin and pale during the winter's confinement, began to get back their bright colour again. from this time the care of her father devolved almost entirely on christie. her aunt was, in one respect, better than she used to be. she rarely suffered such intense pain as during the first part of the winter; but every day was making it more apparent that she could never hope to have full use of her limbs again. to an affliction like this, aunt elsie could not look forward submissively. she came at last to acknowledge, in words, that her trouble was sent by god, and that she ought to submit, believing that out of the present trial he could bring blessing. but in her heart she murmured bitterly. she could not bear to think that her helplessness added greatly to the burden of care that their father's illness had brought on these young girls. yet her murmuring and repining spirit added to their troubles more than her helplessness did. those days were very dreary to aunt elsie. and on none of the family did the burden of her great unhappiness rest so heavily as upon christie. not that she had very much to do for her. after she was dressed by annie and settled in her low chair for the day, she asked and needed little further care. indeed, in the first misery of her helplessness she rather shrank from all assistance that was not absolutely indispensable, and almost resented all attempts to add to her comfort or relieve her pain. christie was never quite sure that her aunt was satisfied with anything that was done for her. she never complained; but her acceptance of service seemed always under protest, as though she would fain have refused it if she had had the power. her very sympathy with the child in her weariness was so expressed as to seem like a reproach. in her attendance upon her father it was very different. all that was done for him was right; and his gentle thanks for her constant ministrations made the service sweet to his weary little daughter. no doubt he passed many a sorrowful day during that long and painful winter; but he suffered no murmur of his to add to the distress of those dear to him. in the silence of many a long and wakeful night, he could not but look in the face the possibility that his children might be left orphans, and the thought could not be otherwise than one of great pain. but he suffered no expression of doubt or fear to discourage them. he wished to live for their sakes; and for a long time he believed that he should live. but the hope passed away with the winter. as the days began to grow long, and the time approached when his children hoped he would be well again, the conviction gradually dawned upon him that the summer air would bring no healing. he felt that he had taken his last look of the snows of winter, that the willow buds and the pale spring blossoms that his little ones brought to him so lovingly were the last he should ever see. for himself it would be well; but for his children--! none but he who knoweth all things knew the pang that rent his heart at the thought of them! orphans and strangers in a strange land, what was to become of his young daughters? some of those bright may days were dark enough, as he groped amid the gloom of his great fear for them. but the faith of the christian triumphed. before the time came to speak the words which were to chase all hope from their hearts, he could speak them calmly and even hopefully. the voice that never speaks in vain had said to the ear of faith, "leave thy fatherless children with _me_;" and he was thenceforth at peace. he sometimes sighed when he noticed the look of care that could not always be chased from the brow of his elder girls; but almost always he was at peace about them and their future. as for them, they were altogether hopeful. they never saw the cloud that was growing darker and drawing nearer during those bright spring days. in after days, they wondered at their strange unconcern, and said to one another, "how could we have been so blind?" they were grave and anxious many a time, but never with the fear of death. they held long consultations together when effie was at home; but it was always how they might arrange their affairs so that they need not vex nor annoy their father while he was not strong. they did not apprehend how near was the time when no earthly care should have power to vex him. even effie, more thoughtful and anxious than the rest, cheated herself with the hope that time alone was needed to restore him. whatever aunt elsie saw in her brother's changing face, she said nothing of her fears till the time for self-deception was past with them all. when the time of his departure drew very near, they even thought him better, because he suffered less, and because a far greater part of his time was spent in his arm-chair, or in moving about the room. more than once, too, he was able, by the help of his staff and of a daughter's willing arm, to go into the garden, or to the turf seat at the end of the house; and his enjoyment of the pleasant spring air and the pleasant spring sights and sounds beguiled them into the belief that he was becoming himself again. but, alas! it was not so. when the suffering passed away, there came in its place a feeling of restlessness that could not be controlled. there was rest for him nowhere. he grew weary of the bed, weary of the arm-chair, weary of his aimless wanderings up and down. at such times, christie's voice, singing or reading, had, now and then, a power to soothe, sometimes to quiet, sometimes even to put him to sleep. and, indeed, she grew very skilful in her efforts to soothe and amuse him; and at any hour of the night or day a movement of his would bring her to his side. a softly-spoken word, or the loving touch of his hand upon her head, was enough to make her forget all her weakness and weariness; and during her whole life, or, at least, since her mother's death, christie had passed no happier days than in that last month of her father's life. "your voice is like your mother's, christie, my lassie," he said one night, when all but themselves were sleeping. christie gave a quick look into his face. he smiled. "yes, and you have reminded me of her in various ways during the last few weeks. i hope you will be as good a woman as your mother was, christie." she was not a demonstrative child, usually; but now she dropped her face upon her fathers hand, and he felt the fall of her warm tears. it was gently withdrawn, and laid upon her head, and in words that christie never forgot, he prayed god to bless her. but even with the joy that thrilled her there came upon her a shudder of awe--a fearful certainty that she was listening to the words of a dying man. for a time she lay quite motionless, and her father slumbered with his hand still upon her head. he breathed quite softly and regularly, and in a little time christie found courage to raise herself and to look into his face. there was no change on it, such as she had heard comes always to the face of the dying, and gradually the quick beating of her heart ceased. as she stood gazing, he opened his eyes and met her look. "you are weary and wan, poor child," he said. "you should have let annie or sarah be with me to-night. lie down and rest." "are you worse, father? would you like to have me call annie or sarah?" he looked surprised. "no; i am very comfortable. i think i shall sleep. lie down and rest, my poor, weary lamb." she moved the light so that his face might be in the shadow, and then laid herself down on the low bed near him. she did not mean to sleep; she thought she could not, but weariness overcame her, and she did not waken till annie lifted the window-curtain and let the light stream in on her face. she woke with a start and a cry; but a glance at her sister's serene face reassured her. "you frightened little creature! what makes you jump out of your sleep in that way? i doubt if you have slept much, and yet father says he has had a good night." "oh, yes, i have," said she, with a sigh of relief. "i think i have been dreaming." looking into her father's face for confirmation of annie's assurance that he was better, he met her look with a smile which quite banished her fears, saying he was very comfortable and had slept well. once or twice during the day her fears came back; but she strove to chase them away, calling herself foolish and unthankful. and she could easily do so; for he did seem really better. he conversed more than usual with aunt elsie--though christie did not understand all they said. she only knew that they spoke earnestly, and that her father spoke cheerfully. aunt elsie looked grave and doubtful enough. "but she always does," thought christie. "i can judge nothing by that." he went farther down the garden-walk than he had ever gone yet; and he looked so cheerful, sitting in the sunshine, that christie smiled at her unreasonable fears. alas! that day was to be ever memorable to the redfern children, as the last on which the sunshine ever rested on their father's face. he never trod the garden path again. that night effie came home, and did not go away again till all was over. christie never knew very well how those days passed. she remembered running down the lane to meet her sister in the twilight, and the irresistible impulse that came over her to tell of the terrible fear that had come upon her as she sat that night with her father's hand on her head. she called herself foolish and weak, and hastened to tell her sister how much better he had been through the day, how he had walked down the garden and enjoyed the sunshine, and how easy and peaceful he had been since then. but the shadow that had fallen on effie's face at her first words did not pass away as she continued to speak; and it was with eyes opened to see "the beginning of the end" that she came into her father's chamber. she did not leave him again. christie slept on the couch near him; but all night long effie sat with her eyes fixed on her father's changing face. he did not bid her lie down, as he was wont to do. he always smiled when he met her look, and once he said, "i have much to say to you, effie;" but, while she listened for more, he slumbered again. and so the night passed. the light of the morning made the change more visible. sarah saw it when she came in. they did not need to tell each other what they feared. when christie awoke, it was to see the anxious faces of the three sisters bending over their father. she rose mechanically, and stood beside them. "is he worse?" she asked. "he seems sleeping quietly." she did not need to say more. "annie," said effie, in a little time, beckoning her sister away from the bed, "aunt elsie must have her breakfast before she is told this; and the bairns--" effie's voice failed her for a moment. "we must try and keep them quiet." annie said something in a low voice about the doctor; effie shook her head. "it's of no use," said effie. "still, we might send. i'll tell james." and she went out. a little after daybreak he seemed to rouse himself for a moment; but he soon slumbered again. by and by their neighbours, who had heard from the messenger sent for the doctor that mr redfern was worse, came dropping in. they looked in for a moment upon the group of girls gathered round their father's bed, and then, for the most part, seated themselves in the outer room with aunt elsie. mrs nesbitt and her son john lingered in the room, and whispered together. in a little while the mother beckoned to effie. "my poor bairn," she said, "if you have anything to say to your father, or anything to ask of him, it had better be now." effie gave a quick, startled look. "now?" she said. "so soon?" "effie, my bairn, for the sake of the rest," whispered her friend. in a minute or two she was able to take her old place by the pillow. as she bent over her father, the doctor came in. he stood for a moment looking down on him. "speak to him," he said. "father," said effie, stooping, with her face close to his. "father." he stirred a little at the sound of her voice, and his fingers wandered aimlessly over the coverlet. "is it morning?" he asked. "father," repeated effie, "dr grey is here." he opened his eyes at that, and met the look of the doctor fixed on him. "oh, is the end come?" he asked. "i didna think it would be so soon. did i hear effie's voice? i have so much to say to her! my poor bairns!" effie bent her face again close to his. her voice was low, but firm and clear. "father, don't let any thought of us disturb you now. god is good. i am not afraid." "and your aunt, she has suffered much, sacrificed much for us. consider her first in all things. be guided by her." "yes, father." "there are other things. i didna think this was to be so soon; and now it is too late. but you have some kind friends. did i hear john nesbitt's voice?" "yes, father; he is here." and she beckoned to john to come nearer. but he seemed to have forgotten him john stooped towards him, and said, in a low voice: "is there anything i can say that would make it easier for you to leave them?" the eyes of the dying man turned towards him, slowly. "john, you are a good man, and true. they will be very solitary. you will be their friend?" "always. so help me god!" the words were spoken like the words of a vow. the dying man's mind seemed to wander a little after that; for he asked again if it was morning, and what was to be done in the field to-day. but effie's pale face bending over him seemed to recall all. "effie," he said, "i leave them all with you--just as i would have left them with your mother. be to them what she would have been to you all. you will ay be mindful of the little ones, effie?" "father, with god's help, i will," she answered, firmly. "poor little ones! poor wee christie!" he murmured. they brought them to him, guiding his hand till it rested on each head, one after the other. "fear god, and love one another." it was all he had strength to say, now. john nesbitt read from the bible a verse or two now and then, speaking slowly, that the dying man might hear. then an old man, one of the elders of the kirk, prayed by the bedside. the uneasy movement of his head upon the pillow, and the aimless efforts of his hands to grasp something, were the only signs of suffering that he gave; and when effie took his hand in hers, these ceased. "if christie would sing, i think i could sleep," he said. "her voice is like her mother's." effie beckoned to her sister. "try, christie; try," she said. but christie's lips could utter no sound. john nesbitt began, "the lord's my shepherd;" and in a little time several trembling voices joined. when they came to the verse: "yea, though i walk through death's dark vale, yet will i fear no ill; for thou art with me, and thy rod and staff me comfort still,--" they rose full, clear, and triumphant. they were the last sounds he heard on earth. when they ended, mrs nesbitt's hand was gently laid on their father's eyelids, and at the sight of that the children knew they were orphans. chapter five. clouds and sunshine. when a great sorrow has just fallen upon us, we find it impossible to feel that all things about us are not changed. we cannot imagine ourselves falling into the old daily routine again. the death of one dear to us gives us a shock which seems to unsettle the very foundation of things. a sense of insecurity and unreality pervades all that concerns us. we shrink from the thought that the old pleasures will charm us again, that daily cares will occupy our minds to the exclusion of to-day's sadness, that time will heal the wounds that smart so bitterly now. but it does; and as it passes, we find ourselves going the old rounds, enjoying the old pleasures, doing the duties which the day brings; and the great healer does his kindly office, to the soothing of our pain. it is not that our bereavement is no longer felt, or that we have forgotten the friend we loved. but the human heart is a harp with many strings. though one be broken, there are others which answer to the touch of the wandering breezes; and though the music may be marred in some of its measures, it is still sweet. the young cannot long sit under the shadow of a great sorrow, if there be any chance rays of sunshine gleaming. besides, the poor have no time to sit down and nurse their grief. when little more than a week had passed after mr redfern's death, effie was obliged to return to the ruling and guiding of her noisy little kingdom. she went sadly enough; and many an anxious thought went back to the household at home. but she could not choose but go. they had agreed among themselves that there should be no change till after the harvest should be gathered in, and in the meantime, all the help that she could give was needed. her monthly wages were growing doubly precious in her estimation. they were the chief dependence at home. the sowing and planting had been on a limited scale this spring, and all outdoor matters, except what pertained to the dairy, could very well be attended to by james cairns, their hired man, who was strong and willing. so annie and sarah were in the house, and the little ones went to school as soon as the summer weather came. as for christie, little was expected from her besides attending to aunt elsie, and reading to her now and then. these were easy enough duties, one would think, considering how little attention aunt elsie was willing to accept from any one. but light as they were, christie could not hide, and did not always _try_ to hide, the truth that they were irksome to her. poor little christie! how miserable she was, often! how mortified and ashamed of herself! this was all so different from what she had meant to be when effie went away--a help and a comfort to all. there were times when she strove bravely with herself: she strove to be less peevish, and to join the rest in their efforts to be useful and cheerful; but she almost always failed, and every new failure left her less able and less willing to try again. but christie was not so much to blame for these shortcomings as she had sometimes been. the great reaction from the efforts and anxieties before her father's death, as well as the shock of that event, left her neither strength nor power to exert herself or to interest herself in what was passing. her sisters meant kindly in claiming no help about the household work from her, but they made a mistake in so doing. active work, that would have really tired her, and left her no time for melancholy musings, would have been far better for her. as it was, she could apply herself to no employment, not even her favourite reading. her time, when not immediately under her aunt's eye, was passed in listless wanderings to and fro, or in sitting with folded hands, thinking thoughts that were unprofitable always, and sometimes wrong. fits of silence alternated with sudden and violent bursts of weeping, which her sisters could neither soothe nor understand. indeed, she did not understand them herself. she struggled with them, ashamed of her folly and weakness; but she grew no better, but rather worse. she might well rejoice when, at the end of a fortnight, effie came home. the wise and loving elder sister was not long in discovering that the peevishness and listlessness of her young sister sprang from a cause beyond her control. she was ill from over-exertion, and nervous from over-excitement and grief. nothing could be worse for her than this confinement to aunt elsie's sick-room, added to the querulousness of aunt elsie herself. "you should let christie help with the milking, as she used to do," she said to sarah. "it would be far better for her than sitting so much in aunt elsie's room. she seems ill and out of sorts." "yes, she's out of sorts," said sarah, with less of sympathy in her tone than effie had shown. "there's no telling what to do with her sometimes. she can scarcely bear a word, but bursts out crying if the least thing is said to her. i dare say she is not very well, poor child!" "she seems far from well, indeed," said effie, gravely. "and i'm sure you, or i either, would find our spirits sink if we were to spend day after day in aunt elsie's room. you don't know what it is till you try it." sarah shrugged her shoulders. "i dare say we should. but christie doesna seem to mind much what aunt elsie says. i'm sure i thought she liked better to be there than to be working hard in the kitchen or dairy." "she may like it better, but it's no' so good for her, for all that. you should send her out, and try and cheer her up, poor lassie! she's no' so strong as the rest of us; and she suffers much from the shock." that night, when the time for bringing home the cows came, effie took her sun-bonnet from the nail, saying carelessly: "i'm going to the pasture. are you coming, christie?" "for the cows?" said christie, tartly. "the bairns go for them." "oh, but i'm going for the pleasure of the walk. we'll go through the wheat, and down by the brook. come." christie would far rather have stayed quietly at home, but she did not like to refuse effie; and so she went, and was better for it. at first effie spoke of various things which interested them as a family; and christie found herself listening with pleasure to all her plans. at the side of the brook, where they sat down for a while, as they usually did, they spoke of their father and mother; and though christie wept, it was not that nervous weeping which sometimes so exhausted her. she wept gently; and when effie spoke of the love that should bind them all closely together, now that they were orphans, she prayed inwardly that god would make her more patient and loving than she had lately been. her heart was lighter than it had been for days, when they rose to go. they went to the kirk together the next day too. they did not walk; so there was no lingering in the kirk-yard or at the half-mile corner. but the day was fine and the air pleasant; and the motion of the great wagon in which they drove, though not very easy, was agreeable for a change, and christie enjoyed it all. i am afraid she did not enjoy the sermon better than usual. she had a great many wandering thoughts, and she had to struggle against overpowering drowsiness, which she did not quite succeed in casting off. but she enjoyed the kind greetings and looks of sympathy that awaited them in the kirk-yard, though they brought many tears to effie's eyes, and sent them gushing over her own pale cheeks. she was glad of old mrs grey's sweet, cheerful words, and of the light pressure of blind allie's little hand. she was glad when she heard mrs nesbitt ask effie to bring her sister over to pass a week with her, and more glad still when effie made the promise, saying the change would do her good. altogether, the day was a pleasant one, and christie went home better and more cheerful than she had been since her father's death. but before the week was over she had fallen back into the old way again; and when effie came home on saturday, she found her as wan and listless and peevish as ever. something must be done without delay, thought the elder sister. so, that night, as she sat with annie and sarah in her aunt's room, when all the little ones had gone to bed, she said: "aunt elsie, i am going to take christie back with me, to stay a week with mrs nesbitt." aunt elsie looked astonished and somewhat displeased. "why should you do the like of that?" she asked. "oh, just for a change. she's not very well, i think, and a little change will do her good." "folk canna ay get changes when they would like them," said aunt elsie, coldly. "i see nothing more than usual the matter with her. if she's no' well, home's the best place for her. i see no cause why mrs nesbitt should be troubled with the likes of her." "oh, mrs nesbitt winna think it a trouble. christie will be no trouble to her. i know she canna well be spared. you'll miss her; but she'll be all the better a nurse when she comes home strong and cheerful." "i beg you winna think about me in making your plans for pleasuring," said her aunt, in a tone which always made those who heard it uncomfortable. "i'll try and do without her services for a while. she thinks much of herself; and so do you, it seems." there was an unpleasant pause, during which effie congratulated herself on the forethought that had sent christie safely to bed before the matter was discussed. annie, as she generally did in similar circumstances, started another subject, hoping to avert anything more unpleasant. but effie wanted the matter decided, and aunt elsie had something more to say. "it's my belief you mean to spoil the lassie, if she's no spoiled already, petting and making a work with her as though she were really ill. ill! it's little any of you ken what it is to be ill." "i don't think she's very ill," said effie, gently; "but she's nervous and weary and out of sorts, and i think maybe a change--" "nervous!" repeated aunt elsie, contemptuously. "it was better days when there was less said about nerves than i am in the way of hearing now. let a bairn be cross, or sulky, and, oh! it's nervous she is, poor thing! let her have a change. i know not, for my part, what the world is coming to. nervous, indeed!" "i didna mean to excuse christie's peevishness--far from it," said effie. "i know you have not a cheerful companion in her. but i do think she is not well; and as mrs nesbitt asked her, i thought perhaps you wouldna mind letting her go for a while." "it matters little what i may think on that or any other subject," said aunt elsie, in a tone which betrayed that anger was giving place to sadness. "helpless as i am, and burdensome, i should take what consideration i can get, and be thankful. i needna expect that my wishes will govern any of you." this was very unjust, and the best way to make her feel that it was so was to keep silence; and not a word was said in reply. in a little time she said, again-- "i dinna see how you can think of taking the child away anywhere, and a printed calico all that she has in the way of mourning, and her father not buried a month yet." "it would matter very little at mrs nesbitt's," said effie, congratulating herself on her aunt's softening tone, but not seeming to notice it. "times are sorely changed with us, when the price of a gown more or less is felt as it is," said aunt elsie, with a sigh. "i have seen the day--" and she wandered off to other matters. effie chose to consider the affair of christie's going settled. and so it was. no further objection was made; and they went together the next afternoon. if effie could have chosen among all the pleasant homes of glengarry, she could have found no better place for her young sister than mrs nesbitt's. it was quiet and cheerful at the same time. christie could pursue her own occupations, and go her own way, no one interfering with her, so long as her way was the right way and her occupation such as would do her no injury. but there were no listless wanderings to and fro, no idle musings, permitted here. no foolish reading was possible. if a shadow began to gather on the child's brow, her attention was claimed immediately, either by jean, the merry maid-of-all-work, or by mrs nesbitt herself. there were chickens to feed, or vegetables to be gathered, or the lambs were to be counted, or some other good reason was found why she should betake herself to the fresh air and the pleasant fields or the garden. the evenings were always bright. there was no danger of being dull where mrs nesbitt's merry boys were. her family consisted of four sons. john, the eldest, was just twenty-three--though, for some reason or other, the young redferns were in the habit of thinking him quite a middle-aged man. perhaps it was because he was usually so grave and quiet; perhaps because of a rumour they had heard that john meant, some day, to be a minister. he taught a sabbath-class too, and took part in meetings, like a much older man than he was. the other lads were considerably younger. lewis, the second son, was not yet eighteen; charles was twelve, and little dan not more than nine. they were neither grave nor quiet. the house was transformed into a very different place when they crossed the threshold from the field or the school. in a fashion of her own, christie enjoyed their fun and frolic very much. she told effie, when she came to see her, that she had heard more laughter that week than she had heard in canada in all her life before. as for them, they wondered a little at her shyness and her quiet ways; but they were tolerant, for boys, of her fancies and failings, and beguiled her into sharing many a ramble and frolic with them. once she went to her sister's school, which was three miles from the nesbitt farm, and once she spent a day with mrs nesbitt at old mrs grey's, and they brought little allie home with them. the little blind girl was a constant wonder and delight. she was as cheerful and happy as were any of the merry nesbitt boys; and if there was less noise among them when she was one of the circle, there was no less mirth. to say that she was patient under her affliction would not be saying enough; she did not seem to feel her blindness as an affliction, so readily and sweetly did she accept the means of happiness yet within her reach. to christie, the gentle, merry little creature was a constant rebuke, and all the more that she knew the little one was unconscious of the lesson she was teaching. there was no service in the kirk the next sabbath, so, instead of going home as usual, effie, for christie's sake, accepted mrs nesbitt's invitation to spend it at her house. she saw with delight the returning colour on her little sister's cheek, and noticed the change for the better that had taken place in her health and spirits, and inwardly she rejoiced over the success of her plan. "she shall have another week at this pleasant place, if possible--and more than that." and she sighed to think how much the poor girl might have to try both health and spirits when these pleasant weeks should be passed. but she did not let christie hear her sigh. she had only smiles and happy words for her. it was a very pleasant sabbath for christie--the very pleasantest she could remember to have passed. she could not agree with charlie nesbitt that it was "a little too long." she enjoyed every moment of it. she enjoyed the early walk, the reading, the singing, and the walk to john nesbitt's sabbath-class in the afternoon. it was rather far--three miles, nearly--and the walk tired her a little. but all the more for that did she enjoy her rest on the low sofa after tea. it was a very pleasant place, that parlour of mrs nesbitt's--so neat, so cool, so quiet. there was not much to distinguish it from other parlours in laidlaw; and, in general, they were prim and plain enough. there was a small figured carpet, crimson and black, upon the floor. it did not quite reach the wall on one side, for mrs nesbitt's scottish parlour had been smaller than this one; and the deficiency was supplied by a breadth of drugget, of a different shade of colour, which might have marred the effect somewhat to one more fastidious than christie. for the rest, the chairs were of some common wood and painted brown, the sofa was covered with chintz to match the window-curtains, and there was a pale blue paper on the walls. for ornaments, there were two or three pictures on the walls, and on the mantel-piece a great many curious shells and a quaint old vase or two. there was a bookcase of some dark wood in the corner, which was well filled with books, whose bindings were plain and dark, not to say dingy. there were few of christie's favourites among them; so that the charm of the room did not lie there. there was another small cabinet, with a glass door--a perfect treasury of beautiful things, in christie's estimation, old china and glass, and an old-fashioned piece or two of plate; but the key was safely kept in mrs nesbitt's pocket. perhaps it was the charm of association that made the place so pleasant to christie. here, every day, she had been made to rest on the chintz sofa, and every day she had wakened to find a kind face beaming upon her and to hear a kind voice calling her by name. i think almost any place would have been pleasant with mrs nesbitt going about so gently and lovingly in it. some thought of this came into christie's mind, as she lay musing there that sabbath afternoon. the fading light fell on the soft grey hair that showed beneath the widow's snowy cap, and on the placid face beneath, with a strangely beautifying power. the sweet gravity that was on her silent lips was better worth seeing, christie thought, than other people's smiles. her eyes had no beauty, in the common acceptation of the term. they seemed like eyes that had been washed with many tears. but the sadness which must have looked from them once had given place to patience and gentle kindness now. "how nice and quiet it is here!" whispered christie to her sister, who sat beside her, leaning her head upon her hand. effie quite started, as she spoke. "yes; it is a very peaceful place. i get rid of all vexing thoughts when i come in here." and she turned her eyes to mrs nesbitt's placid face. "vexing thoughts!" repeated christie. "i dare say effie has many a one." and she sighed too; but almost before she had time to ask herself what effie's vexing thoughts might be, she was asleep. a voice, not effie's nor mrs nesbitt's, soon awoke her. the twilight had deepened, and up and down the darkening room john nesbitt was walking, with a step quicker than was usual. christie fancied there was something like impatience in his step. he soon came and leaned on the window, close to the place where effie sat, and christie heard him say, in a voice which was not quite steady: "is it all over, then, effie?" effie made a sudden movement of some kind, christie could not tell what, and after a moment she said: "it would be better for you, john." he did not wait to hear more. soon, however, he came back again. "and will it be better for you, effie?" he asked, gravely and gently, yet with strong feeling. "i must think of many a one before myself in this matter," she said; and soon after added, "don't make this trouble harder to bear, john." there was a long silence; but john did not resume his walk, and by and by effie spoke again. "do you never think of your old wish to finish your studies?" "my father's death put an end to that," he answered, sadly. "i don't know why," said effie. "of course at the time it must have done so; but you are young, and your brothers are growing up to take your place with your mother and on the farm, and i think it would be like putting your hand to the plough and looking back, to give up all thought of entering the ministry. you have your life before you, john." he did not answer. "if it were for no other reason than that," continued effie, "i could not consent to burden you in the way you propose; and besides--your mother--" she turned, and caught the astonished eyes of christie peering out of the darkness, and paused. "effie," said christie, when they were in their own room, and the candle was out, "what were you saying to john nesbitt to-night?" "saying?" repeated effie. "yes--in the parlour. does he want us to come and live here? i thought he did by what he said." "some of us," said effie, after a pause. "john is very kind, and so is his mother. but of course it is not to be thought of." "must we leave the farm, effie?" asked christie, anxiously. "i hardly know; i cannot tell. aunt elsie must decide." "is it not ours, effie? was my father in debt?" "not for the farm; but it was paid for, or partly paid for, with money that belonged to aunt elsie. i canna explain it. she sold her annuity, or gave up her income, in some way, when we came here. and in the letter that father wrote, he said that he wished that in some way, as soon as possible, she should get it back." "but how?" asked christie, wondering. "i hardly know. but you know, christie, aunt elsie is not like other people--mean; it would make her more unhappy to feel that she was dependent than it would make most people. and we must, in some way, manage to do as father wished. if he had lived, it would have been different. she doesna think that i know about it. she didna see father's letter." "then the farm will be aunt elsie's?" said christie. "yes; and if we could manage it well, we might live on as we have been living; but i am afraid we canna." christie had her own thoughts about all living on aunt elsie's farm; but she said nothing. "i suppose we shall have to let the farm, or sell it, and get the money invested, in some way, for aunt elsie." "and what then?" asked christie, in a suppressed tone. "i am sure i canna tell," said effie; and the tone of her voice betrayed more anxiety than her words did. "not that there is any great cause for anxiety," she added. "there is always work to do for those who are willing; and we'll try and keep together till the bairns are grown up." "will aunt elsie go home to scotland, do you think, effie?" asked christie. "oh, no! i don't think she will. she doesna like this country altogether, i know; but now that she has grown so helpless, she will not care to go back. she has no very near friends there now." "do you think aunt elsie would take the money if the farm was sold?" asked christie, again. "as to that, it has been partly hers all along. when the farm was bought, my father gave aunt elsie a mortgage, or something--i don't understand exactly what--but it was as a security that her money was to be safe to her. if we had been able to carry on the farm, there would have been little difference; though there are some other debts too." "and if we leave the farm, where can we go?" asked christie. "i don't know; i lose myself thinking about it. but god will provide. i am not _really_ afraid, when i have time to consider. the bairns must be kept together in some way. we must trust till the way is opened before us." but there was something very unlike effie's usual cheerfulness in her way of speaking. christie could plainly see that. but she mistook the cause. "effie," she said, after a little pause, "it winna be very pleasant to think that we are depending on aunt elsie. i dinna wonder that you sigh." "whisht, christie! it's not that, child. i don't think you are quite just to aunt elsie. she has done much, and given up much, for us since mother died. her way is not ay pleasant; but i think she would be easier to deal with as the giver than as the receiver. i mean, i shall be very glad if it can be arranged that she shall have her income again. but we won't speak more of these things to-night, dear. we only vex ourselves; and that can do no good." but effie did not cease to vex herself when she ceased to speak, if christie might judge from the sighs that frequently escaped her. just as she was dropping to sleep, her sister's voice aroused her. "christie," she said, "you are not to say anything to any one about-- about john nesbitt's wanting me to come here. of course it's impossible; and it mustna be spoken about." "i couldna help hearing, effie." "no; i know, dear. but it's not to be spoken about. you must forget it." "did mrs nesbitt want it too?" asked christie. "i don't know. mrs nesbitt is very kind; but you mustna say anything to her about this matter--or to any one. promise me, christie." christie promised, wondering very much at her sister's eagerness, and thinking all the time that it would be very nice to live with mrs nesbitt and her sons, far pleasanter than to live on the farm, if it was to be aunt elsie's. christie felt very unsubmissive to this part of their trouble. she thought it would be far easier to depend for a home and food and clothes on their kind neighbours, who were friends indeed, than on the unwilling bounty of her aunt. but, as effie said, christie by no means did justice to the many good qualities of her aunt, and was far from properly appreciating her self-denying efforts in behalf of them all. after that night, effie did not often allude to their future plans when with christie. it was best not to vex themselves with troubles that might never come, she said. they must wait patiently till the harvest was over, and then all would be settled. the summer passed on, with little to mark its course. christie had more to do about the house and in the garden than in the spring, and was better and more contented for it. but she and her sisters sent many an anxious glance forward to the harvest-time. they did not have to wait so long, however. before the harvest-time their affairs were settled. an opportunity, which those capable of judging thought very favourable, occurred for selling it; and it was sold. they might have occupied the house for the winter; but this would only have been to delay that which delay would make no easier. it was wiser and better in every way to look out for a home at once. about six miles from the farm, in the neighbourhood where effie's school was, there stood on the edge of a partially-cleared field a small log-house, which had been for several months uninhabited. towards this the eyes of the elder sister had often turned during the last few weeks. once, on her way home from school, she went into it. she was alone; and though she would have been very unwilling to confess it, the half-hour she passed there was as sorrowful a half-hour as she had ever passed in her life. for effie was by no means so wise and courageous as christie, in her sisterly admiration, was inclined to consider her. looking on the bare walls and defective floors and broken windows, her heart failed her at the thought of ever making that a home for her brother and sisters. behind the house lay a low, rocky field, encumbered with logs and charred stumps, between which bushes and a second growth of young trees were springing. a low, irregular fence of logs and branches, with a stone foundation, had once separated the field from the road; but it was mostly broken-down now, and only a few traces of what had been a garden remained. it was not the main road that passed the house, but a cross-road running between the main roads; and the place had a lonely and deserted look, which might well add to the depression which anxiety and uncertainty as to their future had brought on effie. no wonder that very troubled and sad was the half-hour which she passed in the dreary place. "i wish i hadna spoken to aunt elsie about this place," she said to herself. "she seemed quite pleased with the thought of coming here; but we could never live in this miserable hovel. what could i be thinking about? how dreary and broken-down it is!" there were but two rooms and a closet or two on the ground-floor. above, there might be another made--perhaps two; but that part of the house was quite unfinished, showing the daylight through the chinks between the logs. floor there was none. "it could never be made comfortable, i am afraid," she said, as she made her way down the creaking ladder. "i could never think of bringing the bairns here." and it was with a heavy heart that she took her way home. but her courage rose again. before many days had passed she had decided to try what could be done with the place. the house, such as it was, with a little square of garden-ground, could be got for a rent merely nominal. it was near her school. she could live at home, and the little ones could go to school with her. thus they could be kept together, and their education not be neglected. with what she and her sisters could earn they could live comfortably for some years in this quiet place. she could not fulfil her promise to her father to keep the little ones together, elsewhere; for she must not give up her school. her salary was not large, but it was sure; and here they would be under her own eye. the price of the farm had been well invested in her aunt's name, though aunt elsie herself was not yet aware of the fact. effie was not sure whether she would remain with them or return home. but whatever she did, her income must be quite at her own disposal. the sisters must work for themselves and the little ones. if their aunt stayed with them, well; but they must henceforth depend on their own exertions. when effie had once decided that the little log-house on the cross-road was thenceforward to be their home, her naturally happy temper, and her earnest desire to make the best of all things for the sake of the others, made it easy for her to look for hopeful signs for the future, and to make light of difficulties which she could not fail to see. under her direction, and by her assistance, the little log-house underwent an entire transformation before six weeks were over. nothing was done by other hands which her own or sarah's and annie's could do. the carpenters laid new floors and mended broken windows; the plasterers filled the chinks and covered the walls of what was to be their chamber; but the girls themselves scrubbed and whitewashed, papered and painted, cleaned away rubbish from without and from within, and settled their various affairs with an energy and good-will which left them neither time nor inclination for repining. in a little while it would have been impossible to recognise in the bright and cheerful little cottage the dismal place in which, at her first visit, effie had shed some very bitter tears. aunt elsie did not leave them. she quite resented the idea of such a thing being possible. she had little faith in the likelihood of the children being kept together and clothed and fed by the unassisted efforts of the sisters, and assumed the direction of affairs in the new home, as she had always done in the old. effie's words with regard to her proved true. she was far easier to do with when she found herself in a position to give rather than to receive assistance. her income was not large. indeed, it was so small that those who have never been driven to bitter straits might smile at her idea of a competence. it would have barely kept her from want, in any circumstances; but joined to effie's earnings it gave promise of many comforts in their humble home. so ample did their means seem to them at first, that they would fain have persuaded each other that there need be no separation--that all might linger under the shelter of the lowly roof. but it could not be. annie and sarah both refused to eat bread of their sister's winning, when there was not work enough to occupy them at home; and before they had been settled many weeks, they began to think of looking for situations elsewhere. at first they both proposed to leave; but this effie could not be prevailed upon to consider right. helpless as aunt elsie was and seemed likely to continue, there was far more to do in their little household, limited as their means were, than it was possible for christie to do well. the winter was coming, already the mornings were growing short. she herself could do little at home without neglecting her school; and her school must not be neglected. and besides, though effie did not say much about it, she felt that almost any other discipline would be better for her nervous, excitable sister, than that she would be likely to experience with none to stand between her and the peculiar rigour of aunt elsie's system of training. so she would not hear of both annie and sarah leaving them. indeed, she constantly entreated, whenever the matter was discussed, that neither of them should go till winter was over. there was no fear but that the way would be opened before them. in the meantime, they might wait patiently at home. and the way was opened far sooner than they had hoped or than effie desired. a lady who had been passing the summer in the neighbourhood had been requested by a friend in town to secure for her the services of a young woman as nurse. good health and a cheerful temper, with respectability of character, were all that was required. then annie and sarah began seriously to discuss which of them should go and which should stay at home. strange to say, aunt elsie was the only one of them all who shrank from the idea of the girls "going to service" or "taking a place." it was a very hard thing for her brother's daughters, she said, who had been brought up with expectations and prospects so different. she would far rather that sarah who was skilful with the needle, and had a decided taste for millinery and dressmaking, should have offered herself to the dressmaker of the neighbouring village, or even have gone to the city to look for such a situation there. but this plan was too indefinite to suit the girls. besides, there was no prospect of present remuneration should it succeed. so the situation of nurse was applied for and obtained by annie. sarah's needle could be kept busy at home, and perhaps she could earn a little besides by making caps and bonnets for their neighbours. while they awaited the lady's final answer, the preparations for annie's departure went busily on. the answer came, and with it a request that another nurse might be engaged. a smaller girl would do. she would be expected to amuse, and perhaps teach reading to two little girls. if such a one could be found, permission was given to annie to delay her departure from home for a week, till they should come together. there was a dead silence when the letter was read. annie and sarah looked at each other, and then at effie. christie, through all the reading, had never taken her eyes from her elder sister's face. but effie looked at no one. the same thought had come into the minds of all; and effie feared to have the thought put into words. but aunt elsie had no such fear, it seemed; for after examining the letter, she said, in a voice that did not betray very much interest in the subject: "how would you like to go, christie?" christie said nothing, but still looked at effie. "what do you think, effie?" continued her aunt. "oh, it's of no use to think about it at all! there's no need of christie's going. she is not strong enough. she is but a child." effie spoke hastily, as though she wished the subject dropped. but aunt elsie did not seem inclined to drop it. "well, it's but a little girl that is wanted," she said. "and as for her not being strong enough, i am sure there canna be any great strength required to amuse two or three bairns. i dare say it might be the very place for her." "yes; i dare say, if it was needful for christie to go. there will be many glad to get the place. you must speak to the cairns' girls, annie." "would you like to go, christie?" asked her aunt, with a pertinacity which seemed, to effie at least, uncalled for. but christie made no answer, and looked still at effie. "there is no use in discussing the question," said effie, more hastily than she meant to speak. "christie is far better off at home. there is no need of her going. don't speak of it, aunt elsie." now aunt elsie did not like to have any one differ from her--"to be dictated to," as she called it. effie very rarely expressed a different opinion from aunt elsie. but her usual forbearance made her doing so on the present occasion the more disagreeable to her aunt; and she did not fail to take her to task severely for what she called her disrespect. "i didna mean to say anything disrespectful, aunt elsie," said she, soothingly, and earnestly hoping that the cause of her reproof might be discussed no further. but she was disappointed. "wherefore should i no' speak about this thing for christie? if it's no disgrace for annie to go to service, i see no season why it should not be spoken of for christie." "disgrace, aunt!" repeated effie. "what an idea! of course it is nothing of the sort. but why should we speak of christie's going when there is no need?" "for that matter, you may say there is no need for annie's going. they both need food and clothes as well as the rest." effie took refuge in silence. in a little while her aunt went on: "and as for her being a child, how much younger, pray, is she than annie? not above two years, at most. and as for health, she's well enough, for all that i can see. she's not very strong, and she wouldna have hard work; and the change might do her good. you spoil her by making a baby of her. i see no reason why the bread of dependence should be sweeter to her than to the rest." "it would be bitter enough, eaten at your expense," were the words that rose to christie's lips in reply, effie must have seen them there, for she gave her no time to utter them, but hastily--almost sharply--bade her run and see what had become of the girls and little willie. christie rose without speaking, and went out. "aunt," said effie, quietly, when she was gone, "i don't think it is quite kind in you to speak in that way to christie about dependence. she is no more dependent than the rest of the children. of course, when she's older and stronger she'll do her part. but she is very sensitive; and she must not be made unhappy by any foolish talk about her being a burden." effie meant to soothe her aunt; but she failed, for she was really angry now, and she said a great many words in her anger that i shall not write--words that effie always tried to forget. but the result of it all was that annie's departure was delayed for a week, till christie should be ready to go with her. but i should be wrong in saying that this decision was the result of this discussion alone. there were other things that helped effie to prevail upon herself to let her go. it would be better and pleasanter for annie to have her sister near her; and christie was very desirous to go. and, after all, the change might be good for her, as aunt elsie said. it might improve her health, and it might make her more firm and self-reliant. going away among strangers could hardly be worse for her than a winter under the discipline of her aunt. partly on account of these considerations, and partly because of christie's importunities, effie was induced to consent to her going away; but it was with the express understanding that her absence was to be brief. as the time of their departure drew near, she did not grow more reconciled to the thought of her sister's going. she felt that she had been over-persuaded; and in her heart there was a doubt as to whether she had done quite right in consenting. the last night, when all the others had gone to bed, and effie was doing some household work below, christie slipped down-stairs again. "effie," she said, eagerly, "do not take my going away so much to heart. i am sure it is _for the best_, and i shall grieve if you grieve. do think that it's right." "you foolish lassie! did you come down-stairs with bare feet to tell me that? how cold your hands are! come and sit down by the fire. i want to speak to you." christie sat down, as she was bidden, but it was a long time before effie spoke--so long that christie said at last: "what is it, effie?" her sister started. "i have nothing to say but what i have said before, christie. you are not to stay if you don't like. you are not to let any thought of any one or anything at home keep you, unless you are quite content and quite strong and well. and, at any rate, you are to come home in the spring." effie had said all this before; and christie could only repeat her promise. "i am afraid you think i am wrong to go away, effie?" "no, dear; i don't think you are wrong. i am sure your motives are good. i wish you were not going; but there is no use in saying so now. i hope it will turn out for the best to you and to us all. i will try and not be anxious about you. god will keep you safe, i do not doubt." "effie," said christie, "do you remember what you said to me once about god's hearing prayer, and how he always hears the prayers of his people in the best way, though not always in the way they wish and expect?" "yes, i mind something about it. and how all things work together for good to his people and for his glory at the same time. yes, i mind." "well," said christie, softly, "if folk really believe this, it will be easy for them to leave their friends in god's hands. they can ask him for what they need, being sure that they will get what is best for them, and that he canna make a mistake." there was a few minutes' silence; and then effie said: "christie, if i were sure that you are one of god's people--one of the little lambs of his flock--i would not fear to let you go. do you think you are?" "i don't know, effie. i am afraid not. i am not like what the bible says god's people ought to be. but i am sure i wish to be." "christie," said her sister, earnestly, "you must never let anything hinder you from reading your bible every day. you must not rest till you are sure about yourself." "effie," she said, in a low voice, and very seriously, "i think god did once hear a prayer of mine. it was a good while ago--before father died. it was one of my bad days; i was worse than usual; and when i came back from the pasture i sat down by the brook--under the birch-tree, you mind--and i went from one thing to another, till i said to myself, `i'll see if there's any good in praying.' and so i prayed aunt elsie might not scold me when i went home; and she didna. but i didna care for that, because you were at home that night. but i prayed, too, that you might bring me a book. i meant `the scottish chiefs,' or something; but you brought my bible. i have thought, sometimes, that was one of the prayers answered in a better way than we ask or expect." the last few words were spoken in a very husky voice; and as she ceased, her head was laid on effie's lap. there were tears in effie's eyes too--she scarcely knew why. certainly they were not for sorrow. gently stroking her sisters drooping head, she said: "perhaps it was so, christie. i believe it was; and you are right. we need not fear for one another. we will trust in him." chapter six. christie's new home. so annie and christie went away; and the days that followed their departure were long and lonely at the cottage. they had never been long separated, and the absence of two of their number made a great blank in their circle. all missed them, but none so much as effie; for mingled with regret for their absence was a feeling very like self-reproach that she had permitted christie to go. it was in vain that she reasoned with herself about this matter, saying it was the child's own wish, and that against her aunt's expressed approbation she could have said nothing to detain her. she knew that christie was by no means strong, that she was sensitive (not to say irritable), and she dreaded for her the trials she must endure and the unkindness she might experience among strangers. she was haunted by a vision of her sister's pale face, home-sick and miserable, with no one to comfort or sympathise with her; and she waited with inexpressible longing for the first tidings from the wanderers. the thought of her was always present. it came with a pang sometimes when she was busiest. she returned from school night by night with a deeper depression on her spirits, till aunt elsie, who had all along resented in secret her evident anxiety, could no longer restrain the expression of her vexation. "what ails you, effie?" said she, as the weary girl seated herself, without entering the house. "you sit down there as if you had the cares and vexations of a generation weighing you down. have matters gone contrary at the school?" "no. oh, no," said effie, making an effort to seem cheerful. "everything has gone on as usual. i had two new scholars to-day. they'll be coming in, now that the autumn work is mostly over. have not the bairns come in?" "i hear their voices in the field beyond," said her aunt. "but you havena told me what ails you. indeed, there's no need. i know very well. it would have been more wise-like to have kept your sisters at home than to fret so unreasonably for them now they are away." effie made no answer. "what's to happen to them more than to twenty others that have gone from these parts? it's a sad thing, indeed, that your father's daughters should need to go to service, considering all that is past. but it can't be mended now. and one thing is certain: it's no disgrace." "no, indeed," said effie. "i don't look on it in that light; but--" "yes; i ken what you would say. it's ay christie you're thinking about. but she'll be none the worse for a little discipline. she would soon have been an utter vexation, if she had been kept at home. you spoiled your sister with your petting and coaxing, till there was no doing with her. i'm sure i dinna see why she's to be pitied more than annie." effie had no reply to make. if she was foolish and unreasonable in her fears for christie, her aunt's manner of pointing out her fault was not likely to prove it to her. she did not wish to hear more. perhaps she was foolish, she thought. good mrs nesbitt, who was not likely to be unjust to christie, and who was ready to sympathise with the elder sister in what seemed almost like the breaking-up of the family, said something of the same kind to her once, as they were walking together from the sabbath-school. "my dear," she said, "you are wrong to vex yourself with such thoughts. your aunt is partly right. christie will be none the worse for the discipline she may have to undergo. there are some traits in her character that haven a fairly shown themselves yet. she will grow firm and patient and self-reliant, i do not doubt. i only hope she will grow stronger in body too." effie sighed. "she was never very strong." "if she shouldna be well, she must come home; and, effie, though i would never say to an elder sister that she could be too patient and tender to one of the little ones--and that one sometimes wilful and peevish, and no' very strong--yet christie may be none the worse, for a wee while, no' to have you between her and all trouble. my dear, i know what you would say. i know you have something like a mother's feeling for the child. but even a mother canna bear every burden or drink every bitter drop for her child. and it is as well she canna do it. if christie's battle with life and what it brings begins a year or two earlier than you thought necessary, she may be all the better able to conquer. dinna fear for her. god will have her in his keeping." effie strove to find a voice to reply; but she could only say: "perhaps i am foolish. i will try." "my dear," continued her friend, kindly, "i dinna wonder that you are careful and troubled, and a wee faithless, sometimes. you have passed through much sorrow of late, and your daily labour is of a kind that is trying to both health and spirits. and i doubt not you have troubles that are of a nature not to be spoken of. but take courage. there's nothing can happen to you but what is among the `all things' that are to work together for your good. for i do believe you are among those to whom has been given a right to claim that promise. you are down among the mist now; i am farther up the brae, and get a glimpse, through the cloud, of the sunshine beyond. dinna fret about christie, or about other things. i believe you are god-guided; and what more can you desire? as the day wears on, the clouds may disperse; and even if they shouldna, my bairn, the sun still shines in the lift above them." they had reached the cross-road down which effie was to take her solitary way; for the bairns had gone on before. she stood for a moment trying to make sure of her voice, and while she lingered mrs nesbitt dropped a kiss, as tender as a mother's, on her brow, and said, "good-night!" a rush of ready tears was the only answer effie had for her then. but she was comforted. the tears that spring at kind words or a gentle touch bring healing with them; and when effie wiped them away at last, it was with a thankful sense of a lightened burden, and she went on her way with the pain that had ached at her heart so many days a little softened. yes; effie had trials that would not bear speaking about, and least of all with john nesbitt's mother. but they were trials that need not be discussed in my little tale. indeed, i must not linger longer at the cottage by the wayside. i may not tell of the daily life of its occupants, except that it grew more cheerful as the winter passed away. the monthly letter brought them good tidings from the absent ones; and with duties, some pleasant, some quite otherwise, their days were filled, so that no time was left for repining or for distrustful thoughts. i must now follow the path taken by christie's weary little feet. sometimes the way was dusty and uneven enough, but there were green spots and wayside flowers now and then. there were mists and clouds about her, too, but she got glimpses of sunshine. and by and by she grew content to abide in the shadow, knowing, as it was given her to know, that clouds are sent to cool and shelter and refresh us. before content, however, there came many less welcome visitors to the heart of the poor child. can anything be more bewildering to unaccustomed eyes than the motley crowd which business or pleasure daily collects at some of our much-frequented railway stations? to the two girls, whose ideas of a crowd were for the most part associated with the quiet, orderly gatherings in the kirk-yard on the sabbath-day, the scene that presented itself to them on reaching point saint charles was more than bewildering; it was, for a minute or two, actually alarming. there was something so strange in the quick, indifferent manner of the people who jostled one another on the crowded platform, in the cries of the cabmen and porters, and in the general hurrying to and fro, that even annie was in some danger of losing her presence of mind; and it was with something like a feeling of danger escaped that they found themselves, at last, safe on their way to the house of mrs mcintyre, a connection of some friends of that name at home. the sun had set long before, and it was quite dark as they passed rapidly through the narrow streets in the lower part of the town. here and there lights were twinkling, and out from the gathering darkness came a strange, dull sound, the mingling of many voices, the noise of carriage-wheels and the cries of their drivers, and through all the heavy boom of church-bells. how unlike it all was to anything the girls had seen or heard before! and a feeling of wonder, not unmingled with dread, came upon them. there was no time for their thoughts to grow painful, however, before they found themselves at their journey's end. they were expected by mrs mcintyre, and were very kindly received by her. she was a widow, and the keeper of a small shop in a street which looked at the first glimpse dismal enough. it was only a glimpse they had of it, however; for they soon found themselves in a small and neat parlour with their hostess, who kindly strove to make them feel at home. she would not hear of their trying to find out their places that night, but promised to go with them the next day, or as soon as they were rested. indeed, she wished them to remain a few days with her. but to this annie would by no means agree. the delay caused by christie's coming had made her a week later than her appointed time, and she feared greatly lest she should lose her place; so she could not be induced to linger longer. her place was still secure for her; but a great disappointment awaited christie. the lady who had desired the service of a young girl to amuse her children had either changed her mind or was not satisfied with christie's appearance; for after asking her many questions about her long delay, as she called the three days beyond the specified week, she told her she was afraid she could not engage her. she added to the pain of christie's disappointment by telling her that she did not look either strong enough or cheerful enough to have the care of children; she had better apply for some other situation. "she's weary with her journey--poor thing!" suggested mrs mcintyre, kindly. "and she's a stranger here, besides--poor child!" "a stranger!" yes, christie had just parted from annie at the door of a large house in the next street, bravely enough; but it was all the poor girl could do now to restrain an outburst of tears. "how old are you?" asked the lady, again. christie had just courage enough to tell her; but it was mrs mcintyre who answered the next question. "are your parents living?" "no--poor thing! she is an orphan. there is a large family of them. she came down with her sister, hoping to get a place. the elder sister is trying to keep the little ones together." christie made a movement as if to silence the speaker. the lady looked at a gentleman who sat at a distant window seeming to read. "what do you think?" she asked. he rose, and walked in a leisurely manner down the room, nodding to mrs mcintyre as he passed. as he returned, he paused, and said something in an undertone to the lady. christie caught the words. "if anything was to happen to her, she would be on your hands. she seems quite without friends." christie was on her feet in a moment. her chair was pushed back with a motion so sudden that the gentleman turned to look at her. she was anything but pale now. her cheeks were crimson, and there was a light in her eyes that bade fair to be very soon quenched in tears. "i am very sorry that i--" she could utter no more. laying her hand on mrs mcintyre's arm, she said, huskily, "come." her friend rose. "perhaps if you were to try her for a month--" she suggested. but christie shook her head. "but where can you go? what can you do?" said mrs mcintyre, in a low voice. where, indeed? not to the house she had just seen annie enter; she had no claim there. not home again, that was not to be thought of. she turned a helpless glance to the persons who seemed to hold her destiny in their hands. the lady looked annoyed; the gentleman, who had observed the girl's excitement, asked: "were you ever at service before?" "oh, no!" said mrs mcintyre, intending to serve christie's cause. "the family looked forward to something very different; but misfortunes and the death--" she stopped, intending that her pause should be more impressive than words. other questions followed--could she read and write? could she sew? had she ever been in the city before?--till christie's courage quite rose again. it ended in nothing, however, but a promise to let her know in a day or two what was decided. in the silence that followed the closing of the streetdoor after them, christie felt that mrs mcintyre was not well pleased with the termination of the interview: and her first words proved it. "you needna have been so sensitive," she said. "it will be a long time before you get a place where everything will be to your mind. you needna expect every lady to speak to you as your own sisters would. i doubt you'll hear no more from these people." but she was a good-natured and kind-hearted woman; and a glance at christie's miserable face stopped her. "never mind," she added; "there are plenty of folk in the town will be glad to get a well-brought-up girl like you to attend to their children. but you must look cheerful, and no' take umbrage at trifles." christie could not answer her. so she walked along by her side, struggling, with a power which she felt was giving way rapidly, with the sobs that were scarcely suppressed. she struggled no longer than till she reached the little chamber where she and annie had passed the night. the hours that she was suffered to remain there alone were passed in such an agony of grief and home-sickness as the poor child never suffered from before. she quite exhausted herself at last; and when mrs mcintyre came to call her to dinner, she found her in a troubled sleep. "poor child!" she said, as she stood looking at her, "i fear we must send her home again. she is not like to do or to get much good here." but she darkened the room, and closed the door softly, and left her. when christie awoke the afternoon was nearly gone. her first feeling was one of utter wretchedness; but her sleep had rested and refreshed her, and her courage revived after she had risen and washed her face and put her dress in order. when she was ready to go down, she paused for a moment, her hand resting on the knob of the door. "i might try it," she murmured; and she fell on her knees by the bedside. it was only a word or two she uttered: "o god, give me courage and patience, and help me to do right." her tears fell fast for a moment; but her heart was lightened, and it was with a comparatively cheerful face that she presented herself in the little back parlour, where she found mrs mcintyre taking tea with a friend. "oh, you are up, are you?" she said, kindly. "you looked so weary, i couldna bear to call you at dinnertime; but i kept your dinner for you. here, barbara; bring in the covered dish." and she placed a seat for the girl between her and her friend. christie thanked her, and sat down, with an uncomfortable feeling that the friends had been discussing her before she had come in. and so it soon appeared. the conversation, which her entrance had interrupted, was soon resumed. "you see, i don't well know what his business is," said the visitor. "but, at any rate, he doesn't seem to have much to spend--at least in his family. his wife--poor lady!--has her own troubles. he's seldom at home; and she has been the most of the time, till this illness, without more than one servant. when she's better, i dare say she'll do the same again. in the meantime, i have promised to look for one that might suit. the one she has leaves to-morrow. my month's out too, then, and she's to let me go; though how she's to battle through, with that infant and all the other children, is more than i can tell." mrs mcintyre shook her head. "she would never do for the place. she doesna look strong; and the house is large, you say?" "far larger than they need. i said that to her, one day. but she said something about keeping up a certain appearance. she's not one that a person can speak freely to, unless she likes. how old are you, my girl?" she suddenly asked, turning round to christie. "i was fourteen in june," she replied; and turning to mrs mcintyre, she asked, "is it a place for me?" mrs mcintyre looked doubtful. "it's a place for some one; but i doubt it's too hard a place for you." christie sent a questioning look to the visitor, who said: "well, in some respects it's a hard place. there is plenty to do; but mrs lee is a real gentlewoman, mindful of others, and kind and pleasant-spoken. i should know; for i have sick-nursed her twice, besides being there, now and again, when the children have been ill." "but think upon it. the only nurse, where there's an infant and four other children as near each other as they can well be. she's not fit for the like of that," said mrs mcintyre. "the eldest is but seven," said mrs greenly. "but, for that matter, mrs lee is nurse herself; and nelly, the housemaid, is a kind-hearted girl. she might make a trial of it, anyway." "we'll see what your sister says," said mrs mcintyre to christie. "she'll be round on the sabbath. or maybe you might go there and see her before that time." mrs greenly shook her head. "but i doubt if i can wait for that. i must see the other girl this afternoon; and if she should suit the place there would be no more to be said. what do you think yourself, my girl?" christie had been too little accustomed to decide any matter for herself, to wish to decide this without first seeing her sister. so she only asked if mrs greenly passed near the street where annie lived. not very near, mrs mcintyre said; but that need not interfere. barbara should go with her there, if mrs greenly would consent to put off seeing the other girl till the next morning. mrs mcintyre could not take the responsibility of advising christie to accept the situation. it was better that her sister should decide. but christie had decided in her own mind already. any place would be better than none. but she needed annie's sanction that effie might be satisfied--and, indeed, that she might be satisfied herself; for she had little self-reliance. she saw annie, who shrank from the thought of christie's having to trespass long on mrs mcintyre's hospitality; and christie dwelt more on mrs greenly's high praise of mrs lee than on the difficulties she might expect among so many children with insufficient help. so the next afternoon christie and her little trunk were set down before the door of a high stone house in saint --- street. she had to wait a while; for mrs greenly, the nurse, for whom she asked, was engaged for the time; but by and by she was taken up-stairs, and into a room where a lady was sitting in the dress of an invalid, with an infant on her lap. she greeted christie very kindly; but there was a look of disappointment on her face, the girl was sure. "she seems very young, nurse, and not very strong," she said. "she is not far from fifteen, and she says she has good health. she has been very well brought up," said mrs greenly, quickly, giving christie a look she did not understand. "how old are you?" asked mrs lee, seeming not to have heard the nurse. "i was fourteen in june. i am very well now, and much stronger than i look. i will try and do my best." there was something in the lady's face and voice that made christie very anxious to stay. "have you ever been in a place before?" the lady asked again. christie shook her head; but mrs greenly took upon herself in reply. "dear, no! it's only lately that her father died. there is a large family of them. the oldest sister is trying to keep the little ones together, mrs mcintyre tells me; and two of the sisters have come to the city to take places. the elder one is at mrs vinton's, in beaver hall." remembering the consequences of such a communication on a former occasion, christie trembled; but she was soon relieved. "poor child!" said the lady. "so you have never been from home before?" "no, ma'am," said christie, eagerly. "but i was very glad to come. i was sorry to leave them all; but i wished to do my part. i will do my best for you and the children." "you needn't fear that the children will learn anything wrong from her, ma'am," she heard mrs greenly say. "she has been well brought up." but she heard no more; for the pattering of little feet on the stairs told of the approach of children. the door opened, and a little girl, six or seven years old, entered, followed by two little boys, who were younger. the girl went directly to her mother, and began stroking the baby's face. the boys, looking defiantly at mrs greenly, as though to assure her that they would not submit to be sent away, took their stand behind their mother's chair. the mother's hand was gently laid on the little girl's head. "where is harry?" she asked. "he's asleep in nelly's clothes-basket. she said we were not to make a noise to wake him, so we came up here. bridget has gone away." "yes, i know. and has letty been trying to amuse her brothers, to help mother?" the child shook her head. "harry played with the clothes-pins, and then he fell asleep. and tom and neddie are both bad boys. they wouldn't obey me. won't you let me take the baby now?" "baby's asleep, and you mustn't make a noise to wake her," said the nurse, in an ominous whisper. "and your mother's very tired, and must lie down and sleep too. and you are going, like a nice young lady, into the nursery, to see how quiet you can keep them." she laid her hand on the child's arm as she spoke; but it was shaken off abruptly, and the pretty face gathered itself into a frown. her mother's hand was laid on her lips. "mother," entreated the child, "i will be so good if you will let me stay. there's nothing to do in the nursery, and i'm so tired of staying there!" "but your brothers," said mrs greenly. "they won't stay without you, and your mother will be worse if she don't get rest. indeed, ma'am, you are quite flushed already," said she, looking at mrs lee; "quite feverish. you are no more fit to be left than you were a fortnight ago. you must have rest. the children must go." "let us go to the yard, then," pleaded one of them. "it has been raining. neddie must not go out," said the weary mother. "is not my little daughter going to be good?" she pleaded. "oh, do let me stay. i will be so good. send the boys away to nelly in the kitchen, and let me stay with you." on a table near the bed stood a tray, with several vials and glasses on it. at this moment the whole was put in jeopardy by the enterprising spirit of little tom, who was determined to make himself acquainted with their various contents. neddie was endeavouring to raise himself to the window-seat, using the curtains as a ladder to assist his ascent. there was a fair prospect of confusion enough. "this will never do," said the nurse, hastily, as she removed the tray and its contents, and reached the window just in time to save the wilful neddie from a fall. "do you know," she added, suddenly changing her tone, "what nelly brought from market to-day? apples! they are in the side-board down-stairs. and here are the keys. who would like one?" the boys suspended their mischievous operations, and listened. letty did not move. "let me stay," she whispered. "come, miss letty, like a good child. your mother _must_ sleep, or she will be ill, and the baby too. come! i know what your quietness is-- fidgeting about like a mouse. your mother would have a better chance to sleep with all the boys about her. come away." "go, letty; go with nurse. be a good child," pleaded her mother, on whose cheek a bright colour was flickering. "my darling would not make mamma ill, and baby sister too?" "nurse, try me this once. i will be so quiet." but nurse was not to be entreated; and the reluctant child was half led, half dragged from the room, screaming and resisting. her mother looked after her, weary and helpless, and the baby on her lap sent up a whimpering cry. mrs lee leaned back on her chair, and pressed her hands over her eyes. christie rose. "will you trust me with the baby? i will be very careful." the lady started; she had quite forgotten her. christie stooped over the baby with eager interest. "are you fond of children?" asked mrs lee. "i love my brother and my little sisters. i have never been with other children." there were tears in christie's eyes as she raised them to look in mrs lee's face, called forth quite as much by the gentle tones of her voice as by the thought of `the bairns' at home. "i am afraid you could do nothing for baby," said mrs lee. "nurse will be here presently. perhaps you could amuse the children; but they miss me, and are fretful without me." "i will try," said christie, eagerly. "are they fond of stories? i am very good at telling stories. or i can read to them. i will do my best." she went down-stairs, and guided by the sound of children's voices, entered the dining-room. the little girl had thrown herself on the sofa, where she was sobbing with mingled grief and rage. the boys, on the contrary, were enjoying the prospect of eating the apples which mrs greenly was paring for them. "the baby is crying. the lady wants you. she says i am to try and amuse the children," said christie. "well, i wish you joy of your work," said mrs greenly, whose temper was a little ruffled by her encounter with miss letty. "for my part, i have no patience with children who don't care whether their mother gets better or not. children should love their parents and obey them." "i do love my mamma!" cried letty, passionately, between her sobs. "go away, naughty nurse!" "i'm just going, my dear," said the nurse. "and mind, my girl," she added, to christie, "these children are to be kept here, and they are to be kept quiet too. mrs lee's wearied out of her very life with their noise. that useless bridget was just as good as nobody with them." so she went up-stairs, and christie was left to manage with the children as best she might. while the apples lasted there was little to be said. letty did not heed hers, though it lay on the sofa, within reach of her hand, till tom made some advances in that direction. then it was seized and hidden quickly, and tom's advances sharply repelled. tom turned away with a better grace than might have been expected, and addressed himself to christie. "are you bridget?" he asked. "no," she said, gravely; "i'm christie." "are you going to stay here?" "would you like me to stay?" "no," said the boy; "i wouldn't. i like my mamma to dress me. biddy brushes too hard." "but i am christie. i'll brush very gently till your mother gets better again. wouldn't you like me to stay? my home is very far-away." "how far?" asked neddie, coming forward and standing beside his brother. "oh, ever so far--over the river, and over the hills, and past the woods; away--away--away down in a little hollow by the brook." the children looked at her with astonished eyes. she went on: "there are birds'-nests there, and little birds that sing. oh, you should hear how they sing! and there are little lambs that play all day long among the clover. and there are dandelions and buttercups, and oh! i can't tell you how many pretty flowers besides. whose dog is that?" she asked, suddenly, pointing to a picture on the wall. "it's my mamma's," said neddie. "is it? he's a very pretty dog. what's his name?" "he hasn't got any name. he's a picture," said tom. "oh, yes; he has a name. his name is--rover. is not that a pretty name? come and sit down by the window, and i will tell you a story about a dog named rover. you like stories, don't you?" they came slowly forward and stood beside her. "well, neddie," she said to tom. "are you neddie?" "no; i'm tom. that's neddie." "oh! that's neddie, is it? well, tom and neddie, i'm going to tell you a story about rover. only we must speak low, and not disturb your mamma and baby sister. what's the baby's name, i wonder?" "it's baby," said neddie. "yes; but she must have another name besides baby." "no, she hasn't," said tom. "her name's going to be catharine ellinor," said letty, forgetting her trouble for a moment. "that's grandmamma's name." "oh, that's a very pretty name!" said christie. "she's a dear baby, i am sure." but letty had no more to say. "tell us about rover," said tom. "oh, yes! i must tell you about rover. `once upon a time--'" and then came the story. never did dog meet with such wonderful adventures before, and never was a story listened to with greater delight. even letty forgot her vexation, and listened eagerly. in the midst of it nelly entered, carrying little harry in her arms. at the sight of him every trace of ill-humour vanished from letty's face. running to meet them she clasped her arms round her little brother. "where are his shoes, nelly?" she said, stooping to kiss his rosy little feet. "what a sweet child!" exclaimed christie. "i hope he won't be afraid of me." he _was_ very lovely, with his flushed cheeks and tangled curls, and not in the least afraid of anything in the world. he looked out of his bright blue eyes as frankly and fearlessly at christie as if she had been his nurse all his life. she placed him on her knee while letty tied his shoes. "are you to be nurse?" asked her fellow-servant nelly. "i don't know. i would like the place," said christie. "you'll have your hands full," said nelly, emphatically. christie had nothing to say to this; and the boys became clamorous for the rest of the story. in the meantime, the october sunshine, though it was neither very warm nor very bright, had dried up the rain-drops on the paved court behind the house, and mrs greenly, showing her face for a moment at the dining-room door, told christie she might wrap the children up and take them out for a little time. with nelly's help, the wrapping up was soon accomplished. the yard was not a very pleasant place. it was surrounded by a high wall, and at the foot of the enclosure was a little strip which had been cultivated. there were a few pale pansies and blackened dahlia-stalks lingering yet. in two corners stood a ragged and dusty fir-tree; and all the rest of the yard was laid over with boards. "the children are not to sit down, for they would take cold," called out mrs greenly from an upper window. in a little while christie had them all engaged in a merry game, and greatly were they delighted with it. some tokens of disorder and riot were given by tom and letty; but on the whole the peace was kept. their enjoyment was complete, and it was a merry and hungry group that obeyed nelly's summons to the tea-table. christie's first afternoon was a decided success. there was nothing more said about her staying. she fell very naturally into her place in the nursery, and she and the little people there soon became very fond of each other. it was a busy life, and so far a pleasant one. when her position and duties were no longer new to her, she accommodated herself to them with an ease which would have surprised aunt elsie, and even effie, who had a higher opinion of christie's powers than her aunt had. she was very earnest and conscientious in all she did, and mrs lee soon trusted her entirely. she must have left the children much to her care, even though she had less confidence in her; for she did not gain strength very fast. the baby was a fragile little creature, and rarely, night or day, during the first three months of her life, was her mother's care withdrawn from her. so the other children were quite dependent on their young nurse for oversight as well as for amusement; and considering all things, she did very well, for she tried to do everything as in the sight and fear of god. chapter seven. "closer than a brother." but all the days of that dreary autumn were not so happy. indeed, there were many times when christie felt ready to give up in despair. once it happened that for weeks together the rain kept the little ones in the house, and the only glimpse of the outer world which christie could get was from the nursery window. for one accustomed to a country life this was no small deprivation, and though she was hardly conscious of the cause, her spirits (never very lively) were ready to sink under it. she became used to the confinement after a while, or rather, as she told annie, she did not mind it. but the constant attention which the little ones claimed was a great strain on her cheerfulness. from early morning till the hour when the unwilling eyes of the last of them were closed in slumber, she had not a moment's respite. there was always something to be done, some one to be coaxed or cautioned or cared for. the little lees were not naughty children. on the contrary, they were very loving, affectionate little creatures. all of them, except, perhaps, letty, were easily amused and governed. but, as is the case with all over-indulged children, they were inclined to be exacting when they had the power; and it was no wonder that, among so many of them, christie sometimes grew weary even to exhaustion, and fancied that her strength and courage were quite spent. and worse than all, there were times when home-sickness, that could not be resisted or reasoned away, assailed her. almost always it was at night--in the evenings, now growing so long, when no sound save the gentle breathing of the sleeping children broke the reigning silence. it was not so bad at such times, however, for she could then let her weary head fall, and weep a part of her troubles away. but sometimes in broad daylight, when in her walks with the children she crushed beneath her feet the dead leaves of the trees, while the autumn wind sighed drearily through their bare boughs, a pang of bitter loneliness smote her. among the crowds she met she was always fancying familiar faces. more than once she sprang forward with a cry to grasp the hand of one who looked on her with the unheeding eyes of a stranger. if at such a time any one had come to her with a message from effie, saying, "come home," she would probably have gone at all hazards--so dreary and lonely her life seemed to her. it was not so with annie. she made friends easily. she and christie went to church; and but few sabbaths passed before they met many who nodded and smiled to her bright-faced sister. but christie was shy and quiet, and shrank from the notice of strangers; and up to the very last time that she passed through them, the busy streets of the city seemed a lonely place to her. christie never quite forgot the remedy tried for the first time beneath the boughs of the birch-tree by the brook. there were hours when it seemed to her now, as it seemed to her then, a cure for all the ills of life, a help in every time of need. there were times when, having nowhere else to go, she carried her burden to effie's chief friend, and strove to cast it from her at his feet. she did not always succeed. many a time she lay down in the dark, beside little harry, altogether uncomforted. it seemed to her that nothing could help her but going home again. but it was only now and then, at rare intervals, that it seemed possible for her to go. almost always she said to herself, "i canna go home. i must stay a little while, at least." sometimes she said it with tears and a sorrowful heart, but almost always she had courage to say it with firmness. but now she was beginning to feel herself wrong in coming; or, rather, she began to see that her motive in coming was wrong. it was less to help effie with the little ones, as she was now satisfied, than to escape from dependence on aunt elsie. not that, even in her worst moments, christie could make herself believe that her aunt did not gladly share the little that she had with her brother's orphans, or that she would share it less willingly with her than with the others. the unwillingness was on her part. and the root of this unwillingness was pride, and an unforgiving remembrance of what she called her aunt's harshness to her. aunt elsie had been at times more or less hard with all her nieces. but she had been so to christie in a way different from the rest; and the child was willing to believe that the cause lay less in her waywardness than in her aunt's unjust partiality. with such feelings permitted, nay, at times willingly indulged, no wonder that she too often failed to find the peace she sought. but gradually the home-sickness wore away. daily she became more useful and more valued in the nursery. she felt that mrs lee trusted her, and this did much to make her content. she almost always was patient when the children were in their exacting moods, and was always firm in refusing any forbidden pleasure. from her "your mamma would be displeased," or her "it is not right," there was no moving her; and of this the children soon became aware. she never assumed authority over them. they would have resented this quickly enough. but if the reward of a story or a merry game before bed-time was forfeited by ill-conduct, it was felt as a severe disappointment. for any disobedience or other naughtiness in the nursery, the refusal of a kiss for good-night was punishment enough. all children are not so easily guided or governed as the little lees were; and few children are placed so entirely apart from evil influences as they were in those days. they were quick and restless, and full of spirit, but, as i have said, they were affectionate and tractable; and though often, before the last little busybody was safely disposed of for the night, christie believed her strength and patience to be quite exhausted, her love for them increased day by day. so the first three months of her absence from home wore away, and the merry christmas-time drew nigh. till now, christie had seen little of the master of the house. he was rarely in for many days together. his business took him here and there through the country; and even when he was in the city he was not much at home. once or twice he came into the nursery. he seemed fond of his children in a careless, indifferent way; but the children were shy and not very happy in his presence. if mrs lee was not happier when he was at home, she was certainly more sad and silent for a few days after he went away, and sighed often when she looked at her children, as though she were burdened with many cares. about christmas-time a great change took place in the household. in the course of one of his many journeys mr lee met with a serious accident. it was not pronounced serious at the time of its occurrence, but it became so through neglect. it was painful as well as dangerous, and confined him to the house during the greater part of the winter. from this time christie's duties became more arduous. mrs lee's time and attention were frequently required by her husband, and the fragile little ellinor then became the special care of christie. the nursery, too, was removed to a room in the attic; for mr lee at first could not, and at last would not, bear the noise of the children; and christie's glimpse of the outer world extended only to roofs and chimneys now. the brief daily airings of the children were taken in a sleigh; and the doctor insisted that their mother should always share them. she was very delicate; and her husband, thoughtless and exacting, failed to perceive that her strength was too much tried. mrs greenly was engaged as his sick-nurse; but she could not be on the alert both night and day, and when she failed her place must be supplied by his uncomplaining wife. night or day it was all the same. she was never sure of an hour's respite. so christie reigned alone in the attic-nursery, and controlled and amused the children, and mended, and managed, and looked cheerful through it all, in a way that excited the admiration and astonishment of mrs greenly, and the thankful gratitude of mrs lee. how she got through it all she hardly knew. on the days when the baby was her exclusive care, it was bad enough. but by teaching the children to hail the coming of the little one as a mark of their mamma's great confidence in them, she succeeded in making them share the responsibility with her. the boys would amuse themselves quietly for hours rather than disturb little ellinor; and letty (usually the most restless and wayward of them all) never grew weary of humming little songs, and otherwise amusing the baby, as she lay in the cot. so they went on better than might have been expected. but what with the close confinement in the house, and the climbing of two or three long flights of stairs, christie grew pale and thin, and was many a time very weary. she had one pleasant hour in the week. at ten on every sabbath morning she called for her sister, and they went to church together. not to the church they would have chosen at first. there they had difficulty in finding seats together; so they went elsewhere, with a friend of annie's, and after a time they had no desire to change. they rarely saw each other during the week. annie sometimes came into christie's nursery; but the only real pleasure they had together was in the walk to and from church on sabbath morning. march was passing away. the snow was nearly gone, but there had been a shower during the night, and the pavements were wet, as christie set out on her accustomed walk one morning. the wind blew freshly, too, and weary with the work of six days, she shrank from facing it, even for a little while, with her sister, so, at the street by which she usually went to the house where annie lived, she paused. "i'll wait in the church for her to-day," she said to herself. "i'm tired, and it's later than usual. she'll know if i'm not there by half-past ten, and she'll come down. at any rate, i'm too tired to go up the hill." yes, she was very tired. the fresh air did not brighten and enliven her as it usually did. the warm, moist wind that came in gusts from the south was not invigorating, and she went slowly up the church-steps, glad that her walk was over. there was no one in the church. even the sexton was not visible; and christie placed herself in her accustomed seat under the gallery, near the door, glad to rest in the pleasant stillness of the place. how quiet and peaceful it seemed! the sound of the moaning wind seemed to come from far-away, and the stillness within was all the deeper. after the noise and turmoil of six days, the silence was more grateful to her weary sense than the sound of sweetest music would have been; and closing her eyes, she leaned back, not to think, but to rest and be at peace. soon the congregation began to assemble, but her repose was too deep to be disturbed by the sound of footsteps or the rustling of garments. she neither stirred nor heard a sound till annie laid her hand upon her arm. then she awoke with a start, coming back to a realisation of time and place, with a flutter of confusion and pain. "what ails you? have you been sleeping? are you not well?" whispered annie, in alarm. "oh, yes, i'm well enough. i think i must have been sleeping, though," said christie, scarcely able to restrain a laugh at annie's astonishment. "sleeping! at this time of day, and in the kirk too!" exclaimed annie. "well, never mind," said christie, smiling, and holding down her head to hide her confusion. "did you see david mcintyre? i'm almost sure i saw him in the street." "yes, i saw him. he brought this letter from effie." christie took it from her. "don't read it now, in the kirk. there's nothing in it that will not keep. there is a little note for yourself inside. they are all well. why didna you come up to-day? i have something to tell you." christie listened eagerly. "i canna tell you now," said her sister. "see, the people are nearly all in. but i'll come down to-night, if i can." at that moment a hard-featured man, a little in front, turned his sharp eyes towards them, with a look that was intended to warn and reprove; so nothing more was said. as annie was walking home with christie, "i'm thinking of changing my place," she said. "changing!" repeated christie. "i thought you were quite content." "oh, it's not that. mrs vinton wishes it. her younger sister is going to be married, it seems, and her mother, who is an invalid--something like aunt elsie, i should think--wants some one to be with her always. she lives with a son, somewhere in the far west. miss emma--that's the sister--has been down. she thinks i should suit her mother, and mrs vinton is willing to spare me. i think i should like to go, for some things. the wages are higher." "but so far-away," said christie, in consternation; "and to leave me!" "yes, that's what disturbs me. you mustna stay when i go." christie shook her head. "i suppose there's the same need of my staying now that there was before," said she, quietly. "but effie was never quite willing that you should come, you know; and besides, your place is too hard for you." "just now it is, perhaps," interrupted christie; "but mr lee is better, and we'll soon get into our old way again." "but what i want is this," said annie; "i want sarah to come and take my place at mrs vinton's. i have told her about sarah. and then you could go home and be with effie." "but _i_ never could do what sarah does at home," said christie; "taking care of aunt elsie and all. it would be far harder than what i have to do now." "but you would be at home, and you would have some one to look after you. i could never think of such a thing as leaving you here alone." "but, annie, sarah would be alone," remonstrated christie. "yes, i know; but it's quite different with sarah. she's strong and healthy, and will hold her own with anybody; and besides, i'm sure effie will never hear of your staying here alone. but there's time enough to think about it. if i go, i shall spend a week at home first. no; i can't go in," said annie, as they came to mrs lee's door. "i must go home. i shall write to effie. now, don't fret about this, or i shall wish i hadna told you;" for christie looked very grave indeed. "we'll wait and see what effie thinks," said she, sadly. "well, you have her letter; and i'll come down to-night, if i can, and we'll talk it over. but, for any sake, dinna look so glum, as aunt elsie would say." christie laughed a little at her sister's excitement, but it was a very grave face that bent over the baby's cot that afternoon. the south wind had brought rain, and when night came, the drops dashed drearily against the window-panes. listening to it, as she sat with the baby in her arms and the others sleeping quietly about her, christie said to herself, many times, that annie could never venture out in such a night. yet she started at every sound, and listened eagerly till it had died away again. effie's letter had told her nothing new. they were all well and happy, and the old question was asked, "when is christie coming home again?" but the letter, and even the little note, more precious still, could not banish from her mind the thought of what annie had said to her; and it seemed to her that she could not possibly wait for another week to hear more. the baby was restless, its mother was detained down-stairs, and christie walked about and murmured softly to still the little creature's cries. but it was all done mechanically, and wearily enough. through the baby's cries and her own half-forced song, and through the dreary sounds of the wind and rain, she listened for her sister's foot upon the stairs. she could not have told why she was so impatient to see her. annie could tell her no more than she had already told her during their walk from church. but since the possibility of getting home had been suggested, the old feelings had started within her. a sudden rush of home-sickness had come over her, and with it the old unwillingness to go home and be a burden. she could fix her thoughts on nothing else. even after the baby had fallen into an uneasy slumber, she wandered up and down the room, hushing it in her arms as before. there was a step on the stairs at last. it was not annie, however, but mrs lee. "i am afraid the baby has been fretful," she said, kindly, as she took the child in her arms. "you look tired, christie." "no; i'm not very tired." but she moved about the room, putting aside little frocks and shoes, keeping her face all the time from the light. she was very much afraid that if mrs lee were to speak so gently again her tears must flow; and this must not be if she could possibly help it. in the meantime, mrs lee had taken up a book, which lay on a table beside her. it was christie's bible; and when she had finished putting away the children's clothes worn through the day, and seated herself at a little distance, mrs lee said: "you are fond of reading, christie?" christie had many times asked permission to take a book into the nursery, when the children were asleep, and she answered: "yes, ma'am; i like to read, very much." "and do you like to read the bible? some people seem to take great pleasure in it." "yes; i read it every day. i promised effie i would." mrs lee continued to turn over the leaves. "whose marks are these on the margin?" she asked. "i suppose they are effie's. john nesbitt marked one or two for me, when i was staying at his mother's last summer. the rest are effie's." mrs lee read, "he shall cover thee with his feathers, and under his wings shalt thou trust." "that was john's," said christie, quickly. "one day a hawk came very near, and we saw the chickens run to take shelter with their mother; and in the evening john marked that passage, because, he said, it was just the right one for a feeble, frightened, faithless little creature like me. i was not well at the time." christie paused, partly because she thought she had said enough, and partly because it would not have been easy for her to say more just then. "i don't think your friend could have known you very well," said mrs lee, smiling. "he would never call you feeble, or frightened, if he knew all you have done, and what a comfort you have been to me, this winter." "oh, he meant that i was not brave and cheerful, like effie; and i am not." "it is pleasant to have these tokens of your friend, any way," said mrs lee, musingly. "there are other of his marks:--`under the shadow of thy wings will i make my refuge, until these calamities be overpast,'--and another about rejoicing under the shadow of his wings." it was a troubled, tearful face that christie laid down on her hands as she said this. mrs lee was still turning over the leaves, and took no notice of the sigh that escaped the little nurse. "you read it to please your sister and your friend, do you? or do you really love to read it? i have heard of those who find their chief happiness in believing what the bible teaches. do you?" there was a pause, during which christie slowly raised her face from her hands and turned it towards mrs lee. then she said, with some hesitation: "i don't know. i wouldn't be without the bible for all the world; and yet i know i don't find all the comfort in it that some people do. i suppose it is because i am not sure that i am a christian." "a christian?" repeated mrs lee. "yes; a child of god," said christie, with a sigh. "if i were sure that i am a child of god, then all the promises in his holy word would be mine." "i suppose you mean if you were always good and never committed any sin?" said mrs lee, inquiringly. "no; not that, exactly. even god's people fall into sin sometimes." "what do you mean by being a child of god, then? we are all his children in a certain sense, are we not?" christie glanced doubtfully at mrs lee. "i mean one who loves god supremely--one who is at peace with god, who has no will but his--one whose sins are forgiven for jesus christ's sake." "and you think you are not one of these?" said mrs lee. "i don't know. sometimes i hope; but i am afraid not. i am sure i wish to be." mrs lee looked as though she did not quite understand her; but she said nothing more. she laid down the book and rocked the baby gently on her knee. her thoughts were not very happy, christie fancied, if she might judge by her face, which grew grave and sad as she gazed on the child. one of the little boys made a sudden movement. christie rose to replace the coverlet on him. "how peacefully they sleep!" said their mother. "ah me!" she added; "if they could always be as free from care! if i could get but one glimpse into their future! and yet perhaps it is better as it is." "it is better to trust than to know, i once heard effie say." christie spoke shyly, and with hesitation, as though she were not quite sure that she should speak at all. mrs lee smiled, and said, kindly: "i see you are very fond of your sister effie." christie's face spoke; but she did not trust her voice. "i suppose she is the eldest of your family?" "yes. she's twenty-two. oh, i wish you could see effie! she is very different from what you would think from seeing me--or annie, even." "how so?" asked mrs lee, greatly amused at the eagerness of one usually so quiet and self-restrained. "oh, i can hardly tell you. she looks so different--from me, i mean. annie's more like her. but it's not so much her looks. she is so brave and cheerful and strong. she is not afraid. and yet she is gentle, and has patience with us all." "is she one of those you were speaking about just now--a child of god?" "yes; she is," said christie, gravely. "she doesn't say much about it; but i do believe it is that which makes the difference. no wonder that she is strong and brave and cheerful always, when she is quite sure that _all things_ will work together for her good." christie spoke the last words rather to herself than to mrs lee. the lady listened with much interest, however. she had long ago learned to value her little nurse for her faithfulness and her desire to do right; but this glimpse she was getting of her inner life was something new. "it's no wonder i love effie," continued christie, whose heart was opened. "when my mother died, i was sickly, and different from the rest; and she gave me to effie as her special care. i think i should have died if it hadn't been for her. oh, if i could only see her, just for one minute!" christie was in danger of forgetting all else for the moment. but she checked herself by a great effort, and said: "i don't mean that i am discontented here, or that i would go home if i could. i know it is best i should be here." "what do you mean by all things working together for good?" said mrs lee, by and by. "i suppose christians have trials and sorrows as well as others?" "oh, yes! i don't mean that. but a christian may be sure that even his trials are sent for the best. that is what john nesbitt said to effie and me once. he said, if we had a friend of whose love we could be sure, a friend who was wise and powerful and who had promised to bring us safely through our troubles, we should have no cause to fret and despond, though we might not understand all that happened by the way. we might be sure that in the end all would be well." "if one could only have such a friend!" said mrs lee, with an audible sigh. "well, i suppose jesus christ is such a friend to those who love him," said christie, softly. "he's loving and powerful, and he has promised; and he cannot break his promise, we know. if we would but trust him!" mrs lee said nothing. the look of care that christie had seen on her face many times since she came, and oftener than ever within the last few weeks, was settling on it now. she leaned her head on her hand, and sighed many times, as she sat gazing on the face of her baby, who had fallen asleep on her knee. christie took up her book; but she could not help stealing a glance, now and then, at the mother and child. thinking of mrs lee's troubles, christie for a time forgot her own; and it was not so difficult to wait till the next week to see her sister as she supposed it would be. she had to wait longer than that before their arrangements were made. annie wrote to effie; but as only a weekly mail reached them, and as even that one might fail, it was some time before they could expect to hear from her. the days passed very slowly. effie's letter seemed a long time in coming. in the meanwhile april came in, and as the days grew longer and milder, christie's anxiety to hear grew more intense. it seemed to her that she must get away from the town and run home for a little while. the longing never left her. her stories to the children were all about the buds that were beginning to show themselves, and the flowers and birds that would be coming soon. she told them how all living creatures were rejoicing in the return of spring, how glad the calves and the young lambs would be to find themselves in the pastures, that were now becoming green. she told them how the icy bands that had bound the little brooks through all the winter-time were broken now by the bright sunshine, and how by this time the water must have reached the hollow at the foot of the birch-tree and covered the turf seat there. she told them how the waters rushed and murmured when they rose so high that the green buds of the birch-tree dipped into them, and how the wind swayed the young willows, till she seemed to hear the sound, and grew faint with her longing to be there. the letter came at last. annie was to do as she thought best, effie said. she could judge what was wisest, and what she would like, better than they could, who were so far-away; but as for christie, she was to come home. not to exchange with sarah, however. whether one of them would go back, or whether both were to stay at home, was to be decided afterwards; but in the meantime christie was to come home. "think of it!" effie said; "six long months away! aunt elsie, mrs nesbitt, old mrs grey--everybody said she must come home." how the poor girl's heart leaped to meet the welcome that awaited her! yes, she must go home, for a little while at least. mrs lee was grieved at the prospect of parting with her. christie was almost vexed with herself that the thought of leaving her and the children should not be more painful to her. but there was too much joy in her heart to leave room for more sorrow. "i didna think i should be so glad to go," she said to annie many times during their last walk from church. annie laughed. "you have forgotten aunt elsie and all other vexations. wait till you get home. it won't be all sunshine there, i can tell you." but even the thought of aunt elsie had not the power of making christie anything but glad. she was afraid of nothing, except that something might happen to hinder her going home. "you foolish child!" said annie, laughing. "what could happen?" chapter eight. "man proposes, god disposes." but something _did_ happen. that night, when christie went home, she found mrs lee ill. she was not very ill, at least, not much more so than she had been for a long time. she had been quite unfit for the fatigue of nursing her husband, and now that he was better, her strength forsook her. there was a dull, low fever upon her. the doctor said mrs greenly must be sent for and the baby must be weaned. christie's heart sickened as she heard all this. could she leave the baby to a strange nurse? it would greatly add to the anxiety of the mother, and might hinder her recovery for a time, even to know that the children, and especially the delicate baby, must be left to the care of a stranger. ought she to go home? what a wakeful, miserable night she passed! she fancied she could bear to stay; but to disappoint effie and all at home was very painful. must she stay? it seemed so hard to change her plans now, both for her own sake and theirs. but the morrow decided the matter for her. letty was irritable all day and all night, and when the doctor came in the morning, he pronounced her symptoms to be those of scarlet fever. so christie and the other children were banished to the attic-nursery again. she said not another word about going home, except to her sister. "tell effie i couldna get away. it wouldna be right to leave; would it, annie? i will try and not be very unhappy about it." but the tears that rolled down her cheeks told how bitter the disappointment was to her. annie would have lingered a week, even to the shortening of her visit at home, for the sake of having christie go with her; but this was not to be thought of. the fever might go through the whole family. the doctor thought that most likely it would do so; and she could not better leave at the end of a week than now. "and don't tell them i was so very much disappointed about it," she said, trying to smile, when annie rose to go. "they must be all the more glad to see me when i come. i couldna go, annie. now, do you really think i could?" they were up in the attic-nursery. christie sat with the baby in her lap, while little harry hung about her, begging to be taken up. the other boys were engaged in some noisy play near the window; but the confinement up-stairs had already made them irritable, and christie's constant interference was required to keep the peace between them. how much worse it would be if an entire stranger were put in the place of her who had been their kind nurse all the winter! and the poor, anxious mother down-stairs too, how much worse for her! "no, christie, dear; considering all things, i think you do right to stay. but it is a great disappointment." "make effie understand how it is." it was only by a great effort that she restrained a flood of tears till her sister had gone. then they fell upon the baby's frock like rain. the boys looked on in astonishment, and little harry burst out into a frightened cry, wakening the baby, who joined her voice to his. "there! there! hush, baby! hush! harry, don't cry. oh me! what shall i do?" there was but one thing to do, and she tried faithfully to do it;--it was to forget herself and her disappointment, and devote herself to the little ones for the day. and so she did, for that day and many days, with better success than she had dared to hope for. letty was in the other nursery, next to her mother's room, and for several days christie saw neither of them. the baby missed her mother less than might have been expected, and submitted to her privation quietly enough. by passing the day down-stairs in the dining-room, or out in the yard when the weather was fine, christie contrived to keep the boys amused and happy most of the time. mr lee was absent on one of his business journeys. it was uncertain when he would return; but nelly was equal to all housekeeping emergencies, and no one spoke of his absence with regret. mrs greenly always considered christie as under her special patronage, as she had been the means of bringing her to the house, and she strove to lighten her burden as much as possible. but it was a weary time, those first ten days after annie went away. christie did not go to church the first sabbath. it is doubtful whether she would have found the courage, even if she could have been spared. the next week was not so bad with them. letty's illness, though severe, proved less so than had been feared at first; and though mrs lee grew no better, she did not grow worse. before the second sabbath, letty was pronounced out of danger, and nelly, taking pity on christie's pale, weary face, offered to take her place with the children while she went to church. she went early, as usual, and had time for the shedding of some very sorrowful tears before the congregation gathered. i am afraid there was a little bitterness mingled with the sorrow. the good she had done by staying did not seem worth the great sacrifice it had cost. letty had not been very ill after all. the other children were well, and might have done with a stranger, and she might have been going to the kirk at home with effie that very day. besides, mrs greenly did not seem to think her staying a great matter--though she had more than once praised her for her care of the children. as for mrs lee, she had scarcely seen her; and when she had, she had not alluded to the change in her plans which sickness had made. what had cost her so much, she thought, was a small matter in their view; and it is no wonder that the pang of home-sickness that smote her, as she looked at her sister's empty seat in the kirk, was all the harder to bear because of this. she did not gain much good from the sermon that day. heedless of some curious-- perhaps pitying--eyes that were turned towards her, she leaned her head on her hand and thought her own dreary thoughts; and when the services were over, she rose and went away with the rest, although uncomforted. the day passed slowly enough. it needed a greater effort than she could make to amuse the children and keep them interested, and they were noisy and trouble some. the baby, too, was fretful, and would by no means be content to sit still; and christie wandered about with her, listless and miserable, till tea-time. after tea, thankful for the prospect of a little peace, she put the boys to bed, and seating herself by the baby's cot, went back to her sad, unprofitable thoughts again. it was well for her--though she did not think so--that this moody fit did not last long. mrs greenly's step upon the stairs aroused her. "christie," said she, "are you reading? just take your book and go and sit down-stairs, will you? letty's asleep, and will need nothing, i dare say. if she does, you can call me. mrs lee will need nothing either. i don't know how it is that i am so overcome with sleep. i'll lie down and rest a minute or two, and i'll hear the children if they wake." christie took her book and went down, but she did not read. instead of that, she seated herself in the dark on the stairs, and began her unprofitable musings again. mrs lee was not asleep. she was evidently feverish and uncomfortable, and turned about and sighed often and heavily. christie had been told not to go into her room unless she was called, so she sat still a little, beguiled from her own sad thoughts as she took note of the uneasiness of the sick lady. "are you there, nurse?" said mrs lee, at last. christie rose, and went softly in. "oh, is it you, christie? are the children asleep? how's the baby to-night? i feel very weary and wakeful. i don't know what ails me." "shall i call nurse?" asked christie. "no. oh, no. she could do nothing for me. are you reading? read to me a little. perhaps it will quiet me and make me fall asleep." while christie brought the light and placed it where mrs lee's eyes would not be troubled by it, she said again: "the children are quite well, nurse tells me. it was very well that you decided not to go home, christie. i am very glad you stayed." christie said nothing. "i am afraid your sister was disappointed," said mrs lee. "yes," said christie. she could not say more. "do you think you will go soon?" "i don't know, ma'am." poor christie! going or staying seemed a small matter to mrs lee. it would not bear talking about; so she said: "what shall i read to you?" "oh, anything. it doesn't matter. anything to pass the time." christie turned over a book or two that lay on the table, still at a loss what to choose. "you had a book in your hand when you came in," said mrs lee, presently. "read that." it was the bible; and opening it at random, christie read. she read softly and slowly, psalm after psalm; and soothed by her voice, mrs lee lay and listened. after a time, christie thought that she slept, and made a pause. "do you believe what you have been reading?" she asked, suddenly. christie started. "it's the bible," said she. "yes; i know. of course you believe it in a general way. everybody does. but do you take the good of it? that, for instance--`god is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble. therefore will not we fear, though the earth be removed.' are you never afraid?" christie did not answer. "do you remember what you said to me the other night about your sister, and all things working for good to those who love god? are you sure of it? and are you always content with what god sends you?" poor christie! she sat conscience-stricken, remembering her murmuring spirit through the day. "if i could be sure that i am one of those to whom god has given a right to his promises, i think i should be content with all he sends." she spoke humbly, and in a broken voice. "oh, if one could be sure!" murmured mrs lee. "if there was any good or pleasant thing in this world of which one could be quite sure! oh, how weary i am of it all!" the charm of the reading was broken. she moved her head restlessly on the pillow. christie went to her. "can i do anything for you? let me bathe your hands and face." and she brought some fresh water. "sometimes when my head used to ache badly, my mother brushed it softly." "i thought your mother was dead," said mrs lee, raising herself up, and submitting to be tended after christie's fashion. "yes, she died four years ago. i was but a child; but i remember her quite well." "my mother is dead too," said mrs lee, with a sigh. "i wonder if she would have died if i had not left her? i was but a child--only sixteen--and we never can tell beforehand how things are to turn out. if i had only known! but, oh me! why do i vex myself with all these things to-night? it is too late now!--too late now!" christie was alarmed at her evident excitement. laying her gently down on her pillow, and smoothing her hair, she said: "if you please, ma'am, mrs greenly said i was not to speak to you, and that you must be kept quiet." with a strange sound between a sob and a laugh, she said: "ah, yes! it is easy for her to say, `keep quiet;' but all her good nursing does not reach my troubles. oh, me; how weary i am! my mother is dead, and i have no sister; and my brothers have quite forgotten me. but if we could only be sure that what your sister says is true, about the friend that cares for us, and who will bring us safe through all troubles!" "it's not effie that says it," said christie, eagerly, "it's in the bible; and you may be quite sure it's true." "i wouldn't care so much for myself; but these poor little children who have no one but me, and i so weak and helpless. my heart fails when i think of all they may have to bear. i suppose my mother had just such anxious thoughts about me. oh, if she had known all! but she could not have helped me here." "but the verse says, `a very present help in trouble,'" said christie, softly. "that's one difference between a heavenly friend and all earthly friends." "yes," said mrs lee, languidly. christie continued: "the bible says, too, `the lord is nigh unto all them that call upon him, to all that call upon him in truth.' and in another place, `wait on the lord: be of good courage, and he shall strengthen thy heart.'" "yes; if, as you say, one could be sure that all these words were for us," said mrs lee. christie faltered a little; but by and by she said: "well, the trust, like all other blessings, comes from him. we can but ask him for it. at any rate, it is to those who are in trouble that he promises help. it is to those who labour and are heavy-laden that christ has promised rest." "rest!" echoed mrs lee, wearily. "oh for rest!" "yes; and he says he will give it to those who come to him," continued christie. "we ought not to doubt him. he has said, in twenty places, that he will hear prayer." "i have a prayer-book. my mother gave it to me. but i have neglected it sadly." "but the new testament and the psalms are full of promises to hear prayer." and christie repeated many verses as they came to her mind: "_him that cometh unto me, i will in no wise cast out_. "_whatever ye ask in my name, it shall be done unto you_. "_ask, and ye shall receive; seek, and ye shall find_. "_if ye, then, being evil, know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more shall your father in heaven give his holy spirit unto those who ask him_. "and the psalm says:-- "and in the day of trouble great see that thou call on me; i will deliver thee, and thou my name shalt glorify." "can't you sing?" asked mrs lee, coaxingly. it was a long time before christie could conquer her shyness so as to sing even with the children, but she had no thought of shyness now. she began the twentieth, and then the twenty-third psalm, singing them to old scotch tunes--rippling notes of strange, wild melody, like what we seldom hear in our churches nowadays. the child's voice had a clear, silvery sweetness, melting away in tender cadences; and breathing words suited to such times of need as come to all, whatever else may pass them by, it did more than soothe mrs lee, it comforted her. "yea, though i walk through death's dark vale, yet will i fear no ill; for thou art with me, and thy rod and staff me comfort still." and so she sang on, her voice growing softer and lower, till mrs lee fell asleep, and slept as she had not slept before for months, calmly as a child; and christie stood beside her, listening to her gentle breathing, and saying to herself: "i wonder if i have done her any good?" then she went back to her seat upon the stairs, and before she had sat there long in the darkness the blessed knowledge came to her that, whether she had done any good or not, she had gained much within the last two hours. in trying to comfort another she had herself been comforted. "i can ask for the best blessing that god has to give, and keep asking till i get it. why should i not?" and no bitterness was mingled with her tears, though they still fell fast. "i will try and do right, and trust, and have patience, and god will guide me, i know he will." and so she sat in the dark, sometimes slumbering, sometimes thinking, till the baby's whimpering cry summoned her back to her usual care. the next week was better in all respects than the last. letty grew well rapidly, and her mother improved a little day by day. the doctor, looking now and then into the attic-nursery, gave them hope at last that the little ones might escape the fever for this time; and christie's thoughts began to turn homeward again. but not so anxiously as before. the pain of parting from the children would be harder now. and during these days she began to feel a strange yearning tenderness for the poor young mother, scarcely less helpless and in need of care than they. it had come to be quite the regular thing now for mrs greenly to take an hour's rest in the attic-nursery when the children had fallen asleep, while christie took her place in mrs lee's room. new and wonderful were the glimpses which those twilight hours gave to christie. she found that mrs lee, sitting in her drawing-room, or even in the nursery, giving directions about the care of the children, was a very different person from mrs lee lying in bed feverish or exhausted, looking back over the days of her childhood, or forward to a future that was anything but hopeful to her disenchanted eyes. naturally reserved, the lady had made but few acquaintances in the city, and had not one intimate friend; and now, when weak and weary and desponding, it was a relief to her to speak to some one of the times and places and events over which memory had brooded in silence for so many years. she never dreamed what glimpses of her heart she was giving to her little nurse. she only saw the sympathy expressed by christie's grave face or eager gesture; and she talked to her, sometimes regretfully enough, about her mother and her brothers and her childish days. yet, sad as those memories were, they were scarcely so sad as the thoughts she sent out into the future. she did not often speak her fears; but her silence and her frequent sighs were to christie more eloquent than words. christie rarely spoke at such times as these--never, except when a question was asked; and then her reply was generally prefaced with, "i have heard my father say," or, "effie once told me," or, "i heard john nesbitt saying." ignorant as she knew herself to be on the most important of all subjects, she was yet far wiser than her mistress. some of christie's simple remarks and suggestions made an impression on her heart that wiser and more direct teachings might have failed to make. as for christie, in her sympathy for mrs lee's troubles, she almost forgot her own. in striving to relieve her from all anxiety about the children, she was ready to forget even her own weariness; and in the knowledge that she was doing some good to them all, she ceased to regret that annie had gone home without her. chapter nine. light in darkness. the week passed. sunday morning came; and out of a broken, uneasy slumber, christie was awakened by the fall of rain-drops on the window. in the midst of the trouble and turmoil of the week she had striven to be patient; but through it all she had looked forward to the two hours' respite of the sabbath, and now it seemed to her that she could not be denied. turning her aching eyes from the light, she did not, for a moment or two, try to restrain her tears. but she could not indulge herself long, if she had been ever so much inclined. for soon arose the clamour of childish voices, that must be stilled. so christie rose, and bathed her hot eyes, and strove to think that, after all, the clouds were not so very thick, and they might break away in time for her to go. "at any rate, there is no good in being vexed about it," she said to herself. "i must try and be content at home, if i canna go." it was an easier matter to content herself than to her first waking thought seemed possible. she was soon busy with the little ones, quieting their noise as she washed and dressed them, partly for little harry's sake, and partly because it was the sabbath-day. so earnest was she in all this that she had no time to think of her disappointment till the boys were down-stairs at breakfast with their mother. then little harry seemed feverish and fretful and "ill to do with," as mrs greenly, who visited the attic-nursery with the baby in her arms, declared. christie strove to soothe her fretful pet, and took him in her arms to carry him down-stairs. a gleam of sunshine met her on the way. "it is going to be fine weather, after all," she said to nurse greenly, turning round on the first landing. but nurse seemed inclined this morning to look on the dark side of things, and shook her head. "i'm not so sure of that," said she. "that's but a single gleam; and i dare say the sky is black enough, if we could see it. and hearken, child, to the wind! the streets will be in a puddle; and with those pains in your ankles you'll never, surely, think of going out to-day?" christie's face clouded again; and so did the sky, for the gleam of sunshine vanished. "i should like to go, indeed," said she; "and it's only when i am very tired that my ankles pain me." "tired!" repeated nurse. "yes, and no wonder; and yet you will persist in carrying that great boy, who is far better able to carry himself. i don't wonder that you want to go even to the church, to be out of the reach of trouble for a while." christie laughed a little--she could not help it--at nurse's energy. "i am afraid it _is_ partly for the quiet that i want to go," said she, looking grave enough for a minute. and she did go, after all, though the weather was so forbidding. christie's first thought, when she entered the church, was that their hall-clock had gone wrong and made her late; for already there was scarcely a vacant seat, and it was not without difficulty that she found her way to the place she was accustomed to occupy. there were strangers in the pew, and strangers before her and around her; and with a shy and wondering feeling christie took up her hymn-book. the great multitude that filled the seats and thronged the aisles were waiting impatiently to hear the sound of a voice hitherto unheard among them. christie sent now and then a curious glance over the crowded seats and aisles, and up to the galleries, from which so many grave, attentive faces looked down; but even when the stillness which followed the hum and buzz of the coming in of the congregation was broken by the clear, grave tones of a stranger's voice, it never occurred to her that it was the voice of one whose eloquence had gathered and held many a multitude before. in a little while she forgot the crowd and everything else. at first she strained her short-sighted eyes in the direction of the voice, eagerly but vainly. but this soon ceased; and by the time the singing and the prayers were over, she only listened. to many in the house that day, the word spoken by god's servant was as "a very lovely song of one that hath a pleasant voice and can play well on an instrument." to many it was a stumbling-block, and to many more foolishness. but to the weary child, who sat there with her head bowed down, and her face hidden in her hands, it was "christ the power of god and the wisdom of god unto salvation." she forgot the time, the place, and the gathered multitude. she forgot her own weakness and weariness. she forgot even the speaker in the words he spoke. in a little while she grew unconscious of the tears she had tried to hide, and her hands fell down on her lap, and her wet cheeks and smiling lips were turned towards the face that her dim eyes failed to see. i cannot tell what were the words that so moved her. it was not that the thoughts were new or clothed in loftier language than she was wont to hear. it was the old but ever new theme, set forth in the old true way, reverently and simply, by lips which--long ago touched by a coal from the altar--had answered to the heavenly voice, "here am i; send me." it was god's love, intimated by many a sign and made visible by many a token, but first and best of all by this, that "he spared not his own son, but gave him up to die for us all." no, the words were neither new nor strange; and yet they seemed to be both to her. it was not as though she were listening to spoken words. there seemed to be revealed to her, as in a vision, a glimpse of mysteries into which the angels desire to look. her eyes were open to see god's plan of salvation in its glorious completeness, christ's finished work in all its suitableness and sufficiency, his grace in all its fullness and freeness. oh, that wondrous grace! angels gaze from afar, while ascribing to its author greatness and power and glory. but the redeemed have a higher and more thrilling song put into their mouths. "unto him who loved _us_, and gave himself for _us_!" they sing; and then and there this child had a foretaste of their unspeakable blessedness. it was as "the chiefest among ten thousand, and altogether lovely," that she saw him now; and love supreme, and entire trust and peacefulness, took possession of her heart. very sinful, and weak and unworthy she saw herself to be; but she saw also that the grace that can pardon, justify, purify, and save is the more glorious on that very account. her sins no longer rose between her and god. they were removed from her "as far as the east is from the west." they were cast altogether behind his back, to be remembered against her no more for ever. if before to-day christie had been one of christ's little ones--if she had had a place in the fold, and had now and then caught a glimpse of the green pastures and the still waters where the "good shepherd" leads his flock--it was to-day for the first time that she realised the blessedness of her calling. her little bible, and her murmured prayer night and morning, amid the sleeping children, had more than any other thing, more than all other things together, helped her quietly and cheerfully through the weary winter. clinging now to one promise, and now to another, she had never been quite without the light and help that seemed to come from above. but to-day it was not a solitary promise. it was not even the sense that _all_ the promises to god's people from generation to generation were hers to rely upon. it was the blessedness of the knowledge that began to dawn, like heaven's own light, upon her, the knowledge that she was no longer her own, but _his_ who had bought her with a price--_his_ to have and to hold, in sorrow and joy, through life and in death, henceforth and for ever. now, "neither life, nor death, nor angels, nor principalities, nor powers, nor things present, nor things to come, nor height, nor depth, nor any other creature, could separate her from the love of god which is in christ jesus our lord." silently, with the thoughtful or thoughtless multitude, she passed from the house of prayer. yet her soul was sending up a song of praise that reached the heaven of heavens. a forlorn little figure she must have seemed to any chance eye that rested on her as she picked her way among the pools that had settled here and there on the pavement. it was only by a great effort that she held her own against the wind and rain, that threatened to carry away her shawl, and rendered vain her attempts to shield her faded crape bonnet with a still more faded umbrella. if one among the crowd who met or passed her on her way took any notice of her at all, it must have been to smile at or to pity her. yet over her angels in the high heavens were rejoicing. in her heart was the peace that passeth understanding, soon to blossom forth into joy unspeakable and full of glory. heedless alike of smiles and pity, she hastened along, unconscious of discomfort. even the near approach to the house, and the thought of the peevish children and the dim attic-nursery, had no power to silence the song that her grateful soul was singing. she went up the stone steps without her accustomed sigh of weariness; and the face that greeted mrs greenly as she opened the door, though pale enough, and wet with rain-drops, was a very pleasant face for any one to see. "you foolish child!" mrs greenly exclaimed, eyeing the little figure that stood on the door-mat. "you would have been better at home." something in christie's face kept her from saying more. "i am very glad i went--very glad," said christie, stooping to take off her wet shoes, that she might not soil nelly's spotless oilcloth; and as she gathered them up and faced mrs greenly again, she repeated, softly: "i am very, _very_ glad! you haven't needed me much, have you? how is wee harry?" nurse took no notice of her question, but looking gravely at her, said: "i wonder the wind didn't carry you away, poor child!" "it very nearly did," said christie, laughing. "i am very glad to be safe within doors again; but i am very glad i went, for all that." "but you are wet through!" said nurse, laying her hand on her shoulder. "go and change your clothes this very moment. stay," she added, as christie began to ascend the stairs. "if the children get a sight of you there will be an end of your peace. go down to the kitchen, and i will bring down your things for you." christie looked wonderingly into her face. "you are very kind. but you need not take the trouble. i'm not so very wet." "do as i bid you," said mrs greenly, impatiently. "you'll be ill with those pains in your ankles again. and you have a weary week before you, or i'm mistaken." "what is it?" asked christie, in alarm. "it may be little, after all; but little harry seems far from well, and his mother is naturally anxious. at any rate, i'm going to call for the doctor this afternoon, and if it should prove that he has taken the fever, why, i must stay for a week, and you have the prospect of a longer confinement in the attic-nursery." it was too true. little harry was very ill--much worse than his sister had been at first. the doctor looked very grave when he saw him that afternoon, and positively directed that the other children should be kept away from the room. but christie was not sent with them to the attic. having caught a glimpse of her passing the door, harry could not be pacified till he found himself in her arms; and not even his mother could beguile him from her through all that long afternoon. he was very feverish, and seemed to suffer much, poor little fellow. sometimes she soothed his restlessness by singing to him in a low voice, or by telling him the tales that had amused him many a time during the long winter. sometimes she walked about with him in her arms; but she was not able to do this very long, and so she sat on a low chair, rocking him gently in her arms. the other children were down-stairs with nelly. mrs greenly had gone out to make arrangements for a longer stay; and poor mrs lee, anxious and unhappy, went in and out of the nursery, unable to quiet herself or to take the rest she so much needed. it was nearly dark when the doctor came in again, and the little boy had fallen into an uneasy slumber. the doctor started slightly when he saw christie, and said, rather hastily-- "i thought i told you to keep away?" the child stirred and murmured as the light was brought in, and christie hushed him softly; but she made no reply. mrs lee spoke for her: "but he was so restless, doctor, and seemed so uncomfortable after you went away; and we could do nothing to quiet him till christie took him. he is very fond of her." the doctor laid his hand on the hot forehead of the little patient, but his eye was on christie. "have you ever had the fever?" he asked. "i am not sure. i think i had it when i was a child. but i am not afraid of it." "when you were a child! that could not have been a long time ago, i should imagine," said the doctor, smiling a little, as he looked into the earnest face turned towards him. "but i dare say you will do as well for harry as nurse greenly herself could do." "is he in danger? is he worse than letty was?" asked his mother. "oh, no! he is by no means so ill as she was at one time," said the doctor, cheerfully. "and a fine rugged little fellow like harry may get through much better than his sister. but, at the same time, this fever sometimes becomes more severe as the season advances, and it is as well to keep the other children away. not that i think there is any particular danger for any of them--even the baby; but being weaned so young, and her teeth coming, it is as well to be cautious. so if christie is to nurse harry, she may as well have nothing to do with the baby--or the boys." mrs lee looked still harassed and anxious. "there is no harm done," continued the doctor, soothingly. "if christie has to be with the other children, she should not be with harry. but if harry is so fond of her, perhaps she had better stay with him to-night, at any rate. i dare say you can manage without her up-stairs for one night?" "oh, yes! we can do very well," said mrs lee. "when do you expect mr lee home?" asked the doctor. mrs lee shook her head. "i have been expecting him every day for a week. he must come soon, now, or write. he has not yet heard of letty's illness. i was so glad it was over before he came! and now harry, and perhaps the others--" she stopped short, but soon added, "i hope nurse will not need to go." "no, it's not likely; and even if she should, you will manage with some one for the other children. i am quite willing to trust my patients with this careful little person, since she is not afraid. the little fellow seems quite fond of her. i suppose you don't mind being kept awake a little for one night?" he said, as he again stooped over the flushed face of the little boy. "oh, no! and even if i go to sleep, i wake very easily. the least movement wakes me. i think you can trust me, ma'am; and i can call you or mrs greenly at any moment, you know." "i have trusted her all the winter, as i have never been able to trust any one with the children before," said mrs lee to the doctor. "christie has been very good to the children, and to me too. i am only afraid i have put too much on her--such a child as she is." christie's face, which had been pale enough before, crimsoned all over with pleasure at the words of mrs lee. "i am quite strong; at least, i am much stronger than i look," she said. "well, you are to stay with little harry to-night, at any rate, and i hope i may find him much better in the morning," said the doctor. he gave some further directions about the child's drink and medicine, and went away. christie heard him in the passage urging upon mrs lee the necessity of keeping herself quiet and taking rest. the child, he assured her, was in no danger; but he would not answer for the consequences to herself should she suffer her over-anxiety to bring on a return of the illness from which she had only just recovered. he did not leave her till he saw her resting on the sofa in her own room; and christie did not see her again till the house had become quiet for the night. mrs greenly had paid one brief visit to the sick-room, and then, weary with the exertions of the week, betook herself to the attic-nursery to rest. christie was left quite alone but her solitary musings were not so sad as they had been many a time. and sitting there in the dim light of the night-lamp, she said to herself, "i can never, never have such sad thoughts again." chapter ten. the shadow of death. it was past midnight when mrs lee entered the nursery again. little harry was on the bed, and his weary nurse was preparing to lie down beside him. "he seems to be sleeping quietly," said his mother, as she bent over him, "yes, ma'am--much more quietly than he did last night. i think he will have a good night," said christie. mrs lee seated herself on the side of the low bed, and listened to his quick, irregular breathing. "i was beginning to hope that all the others might escape, now that letty is so well," she said; "but if harry gets over it i shall be glad. it is always well that children should have these diseases while they are at home, if they must have them--poor darlings!" she looked grave, and even sad as she spoke; but her face was not so pale, and she did not look so hopeless as she had done when the doctor was present. "i feel quite rested and refreshed," she said, after a few moments. "i have been asleep two or three hours. you had better go up-stairs and lie down awhile, and i will stay with harry the rest of the night. you look very tired, christie." "i was just going to lie down here," said christie. "do you think you need to sit up, ma'am? he seems sleeping so quietly, and the least movement he can make will wake me. i can keep a light burning, and call you at any moment. i do not think you need to sit up." "i am afraid you will not rest much with him, if his least movement will wake you," said mrs lee, doubtfully. "oh, i wake and sleep again very easily," said christie, cheerfully. "i am used to it now." still mrs lee lingered, watching the child with anxious eyes, and now and then sighing deeply christie sent many a pitying glance towards her wondering if any trouble that she knew nothing of was added to the anxiety with which she regarded her child. she longed to be able to comfort her. her heart was full of sympathy for her--sympathy which she did not venture to express in words. she did not even let her looks express it, but took up her bible, that she might not seem to be watching her. mrs lee roused herself at last, and turning to christie, said: "mrs greenly tells me that mr g., the famous preacher, was in town to-day. and, by the bye, you must have heard him. he preached in --- church this morning. you were there, i suppose?" "yes; i was there," said christie, with great interest. "there was a strange minister preached; but i didn't know that he was a great man. that was the reason there was such a crowd of people, i suppose. i wondered why it was." "you didn't like him, then? or you didn't think him a great man?" said mrs lee, smiling. "oh, yes," said she, eagerly; "i liked him. but i wasn't thinking about him as a great man; i wasn't thinking of him at all--only of what he said." "he told you something new, then?" said mrs lee. "no! oh, no! nothing new; nothing that i had not heard many times before. and yet it seemed to come to me as new!" she added, a strange, sweet smile passing over her face. "what did he say that was new to you?" "some things he said that i shall never forget. he was telling us of god's love to man, shown in many ways, but most and best of all in the work of redemption. it wasn't new, what he said; and yet--i don't know how it was--i seemed to see it as i never saw it before." and again the same bright smile flashed over her countenance. "the work of redemption?" repeated mrs lee; and there was a questioning tone in her voice that made christie look at her doubtfully before replying. "yes; you know, `god so loved the world that he gave his only begotten son, that whosoever believeth on him might not perish, but have eternal life.' and `all we like sheep have gone astray. we have turned every one to his own way; and the lord hath laid on him the iniquity of us all.' and there are many more verses in the bible like this. one of them says, `when there was no eye to pity, or hand to save, god's eye pitied, and his own arm brought salvation.' i'm not sure that these are the exact words, but that is the meaning of the verse." "brought salvation!" repeated mrs lee. "that means that god's people will be saved, and will go to heaven when they die?" "yes," said christie, hesitatingly. "it means that; but it means something more. we don't have to wait till we die to get the good of salvation. we shall be saved from the punishment of sin when we die, but we are saved here from its power. we come to hate what we once loved, and to see beauty and worth in things that before were uninteresting to us. what was hard to do and hard to bear becomes easy for christ's sake. somehow or other, everything seems changed. `old things pass away. all things become new.'" she paused, and letting her cheek rest on the hand that held her bible, she gazed into the glowing embers with eyes that seemed to see pleasant things far-away. mrs lee looked at her with wonder for a time, and then said: "has all this happened to you--this change you speak about?" a sudden flow of tears was the only reply her question received at first. but soon she raised her head, and said: "sometimes--now and then--i have hoped so; and to-day, when god's great love to sinners was set forth, and the way of salvation shown to be so wise, so free, so suitable, it seemed foolish and unreasonable to doubt any more. i had heard all about it many and many a time before, but the words seemed to come home to my heart to-day. it was like the sudden shining out of a light in a dark place. maybe i'll go back again to my old doubts and discontent. but i hope not; i believe not. i know he is able to keep me; and i think he will." mrs lee had laid herself down by harry, and was listening now, with her eyes shaded by her hand. she lay so long and so quietly that christie thought she must have fallen asleep, and began softly to turn over the leaves of her bible again; and she quite started when, in the course of half an hour, she spoke again. "you said something about god's love in redemption. what did you mean by it? tell me more of what the preacher said." christie hesitated a moment, and was at a loss what to say: "i can't mind all he said. that is, i can't mind the exact words. but he told us what a blessed thing it is for us that our salvation, from beginning to end, is god's own work, and how impossible it is that we could be saved if it depended on ourselves." "yes; even if one could begin one's life again. it would be all the same. we might avoid some errors and keep from falling into some mistakes; but after all, it would come to the same thing in the end, i dare say. there is no use in wishing for another chance." mrs lee sighed; and christie hesitated a moment, and then said: "we can do nothing to save ourselves, ma'am, and all else that we have to do grows easy, because of the grace which god gives, and because of a knowledge of christ's love to us. it is easy to do the will of one who loves us, and whom we love." there was a long pause after this, which mrs lee broke by saying: "what was it you said about `no eye to pity, and no arm to save'?" "here it is," said christie; and she eagerly read the words from her bible, and many more besides--a verse here and a verse there, as her own judgment or effie's marginal marks suggested: such as, "_surely he hath borne our griefs and carried our sorrows_. "_he was wounded for our transgressions, and bruised for our iniquities_. "_for when we were without strength, in due time christ died for the ungodly_. "_for scarcely for a righteous man will one die; yet peradventure for a good man some would even dare to die_. "_but god commendeth his love toward us, in that, while we were yet sinners, christ died for us_. "_who shall lay anything to the charge of god's elect? it is god that justifieth. who is he that condemneth? it is christ that died; yea, rather, that is risen again, who is even at the right hand of god, who also maketh intercession for us. who shall separate us from the love of christ_?" "if we could be sure that we are among the children of god," said mrs lee, with a sigh. and soon after she added: "there are a great many things in the bible that are hard to understand." "yes; i suppose so--i am sure of it," said christie, gravely. "but the things most necessary for us to know and understand are easy for us; at least, with the help of the holy spirit they grow easy, i think. it is very plainly told us we are sinners and need a saviour, that a saviour has been provided, and those who come to him he will in no wise cast out. these are the chief things; and besides these, we are assured of help and guidance and peace, all the way through to the end." christie spoke slowly, striving to put into as few words as possible these precious truths of the bible. "you seem to know a great deal about these things, and to take a pleasure in them," said mrs lee. christie shook her head. "i take pleasure in them, but i know very little. it is only lately that i have cared to learn. i am very ignorant." ignorant though she was, the child knew more of god's truth than her mistress; and many a word in season she spoke to her anxious heart during the long watches that they shared together in the sad times that followed that memorable day. they were words very simply and humbly spoken--rarely christie's own. they were passages of scripture, or bits from the catechism, or remembered comments upon them made, in her hearing, by her father, or by effie and her friends. nothing could have been farther from christie's thoughts than any intention of teaching. she did not dream how strange and new to her listener were the blessed truths that were beginning to present themselves so vividly to her own mind. she would have shrunk from the thought of presuming to teach, or even to suggest new trains of thought. in ordinary circumstances she might have found it difficult to converse long on any subject with mrs lee. but watching and anxiety, shared in the chamber over which hangs the shadow of a great dread, soon break down the barriers of reserve which a difference of age or position raises; and there seemed no inappropriateness in the grave, earnest words that now and then fell from the lips of the little maid. indeed, weak in body and exhausted in mind as the troubles of the winter and spring had left her, mrs lee found positive rest and refreshment in the society which might at another time have seemed unsuitable; and mingled with the gratitude with which she saw christie's devotion to the sick child was a feeling of respect and admiration for the character which was gradually developing before her eyes. how long the days and nights seemed! little harry's robust frame and fine constitution availed him little. the fever raged with great violence; and the close of the week found the doctor still in doubt as to how it might end with him. his mother's strength and hopefulness had held out wonderfully till this time; but when the baby, the fair and fragile little ellinor, was stricken down, faith, strength, and courage seemed to fail her. it was not long, however. the child's need gave the mother strength; and the baby needed nothing long. the other children were sent away to a friend's house in the country; and silence, broken only by the moans of the little ones or the hushed voices of their anxious nurses, reigned through the house, lately echoing to far other sounds. before three silent days had passed, the mother knew that her baby must die. in the presence of her unutterable sorrow christie was mute. the awe which fell upon her in the dread presence left her no words with which to comfort the stricken mother. but in her heart she never ceased through all that last long night to pray, "god comfort her." and she _was_ comforted. though her tears fell fast on the folded hands of her child as she said the words, they were humbly and reverently spoken: "`thy will be done.' it would have been harder to leave my child than to let her go!--and now one of my darlings is safe from all sorrow for ever!" the father came home just in time to lay his little daughter in the grave; and then both father and mother sat down to wait. for what? for the gradual return of the rose to the cheek and the light to the eye of little harry? alas, no! it was not to be. a keener pang was to pierce the heart of the stricken mother. for to part with little harry was a far harder trial to anticipate than even the loss of her baby had been to bear. but day by day it became more apparent to all that harry's end was hastening. the fever went away, but there seemed to be no power to rally in the little worn-out frame of the child. his father, for a little while, spoke hopefully of a change of air, and the sea-side; but he could not long so cheat himself with false hopes. the restlessness and irritability, which they had said to one another were hopeful signs, passed away. his smiles were more languid and constrained, and he soon failed to recognise the anxious, loving friends who ministered to his wants. before this the mother's strength had quite failed; and the father, unused to the sight of suffering, shrank from looking on the last agony of his child. through all his illness the little boy had clung to christie--never quite at rest, even in the arms of his mother, unless his christie was near. her voice had soothed him, her hands had ministered to his comfort, her care had been lavished on him, through all those lingering days and nights. and now it was christie who met his last smile and listened to his last murmured "good-night!" yes, it was christie who closed his eyes at last, and straightened his limbs in their last repose. she helped to robe him for the grave, and to lay him in his little coffin; and all the time there was coming and going through her mind a verse she had learned long ago-- "now, like a dew-drop shrined within a crystal stone, thou'rt safe in heaven, my dove; safe in the arms of jesus, the everlasting one!" chapter eleven. an unexpected visitor. and now a sad silence fell on the household. the children were not to be brought home for some time, the doctor said; and their mother was not able to go to them; so christie was left to the almost unbroken quiet of her forsaken nursery. she needed rest more than she was aware, and sank into a state of passive indifference to all things which would have alarmed herself had not her kind friend, mrs greenly, been there to insist that she should be relieved of care till her over-tasked strength should be in some measure restored. in those very quiet hours, thoughts of home came to her only as a vague and shadowy remembrance. the events of the winter, and even the more recent sufferings of the last month, seemed like a dream to her. dearly as she had loved her little charges, she was hardly conscious of regret at their loss. it seemed like something that had happened long ago--their long suffering and departure. the very promises which had of late become so sweet to her, soothed her merely as a pleasant sound might do. she scarcely took note of their meaning or power during those days. but this soon passed away, and with returning strength came back with double force the old longing to go home. she had sent a line to effie when little harry was taken ill, telling her how utterly impossible it would be for her to leave her place. since then, about the time of the baby's death, a neighbour had called, and by him she had sent the same message, assuring her sister that she was quite content to stay. but her old eagerness to get home came back, now that she found herself with little to occupy her, and she waited anxiously for the time when mrs lee might be spoken to on the subject. in the meantime, mrs greenly was called away, and the duty of attendance upon mrs lee once more devolved on christie. if anything could have banished from her heart all thought of home or all wish for change, the days that followed would have done so. not an hour passed in which she was not made to feel that she was a comfort to her friend-- for _friends_, in the highest sense, the mistress and her little maid were fast becoming. the readings and conversations which had been begun during their long watches together were renewed; and blessed seasons they proved to both. christie never knew--never could know on earth-- all the good she did mrs lee in those days. she was only conscious of an ever-increasing love for her and an ever-increasing desire to serve her. if in the first agony of her bereavement there had been in the mother's heart murmuring and rebellious thoughts, they were all stilled now. with more than the submission of a chastened child--with joy that had in it a sense of reconciliation and acceptance--she was enabled to kiss the hand that had smitten her. she seldom spoke of her children; but when she did, it was with gratitude that they had been hers, and were still hers, in heaven. seen by the new light that was dawning on her soul, the world, its hopes and fears and interests, looked to her very different. humble submission and cheerful trust took the place of her old, anxious forebodings. scripture truths, which formerly conveyed no distinct idea to her mind, came home to her now with power. they were living truths, full of hope and comfort. the promises were to her a place of rest and refuge--a strong tower, into which she could run and be safe. by slow degrees the light of the glorious gospel of jesus christ dawned upon her soul; and to one fearful and doubtful of the future, as she had been, what blessed rest and refreshment was in the trust, that gradually grew strong, in the embrace of an arm mighty to save! to know herself one of those to whom jesus has given a right to say, "i will fear no evil, for _thou_ art with me," was all that she needed for her consolation; and during those days the blessed knowledge came to her. what part the simple words and earnest prayers of her little nurse had in bringing about this blessed change, god knows. the girl herself had little thought of the good which her entrance into the household had wrought. it might have helped her to a more patient waiting had she known how often her name was mingled with the thankful praises of mrs lee. she was not impatient, but a longing for home that would not be stilled mingled with the gladness that filled her heart at the thought of being useful. summer had come. june was half over, and the only glimpse of green she had had was the top of the mountain, far-away. now and then nelly brought home from the market a bunch of garden-flowers. but the sight of them only made her long the more for the fields where so many flowers that she knew had blossomed and faded unseen. more than once, when sent out by mrs lee to take the air, she had tried to extend her walk in one direction or another, till she should reach the country. but partly because she did not know the way, and partly because she grew so soon weary, she never succeeded. she had to content herself with the nearest street where there were trees growing, and now and then a peep through open gateways upon little dusty strips of grass or garden-ground. oh, how close and hot and like a prison the long, narrow streets seemed to her! how weary the street-noises made her! it was foolish, she knew, and so she told herself often, to vex herself with idle fancies. but sometimes there came back to her, with a vividness which for the moment was like reality, the memory of familiar sights and sounds. sometimes it was the wind waving the trees, or the ripple of the brook over the stepping-stones; sometimes it was the bleating of the young lambs in the pastures far-away. she caught glimpses of familiar faces in the crowd, as she used to do in the home-sick days when she first came; and she could not always smile at her folly. sometimes her disappointment would send her home sad and dispirited enough. almost always the smile that met her as she entered mrs lee's room brought back her content; but often it needed a greater effort to be cheerful than an on-looker could have guessed. still, the effort was always made, and never without some measure of success. one morning she rose more depressed than usual. a quiet half-hour with her little bible was not sufficient to raise her spirits, though she told herself it ought to be; and she said to herself, as she went down-stairs, "i will speak to-day about going home." mrs lee was able to go down-stairs now. on this particular day a friend was to visit her, and christie determined to say nothing about the matter till the visitor should be gone. but the prospect of a long day in the solitary nursery did not tend to brighten her face, and it was sadly enough that she went slowly down the street on an errand for nelly when breakfast was over. she did not look up to-day in her usual vain search for a "kenned face," or she would never have passed by the corner so unheedingly. a pair of kind eyes, for the moment as grave and sad as her own, watched her as she came on, and after she passed. in a little while a very gentle hand was laid on her shoulder. "what's your haste, christie, my lassie?" with a cry she turned to clasp the hand of john nesbitt. poor little christie! she was so glad, so very glad! it was almost like seeing effie herself, she told him, amid a great burst of tears that startled the grave john considerably. for a moment her sobs came fast. the open streets and the wondering passers-by were quite forgotten. "whisht, christie, my woman," said john, soothingly, "that's no' the way we show our gladness in glengarry." drawing her hand under his arm, he held it firmly in his own. christie made a great effort to control herself, and the face which she soon turned towards her friend had grown wonderfully brighter for the tears that fell. "effie bade me notice how you looked and what you said; and i'm afraid she'll no' be pleased to hear that i got such a tearful welcome," said john, with his grave smile. "oh, effie will understand. why, it's almost like seeing effie herself to see you, john!" she repeated, giving him a tearful smile. she felt sure it was a true friend's hand that pressed hers so warmly as she spoke. "but where are you going, christie?" asked john. "oh, i forgot; we are past the place." but her face grew grave in a moment. "when did you come, john? and how long are you going to stay?" "i came yesterday, and i shall stay no longer than i can help. i have had enough of this dusty town for once. i wonder how you ever stayed so long in it, christie." "i wonder myself, whiles," she said gravely; "but it won't be long now." "are they better at your house? will they spare you to go home with me?" "there is no one ill now. did you hear--" but christie's voice was lost in the remembrance of little harry and the baby. "yes, we heard. you must have had a sad time, poor lassie! but the remembrance of these precious little ones cannot be altogether sorrowful, christie?" "no; oh, no, indeed!" but she could say no more. as they drew near the house, she added: "and shan't i see you again, john?" "ay, lass, that you will. i'm by no means done with you yet. are you busy to-day? because i would like your help. i promised to get some things for my mother, and i'm not good at choosing. will you come with me? do you think you can be spared?" "i don't know. i should like it. i can ask." in a minute she returned, with a face made radiant by mrs lee's cheerful consent to spare her for as much of the day as she pleased; and it was arranged that john should call for her in half an hour. if anything could have marred the delight with which her preparations were made, the sight of her faded bonnet and shawl might have done so. the rain and the snow had wet them, the sun had done its work on them, and the wind had taken liberties with them, many a time. and besides, they seemed too hot and heavy for such a summer day, even if they had not been shabby and grey. for christie had had other things to think about of late than the getting of summer garments. just for a minute a wish that they had been newer and fresher-looking, for john's sake, came to her mind. it was only for a moment that she thought about it at all. "for john cares little for such things," she said to herself; "and there's no matter for the shop-people and the rest." she was right. looking into the brightened face that met him at the door, john failed to discover that the bonnet above it was dingy and brown. and if the rustiness of the little shepherd's-plaid shawl that covered her shoulders marred in any degree the pleasure with which he drew her hand beneath his friendly arm, he gave no token that it did so. christie gave a little sigh of satisfaction as she found herself out on the street once more. "i have got so many things to ask about," she said; "but i suppose i may as well wait till we have done with the shops. if i once begin, i'm afraid i shan't be able to attend to anything else." the purchases were soon made. indeed, mrs nesbitt's commissions had not been very extensive. christie had more to do on her own account. but she had planned so many times just what she was to get for each one at home, that it did not take her long to choose. besides, her purse was not one of the fullest. still, the little she had to do involved a good deal of running here and there; and her parcels increased in number and size to such an extent, that christie at last said, laughing, she would have to forego the pleasure of taking them home herself, as her box would never hold half of them; john would need to try to find room for them in his. "and are you not afraid they may call you extravagant at home, getting so many braw things?" christie laughed. "i'm no' sure. but then--unless it's aunt elsie's gown--there's nothing dear. they are just prints; the frocks and the other things are all useful, except perhaps the playthings for the bairns; and they are useful too, for things that give pleasure have a use, i am sure." "it canna be doubted," said her friend, laughing. christie's face grew a little grave, after a rather lengthened examination of the pieces left in her purse. "there is just one other thing; but i fear i ought not to have left it to the last. it's for blind alice. i have thought about it so long. it's not very far, we might ask the price of it, anyway." it was true, the place was not very far; but it was a shop of greater pretensions than any they had entered yet. christie had set her heart on a musical-box, which she knew would be a treasure to the blind child. but the cost! it was altogether beyond her means, even if she were to stay another month. the disappointment was very great. "allie must have something that she can hear, you ken; and i had no thought that it would be so dear." "why not send her a bird--a real canary?" said john, as they made a pause at a low window in a narrow street, where a great variety of cages were hanging. "a bird?" repeated christie. "i never thought of that. are they very dear?" "we can ask," said john; and as christie stood admiring the gay plumage of some strange bird, he put the question to the person in waiting. christie did not hear his answer. john did not mean that she should. "could you spare two dollars, christie?" said he. "two dollars!" she repeated. it was the wages of half a month. "i have cheaper ones," said the man, "but he is the best singer i have had for a long time. or maybe you would like a pair?" "a pair!" thought christie to herself. if she could manage to get one she would be content! as if to verify the words of his owner, the bird, after hopping quickly from perch to perch, poured forth such a flood of melody as christie had never heard from a bird's throat before. "oh, how sweet!" exclaimed she. "to think of little allie having music like that all the winter long! but how can you carry it, john?" oh, john could carry it easily--no fear; and touched by christie's eager delight, or by some more powerful cause, the man let the cage go with the bird. so that was settled. "we're done now, i suppose," said christie, with a sigh, as they passed along the shady side of the street. the excitement of pleasure was passing out of her face; and more than ever before, since the first glimpse he got of it, did john nesbitt realise what a pale, weary little face it was. "i wish you were going home with me, christie!" "i wish i was, indeed! i wish i had spoken to mrs lee before! but i couldna leave her, john, till she got some one else, she is so delicate now. sometimes i think i never could get courage to leave her at all, if she were to ask me to stay." "ay, lass; but there's more to be said about that. they'll think at home that you're forgetting them, if i tell them what you say." christie laughed. "i'm not afraid. i don't think it would be right to leave her now; and seeing you has given me courage for another month at least. you can tell effie that." "i shall have two or three things to tell her besides that," said john, looking down on her with the grave smile which she liked so much to see. "i shall be sorry to tell her how pale and ill you look," he added, his face growing grave as he looked. "oh, that's only because i am tired just now; and besides, i was always `a pale-faced thing,' as aunt elsie used to say. you are not to vex effie by making her think that i am not well," she said, eagerly. "i have not been used to walking far, lately, and i get tired very soon." they were entering the large square at the moment, and john said: "can we go in there among the trees? i see seats there. let us sit down and rest a while." "oh, yes! i have been here before. nothing reminds me so much of home as the flickering of these shadows--not even the leaves themselves. and how sweet the flowers are! do you ken, john, i didna see the leaves this year till they were full-grown? i can hardly believe that the spring has come and gone again." john nesbitt was looking and listening, and all the time he was considering something very earnestly. he had not many dollars at his disposal, and the few he had he was not inclined to part with but for value received. he was saying to himself, at the moment, that if it should be decided that he was qualified for the work to which he had set himself apart, he should need them all, and more too, before his course of study should be finished. he had a vision, too, of a set of goodly volumes, bound in calf, on which his heart had been set a year or more. untouched in his pocket-book lay the sum he had long ago set apart for their purchase; and there was very little in it besides. "there must be a limit to the pleasure a man gives himself. i can only choose between them," said the prudent john to himself. to christie he said: "have you ever been round the mountain? would you like to go to-day?" "never but once--in the winter-time; but i should like to go, dearly." and the eager, wistful look in the eyes that through all the pleasant spring-time had seen no budding thing, won the day. "well, i have never been round it either. so let us take one of these carriages that seem so plenty here, and go together. it is well worth the trouble, i have heard." christie's first look was one of unmixed delight, but soon it changed into one a little doubtful. she did not like to speak her thoughts; but in a little while she said, half smiling: "are you no' afraid that they may think you extravagant at home?" "indeed, no! at least, i'm sure effie wouldna, if she saw your face at this moment. it was well we had all those things sent home. come." and like a foolish fellow, he determined not to make a bargain for the carriage while the prudent little christie was within hearing, and so had, i dare say, double to pay when he dismissed it. but the pleasure was not spoiled, for all that. "how pleasant it is!" said christie, as the absence of street-noises and the fresher breeze upon her cheek told her that they were leaving the city behind them. her short-sighted eyes could not take in the view that charmed john so much. but she did not know how it could be more pleasant than the fresh air and the gentle motion of the carriage made it to her; and so she said, when at last she started up and looked about her: "is not this the way to the cemetery? oh, let us go there a little while." and so they did. the carriage was dismissed. they were to stay a long time--as long as they liked; and then they could walk home, or perhaps they might get the chance of a returning carriage. at any rate, they would not be hurried. how lovely the place looked to christie's unaccustomed eyes! they were not alone. there were groups here and there among the graves--some of them mourners, as their dress showed, others enjoying the loveliness of the place, untroubled by any painful remembrance of the loved and lost. slowly they wandered up and down, making long pauses in shady places, lingering over the graves of little children which loving hands had adorned. christie wandered over the little nameless graves, longing to find where her dear ones lay. "how beautiful it is! it is a very sweet resting-place," she said to herself, many times. yes, it was a very lovely spot. a strange feeling of awe stole over christie's spirit as she gazed around on the silent city. as far as the eye could reach it extended. among the trees and on the sunny hill-sides rose many a stately monument of granite and marble, with, oh, so many a nameless grave between! close at their feet lay a large unenclosed space, where the graves lay close together, in long, irregular lines--men and women and little children--with not a mark to tell who slumbered beneath. it was probably the burial-place of strangers, or of those who died in the hospitals. to christie it had a very dreary and forsaken look. she shuddered as she gazed on the place. "a friend's grave could never be found among so many," said she. "see! there are a few with a bit of board, and a name written on it; but most of them have no mark. i would far rather be laid in our own kirk-yard at home--though that is a dreary place, too, when the sun doesna shine." they moved on together; and in a place which was half in the sunshine and half in the shade, they sat down. in a little while the pleasant influence of the scene chased the dreariness from christie's thoughts, and she looked about with eyes that did not seem able to satisfy themselves with its beauty. "how lovely it is here!" she repeated. "how green and fresh everything is! the very grass seems beautiful!" and she caressed with her hand the smooth turf on which they were seated. "it's a wonder to me how people can choose to live in the midst of a town, with nothing to see that's bonny but a strip of blue sky now and then." "it's a wonder to me," said john, smiling. "oh, but i mean people that may live wherever they choose. there are people that like the town best. where it is right to stay, i suppose one can be content in time. i think if i hadna home and the rest to think about and wish for, i might be willing to live here always. but at first--oh, i thought i could never, _never_ stay! but i am not sorry i came. i shall never be sorry for that." there was something in her earnest manner, and in the happy look that came over her face as she spoke, that arrested the attention of john; and he said: "you have been happy here, then, upon the whole?" "yes; upon the whole," repeated she, thoughtfully; "but it wasna that i was thinking about." "christie, do you know i think you have changed very much since you used to come and see my mother? you have changed; and yet you are the very same: there's a paradox for you, as peter o'neil would say." his words were light, but there was a meaning in his grave smile that made christie's heart leap; and her answer was at first a startled look, and then a sudden gush of happy tears. then came good john nesbitt's voice entreating a blessing on "his little sister in christ"; and this made them flow the faster. but, oh, they were such happy, happy tears! and very happy was the hour that followed. now and then there comes an hour, in the intercourse of friends with each other, which reveals to each more of the inner and spiritual life of the other than years of common intercourse could do; and this was such an hour. i cannot tell all that was said. the words might seem to many a reader tame and common-place enough, but many of them christie never forgot while she lived, and many of them john nesbitt will not cease to remember to his dying day. christie had no thought of showing him all that was in her heart. she did not think that the friend who was listening so quietly to all the little details of her life among strangers--her home-sickness, her fears and weariness, her love and care for the children and their mother--was all the time thanking god in his heart for all the way by which this little lamb had been led to take refuge in the fold. she knew by the words he spoke, before he rose to go, that he was much-moved. they came back to her many a time afterwards, brightening the sad days, and comforting her when she was in sorrow. they helped her to the cheerful bearing of a disappointment near at hand. as for john, he was far from thinking the day lost that he had devoted to the pleasure of christie. if in the morning the hope of possessing at once the much-desired books had been given up with a sigh, it was the sigh, and not the sacrifice, that was regretted now. with a sense of refreshment unspeakable there came to his remembrance the saviour's promise that the giving of a cup of cold water to one of his little ones should have its reward. to have supported those weary feet, if ever so little, in the way, to have encouraged the faint heart or brightened the hope of this humble child, was no unworthy work in the view of one whose supreme desire it was to glorify him who came from heaven to earth to speak of hope to the poor and lowly. nor was this all. he was learning, from the new and sweet experiences which the child was so unconsciously revealing to him, a lesson of patient trustfulness, of humble dependence, which a whole library of learned books might have failed to teach him. the shadows were growing long before they rose to go. "you'll be very tired to-morrow, i'm afraid," said john, as they went slowly down the broad, steep way that leads from the cemetery. "i'm afraid your holiday will do you little good." "it has done me good already. i'm not afraid," said christie, cheerfully. "only i'm sure i shall think of twenty things i want to ask you about when you are fairly gone." "well, the best way will be to collect your wits and ask about them now," said john, laughing. and so she did. matters of which her sister's letters and chance callers had only given her hints were recalled, and discussed with a zest that greatly shortened the way. they were not very important matters, except as they were connected with home life and home friends; but if their way had been twice as long, the interest would not have failed. "but, john," said christie, at last, "what was it that davie mcintyre was telling me about mr portman's failure? is it really true? and has he left his wife and little children and gone--nobody knows where?" "yes, it is too true," john said, and added many painful particulars, which he never would have given if he had had his wits about him. christie's next question recalled them, with a shock which was not altogether pleasant. "was it not mr portman who had aunt elsie's money? then she has lost it, i suppose?" "yes, it's too true," said john, with an uncomfortable conviction that effie would far rather her little sister had not heard of it yet. he did not say so, however, and there was a long silence. "i wonder what effie will do?" said christie, at last. "now, christie, my woman," said john, rather more hastily than was his habit, "you are not going to vex yourself about this matter. you know, if anybody can manage matters well, your sister effie can; and she has a great many friends to stand between her and serious trouble. and i don't believe she intended that you should know anything about this--at any rate, until you were safe at home." christie was sure of that. there was no one like effie. john could tell her nothing new about her goodness. but if it had been needful that they should be separated before, it was still more necessary now that she should be doing her part; and she intimated as much to john. "but you must mind that effie was never clear about your leaving home. if she had had her way, you never would have left." "i am very glad i came," was all that christie replied, but in a little while she added, "john, i think, on the whole, you may as well take all the things home with you, if you can. the sooner they get them the better; and something may happen to hinder me." "christie," said john, gravely, "effie has set her heart on your coming home this summer. it would grieve her sorely to be disappointed. you are not going to disappoint her?" "i don't know," said christie, slowly. "i'm sure effie would rather i should do what is right than what is pleasant." "but you are not well, christie. you are not strong enough to live as you have been living--at least, without a rest. it would grieve effie to see how pale and thin you are." "i am not very strong, i know, but i shall have an easier time now; and if mrs lee should take the children to the country or the sea-side, i should be better. i am sure i wish to do what is right. it is not that i don't wish to go home." christie's voice suddenly failed her. "it seems like a punishment to me," she added, "a judgment, almost. you don't know--effie dinna ken even--how many wrong feelings i had about coming away. i thought nothing could be so bad as to have to depend on aunt elsie, and now--" something very like a sob stopped her utterance. "whisht, christie!" said john. "god does not send trouble on his people merely to punish; it is to do them good. you must take a more comforting view of this trouble. i am afraid the pleasure of the day is spoiled." "no! oh, no!" said christie eagerly. "nobody could do that. there are some pleasures that canna be spoiled. and besides, i am not going to vex myself. it will all come right in the end, i am quite sure. only just at first--" "thou shalt keep him in perfect peace whose mind is stayed on thee, because he trusteth in thee," whispered john. "i know it;" and that was all she could say. chapter twelve. sisters in christ. christie found, on reaching home, that mr lee had returned, and when john called in the morning she was able to tell him it was decided that the family should go to the sea-side for a month. "and considering all things, john, i am glad that mrs lee wants me to go too. i shall have time for a long visit at home when i come back again, before summer is over. the sea air will make me strong. you know we lived near the sea at home. and i should like to take a pair of red cheeks home to glengarry." john was not altogether satisfied with her cheerful words; but there seemed nothing better for any of them but to make the best of it. "it might be far worse for you, my lassie," he said, cheerfully. "i would have liked to take you home with me to glengarry, for your sake and theirs. but if you'll promise not to let the look come back that i saw first in your face, i'll leave you with a good heart, and tell no sad tales to effie and the rest." it was all that she could do, even now, to keep a bright face, but she did; and john went away, taking with him the remembrance of it at its very brightest. the next few days were too busy to give time for regretful thoughts. the children came home, and there was the making of their dresses, and all the necessary preparations for a journey and a lengthened absence from home. christie had only time for a hurried letter to effie, telling her of their plans. she wrote quite cheerfully. she was not strong, and the runnings to and fro of the day often made her too weary to sleep at night. but she was useful, she knew, and mrs lee's gentle kindness proved that she appreciated her efforts to do her duty, and that helped to make her work pleasant and easy. and there was, besides, an excitement in the prospect of a change of scene. looking forward to a sight of the sea, to feeling the sea-breeze again, to getting away from the heat and dust and confinement of the city, was enough to help her through the day's toils and troubles. and so she felt and wrote cheerfully, notwithstanding the disappointment that had been so hard to bear. but a disappointment which she was to feel still more bitterly awaited her. the preparations for departure were nearly-completed. mrs lee had so far recovered as to be able to go out, and they looked forward to leaving within a day or two. one afternoon, while mrs lee was superintending the packing that was going on in the nursery, her husband came in. christie had hardly seen him since little harry died. he looked grave enough as he came in. he did not speak to her, but in a little while she heard him mention her name, and her heart stood still, as she heard him say: "you don't mean to tell me that you are to have no one to take care of the children and wait on you while you are away, but that child? why, she looks as though she needed to be taken care of herself. i can never think of permitting such a thing." christie felt, rather than saw, the look of entreaty that passed over mrs lee's face as she laid her hand upon her husband's arm. meeting christie's startled gaze, she said: "go down and ask nelly if the clean things are ready for this other trunk. i will ring when i want you." very quietly christie obeyed; but before she closed the door, she heard mr lee say, in his quick, careless manner: "it is quite absurd to think of it! a rush of a girl like that!" christie's heart failed. she knew that mrs lee seldom found courage to differ from her husband in any point where yielding was possible, and she felt that there was little hope that she would do so now. she was mistaken, however. mrs lee spoke very earnestly to her husband. she told him of all that christie had been to her and the children through all the long, dreary winter and spring. she told him of the faithful, loving service that had never flagged through weakness and weariness. she assured him of the perfect confidence she placed in her, saying she could not name one, even among her friends, to whom she would so willingly leave the children in case of illness or absence from them. she spoke with tears of little harry's love for her, and of christie's untiring devotion to him through all his long illness, till her voice lost itself in sobs of sorrow at the memories thus awakened. mr lee did not listen unmoved. all unconsciously, his wife was giving him a glimpse of her own sad experiences during the last few months. careless as he had grown, he could not listen without a pang, which was half sorrow and half shame. "my poor letty!" he said, gently; "you have had a sad time. you have indeed suffered much." "yes," she said, tearfully; "it has been a sorrowful time. but it is over now. i would not have my loved ones back again even if i could. i am glad for their sakes. nothing can harm them where they are; and i shall see them again." there was a long pause. then mr lee returned to the subject: "but about your nurse. she really is a very sickly-looking girl. she seems to me like one far gone in a decline. i am very sorry, as you have found her so useful. but i cannot consent that you should go with no more efficient help." "but i don't think she is ill," said mrs lee, doubtfully. "she never complains. she was always delicate-looking. i remember when she first came, i quite hesitated about engaging her, she looked such a fragile little creature. but no one would have thought her otherwise than strong, and efficient too, who saw her through all our troubles." "well, to me she looks frightfully ill just now," said mr lee. "you must at least speak to the doctor about her." "she is tired now," replied mrs lee. "she has worn herself out--first with me when i was ill and then with the children. a month at the sea-side will quite revive her." mr lee was not convinced. "i feel that i ought to take her. she has wearied herself for us-- injured her health, perhaps. i ought to take her, even if we take another servant." mr lee alluded to the additional expense. "besides," he added, "it is doubtful when we may return. we may not return here at all. we may see england before we see this place again. it would never do for you to take the responsibility of such a girl as that--to say nothing of taking her so far from her home and friends." mrs lee sighed. she had become accustomed during her married life to frequent and sudden changes. she had learned not to be surprised at them now. her sigh was for the little graves she must leave behind her, perhaps never more to look on them again. and christie! would it be right, in view of these possibilities, to take her away? knowing them, would she be willing to go? yes; she felt sure that christie would not leave them willingly. but she must not think of herself in this matter; she must consider what was best for the poor girl. would christie's friends, would that sister she loved so well, consent to let her go away, uncertain where she was to go or when she was to return? no; even if christie herself was willing, she must not think of taking her away. yet who was to supply her place? oh, how wearily she sighed! how she shrank from this new trial! she knew that to her husband this would seem a very little thing indeed; and she kept her sad thoughts to herself, as she had done many a time before. "i don't know how i can tell her," she said. "it seems so unkind to change our plans at this late hour. she will be disappointed, i am sure." "oh, i will tell her, if that will do," said her husband. "i dare say she will be sorry to part from the children and you. you have been very kind to her, i am quite sure. you must make her some little present--a frock, or something; and i'll tell her our plans." "how little you can know about it!" sighed mrs lee. but the matter was considered settled. nothing more was said about it till the following day, when mr lee told his wife he had engaged a woman to go with them--a very suitable person, highly recommended to him by one of his friends. in the meantime, christie, having heard no more of the matter, let the remark which had so startled her quite pass out of her mind; and she was in no way prepared for the announcement which mr lee made on the second morning, of the change in their arrangements. she was grieved and hurt; so grieved that she could hardly restrain her tears, so hurt that she had the power to do so, and to answer, quietly, "very well, sir." she finished what she was doing in the room and then went out, without another word and without looking towards mrs lee. "you see, she takes it very quietly," said mr lee. "be sure and make her some little present, as i said before, and it will be all right." mrs lee sighed. "it is i who have the most cause for regret," she said, sadly; "but it is vain to speak of it. you could never, _never_ know." christie went about the house all day very quietly, but no less busily than usual. her thoughts were by no means pleasant, however. "it was my vanity that made me think i was of use to her and that she cared for me," she said to herself, bitterly. "and now i must go home, when i was growing content to stay. if i had only taken john's advice, and gone with him! well, i suppose i was too full of my own plans, and this is the way i am to be taught wisdom and humility. i will try to be content. but it will not be very easy, i am afraid." mrs lee was out a good deal during the day, so that she scarcely saw her till the children had gone to bed. then she came into the nursery to make some last arrangement of little garments; and in spite of herself, christie trembled to find herself left alone with her. "i _must_ speak to her," she said. "oh, if i only need not! if i could just say good-bye, and nothing more!" mrs lee sat lost in thought, not seeming to heed her, and christie stitched away as though there were nothing in the world more important than that little ned's buttons should be sewed on firmly. they were finished at last, and the little garment laid with the rest. instead of coming to her seat again, she stood a little behind mrs lee, and said, in a low voice: "is it to-morrow, ma'am?" "yes; we leave to-morrow, early in the day," said mrs lee. by a great effort, christie said, hurriedly: "about my things, ma'am--my frock and hat? i am afraid i have not enough to pay for them and take me home." she had not time to say more. suddenly turning, mrs lee laid her hand on her arm. "hush, christie! it is not a matter of wages between you and me to-night. money could not pay what i owe to you. we'll speak of that by and by. sit down, now, my poor, weary child." she placed herself on a low stool at a little distance, and let her head fall on her hand. "are you thinking to go home?" asked mrs lee. "i don't know. i suppose so. i have nowhere else to go." christie's voice was husky, but she was able to command it. "and did you think i would leave you with nowhere to go?" asked mrs lee, gravely. "but would it not be best to go? you are not strong, christie." "perhaps it would be better to go, but i wish i could get a place for a little while." and christie told her of the new misfortune that had befallen them, in the loss of her aunt's income. mrs lee sighed, and after a pause, said: "i was at mrs seaton's to-day, near the mountain. there is illness in the family, and a young infant. more help is required in the nursery. you remember the twins, the pretty boys we used to see in the carriage. one of them is ill--never to be better, i fear. the other you will have the care of for the present. they are quite in the country. i think it will be good for you to be there. i think you will like it too." christie thanked her as well as she was able. "it seems unkind to you that we should change our plans at so late an hour. i should have considered sooner. but i thought more of my children, and of having you still with them, than i did of what would be best for you." christie tried to say how glad she would be to go even now. mrs lee shook her head. "you are not strong, and you are very young. it would be wrong to take you i know not where. it may be a long time before we return here. we may never return." she was silent for a moment, and then continued: "yes, it would be wrong to take you so far from your home to share our uncertain fortunes. if you were but as strong as you are faithful and patient! but it cannot be." christie ceased to struggle with her tears now, but they fell very quietly. "as for wages," said mrs lee, lifting the lid of christie's work-box and dropping in it a little purse, "money could never cancel the debt i owe you. i am content to owe it, christie. i know you will not grudge your loving service to my darlings. "and i owe you more than that," she added, after a pause. "christie, when the time comes when all these chafings and changes shall be over, when seeing the reason of them we shall bless god for them, we shall be friends then, i humbly hope. and you must tell your sister--no, you could never tell her. i wish i had seen your friend, john nesbitt, when he was here; but i will write. and christie, my brave girl, look up. see what i have for you." something glistened in the light, and christie received into her hand a locket, hung by a black ribbon. upon being opened, there was a face--a lovely child's face--"little harry!" yes, it was little harry's face, copied from a miniature taken about the time when she first saw him. on the other side, encircled by a ring of the baby's golden hair, was written, in fair characters, by the mother's hand: "to christie. from the children." "and now, christie," said mrs lee, when the tears that would come at the sight of the picture had been wiped away, "our good-bye to-morrow must be a brief and quiet one. to-night i must say, `god bless you.' don't let the world spoil you as you grow older. you won't, i know. you have a talisman against its power. may god make you a blessing to many, as he has made you a blessing to me! good-bye, my dear child. if we never meet on earth, i humbly hope we may meet in heaven!" it was not like a parting between mistress and maid. mrs lee kissed her earnestly, while her tears fell on her face, and when christie said "good-bye," she clung to her as she had not clung even to effie. it was like the farewell of sisters who know that they must meet death before they look on each other's faces again. not one of the many grateful thoughts which filled christie's heart had she the power to utter. but they were not needed. after so many months of loving service--after so many nights of anxious watching, shared so gladly for the love she bore to her and her little ones--words could have been of little value. the "good-bye" in the morning was brief and quiet, as mrs lee had wished--so brief that not till the carriage that took them away had disappeared, did christie realise that they were gone; and the walls of the deserted nursery echoed to many a bitter sob ere she bade farewell to the place where she had passed so many changeful hours. chapter thirteen. christie's new home. it was a very lovely scene, and all the lovelier for the light of a fair summer morning upon it. there was a broad, sunny lawn, with a margin of shade, and just one mass of flitting shadows beneath the locust-tree near the gate. beyond, there were glimpses of winding walks and of brilliant garden-flowers, and farther on, the waving boughs of trees, and more flitting shadows; the cedar hedge hid the rest. the house that stood beyond the sunny lawn was like a house in a picture--with a porch in front, and galleries at the sides, and over the railings and round the pillars twined flowering shrubs and a vine, with dark shining leaves. a flight of stone steps led up to the open porch, and on the uppermost one sat a young girl, reading. one hand rested on her book, while the other slowly wound and unwound the ribbon of a child's hat that lay beside her. her head was bent low over her book, and christie could not see her face for the long, bright curls that shaded it. so intent was she on her reading that she did not hear the sound of footsteps; and christie stood admiring the pretty picture which the young girl and the flowers and the drooping vine-leaves made, without caring to speak. she might have stood long enough before the young reader would have stirred, had not some one advanced from the other side. "miss gertrude, the carriage will be round in ten minutes." "yes, i know," said the young girl, without raising her eyes. "i am quite ready to go." "but master clement is going; and nurse is busy, and he won't let me dress him; and if you please, miss gertrude, mrs seaton begs that you will come and coax him, and try to get him away without waking his brother." the young lady rose, shutting her book with an impatient gesture; and then she saw christie. "good morning," she said. "do you wish to see any one?" "i wish to see mrs seaton. mrs lee sent me," said christie. "oh, the new nurse for clement. i dare say he won't go into town to-day, martha. it was only to get him out of the way--the young tyrant. show this girl to mrs seaton's room. she wished to see her as soon as she came." and then she sat down and took up her book again. "if you please, miss gertrude, mrs seaton wishes to see you at once. perhaps you will be so obliging as to go up-stairs with her. master clement has kept me so long that i fear i shall not have the things ready to send with peter." miss gertrude rose, but with not the best grace in the world, and christie followed her into the house and up-stairs. at the first landing a door opened, and a little boy, half-dressed, rushed out. "tudie, let me go with you; i want to go." "naughty boys who won't let mattie dress them mustn't expect to be taken anywhere. you are not to come with me. you will wake claude." "oh, claude's awake, and crying to be dressed. let me go with you," pleaded the child. "no; you are not to come. remember, i tell you so; and i am not mattie, to be trifled with." miss gertrude spoke very gravely. her brother, a spirited little lad of five or six years of age, looked up into her face with defiance in his eyes. then he gave a glance down the long hall, as if meditating a rush in that direction; but he thought better of it. "i'll be good, tudie. i won't make a noise," said he. "stay where you are," said miss gertrude, decidedly. she led the way down the long hall, then up a flight of steps, and opened the door of a large room. it seemed quite dark at first, but soon christie was able to distinguish the different things in it. the furniture of the room was covered with green stuff, and there was on the floor a soft green carpet, with bright flowers scattered over it. the curtains on the windows and on the bed were of white muslin, but the hangings above were green. the paper on the walls was white, with a border of brown acorns and green oak-leaves. it was a very pretty room; and the coolness and the softened light made it seem altogether delightful to christie after her long, dusty walk. on the bed was a lady, dressed for an outdoor walk, but her hands were pressed over her eyes as though she were in pain. a little boy lay tossing fretfully on the sofa, but his peevish cry ceased for a moment as they entered the room. miss gertrude seated herself beside him, and said, without approaching the bed-- "here is the young girl that mrs lee sent." the lady took her hand from her eyes, and raised herself up. seating herself in a large chair by the bed, she beckoned to christie to come towards her. "you came from mrs lee, did you?" said she. christie came forward. the lady observed her for a moment. "mrs lee told me you were young, and not very strong," said she; "but i had no idea you were quite such a child." "i am past fifteen," said christie. "and do you mean to tell me that mrs lee trusted her children to you-- that infant too--through all her illness?" "mrs greenly was in the house nearly all the winter, and she was in the nursery very often. that was all the help i had," said christie, with a slight change of colour. "and was it you who took care of little harry, and who was with him when he died?" the remembrance of that sorrowful time was too vivid for christie to bear this allusion to it unmoved. she grew quite pale, and took one step forward towards a little table, and laid her hand upon it. miss gertrude, who had been watching her with great interest, rose and brought forward a chair, looking towards her mother, without speaking. "you look tired," said mrs seaton. "did you walk? sit down and rest." christie gladly obeyed. "mrs lee speaks very highly of you--very highly indeed. you must have been very useful to her; and i dare say she was very kind to you." remembering all they had passed through together, christie could hardly restrain her tears. but, as the lady seemed to expect an answer, she said, with some difficulty-- "she was very kind to me, and i loved her dearly--and the children." it is possible mrs seaton did not consider much love necessary between mistress and maid. she did not look as though she did, as christie could not help thinking as she glanced towards her. "and you got on nicely with the children, did you? of course you will have little to do here in comparison with what you must have had there. but my wilful clement, i am afraid, you will find too much for you. he is a masterful lad." she did not speak regretfully, as though the child's wilfulness grieved her very much, but rather the contrary. and, indeed, one could hardly wonder at the pride in her voice as master clement rushed in among them. he was a child that any mother would own with pride--a picture of robust health and childish beauty. his brown curls were sadly disordered. one arm was thrust into the sleeve of his frock, in a vain attempt to finish the dressing which mattie had commenced. one foot was bare, and he carried in his hand his stocking and shoe. he walked straight up to his sister, saying gravely: "baby is crying, and i came to tell mamma." she did not answer him, but laying down claude's head on the pillow, she began to arrange his disordered dress. he submitted quite patiently to the operation, only saying, now and then, as he turned round to look in her face: "am i naughty, tudie? are you going to punish me?" she did not answer him. indeed, there was no occasion. he did not seem at all afraid of the punishment, whatever it might be. when she had tied on his shoe, he slipped from her, and flung himself on the sofa beside his brother. he did not mean to be rough with him, but the little fellow uttered a peevish cry, and pushed him away. "i didn't mean to hurt you. don't cry." his little brown hand was laid softly on claude's pale cheek, and their brown curls mingled as their heads were laid on the same pillow. what a contrast they presented! christie could hardly persuade herself these were the little lads that she and the lee children used to admire so much--partly because they were so pretty, and partly because they were so much alike. they were alike still. one could hardly have told, as they lay together, to which head the tangled mass of brown curls belonged. their eyes were the same, too, but little claude's were larger, and they drooped with a look of weariness and pain sad to see in any eyes, but very, _very_ sad to see in the eyes of a child. his forehead was larger, too,--or it seemed larger, above his thin, pale cheeks. but not even his wan cheeks or weary eyes struck so painfully to christie's heart as did the sight of his little, wasted hand, white as the pillow on which it lay. it seemed whiter and more wasted still when it was raised for a moment to stroke his brother's rosy cheek. oh, how very sad it seemed! and his mother! she closed her eyes, and laid herself back in her chair, with a sigh that was almost a groan. clement was very gentle, or he meant to be very gentle, with his brother. he stroked his cheeks, and kissed him, calling him "little brother," and "poor claudie." and the little fellow hushed his peevish cry, and tried to smile for a moment. "i am going into town," said clement; "and then we are going to spend the day at aunt barbara's. they are making hay there. may claude go? it would make him quite well to play among the hay with me and fanny and stephen. mamma, mayn't he go? tudie, do let claudie go." "mamma, mamma, let me go. let mattie dress me. oh, i want to go among the hay!" he came down from the sofa, and went towards his mother as fast as his trembling limbs could carry him. she met him and received him in her arms. "my darling cannot go. he is not strong enough. oh, gertrude, how could you let clement come in here?" "mamma, i am quite well. i should be quite well if i could play among the hay, as we used to do." memories of health and strength enjoyed in summer sunshine were doubtlessly stirring at the boy's heart, to which he could give no utterance. the look of wistful entreaty in his weary eyes went to his mother's heart. "my dear boy, if you only could? oh, gertrude! how could you be so thoughtless?" she repeated. "i desired clement to stay in the nursery, and he disobeyed me," said gertrude, gravely. "and now are you going to punish me?" he asked. "go into the nursery, and i will tell you. go at once." "go away, naughty boy, and not vex your little brother," said his mother, rocking in her arms the child, who was too weak and weary to resist. "i didn't vex claude. let him go with us. i'm not a naughty boy." he looked as though he meditated taking up a position on the sofa. "go," said his sister. "how will you punish me, then?" "i will tell you when i come to the nursery," she said, opening the door for him. not very willingly, but quietly, he went; and in a little while they heard his merry voice ringing along the hall. "i am very sorry," said the young lady, coming back; "give me claude. i will walk about with him; you are not able." "no, no," said mrs seaton, though the little boy held out his arms to go to her. "go; the carriage is waiting. you should have gone long ago." "need we go?" she asked, looking at christie. "clement can be kept out of the way now." "yes, yes; go," answered she, hastily. "we have had vexation enough for one day. and i thought this dear child was so nicely settled for the day; and now he is getting quite feverish again." miss gertrude turned and went out without reply. "my boy, my poor boy!" murmured the mother, as she rocked him in her arms, and her lips were pressed on his feverish brow. "will he ever play among the hay again?" she rocked him till his crying was hushed, and weary with struggling, he begged to be laid down. christie arranged the pillows, and his mother placed him on the sofa. she would fain have lingered near him; but, weak from recent illness, she was obliged to lie down. in a little while he asked for water, and to his mother's surprise, was willing to take it from christie's hands. he even suffered her to bathe his hands and feet, and when he grew restless again, let her take him on her lap. he was quite contented to stay there; and the last object the mother saw before she sank to sleep was her sick boy nestling peacefully in the arms of the little stranger maid. and it was the first object she saw when she waked, some three hours afterwards. christie had not moved, except to let her hat and shawl fall on the floor, and little claude was slumbering peacefully still. he awoke soon, however, refreshed and strengthened, and not at all indignant at finding himself in a stranger's arms, as his mother feared he might be. he suffered her to wash and dress him, as he had suffered no one but his mother to do for the last three weary weeks. it was very well that he was inclined to be friendly, for mrs seaton found herself much too ill to do the accustomed duty herself; and it was with something very like gratitude stirring at her heart that she said to christie, when all was done: "you are fond of children, are you not? you are very gentle and careful, i see." the little boy quarrelled with his dinner, as usual; but upon the whole the meal was successful, his mother said; and as a reward for being good, he was promised a walk in the garden by and by. in the meantime christie went down-stairs to her dinner, under the care of the friendly mattie, whom she had seen in the morning. she was very kind, and meant to make herself very agreeable, and asked many questions, and volunteered various kinds of information as to what christie might expect in her new place, which she might far better have withheld. christie had little to say, and made her answers as quietly and briefly as possible. when she went up-stairs again, she found affairs in not quite so cheerful a state as when she had left them. the doctor had been in, and though he had greatly applauded the scheme for sending little claude into the garden, he had utterly forbidden his mother to leave her bed to go with him. it could not be permitted on any account; and she had so entirely devoted herself for the last few weeks to the care and amusement of the child that he could not, at first, be prevailed on to go without her. he would not look at mattie, nor at mrs grayson, the housekeeper. after much gentle persuasion on her part, and many promises as to what he would see and hear out in the pleasant sunshine, he suffered christie to bring his hat and coat and put them on. "i think you may trust me with him, ma'am," said christie. "i will be very gentle and careful with him. poor wee boy!" she added, looking into the face that seemed more wan and thin under the drooping plumes of his hat. but his mother dismissed them with a sigh. it was not a very easy thing to amuse the exacting little fellow for a long time, but it was perhaps a very good thing for christie that it fell to her lot to do so. a longer indulgence in the musings which had occupied her during three hours passed in the darkened room would not have been good for her, at any rate; and there was no chance for that here. she was suffering very keenly from her parting with mrs lee and her children, and as she had felt the clinging arms of little claude about her neck, she had said to herself, almost bitterly, that she would not allow herself to love any one--any stranger--so dearly again. yes, the pain was very hard to bear, and she felt very lonely and sad as she paced slowly up and down the long walks of the garden. it was a very quiet place, however, quite out of reach of all disturbing sounds, and christie could not help wondering that she did not enjoy it more, till she remembered what good reason she had for being very weary, and she was content to wait for a full enjoyment of the pretty garden. "i dare say i shall like to stay here after a little," she said to herself. "there is one thing sure, it was no plan of mine to come. i have had enough of my own plans. i'll just try and be as useful and happy as i can, and wait till i see how things will turn. i am afraid effie may not like my staying, but i can only just wait, and it will all come right." and she put her good resolutions into practice then and there. she was very patient with her little charge. she amused him, till he quite forgot his shyness with her. she brought him flowers, and translated the talk of the two little birds who were feeding their young in the old pear-tree, till he laughed almost merrily again. the time soon passed, and it was a very weary but very happy little face that he held up to kiss his mother that night, and he was soon slumbering quietly in his little cot by her side. then christie betook herself to her place in master clement's nursery. she found that noisy young gentleman quiet for the night, and gladly laid herself down. in spite of her weariness, her long walk and her afternoon in the open air had done her good. she was asleep before any lonely or home-sick thoughts had time to visit her, and she slept as she had not slept for weeks, without waking till the twittering of the birds in the pear-tree roused her to begin her new life. christie had never to measure her strength with that of the "masterful" clement. it happened quite otherwise--fortunately for her, though sadly enough for mrs seaton. the doctor, at his next visit, very decidedly assured her that her proposed visit to the sea-side must no longer be delayed, unless she intended to remain an invalid during the rest of the summer. her health, her life even, depended on a change of air and freedom from anxiety. the good she could do her sick boy by staying at home would be very little in comparison to the harm she would do herself. she ought to have gone weeks since. her infant and nurse might go with her, but none of the other children. it would do her more harm than good to be troubled with the boys on the journey or at a strange watering-place, and as for them, home was the best place for both. he assured her that her anxiety for claude was unnecessary. he was in no immediate danger. it might be months, or even years, before he would be quite well again. he might never be so strong and healthy as his brother. but there was no danger for him. quiet and constant care were what he needed; and they could be found best at home. "come here, my little man," said he, "and let me prove to your mother that you are going to be quite well again, and that very soon, too." claude had been sitting on the balcony into which the windows of the green room opened, and he came forward, led by christie, at the doctors desire. after a minute's talk with the child, his eye fell on her. "what! are you here? i thought you had been far enough away by this time. how came you to leave your charge?" christie came forward shyly, looking at mrs seaton. "mr lee thought her not strong enough," said mrs seaton. "there was no other one to go; and she hardly seemed fit for the charge of all." "humph! he has made a mistake or two before in his lifetime--and so has she, for that matter," said the doctor, with a shrug of his shoulders. "mrs lee didn't know when they would come back again, and she didn't like to take me so far-away," said christie; "and i was very sorry." "and so you are to be claude's nurse, it seems?" christie looked at mrs seaton. "she came, in the meantime, to go out with clement and to help in the nursery generally. i have kept claude with me altogether of late." and as christie took the little boy to the balcony again, she added, "i don't see how i can leave him. poor little fellow! he will let no one care for him but me." the doctor shook his head. "that may be very well for him, but it is very bad indeed for you. indeed, it must not be. let me make a plan for you. you can quite safely leave him with this new nurse. i would recommend her among a thousand--" "a child like that!" interrupted mrs seaton. "a child in appearance, i grant, but quite a woman in sense and patience. she has surprised me many a time." "but she has had no experience. she cannot know--" "oh, that is the best of it. she will do as she is bidden. save me from those `experienced' persons who have wisdom enough for ten! i can trust this little maid that she will do exactly as i bid her. she is a very conscientious person--religiously inclined, i should think. at any rate, she is just the nurse i should choose from all the sisterhood for your poor little boy--just the firm and gentle attendant he needs now. trust me. i know her well." it is possible that in speaking thus the doctor's first wish was to set the mind of the mother at rest about leaving her child, but he could say what he did without doing any violence to his conscience. he really had admired and wondered at christie's management of the little lees during his frequent visits to their nursery. "and besides," he added to himself, "the poor little fellow will be better when away from his mother's unbounded indulgence for a while. it will be better for all concerned." so the matter was arranged--not without many misgivings on mrs seaton's part, however. her directions as to christie's management of the boy were so many and so minute that the poor child was in danger of becoming bewildered among them. to all she could only answer, again and again: "i will be very careful, ma'am;" or, "i will do my best." it was well for mrs seaton that there was but little time left, or her heart, and christie's too, might have failed. at the very last moment the mother had a mind to change her plans. "after all," she said, "perhaps it would have been wiser to send him to his aunt's. her children are noisy and troublesome, to be sure; but i should have felt easier about him. mind, gertrude, you are to write every day till your father returns. and, christie, remember, you are to obey the doctor's directions in all things. he is to call every day. and don't let clement fret him. and, gertrude, be sure to write." chapter fourteen. new friends. the house seemed very quiet after mrs seaton went away. for that day and the next, christie and her little charge were left to the solitude of the green room and the garden. miss gertrude and clement had gone to visit their aunt, and not knowing when they might return, christie was beginning to wonder what she should do during the long hours that her little charge slept or amused himself quietly without her. there were no books in the green room--at least, there were none she cared for. in the nursery there were a few story-books for little children--fairy tales, and rhymes, with pictures of giants and dwarfs and little old women, among which christie recognised some that had been great favourites long ago. but after the first glance she cared no more for them. on the morning of the third day, when claude was taking his nap, the time began to hang heavy on her hands. she took her bible and read a chapter or two, but in spite of herself she grew dull and dreary. the stillness of the house oppressed her. the other servants were busy in a distant apartment. she seemed quite shut in from all the world. just opposite the window was a large locust-tree, which hid the garden from her; and the only sound that reached her was the murmur of the wind among its branches, and the hum of the bees that now and then rested a moment among the few blossoms that still lingered on them. her thoughts turned homewards. "i might write to effie," she said to herself. but she was not sufficiently in the mood for it to go to her trunk for her small store of paper and pens; and she sat still, with her head leaning on her hands and her eyes fixed on the swaying leaves, vaguely conscious that the indulgence of her present mood was not the best thing for her. she was not permitted to indulge it long, however. the little boy stirred and tossed in his crib, and she went to arrange the coverlet over him; and as she was moving listlessly about the room, something glistened in a stray sunbeam and caught her short-sighted eyes, and from the cushions of the great easy-chair, where it had lain since the first day of her coming, she drew the book that miss gertrude had been reading when she watched the pretty picture she made as she sat beneath the drooping leaves. with a cry of delight, she recognised her old favourite, "the lights and shadows of scottish life." the very same! though this was glittering in blue and gold, a perfect contrast to the little, brown-covered book, with the title-page lost, which had made christie forget her bread and her cooling oven on that unhappy day. but the remembrance of the old time and the old favourite came back all the more vividly because of the contrast. the memory of the old times came back. oh, how long ago it seemed since that summer afternoon when she lay on the grass and read it for the first time! yet how vividly it all came back! the blue sky, with the white clouds passing over it now and then, the sound of the wind among the low fir-trees, the smell of the hawthorn hedge, the voices of the children in the lane beyond, seemed once more above her and around her. and then the sound of her mother's gentle chiding, when she found her sitting there after the shadows had grown long, came back. her voice, her smile, the very gown and cap she wore, and the needlework she carried in her hand, came sensibly before her. yet how long ago it seemed! christie remembered how many times she had taken it with her to the fields, when the incompleteness of their fences during the first year of their stay on the farm had made the "herding" of the sheep and cows necessary that the grain might be safe. she had read it in the woods in spring-time, by the firelight in the long winter evenings, and by stealth on sundays, when the weather had kept her from the kirk. it was associated in her remembrance with many things pleasant and many things sad; and no wonder that for a while she turned over the leaves, catching only here and there a glimpse of the familiar words, because of the tears that hid them. sitting on the floor, with the book held close to her face, she read, and forgot all else. the little lad tossed and murmured, and mechanically she put forth her hand and rocked him in his crib; but she neither heard nor saw when the door opened and some one came in. it was miss gertrude. a look of surprise passed over her face as she caught a glimpse of the reader on the floor, but it gave place to interest and amusement as she watched her. her absorbed look never changed, even when she rocked and murmured soothing words to the restless child. she read on--sometimes smiling, sometimes sighing, but never lifting her eyes--till miss gertrude came forward and spoke. "well, how have you been getting on?" christie started, as if it had been aunt elsie's voice she heard; and at the look of astonishment and dismay that spread itself over her face, the young lady laughed. "how has claude been, all these days?" she asked, softly, as she bent over the crib. "he has been quite well and quite good, i think," said christie, trying to collect her scattered wits. "has the doctor been here?" asked miss gertrude. "yes; he was here this morning. he asked when you were coming home, but i couldn't tell him." "well, i'm here now; and i'm going to stay, too! if the doctor thinks he is going to banish clement and me from home for the next month, he will find himself mistaken. for my part, i don't see the use of his coming here so often, just to shake his head and look grave over poor little claude. of course the child's mother wishes it; but it is all nonsense." christie looked at her in astonishment. but that the words were so quietly and gravely spoken, she would have thought them uncalled for, not to say impertinent, from a girl scarcely older than herself. they needed no reply, however, and she made none. she did not then know that mrs seaton was not gertrude's own mother, and that she was only half-sister to the two little boys, upon whom she looked as mere children, whilst she felt herself a young lady. "have you been lonely here?" she asked, in a few minutes. "a little. it is very quiet," said christie, hesitatingly. "but i like it." "is claude fond of you?" asked gertrude, gravely. christie smiled a little. "he does not object to me. i dare say he will be fond of me in time. i am sure he will be very glad to see you and his brother. it is very quiet for him to be left alone with me." "but the doctor wishes him to be quiet," said gertrude; "and his mother won't have him vexed on any account. i have seen her quite tremble when his brother has come near him; and after all it is no wonder." "clement is so strong," said christie; "but he will learn to be gentle with his brother in time. how very much alike they used to be! we used to see them driving together. we didn't know their names, but we always called them the two pretty boys." "yes, they were very much alike; and it will grieve clement, when he is older, to know-- did you never hear about it? they were playing together, and claude fell. the doctor thinks that fall was the cause of his illness. his mother can't bear to think so, it is so sad; and besides, it seems to make his illness more hopeless. i am afraid he will never be strong and well again." "oh, don't say so," said christie, sadly, quite shocked at what she heard. "please god, he will be well again. he is only a child; and children outlive so much. for two or three years no one thought i should live to grow up. but i am quite well now." "you are not a giant yet, nor very strong either. at least you don't look so," said gertrude. "but i shall grow strong here in the country. i am better already since i came. do you really think that little master claude will never be strong and well again?" "i don't know. i cannot tell. but aunt barbara says the doctor is not at all hopeful about it, though he speaks hopefully to mother. aunt barbara thinks if the poor little fellow should live, he may be deformed, or lame for life. i think it would be much better for him to die now, than to live to be deformed or a cripple." "i don't know. i can't tell," said christie, looking with a vague wonder from the sleeping child to the sister who spoke so quietly about his great misfortune. "it is well we have not to decide about these things. god knows best." "yes, i suppose so. it is in vain to murmur, whatever may happen. but there is a deal of trouble in the world." and the young lady sighed, as though she had her share of it to bear. christie's astonishment increased. looking at the young lady, she said to herself that it was doubtful whether she knew in the least what she was talking about. "troubles in the world? yes, doubtless there are--plenty of them! but what could she know of them?" "are you fond of reading?" asked gertrude, after a little time, her eye falling on the book which christie still held. "yes," said christie; "i like to read. this is the book you left the other day. i only found it a little while ago." "have you read much of it? there are some pretty stories in it, i think." "oh, yes; i read the book long ago. it was one of our favourites at home. i like to read anything about home--about scotland, i mean." "and so do i," said gertrude. "i knew you were scotch when i heard you speak. is it long since you came? have you been here long? tell me all about it." in the short half-hour before claude awoke, there was not time to tell _all_ about it, but the young girls told each other enough to awaken a mutual interest. miss gertrude's mother had died when she was quite young, and she had been committed to the care of an aunt, with whom she had continued to reside for some time, even after the second marriage of her father. she had had a very happy home, and had been educated with great care. looking back on those days now, she could see no shadow on their calm brightness. she had had her childish troubles, i suppose, but she forgot them all as she went on to describe to christie her merry life with her young cousins and her friends. her aunt's death had broken all those pleasant ties, and she had come to canada, which must be her home till she was grown up. when she should be of age, she told christie, and could claim the fortune her mother had left her, she was going home again to live always. she did not like canada. it did not seem like home to her, though she was living in her father's house. she longed for the time when she should be her own mistress. christie didn't enjoy the last part of her story very well. she could not help thinking that some of the trials that the young lady hinted at existed only in her own imagination. but she did not say so. she listened to the whole with unabated interest, and in return, told gertrude the story of her own life. it was given in very few words. she told about her mother's death, and their coming to canada, and what happened to them afterwards, till they had been obliged to leave the farm and separate. it is just possible that the young lady, who sat listening so quietly to these simple details, took to herself the lesson which the story was so well calculated to teach. but christie had no thought of giving her a lesson. she told of effie's wise and patient guidance of their affairs, of the self-denial cheerfully practised by all, of her own eager desire to do her part to help keep the little ones together, of effie's slow consent to let her go; all this, far more briefly and quietly than miss gertrude had spoken of her childish days that were passed in her aunt's house. by experience the young lady knew nothing of the real trials of life. she had no rule by which to estimate the suffering which comes from poverty and separation, from solitary and uncongenial toil. yet, as she sat listening there, she caught a glimpse of something that made her wish she had said less about the troubles that had fallen to her lot. christie faltered a little when she came to speak of the first months of her stay in town, and of the time when her sister went away. "i was very, very home-sick. if it hadn't been for shame, i would have gone at the end of the first month. and when my sister went away in the spring, and left me here, it was almost as bad. it seems like a troubled dream to look back upon it. but it has passed now. it will never be so bad again--never, i am sure." "you have got over your home-sickness, then? and are you quite contented now?" she asked, with great interest. "yes, i think so. i think it is right to stay. i am very glad to stay, especially now that i am out here, in the country almost. there was a while in the spring that i was afraid i should not be able to stay. but i am better now. i shall soon be quite strong." the little boy stirred in his crib, and his eyes opened languidly. christie was at his side in a moment. to the astonishment of his sister, he suffered himself to be lifted out and dressed without his usual fretful cry. "how nicely you manage him!" she said, at last. "this used to be a troublesome business to all concerned." christie did, indeed, manage nicely. her experience with the little lees stood her in good stead now. she was very quick, and gentle and firm with the little boy, beguiling him from his fretfulness by little tales or questions, or merry childish talk, till the last string was tied and the last of his beautiful curls arranged. then he was put in his favourite place among the cushions of the great chair, and the chair was drawn close to the window. gertrude leaned over him for a moment, and then, kneeling down, she kissed his little white hands, and stroked his thin, pale face, her own looking grave enough all the while. "he scarcely knows me now," she said. "he has almost forgotten me since he has been so ill. but we shall be friends again, my dear little brother." "where's clement?" asked the child. "_he_ is _your_ little boy." "oh, but i want two little boys. i want a little boy to take care of and love with all my heart--a gentle, patient little boy, who doesn't fret and cry when he is dressed, any more. i want a little boy to take into the garden in his little carriage, and to be my little boy always." "christie takes me into the garden. i like christie she's good." "i'm quite sure of it," said miss gertrude. "listen: there is clement. shall i open the door and call him in, if he will promise to be good?" what a contrast they made! the cheeks of one flushed with health, his bright eyes dancing with happiness, the other--oh, so wan and thin and fragile! miss gertrude's eyes filled with tears as she tried to restrain clement's eager caresses. they were very glad to see each other. climbing up into the chair beside him, clement put his arms round his brother's neck and stroked his cheeks. "you'll soon be well now, claudie," he said, "and we'll go and see the pony. oh, such a fine fellow as he is! you're getting well now, aren't you?" he added, wistfully. "yes, i'm well; but i am too tired," said claude, laying himself back among the pillows, with a sigh. miss gertrude lifted clement down, and held him firmly, saying: "clement is not going to tire you any more. he is going to be very gentle and good when christie lets us come in here; and by and by we will go and sit under the locust-tree and be very good and happy all together." and so they did that afternoon, and many afternoons besides. a very happy time they had. far from banishing miss gertrude and little clement, the doctor encouraged them to be much with the sick boy. the noisy clement was permitted to become the almost constant companion of his brother, on certain conditions. he was never permitted to weary him or vex him. a walk with his brother was made the reward of good behaviour; and banishment from the green room for an entire day was felt to be so severe a punishment that it was not insisted upon more than once or twice during the time of his mother's absence. upon both the boys this intercourse had a very beneficial effect. the little invalid brightened under the influence of clement's merry ways, now that the watchful care of miss gertrude or christie kept his mirth within bounds, and prevented him from being wearied with too boisterous play. the whole of the pleasant summer morning was passed by him in the open air. up and down the broad garden-walks he was drawn, when the weather was fine. sometimes he was content to sit for hours in the shadow of the locust-tree near the window, or in the pleasant cedar walk at the other end of the grounds. sometimes he was permitted to walk a little while on the lawn; and in a few days the dawning colour on cheek and lip was hailed as a hopeful sign of returning health. christie grew quite satisfied with her new place, and devoted herself to her little charge with an interest that was untiring; and the increasing affection of the little boy made her service day by day more pleasant to her. of miss gertrude she scarcely knew what to make. she was always very kind to her, and spent much time with her and little claude, either in the garden or in the green room. but she was not gentle and pleasant to all the world. she was sometimes full of impatient and discontented thoughts, and now and then let fall words that proved this too plainly. christie was sometimes pained, and sometimes amused, as she listened to her. like too many young people, she had a keener eye for defects than for excellences of character; and she never hesitated to amuse herself at the expense of those with whom she came in contact. sometimes her remarks were amusing and harmless enough, but too often they were unkind and severe; and more than once she tried to place in a ludicrous light characteristics which she could not but acknowledge were real excellences. christie had an uncomfortable consciousness that there was something wrong in all this, even amid the interest and admiration which the young girl had awakened in her, but she was very far from realising how wrong this spirit of criticism is, or how injurious the indulgence of it might prove to miss gertrude. these things, as they came up, marred but little christie's admiration of her bright and winning ways. the young lady's impatience and pride were never manifested where she or the boys were concerned; and the charm there was in constant intercourse with one of her own age was delightful. notwithstanding the difference in station, the two young girls had many subjects of interest common to both, which they were never weary of discussing. the enjoyment of their companionship was not all on christie's side. since her residence in her father's house, miss gertrude had had no companions of her own age for whose society she cared. she was constantly surprised and delighted to find how entirely her brother's little nurse could understand and sympathise with some of her moods and fancies. she brought out her favourite books and discussed her favourite subjects, and spoke to her of many things as she had never spoken to any one since she bade adieu to her young cousins at home. it cannot be denied that christie's evident admiration of her helped to bespeak miss gertrude's good-will. but the young lady was not very vain. she really liked christie, and took pleasure in her society; and she admired the tact and patience with which she managed little claude. the first few days of their intercourse was to each like the reading of a pleasant book; nor did their interest in each other fail as they grew better acquainted. chapter fifteen. peeps into fairy-land. "christie," said gertrude, coming into the green room just as the little nurse had arranged the crib for claude's mid-day nap, "did you ever read `the lady of the lake'?" christie was sitting down, with a basket of little socks and a bunch of darning-cotton in her hand, and she looked up eagerly as she entered. "no, i never read it; but i have heard of it. it is a nice book, isn't it?" "yes. get your work ready, and i'll tell martha to look after clement for the next two hours, and i will read to you while claude sleeps. i have read it once; but i would like to read it again." and she did read it. soon christie's socks and darning-cotton were forgotten, and she sat listening intently. it was something entirely new to her, and she yielded herself to the charm of the book with an eagerness that delighted the reader. miss gertrude liked the book at the second reading even better than at the first. she enjoyed it this time for herself and christie too. "there seems so much more in a book when you have anybody to enjoy it with you," she said, at the end of an hour. "but i am tired of reading aloud. you must take it a while now." "but i have got out of the way of reading aloud," said christie; "and besides, i do not read so well as you." "oh, never mind; you'll read well enough. and give me the basket; i'll darn your socks in the meantime." "the socks? oh, i had forgotten them! but there is very little to do. i'll read a while if you like; but i know i don't read so well as you." she took the book, however, and another hour passed rapidly away. she shut the book with a sigh when claude moved. this was the first of many such readings. during the hours when claude was asleep and clement under the immediate superintendence of martha, miss gertrude brought her book into the green room and shared the pleasure it gave her with her little brother's nurse. and at other times, too, when the little boys were amusing themselves together in the garden, they read and discussed their books, sitting in the cedar walk, or under the shadow of the locust-tree. and a very pleasant month they had. christie had great enjoyment in all this; and apparently miss gertrude had no less; for she refused several invitations, and broke more than one engagement with her aunt, rather than interfere with these new arrangements. but one day miss gertrude came into the green room with a cloud upon her brow. it was plain that something was the matter. "it has been a great deal too pleasant to last long," she said, throwing down a letter which she held in her hand. "here is papa coming home immediately. i wouldn't mind his coming," she added, checked by the look of surprise on christie's face. "i shall be very glad to see him; and he won't make much difference--he is so seldom at home. besides, he will let me please myself about things. he has no fancy for my going here and there at everybody's bidding. but mr sherwood is coming with him--mrs seaton's cousin--a very disagreeable person; at least, i think so. mamma thinks him wonderfully good, and he is a great favourite with papa, too. i am sure i don't know why. i think he is conceited; and he is an englishman, besides." christie laughed. "that's not a very good reason." "perhaps not. but he has such a cool, indifferent way of asserting the superiority of the english over all other nations, as though the question need not be discussed. `it must be quite evident to everybody,' his manner seems to say." after a pause, miss gertrude continued: "and that is not all. he is very meddlesome. he is always telling mamma what ought to be expected from a young lady like me, and getting her to annoy me about lessons and other things; at least, i think so. i know he thinks me quite childish; and sometimes he interferes between clement and me. what do you think he had the impertinence to say to me once? that no one was fit to govern who had not learned to obey. that it would be wiser for me to learn the lesson of obedience myself, than to attempt to teach it to my little brother." "and what answer did you make?" asked christie, after a little hesitation. "i turned and walked out of the room; and i did not see him again. i chose to be out of the way when he came to say good-bye. i dare say that is one reason why i don't like the thought of his coming just now. i feel a little awkward, you know. i owe him one good turn, however. if it had not been for him, i think father would have listened to aunt barbara and sent me to school. i ought to thank him for that." "and didn't you want to go to school?" asked christie, in some surprise. "no, indeed! i never was at school, you know. we had a governess and teachers at home. i am to have private teachers for some things here, when the summer is over, unless i should be sent to school, after all." when the gentleman made his appearance among them the next day, he did not look like the formidable person christie imagined him to be. they were sitting on the lawn, in the shadow of the locust-tree, when he arrived; and before he went into the house he came and shook hands with miss gertrude and the little boys. christie thought he must have quite forgotten his falling-out with the young lady, he met her so pleasantly and frankly. the embarrassment was all on her side. as for the boys, they were beside themselves with delight. it was easy to see they did not share their sister's dislike. poor little claude clasped his arms about his neck and kissed him eagerly. clement, in a way that showed he felt sure of his sympathy, began to tell him of the pony and the rabbits, insisting that he should come with him to the stable to see them at once. the next day was sunday. after a fortnight of lovely summer weather, a great change had taken place. the rain was falling in torrents, and the wind was whistling through the trees in the garden, when christie looked out. a rainy day in the green room was by no means such a dreary matter as it used to be in mrs lee's attic-nursery, with only a glimpse of driving clouds and dripping roofs to vary the dulness within. so christie comforted little claude for the want of his morning ride and ramble in the garden, telling him how glad the dusty leaves and thirsty little flowers would be for all the bright drops that were falling on them. she told him how the bees, that had been so busy all the week, must take a rest to-day, and how warm and dry the little birds would be in their nest in the pear-tree, for all the driving rain. setting him in his favourite chair by the window, she amused him with talk like this, as she went about putting things in order in the room. while she comforted him she comforted herself; for the rain had brought a disappointment to her too. it had been arranged that martha should take charge of claude while christie went to church in the morning, where she had not been for several sabbaths. but remembering mrs greenly's oft-repeated warnings against exposing herself to dampness, she did not like to venture in the rain. so she had to content herself at home. this was an easier matter than it had sometimes been. as the morning wore away, and the time approached for the little boy to take his usual sleep, she was quite contented to be where she was. "it is very pleasant, all this reading with miss gertrude," she said. "she is very kind, and i like her very much. but i shall be glad to be alone for a little while." claude's eyes closed at last, and she was just taking her bible from the table beside her, when the door opened and miss gertrude entered. "i only heard this minute from mattie that you did not go to church, after all," she said. "no wonder! what a rain! papa thought it was too bad to take out the horses. he is tired, too, after his journey. is it half-past eleven? everybody is lazy on sunday morning. but there will be an hour or two before lunch yet. i have brought our friend `jeanie.' there will be time for a chapter or two." christie looked up with an expression of surprise and doubt on her face. "jeanie deans, is it? but it is the sabbath-day!" miss gertrude laughed. "well, what if it is? i'm sure there is no harm in the book. you looked exactly like aunt barbara when you said that; i mean, all but her cap and spectacles. `the moral expression' of your face, as she would say, was exactly the same." christie laughed, but said nothing. "you don't mean to tell me that there is any harm in the book?" continued miss gertrude. "it is not a right book for the sabbath, though," said christie, gravely. "well, for my part, i don't see that a book that it is right to read every other day of the week can be so very bad a book for sunday," said miss gertrude; sharply. christie made no reply. "i declare, i like aunt barbara's way best; to call all tales wicked at once, and have nothing to do with them--these vile novels, as she calls them. come, now, you are not in earnest?" "i am quite in earnest," said christie, gently, but firmly. "and you have been reading or listening to this, or something like it, all the week! well, that is what i should call straining at a gnat and swallowing a camel." "well, perhaps it is. i never thought about it in that way before. but i am sure it is not right to read such books on the sabbath-day. and perhaps it is wrong to read them at all--at least, so many of them as we have been reading. i almost think it is." she spoke sorrowfully, but not in any degree offensively. indeed, she seemed to be speaking rather to herself than to miss gertrude. yet the young lady was offended. assuming the tone and manner with which she sometimes made herself disagreeable, she said: "i should regret exceedingly to be the means of leading you to do anything that you think wrong. i must try and enjoy my book by myself." and without looking towards her, she walked out of the room. for a little while christie sat motionless, gazing at the door through which she had disappeared, and thinking sorrowfully that this was a very sad ending to a very pleasant time. but there was a sharper pain at her heart than any that this thought awakened. all those days that had been so bright in passing had a shadow over them as she looked back upon them. to what end and purpose had all their intercourse tended? what was the cause of the feeling of uneasiness, almost of guilt, that had come on her now and then at quiet moments? it had clung to her all the morning. she was not very wise or far-sighted. she could not reason from cause to effect, or analyse her own feelings very closely. but even when she was congratulating herself on the prospect of a quiet time she was half conscious that she was not very glad to find herself alone. when she sat down with the bible in her hand, there fell on her spirit no such blessed sense of rest and peace as used to transform the dim attic into something pleasanter than this pretty green room, and fairer than the summer garden. "there is something wrong," she said to herself, as she listened to miss gertrude's footsteps on the stair. "i am afraid i am one of the folk that mrs grey used to tell about, that an easy life is not good for. better the weary days and nights than to fall back into my old ways again, just content with the pleasure the day brings, without looking beyond. who would have thought that i could have forgotten so soon? it is just this foolish novel reading, i think. aunt elsie said it was a snare to me; and effie said something like it once." "well, i'm not likely to have more of it," she continued, with a sigh. "i suppose i ought to be glad that miss gertrude went away vexed; for i dare say i should not have had courage to-morrow to tell her that so much of that kind of reading is not good for me, sabbath or week-day. it couldn't have lasted long, at any rate. of course, when mrs seaton comes home it will be quite different. well, it will be better for me-- a great deal better. i must be watchful and humble. to think that i should grow careless and forget, just when i ought to be so mindful and thankful!" a few tears fell on the leaves of her little bible; but by and by the former peace came back again, as she felt herself half resting indeed on the only sure foundation. the foolish fancies that had haunted her imagination all the week vanished before the influence of the blessed words on those familiar pages. they were precious still, though the strange charm of her new companionship had turned her thoughts from them for a time. she forgot her idle dreams, the foolish fancies she had indulged, the vain longing for this or that earthly good for herself and for all at home that had at times for the last few days taken possession of her. the peace which flows from a sense of pardon and acceptance and a firm trust was for the time enjoyed. to be and to do just what god willed seemed infinitely desirable to her. "`great peace have they that love thy law,'" she murmured. "i do love it; and i have the peace." very humble and earnest were the prayers that rose beside the bed of little claude that day, and very grave, yet happy, was the face that greeted his waking. christie needed all her patience, for this was one of claude's fretful days. he grew weary of being confined to one room; he longed for the company of his sister and clement. his brother came in for a little while after he had had his dinner; but he was in one of his troublesome moods, and vexed and fretted claude so much that christie was fain to give him over to martha's charge, bidding him not come into the green room till he was ready to be good and kind. in the meantime, miss gertrude was enjoying her book in her own room; or, rather, she was not enjoying it. it had lost much of its interest to her. she was not in a humour to enjoy anything just then. she wandered into the parlour at last, thinking a chat with her father, or even with mr sherwood, would be better than her book. but her father was in the library, with the door shut, and mr sherwood had gone out, notwithstanding the rain. the deserted room looked dreary, and she went to her own again. at six she went down to dinner. they were not a very lively party. mr seaton looked sleepy, and yawned several times before they went to the dining-room. mr sherwood was very grave, and, indeed, "stupid," as gertrude thought. "what a misfortune a rainy sunday is!" she said at last. "one scarcely knows what to do with one's self. this has seemed twice as long as other days." "pray don't let any one hear you say that, my dear," said her father, laughing. "if one rainy sunday exhausts the resources of a well-educated young lady, i am afraid her prospects are not the brightest." miss gertrude laughed. "oh, father, i haven't quite got to that state of exhaustion! but i have been dull and stupid--not able to settle myself to the enjoyment of anything--all day." "where are the boys?" asked her father. "claude is in the green room, with his nurse. indeed, i suppose both boys are there just now. after dinner i shall send for them. claude really seems better; he runs about again." "stay," said mr sherwood. "this reminds me that i brought a letter last night for the new nursemaid; at least, i suppose so;" and he took a letter from his pocket, and laid it on the table. "you don't mean that you brought that home last night, and have kept it till this time?" said miss gertrude, with much surprise. "tut, tut, my child!" said her father, touching the hand outstretched to take the letter. she withdrew her hand without a word. "you could not have been more indignant had the letter been for yourself. it is not such a terrible oversight," said mrs lane, or aunt barbara, as she was commonly called, who had looked in on her way from church. "if it is like most of the letters of that sort of people, it would be little loss though she never got it. such extraordinary epistles as i sometimes read for my servants!" "this seems quite a respectable affair, however," said mr seaton, reading the direction in effie's fair, clear handwriting: _christina redfern_, _care of j.r. seaton, esquire_. "that is a very pretty direction--_very_." "i am very sorry, and very much ashamed of my carelessness," said mr sherwood. "i hope, miss gertrude, you will forgive me, and i will never do so again, as little boys say." but he did not look either very sorry or very much ashamed, miss gertrude thought, and she made no reply. the rather uncomfortable silence that followed was broken by a low voice at the door: "am i to take the children, miss gertrude?" master clement answered: "no, i shan't go to bed yet. it's only seven o'clock." "come in," said mr seaton, kindly. "i want to know how these little fellows have behaved since their mother went away." christie came forward shyly, curtseying, in some confusion, to mrs lane, whom her short-sighted eyes did not discern till she was close upon her. "i hope they have been good and obedient, and have not given you much trouble?" said mr seaton again. a little smile passed over christie's mouth. "master clement is miss gertrude's boy, sir," she said, as she stooped to buckle the belt of that active young gentleman. "and i'm very good. she punishes me when i ain't good." "i'm afraid she has enough to do, then. and the doctor thinks claude is better, does he?" he asked, caressing the pale little face that lay on his shoulder. "yes," said christie, doubtfully. "he says he is better." there was no mistaking the look of wistful interest that overspread her face as she looked at the child. "he is very good and patient, almost always," she added, as she met the little boy's smile. "i'm a great deal better," said claude. "the doctor says i may ride on the pony some day." "have you had much to do with children?" asked aunt barbara. "i lived with mrs lee eight months." "and she parted with you because she needed a person of more experience?" "yes, i suppose so. i wasn't strong enough mr lee thought. i was very sorry." it was a sore subject with christie yet, and the colour went and came as she spoke. "and where were you before?" asked mr seaton, wishing to relieve her embarrassment. "i was with our own children, at home. i was one of the children then myself. i never was away from home before my father died." "look, here is something for you. cousin charles says it is for you. it is a letter," said clement, holding it up. if there had been ten aunt barbaras in the room, christie could not have restrained the expression of surprise and pleasure that rose to her lips at the sight of effie's familiar handwriting, and her hands quite trembled as she took it from the little boy. "now, claudie," said the young lady, coming forward, "it is time for you to go with christie. say `good-night' to father and aunt barbara." for a single moment the look of peevish resistance that used to come so often to the child's face passed over it, but it changed as christie stooped down, saying softly: "will you walk? or shall i carry you, as they carried the little boy home from the field?" "and will you tell me more?" he asked, holding out his hand. "oh, yes; and how glad his mother was when he grew better again. now walk a little bit, and i will carry you up-stairs. the doctor says he ought to be encouraged to walk," she said to his father, as she set him down. the child bade them "good-night" quite willingly, and went. "clement, stay with me," said his sister. "christie will not get much good of her letter for the next two hours, if you are with her." clement was very willing to stay. but for all that christie did not get much good of her letter for an hour and more, except the good it did her to hold it in her hand, and feeling the delight that was in store for her. miss gertrude came to the green room some time after, to find her still rocking and singing to the wakeful claude. "you don't mean you haven't read your letter yet?" she said, in astonishment. "i have opened it. they are all well. i like to be sure of a quiet time to read a letter." "well, take the lamp and go over there. i will take care of him for the present." "he is just asleep now," said christie, hesitating. she was thinking that she would like to have the room to herself before she read her letter, but as miss gertrude seated herself in the low rocking-chair, she had only to take the lamp and go to the other side. she soon forgot miss gertrude, claude, and all besides, except effie and the bairns at home. effie had the faculty, which many people of greater pretensions do not possess, of putting a great deal into a letter. they were always written journal-wise--a little now, and a little then; and her small, clear handwriting had come to be like print to christie's accustomed eyes. so she read on, with a smile on her lip, quite unconscious that the eyes that seemed to be seeing nothing but the bright embers were all the time furtively watching her. miss gertrude longed for a peep into the unseen world in which her humble friend was at that moment revelling. she felt positively envious of the supreme content that was expressed on christie's plain, pale face. she would not have understood it had the peep been granted. she never could have understood the interest which in christie's mind was connected with the various little items of news with which effie's letter was nearly filled. there was the coming and going of the neighbours, a visit from blind alice, and her delight in her canary. there was an account of jennie's unprecedented success in chicken-raising, and of little will's triumphant conquest of compound division; and many more items of the same kind. there were a few words--a very few--about the day christie had spent in the cemetery with john nesbitt, which brought the happy tears into her eyes; and that was all. no, the best came last. the letter had been opened again, and a slip of paper had been added, to tell how effie had got a letter from mrs lee. it was a very short letter, scarcely more than a line or two; but effie was to keep it safe to show to christie when she came home. in the meantime she must tell her that she had never in all her life been so proud and happy as she had been when she read to aunt elsie what a help and comfort her dear little sister had been to the writer in the midst of sickness and sorrow; and more than that, how, by means of her little bible and her earnest, humble words, she had opened to her a way to a higher hope and a better consolation than earth could give, and how the lady could not go away without doing what she knew would give her friend more pleasure than anything else she could do. she must tell christie's sister how good and patient and useful she had been. "and so, christie, when you are weary or desponding, as i am afraid you sometimes are, i think you may take a little rest and pleasure from the thought that you have been favoured to be made the giver of a `cup of cold water to one of _his_ little ones.'" oh, it was too much! such words from her dearest sister effie! and to think that mrs lee should have written them that last night, when she must have been so weary! and had she really done her good? oh, it was too much happiness! the letter fell from her hands, and her face, as she burst into happy tears, was hidden by them. it was only for a moment, however. she fancied herself quite unobserved as she took up her precious letter. "are they all well at home?" asked miss gertrude, as christie, having stealthily wiped away all traces of her tears, came and sat down on the other side of the cot, where claude was now sleeping soundly. "they are all quite well. my aunt is better. everything is just as usual." "your sister is a very pretty writer, is she not?" she asked. "yes, she writes very plain and even. her writing is easily read." but christie did not offer to show her the letter, as miss gertrude half hoped she would. it was not altogether for the gratification of her curiosity, nor chiefly for that, she wanted to see it. though her companion was sitting there, with her cheek leaning on her hand, so gravely and so quietly, she knew that her heart was by no means so quiet as her outward appearance seemed to indicate. she saw that it was ready to overflow with emotion of some kind--happiness, miss gertrude thought, but was not sure. but it could not be all happiness. christie must be longing for the sight of the sister whose written words could call forth such tears as she had seen falling even now. and she wished to be able to sympathise with her, to say some word that would establish confidence between them. besides, she had a feeling that she ought to atone for her petulance in the morning. at any rate, she wanted to be sure that christie did not resent it. but christie said nothing. she sat quite still, and her thoughts were far-away. when she roused herself, it was not to speak, but to take up her little bible, that lay within reach of her hand. "how fond you seem to be of that book!" said miss gertrude, as she watched her turning over the leaves. "yes," said christie, quietly. "effie gave it to me." "are you going to read now?" "i was looking for something that effie wrote about. i can't mind the exact words, and i am not sure where to find them." and she still turned over the leaves. "have you found it?" said miss gertrude, when she paused. "yes; i have found it. here it is. `and whosoever shall give to drink unto one of these little ones a cup of cold water only, in the name of a disciple, shall in no wise lose his reward.'" she read it slowly and gravely, but miss gertrude could by no means understand the look of mingled doubt and pleasure that she saw on her face when she had done. "well?" she said, inquiringly. but christie had nothing to say. her face was bowed down on her hands, and she did not raise it till she heard the door open and shut; and when she looked up, miss gertrude was gone. chapter sixteen. a talk in the garden. the next day was rainy, and the next, and the next. there was not a glimpse of sunshine till friday, and then it was only a glimpse. there was no such thing as going into the garden, or even into the wide gallery that ran along the ends of the house. the only change that little claude enjoyed all that time was being daily taken into the drawing-room while the green room was aired, or into the dining-room when his father was at home, a little while before he went to bed. he did not grow worse, however. he seemed quite contented with christie, and fretted less when clement left him than he used to do. he was growing very fond of his nurse. she was gentle and patient with him, never sparing herself when he needed to be amused. but her firmness was equal to her gentleness. she never suffered herself to be persuaded to indulge him in anything that had been forbidden by the doctor; and she was faithful to the letter in obeying all his directions. the little boy soon learned to yield to her in all things, and the fretful violence that used to excite fever and exhaust his strength seldom appeared now. the green room was christie's acknowledged domain. the "masterful" clement was taught that he was only admitted there on condition of good behaviour; and really, considering all things, he was very good. he was encouraged to be much in the green room during those rainy days, for his merry ways and pleasant childish talk did his little brother a great deal of good. as for miss gertrude, i am sorry to say she did not recover her good-humour so soon as she ought to have done. she did not resent what she called christie's reproof about the book half so much as she did her slowness in responding to her offered sympathy about the letter. she fancied that the little nurse ought to have been very much flattered by the interest she had tried to show in her affairs, and was displeased at the silence with which her advances had been received. poor christie had offended very unconsciously. with her mind full of her letter and all the associations it had awakened, she had been quite unmindful of miss gertrude and her attempts to make up the little falling-out of the morning. she only began to realise that the young lady must have been offended, when the days passed over with only a brief visit to claude. even then she believed that her vexation rose from what had passed about the book. but miss gertrude was very much out of sorts with herself too. if it had not been a rainy day, she would have availed herself of her aunt barbara's invitation to spend the day with her. but a rainy day at aunt barbara's was not to be thought of. she took a long time to write a short letter to mrs seaton, in scotland. then she took a fit of practising her music, which, she said to herself, she had sadly neglected of late. then she read a little. then she went into the kitchen and superintended the making of a pudding after a new recipe which some one had given to her. then she dressed for dinner. but the time is very long from nine in the morning till six at night, when it is rainy without and gloomy within. it wanted full an hour of the usual time for her father's return when she was quite ready to receive him. she wandered into the dining-room. there were no signs of the dinner-table being laid. she wandered into the drawing-room, and passed her fingers over the keys of the piano once or twice. but she could not settle to steady playing, or, indeed, to anything else. "i wonder what has become of master clement all this time? it is time martha was in the dining-room. i will go and see." she went into the nursery; but it was deserted. she called, but received no answer. a sound of voices from the green room drew her there, and the door opened on as merry a game as one could wish to see. claude sat in his usual place in the arm-chair, and scattered on the carpet before him were a number of pictured and lettered blocks which his father had brought home. these master clement was examining with much pretended gravity. he was looking for the letter c, which christie had pointed out to him. whenever he made a mistake and pointed out the wrong letter, he punished himself by creeping on his hands and knees under claude's crib; and whenever christie's nod and smile proclaimed that he was right, he vaulted over the crib, with such laughter and grimaces, and such a shaking of his tangled curls over his face, that claude laughed and clapped his hands from sympathy. miss gertrude leaned over the chair and watched the play. "how noisy you are, clement!" she said, at last. "yes; but it is nice noise. i'm very good to-day, tudie." "are you? i am very glad to hear it, and very much surprised too." "are you cross to-day?" "why? what makes you ask?" "oh, because you haven't been here." "i have been busy writing a letter to your mother." "did you tell her that i am a good boy? i am a very good boy; and so is claudie." a leap and a grimace more astonishing than any he had yet accomplished sent claude into fits of laughter. "i declare," said miss gertrude, looking down upon him, "i don't believe your mother would know you if she were to see you now! why, there is quite a colour in his lips. he really seems better, doesn't he?" "yes, and he has been very good and easily amused all day, though he has not been able to go out." there was silence for a time. both girls stood watching the game that was going on. but soon christie said: "if you please, miss gertrude, will you show me that stitch again? i have quite lost it." "yes," said miss gertrude; "i will show you. it is quite easy." "yes, i dare say it is. i am afraid i am very dull at learning it." she was watching the expert fingers of miss gertrude admiringly. it was a piece of work she had commenced long before, but getting tired of it, she had offered to teach christie, who was to finish it. "it is very pretty," said christie, "and quite easy, when one knows the way." "yes, it is quite easy," said miss gertrude. but her manner was quite different from what it had been at the last lesson. "she is not going to be vexed with me, if i can help it," said christie to herself; and in a little while she said, again: "miss gertrude, have you any objection to my copying this pattern out of your book, to send to effie? i am going to write to her. she is very quick at such work." "certainly not; no objection at all. you can copy it if you like--if you think your sister can make anything of it." then, a little ashamed of her ungracious manner, she added, "i will copy it for you--and another, a much prettier one. when shall you send your letter away?" "oh, i am very much obliged! i write so slowly that there is no haste about it. i shall not have my letter ready till friday." the next day miss gertrude made herself very busy with her practising, and with a magazine that mr sherwood had brought home. the day following she spent with her aunt, who sent for her in the morning. thursday, she was as tired of her dignity as she was of the rain, and came into the green room with a smiling face, and a nice book in her hand. christie received her exactly as she would have done had there been no interruption of their intercourse. she did not for a moment think of resenting miss gertrude's coolness. she had been busy every moment of her spare time during these few days, writing to her sister, and she had missed her society far less than it would have pleased the young lady to know. but she was very glad to see her back again, and to hear her declare, as she seated herself in the arm-chair, that after all the green room was the very pleasantest in the house. so, with no more words about it, they fell into their old, pleasant ways again. mrs seaton's return made less difference in their manner of life than they supposed it would. she seemed to christie a very different person from the pale, anxious invalid that went away so unwillingly; and indeed she was. her health and spirits were quite restored. instead of falling back into the retired mode of life that had become habitual to her since the illness of her little boy, she went into society, as she had done before; and as her circle of friends was large, she had very little time to devote to her children, and christie continued to have almost as much care of claude as she had had during his mother's absence. there was one change which at first seemed anything but a pleasant one; they left the pretty green room for a smaller one in a higher story. at first it seemed a dull, dismal place, but christie learned to love it very much before she left it. miss gertrude's lessons commenced again soon after the return of mrs seaton, but there was nothing more said of her going to school, at least for the present. she was not old enough to go much into society, and she had plenty of time to devote to the readings in the upper nursery, as christie's new room was called. her interest in these readings was not uniform. sometimes for several days at a time her visits were few and brief; but on the whole, she enjoyed them very much, and did not neglect them very long. the balconied window of the green room was not the only one at which the locust-tree made pleasant music. it shaded also one of the library windows. the library had become so much the resort of mr sherwood that it almost came to be considered as his room. he spent much of his time in it undisturbed. so it happened one day, when he was not at all busy, he heard the sound of voices beneath, and looking out, discovered that the nursery party had placed themselves on the rustic seat that always stood there. the september wind had scattered many of the long, slender leaves of the locust; but they had come there rather to enjoy the sunshine than the shade. he could see them quite plainly--claude sitting on his cushion, clement running here and there about the lawn, miss gertrude, as usual, with her book, and christie with her work. he could not hear what they said, except a word now and then from the children's shrill voices. miss gertrude pretended to read, but evidently the reading did not prosper; and by and by the book was laid aside, and in the conversation that followed the girls seemed to take an equal part. mr sherwood was quite astonished to find himself wishing that he could hear what they were saying; but he could not, except when miss gertrude's voice was raised in warning or in reproof, as master clement pursued his own pleasure in a distant part of the garden. by and by the sound of wheels was heard in the garden, and miss gertrude rose quickly. "oh, here come visitors!" she exclaimed. her face was turned towards the window, and he heard every word plainly. "let us go to the cedar walk. i don't want to go in; and if they don't see me they will never think of me. come, christie." she lifted claude from his cushion and ran away with him, leaving christie to follow with the shawls and other things. the book was left behind on the bench, and when the visitors were safe in the house, mr sherwood could not resist the desire he felt to go down to see what it was. as he passed the drawing-room door, mrs seaton looked out. "if you are going into the garden, charles, and should see miss gertrude, tell her mrs jordan is here, and has asked for her." "i dare say she won't thank me for the message," he said to himself, as he picked up the book and took his way to the cedar walk. he smiled to himself as he turned over the leaves. "you are inquired for," he said. "mrs seaton bade me tell you that mrs jordan is in the drawing-room with her daughters, and they have asked for you." "oh, dear me! and i thought i was safe for this time! but i don't think i will go. they'll forget all about me in a few minutes." "mrs seaton wishes you to go, however," said mr sherwood, gravely. miss gertrude shrugged her shoulders. they had more than once differed as to the nature and extent of duty she owed to her step-mother. she said nothing, however, but rose. "i'm going too," said clement. "tudie, you must take me." "cousin charles, carry me!" entreated claude. "no, clement; you are not to come unless you are sent for. and i'll come back directly." mr sherwood took one turn in the garden, and came back to the cedar walk in time to hear the end of christie's story: "and so, when the blind man heard the noise of so many people passing by, he wondered. and they told him that jesus was passing by, and that all the people were following him. and he asked, `is it jesus, who healed the ruler's little daughter?' then he began to call out, as loud as he was able, `jesus, jesus, thou son of david, have mercy on me!' and all the people told him to be still, and not make such a noise. but he thought, `perhaps jesus will never come this way again!' so he cried out all the more. "well, jesus heard him, and he stood still and waited till the blind man came up to him. and then he said, `what wilt thou that i should do unto you?' and the man said, `lord, that mine eyes might be opened.' "and with a single word that jesus spoke, his eyes were opened; and he saw the earth, and the sky, and the wondering crowd, and jesus. just think how glad he must have been to come out of darkness to see so many beautiful things! and how good and kind jesus was!" "will jesus ever come again? and could he make me well and strong like clement? oh, i wish he would come!" it was a very entreating little face that was turned towards her as he spoke. she did not answer him at once, but kissed him, and stroked his hair with loving hands. "will he ever come again?" he repeated, eagerly. "my child, he is near us now. he does not forget little children, and the sick and the blind and the sorrowful. and he hears us, just as he heard the blind bartimeus, and he cares for us and helps us all the same, though he has gone to heaven." "and will he make me well again?" "i don't know. if it is best he will. and if he does not make you well, he will make you good and patient, and willing to be sick. and you will be happy--more happy than when you were quite strong and well. don't you remember how he took the little children up in his arms and blessed them?" "yes; and he said, `suffer the little children to come unto me.'" but the little boy looked very sad as he said it. mr sherwood took another turn in the garden and approached them from the other side. christie was wrapping claude in a plaid, and preparing to wheel him round the garden--as quiet and uninteresting a person, to all appearance, as one could fancy a child's nurse to be. "carry me, cousin charles," entreated little claude. "it is so much nicer than to be drawn in the carriage. do take me for a little while." "we'll play horses," said clement, making his appearance at the moment, "and i'll drive. now, up and away!" christie sat down to her work again, while they carried on a merry game up and down the cedar walk, with much shouting and laughter from all. "and now that must do," said mr sherwood, seating himself on the bench that always stood there. "your horse is very tired, and he must rest before he goes farther. sit still, claude. i am not too tired to hold you--only too tired to run any more." "he is very warm," said christie, laying down her work to come and pin the plaid more closely about him. she did it very gently, and there was no mistaking the loving looks the little boy gave her. "i found this book as i came out," said mr sherwood. "was it you or miss gertrude who was making it your study?" "did i leave it behind me? it was very careless," said christie, in some confusion. "we were both reading it; that is, miss gertrude read, and i listened." "`evidences of the truth of revealed religion'," he read, turning to the title-page. "which of you is troubled with doubts on that subject?" "neither of us, i hope," said christie, quietly. she did not quite like the tone in which he spoke. "but what is the use of reading the book, if you are quite sure already of what it professes to teach?" "the book was miss gertrude's choice," said christie, scarcely knowing what to say. "oh, then it is miss gertrude whose faith is wavering?" christie shook her head. "one day miss gertrude asked me something about which i was quite sure, but i couldn't tell her why i was so sure; and she found this book, and we thought we would read it." "to make you more sure?" said mr sherwood, smiling. "no, sir, not that. nothing could make me more sure than i am that the bible and all it teaches is true. but it is well to be able to tell why i am sure." "and so you are sure of these things without knowing why you are sure?" christie sent a grave, questioning look into his face, and said: "i think the true knowledge of these things is not learned in books, unless it is in the bible--and not in that, unless god teaches one." after a pause, she added: "it must be true, you know. what can one trust to, if not to the word of god? what else is there that does not fail us in the time of need, in some way or other?" "not much, indeed," said mr sherwood, gravely. "nothing," repeated christie, "except the word and promise of god. they never fail--never change--never!" "do they never change? what were you telling that boy just now about the blind man that was healed for the asking? but you could not tell claude that the same power could make him strong and well again, though i am sure you wish it were so." "but i am quite sure he could; and he would, if it were best." "but why is it not best for him as well as it was for the blind man? he wishes it, and all who love him wish it. and our poor little claude is not the only one. think how much suffering there is in the world that might be relieved." christie looked puzzled and anxious for a moment. "but it is not that he has changed, or that he breaks his promise. i cannot say just what i would, but i don't think it is quite the same. you know when christ came into the world it was not merely to do that kind of good to men; it was to save them. and it was necessary that he should prove to them that he was the son of god, by doing what none but god could do. so he opened blind eyes, and healed their diseases, and raised the dead. and besides, they were to know another way: `surely he hath borne our griefs and carried our sorrows!' they might have known he was the messiah by that too." she stopped suddenly, and then added: "it is different now." "and so, having done enough to prove all that, he forgets the troubles people in the world have now. does he?" "it is not that he forgets, or breaks his promise," said christie, hesitatingly, yet earnestly. "he has not promised that his people should never have trouble in the world; quite the contrary. but he promises always to be with them, to support and comfort them through all. and that is as good as though they were to have none--and, indeed, far better." she spoke very earnestly. her face was flushed, and the tears filled her eyes, but she spoke very modestly and humbly too. "well, it does not seem that _you_ are troubled with doubts, anyway," said mr sherwood, rising, and placing claude on the seat she had prepared for him. "no; i do not doubt. it must be a great unhappiness to think at all about these things and not be sure and quite at rest about them." "and what would you say to any one who suffered this great unhappiness?" the question was gravely, even sadly, asked. there was not the echo of mockery in his tone that had made christie shrink during the first moments of his being there. she looked up wistfully into the face that was still bending over the child. "i don't know," she said. "i cannot tell--except to bid him ask, as the blind man asked, `lord, that mine eyes might be opened!'" he went slowly down the cedar walk, and christie watched him with wistful eyes. whether he asked the gift of sight or not, there was one who, after that day, did ask it for him. chapter seventeen. the secret of peace. gertrude could not find her book. all that christie could tell her about it was that she had seen it in mr sherwood's hand in the cedar walk, and that he did not leave it when he went away. she looked for it in the library and in the drawing-room, but it was nowhere to be seen. she had a great objection to asking him for it. mr sherwood sometimes condescended to jest with the young lady on some subjects about which they did not agree; and she did not like his jests. so time passed on, till the third day. "i'll ask him for it at dinner," she said to herself. "he is never so provoking when father is there." but a good opportunity occurred before dinner. mr sherwood was standing in the hall, waiting for mrs seaton, whom he was to take into town, when miss gertrude passed him on her way up-stairs. "mr sherwood," she said, "you picked up a book in the garden the other day. it was very careless in me to leave it there. will you give it to me now?" "i ought to apologise to you for having kept it so long," he answered, gravely. "i will get it for you this moment." miss gertrude looked up to see whether there was not a smile upon his face. she had no idea that her new "whim" for serious reading was to be allowed to pass without remark. but his look was quite grave as he turned into the library. "do you like this?" he asked, when he came out with the book in his hand. "i don't know. i have not read much of it," she answered, quickly, moving towards him to take the book. he gave it to her without speaking. a glance at his face induced her to say, "are you not well to-day, cousin charles?" it was one of miss gertrude's "whims" always to address him formally as "mr sherwood"; and in his agreeable surprise at her familiarity, he smiled brightly. but his face grew grave again as he said: "yes; i am quite well--only, perhaps, a little more indolent and self-indulgent than usual." about this time there came a letter from effie, in which there was one sentence that cost christie many a wondering and anxious thought. "my dear little sister, let your light shine, and who knows but you may be the means of blessing to this household also?" "effie doesn't know," said christie to herself. "she thinks i have grown good and wise, but she is much mistaken. i am sure if i did any good to mrs lee i don't know how it happened. and besides, she was ill and in trouble, and had need of the little help and comfort i could give her. but miss gertrude! she is the only one i come very near to here; and she is so quick and beautiful and strong--so much above me in every way. oh, if effie were to see her, she would never think of my being able to influence her. everybody admires miss gertrude; and i am but a nursemaid, and hardly that." and yet the humble little maid did influence gertrude as the days and months passed on; but mrs seaton and her gay friends in the drawing-room were not more unconscious of the influence for good she was exerting over the wayward young lady than was the little maid herself. gertrude only vaguely realised that she was beginning to see and estimate things differently from what she used to do--half thinking, as her mother did, that it was because she was growing older and more sensible. she found herself thinking, now and then, that her standard of right was not exactly what it used to be before she had compared opinions with christie. in her intercourse with her own family and with others also, she often found herself measuring their opinions and actions by christie's rule. but she by no means realised that her own opinions and actions were gradually adjusting themselves to the same rule. yet so it was. she liked to watch christie. she was never weary of admiring the patience with which she bore the changing moods of her little charge, when illness made him fretful or exacting. gertrude saw that she was learning to love the little boy dearly; but she also saw that it was not merely her love for him that made her so faithful in doing her duty to him, nor was it to please the mother and sister or win their confidence, for she was equally faithful in matters that could never come to mrs seaton's knowledge, and gertrude knew by experience that _her_ pleasure was never suffered to interfere where claude's interest or comfort was concerned. no; christie lived that useful, patient life from higher motives than these. "she does what is right because it is right," said gertrude to herself. she saw her quite cheerful and contented from day to day, doing the same things over and over again, with few pleasures--with none, indeed, unless the hour or two of reading which they managed almost daily to get could be called such. and yet, by a thousand tokens, gertrude knew that she would have enjoyed keenly many pleasures that were quite beyond her hopes--leisure, and books, and going to school, and the power to give gifts and confer favours. to be able to live at home, with no heavy cares pressing on the family, would be real happiness for her. all this gertrude gathered from the conversations they sometimes had, from occasional remarks, and from her intense delight when letters from home came. and yet she did not repine in the absence of these things. she was happy in the performance of her duties, whether they were easy or not, and enjoyed the few simple pleasures that came in her way. "it is not because she is stupid, or that she does not know anything else," said gertrude to herself. "she enjoys reading and learning as well as i do, and makes a far better use of the chance she has: and yet she lives on from day to day, wearying herself with little claude, and stitching away, as though she cared for nothing beyond. wouldn't she enjoy being rich, and sending things to her family! why, the delight she had over that common grey plaid that she sent to her aunt was quite absurd--and quite touching too. it cost her two months' wages at the very least, but she did not seem to think of that. the only thing that marred her happiness at all that day was the want of a few pence that would have enabled her to buy a warm pair of slippers to go with the shawl. she doesn't seem to think of herself. i wonder why?" and gertrude watched her still, thinking her often needlessly particular in the performance of small duties, and losing patience now and then, when these things interfered with her wishes. but the more she watched her daily life the more sure she felt that christie had some secret of sweet peace which she had not yet found. she knew that her strength and cheerfulness daily renewed came from none of the helps to which one in her circumstances might naturally look. it was not the knowledge that she was valued, nor the feeling that little claude was beginning to love her dearly, that sustained her; though gertrude could see that these were pleasant and precious to the little maid. it was not even the thought of home, or effie's letters, or the pleasant word they brought of how she was missed and how they wished her with them. it was not the hope of the time when they should all be together again. to these ardent young people this re-union seemed by no means impossible, or even distant. with gertrude's help, christie often built castles in the air, about a farm which was to be the wonder of the country-side, where they were all to live together, and where gertrude herself was to pass many a pleasant day. but it was not this, nor all of these, that brought the look of sweet contentment to that pale face, when she thought herself quite unobserved. it was there sometimes when she was wearied. she was not naturally hopeful or cheerful. she had none of that happy self-confidence which makes burdens light and causes difficulties to disappear. the source of her courage and patience was out of herself. her gentle cheerfulness, flowing evenly through long days and weeks, sprang from some unseen fountain, pure and free and never-failing. sometimes it came into the young lady's mind that christie's constant study of her little bible had something to do with her being so different from any one she had ever known before. but both of them were a little shy about speaking of these things. they talked about the histories, and even about the doctrines, of the bible. the stories that little claude so delighted in all came from the bible; and christie had no shyness in speaking to him. to these stories, and the simple comments made on them, gertrude sometimes listened when she seemed to be occupied with far other matters, and she would have liked very much to have heard more on some of the themes of which these conversations gave her only a hint. but christie seldom talked about herself. it was only by slow degrees that she came to understand the secret of her content. coming one night later than usual into the upper nursery, she found christie sitting with her little bible in her hand. she shut it as gertrude sat down beside her, but she did not put it away. "i suppose it is too late to begin to read anything now?" said gertrude. "i have been helping miss atherton to dress. you should have seen her! her dress was splendid--too splendid for so small a party, mother thought. i wish i had called you to see her." "i wish you had, indeed," said christie, with real interest, for she was a great admirer of anything pretty. "i should like to have seen her. she is beautiful always." "yes, but dress makes a difference even in beautiful people. i have seen ladies who looked quite plain at home by daylight, who were thought great beauties by those who only saw them at parties. but miss atherton is always beautiful. she will shine to-night." gertrude sat for a little while gazing into the fire. "would you like to have gone with her?" asked christie. "no, i think not; i am sure not. i was asked, you know, and i dare say mother would not have objected to my going. but i find these parties very stupid." "miss atherton does not find them stupid, i should think." "miss atherton! oh, no! but she is quite different. i dare say i should like them well enough too, if i were quite grown up, and a belle like her. but one like me is only in the way in such a place, unless she sits quiet in a corner. that is all very well for a little time, but it soon becomes stupid enough." "but you are not a little girl. you are fifteen," said christie. "yes, i am too old to be contented with a seat in a corner, so i don't like parties yet. and i do believe father thinks it is because i am so sensible." christie could not help laughing at the half-grave, half-comic way in which this was spoken. "it must be very pleasant to be a belle, however," continued gertrude, meditatively, "to have all eyes fixed on you in admiration, and to eclipse all the rest of the stars." "but that doesn't often happen, except in books, i fancy," said christie. "well, i suppose not. it couldn't happen very often. but it must be delightful when it _does_ happen. don't you think so?" she added, as christie's face grew grave. "wouldn't you like to shine, as miss atherton will, at the youngs' to-night?" "you forget i don't know about these things," said christie. "nonsense! you can imagine how it would seem. i can imagine how it would seem to be drawn over the snow by reindeer, or to be carried away in a balloon. now, tell me--wouldn't you like to be beautiful and rich, and admired by everybody?" "i can imagine something i would like far better." "what, the model farm, and to live at home? oh, but if you are to wish, you know, you may as well wish for riches and beauty and all the rest at once! you would never stop short at your farm and contentment, if you had your wish." christie shook her head. "i think i would not wish at all." "do you mean that you are so satisfied with your lot that you would not have it different if your wish could change it?" asked miss gertrude, in some surprise. christie hesitated a moment. "i mean that i don't know what is best for me or for those i love, and he who has appointed our lot does; and so all things are best as they are." "do you mean that you would rather be as you are, living away from home, among strangers, poor and not very strong, than to have all that we sometimes talk about, and to be able to be benevolent and live at home with your sisters?" "ah, that would be very pleasant; at least, it seems so now. but still it might not be best for us. if it would be best, we should have it so, i am quite sure." gertrude opened her eyes in amazement. "but i don't know what you mean by _best_!" she said, presently. "don't you?" said christie, smiling a little. "well, i am not good at explaining things. i don't mean what is pleasantest just now, but what is really best for us all, now, and--and afterwards." "do you mean to say that you are better off here as claude's nurse than you would be if you were to live at home, or go to school, as you were wishing you could the other day? if you had your choice, is that what you would choose?" "oh, i don't speak about a choice. i am content not to choose; at least, almost always i am content. i know it is best for me to be here, or i shouldn't be here." "but, do you know, that seems to me quite absurd. why, according to that, everybody is just in the right place. no one ought to have any wish to change, even to be better. all the world is just as it ought to be." "i can't tell what is best for all the world and everybody," said christie, gravely. "i was only speaking of myself and effie, and the rest at home." "but i suppose what is true for you is true for other people also--for me, for instance! don't you think i have anything left to wish for? do you think i am in the very best place i could be in for my happiness now and always?" "i don't know," said christie, looking wistfully into her face. "i hope so. i cannot tell." "but what makes you so sure in your own case, then, if you can't tell in mine? i think few people would hesitate as to which of us is most happily placed. what makes you so sure of yourself?" christie did not reply for a moment. she was slowly turning over the leaves of her bible. when at last she stopped, it was to read softly: "`for a man's life consisteth not in the abundance of the things which he possesseth.'" and, farther on: "`consider the ravens: for they neither sow nor reap; which neither have storehouse nor barn; and god feedeth them: how much are ye better than the fowls?' "`consider the lilies how they grow: they toil not, they spin not; and yet i say unto you, that solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these.' "`if then god so clothe the grass, which to-day is, and to-morrow is cast into the oven, how much more will he clothe you, o ye of little faith!'" gertrude had half expected some such answers. she did not speak, but watched her as she continued to turn the leaves. she read again: "`and we know that all things work together for good to them that love god.'" "that is all very well," she said; "but that is for one as well as another, for me as well as you. and besides, people don't take all things just as they stand. i am sure all the people i know live as though their life _did_ consist in the abundance of the things they possess." "well, i suppose the promise is not good to them," said christie; "but that does not hinder its being good to others." "then one need not trouble one's self about what is to happen, according to that? one may just rest content and let things take their course?" said gertrude, incredulously. "yes, that is just what one may do, when one is sure of a right to claim the promise." "but what do you mean by having a right? and why should one have a right more than another?" asked gertrude, impatiently. but all the time she was saying to herself that the quiet little maid before her was one of those who might be content. "i don't mean that any one has a right to claim the fulfilment of any promise, except the right that god gives. you know the verse says it is to them that love god for whose good all things work together. god's people, it means--those who love him, and those whom he loves." looking into her earnest face, it was not easy for gertrude to answer lightly, but in a little while she said: "well, christians ought to be very happy people according to that." "surely," said christie, earnestly, "and so they are." "well, i know some of them who don't seem very happy. and they strive for riches and greatness, and all that, just as though their happiness depended upon it." "but no real child of god does that," said christie, eagerly. "oh! as to that i can't say. they call themselves christians." "well, we can't always judge people by just seeing them," said christie. "there's many a one who seems to be living just as other folk live, and going the round that other folk go, and all the time he may be really very different. i am not good at speaking about these things, but i know that to a child of god his simple promise is worth more than houses or lands, or anything that this world can give. no; we have nothing to fear. only we forget and grow desponding." the last words were spoken rather to herself than to miss gertrude. she sighed; but her face was quite untroubled as she rose, and laying down her bible, began to arrange the things in the room. "you always say, `child of god,'" said gertrude, wishing still to prolong the conversation. "does that mean just a christian, or does it mean something more?" "yes. `as many as received him, to them gave he power to become the sons of god, even to them that believe on his name.' yes, it means just the same. you see, it seems to bring us very near to him, speaking of him as a father, and of christ as an elder brother. you know a child will never want for anything that a loving father has to give, if it is for his good; and so surely the children of god may well rest content with what he appoints for them. the only wonder is that they are ever otherwise than content." gertrude made no reply, and there was a long silence. "`a child of god.' `content with what he sends them.' there is something wonderful in it. she is one of them, i dare say; and that is what makes her so different from almost any one i know. i wish i could understand it. it must be worth a great deal to know that one is a child of god. i wish she could tell me more about it." but christie did not seem inclined to say more on any subject that night. she moved here and there in silence, putting things to rights in the room. gertrude rose at last. "that is a hint that it is time for me to go," she said. christie laughed. "well, yes. you know mrs seaton was displeased to find us sitting up the other night when she came home. it is nearly ten." "oh, she won't be home to-night till the small hours have struck. miss atherton will take care of that. there is no fear of her finding us up to-night." there was an expression of surprise on christie's countenance. "oh, i know very well what you mean. that makes no difference, you would say. well, i suppose we must do what she would wish, the same as if she were here, though i don't feel the least sleepy. good-night." chapter eighteen. the cure for a bad temper. the first days of winter passed away rapidly. gertrude continued to watch christie's daily life, and to draw her own conclusions from what she saw. humble, patient, and self-denying she always saw her, and almost always she was peaceful and happy. not quite always; for christie was not very strong, and had her home-sick days, and was now and then despondent. but she was rarely irritable at these times. she was only very quiet, speaking seldom, even to little claude, till the cloud passed away. and when it passed it left the sunshine brighter, the peace of her trusting heart greater than before. it is not to be supposed that gertrude watched all this with no thought beyond the little nurserymaid. when she had settled in her own mind that it was her religion which made christie so different from most of the people with whom she had come in contact, she did not fail to bring into comparison with her life the lives and professions of many who wished to be considered christians. this was not the wisest course she could have taken, but happily she went farther than this. comparing her own life and conduct with that of claude's nurse, she did not fail to see how far it fell short. there was nothing very difficult in christie's daily duties. she had no opportunities for doing great things, or for bearing great trials. but seeing her always as she saw her, gertrude came to feel that the earnestness, the patience, the self-forgetfulness, with which all her little duties were done, and all her little disappointments borne, would have made any life beautiful. and seeing and feeling all this, there gradually grew out of her admiration a desire to imitate what seemed so beautiful in the little maid; and many a time when she was disappointed or angry did the remembrance of her humble friend help her to self-restraint. with a vague idea that christie's power came from a source beyond herself, she groped blindly and only half consciously for the same help. she studied in secret the bible that seemed to be so precious to her, and she prayed earnestly--or she believed she prayed-- to be made wise and strong and self-denying, and in short, did what might be done to build up a righteousness for herself. of course she failed, and then came discouragement and despondency; and while this mood lasted, all the days in the upper nursery were not happy ones. for gertrude, vexed with herself and her failure, grew impatient and exacting with all the world; and as all the world was not at the young lady's command, a great deal of her discomfort was visited on christie. as for christie, she was very patient and forbearing with her, waiting till her unkind moods were over, not answering her at all, or waiting and watching for an opportunity to win her from an indulgence of her spleen. sometimes she succeeded, sometimes her gentleness served to irritate the wayward girl to sharper words or greater coldness. but save by silence, or a look of grieved surprise, her unkindness was never resented. a half perception of how it was with the young lady helped her greatly to endure her petulance. she longed to help her, but she did not know how to do so by words. so she prayed for her and had patience with her, saying to herself, if miss gertrude was in earnest to do right, god would guide her to himself in time. "do you know you speak to me just as you speak to claude when he is fretful and naughty," said gertrude one day, when she had been more than usually irritable and unhappy. "do i?" said christie, looking up, gravely; but she smiled brightly enough when she saw by gertrude's face that the cloud was passing away for this time. "yes. if you would pat me gently, and smooth my hair, and offer to tell me a story, the illusion would be complete. why don't you tell me to take myself and my books down-stairs? i am sure you must be sick of the sight of me." christie laughed, and shook her head. "come, now, confess that you were just saying to yourself, how cross and unreasonable she has been all day!" "no; i was wondering what could be vexing you, and wishing i could help you in some way." "there is nothing vexing me that you can help. it is just my nature to be cross and disagreeable. i don't suppose there's any help for that." christie laughed quite merrily now. "it's a wonder i never found out that was your nature before." "oh, well, you are finding it out now. i only found it out lately myself. i never in all my life tried so hard to be good and patient and self-denying, and i was never so bad in all my life. there are times when i quite hate myself; and i am sure i shouldn't wonder if you were to hate me too." she had been gazing moodily into the fire, but she turned as she said this, and met the wistful, almost tearful, eyes of christie fixed upon her. "i wish you could tell me something to do," she added. "you know so much more about these things than i do." christie shook her head with a sigh. "oh, no; i know very little; and even what i know i can't speak about as other people can. you must have patience with yourself,"--"and pray," she would have added; but miss gertrude cut her short. "oh, yes! it is easily said, `have patience.' i would give a great deal to be naturally as gentle and patient and even-tempered as you are." "as i am!" said christie, laughing; but she looked grave in a moment. "that shows how little you know of me, if indeed you are not mocking me in saying that." "no; you know very well i am not mocking you now, though i was a little while ago. i don't think i have seen you angry since you came here-- really angry, i mean." "well, no, perhaps not angry. do you really think i am gentle and even-tempered?" she asked, suddenly, turning her face towards her. "i am sure i used not to be. but then i have so little to try me now." "well, i think you have had enough just for to-day, what with the boys and with me. but if you were not always patient and good, what changed you? what did you do to yourself? tell me about it, as claude would say." "oh, i don't know what i could tell," said christie, in some embarrassment. "i only mind what a peevish, good-for-nothing little creature i was. the others could have had little pleasure with me, only they were strong and good-tempered and didn't mind. even to effie i must have been a vexation; but mother gave me to her care when she died, and so she had patience with me. i was never well, and my mother spoiled me, they said. i'm sure it was a sad enough world to me when she died. and then my aunt came to live with us, and she was so different. and by and by we came to canada, and then everything was changed. i mind, sometimes, if a body only looked at me i was in a pet. i was not well, for one thing, and i used to fancy that my aunt liked me less and had less patience with me than with the rest; and no wonder, when i think of it. effie was good and kind to me always, though i must have tried her many a time." "well," said miss gertrude, "but you don't tell me what changed you." "well, i can't tell. i believe i was never quite so bad after the time effie gave me my bible." and she gave miss gertrude the history of the miserable day with which our story commenced--of her trying to pray under the birch-tree by the brook, of effie's coming home with the book-man, and of their walk to the kirk and the long talk they had together. "and it was soon after that that my father was hurt and my aunt grew ill again. we had a very sorrowful winter. but there is one good thing in having real trouble to bear; one doesn't fret so much about little things, or about nothing at all, as i used to do. i think that winter was really happier to me than any time i had had since my mother's death. i was with my father a great deal towards the end; and though he was so ill and suffered so much, he was very kind and patient with me." there was a long pause before christie could go on again, and she rather hurried over the rest of her tale. "after he died we left the farm. i came here with annie. i was very home-sick at first. nothing but that i couldn't bear to go home and depend on aunt elsie kept me here. i thought sometimes i must die of that heart-sickness, and besides, i made myself unhappy with wrong thoughts. in the spring annie went away. i couldn't go, because mrs lee and the children were ill; you mind i told you about that. i was unhappy at first; but afterwards i was not, and i never was again--in the same way, i mean." the work she had been busy upon dropped from her hands, and over her face stole the look of peace and sweet content that gertrude had so often wondered at. for a little while she sat quite still, forgetting, it seemed, that she was not alone; and then gertrude said, softly. "well, and what then?" christie drew a long breath as she took up her work. "well, after that, something happened. i'm afraid i can't tell it so that you will understand. it seems very little just to speak about, but it made a great difference to me. i went to the kirk one day when a stranger preached. i can't just mind the words he said, at least i can't repeat them. and even if i could i dare say they would seem just common words to you. i had heard them all before, many a time, but that day my heart was opened to understand them, i think. the way that god saves sinners seemed so plain and wise and sure, that i wondered i had never seen it so before. i seemed to see it in a new way, and that it is all his work from beginning to end. he pardons and justifies and sanctifies, and keeps us through all; and it seemed so natural and easy to trust myself in his hands. i have never been very unhappy since that day, and i don't believe i shall ever be very unhappy again." there was a long silence. miss gertrude was repeating to herself, over and over again: "his work, from beginning to end! he pardons, justifies, sanctifies, and saves at last." so many new and strange thoughts crowded into the young girl's mind that for the moment she forgot christie and her interest in all she had been saying. word by word she repeated to herself, "pardons," "justifies," "sanctifies," "saves." "i cannot understand it." and in a little while, bewildered with her own speculations, she turned from the subject with a sigh. "well, and what else?" she said to christie. "oh, there is no more. what were we speaking about? oh, yes; about having patience. well, when one has a great good to fall back upon, something that cannot be changed or lost or taken from us, why, it is easy to have patience with common little things that cannot last long and that often change to good. yes, i do think i am more patient than i used to be. things don't seem the same." it filled gertrude with a strange unhappiness to hear christie talk in this way. the secret of the little maid's content appeared so infinitely desirable, yet so unattainable by her. she seemed at once to be set so far-away from her--to be shut out from the light and pleasant place where christie might always dwell. "i don't understand it," she repeated to herself. "if it were anything that could be reasoned out or striven for, or even if we could get it by patient waiting. but we can do nothing. we are quite helpless, it seems." in her vexed moments gertrude sometimes took pleasure in starting objections and asking questions which christie found it difficult to answer. "it is all real to her, though. one would think, to see her sitting there, that there is nothing in the world that has the power to trouble her long. and there really is nothing, if she is a child of god--as she says. what a strange thing it is!" she sat watching the little absorbed face, thinking over her own vexed thoughts, till the old restless feeling would let her sit no longer. rising, she went to the window and looked out. "what a gloomy day it is!" she said. "how low the clouds are, and how dim and grey the light is! and listen to the wind moaning and sighing among the trees! it is very dreary. don't you think so, christie?" christie looked up. "yes, now that you speak of it, it does seem dreary; at least, it seems dreary outside. and i dare say it seems dreary in the house to you. have they all gone out?" "yes; and there is to be no six o'clock dinner. they are to dine in town and go to some lecture or other. i almost wish i had gone." "i promised claude that if he was very good he should go down to the drawing-room, and you would sing to us," said christie. "we must air the nursery, you know." "i have been very good, haven't i, tudie?" said the little boy, looking up from the pictures with which he had been amusing himself. "very good and sweet, my darling," said gertrude, kneeling down by the low chair on which her little brother sat. she put her arms around him, and drawing his head down on her breast, kissed him many times, her heart filling full of tenderness for the fragile little creature. the child laughed softly, as he returned her caresses, stroking her cheeks and her hair with his little thin hand. "you won't be cross any more, tudie?" he said. "i don't know, dear. i don't mean to be cross, but i dare say i shall be, for all that." "and will you sing to christie and me?" "oh, yes; that i will--to your heart's content." she had taken him in her arms, and was sitting with him on her lap, by this time; and they were silent, while christie moved about the room, putting things away before they should go down-stairs. "christie," said gertrude, "do you know i think claude must be changed as you say you are? he is so different from what he used to be!" christie stood quite still, with the garment she had been folding in her hands. "he is much better," she said. "he does not suffer as he used to do." "no. well, perhaps that is it. do you think he is too young to be changed? but if the change is wrought by god, as you say it is, how can he be too young?" christie came and knelt beside them. "i don't know. i suppose not. you know it is said, `suffer the little children to come unto me.'" the little boy looked from one to the other as they spoke. "it was jesus who said that--jesus, who opened the eyes of the blind man. and he loved us and died for us. i love him dearly, tudie." the girls looked at each other for a moment. then christie kissed his little white hands, and gertrude kissed his lips and his shining hair, but neither of them spoke a word. "now, tudie, come and sing to christie and me," said the child, slipping from her lap, and taking her hand. "yes; i will sing till you are weary." and as she led him down-stairs and through the hall, her voice rose clear as a bird's, and her painful thoughts were banished for that time. but they came back again more frequently and pressed more heavily as the winter passed away. she put a restraint on herself, as far as christie and her little brothers were concerned. when she felt unhappy or irritable, she stayed away from the upper nursery. she would not trouble christie any more with her naughtiness, she said to herself; so at such times she would shut herself in her room, or go out with her mother or miss atherton to drive or pay visits, so as to chase her vexing thoughts away. but they always came back again. she grew silent and grave, caring little for her studies or her music, or for any of the thousand employments that usually fill up the time of young people. even clement was permitted to escape from the discipline of lessons to which he had been for some time condemned during at least one of miss gertrude's morning hours. she no longer manifested the pride in his progress and in his discipline and obedience which had for some time been a source of amusement and interest to the elder members of the family. master clement was left to lord it over martha in the lower nursery as he had not been permitted to do since his mother's visit to the sea-side. "what ails you, gertrude?" said mrs seaton, one sabbath afternoon. "are you not well? what are you thinking about? i declare, you look as if you had not a friend in the world!" gertrude was sitting with her chin leaning on her hand and her eyes fixed on the grey clouds that seemed to press close down on the tops of the snow-laden trees above the lawn. it was already growing dark, and the dreariness of the scene without was reflected on the girl's face. she started at the sound of her mother's voice. "i am quite well," she said, coming towards the fire, slightly shivering, "but somehow i feel stupid; i suppose just because it is sunday." "that is not a very good reason, i should think," said mrs seaton, gravely. "what were you thinking about?" "i don't know; i have forgotten. i was thinking about a great many things. for one thing, i was thinking how long the winter is here." "why, it is hardly time to think about that yet," said miss atherton, coming forward from the sofa where she had been sitting; "the winter is hardly begun yet. for my part, i like winter. but," she added, pretending to whisper very secretly to miss gertrude, "i don't mind telling _you_ that i get a little stupid on sunday myself." "frances, pray don't talk nonsense to the child," said mrs seaton. "it is not half so much of a sin to talk nonsense as it is to look glum, as gertrude does. what ails you, child?" gertrude made no answer. "are you unwell, gertrude?" asked mrs seaton. "no, mother; i am perfectly well. what an idea!" she said, pettishly. "she looks exactly like her aunt barbara," said miss atherton. "i declare, i shouldn't be surprised if she were to turn round and propose that i should read that extraordinary book i saw in her hand this morning! she looks capable of doing anything in the solemn line at this moment." gertrude laughed, but made no answer. "you do not take exercise enough," said mrs seaton. "you have not been like yourself for a week." "i dare say that is it, mamma." "of course she is not like herself!" said miss atherton. "she is exactly like her aunt barbara. gertrude, my dear, you're not thinking of growing good, are you?" "don't you think it might be of some advantage to the world if i were to improve a little?" asked gertrude, laughing, but not pleasantly. "well, i don't know. i am afraid it would put us all out sadly. only fancy her `having a mission,' and trying to reform me!" "pray, frances, don't talk that way," said mrs seaton; but she could not help laughing at the look of consternation the young lady assumed. "ah, i know what is the matter with her!" exclaimed miss atherton, just as the gentlemen came in. "it is your fault, mr sherwood. you are making her as wise as you are yourself, and glum besides. it is quite time she were done with all those musty books. i think for the future we will consider her education finished." "what is the matter, young ladies? you are not quarrelling, i hope?" said mr seaton, seating himself beside them. "oh, no! it is with mr sherwood i am going to quarrel. he and his big books are giving gertrude the blues. it must be stopped." "i am sorry miss gertrude is in such a melancholy state," said mr sherwood, laughing; "but i am quite sure that neither i nor my big books have had anything to do with it. i have not had an opportunity to trouble her for a week, and i doubt whether she has troubled herself with any books of my selection for a longer time than that." "oh, well, you need not tell tales out of school," said miss atherton, hastily, noticing the look of vexation that passed over gertrude's face. "i am going to take the refractory young lady in hand. i think i can teach her." "i don't doubt it," said mr sherwood, with a smile and a shrug; "but if i were to be permitted to name a successor in my labours, it certainly would not be you." "hear him!" exclaimed miss atherton, with indignation which was only partly feigned. "as if i were not to be entrusted with the instruction of a chit like you! gertrude, can't you think of something terribly severe to say to him? tell him you are to have nothing more to do with him." gertrude shook her head and laughed. "i am very well content with my teacher," she said. "and as a general thing, i have been very well content with my pupil," said mr sherwood, looking grave. "i should like nothing better than to teach her still." "charles, is it decided? are you going away?" asked mrs seaton. "yes, i am going; and the sooner the better, i suppose." "if one could really be sure that it is best for you to go," said mrs seaton, with a sigh. "but it is sad that you should go alone, perhaps to be ill among strangers." "by no means. i have no thought of being ill," said mr sherwood, cheerfully. "my going is not altogether, nor chiefly, on account of my health. this is the best season for my long-talked-of southern trip, and i dare say the milder climate will suit me better than the bitter canadian winds." there was a great deal more said about his going which need not be repeated. gertrude listened to all, sadly enough. "i know how it will end," she said to herself; "i shall have to go to school after all." she thought at first this was her only cause of regret. but it was not. mr sherwood and she had become much better friends within the last few months than they used to be. as a general thing, the lessons had been a source of pleasure to both, and of great profit to gertrude. in his capacity of teacher, mr sherwood never teased and bantered her as he had been apt to do at other times. indeed, he had almost given up that now; and gertrude thought it much more pleasant to be talked to rationally, or even to be overlooked altogether, than to be trilled with. besides, though he put a cheerful face on the matter of leaving, he was ill, and sometimes despondent; and it seemed to her very sad indeed that he should go away among strangers alone. "will you answer my letters if i write to you? or will you care to hear from me?" asked mr sherwood, as he bade her good-bye. "oh, yes, indeed! i should care very much. but i am afraid you would think my letters very uninteresting--such letters as i write to the girls at home. you would not care for them?" "i shall care very much for them. promise me that you will tell me everything--about your reading, and your visits, and about your little brothers, and their nurse even. i think i shall wish to hear about everything here, when i am so far-away." gertrude promised, but not very eagerly. an impulse seized her to ask him to forgive all her petulant speeches and waywardness, but when she tried to do it she could not find her voice. perhaps he read her thought in her tearful eyes and changeful face, and grew a little remorseful as he remembered how often he had vexed her during the first months of their acquaintance. at any rate, he smiled very kindly as he stooped to kiss her, and said, earnestly: "we shall always be good friends now, whatever happens. god bless you, my child! and good-bye." chapter nineteen. more changes. but i must not linger with miss gertrude and her troubles. it is the story of christie that i have to tell. they went the same way for a little while, but their paths were now to separate. for that came to pass which gertrude had dreaded when mr sherwood went away. it was decided that she should go to school. she was too young to go into society. her step-mother, encouraged by miss atherton, might have consented to her sharing all the gaieties of a rather gay season, and even her father might have yielded against his better judgment, had she herself been desirous of it. but she was not. she was more quiet and grave than ever, and spent more time over her books than was at all reasonable, as miss atherton thought, now that no lessons were expected from her. she grew thin and pale, too, and was often moody, and sometimes irritable. she moped about the house, and grew stupid for want of something to do, as her father thought; and so, though it pained him to part with her, and especially to send her away against her will, he suffered himself to be persuaded that nothing better could happen to her in her present state of mind than to have earnest occupation under the direction of a friend of the family, who took charge of the education of a few young ladies in a pleasant village not far from their home. it grieved her much to go. she had come to love her little brothers better than she knew till the time for parting drew near. this, and the dread of going among strangers, made her unhappy enough during the last few days of her stay. "i can't think how the house will seem without you," said christie to her, one night, as they were sitting together beside the nursery fire. gertrude turned so as to see her as she sat at work, but did not answer her for a minute or two. "do you know, i was just thinking whether my going away would make the least bit of difference in the world to you?" she said, at last. there was no reply to be made to this, for christie thought neither the words nor the manner quite kind, after all the pleasant hours they had passed together. she never could have guessed the thoughts that were in gertrude's mind in the silence that followed. she was saying to herself, almost with tears, how gladly she would change places with christie, who was sitting there as quietly as if no change of time or place could make her unhappy. for her discontent with herself had by no means passed away. it had rather deepened as her study of the bible became more earnest, and the strong, pure, unselfish life of which she had now and then caught glimpses seemed more than ever beyond her power to attain. when she tried most, it seemed to her that she failed most; and the disgust which she felt on account of her daily failures had been gradually deepening into a sense of sinfulness that would not be banished. she strove to banish it. she was indignant with herself because of her unhappiness, but she struggled vainly to cast it off. and when to this was added the sad prospect of leaving home, it was more than she could bear. she had come up-stairs that night with a vague desire to speak to christie about her troubles, and she had been trying to find suitable words, when christie spoke. her ungracious reply did not make a beginning any easier. it was a long time before either of them said another word, and it was christie who spoke first. "maybe, after all, you will like school better than you expect," she said. "things hardly ever turn out with us as we fear." "well, perhaps so. i must just take things as they come, i suppose." the vexation had not all gone yet, christie thought, by her tone; so she said no more. in a little while she was quite startled by miss gertrude's voice, it was so changed, as she said: "all day long this has been running in my mind: `whosoever drinketh of the water that i shall give him shall never thirst.' what does it mean?" "jesus said it to the woman at the well," said christie. and she added: "`but the water that i shall give him shall be in him as a well of water springing up to everlasting life.'" "what does it mean, do you think--`shall never thirst'?" christie hesitated. of late their talks had not always been pleasant. gertrude's vexed spirit was not easy to deal with, and her questions and objections were not always easily answered. "i don't know; but i think the `living water' spoken about in the other verses means all the blessings that christ has promised to his people." she paused. "his people--always his people!" said miss gertrude to herself. "god's spirit is often spoken of under the figure of water," continued christie. "`i will pour water on him that is thirsty!' and in another place jesus himself says, `if any man thirst, let him come unto me and drink.' such an expression must have been very plain and appropriate to the people of that warm country, where water was necessary and not always easily got." christie had heard all this said; and she repeated it, not because it answered miss gertrude's question, but because she did not know what else to say. and all the time she was trying to get a glimpse of the face which the young lady shaded with her hand. she wanted very much to say something to do her good, especially now that they were about to part. the feeling was strong in christie's heart, at the moment, that though miss gertrude might return again, their intercourse could never be renewed--at least not on the same footing; and though it hurt her much to know it, her own pain was quite lost in the earnest desire she felt in some way or other to do miss gertrude good. so, after a pause, she said, again-- "i suppose `to thirst' means to earnestly desire. `blessed are they who hunger and thirst after righteousness,' you remember. and david says, `as the hart panteth after the water-brook, so panteth my soul after thee, o god!' and in another place, `my soul thirsteth for thee.'" gertrude neither moved nor spoke, and christie went on-- "and when it is said of them, `they shall never thirst,' i suppose it means they shall be satisfied out of god's fulness. having his best gift, all the rest seems of little account. `blessed is the man whom thou choosest, and causest to approach near unto thee, that he may dwell in thy courts: he shall be satisfied with the goodness of thy house, and of thy holy temple.' and in another place, `my soul shall be satisfied as with marrow and fatness, and my mouth shall praise thee with joyful lips.'" and then, as she was rather apt to do when deeply in earnest, breaking into the old familiar scottish version, she added-- "`they with the fatness of thy house shall be well satisfied; from rivers of thy pleasures thou wilt drink to them provide. because of life the fountain pure remains alone with thee; and in that purest light of thine we clearly light shall see.'" she stopped, partly because she thought she had said enough, and partly because it would not have been easy just then to have said more. her face drooped over her work, and there was silence again. "well," said miss gertrude, with a long breath, "it must be a wonderful thing to be _satisfied_, as you call it." "yes," said christie, softly; "and the most wonderful thing of all is that all may enjoy this blessedness, and freely, too." "i have heard you say that before," said miss gertrude; "but it is all a mystery to me. you say all who will may have this blessedness; but the bible says it is the man whom god chooses that is blessed." "well," said christie, gravely, "what would you have? `by grace are ye saved through faith, and that not of yourselves: it is the gift of god.' `the gift of god is eternal life through jesus christ our lord.' there is nothing in all the bible clearer than that. and surely eternal life is a gift worthy of god to give." "but he does not give it to all," said miss gertrude. "to all who desire it--to all who seek for it in jesus' name," said christie, earnestly. "but in another place it says, `no man can come unto me, except the father, who hath sent me, draw him.'" gertrude did not speak to-night, as she had sometimes done of late, in the flippant way which thoughtless young people often assume when they talk on such subjects. her voice and manner betrayed to christie that she was very much in earnest, and she hesitated to answer her; not, as at other times, because she thought silence was the best reply, but because she longed so earnestly to say just what was right. "this change which is so wonderful must be god's work from beginning to end, you once said," continued gertrude. "and since we have no part in the work, i suppose we must sit and wait till the change comes, with what patience we may." "it is god's work from beginning to end," repeated christie, thoughtfully. "we cannot work this change in ourselves. we cannot save ourselves, in whole or in part. nothing can be clearer than that." "well?" said gertrude, as she paused. "why, it would be strange indeed if so great a work was left to creatures so weak and foolish as we are. none but god could do it. and if a child is hungry or thirsty or defiled, what needs he to know more than that there is enough and to spare for all his wants in the hands of a loving father? there would be no hope for us if this great change were to be left to us to work. but the work being god's, all may hope. i suppose i know what you mean," she added. "i have heard my father, and peter o'neil, and others, speak about these things. peter used to say, `if god means to save me he will save me; and i need give myself no trouble about it.' that is true in one sense, but not in the sense that peter meant. i wish i could mind what my father used to say to him, but i cannot. somehow, i never looked at it in that way. it seemed to me such a wonderful and blessed thing that god should have provided a way in which we could be saved, and then that he should save us freely, that, it never came into my mind to vex myself with thoughts like these. i was young, only a child, but i had a great many troubled unhappy thoughts about myself; and to be able to put them all aside--to leave them all behind, as it were, and just trust in jesus, and let him do all for me--oh, i cannot tell you the blessed rest and peace it was to me! but i did not mean to speak about myself." "but i want you to tell me," said gertrude, softly. "i cannot tell you much," said christie, gravely. "i am not wise about such things. i know there are some who make this a stone to stumble over--that we can do nothing, and we must just wait. but don't you remember how it is said, `seek ye the lord while he may be found; call ye upon him when he is near.' `they that seek me early shall find me.' and in the new testament, `ask, and ye shall receive; seek, and ye shall find.' and jesus himself said, `if any man thirst, let him come unto me and drink.' and in another place it is said, `the spirit and the bride say, come. and let him that heareth say, come. and let him that is athirst come. and whosoever will, let him take the water of life freely.' "surely all this means something. god would never bid us come unless he was willing to receive us. having given his son to die for us, how can we doubt his willingness to receive us? surely no one who is weary and heavy-laden need stay away, when he bids them come. he says, `i will heal your backslidings; i will receive you graciously; i will love you freely. a new heart will i give to you, and a right spirit will i put within you.' ah, that is the best of all!" there was a pause again, and then christie added-- "i can't say all i wish to say. though i see all this clearly myself, i haven't the way of making it clear to others. but there is one thing sure. it is just those who feel themselves to be helpless that have reason to hope. `for while we were yet without strength, in due time christ died for the ungodly.' why need any one hesitate after that?" little more was said; but if ever christie prayed earnestly she prayed for gertrude at that hour. and afterwards, when they met again, in circumstances well calculated to dispel all foolish shyness in speaking about such things, gertrude told her that she too was praying as she had never prayed before. and the happy tears that stood in their eyes as they spoke afforded good evidence that these petitions, though silent, had not ascended in vain. the days that followed the departure of gertrude were uneventful ones. only one thing happened before spring came to break the quiet routine of christie's life. the little boy claude loved her better every day, but no better than she loved him. and as time passed on, and his health, notwithstanding the frequent recurrence of bad days and sudden turns of illness, continued steadily to improve, the influence for good which his little nurse and her simple teachings had over him became more apparent to all the household. she was treated by mrs seaton with a consideration which she had not been in the habit of showing her servants. hitherto the daily drives of the little invalid had been shared by his mother or gertrude, while christie was expected during their absence to perform such duties in the nursery as could not well be attended to while the children were with her. but after gertrude went away it was usually so arranged that christie should go with him. she was growing tall, but she was very slender; and though she never complained of illness, it was easy to be seen that she had not much strength to fall back upon. grateful for her loving care of her helpless little boy, mrs seaton spared her all possible labour, while she trusted her implicitly in all that concerned both children. "if she were only a little stronger, i should consider myself very fortunate in having a nurse in every way so suitable for my little boy," said mrs seaton many a time. and many a time, as the spring approached, christie said to herself: "if i were only a little stronger!" the one event that broke the monotony of her life after miss gertrude went away was a visit from her sister effie. the visit was quite unlooked for. christie returned from a walk with claude one day, to find her sister awaiting her in the upper nursery. to say that the surprise was a joyful one would be saying little, yet after the first tearful embrace, the joy of both sisters was manifested very quietly. the visit was to be a very brief one. two days at most were all that effie could spare from home and school. but a great deal may be said and enjoyed in two days. "how tall you have grown, christie!" was effie's first exclamation, when she had let her sister go. "but you are not very strong yet, i am afraid; you are very slender, and you have no colour, child." "i am very well, effie. you know i was always a `white-faced thing,' as aunt elsie used to say. but you-- john was right. you are bonnier than ever." effie laughed a little, but she looked grave enough in a minute. "are you lame still, christie? i thought you were better of that." "oh, it is nothing, effie. it is not the old lameness that used to trouble me. i fell on the stairs the other day, and hurt my knee a little, that is all. it is almost well now." i could never tell of all the happy talk that passed between the sisters during those two days, and if i could it would not interest my readers as it interested them. indeed, i dare say some of it would seem foolish enough to them. but it was all very pleasant to christie. every incident in their home life, everything that had taken place in their neighbourhood since her departure, was fraught with interest to her. she listened with delight to the detailed account of circumstances at which effie in her letters had only been able to hint; she asked questions innumerable, and praised or blamed with an eagerness that could not have been more intense had all these things been taking place under her eyes. the sunny side of their home life was presented to christie, you may be sure. the straits to which they had sometimes been reduced were passed lightly over, while the signs of brighter days, which seemed to be dawning upon them, were made the most of by effie's hopeful spirit. the kindness of one friend, and the considerateness of another in the time of trouble, were dwelt on more earnestly than the straits that had proved them. "god had been very good to them," effie said many times; and christie echoed it with thankfulness. nor is it to be supposed that effie listened with less interest to all that christie had to tell, or that she found less cause for gratitude. at first she had much to say about miss gertrude and the little boys, and of her pleasant life since she had been with them. but by little and little effie led her to speak of her first months in the city, and of her trials and pleasures with the little lees. she did not need much questioning when she was fairly started. she told of her home-sickness at first, her longings for them all, her struggles with herself, and her vexing thoughts about being dependent upon aunt elsie. of the last she spoke humbly, penitently, as though she expected her sister to chide her for her waywardness. but effie had no thought of chiding her. as she went on to tell of mrs lee's illness and of her many cares with the children, she quite unconsciously revealed to her interested listener the history of her own energy and patience--of all that she had done and borne during these long months. of mrs lee's kindness she could not speak without tears. even the story of little harry's death did not take christie's voice away as did the remembrance of her parting with his mother. "i am sure she was very sorry to part with me," she said. "oh, she had many cares; and sorrows too, i am afraid. and you may think how little she had to comfort her when she said to me that i had been her greatest comfort all the winter. she was very good and kind to me. i loved her dearly. oh, how i wish i could see her again!" "you _will_ see her again, i do not doubt," said effie, in a low voice. christie gave her a quick look. "yes, i hope so--i believe so." after a little while, effie said: "if i had known how unhappy you were at first, i think i would have called you home. but i am not sorry that you stayed, now." "no; oh, no. i am very glad i came. i think after annie went away i was worse than i was at first for a little while; but i was very glad afterwards that i did not go with her, very glad." "yes," said effie, softly. "you mind you told me something about it in a letter." so, shyly enough at first, but growing earnest as she went on, christie told her about that rainy sabbath morning when she went to the kirk, where jesus, through the voice of a stranger, had spoken peace to her soul. "i couldna see him with my blind eyes from where i sat. i shouldna ken him if i were to see him now. but what a difference he made to me! yes, i know; it wasna he, it was god's holy spirit; and yet i would like to see him. i wonder will i ken him when we meet in heaven?" effie could not find her voice for a moment, and soon christie went on: "after that everything was changed. it seemed like coming out of the mist to the top of the hill. do you mind at home how even i could get a glimpse of the sea and the far-away mountains, on a fair summer morning? nothing was so bad after that, and nothing will ever be so bad any more. i don't think if even the old times were to come back i should ever be such a vexation to you again, effie." "would you like to go home with me, christie?" said effie. christie looked up eagerly. "yes; for some things very much, if you thought best. i am to go in the summer, at any rate. would you like me to go now, effie?" "it is not what i would like that we must think about. if i had had my way, you would never have left home. not that i am sorry for it now, far from it; and though i would like to take you with me--indeed, i came with no other thought--yet, as there is as good a reason for your staying as there ever was for your coming, and far better, now that you are contented, dear, i am not sure that i should be doing right to take you away before summer. they would miss you here, christie." "yes," said christie, with a sigh, "i dare say they would. but i must go home when summer comes, effie. why, it is more than a year and a half since i have seen any of them but annie and you." "yes," said effie, thoughtfully. she was saying to herself that for many reasons it was better for christie to stay where she was, for a time at least. she had kept the sunny side of their home life in christie's view since she had been there. but it had another side. she saw very plainly that christie was more comfortably situated in many ways than she could possibly be at home, to say nothing of the loss of the help she could give them, and the increase of expense which another would make in their straitened household. yet there was something in christie's voice that made her heart ache at the sad necessity. "i don't believe it will grieve you more to stay than it will grieve me to go home without you," she said, at last. "i have been trying to persuade myself ever since i came here that i had better take you home with me. but i am afraid i ought to deny myself the happiness." it was not easy to say this, as was plain enough from the tears that fell on christie's head as it sank down on her sister's breast. christie had rarely seen effie cry. even at the sad time of their father's death, effie's tears had fallen silently and unseen, and she was strangely affected by the sight of them now. "effie," she said, eagerly, "i am quite content to stay. and i must tell you now--though i didna mean to do so at first, for fear something might happen to hinder it--mrs seaton said one day, if claude still grew better, she might perhaps send him with me for a change of air, and then i should be at home and still have my wages to help. wouldna that be nice? and i think it is worth a great deal that mrs seaton should think of trusting him with me so far-away. but he is better, and i have learned what to do for him; and he is such a little child we need make no difference for him at home. would you like it, effie?" yes, effie would have liked anything that could bring such a glow to her sister's face; and she entered into a discussion of ways and means with as much earnestness as christie herself, and they soon grew quite excited over their plans. indeed, all the rest of the visit was passed cheerfully. mrs seaton, after seeing and talking with effie, confirmed the plan about sending claude with christie in the summer, provided it would be agreeable to them all. "he has become so attached to her, i hardly know how he could do without her now," said mrs seaton. "and i suppose nothing would make christie willing to forego her visit at home when summer comes." to tell the truth, mrs seaton was greatly surprised and pleased with the sister of her little nurse. she knew, of course, that christie had been what her country-people called "well brought up," and she had gathered from some of gertrude's sayings that the family must have seen better days. but she was not prepared to find in the elder sister that christie had mentioned, sometimes even in her presence, a person at all like effie. "she had quite the appearance of a gentlewoman," said mrs seaton. "she was perfectly self-possessed, yet simple and modest. i assure you i was quite struck with her." the brief visit came to an end all too quickly. the hope of a pleasant meeting in summer made the parting comparatively easy, and helped christie to feel quite contented when she found herself alone. she was in danger sometimes of falling into her old despondent feelings, but she knew her weakness and watched against it, and made the most of the few pleasures that fell to her lot. "i won't begin and count the weeks yet," she said to herself. "that would make the time seem longer. i will just wait, and be cheerful and hopeful, as effie bade me; and surely i have good cause to be cheerful. i only wish i were a little stronger." the winter seemed to take its leave slowly and unwillingly that year, but it went at last. first the brown sides of the mountains showed themselves, and then the fields grew bare, and here and there the water began to make channels for itself down the slopes to the low places. by and by the gravel walks and borders of the garden appeared; and as the days grew long, the sunshine came pleasantly in through the bare boughs of the trees to chequer the nursery floor. the month of march seemed long; there were many bleak days in it. but it passed, as did the first weeks of april. the fields grew warm and green, and over the numberless budding things in the fields and garden christie watched with intense delight. the air became mild and balmy, and then they could pass hour after hour in the garden, as they used to do when she first came. but christie did not grow strong, though often during the last part of the winter she had said to herself that all she needed to make her well again was the fresh air and the spring sunshine. her old lameness came, or else she suffered from a new cause, more hopeless and harder to bear. the time came when a journey to or from the upper nursery was a wearisome matter to her. wakeful nights and languid days became frequent. it was with great difficulty sometimes that she dragged herself through the duties of the weary day. she did not complain of illness. she hoped every day that the worst was over, and that she would be as well as usual again. mrs seaton lightened her duties in various ways. martha, the nurse in the lower nursery, was very kind and considerate too, and did what she could to save her from exertion. but no one thought her ill; she did not think herself so. it was the pain in her knee, making her nights so sleepless and wearisome, that was taking her strength away, she thought; if she could only rest as she used to do, she would soon be well. so for a few days she struggled on. but the time came when she felt that it would be vain to struggle longer. after a night of pain and sleeplessness she rose, resolved to tell mrs seaton that she feared she must go home. she was weak and worn-out, and she could not manage to say what she had to say without a flood of tears, which greatly surprised her mistress. she soothed her very kindly, however, and when she was quiet again, she said-- "are you so ill, christie? are you quite sure that you are not a little home-sick with it, too? i do not wonder that you want to see that kind, good sister of yours, but if you will have patience for a week or two, i will send claude with you." but christie shook her head. "i am not at all home-sick," she said. "and i don't think i am very ill either; but the pain in my knee is sometimes very bad. it grows worse when i walk about, and then i cannot sleep. i am afraid i must go home and rest awhile." "is it so very bad?" said mrs seaton, gravely. "well, the doctor must see it. you shall go to him this very afternoon--or we may as well have him here. if he thinks there is anything serious the matter, something must be done for it, whether you go home or not. don't be anxious about it. i dare say you will be as well as ever in a day or two." but the doctor looked grave when he examined it, and asked some questions about it, and the fall on the stairs, which seemed to have brought on the trouble. to christie he said nothing, but his grave looks did not pass away when she left the room. "she must go home, then, i am afraid," said mrs seaton. "i am very sorry to lose her. i don't know what claude will do without her." the doctor looked grave. "where is her home? far-away in the country, is it not? it will never do to let her go away there. she must go to the hospital." "the hospital!" exclaimed mrs seaton. "is it so very serious?" "it may become very serious unless it is attended to. no time ought to be lost. could she go to-day, or to-morrow morning?" mrs seaton looked very troubled. "must she go? she was brought up in the country. it seems necessary she should have fresh air. i am afraid her health would suffer from confinement. could she not remain here? of course, if she needs advice she must not think of going home. but could she not stay here?" "it is very kind in you to think of such a thing, but i am afraid she will need more attention than she could possibly get at this distance from town. she will be very comfortable there. indeed, it seems to me to be her only chance of a speedy recovery." "but it seems unkind to send her out of the house, now that she is ill. i can't bear to do it," said mrs seaton. "not at all, my dear madam. it is done every day; and very well it is that there is a place where such people can be received when they are ill." "but christie is very unlike a common servant. she is such a gentle, faithful little thing; the children are so fond of her too." "no one knows her good qualities better than i do, after what i saw of her last winter. but really it is the very best thing that could happen to her in the circumstances. shall i tell her? perhaps it would be as well." christie was greatly startled when they told her she must go to the hospital. her first thought was that she could not go--that she must get home to effie and the rest before she should grow worse. but a few words from the doctor put an end to any such plan. a little care and attention now would make her quite well again; whereas if she were to go home out of the reach of surgical skill, she might have a long and tedious season of suffering--if, indeed, she ever fully recovered. she must never think of going home now. she must not even think of waiting till she heard from her sister. that could do no possible good, and every day's delay would only make matters worse. he spoke very kindly to her. "you must not let the idea of the hospital frighten you, as though one ought to be very ill indeed before they go there. it is a very comfortable place, i can tell you. i only wish i could get some of my other patients there. they would stand a far better chance of recovery than they can do with the self-indulgence and indifferent nursing that is permitted at home. you will be very well there; and if you have to look forward to some suffering, i am quite sure you have patience and courage to bear it well." courage and patience! poor little christie! the words seemed to mock her as she went about the preparations for her departure. her heart lay as heavy as lead in her bosom. she seemed like one stunned by a heavy blow. it destroyed the pain of parting with the little boys, however. she left them quietly, without a tear, even though poor little claude clung to her, weeping and struggling to the very last. but her face was very pale, and her hands trembled as she unclasped his arms from her neck, and hurried away, saying to herself "shall i ever see his face any more?" chapter twenty. neither forgotten nor forsaken. her first night in the hospital was very dreary. no one can be surprised to hear that she shed some sorrowful tears. she was not taken into a public ward, the kindness of mrs seaton procured for her a private room while she should be there. there were two beds in it, but the other was unoccupied, and after the first arrangements had been made for her comfort, she was left alone. how solitary she felt as she sat listening to the street-noises, and to the voices and footsteps that came from other parts of the house. the street was so narrow and so far beneath that she could see nothing that was passing in it. the weather-beaten roofs and glimpses of dusty tree-tops that formed the view reminded her of the sorrowful days she had passed in mrs lee's attic-nursery, and a feeling very like the old miserable home-sickness of that time made her close her eyes and drop her face upon her hands. poor christie! she had never prayed half so earnestly that she might be strong and well again as she now prayed that she might not be left to fall into an impatient, murmuring spirit. she shrank from the thought of a renewal of these heart-sick longings as she had never shrunk from the thought of enduring bodily pain. she prayed with all her heart that, whatever suffering lay before her, god would give her strength and patience to bear it--that she might be made willing to abide his time, with no impatient longings as to what the end might be. god has many ways in which he comforts his children. leaning her tired head on the low window-sill, christie slept and dreamed, and in her dream, peace came to her spirit. a strange, soft light spread around her, like the gleam she had once seen fall on the sea in the early morning. only the sea seemed near now, and there were strange, bright forms flitting over it, and on the other side, far-away yet near, her mother beckoned to her. she knew it was her mother. her smile was the very same, and the loving look in her eyes. but, oh, she had grown so beautiful! gazing and stretching her arms towards her, she seemed conscious of a sweet and awful presence, before which the shining sea and the bright forms, and even her mother's glorified face, vanished. _have called thee by thy name. thou art mine_. _i go to prepare a place for you_. whether the words were spoken, or whether she read them as in a book, or whether it was only a remembrance of what she knew to be true, she could not tell, but it brought peace ineffable. she woke at the touch of the nurse, with a start and a sigh of disappointment. but there was more than patience in the smile with which she answered her kind chiding; and the woman, looking in her face, kept silent, feeling vaguely that words of encouragement, such as she spoke often, as mere words of course, to patients under her care, were not needed here. so when christie rose to a new day in this strange, sad place of suffering, it was with an earnest desire to be contented and hopeful during the few weeks she expected to spend in it. it was by no means so difficult a matter as she at first supposed. she was not confined to her room, but was permitted at stated times to go with the nurse into the public wards; and though the sights she saw there saddened her many a time, she was happy in having an opportunity of now and then doing a kindness to some poor sufferer among them. sometimes it was to read a chapter in the bible, or a page or two in some book left by a visitor; sometimes she had the courage to speak a word in season to the weary; once or twice she wrote a letter for some patient who could not write for herself. all this did her good; and the sight she had of the sufferings of others did; much to make her patient in bearing her own. then, too, she could work; and mrs seaton had kindly supplied her with some of the pretty materials for fancy work which effie and gertrude had taught her. in this way many an hour, which would otherwise have been very tedious, passed away pleasantly and even quickly. she had books too; and once, during the first month of her stay, mrs seaton visited her, and several times proved her kind remembrance of her by sending her some little gift--as a bunch of flowers, a book, or some little delicacy to tempt her variable appetite. martha came almost every sabbath, and from her she heard of the little lads and sometimes of miss gertrude. so the first few weeks passed far more pleasantly and rapidly than she had thought possible. when the doctor decided that she must not wait to hear from her sister before placing herself under surgical care in the hospital, christie intended to write immediately to tell her of her changed prospects, but when she thought about it again she hesitated. "it will only be for a little while," she said. "i will wait for a week or two at least. a month, or even six weeks, will soon pass; and if i can write and tell them i am almost well again, it will not be half the vexation to effie and the others to know that i am here. i will wait a little while at least." she waited a month and then wrote--not that she was nearly well again, but hopefully, more hopefully than she felt, for she could not bear that effie and the rest at home should be made unhappy about her. so she did not tell them that she had been there a whole month, and that she was no better, but rather worse. she told them how kind everybody was to her, and how the doctor gave her good hopes of soon being as well as ever and able to get home again. "oh, how glad i shall be when that time comes!" wrote poor christie. "but you must not think, effie, that i am fretful or discontented. there are many things to make it pleasant for me here that i cannot write to you about, and the doctors tell me that when i get over this i shall very likely be better and healthier than ever i was; and whatever happens, we are quite sure that this trouble was sent to us by one who cares for us. he has not forsaken me and never will, i am very sure of that." if effie could have known of all the tears that fell before that letter was fairly folded and sent away, she would hardly have taken all the comfort from it that christie intended she should; for notwithstanding the doctor's frequent and kind assurances that her knee was doing well, and that she soon would be as well as ever again, her heart sometimes began to fail her. she did not think that she was in danger, she did not doubt but that she should see the green leaves and the wheat-fields at home. it never came into her mind that month after month, each growing longer and more painful, might pass before a change should come. and she never, even in the dreariest days, doubted that all would be well in the end. but six weeks, two months passed, and she grew no better, but rather worse. the active measures thought necessary to check the progress of the disease in her limb caused her often great suffering. her rest was uncertain, and broken by troubled dreams. it was only now and then that she was at all able to interest herself in the work that at first gave her so much pleasure. even her books wearied her. she was quite confined to her room now, and, of course, left the greater part of the time alone. she was not often obliged to keep her bed all day, but being moved to her chair near the window, she could not leave it again but with the help of the nurse. hour after hour she used to sit, leaning back wearily, listening to the distant sounds in the house or the street, watching the clouds or the rain-drops on the window if the day was overcast, or the motes dancing in the sunshine if it were fair. oh, how long these days seemed to her! the leaves were not fully out when she came in, and now summer was nearly over. she used to think how the harvest-fields were growing yellow, and how busy all the people at home would be at work gathering in the grain. the roses had come and gone. the numberless blossoms of the locust-tree had nodded and breathed their fragrance in at the nursery window, and faded, and it was almost time for the few late blossoms whose coming had so surprised her last year. was it any wonder that many a time her pillow was wet with tears? she tried not to murmur. the nurse and the doctors, too, thought her very patient and quiet, and praised and encouraged her, telling her their hopes that her suffering would not last much longer. but still she grew weaker every day, far weaker than she knew, for she could not try her strength now by walking in the hall or climbing the broad stairs that led to the wards. yes, she grew weaker. her appetite quite failed, and except when the doctor gave her something to ease the pain and soothe her restlessness, she slept little at night, but dozed in her chair through the day, starting many a time from a dream of home, or of the days when she was so happy with gertrude and little claude, with a pang which was always new and hard to bear. thus awaking one day, she opened her eyes to see a grave, kind face bending over her. she did not recognise it immediately, but raised herself up to look again, as it was withdrawn. she knew the voice, though, which said so kindly: "my poor child, i fear you have suffered much." with a flow of tears such as no one had seen her shed since she came, she grasped the kind hand that was held out to her. it was only for a moment, however. "i beg your pardon, sir," she said; "i couldn't help it. i am so glad to see you." it was of no use to try to check her tears. they must flow for a minute or two. "you remind me so much of miss gertrude and my little lads," she said at last, with a smile, which was sadder to see than her tears, her much-moved visitor thought. "i don't often cry, but i couldn't help it," and her voice broke again. "i have just seen them all," said mr sherwood. "they are all at the sea-side, as you know. they are all well; at least little claude is no worse than usual. miss gertrude made me promise to come to see you. she never knew, till she joined mrs seaton at the sea-side, how it was with you. and see, she sent you this." "i thought she had forgotten me," said christie, faintly, as she took, with trembling fingers, a little note he held out to her. she did not read it, however, but lay quite still with her eyes closed, exhausted with her tears and her surprise. "mrs seaton thought you might have gone home by this time," said mr sherwood. "i suppose she did not know you had been so ill. i hope i may tell miss gertrude, when i write, that you will soon be well again." "i don't know," said christie, slowly. "i hope i am not any worse. i must have patience, i suppose." "i have no doubt you are very patient," said mr sherwood, hardly knowing what else to say. "i try to be patient, but i am restless with the pain sometimes, and the time seems so long. it is not really very long. i came in may, and now it is august; but it seems a long time--longer than all my life before, it sometimes seems." mr sherwood did not often find himself at a loss for something to say, but he sat silent now. there came into his mind what christie had said to little claude in the cedar walk that day, about all things happening for good, and how jesus, if he saw that it would be best for him, could make the little boy strong and well with a word, as he did the blind man. but it would have seemed to him like mockery to remind her of that now. for in truth the first sight of the girl had startled him greatly. he had come to the hospital more than half believing that he should find that she had gone home to her friends well. she was greatly changed; he would not have known her if he had met her elsewhere. her face was perfectly colourless, after the flush which her surprise at seeing him had excited, had passed away; her eyes seemed unnaturally large, and her brow far higher and broader than it used to be; and her hand, lying on the coverlid, seemed almost as white as the little note she held in it. what could he say to her? not, surely, that she would soon be well again, for it seemed to him that she was past any hope of that. "you have not read your letter," he said. "no; i shall have that afterwards; and it is so long since i saw any one that i ever saw before. did miss gertrude like her school?" "yes; i think she liked it. she has grown, i think, and she is greatly improved in many ways." "she was always good to me," said christie, softly. "well, i don't know. she told me she was often very cross and unreasonable with you," said mr sherwood, smiling. "well, sometimes, perhaps. but i loved her. i sometimes wonder if i shall ever see her again." "as soon as she comes home you may be sure of seeing her, and that will not be long now--unless, indeed, you are better, and should go home before she comes," he forced himself to add. christie made no reply to that, but in a little while she asked about the children; and though mr sherwood was surprised, he was not sorry that she did not speak any more about herself till he rose to go away. "must you go?" she asked, wistfully. "when you hear from miss gertrude again, perhaps you will come and tell me about her?" "that i will," said mr sherwood, heartily; "and i would come before that if i could do you any good i am sure i wish i could." "oh, you have done me good already. i shall have something to think about all day--and my letter, besides. i thank you very much." just then her eyes fell on a flower in his button-hole. he took it out and offered it to her. "oh, i thank you! i didn't mean to ask for it. it will be company for me all day." "are you quite alone from morning till night? poor child! no wonder that the time seems long!" "the nurse comes in as often as i need anything. but she thinks, they all think, it would be better if i were to go into one of the wards. i can work or read very little now, and the time would not seem so long with faces to see, even if they are sad faces." mr sherwood still lingered. "do your friends know that you are here? do they know how ill you are?" he asked. "oh, yes; they know i am in the hospital. i have been waiting till i should be a little better, to write again to effie. i must write soon. she will be anxious about me, i'm afraid." her face looked very grave in the silence that followed. mr sherwood would fain have spoken some hopeful words, but somehow they did not come readily into his mind; and when the nurse at the moment came into the room, he withdrew. but he did not forget the wan face of that suffering child. it followed him into the sunny street and into the quiet library. alone and in company, all day long, he was haunted by the wistful eyes of that patient girl as no sorrowful sight had ever haunted him before. mr sherwood was not what could be called a benevolent man, a lover of his kind. he enjoyed doing a kind act when it came in his way--as who does not? but that he should go out of his way to do kind things for people in whom he had no special interest, only that they were in trouble and needed help, he had not thought his duty. he had had troubles of his own to bear, but they had not been of a kind that other people could help much. at any rate, people had not helped him; he had not sought help. possibly he would have resented the idea of any one's bearing his burdens for him, and no doubt he thought that in this sad, disappointing world, each one must bear his own. he had called at the hospital because miss gertrude had asked him to call, and hoping that he should find the little nurse already safe at home with her friends; but however this might be, he had no thought of anything but pleasing his little cousin in the matter. yet he had borne great and sore troubles in his lifetime--sickness and sorrow and disappointment. he carried the marks of those troubles still, perhaps because he had never learned that the way to heal one's own sorrows is to do what may be done for the healing of the sorrows of others. certainly no such thought had ever come into his mind, and he was quite surprised to find that the pale face and wistful eyes of christie still followed him. he did not try to banish the thought of her as he sometimes tried to banish painful thoughts. he felt deeply for her. there were few days after that in which christie did not have some token of his remembrance. sometimes it was a bunch of flowers or a little fruit, sometimes a book or a message from gertrude. sometimes he sent, sometimes he went himself, for the sake of seeing the little pale face brighten at his entrance. after a little time he found her no longer in her solitary room, but in one of the wards. it was not very large or very full. many of the white beds, that stood in rows against the walls, were unoccupied; and most of the patients seemed not very ill, or on a fair way to recover. but it seemed to mr sherwood a very sad thing indeed that the eyes which shone with such eager longing when he spoke of the fields and gardens, or of the hills and valleys that he had seen in his wanderings, should open day after day upon a scene so dreary. what a strange, sad picture of life it seemed to him. there were old faces and young--faces on which years of sin and sorrow had set their seal, young faces that looked old, and faces old and worn and weary, yet growing slowly back into the look they must have had as little children, as the end drew near. there were a few bright faces even there. a young servant-girl occupied the bed next to christie on one side. she had been burned severely, but not dangerously, in saving a child committed to her care from a serious accident. she suffered much at first, but quite patiently, and in a day or two was cheerful, even merry, at the thought of getting away to the country, where her home was. she went away soon, and so did others-- some joyfully, with recovered health and hope, others to be seen no more among the living. "do you like this better than to be quite alone?" asked mr sherwood one day, as he sat by christie's bed, watching the strange, painful scenes around him. she did not answer for a moment, and her face saddened as her eye went down the long ward, thinking of the peculiar sorrow of each of the suffering inmates. "for some things i like it better. it is less trouble to the nurse, and the time does not seem so long. it is very sad, though," she added. "even when i am free from pain myself, there is sure to be some one suffering near me. but i am getting used to it. folk get used to anything in time, you know." almost always he left her cheerful, and though her recovery seemed day by day no nearer, she never seemed to doubt that she would soon be well, at least she never expressed any doubt to her kind friend till one day after he had been many times to see her. september had come in more sultry and warm than august had been; even out in the open streets, towards the mountain, the motionless air was hot and stifling. it was a trying day in the narrow alleys and in the low parts of the city, where many an invalid lay moaning and wishing for the night to come. in the ward where christie lay the windows were darkened, and coming out of the glare of the sun, for a moment mr sherwood thought it cool and pleasant there. it was close and unwholesome, however, as it was everywhere, and christie was more restless and feverish than he had ever seen her. she was now very often that way in the afternoon, she told him; but when his eyes were accustomed to the dim light, he saw that there were traces of tears on her flushed cheek, and he noticed that even now it was all that she could do to keep her voice steady as she spoke. he did not ask her what troubled her; he had an instinctive feeling that the question would bring back her tears, but he said, cheerfully: "you look as if you needed a good sleep. suppose i read to you a little?" her bible lay on the pillow, and he took it up. she laid herself down wearily, and rested her cheek on her hand. the book opened most readily at the psalms, and he read what first met his eye. "`they that wait on the lord shall be as mount zion, that cannot be removed. as the mountains are round about jerusalem, so the lord is round about his people, from henceforth even for ever.'" christie's countenance lighted up with pleasure as he read, and the tears that had been close at hand flowed freely. it was only a summer shower, however, and they were soon dried, but the smile remained. mr sherwood looked at her a little surprised. "`they that wait on the lord shall be as mount zion, that cannot be removed,'" she repeated. "surely that ought to be enough to make me content." "and was it because you had forgotten it that i found you with such a sad face to-day?" he asked, gravely. he read on, while christie lay quite still, her eyes closed, and mr sherwood thought she slept; but when he stopped reading she opened her eyes, and thanked him gratefully. she was evidently soothed and comforted, and mr sherwood could not help wondering at the change. "i had a letter from my sister effie, since you were here," said she. "i trust you had no bad news? are all well at home?" "they are all well now, but little will had the scarlet fever, and effie couldn't leave him; and now her holidays are over, and she cannot come to see me." "did you expect her?" "i did not expect her; but now her holidays are over, she cannot possibly come, i know." "i fear you must be greatly disappointed!" said mr sherwood, kindly. "yes, at first. for a little while i felt as though no one cared for me, but that was foolish and wrong. if effie had known how ill i am, she would have come, though it is such a long way. i am afraid i have not done right in not telling her." "but you cannot mean that your sister does not know that you are here, and that you are very ill?" said mr sherwood, in some surprise. "she knows i am here, but she does not know all. i had just written to her when the doctor told me i must come here for a while, so i waited till i should be able to tell her i was better. when i wrote i did not tell her how long i had been here; there was no use in troubling them all at home, for it would make them very sorry to know i was suffering all alone, and they cannot spare either time or money to undertake the journey here. i kept hoping i should soon be better. she thinks, i suppose, that i am quite well and at my work in the nursery again. but i am afraid she ought to know just how i am. i am not better, and if anything were to happen--" if any one had asked mr sherwood if he thought christie was likely to recover, he would hardly have said that her case was a very hopeful one. but when he heard christie speaking in this way, his impulse was (as it too often is in such circumstances) by cheerful and hopeful words to put the too probable event out of her thoughts, and he said: "but you are not to think anything is to happen. why, we shall have you ready for a race with master claude in the cedar walk before the winter sets in. at the same time, i do not wonder you are anxious to see your sister. i wish for your sake she were here." christie shook her head. "i am not better, and i don't know what to do. effie couldn't very well come, even if i were to ask her; and it would only trouble them all to know that i am no better after all this time. still, they would think-- if anything were to happen--" but she could not finish her sentence. mr sherwood was much-moved. it seemed only natural to him that the poor young girl should shrink from the thought of a fatal termination of her sufferings, though he felt sure that, as far as any one could be prepared for the mysterious change, christie was prepared for it. he longed to say something to soothe and comfort her, but no words came to his mind. taking up the bible, he read the very same portion again: "`they that wait on the lord shall be as mount zion, that cannot be removed;'" and then he added, softly: "you are in good hands." christie's face brightened as she turned her bright, tearful eyes upon him. "i know it, i am quite sure of it; and effie too. i don't know why i should be anxious and troubled when i have so sure a promise. i am not strong. i suppose that makes a difference. but i _know_ all will come out right." chapter twenty one. the night grows darker. but the thing which "might happen," and at the thought of which christie shuddered and turned pale, was not what mr sherwood supposed it to be. it was not the natural shrinking from death which all must feel when it is first impressed upon the mind not only that it is inevitable, but that it is near. christie knew that she was very ill. she knew that she was not growing better, but rather worse. yet it had never entered into her mind that possibly she was to die soon. the dread that was upon her was not the dread of death. i think if she had suddenly been told that she was going to die, the tidings might have startled her, because not anticipated; but believing, as she did, that death could not separate her from her chief treasure, she would not have been afraid. it was of something else that she was thinking, when she said to her kind friend that effie would be shocked if it came to pass. she had awakened one day from a momentary slumber into which she had fallen to hear some very terrible words spoken beside her. she thought she had been dreaming till she heard them repeated, and then she opened her eyes to see the kind faces of the attending physician and another looking at her. "you have been asleep," said one of them, kindly and christie thought again she must have been dreaming, for they spoke to her just as usual, praising her patience and bidding her take courage, for she would soon be well again. she must have been dreaming, she said to herself, twenty times that day. nothing so terrible as the dread that was upon her could possibly be true; and yet the thought came back again and again. "i am afraid she must lose it," she thought she heard one of them say. "yes; it looks like that now," as it seemed to her was the reply. she could not forget the expression; and during the days and nights that followed, the remembrance of the words came back, sometimes as a dream, sometimes as a certainty. had she been asleep, or was it true that she must be a cripple all her life? must she henceforth be helpless and dependent, when her help was so much and in so many ways needed? had her terrible sufferings been all in vain? were all these restless days and nights only to have this sorrowful ending? how could she ever bear it? how could she ever tell effie and the rest at home? many times in the day, when there was no one near, she determined to ask the doctor, that she might know the worst or have her fears set at rest, but she could not find the courage to do so. she did speak to the nurse, but she knew nothing about the matter, or said she did not, and quite laughed at her fancies, as she called them. but the fancies still lingered, and for a week or two the face she turned to meet her friend was grave and anxious enough. he came almost every day now, he hardly knew why. whatever the cause might be, he could not but see that his coming was always hailed with delight. wherever the charm might be, whether in his voice or in the words he read, he could not tell; but he saw that his visits soothed her restlessness, and helped to banish the look of doubt and pain that too often saddened her face. sometimes he read the bible, and stranger as he had for many years been to its sacred pages, he could not help yielding himself to the charm which the wonderful words he read there must ever have to a thoughtful mind. but the charm which the words had for his patient listener was something quite different from this. it was not the grandeur or sublimity of the style, or even the loftiness of the thought, that made her listen with such interest. she liked the simplest passages best. the simple narratives of the evangelists never lost their power to please her. some word or promise, in which he saw little beauty, had often power to excite her deepest emotion, and he could not but wonder as he saw it. he read other books too--little books left by visitors; very foolish little books he thought them often, and he could not but smile as he marked the interest with which she listened; but he never by smile or word intimated to her that he thought them trifling, at least he was never conscious of doing so. but he sometimes read in the grave, questioning eyes which christie turned on him, a doubt whether that which was so real and so comforting to her was of any value to him. he could not but confess to himself that, seen from christie's point of view, the subjects discussed in them must seem of grave importance; and he never lost the feeling, as he sat by her bed, that they had a meaning to her that was hidden from him. very few words were spoken between them at such times. when christie asked a question or made a remark, there was a clearness and simplicity in her way of speaking, a strength and freshness in what she said, that often surprised as well as interested him. he did not always understand her, and yet he could not believe that she was speaking of things too high for her. the thought flashed upon his mind one day, as he sat by her bed. what if among these things which were revealed to her but hidden from him, lay the secret of the happiness he had been so long and so vainly pursuing? there are things hidden from the wise and prudent, and revealed only to babes--even to such little ones as this suffering child. looking up as the thought passed through his mind, he met her eyes fixed wistfully upon him. she withdrew the gaze quickly, in some confusion, but in a moment looked up again. "what is it, christie? you looked as though you were afraid. i would read your thoughts. what grave question are you meditating now?" christie smiled. "no, i was not afraid. i was wondering what could make you so kind to me. i need not have wondered, though. i know quite well why it is." "do you? well, suppose you tell me what you mean by `so kind,' and then why it is that i am `so kind' to you. i should really like to know," said mr sherwood, laughing. "i need not tell you the first," she said, with a smile. "you know that very well, and it would take me too long to tell all. i think the reason of your kindness is because god has put it into your heart to be so. it is one of the ways he takes to help me to bear my troubles." the last words were spoken very gravely. "then it seems you don't think i am one of the good people who take delight in kind offices." "i am sure no one could be kinder than you have been to me," she said, eagerly. "but you don't think it is my way to be kind to people generally; i am not a philanthropist. is that it?" christie looked puzzled and a little anxious. "nay, you are not to look disconsolate about it," said mr sherwood, laughing. "it is quite true. i am not at all like a benevolent person in a book. i was kind to you, as you call it, first to please my little cousin gertrude, and then to please myself. so now you have the secret of it all." "oh, but it is true for all that that god put it into your heart to come so often," said christie, with glistening eyes. "your kindness gives me double pleasure when i think of it in that way." "well, it may be so," said mr sherwood, gravely; "but i don't think it is generally supposed that god chooses to comfort his little ones by means of such a person as i am." christie's eyes were fixed wistfully upon him again. "such as you!" she exclaimed, quite unconsciously, as mr sherwood thought, for she said no more just then. "i was writing to effie to-day, and i tried to tell her how good you have been to me. but i could not. i could never make her understand it, i know. she would need to see it for herself." "my poor child," said mr sherwood, smiling, "do you know you are talking foolishly? and that is a thing you seldom do. you are making a great deal out of a very little matter. the chances are that you do quite as much good to me as i shall ever do to you." "oh, i wish i could think so! if i could get my wish for you--" she paused suddenly. "well, what would you wish for me?" asked mr sherwood, still smiling at her eagerness. "i dare say i should have no more trouble in this world if you could have your wish." christie shook her head. "i don't think i ever wished that for you, and yet i have, too, in a way; for if that which i ask for you every day were to come to pass, you _might_ have trouble, but it would never seem like trouble to you any more." "well, i suppose that would answer every purpose of not having any more trouble, and you are very kind to wish it. but you say `_ask_'; so i suppose it is something which is in the giving of your friend above?" "yes," said christie, softly; and then there was a pause. "and what is it? is it the `new heart and the right spirit' we were reading about the other day? that seems to be the very best blessing that one can have, in your opinion. and do you really think i shall ever get it?" "i hope you will," she answered, eagerly. "i believe you will, if you only ask for it." "ah, well, i don't know. i have a fancy that your asking will be more to the purpose than mine." "i shall never forget to ask it for you. i have never forgotten it since--" she hesitated. "since when?" asked mr sherwood. "do you remember the day you came into the cedar walk, when i was telling little claude the story of the blind man, and what you said to me that day? i don't think i have ever forgotten since to pray the blind man's prayer for you." mr sherwood was greatly surprised and touched. that was long ago. he had been far-away since then. once or twice, perhaps, in connection with the remembrance of his little cousins, the thought of their kind, quiet nurse had come back to him. and yet she had never in all that time forgotten to ask for him what seemed to her to be the best of all blessings. "and do you do that for all your friends?" he said. "how came you to think of doing this for me?" "you did not seem very happy, i thought. you seemed like one searching for something that you could not find; and so i asked that your eyes might be opened." "well, some day you must tell me how your eyes were opened, and perhaps that may help me." "oh, no. i have nothing to tell, only i was very miserable often and discontented and troublesome. afterwards it was all changed, and i was at peace." she lay quite still, as if she were weary, and when mr sherwood spoke again it was only to say good-bye. but afterwards, at different times, she told him of the great happiness that had come to her through the grace of god, and he listened with an interest which sometimes increased to wonder. he mused on the simple recitals of the young girl with an earnestness which he could not explain to himself, and read the chapters which she pointed out as having done her good, partly for the pleasure of talking them over with her, and partly, too, because he began to see in god's word what he had never seen in it before. but i had no thought of saying all this about mr sherwood. it was of the sad, yet happy days that christie passed in the hospital that i wished to write, and they were drawing to a close now. but let me say just one word more about her friend. it all came to pass as christie had been sure it would. the day came when, earnestly as blind bartimeus, he prayed, `lord, that mine eyes may be opened!' and he who had compassion on the wayside beggar had compassion on him, and called him out of darkness into his marvellous light. i dare say she knows the glad tidings now. if she does not, she will know them soon, on the happy day when the friends shall meet "on the other side of the river." one day when mr sherwood came, he brought gertrude with him. she had been prepared to find christie very ill, but she had no thought of finding her so greatly changed. she was scarcely able to restrain her emotion at the sight of the pale, suffering face that told so sad a tale, and she was so much excited that mr sherwood did not like to go away and leave them together, as he had at first meant to do. she tried to say how grieved she was to see christie so ill, but when she began to count how many months she had been lying there, her voice suddenly failed her. "yes; it is a long time," christie faintly said. but she thought herself no worse for a few days past. she had suffered much less with her knee of late, and she was beginning to hope that the worst was passed. she did not say much more about herself, except in telling how kind mr sherwood had been to her; but she had a great many questions to ask about the little boys, especially claude, and about gertrude herself, and all that she had been doing since they parted. what a contrast they presented, these two young girls. there stood the one, bright and strong, possessing all that we are wont to covet for those we love--health and beauty, home and friends, and a fair prospect of a long and happy life. sick and sorrowful and alone lay the other, her life silently ebbing away, her hold on the world and all it has to give slowly but surely loosening. yet, in the new light which was beginning to dawn upon him, mr sherwood caught a glimpse of a contrast more striking still. on the couch before him lay a little suffering form, wasted and weary, soon to be hidden from the light, little to be mourned, quickly to be forgotten. but it soon vanished as from that lowly cot there rose before his gaze a spirit crowned and radiant and immortal. which was to be pitied? which to be envied? before one lay life and its struggles, its trials and its temptations. with the other, these were past. a step more and the river is passed, and beyond lies a world of endless glory and bliss. they did not linger very long. promising to bring her back soon, mr sherwood hurried gertrude away. "cousin charles," said she, eagerly, as they went down the long passage together, "we must take her away from this place. nay, don't shake your head. mother will listen to what you say, and she will be willing to do much for one who did so much for her little boy. only think of her lying all these months in that dreary room! did you not hear her say she had not seen a flower growing all the summer? oh, cousin charles, you will surely help me to persuade mother?" "my dear," said mr sherwood, gravely, "i fear she is not well enough to be moved. i do not think the physicians would consent to let her be taken away." "but are they making her better? i am sure the fresh air of the country would do her more good than all their medicines. oh, such a suffering face! and her hands, cousin charles--did you notice her hands? i am afraid i have come too late. but she will surely grow better again when she is taken away from this place. it would kill any one to lie there long in that great room among all those poor suffering creatures. if i could only get her away! it would not cost much to take her, with a nurse, to some quiet place, if we could not have her at the house. i shall have money of my own some time. cousin charles, will not you speak to mother for me?" she was growing very eager and excited. "hush!" he said, gently. "nothing but the impracticability of it could have prevented me from removing her to her own home, for which she has been pining so sadly. have patience, and we will try what can be done. we will speak to the doctor about it." the physician was, fortunately, disengaged, and the subject of christie's removal suggested to him. but he objected to it more decidedly now than he had when mr sherwood had spoken of it some time before. it was doubtful whether in her present weak state she could bear removal, even if she could be as well cared for elsewhere. it was becoming doubtful whether her constitution could hold out much longer. indeed, it could hardly be said to be doubtful. there was just one chance for her, he said; and then he spoke low, as though he did not wish miss gertrude to hear--but she did. "you do not mean that her knee is never to be well again?" she asked, with a shudder. "we have for some time feared so," said the doctor. "within a day or two symptoms have appeared which seem to indicate an absolute and speedy necessity for amputation. poor little thing! it is very sad for her, of course." "does she know it?" asked miss gertrude, steadying her voice with a great effort. "i think she is not altogether unprepared for it. she must know that she is not getting better, and i fancy she must suspect the necessity from something she once said to the nurse. poor girl! she seems to grieve quite as much on account of her friends as on her own." "have they been informed of this--of the possible result of her illness?" asked mr sherwood. "she has written to them several times during the summer, i believe. they seem to be very poor people, living at a distance--quite unable to do anything for her." they were soon on their way to meet mrs seaton, who had made an appointment with them, but miss gertrude was quite overcome by what she had seen and heard. "poor christie! to think that all these weary months of waiting must end thus! i cannot help thinking we have been to blame." "my child, why should you say so?" "to think of it coming to this with her, and her friends not knowing it! her sister never would have left her here all this time, if she had thought her in danger. she ought to know at once." "yes; they must be told at once," said mr sherwood. "but i fancy, from what the doctor said, they can't do much for her; and from the poor little thing herself i have gathered that the only one who could come to her is her elder sister, on whom the rest seem to be quite dependent." "but she must come, too," said gertrude, eagerly. "that is effie. there is no one in all the world like effie, christie thinks. oh, cousin charles, they have not always been poor. and they have suffered so much--and they love each other so dearly!" "gertrude, my child, there is a bright side even to this sad picture. do you think that the suffering little creature, lying there all these months, has been altogether unhappy?" gertrude struggled with her tears, and said: "she has the true secret of happiness." "yes, i am sure of it. seeing her, as i have, lying on that bed of pain, i have felt inclined rather to envy than to pity her. she has that for her own that a kingdom could not purchase--a peace that cannot be taken from her. i do not believe that even the sad necessity that awaits her will move her much now." his first words had stilled miss gertrude quite, and soon she found voice to say: "not for herself, but for her sisters. i am afraid they will think we have been very cruel. but it will be well with christie, whatever happens." "yes; it will be well with her, i do believe," said mr sherwood, gravely; and neither spoke again till they reached home. chapter twenty two. a cloud with a silver lining. the shadows were lengthening one september afternoon, when effie redfern closed behind her the door of her school-room, and took her way along the shady road that led to the cottage which for more than two years had been her home. the air was mild and pleasant. the leaves on some of the trees were changing. here a yellow birch and beech, and there a crimson maple betrayed the silent approach of winter. but the saddest of the autumn days had not come. here and there lay bare, grey fields and stubble land, with a dreary wintry look; but the low pastures were green yet, and the gaudy autumn flowers lingered untouched along the fences and waysides. it was a very lovely afternoon, and sending on the children, who were inclined to lag, effie lingered behind to enjoy it. her life was a very busy one. except an occasional hour stolen from sleep, she had very little time she could call her own. even now, her enjoyment of the fresh air and the fair scene was marred by a vague feeling that she ought to hasten home to the numberless duties awaiting her. these years had told on effie. she was hopeful and trustful still, but it was not quite so easy as it used to be to throw off her burden, and forget, in the enjoyment of present pleasure, past weariness and fears for the future. no burden she had yet been called to bear had bowed her down; and though she looked into the future with the certainty that these would grow heavier rather than lighter, the knowledge had no power to appal her. she was strong and cheerful, and contented with her lot. but burdens borne cheerfully may still press heavily; and quite unconsciously to herself, effie wore on her fair face some tokens of her labours and her cares. the gravity that used to settle on it during the anxious consideration of ways and means was habitual now. it passed away when she spoke or smiled, but when her face settled to repose again, the grave look was on it still, and lay there like a shadow, as she passed along the solitary road that afternoon. her thoughts were not sad--at least, they were not at first sad. she had been considering various possibilities as to winter garments, and did not see her way quite clear to the end of her labours. but she had often been in that predicament before. there was nothing in it then to make her look particularly grave. she had become accustomed to more perplexing straits than little will's jacket could possibly bring to her, and she soon put all thoughts of such cares away from her, saying to herself that she would not let the pleasure of her walk be spoiled by them. so she sent her glance over the bare fields and changing woods and up into the clear sky, with a sense of release and enjoyment which only they can feel who have been kept close all day and for many days at a task which, though not uncongenial, is yet exhausting to strength and patience; but the shadow rested on her still. it deepened even as her eye came back from its wanderings, and fell on the dusty path she was treading. amid all the cares and anxieties of the summer--and what with the illness of the children and their narrow means they had not been few nor light--there had come and gone and come again a vague fear as to the welfare of her sister, christie. christie's first letter--the only one she had as yet received from her--did not alarm her much. she, poor child, had said so little that was discouraging about her own situation, and had spoken so hopefully of being out of the hospital soon, that they had never dreamed that anything very serious was the matter with her. of course, the fact of her having to go to the hospital at all gave them pain, but still it seemed the best thing she could have done in her circumstances, and they never doubted but all would soon be well. as the weeks passed on with no further tidings, effie grew anxious at times, and wondered much that her sister did not write, but it never came into her mind that she was silent because that by writing she could only give them pain. they all thought she must be better--that possibly she had gone to the sea-side with the family, and that, in the bustle of departure, either she had not written, or her letter had been mislaid and never been sent. but somehow, as effie walked along that afternoon, the vague fear that had so often haunted her came back with a freshness that startled her. she could not put it from her, as she might have tried to do had she been speaking to any one of it. the remembrance that it was the night of the mail, and that, if no letter came, she must endure another week of waiting, made her heart sicken with impatient longing. and yet, what could she do but wait and hope? "and i must wait cheerfully too," she said to herself, as she drew near home and heard the voices of the children. "and after all, i need not fear for christie. i do believe it will be well with her, whatever happens. surely i can trust her in a father's hands." "how long you have been, effie!" cried her little sister, kate, as she made her appearance. "mrs nesbitt is here, and nellie and i have made tea ready, and you'll need to hasten, for mrs nesbitt canna bide long; it is dark so soon now." effie's face brightened, as it always did at the sight of a friend, and she greeted mrs nesbitt very cheerfully. "mrs nesbitt has a letter for you, effie," said aunt elsie; "but you must make tea first. the bairns have it ready, and mrs nesbitt needs it after her walk." effie fancied that the letter mrs nesbitt had brought came from some one else than christie, or she might not have assented with such seeming readiness to the proposal to have tea first. as it was, she hastened nellie's nearly-completed arrangements, and seated herself behind the tray. mrs nesbitt looked graver than usual, she thought; and as she handed her her cup of tea, she said, quietly: "you have had no bad news, i hope?" "i have had no news," said mrs nesbitt. "alexander told me there were two letters for you in the post, so i sent him for them, and i have come to you for the news." as she spoke she laid the two letters on the table. one was from christie, but she broke the seal of the other one first. it was very short, but before she had finished it her face was as colourless as the paper in her hand. "well, what is it?" said her aunt and mrs nesbitt, in the same breath. she turned the page and read from the beginning: "my dear miss redfern,--i have just returned from visiting your sister at the hospital. i do not think you can have gathered from her letters how ill she is, and i think you ought to know. i do not mean that she is dangerously ill, but she has been lying there a long time; and if you can possibly come to her, i am sure the sight of you would do her more good than anything else in the world. christie does not know that i am writing. i think she has not told you how ill she is, for fear of making you unhappy; and now she is troubled lest anything should happen, and her friends be quite unprepared for it. not that you must think anything is going to happen,--but come if you can. "my dear miss redfern, i hope you will not think me impertinent, but father wishes me to say to you that we all beg you will let no consideration of expense prevent your coming. it will be such a comfort to christie to have you here." there was a postscript, saying that the poor girl had been in the hospital since the end of april. "the end of april!" echoed aunt elsie and mrs nesbitt at once. effie said nothing, but her hands trembled very much as she opened the other letter. i need not copy christie's letter, we already know all she had to tell. effie's voice failed her more than once as she read it. fearing to make them unhappy at home, yet desiring to have them prepared for whatever might happen to her, the letter had cost christie a great deal of anxious thought. one thing was plain enough to all; she was very ill and a little despondent, and longed above all things to see effie and get home again. the elder sister having read it all, laid it down without speaking. "effie, my dear," said aunt elsie, "you will need to go." "yes; i must go. how i could have contented myself all this time, knowing she might be ill, i am sure i cannot tell. my poor child!" mrs nesbitt looked at her anxiously, as she said: "my dear bairn, you have nothing to reproach yourself with. you have had a very anxious summer, what with one care and another." effie rose with a gesture of impatience, but sat down again without speaking. she blamed herself severely; but what was the use of speaking about it now? she took up christie's letter and read again the last sentence. "it grieves me to add to your burdens, effie. i hoped to be able to lighten them, rather. but such is not god's will, and he sees what is best for us all. i do so long to see you again--to get home. but i must have patience." "have patience!" she repeated aloud. "oh, poor child! to think of her lying there all these weary months! how can i ever forgive myself!" she rose from the table hastily. oh, how glad she would have been to go to her that very moment. but she could not, nor the next day either. there were many things to be considered. they were too dependent on her school to permit her to give it up at once. some one must be found to take her place during her absence. sarah must be sent for at the neighbouring village, where she had been staying for the last month. the children and aunt elsie must not be left alone. there were other arrangements to be made, too, and two days passed before effie was ready to go. she saw mrs nesbitt again before she went, and her kind old friend said to her some of the things she had meant to say that night when the letters were read. she was able to hear them now. they would have done no good in the first moments of her sorrow, as mrs nesbitt very well knew. "effie, my bairn," said she, gravely, "you have trouble enough to bear without needlessly adding to it by blaming yourself when you ought not. even if you had known all, you could not have gone to your sister, except in the sorest need. has there been a single day when you could have been easily spared? and you could have done little for her, i dare say, poor lassie. and you may be sure the lord has been caring for her all this time. he has not forgotten her." "she says that in her letter many times," said effie. "my dear, there is a bright side to this dark cloud, you may be sure. whichever way this trouble ends, it will end well for this precious lamb of christ's fold. and you are not to go to her in a repining spirit, as though, if you had but known, you could have done other and better for her than the lord has been doing. we cannot see the end from the beginning, and we must trust the lord both in the light and in the darkness." effie made no answer for a moment. she then said, in a low voice: "but i never felt sure that it was right for her to go from home. she never was strong." "but you were not sorry, when you saw her in the winter, that she had gone. you mind you told me how much she had improved?" "yes; if i had only brought her home with me then. she must have been worse than i thought. and it must seem to her so neglectful in us to leave her so all the summer." "my dear lassie," said mrs nesbitt, gravely, "it is in vain to go back to that now. it has been all ordered, and it has been ordered for good, too. the lord has many ways of doing things; and if he has taken this way of quickly ripening your little sister for heaven, why should it grieve us?" "but," said effie, eagerly, "you did not gather from the letter that she was so very ill? miss gertrude said not dangerously, and oh, i cannot but think she will be better when we get her home again." "that will be just as god wills. but what i want to say is this. you must go cheerfully to her. if, by all this, god has been preparing her for his presence, you must not let a shadow fall on her last days. it is a wonderful thing to be permitted to walk to the rivers brink with one whom god has called to go over--an honour and blessing greatly to be coveted; and you must not lose the blessing it may be to you, by giving way to a murmuring spirit. not that i am afraid for you," she added, laying her hand on effie's arm. "all will be well; for i do believe you, and your sister too, are among those whom god will keep from all that can really harm. don't vex yourself with trying to make plain things which he has hidden. trust all to him, and nothing can go far wrong with you then." but it was with an inexpressible sinking of the heart that effie, when her hurried journey was over, found herself standing at the door of the hospital. it was the usual hour when the patients are visited by their friends; and the servant, thinking she was some one sent by the seatons, sent her up to the ward at once, without reference to the doctor or the matron of the institution. thus it was that with no preparation she came upon the changed face of her sister. if effie should live to be a hundred years old, she would never forget the first glimpse she had of that long room, with its rows of white beds against the wall. every one of the suffering faces that she passed stamped itself upon her memory in characters that can never fade; and then she saw her sister. but was it her sister? could that face, white as the pillow on which it lay, be christie's? one thin, transparent hand supported her cheek; the other--the very shadow of a hand--lay on the coverlet. was she sleeping? did she breathe? effie stooped low to listen, and raising herself up again, saw what almost made her heart cease to beat. that which christie had dreaded all these weary weeks, that which she could find no words to tell her sister, had come upon her. "i shall be a cripple all my life," she had written; that was all. now the thin coverlet betrayed with terrible distinctness her mutilated form. effie saw it, and the sight of it made the row of white beds and the suffering faces on them turn round. she took one step forward, putting forth her hands like one who is blind, and then fell to the floor. the shock to effie was a terrible one. for a while she struggled in vain with the deadly faintness that returned with every remembrance of that first terrible discovery. she was weary with her journey, and exhausted for want of nourishment, having eaten nothing all day. her very heart seemed to die within her, and the earth seemed to be gliding from beneath her feet. she was brought back to full consciousness with a start, as she heard some one say: "she ought not to have seen her. she must not see her again to-night. she must go away and come again in the morning." with a great effort she rose. "no," she said, quietly and solemnly; "i cannot go away. i shall never leave her again, so help me god!" she rose up, and with trembling fingers began to arrange her hair, which had fallen over her face. some one gently forced her into a chair. "you are not able to stand. it is in vain for you to make the effort," said the doctor. effie turned and saw him. "i am tired with my journey," she said, "and i have eaten nothing all day; but i am perfectly well and strong. i cannot go away. i must see my sister to-night. it was the surprise that overcame me, but i shall not be so again." there is not more than one woman in a thousand whose words the doctor would have heeded at such a time. effie was that one. instead of answering her, he spoke to the nurse, who left the room and soon returned with a biscuit and a cup of warm tea. effie forced herself to take the food, and was refreshed. in a little while she was able to follow the nurse to the ward, and to seat herself calmly by her sister's bed. christie was still asleep, but happily for effie she soon awoke. she could not have endured many minutes of that silent waiting. there was pleasure, but scarcely surprise, in the eyes that opened to fix themselves on her face. "have you come, effie? i was dreaming about you. i am very glad." effie kneeled down and kissed her over and over again, but she could not speak a word. soon she laid her head down on the pillow, and christie put her arms round her neck. there was a long silence, so long that effie moved gently at last, and removing her sister's arms from her neck, found her fast asleep. the daylight faded, and the night-lamps were lighted in the room. there was moving to and fro among the beds, as the preparations for the night were made. but effie did not stir till the nurse spoke to her. "your sister is still under the influence of the draught the doctor gave her. but we must waken her to give her some nourishment before she settles down for the night." the eyes, which effie thought had grown strangely large, opened with a smile. "will they let you stay, effie?" said she. "nothing shall ever make me leave you again." that was all that passed between them. christie slept nearly all night, but to effie the hours passed slowly and sorrowfully away. there was never entire quiet in the ward. there was moaning now and then, and feverish tossing to and fro on one or another of those white beds. the night-nurse moved about among them, smoothing the pillow of one, holding a cup to the lips of another, soothing or chiding, as the case of each required. to effie the scene was as painful as it was strange. she had many unhappy and some rebellious thoughts that night. but god did not forsake her. the same place of refuge that had sheltered her in former times of trouble was open to her still, and when christie awoke in the morning it was to meet a smile as calm and bright as that she had often seen in her dreams. for a little while it seemed to her she was dreaming now. "if i shut my eyes, will you be here when i open them again?" she asked. "oh, effie, i have so longed for you! you will never leave me again?" "never again," was all that she had the power to answer. that day they removed her from the public ward to the room she had at first occupied, and effie became her nurse. they were very quiet that day. christie was still under the influence of the strong opiate that had been given her, and worn-out with anxiety and watching, effie slumbered beside her. on the second day they had a visit from gertrude, and christie quite roused herself to rejoice with her over effie's coming. when the young lady declared, with delighted energy, that all christie wanted to make her quite well again was the face of her sister smiling upon her, all three for a moment believed it. she was to have a week, or perhaps two, in which to grow a little stronger, and then she was to go home with gertrude till she should be strong enough to go to glengarry with effie. no wonder she had been ill and discouraged, so long alone, or worse than alone, surrounded by so much suffering. now she would soon be well again, gertrude was quite sure. and she did seem better. relieved from the terrible pain which her diseased limb had so long caused, for a time she seemed to revive. she thought herself better. she said many times a day that she felt like a different person, and effie began to take courage. but she did not grow stronger. if she could only be taken out of town, where she could have better air, effie thought she might soon be well. but to remove her in her present state of weakness was impossible. and every day that followed, the doubt forced itself with more and more strength on effie that she would never be removed alive. the daily paroxysms of fever returned. at such times she grew restless, and sometimes, when she would wake with a start from troubled and uneasy slumbers, her mind seemed to wander. a word was enough to recall her to herself, and when she recognised her sister's voice and opened her eyes to see her bending over her, her look of glad surprise, changing slowly into one of sweet content, was beautiful to see. she could not talk much, or even listen for a long time to reading, but she was always quite content and at rest with effie sitting beside her. a visit from gertrude or mr sherwood was all that happened to break the monotony of those days to them. once little claude and his brother were brought to see her. they had not forgotten her. claude lay down beside her, and put his little hand on her cheek, as he used to do, and told her about the sea and the broad sands where they used to play, and prattled away happily enough of the time when christie should come home quite well again. clement was shy, and a little afraid of her altered face, and gave all his attention to effie. but the visit exhausted christie, and it never was repeated. indeed, a very little thing exhausted her now. one day christie awoke to find her sister watching the clouds and the autumn rain with a dark shadow resting on her face. her first movement sent it away, but the remembrance of it lingered with christie. after a little time, when she had been made comfortable, and effie had seated herself with her work beside her, she said: "are you longing to get home, effie?" "no, indeed," said effie, cheerfully, "except for your sake." "but i am sure they will miss you sadly." "yes, i dare say they will; but they don't really need me. sarah is at home, and katie and nellie are quite to be trusted even should she be called away. i am not in the least troubled about them. still, i hope we shall soon get home, for your sake." "but without your wages, how can they manage? i am afraid--" "i am not afraid," said effie. "i left all that in safe hands before i came here. our garden did wonderfully well last year; and besides, we managed to lay by something--and god is good. i am not afraid." "and they have all grown very much, you say. and little will! oh, how i should like to have seen them all! they will soon forget me, effie." effie started. it was the first time she had ever said anything that seemed to imply a doubt of her recovery. even now she was not quite sure that she meant that, and she hastened to say: "oh, there is no fear of their forgetting you. you cannot think how delighted they all were when your letters came." "they could not give you half the pleasure that yours gave me." "oh, yes, they did. we always liked to hear all about what you were doing, and about the children and miss gertrude. why, i felt quite as though i had known miss gertrude for a long time when i first met her here the other day. i almost think i should have known her if i had met her anywhere. she looks older and more mature than i should have supposed from your letters, and then i used to fancy that she might be at times a little overbearing and exacting." "effie, i never could have said that about miss gertrude." "no, you never said it, but i gathered it--less from what you said than from what you didn't say, however. has miss gertrude changed, do you think?" "no, oh no! she is just the very same. and yet i am not sure. i remember thinking when i first saw her that she was changed. she looks older, i think. i wonder if she will come to-day? she promised." "but it rains so heavily," said effie. "no, i don't think she will come to-day. it would not be wise." but effie was mistaken. she had hardly spoken when the door opened, and gertrude entered. "through all the rain!" exclaimed effie and christie, in a breath. "yes, i thought you would be glad to see me this dull day," said miss gertrude, laughing. "i am none the worse for the rain, but i can't say as much for the horses, however. but mr sherwood was obliged to leave in the train this afternoon, and i begged to come in the carriage with him. peter is to come for me again when he has taken him to the station. see what i have brought you," she added, opening the basket she carried in her hand. there were several things for christie in the basket, but the _something_ which miss gertrude meant was a bunch of buttercups placed against a spray of fragrant cedar and a few brown birch leaves. "we gathered them in the orchard yesterday. they are the very last of the season. we gathered them because claude said you once told him that they reminded you of home; and then you told him of a shady place where they used to grow, and of the birch-tree by the burn. i had heard about the burn myself, but not about the buttercups." coming as they did, the little tuft of wild flowers pleased christie better than the fairest bouquet of hothouse exotics could have done. effie laughed. "buttercups are not great favourites with us at home," she said. "they generally grow best on poor, worn-out land." "they are the very first i have seen this summer," said christie, with moist eyes. they were all silent a little while. "we were just speaking about you when you came in," said she to miss gertrude. "were you? well, i hope you dealt gently with my faults?" she said, blushing a little as she noticed the glance which passed between the sisters. "we had not got to your faults," said christie. "well, you must be merciful when you do. see, christie, i have got something else for you," she added, as she drew out a little book bound in blue and gold. "i thought of you when i read this. there is a good deal in the book you would not care about, but you will like this." and she read: "of all the thoughts of god that are borne inward unto souls afar along the psalmist's music deep, now, tell me if that any is, for gift or grace, surpassing this--? he giveth his beloved sleep." and so on to the end. "do you like it?" she asked. "yes," said christie. but her eyes said much more than that. "it reminded me of the time i found you sleeping among all the noises that were going on in the ward. there was talking and groaning and moving about, and you were quite unconscious of it all. "`god makes a silence through them all,'" she repeated: "`and never doleful dream again shall break his blessed slumbers, when he giveth his beloved sleep.'" there was a silence of several minutes, and then christie said: "miss gertrude, when you came in i was telling effie that i thought you had changed since i first knew you." "and were you telling her that there was much need of a change?" said miss gertrude, with a playfulness assumed to hide the quick rush of feeling which the words called forth. "do you mind how we used to speak of the great change that all must meet before we can be happy or safe? you don't think about these things as you used to do. miss gertrude, has this change come to you?" "i don't know, christie. sometimes i almost hope it has," said she. but she could not restrain the tears. effie saw them; christie did not. her eyes were closed, and her hands were clasped as if in prayer. "i was sure it would come," she said, softly. "i am very glad." she did not speak again during miss gertrude's stay, and i need not repeat all that passed between the young lady and effie. there were some words spoken that neither will forget till their dying day. before she went away, gertrude came and kissed christie; and when she was gone effie came and kissed her too, saying: "you ought to be very happy, christie, with all your trouble. god has been very good to you, in giving you a message to miss gertrude." "i am very happy, effie," answered she, softly. "i almost think i am beyond being troubled any more. it is coming very near now." she lay still, with a smile on her face, till she fell into a quiet slumber; and as she sat watching her, effie, amid all her sorrow, could not but rejoice at the thought of the blessed rest and peace that seemed coming so near now to her little sister. chapter twenty three. home at last. yes, the time was drawing very near. effie could no longer hide from herself that christie was no stronger, but rather weaker every day. she did not suffer much pain, but now and then was feverish, and at such times she could get no rest. then effie moved and soothed and sang to her with patience inexhaustible. she would have given half her youthful strength to have revived that wasted form; and one day, as she was bathing her hands, she told her so. christie smiled, and shook her head. "you will have better use for your strength than that, effie. i am sure the water in the burn at home would cool my hands, if i could dip them in it. oh, if i could just get out to the fields for one long summer day, i think i should be content to lie down here again for another six months! in the summer-time, when i used to think of the nesbitts and the mcintyres in the sweet-smelling hay-fields, and of the bairns gathering berries in the woods, my heart was like to die within me. it is not so bad now since you came. no, effie, i am quite content now." later in the day, she said, after a long silence: "effie, little will will hardly mind that he had a sister christie, when he grows up to be a man. i should like to have been at home once more, because of that. they will all forget me, i am afraid." "christie," said her sister, "why do you say they will forget you? do you not think you will live to see them again?" "do you think so, effie?" asked christie, gravely. instead of answering her, effie burst into tears, and laid her head down on her sister's pillow. christie laid her arm over her neck, and said, softly: "there is nothing to grieve so for, effie. i am not afraid." effie's tears had been kept back so long, they must have free course now. it was in vain to try to stay them. but soon she raised herself up, and said: "i didna mean to trouble you, christie. i know i have no need to grieve for you. but, oh! i cannot help thinking you might have been spared longer if i had been more watchful--more faithful to my trust!" "effie," said christie, "move me a little, and lie down beside me. i have something to say to you, and there can be no better time than now. you are weary with your long watching. rest beside me." her sister arranged the pillow and lay down beside her. clasping her wasted arms about her neck, christie said: "effie, you don't often say wrong or foolish things, but what you said just now was both wrong and foolish. you must never say it or think it any more. have i not been in safe keeping, think you? nay! do not grieve me by saying that again," she added, laying her hand upon her sister's lips, as she would have spoken. "it all seems so right and safe to me, i would not have anything changed now, except that i should like to see them all at home. and i dare say that will pass away as the end draws near. it will not be long now, effie." she paused from exhaustion, only adding: "i am not afraid." the much she had to say was not said that night. the sisters lay silently in each other's arms, and while christie slumbered, effie prayed as she had never prayed before, that she might be made submissive to the will of god in this great sorrow that was drawing nearer day by day. after this they spoke much of the anticipated parting, but never sadly any more. effie's prayers were answered. god's grace did for her what, unaided, she never could have done for herself. it gave her power to watch the shadow of death drawing nearer and nearer, without shrinking from the sight. i do not mean that she felt no pain at the thought of going back to her home alone, or that she had quite ceased to blame herself for what she called her neglect of her suffering sister. many a long struggle did she pass through during the hours when christie slumbered. but she never again suffered a regretful word to pass her lips; she never for a moment let a cloud rest on her face when christie's eyes were matching her. she had soothing words for the poor child's restless moments. if a doubt or fear came to disturb her quiet trust, she had words of cheer to whisper; and when--as oftenest happened--her peace was like a river, full and calm and deep, no murmurs, no repining, fell from the loving sister's lips to disturb its gentle flow. and little by little, as the uneventful days glided by peace, and more than peace--gratitude and loving praise--filled the heart of christie's sister. what could she wish more for the child so loved than such quiet and happy waiting for the end of all trouble? a little while sooner or later, what did it matter? what could she wish more or better for any one she loved? it would ill become her to repine at her loss, so infinitely her sister's gain. the discipline of these weeks in her sister's sick-room did very much for effie. ever since their mother's death, and more especially since their coming to canada, a great deal had depended on her. wise to plan and strong to execute, she had done what few young girls in her sphere could have done. her energy had never flagged. she delighted to encounter and overcome difficulties; she was strong, prudent, and far-seeing, and she was fast acquiring the reputation, among her friends and neighbours, of a rare business woman. it is just possible that, as the years passed, she might have acquired some of the unpleasing qualities so apt to become the characteristic of the woman who has no one to come between her and the cares of business or the shifts and difficulties incident to the providing for a family whose means are limited. coming in contact, as she had to do, with a world not always mindful of the claims of others, she found it necessary to stand her ground and hold her own with a firmness that might seem hardly compatible with gentleness. her position, too, as the teacher of a school--the queen of a little realm where her word was law--tended to cultivate in her strength and firmness of character rather than the more womanly qualities. it is doubtful whether, without the sweet and solemn break in the routine of her life which these months in her sister's sick-room made, she would ever have grown into the woman she afterwards became. this long and patient waiting for god's messenger gave her the time for thought which her busy life denied her. now and then, during the quiet talks in which, during her more comfortable hours, they could still indulge, there was revealed to effie all the way by which god had led her sister; at the same time there was revealed all that he had permitted her to do for his glory, and at this she was greatly moved. she had only been a little servant-maid, plain and humble and obscure. there was nothing to distinguish her in the eyes of those who saw her from day to day. yet god had greatly honoured her. he had made her a messenger of grace to one, to two--perhaps to more. when that little, worn-out frame was laid aside, it might be, thought effie, that the immortal spirit, crowned and radiant, should stand nearer to the throne than some who were held in honour by the wise and the good of this world. sitting there, listening and musing, effie saw, more clearly than she ever could have seen in the bustle of her busy life, how infinitely desirable it is to be permitted to do god's work in the world. those were days never to be forgotten by her. she grew thin and wan with confinement and watching, but as the time drew near when her present care should cease and she should go home again, her face wore a look of peace beautiful to see. "effie," said christie one day, after she had been silently watching her a little while, "you are more willing that i should go now, i think?" effie started. "i shall be willing when the time comes, my dear sister, i do not doubt," she said, with lips that smiled, though they quivered too. "i cannot help being willing, and glad, for your sake." "and you ought to be glad for your sake too," said christie. "you will have one less to care for, to be anxious about, effie, and i shall be safe with our dear father and mother in the better world. i never could have helped you much, dear, though i would have liked to do so. i never should have been very strong, i dare say, and--i might have been a burden." "but if you had been running about in the fields with the bairns all this time, who knows but you would have been as strong as any of them?" said effie, sadly. but christie shook her head. "no; i have had nothing to harm me. and sometimes i used to think if i had stayed at home i might have fallen back into my old fretful ways, and so have been a vexation to myself and to aunt elsie; and to you even, effie, though you never used to be vexed with me." "no, christie, that could never have happened. god is faithful, and with his grace, all would have been well with you. there would have been no more such sad days for you." "no such day as that when you came home with the book-man and gave me my bible," said christie, smiling, "i wonder why i always mind that day so well? i suppose because it was the beginning of it all." effie did not ask, "the beginning of what?" she knew well that she meant the beginning of the new life which god, by his word and spirit, had wrought in her heart. soon christie added: "i wouldn't have anything changed now. it has all happened just in the best way; and this quiet time will do you good too, dear." "i pray god it may!" said effie, letting both tears and kisses fall upon her sister's face. "and you must tell annie and sarah and the bairns that they must be sure to come to us--our father and mother and me, and to jesus--the mediator--of the new covenant," she slowly said; and overcome with weariness, she sank into a quiet sleep. christie grew weaker every day. she did not suffer much, and slept most of the time. sometimes she was feverish and restless, and then effie used to fancy that her mind wandered. at such times she would tell of things that happened long ago, and speak to effie as she might have spoken to her mother during her childish illnesses, begging to be taken into her arms and rocked to sleep. but almost always she knew her sister, even when she had forgotten where she was. once she said there was just one place in the world where she could rest, and begged to be laid on the sofa in mrs nesbitt's parlour at home. often she begged her to let her dip her hands in the burn to cool them, or to take her where it was pleasant and cool, under the shadow of the birch-tree in the pasture at home. but a single word from effie was always enough to soothe her, and to call up the loving smile. christmas came and went, and the last day of the old year found her still waiting, but with many a token that the close was drawing near. gertrude came that day, and lingered long beside her, awed by the strange mysterious change that was beginning to show itself on her face. christie did not notice her as she came in, and even effie only silently held out her hand to her as she drew near. "she will never speak again," said the nurse, who had been watching her for several minutes. all pain, all restlessness, seemed past. effie, bending over her, could only now and then moisten her parched lips and wipe the damp from her forehead. poor effie! she saw the hour was at hand, but she was very calm. "she has not spoken since daybreak," she said, softly. "i am afraid she will never speak again." but she did. after a brief but quiet sleep she opened her eyes. gertrude knew that she was recognised. stooping down to catch the broken words that came from her parched lips, she distinctly heard: "i was sure always--from the very first--that god would bless you. and now--though i am going to die--you will do all for christ--that i would like to have done." effie was refreshed and strengthened by two or three hours of quiet sleep. the day passed, the evening came and went, and christie gave no sign of pain or restlessness. "it will be about the turn of the night," said the nurse, raising the night-lamp to look on her face. but it was not. at the turn of the night she awoke, and called her sister by name. effie's face was on the pillow beside her, and she kissed her softly, without speaking. christie fondly returned her caress. she seemed strangely revived. "effie," she said, "do you remember something that our mother used to sing to us--? "`no dimming clouds o'ershadow thee, no dull and darksome night, but every soul shines as the sun, and god himself is light.'" yes, effie remembered it well, and she went on, with no break in her voice, as christie ceased: "`no pain, no pang, no bitter grief, no woeful night is there; no sob, no sigh, no cry is heard; no will-awa', no care!'" and many a verse more of that quaint, touching old canticle did she sing, all the time watching the smile of wonderful content that was beautifying the dying face. "you are quite willing now, effie?" she said, softly. "quite willing," said effie, softly. "and it is coming very near now!" "very near, love. very near now!" "very near!" she never spoke again. she lingered till the dawn of the new year's morning, all the time lying like a child slumbering in the nurse's arms, and then she died. they did not lay her to rest among the many nameless graves which had seemed so sad and dreary to her in the beautiful burial-place one summer day. the spotless snow near her father's grave was disturbed on a winter's morning, and christie was laid to rest beside him. there she has lain through many a summer and winter, but her remembrance has not perished from the earth. there are loving hearts on both sides of the sea who still cherish her memory. gertrude--no longer miss gertrude, however--in the new home she has found, tells the little children at her knee of her little brother claude and his nurse, who loved each other so dearly on earth, and who now are doubtless loving each other in heaven; and in a fair canadian manse a grave and beautiful woman often tells, with softened voice, the sad yet happy tale of the sister who went away and who never came home again, but who found a better home in her father's house above. the end. janet's love and service, by margaret m robertson. ________________________________________________________________________ the set of page scans that was used to create this version of the book was as dirty as it is possible to be, while still making it just about possible to do the ocr and subsequent editing. this latter was very hard work. the scans came from the canadiana online collection. no doubt there is a reason for this lack of quality. but there was a reason for persevering with the editing process, endless as it seemed to be for several weeks, and that was that i do believe this book to be very great literature, even though it has not hitherto been recognised as such by the world in general. to be truthful, the book's first quarter, and perhaps the last quarter, are more dramatic than the two middle quarters. but it is all well worth reading and thinking about, for there are many things in the book that we should all think deeply about, living as we do in a very different world than the one that surrounded the author and her fictional characters almost a hundred and fifty years ago. that the author had very great skill is undoubted, and can be seen from her other works. i hope you will read it and see if you agree with me that the hard work involved on bringing this book to the web has been worthwhile. nh. ________________________________________________________________________ janet's love and service, by margaret m robertson. chapter one. the longest day in all the year was slowly closing over the little village of clayton. there were no loiterers now at the corners of the streets or on the village square--it was too late for that, though daylight still lingered. now and then the silence was broken by the footsteps of some late home-comer, and over more than one narrow close, the sound of boyish voices went and came, from garret to garret, telling that the spirit of slumber had not yet taken possession of the place. but these soon ceased. the wind moved the tall laburnums in the lane without a sound, and the murmur of running water alone broke the stillness, as the gurgle of the burn, and the rush of the distant mill-dam met and mingled in the air of the summer night. in the primitive village of clayton, at this midsummer time, gentle and simple were wont to seek their rest by the light of the long gloaming. but to-night there was light in the manse--in the minister's study, and in other parts of the house as well. lights were carried hurriedly past uncurtained windows, and flared at last through the open door, as a woman's anxious face looked out. "what can be keeping him?" she murmured, as she shaded the flickering candle and peered out into the gathering darkness. "it's no' like him to linger at a time like this. god send he was at home." another moment of eager listening, and then the anxious face was withdrawn and the door closed. soon a sound broke the stillness of the village street; a horseman drew up before the minister's house, and the door was again opened. "well, janet?" said the rider, throwing the reins on the horse's neck and pausing as he went in. the woman curtseyed with a very relieved face. "they'll be glad to see you up the stairs, sir. the minister's no' long home." she lighted the doctor up the stairs, and then turned briskly in another direction. in a minute she was kneeling before the kitchen hearth, and was stirring up the buried embers. "has my father come, janet?" said a voice out of the darkness. "yes, he's come. he's gone up the stairs. i'll put on the kettle. i dare say he'll be none the worse of a cup of tea after his ride." sitting on the high kitchen dresser, her cheek close against the darkening window, sat a young girl, of perhaps twelve or fourteen years of age. she had been reading by the light that lingered long at that western window, but the entrance of janet's candle darkened that, and the book, which at the first moment of surprise had dropped out of her hand, she now hastily put behind her out of janet's sight. but she need not have feared a rebuke for "blindin' herself" this time, for janet was intent on other matters, and pursued her work in silence. soon the blaze sprung up, and the dishes and covers on the wall shone in the firelight. then she went softly out and closed the door behind her. the girl sat still on the high dresser, with her head leaning back on the window ledge, watching the shadows made by the firelight, and thinking her own pleasant thoughts the while. as the door closed, a murmur of wonder escaped her, that "janet had'na sent her to her bed." "it's quite time i dare say," she added, in a little, "and i'm tired, too, with my long walk to the glen. i'll go whenever papa comes down." she listened for a minute. then her thoughts went away to other things--to her father, who had been away all day; to her mother, who was not quite well to-night, and had gone up-stairs, contrary to her usual custom, before her father came home. then she thought of other things-- of the book she had been reading, a story of one who had dared and done much in a righteous cause--and then she gradually lost sight of the tale and fell into fanciful musings about her own future, and to the building of pleasant castles, in which she and they whom she loved were to dwell. sitting in the firelight, with eyes and lips that smiled, the pleasant fancies came and went. not a shadow crossed her brow. not a fear came to dim the light by which she gazed into the future that she planned. so she sat till her dream was dreamed out, and then, with a sigh, in which there was no echo of care or pain, she woke to the present, and turned to her book again. "i might see by the fire," she said, and in a minute she was seated on the floor, her head leaning on her hands, and her eye fastened on the open page. "miss graeme," said janet, softly coming in with a child in her arms, "your mamma's no' weel, and here's wee rosie wakened, and wantin' her. you'll need to take her, for i maun awa'." the book fell from the girl's hand, as she started up with a frightened face. "what ails mamma, janet? is she very ill?" "what should ail her but the one thing?" said janet, impatiently. "she'll be better the morn i hae nae doubt." graeme made no attempt to take the child, who held out her hands toward her. "i must go to her, janet." "indeed, miss graeme, you'll do nothing o' the kind. mrs burns is with her, and the doctor, and it's little good you could do her just now. bide still where you are, and take care o' wee rosie, and hearken if you hear ony o' the ither bairns, for none o' you can see your mamma the night." graeme took her little sister in her arms and seated herself on the floor again. janet went out, and graeme heard her father's voice in the passage. she held her breath to listen, but he did not come in as she hoped he would. she heard them both go up-stairs again, and heedless of the prattle of her baby sister, she still listened eagerly. now and then the sound of footsteps overhead reached her, and in a little janet came into the kitchen again, but she did not stay to be questioned. then the street door opened, and some one went out, and it seemed to graeme a long time before she heard another sound. then janet came in again, and this time she seemed to have forgotten that there was any one to see her, for she was wringing her hands, and the tears were streaming down her cheeks. graeme's heart stood still, and her white lips could scarcely utter a sound. "janet!--tell me!--my mother." "save us lassie! i had no mind of you. bide still, miss graeme. you munna go there," for graeme with her little sister in her arms was hastening away. "your mamma's no waur than she's been afore. it's only me that doesna ken about the like o' you. the minister keeps up a gude heart. gude forgie him and a' mankind." graeme took a step toward the door, and the baby, frightened at janet's unwonted vehemence, sent up a shrill cry. but janet put them both aside, and stood with her back against the door. "no' ae step, miss graeme. the auld fule that i am; 'gin the lassie had been but in her bed. no, i'll no' take the bairn, sit down there, you'll be sent for if you're needed. i'll be back again soon; and you'll promise me that you'll no leave this till i bid you. miss graeme, i wouldna deceive you if i was afraid for your mamma. promise me that you'll bide still." graeme promised, awed by the earnestness of janet, and by her own vague terror as to her mother's mysterious sorrow, that could claim from one usually so calm, sympathy so intense and painful. then she sat down again to listen and to wait. how long the time seemed! the lids fell down over the baby's wakeful eyes at last, and graeme, gathering her own frock over the little limbs, and murmuring loving words to her darling, listened still. the flames ceased to leap and glow on the hearth, the shadows no longer danced upon the wall, and gazing at the strange faces and forms that smiled and beckoned to her from the dying embers, still she listened. the red embers faded into white, the dark forest with its sunny glades and long retreating vistas, the hills, and rocks, and clouds, and waterfalls, that had risen among them at the watcher's will, changed to dull grey ashes, and the dim dawn of the summer morning, gleamed in at last upon the weary sleeper. the baby still nestled in her arms, the golden hair of the child gleaming among the dark curls of the elder sister as their cheeks lay close together. graeme moaned and murmured in her sleep, and clasped the baby closer, but she did not wake till janet's voice aroused her. there were no tears on her face now, but it was very white, and her voice was low and changed. "miss graeme, you are to go to your mamma; she's wantin' you. but mind you are to be quiet, and think o' your father." taking the child in her arms, she turned her back upon the startled girl. chilled and stiff from her uneasy posture, graeme strove to rise, and stumbling, caught at janet's arm. "mamma is better janet," she asked eagerly. janet kept her working face out of sight, and, in a little, answered hoarsely,-- "ay, she'll soon be better, whatever becomes of the rest of us. but, mind, you are to be quiet, miss graeme." chilled and trembling, graeme crept up-stairs and through the dim passages to her mother's room. the curtains had been drawn back, and the daylight streamed into the room. but the forgotten candles still glimmered on the table. there were several people in the room, standing sad and silent around the bed. they moved away as she drew near. then graeme saw her mother's white face on the pillow, and her father bending over her. even in the awe and dread that smote on her heart like death, she remembered that she must be quiet, and, coming close to the pillow, she said softly,-- "mother." the dying eyes came back from their wandering, and fastened on her darling's face, and the white lips opened with a smile. "graeme--my own love--i am going away--and they will have no one but you. and i have so much to say to you." so much to say! with only strength to ask, "god guide my darling ever!" and the dying eyes closed, and the smile lingered upon the pale lips, and in the silence that came next, one thought fixed itself on the heart of the awe-stricken girl, never to be effaced. her father and his motherless children had none but her to care for them now. chapter two. "it's a' ye ken! gotten ower it, indeed!" and janet turned her back on her visitor, and went muttering about her gloomy kitchen: "the minister no' being one to speak his sorrow to the newsmongering folk that frequent your house, they say he has gotten ower it, do they? it's a' they ken!" "janet, woman," said her visitor, "i canna but think you are unreasonable in your anger. i said nothing derogatory to the minister; far be it from me! but we can a' see that the house needs a head, and the bairns need a mother. the minister's growing gey cheerful like, and the year is mair than out; and--" "whisht, woman. dinna say it. speak sense if ye maun speak," said janet, with a gesture of disgust and anger. "wherefore should i no' say it?" demanded her visitor. "and as to speaking sense--. but i'll no' trouble you. it seems you have friends in such plenty that you can afford to scorn and scoff at them at your pleasure. good-day to you," and she rose to go. but janet had already repented her hot words. "bide still, woman! friends dinna fall out for a single ill word. and what with ae thing and anither i dinna weel ken what i'm saying or doing whiles. sit down: it's you that's unreasonable now." this was mistress elspat smith, the wife of a farmer--"no' that ill aff," as he cautiously expressed it--a far more important person in the parish than janet, the minister's maid-of-all-work. it was a condescension on her part to come into janet's kitchen, under any circumstances, she thought; and to be taken up sharply for a friendly word was not to be borne. but they had been friends all their lives; and janet "kenned hersel' as gude a woman as elspat smith, weel aff or no' weel aff;" so with gentle violence she pushed her back into her chair, saying: "hoot, woman! what would folk say to see you and me striving at this late day? and i want to consult you." "but you should speak sense yourself, janet," said her friend. "folk maun speak as it's given them to speak," said janet; "and we'll say nae mair about it. no' but that the bairns might be the better to have some one to be over them. she wouldna hae her sorrow to seek, i can tell you. no that they're ill bairns--" "we'll say no more about it, since that is your will," said mrs smith, with dignity; and then, relenting, she added,-- "you have a full handfu' with the eight of them, i'm sure." "seven only," said janet, under her breath. "she got one of them safe home with her, thank god. no' that there's one ower many," added she quickly; "and they're no' ill bairns." "you have your ain troubles among them, i dare say, and are muckle to be pitied--" "me to be pitied!" said janet scornfully, "there's no fear o' me. but what can the like o' me do? for ye ken, woman, though the minister is a powerful preacher, and grand on points o' doctrine, he's a verra bairn about some things. _she_ aye keepit the siller, and far did she make it gang--having something to lay by at the year's end as well. now, if we make the twa ends meet, it's mair than i expect." "but miss graeme ought to have some sense about these things. surely she takes heed to the bairns?" "miss graeme's but a bairn herself, with little thought and less experience; and its no' to be supposed that the rest will take heed to her. the little anes are no' so ill to do with; but these twa laddies are just spirits o' mischief, for as quiet as norman looks; and they come home from the school with torn clothes, till miss graeme is just dazed with mending at them. and miss marian is near as ill as the laddies; and poor, wee rosie, growing langer and thinner every day, till you would think the wind would blow her awa. master arthur is awa at his eddication: the best thing for a' concerned. i wish they were a' safe unto man's estate," and janet sighed. "and is miss graeme good at her seam?" asked mistress elspat. "oh ay; she's no' that ill. she's better at her sampler and at the flowering than at mending torn jackets, however. but there's no fear but she would get skill at that, and at other things, if she would but hae patience with herself. miss graeme is none of the common kind." "and has there been no word from _her_ friends since? they say her brother has no bairns of his own. he might well do something for hers." janet shook her head. "the minister doesna think that i ken; but when mr ross was here at the burial, he offered to take two of the bairns, norman or harry, and wee marian. she's likest her mamma. but such a thing wasna to be thought of; and he went awa' no' weel pleased. whether he'll do onything for them in ony ither way is more than i ken. he might keep master arthur at the college and no' miss it. how the minister is ever to school the rest o' them is no' easy to be seen, unless he should go to america after all." mistress smith lifted her hands. "he'll never surely think o' taking these motherless bairns to yon savage place! what could ail him at mr ross's offer? my patience! but folk whiles stand in their ain light." "mr ross is not a god-fearing man," replied janet, solemnly. "it's no' what their mother would have wished to have her bairns brought up by him. the minister kenned her wishes well on that point, you may be sure. and besides, he could never cross the sea and leave any of them behind." "but what need to cross the sea?" cried mrs smith; "it's a pity but folk should ken when they're weel aff. what could the like o' him do in a country he kens nothing about, and with so many bairns?" "it's for the bairns' sake he's thinking of it. they say there's fine land there for the working, and no such a thing as payin' rent, but every man farming his own land, with none to say him nay. and there's room for all, and meat and clothes, and to spare. i'm no' sure but it's just the best thing the minister can do. they had near made up their minds afore, ye ken." "hoot, woman, speak sense," entreated her friend. "is the minister to sell rusty knives and glass beads to the indians? that's what they do in yon country, as i've read in a book myself. whatna like way is that to bring up a family?" "losh, woman, there's other folk there beside red indians; folk that dinna scruple to even themselves with the best in britain, no' less. you should read the newspapers, woman. there's one john caldwell there, a friend o' the minister's, that's something in a college, and he's aye writing him to come. he says it's a wonderful country for progress; and they hae things there they ca' institutions, that he seems to think muckle o', though what _they_ may be i couldna weel make out. the minister read a bit out o' a letter the ither night to miss graeme and me." "janet," said her friend, "say the truth at once. the minister is bent on this fule's errand, and you're encouraging in it." "na, na! he needs na encouragement from the like o' me. i would gie muckle, that hasna muckle to spare, gin he were content to bide where he is, though it's easy seen he'll hae ill enough bringing up a family here, and these laddies needing more ilka year that goes o'er their heads. and they say yon's a grand country, and fine eddication to be got in it for next to nothing. i'm no sure but the best thing he can do is to take them there. i ken the mistress was weel pleased with the thought," and janet tried with all her might, to look hopeful; but her truth-telling countenance betrayed her. her friend shook her head gravely. "it might have done, with her to guide them; but it's very different now, as you ken yourself, far better than i can tell you. it would be little else than a temptin' o' providence to expose these helpless bairns, first to the perils o' the sea, and then to those o' a strange country. he'll never do it. he's restless now; and unsettled; but when time, that cures most troubles, goes by, he'll think better of it, and bide where he is." janet made no reply, but in her heart she took no such comfort. she knew it was no feeling of restlessness, no longing to be away from the scene of his sorrow that had decided the minister to emigrate, and that he had decided she very well knew. these might have hastened his plans, she thought, but he went for the sake of his children. they might make their own way in the world, and he thought he could better do this in the new world than in the old. the decision of one whom she had always reverenced for his goodness and wisdom must be right, she thought; yet she had misgivings, many and sad, as to the future of the children she had come to love so well. it was to have her faint hope confirmed, and her strong fears chased away, that she had spoken that afternoon to her friend; and it was with a feeling of utter disconsolateness that, she turned to her work again, when, at last, she was left alone. for janet had a deeper cause for care than she had told, a vague feeling that the worldly wisdom of her friend could not help her here, keeping her silent about it to her. that very morning, her heart had leaped to her lips, when her master in his grave, brief way, had asked,-- "janet, will you go with us, and help me to take care of her bairns?" and she had vowed to god, and to him, that she would never leave them while they needed the help that a faithful servant could give. but the after thought had come. she had other ties, and cares, and duties, apart from these that clustered so closely round the minister and his motherless children. a mile or two down the glen stood the little cottage that had for a long time been the home of her widowed mother, and her son. more than half required for their maintenance janet provided. could she forsake them? could any duty she owed to her master and his children make it right for her to forsake those whose blood flowed in her veins? true, her mother was by no means an aged woman yet, and her son was a well-doing helpful lad, who would soon be able to take care of himself. her mother had another daughter too, but janet knew that her sister could never supply her place to her mother. though kind and well-intentioned, she was easy minded, not to say thriftless, and the mother of many bairns besides, and there could neither be room nor comfort for her mother at her fireside, should its shelter come to be needed. day after day janet wearied herself going over the matter in her mind. "if it were not so far," she thought, or "if her mother could go with her." but this she knew, for many reasons, could never be, even if her mother could be brought to consent to such a plan. and janet asked herself, "what would my mother do if sandy were to die? and what would sandy do if my mother were to die? and what would both do if sickness were to overtake them, and me far-away?" till she quite hated herself for ever thinking of putting the wide sea, between them and her. there had been few pleasures scattered over janet's rough path to womanhood. not more than two or three mornings since she could remember had she risen to other than a life of labour. even during the bright brief years of her married-life, she had known little respite from toil, for her husband had been a poor man, and he had died suddenly, before her son was born. with few words spoken, and few tears shed, save what fell in secret, she had given her infant to her mother's care, and gone back again to a servant's place in the minister's household. there she had been for ten years the stay and right hand of her beloved friend and mistress, "working the work of two," as they told her, who would have made her discontented in her lot, with no thought from year's end to year's end, but how she might best do her duty in the situation in which god had placed her. but far-away into the future--it might be years and years hence--she looked to the time when in a house of her own, she might devote herself entirely to the comfort of her mother and her son. in this hope she was content to strive and toil through the best years of her life, living poorly and saving every penny, to all appearance equally indifferent to the good word of those who honoured her for her faithfulness and patient labour, and to the bad word of those who did not scruple to call her most striking characteristics by less honourable names. she had never, during all these years, spoken, even to her mother, of her plans, but their fulfilment was none the less settled in her own mind, and none the less dear to her because of that. could she give this up? could she go away from her home, her friends, the land of her birth, and be content to see no respite from her labour till the end? yes, she could. the love that had all these years been growing for the children she had tended with almost a mother's care, would make the sacrifice possible-- even easy to her. but her mother? how could she find courage to tell her that she must leave her alone in her old age? the thought of parting from her son, her "bonny sandy," loved with all the deeper fervour that the love was seldom spoken--even this gave her no such pang as did the thought of turning her back upon her mother. he was young, and had his life before him, and in the many changes time might bring, she could at least hope to see him again. but her mother, already verging on the three-score, she could never hope to see more, when once the broad atlantic rolled between them. and so, no wonder if in the misery of her indecision, janet's words grew fewer and sharper as the days wore on. with strange inconsistency she blamed the minister for his determination to go away, but suffered no one else to blame him, or indeed to hint that he could do otherwise than what was wisest and best for all. it was a sore subject, this anticipated departure of the minister, to many a one in clayton besides her, and much was it discussed by all. but it was a subject on which janet would not be approached. she gave short answers to those who offered their services in the way of advice. she preserved a scornful silence in the presence of those who seemed to think she could forsake her master and his children in their time of need, nor was she better pleased with those who thought her mother might be left for their sakes. and so she thought, and wished, and planned, and doubted, till she dazed herself with her vain efforts to get light, and could think and plan no more. "i'll leave it to my mother herself to decide," she said, at last; "though, poor body, what can she say, but that i maun do what i think is my duty, and please myself. the lord above kens i hae little thought o' pleasin' myself in this matter." and in her perplexity janet was ready to think her case an exception to the general rule, and that contrary to all experience and observation, duty pointed two ways at once. chapter three. the time came when the decision could no longer be delayed. the minister was away from home, and before his return it would be made known formally to his people that he was to leave them, and after that the sooner his departure took place it would be the better for all concerned, and so janet must brace herself for the task. so out of the dimness of her spotless kitchen she came one day into the pleasant light of may, knowing that before she entered it again, she would have made her mother's heart as sore as her own. all day, and for many days, she had been planning what she should say to her mother, for she felt that it must be farewell. "if you know not of two ways which to choose, take that which is roughest and least pleasing to yourself, and the chances are it will be the right one," said she to herself. "i read that in a book once, but it's ill choosing when both are rough, and i know not what to do." out into the brightness of the spring day she came, with many misgivings as to how she was to speed in her errand. "it's a bonny day, bairns," said she, and her eye wandered wistfully down the village street, and over the green fields, to the hills that rose dimly in the distance. the mild air softly fanned her cheek, pleasant sights were round her everywhere, and at the garden gate she lingered, vaguely striving under their influence to cast her burden from her. "i mun hae it ower," she muttered to herself as she went on. in each hand she held firmly the hand of a child. marian and little will were to go with her for safe keeping; the lads were at the school, and in her absence graeme was to keep the house, and take care of little rose. "oh, janet!" she exclaimed, as she went down the lane a bit with them; "i wish i were going with you, it's such a bonny day." but janet knew that what she had to say, would be better said without her presence, so she shook her head. "you know miss graeme, my dear, you mun keep the house, and we would weary carrying wee rosie, and she could never go half the distance on her feet; and mind, if ony leddies call, the short bread is in the ben press, and gin they begin with questions, let your answers be short and ceevil, like a gude bairn, and take gude care o' my bonny wee lily," added she, kissing the pale little girl as she set her down. "but i needna tell you that, and we'll soon be back again." the children chattered merrily all the way, and busy with her own thoughts, janet answered them without knowing what she said. down the lane, and over the burn, through green fields, till the burn crossed their path again they went, "the near way," and soon the solitary cottage in the glen was in sight. it was a very humble home, but very pleasant in its loneliness, janet thought, as her eye fell on it. the cat sat sunning herself on the step, and through the open door came the hum of the mother's busy wheel. drawing a long breath, janet entered. "weel, mother," said she. "weel, janet, is this you, and the bairns? i doubt you hadna weel leavin' hame the day," said her mother. "i had to come, and this day's as good as another. it's a bonny day, mother." "ay, its a bonny day, and a seasonable, thank god. come in by, bairns, i sent sandy over to fernie a while syne. it's near time he were hame again. i'll give you a piece, and you'll go down the glen to meet him," and, well pleased, away they went. "i dare say you'll be none the waur of your tea, janet, woman," said her mother, and she put aside her wheel, and entered with great zeal into her preparations. janet strove to have patience with her burden a little longer, and sat still listening to her mother's talk, asking and answering questions on indifferent subjects. there was no pause. janet had seldom seen her mother so cheerful, and in a little she found herself wondering whether she had not been exaggerating to herself her mother's need of her. "the thought ought to give me pleasure," she reasoned, but it did not, and she accused herself of perversity, in not being able to rejoice, that her mother could easily spare her to the duties she believed claimed her. in the earnestness of her thoughts, she grew silent at last, or answered her mother at random. had she been less occupied, she might have perceived that her mother was not so cheerful as she seemed for many a look of wistful earnestness was fastened on her daughter's face, and now and then a sigh escaped her. they were very much alike in appearances, the mother and daughter. the mother had been "bonnier in her youth, than ever janet had," she used to say herself, and looking at her still ruddy cheeks, and clear grey eyes, it was not difficult to believe it. she was fresh-looking yet, at sixty, and though the hair drawn back under her cap was silvery white, her teeth for strength and beauty, might have been the envy of many a woman of half her years. she was smaller than janet, and her whole appearance indicated the possession of more activity and less strength of body and mind than her daughter had, but the resemblance between them was still striking. she had seen many trials, as who that has lived for sixty years, has not? but she had borne them better than most, and was cheerful and hopeful still. when they were fairly seated, with the little table between them, she startled janet, by coming to the point at once. "and so they say the minister is for awa' to america after all. is that true?" "oh, ay! it is true, as ill news oftenest is," said janet, gravely. "he spoke to me about it before he went away. it's all settled, or will be before he comes hame the morn." "ay, as you say, it's ill news to them that he's leaving. but i hope it may be for the good o' his young family. there's many a one going that road now." "ay, there's more going than will better themselves by the change, i doubt. it's no like that all the fine tales, we hear o' yon country can be true." "as you say. but, it's like the minister has some other dependence, than what's ca'ed about the country for news. what's this i hear about a friend o' his that's done weel there?" janet made a movement of impatience. "wha' should he be, but some silly, book-learned body that bides in a college there awa'. i dare say there would be weel pleased in any country, where he could get plenty o' books, and a house to hold them in. but what can the like o' him ken o' a young family and what's needed for them. if he had but held his peace, and let the minister bide where he is, it would hae been a blessing, i'm sure." janet suddenly paused in confusion, to find herself arguing on the wrong side of the question. her mother said nothing, and in a minute she added,-- "there's one thing to be said for it, the mistress aye thought weel o' the plan. oh! if she had been but spared to them," and she sighed heavily. "you may weel say that," said her mother, echoing her sigh. "but i'm no sure but they would miss her care as much to bide here, as to go there. and janet, woman, there's aye a kind providence. he that said, `leave thy fatherless children to me,' winna forsake the motherless. there's no fear but they'll be brought through." "i hae been saying that to myself ilka hour of the day, and i believe it surely. but oh, mother," janet's voice failed her. she could say no more. "i ken weel, janet," continued her mother, gravely, "it will be a great charge and responsibility to you, and i dare say whiles you are ready to run away from it. but you'll do better for them than any living woman could do. the love you bear them, will give you wisdom to guide them, and when strength is needed, there's no fear but you'll get it. the back is aye fitted for the burden. let them gang or let them bide, you canna leave them now." she turned her face away from her mother, and for her life janet could not have told whether the tears that were streaming down her cheeks, were falling for joy or for sorrow. there was to be no struggle between her and her mother. that was well; but with the feeling of relief the knowledge brought, there came a pang--a foretaste of the home-sickness, which comes once, at least, to every wanderer from his country. by a strong effort she controlled herself, and found voice to say,-- "i shall never leave them while they need me. i could be content to toil for them always. but, ah! mother, the going awa' over the sea--" her voice failed her for a minute, then she added,-- "i hae wakened every mornin' with this verse of jeremiah on my mind: `weep ye not for the dead, neither bemoan him, but weep sore for him that goeth away, for he shall return no more nor see his native country.'" janet made no secret of her tears now. "hoot fie, janet, woman," said her mother, affecting anger to hide far other feelings. "you are misapplyin' scripture altogether. that was spoken o' them that were to be carried away captive for their sins, and no' o' honest folk, followin' the leadings o' providence. if there's ony application it's to me, i'm thinkin'. it's them that bide at hame that are bidden weep sore;" and she seemed much inclined to follow the injunction. she recovered in a minute, however, and added,-- "but i'm no' going to add to your trouble. you dinna need me to tell you i'll have little left when you're awa'. but, if it's your duty to go with them, it canna be your duty to bide with me. you winna lose your reward striving in behalf o' these motherless bairns, and the lord will hae me and sandy in his keeping, i dinna doubt." there was a long silence after this. each knew what the other suffered. there was no need to speak of it, and so they sat without a word; janet, with the quiet tears falling now and then over her cheeks; her mother, grave and firm, giving no outward sign of emotion. each shrunk, for the other's sake, from putting their fears for the future into words; but their thoughts were busy. the mother's heart ached for the great wrench that must sever janet from her child and her home, and janet's heart grew sick with the dread of long weary days and nights her mother might have to pass, with perhaps no daughter's hand to close her eyes at last, till the thoughts of both changed to supplication, fervent though unuttered; and the burden of the prayer of each was, that the other might have strength and peace. the mother spoke first. "when will it be?" "it canna be long now. the sooner the better when once it's really settled. there are folk in the parish no weel pleased at the minister, for thinking to go." "it's for none to say what's right, and what's wrang, in the matter," said the mother, gravely. "i hae nae doubt the lord will go with him; but it will be a drear day for plenty besides me." "he's bent on it. go he will, and i trust it may be for the best," but janet sighed drearily. "and how are the bairns pleased with the prospect?" asked her mother. "ah! they're weel pleased, bairn-like, at any thought o' a change. miss graeme has her doubts, i whiles think, but that shouldna count; there are few things that look joyful to her at the present time. she's ower like her father with her ups and downs. she hasna her mother's cheerful spirit." "her mother's death was an awfu' loss to miss graeme, poor thing," said the mother. "aye, that it was--her that had never kent a trouble but by readin' o' them in printed books. it was an awfu' wakening to her. she has never been the same since, and i doubt it will be long till she has the same light heart again. she tries to fill her mother's place to them all, and when she finds she canna do it, she loses heart and patience with herself. but i hae great hope o' her. she has the `single eye,' and god will guide her. i hae nae fear for miss graeme." and then they spoke of many things--settling their little matters of business, and arranging their plans as quietly as though they looked forward to doing the same thing every month during the future years as they had done during the past. nothing was forgotten or omitted; for janet well knew that all her time and strength would be needed for the preparations that must soon commence, and that no time so good as the present might be found for her own personal arrangements. her little savings were to be lodged in safe hands for her mother's use, and if anything were to happen to her they were to be taken to send sandy over the sea. it was all done very quietly and calmly. i will not say that janet's voice did not falter sometimes, or that no mist came between the mother's eyes and the grave face on the other side of the table. but there was no sign given. a strong sense of duty sustained them. a firm belief that however painful the future might be, they were doing right in this matter, gave them power to look calmly at the sacrifice that must cost them so much. at length the children's voices were heard, and at the sound, janet's heart leaped up with a throb of pain, but in words she gave no utterance to the pang. "weel, sandy, lad, is this you," said she, as with mingled shyness and pleasure the boy came forward at his grandmother's bidding. he was a well-grown and healthy lad, with a frank face, and a thick shock of light curls. there was a happy look in his large blue eyes, and the smile came very naturally to his rather large mouth. to his mother, at the moment, he seemed altogether beautiful, and her heart cried out against the great trial that was before her. sandy stood with his hand in hers, while his grandmother questioned him about the errand on which he had been sent, and she had time to quiet herself. but there was a look on her face as she sat there, gently stroking his fair hair with her hand, that was sad to see. marian saw it with momentary wonder, and then coming up to her, she laid her arm gently over her neck and whispered,-- "sandy is going with us too, janet. there will be plenty of room for us all." "i've been telling menie that i canna leave grannie," said sandy, turning gravely to his mother. "you'll hae norman and harry, and them a', but grannie has none but me." "and wouldna you like to go with us too, sandy, man?" asked his mother, with a pang. "to yon fine country john ferguson tells us about?" said sandy, with sparkling eyes. "that i would, but it wouldna be right to leave grannie, and she says she's ower old to go so far-away--and over the great sea too." "nae, my lad, it wouldna be right to leave grannie by herself, and you'll need to bide here. think aye first of what is right, and there will be no fear of you." "and are you goin' mother?" asked sandy, gravely. "i doubt i'll need to go, sandy lad, with the bairns. but i think less of it, that i can leave you to be a comfort to grannie. i'm sure i needna bid you be a good and obedient laddie to her, when--" it needed a strong effort on her part to restrain the bitter cry of her heart. "and will you never come back again, mother?" "i dinna ken, sandy. maybe no. but that's no' for us to consider. it is present duty we maun think o'. the rest is in the lord's hands." what else could be said? that was the sum. it was duty and the lord would take care of the rest. and so they parted with outward calm; and her mother never knew that that night, janet, sending the children home before her, sat down in the lane, and "grat as if she would never greet mair." and janet never knew, till long years afterwards, how that night, and many a night, sandy woke from the sound sleep of childhood to find his grandmother praying and weeping, to think of the parting that was drawing near. each could be strong to help the other, but alone, in silence and darkness, the poor shrinking heart had no power to cheat itself into the belief that bitter suffering did not lie before it. chapter four. it was worship time, and the bairns had gathered round the table with their books, to wait for their father's coming. it was a fair sight to see, but it was a sad one too, for they were motherless. it was all the more sad, that the bright faces and gay voices told how little they realised the greatness of the loss they had sustained. they were more gay than usual, for the elder brother had come home for the summer, perhaps for always; for the question was being eagerly discussed whether he would go back to the college again, or whether he was to go with the rest to america. arthur, a quiet, handsome lad of sixteen, said little. he was sitting with the sleepy will upon his knee, and only put in a word now and then, when the others grew too loud and eager. he could have set them at rest about it; for he knew that his father had decided to leave him in scotland till his studies were finished at the college. "but there's no use to vex the lads and graeme to-night," he said to himself; and he was right, as he had not quite made up his mind whether he was vexed himself or not. the thought of the great countries on the other side of the globe, and of the possible adventures that might await them there, had charms for him, as for every one of his age and spirit. but he was a sensible lad, and realised in some measure the advantage of such an education as could only be secured by remaining behind, and he knew in his heart that there was reason in what his father had said to him of the danger there was that the voyage and the new scenes in a strange land might unsettle his mind from his books. it cost him something to seem content, even while his father was speaking to him, and he knew well it would grieve the rest to know he was to be left behind, so he would say nothing about it, on this first night of his home-coming. there was one sad face among them; for even arthur's home-coming could not quite chase the shadow that had fallen on graeme since the night a year ago while she sat dreaming her dreams in the firelight. it was only a year or little more, but it might have been three, judging from the change in her. she was taller and paler, and older-looking since then. and yet it was not so much that as something else that so changed her, arthur thought, as he sat watching her. the change had come to her through their great loss, he knew; but he could not have understood, even if it had been told him, how much this had changed life to graeme. he had suffered too more than words could ever tell. many a time his heart had been ready to burst with unspeakable longing for his dead mother's loving presence, her voice, her smile, her gentle chiding, till he could only cast himself down and weep vain tears upon the ground. graeme had borne all this, and what was worse to her, the hourly missing of her mother's counsel and care. not one day of all the year but she had been made to feel the bitterness of their loss; not one day but she had striven to fill her mother's place to her father and them all, and her nightly heartbreak had been to know that she had striven in vain. "as how could it be otherwise than vain," she said often to herself, "so weak, so foolish, so impatient." and yet through all her weakness and impatience, she knew that she must never cease to try to fill her mother's place still. some thought of all this came into arthur's mind, as she sat there leaning her head on one hand, while the other touched from time to time the cradle at her side. never before had he realised how sad it was for them all that they had lost their mother, and how dreary life at home must have been all the year. "poor graeme! and poor wee rosie!" he says to himself, stooping over the cradle. "how old is rosie?" asked he, suddenly. "near three years old," said janet. "she winna be three till august," said graeme in the same breath, and she turned beseeching eyes on janet. for this was becoming a vexed question between them--the guiding of poor wee rosie. janet was a disciplinarian, and ever declared that rosie "should go to her bed like ither folk;" but graeme could never find it in her heart to vex her darling, and so the cradle still stood in the down-stairs parlour for rosie's benefit, and it was the elder sister's nightly task to soothe the fretful little lady to her unwilling slumbers. but graeme had no need to fear discussion to-night. janet's mind was full of other thoughts. one cannot shed oceans of tears and leave no sign; and janet, by no means sure of herself, sat with her face turned from the light, intently gazing on the very small print of the bible in her hand. on common occasions the bairns would not have let janet's silence pass unheeded, but to-night they were busy discussing matters of importance, and except to say now and then, "whist, bairns! your father will be here!" she sat without a word. there was a hush at last, as a step was heard descending the stairs, and in a minute their father entered. it was not fear that quieted them. there was no fear in the frank, eager eyes turned toward him, as he sat down among them. his was a face to win confidence and respect, even at the first glance, so grave and earnest was it, yet withal so gentle and mild. in his children's hearts the sight of it stirred deep love, which grew to reverence as they grew in years. the calm that sat on that high, broad brow, told of conflicts passed, and victory secure, of weary wandering through desert places, over now and scarce remembered in the quiet of the resting-place he had found. his words and deeds, and his chastened views of earthly things told of a deep experience in "that life which is the heritage of the few--that true life of god in the soul with its strange, rich secrets, both of joy and sadness," whose peace the world knoweth not of, which naught beneath the sun can ever more disturb. "the minister is changed--greatly changed." janet had said many times to herself and others during the last few months, and she said it now, as her eye with the others turned on him as he entered. but with the thought there came to-night the consciousness that the change was not such a one as was to be deplored. he had grown older and graver, and more silent than he used to be, but he had grown to something higher, purer, holier than of old, and like a sudden gleam of light breaking through the darkness, there flashed into janet's mind the promise, "all things shall work together for good to them that love god." her lips had often spoken the words before, but now her eyes saw the fulfilment, and her failing faith was strengthened. if that bitter trial, beyond which she had vainly striven to see aught but evil, had indeed wrought good, for her beloved friend and master; need she fear any change or any trial which the future might have in store for her? "it will work for good, this pain and separation," murmured she. "i'm no' like the minister, but frail and foolish, and wilful too whiles, but i humbly hope that i am one of those who love the lord." "well, bairns!" said the father. there was a gentle stir and movement among them, though there was no need, for graeme had already set her father's chair and opened the bible at the place. she pushed aside the cradle a little that he might pass, and he sat down among them. "we'll take a psalm, to-night," said he, after a minute's turning of the leaves from a "namey chapter" in chronicles, the usual place. he chose the forty-sixth. "god is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble. "therefore will not we fear, though the earth be removed, though the mountains be cast into the midst of the sea." and thus on through the next. "he shall choose our inheritance for us, the excellency of jacob, whom he loved." and still on through the next till the last verse,-- "this god is our god for ever and ever. he will be our guide, even unto death," seemed like the triumphant ending of a song of praise. then there was a momentary hush and pause. never since the mother's voice had grown silent in death had the voice of song risen at worship time. they had tried it more than once, and failed in bitter weeping. but janet, fearful that their silence was a sin, had to-night brought the hymn-books which they always used, and laid them at arthur's side. in the silence that followed the reading graeme looked from him to them, but arthur shook his head. he was not sure that his voice would make its way through the lump that had been gathering in his throat while his father read, and he felt that to fail would be dreadful, so there was silence still-- there was a little lingering round the fire after worship was over, but when arthur went quietly away the boys soon followed. graeme would fain have stayed to speak a few words to her father, on this first night of his return. he was sitting gazing into the fire, with a face so grave that his daughter's heart ached for his loneliness. but a peevish voice from the cradle admonished her that she must to her task again, and so with a quiet "good-night, papa," she took her little sister in her arms. up-stairs she went, murmuring tender words to her "wee birdie," her "bonny lammie," her "little gentle dove," more than repaid for all her weariness and care, by the fond nestling of the little head upon her bosom; for her love, which was more a mother's than a sister's, made the burden light. the house was quiet at last. the boys had talked themselves to sleep, and the minister had gone to his study again. this had been one of rosie's "weary nights." the voices of her brothers had wakened her in the parlour, and graeme had a long walk with the fretful child, before she was soothed to sleep again. but she did sleep at last, and just as janet had finished her nightly round, shutting the windows and barring the doors, graeme crept down-stairs, and entered the kitchen. the red embers still glowed on the hearth, but janet was in the very act of "resting the fire" for the night. "oh! janet," said graeme, "put on another peat. i'm cold, and i want to speak to you." "miss graeme! you up at this time o' the night! what ails yon cankered fairy now?" "oh, janet! she's asleep long ago, and i want to speak to you." and before janet could remonstrate, one of the dry peats set ready for the morning fire was thrown on the embers, and soon blazed brightly up. graeme crouched down before it, with her arm over janet's knee. "janet, what did your mother say? and oh! janet, arthur says my father--" turning with a sudden movement, graeme let her head fall on janet's lap, and burst into tears. janet tried to lift her face. "whist! miss graeme! what ails the lassie? it's no' the thought of going awa', surely? you hae kenned this was to be a while syne. you hae little to greet about, if you but kenned it--you, who are going altogether." "janet, arthur is to bide in scotland." "well, it winna be for long. just till he's done at the college. i dare say it is the best thing that can happen him to bide. but who told you?" "arthur told me after we went up-stairs to-night. and, oh! janet! what will i ever do without him?" "miss graeme, my dear! you hae done without him these two years already mostly, and even if we all were to bide in scotland, you would hae to do without him still. he could na' be here and at the college too. and when he's done with that he would hae to go elsewhere. families canna aye bide together. bairns maun part." "but, janet, to go so far and leave him! it will seem almost like death." "but, lassie it's no' death. there's a great difference. and as for seeing him again, that is as the lord wills. anyway, it doesna become you to cast a slight on your father's judgment, as though he had decided unwisely in this matter. do you no' think it will cost him something to part from his first-born son?" "but, janet, why need he part from him? think how much better it would be for him, and for us all, if arthur should go with us. arthur is almost a man." "na, lass. he'll no' hae a man's sense this while yet. and as for his goin' or bidin', it's no' for you or me to seek for the why and the wherefore o' the matter. it might be better--more cheery--for you and us all if your elder brother were with us, but it wouldna be best for him to go, or your father would never leave him, you may be sure o' that." there was a long silence. graeme sat gazing into the dying embers. janet threw on another peat, and a bright blaze sprang up again. "miss graeme, my dear, if it's a wise and right thing for your father to take you all over the sea, the going or the biding o' your elder brother can make no real difference. you must seek to see the rights o' this. if your father hasna him to help him with the bairns and--ither things, the more he'll need you, and you maun hae patience, and strive no' to disappoint him. you hae muckle to be thankful for--you that can write to ane anither like a printed book, to keep ane anither in mind. there's nae fear o' your growin' out o' acquaintance, and he'll soon follow, you may be sure. oh, lassie, lassie! if you could only ken!" graeme raised herself up, and leaned both her arms on janet's lap. "janet, what did your mother say?" janet gulped something down, and said, huskily,-- "oh! she said many a thing, but she made nae wark about it. i told your father i would go, and i will. my mother doesna object." "and sandy?" said graeme, softly, for there was something working in janet's face, which she did not like to see. "sandy will aye hae my mother, and she'll hae sandy. but, lassie, it winna bear speaking about to-night. gang awa' to your bed." graeme rose; but did not go. "but couldna sandy go with us? it would only be one more. surely, janet--" janet made a movement of impatience, or entreaty, graeme did not know which, but it stopped her. "na, na! sandy couldna leave my mother, even if it would be wise for me to take him. there's no more to be said about that." and in spite of herself, janet's tears gushed forth, as mortal eyes had never seen them gush before, since she was a herd lassie on the hills. graeme looked on, hushed and frightened, and in a little, janet quieted herself and wiped her face with her apron. "you see, dear, what with one thing and what with another, i'm weary, and vexed to-night, and no' just myself. matters will look more hopeful, both to you and to me, the morn. there's one thing certain. both you and me hae much to do that maun be done, before we see saut water, without losing time in grumblin' at what canna be helped. what with the bairns' clothes and ither things, we winna need to be idle; so let us awa' to our beds that we may be up betimes the morn." graeme still lingered. "oh, janet! if my mother were only here! how easy it all would be." "ay, lass! i hae said that to myself many a time this while. but he that took her canna do wrong. there was some need for it, or she would hae been here to-night. you maun aye strive to fill her place to them all." graeme's tears flowed forth afresh. "oh, janet! i think you're mocking me when you say that. how could _i_ ever fill her place?" "no' by your ain strength and wisdom surely my lammie. but it would be limiting his grace to say he canna make you all you should be--all that she was, and that is saying muckle; for she was wise far by the common. but now gang awa' to your bed, and dinna forget your good words. there's no fear but you will be in god's keeping wherever you go." janet was right; they had need of all their strength and patience during the next two months. when janet had confidence in herself, she did what was to be done with a will. but she had little skill in making purchases, and less experience, and graeme was little better. many things must be got, and money could not be spent lavishly, and there was no time to lose. but, with the aid of mrs smith and other kind friends, their preparations were got through at last. purchases were made, mending and making of garments were accomplished, and the labour of packing was got through, to their entire satisfaction. the minister said good-bye to each of his people separately, either in the kirk, or in his own home or theirs; but he shrunk from last words, and from the sight of all the sorrowful faces that were sure to gather to see them go; so he went away at night, and stayed with a friend, a few miles on their way. but it was the fairest of summer mornings--the mist just lifting from the hills--and the sweet air filled with the laverock's song, when janet and the bairns looked their last upon their home. chapter five. they found themselves on board the "steadfast" at last. the day of sailing was bright and beautiful, a perfect day for the sea, or the land either; but the wind rose in the night and the rain came on, and a very dreary morning broke on them as the last glimpse of land was fading in the distance. "oh! how dismal!" murmured graeme, as in utter discomfort she seated herself on the damp deck, with her little sister in her arms. all the rest, excepting her father, and not excepting janet, were down with sea-sickness, and even norman and harry had lost heart under its depressing influence. another hour in the close cabin, and graeme felt she must yield too--and then what would become of rose? so into a mist that was almost rain she came, as the day was breaking, and sat down with her little sister upon the deck. for a minute she closed her eyes on the dreariness around, and leaned her head on a hencoop at her side. rose had been fretful and uneasy all night, but now well pleased with the new sights around her, she sat still on her sister's lap. soon the cheerful voice of the captain, startled graeme. "touch and go with you i see, miss elliott. i am afraid you will have to give in like the rest." graeme looked up with a smile that was sickly enough. "not if i can help it," said she. "well, you are a brave lass to think of helping it with a face like that. come and take a quick walk up and down the deck with me. it will do you good. set down the bairn," for graeme was rising with rose in her arms. "no harm will come to her, and you don't look fit to carry yourself. sit you there, my wee fairy, till we come back again. here, ruthven," he called to a young man who was walking up and down on the other side of the deck, "come and try your hand at baby tending. that may be among the work required of you in the backwoods of canada, who knows?" the young man came forward laughing, and graeme submitted to be led away. the little lady left on the deck seemed very much inclined to resent the unceremonious disposal of so important a person, as she was always made to feel herself to be. but she took a look into the face of her new friend and thought better of it. his face was a good one, frank and kindly, and rose suffered herself to be lifted up and placed upon his knee, and when graeme came back again, after a brisk walk of fifteen minutes, she found the little one, usually so fretful and "ill to do with," laughing merrily in the stranger's arms. she would have taken her, but rose was pleased to stay. "you are the very first stranger that ever she was willing to go to," said she, gratefully. looking up, she did not wonder at rosie's fancy for the face that smiled down upon her. "i ought to feel myself highly honoured," said he. "i think we'll give him the benefit of little missy's preference," said captain armstrong, who had been watching graeme with a little amused anxiety since her walk was ended. the colour that the exercise had given her was fast fading from her face, till her very lips grew white with the deadly sickness that was coming over her. "you had best go to the cabin a wee while. you must give up, i think," said he. graeme rose languidly. "yes, i'm afraid so. come rosie." "leave the little one with me," said mr ruthven. and that was the last graeme saw of rosie for the next twelve hours, for she was not to escape the misery that had fallen so heavily upon the rest, and very wearily the day passed. it passed, however, at last, and the next, which was calm and bright as heart could wish, saw them all on deck again. they came with dizzy heads and uncertain steps it is true, but the sea air soon brought colour to their cheeks, and strength to their limbs, and their sea life fairly began. but alas! for janet. the third day, and the tenth found her still in her berth, altogether unable to stand up against the power that held her. in vain she struggled against it. the "steadfast's" slightest motion was sufficient to overpower her quite, till at last she made no effort to rise, but lay there, disgusted with herself and all the world. on the calmest and fairest days they would prevail on her to be helped up to the deck, and there amid shawls and pillows she would sit, enduring one degree less of misery than she did in the close cabin below. "it was just a judgment upon her," she said, "to let her see what a poor conceited body she was. she, that had been making muckle o' herself, as though the lord couldna take care o' the bairns without her help." it was not sufficient to be told hourly that the children were well and happy, or to see it with her own eyes. this aggravated her trouble. "useless body that i am." and janet did not wait for a sight of a strange land, to begin to pine for the land she had left, and what with sea-sickness and home-sickness together, she had very little hope that she would ever see land of any kind again. the lads and marian enjoyed six weeks of perfect happiness. graeme and their father at first were in constant fear of their getting into danger. it would only have provoked disobedience had all sorts of climbing been forbidden, for the temptation to try to outdo each other in their imitation of the sailors, was quite irresistible; and not a rope in the rigging, nor a corner in the ship, but they were familiar with before the first few days were over. "and, indeed, they were wonderfully preserved, the foolish lads," their father acknowledged, and grew content about them at last. before me lies the journal of the voyage, faithfully kept in a big book given by arthur for the purpose. a full and complete history of the six weeks might be written from it, but i forbear. norman or harry, in language obscurely nautical, notes daily the longitude or the latitude, and the knots they make an hour. there are notices of whales, seen in the distance, and of shoals of porpoises seen near at hand. there are stories given which they have heard in the forecastle, and hints of practical jokes and tricks played on one another. the history of each sailor in the ship is given, from "handsome frank, the first yankee, and the best-singer" the boys ever saw, to father abraham, the dutchman, "with short legs and shorter temper." graeme writes often, and daily bewails janet's continued illness, and rejoices over "wee rosie's" improved health and temper. with her account of the boys and their doings, she mingles emphatic wishes "that they had more sense," but on the whole they are satisfactory. she has much to say of the books she has been reading--"a good many of sir walter scott's that papa does not object to," lent by allan ruthven. there are hints of discussions with him about the books, too; and graeme declares she "has no patience" with allan. for his favourites in sir walter's books are seldom those who are persecuted for righteousness' sake; and there are allusions to battles fought with him in behalf of the good name of the old puritans--men whom graeme delights to honour. but on the whole it is to be seen, that allan is a favourite with her and with them all. the beautiful bay of boston was reached at last, and with an interest that cannot be told, the little party--including the restored janet-- regarded the city to which they were drawing near. their ideas of what they were to see first in the new world had been rather indefinite and vague. far more familiar with the early history of new england--with such scenes as the landing of the pilgrims, and the departure of roger williams to a still more distant wilderness, than with the history of modern advance, it was certainly not such a city they had expected to see. but they gazed with ever increasing delight, as they drew nearer and nearer to it through the beautiful bay. "and this is the wonderful new world, that promises so much to us all," said allan. "they have left unstained what there they found. freedom to worship god," murmured graeme, softly. "i'm sure i shall like the american people." but allan was taking to heart the thought of parting from them all, more than was at all reasonable, he said to himself, and he could not answer her with a jest as he might at another time. "you must write and tell me about your new home," said he. "yes--the boys will write; we will all write. i can hardly believe that six weeks ago we had never seen you. oh! i wish you were going with us," said graeme. "allan will see arthur when he comes. arthur will want to see all the country," said norman. "and maybe he will like the queen's dominions best, and wish to settle there," said allan. "oh! but we shall see you long before arthur comes," said graeme. "is it very far to canada?" "i don't know--not very far, i suppose. i don't feel half so hopeful now that i am about to know what my fate is to be. i have a great dread on me. i have a mind not to go to my uncle at all, but seek my fortune here." "but your mother wouldna be pleased," said graeme, gravely. "no. she has great hopes of what my uncle may do for me. but it would be more agreeable to me not to be confined to one course. i should like to look about me a little, before i get fairly into the treadmill of business." in her heart graeme thought it an excellent thing for allan that he had his uncle to go to. she had her own ideas about young people's looking about them, with nothing particular to do, and quite agreed with janet and dr watts as to the work likely to be found for them to do. but she thought it would be very nice for them all, if instead of setting off at once for canada, allan might have gone with them for a little while. before she could say this, however, janet spoke. "ay, that's bairn-like, though you hae a man's stature. i dare say you would think it a braw thing to be at naebody's bidding; but, my lad, it's ae' thing to hae a friend's house, and a welcome waiting you in a strange land like this, and it's anither thing to sit solitary in a bare lodging, even though you may hae liberty to come and go at your ain will. if you're like the lads that i ken' maist about, you'll be none the worse of a little wholesome restraint. be thankful for your mercies." allan laughed good-humouredly. "but really, mrs nasmyth, you are too hard on me. just think what a country this is. think of the mountains, and rivers and lakes, and of all these wonderful forests and prairies that norman reads about, and is it strange that i should grudge myself to a dull counting-room, with all these things to enjoy? it is not the thought of the restraint that troubles me. i only fear i shall become too soon content with the routine, till i forget how to enjoy anything but the making and counting of money. i am sure anything would be better than to come to that." "you'll hae many things between you and the like o' that, if you do your duty. you have them you are going to, and them you hae left--your mother and brother. and though you had none o' them, you could aye find some poor body to be kind to, to keep your heart soft. are you to bide in your uncle's house?" "i don't know. mrs peter stone, that was home last year, told us that my uncle lives in the country, and his clerks live in the town anywhere they like. i shall do as the rest do i suppose. all the better--i shall be the more able to do what i like with my leisure." "ay, it's aye liberty that the like o' you delight in. weel, see that you make a good use of it, that's the chief thing. read your bible and gang to the kirk, and there's no fear o' you. and dinna forget to write to your mother. she's had many a weary thought about you 'ere this time, i'll warrant." "i daresay i shall be content enough. but it seems like parting from home again, to think of leaving you all. my bonnie wee rosie, what shall i ever do without you?" said allan, caressing the little one who had clambered on his knee. "and what shall we do without you?" exclaimed a chorus of voices; and norman added,-- "what is the use of your going all the way to canada, when there's enough for you to do here. come with us, allan, man, and never mind your uncle." "and what will you do for him, in case he should give his uncle up for you?" demanded janet, sharply. "oh! he'll get just what we'll get ourselves, a chance to make his own way, and i doubt whether he'll get more where he's going. i've no faith in rich uncles." allan laughed. "thank you, norman, lad. i must go to canada first, however, whether i stay there or not. maybe you will see me again, sooner than i think now. surely, in the great town before us, there might be found work, and a place for me." far-away before them, stretched the twinkling lights of the town, and silence fell upon them as they watched them. in another day they would be among the thousands who lived, and laboured, and suffered in it. what awaited them there? not that they feared the future, or doubted a welcome. indeed, they were too young to think much of possible evils. a new life was opening before them, no fear but it would be a happy one. graeme had seen more trouble than the rest, being older, and she was naturally less hopeful, but then she had no fear for them all, only the thought that they were about to enter on a new, untried life, made her excited and anxious, and the thought of parting with their friend made her sad. as for janet, she was herself again. her courage returned when the sea-sickness departed, and now she was ready "to put a stout heart to a stiff brae" as of old. "disjaskit looking" she was, and not so strong as she used to be, but she was as active as ever, and more than thankful to be able to keep her feet again. "she had been busy all the morning," overhauling the belongings of the family, preparatory to landing, much to the discomfort of all concerned. all the morning graeme had submitted with a passably good grace to her cross-questionings as to the "guiding" of this and that, while she had been unable to give personal supervision to family matters. thankful to see her at her post again, graeme tried to make apparent her own good management of matters in general, during the voyage, but she was only partially successful. there were far more rents and stains, and soiled garments, than janet considered at all necessary, and besides many familiar articles of wearing apparel were missing, after due search made. in vain graeme begged her never to mind just now. they were in the big blue chest, or the little brown one, she couldna just mind where she had put them, but of course they would be found, when all the boxes were opened. "maybe no," said janet. "there are some long fingers, i doubt, in the steerage yonder. miss graeme, my dear, we would need to be carefu'. if i'm no' mistaken, i saw one o' norman's spotted handkerchiefs about the neck o' yon lang johnny heeman, and yon little irish lassie ga'ed past me the day, with a pinafore very like one o' menie's. i maun ha' a look at it again." "oh, janet! never mind. i gave wee norah the pinafore, and the old brown frock besides. she had much need of them. and poor johnny came on board on the pilot boat you ken, and he hadna a change, and norman gave him the handkerchief and an old waistcoat of papa's,--and--" janet's hands were uplifted in consternation. "keep's and guide's lassie--that i should say such a word. your papa hadna an old waistcoat in his possession. what for did you do the like o' that? the like o' norman or menie might be excused, but you that i thought had some sense and discretion. your father's waistcoat! heard anybody ever the like? you may be thankful that you hae somebody that kens the value of good clothes, to take care of you and them--" "oh! i'm thankful as you could wish," said graeme, laughing. "i would rather see you sitting there, in the midst of those clothes, than to see the queen on her throne. i confess to the waistcoat, and some other things, but mind, i'm responsible no longer. i resign my office of general caretaker to you. success to you," and graeme made for the cabin stairs. she turned again, however. "never heed, janet, about the things. think what it must be to have no change, and we had so many. poor wee norah, too. her mother's dead you ken, and she looked so miserable." janet was pacified. "weel, miss graeme, i'll no' heed. but my dear, it's no' like we'll find good clothes growing upon trees in this land, more than in our own. and we had need to be careful. i wonder where a' the strippet pillow slips can be? i see far more of the fine ones dirty than were needed, if you had been careful, and guarded them." but graeme was out of hearing before she came to this. they landed at last, and a very dreary landing it was. they had waited for hours, till the clouds should exhaust themselves, but the rain was still falling when they left the ship. eager and excited, the whole party were, but not after the anticipated fashion. graeme was surprised, and a little mortified, to find no particular emotions swelling at her heart, as her feet touched the soil which the puritans had rendered sacred. indeed, she was too painfully conscious, that the sacred soil was putting her shoes and frock in jeopardy, and had too much trouble to keep the umbrella over marian and herself, to be able to give any thanks to the sufferings of the pilgrim fathers, or mothers either. mr elliott had been on shore in the morning, and had engaged rooms for them in a quiet street, and thither allan ruthven, carrying little rose, was to conduct them, while he attended to the proper bestowment of their baggage. this duty janet fain would have shared with him. her reverence for the minister, and his many excellencies, did not imply entire confidence in his capacity, for that sort of business, and when he directed her to go with the bairns, it was with many misgivings that she obeyed. indeed, as the loaded cart took its departure in another direction, she expressed herself morally certain, that they had seen the last of it, for she fully believed that, "yon sharp-looking lad could carry it off from beneath the minister's nose." dread of more distant evils was, however, driven from her thoughts by present necessities. the din and bustle of the crowded wharf, would have been sufficient to "daze" the sober-minded country-woman, without the charge of little will, and unnumbered bundles, and the two "daft laddies forby." on their part, norman and harry scorned the idea of being taken care of, and loaded with baskets and other movables, made their way through the crowd, in a manner that astonished the bewildered janet. "bide a wee, norman, man. harry, you daft laddie, where are you going? now dinna throw awa' good pennies for such green trash." for harry had made a descent on a fruit stall, and his pockets were turned inside out in a twinkling. "saw ever anybody such cheatry," exclaimed janet, as the dark lady pocketed the coins with a grin, quite unmindful of her expostulations. "harry lad, a fool and his money is soon parted. and look! see here, you hae set down the basket in the dubs, and your sister's bed gowns will be all wet. man! hae you no sense?" "nae muckle, i doubt, janet," said harry, with an exaggerated gesture of humility and penitence, turning the basket upside down, to ascertain the extent of the mischief. "it's awfu' like scotch dubs, now isn't it? never mind, i'll give it a wash at the next pump, and it 'ill he none the worse. give me will's hand, and i'll take care of him." "take care o' yourself, and leave will with me. but, dear me, where's mr allan?" for their escort had disappeared, and she stood alone, with the baskets and the boys in the rainy street. before her consternation had reached a climax, however, ruthven reappeared, having safely bestowed the others in their lodgings. like a discreet lad, as janet was inclined to consider him, he possessed himself of will, and some of the bundles, and led the way. at the door stood the girls, anxiously looking out for them. if their hostess had, at first, some doubt as to the sanity of her new lodgers, there was little wonder. such a confusion of tongues her american ears had not heard before. graeme condoled with will, who was both wet and weary. janet searched for missing bundles, and bewailed things in general. marian was engaged in a friendly scuffle for an apple, and allan was tossing rosie up to the ceiling, while norman, perched on the bannisters high above them all, waved his left hand, bidding farewell, with many words, to an imaginary scotland, while with his right he beckoned to the "brave new world" which was to be the scene of his wonderful achievements and triumphs. the next day rose bright and beautiful. mr elliott had gone to stay with his friend mr caldwell, and janet was over head and ears in a general "sorting" of things, and made no objections when it was proposed that the boys and graeme should go out with allan ruthven to see the town. it is doubtful whether there was ever so much of boston seen in one day before, without the aid of a carriage and pair. it was a day never to be forgotten by the children. the enjoyment was not quite unmixed to graeme, for she was in constant fear of losing some of them. harry was lost sight of for a while, but turned up again with a chapter of adventures at his finger ends for their amusement. the crowning enjoyment of the day was the treat given by allan ruthven on their way home. they were very warm and tired, and hungry too, and the low, cool room down some steps into which they were taken, was delightful. there was never such fruit--there were never such cakes as these that were set before them. as for the ice cream, it was-- inexpressible. in describing the feast afterwards, marian could never get beyond the ice cream. she was always at a loss for adjectives to describe it. it was like the manna that the children of israel had in the wilderness, she thought, and surely they ought to have been content with it. graeme was the only one who did not enjoy it thoroughly. she had an idea that there were not very many guineas left in allan's purse, and she felt bound to remonstrate with him because of his extravagance. "never mind, graeme, dear," said norman; "allan winna have a chance to treat us to manna this while again; and when i am mayor of boston, i'll give him manna and quails too." they came home tired, but they had a merry evening. even graeme "unbent," as harry said, and joined in the mirth; and janet had enough to do to reason them into quietness when bed-time came. "one would think when mr allan is going away in the morning, you might have the grace to seem sorry, and let us have a while's peace," said she. if the night was merry, the morning farewells were sad indeed, and long, long did they wait in vain for tidings of allan ruthven. chapter six. "but where's the town?" the bairns were standing on the highest step of the meeting-house, gazing with eyes full of wonder and delight on the scene before them. the meeting-house stood on a high hill, and beyond a wide sloping field at the foot of the hill, lay merleville pond, like a mirror in a frame of silver and gold. beyond, and on either side, were hills rising behind hills, the most distant covered with great forest trees, "the trees under which the red indians used to wander," graeme whispered. there were trees on the nearer hills too, sugaries, and thick pine groves, and a circle of them round the margin of the pond. over all the great magician of the season had waved his wand, and decked them in colours dazzling to the eyes accustomed to the grey rocks and purple heather, and to the russet garb of autumn in their native land. there were farm-houses too, and the scattered houses along the village street looking white and fair beneath crimson maples and yellow beech-trees. above hung a sky undimmed by a single cloud, and the air was keen, yet mild with the october sunshine. they could not have had a lovelier time for the first glimpse of their new home, yet there was an echo of disappointment in harry's voice as he asked,-- "where's the town?" they had been greatly impressed by the description given them of merleville by mr sampson snow, in whose great wagon they had been conveyed over the twenty miles of country roads that lay between the railway and their new home. "i was the first white child born in the town," said sampson. "i know every foot of it as well as i do my own barn, and i don't want no better place to live in than merleville. it don't lack but a fraction of being ten miles square. right in the centre, perhaps a _leetle_ south, there's about the prettiest pond you ever saw. there are some first-rate farms there, mine is one of them, but in general the town is better calculated for pasturage than tillage. i shouldn't wonder but it would be quite a manufacturing place too after a spell, when they've used up all the other water privileges in the state. there's quite a fall in the merle river, just before it runs into the pond. we've got a fullin'-mill and a grist-mill on it now. they'd think everything of it in your country." "there's just one meetin'-house in it. that's where your pa'll preach if our folks conclude to hire him a spell. the land's about all taken up, though it hain't reached the highest point of cultivation yet. the town is set off into nine school-districts, and i consider that our privileges are first-rate. and if it's nutting and squirrel-hunting you're after, boys, all you have to do is to apply to uncle sampson, and he'll arrange your business for you." "ten miles square and nine school-districts!" boston could be nothing to it, surely, the boys thought. the inconsistency of talking about pasturage and tillage, nutting and squirrel-hunting in the populous place which they imagined merleville to be, did not strike them. this was literally their first glimpse of merleville, for the rain had kept them within doors, and the mist had hidden all things the day before and now they looked a little anxiously for the city they had pictured to themselves. "but norman! harry! i think this is far better than a town," said marian, eagerly. "eh, graeme, isna yon a bonny water?" "ay, it's grand," said graeme. "norman, this is far better than a town." the people were beginning to gather to service by this time; but the children were too eager and too busy to heed them for a while. with an interest that was half wonder, half delight, graeme gazed to the hills and the water and the lovely sky. it might be the "bonny day"--the mild air and the sunshine, and the new fair scene before her, or it might be the knowledge that after much care, and many perils, they were all safe together in this quiet place where they were to find a home; she scarce knew what it was, but her heart felt strangely light, and lips and eyes smiled as she stood there holding one of marian's hands in hers, while the other wandered through the curls of will's golden hair. she did not speak for a long time; but the others were not so quiet, but whispered to each other, and pointed out the objects that pleased them most. "yon's merle river, i suppose, where we see the water glancing through the trees." "and yonder is the kirkyard," said marian, gravely. "it's no' a bonny place." "it's bare and lonely looking," said harry. "they should have yew trees and ivy and a high wall, like where mamma is," said marian. "but this is a new country; things are different here," said norman. "but surely they might have trees." "and look, there are cows in it. the gate is broken. it's a pity." "look at yon road that goes round the water, and then up between the hills through the wood. that's bonny, i'm sure." "and there's a white house, just where the road goes out of sight. i would like to live there." "yes, there are many trees about it, and another house on this side." and so they talked on, till a familiar voice accosted them. their friend mr snow was standing beside them, holding a pretty, but delicate little girl, by the hand. he had been watching them for some time. "well how do you like the looks of things?" "it's bonny here," said marian. "where's the town?" asked harry, promptly. mr snow made a motion with his head, intended to indicate the scene before them. "lacks a fraction of being ten miles square." "it's all trees," said little will. "wooden country, eh, my little man?" "country! yes, it's more like the country than like a town," said harry. "well, yes. on this side of the water, we can afford to have our towns, as big as some folks' countries," said mr snow, gravely. "but it's like no town i ever saw," said norman. "there are no streets, no shops, no market, no anything that makes a town." "there's freedom on them hills," said mr snow, waving his hand with an air. during the journey the other day, mr snow and the lads had discussed many things together; among the rest, the institutions of their respective countries, and mr snow had, as he expressed it, "set their british blood to bilin'," by hints about "aristocracy", "despotism," and so on. "he never had had such a good time," he said, afterwards. they were a little fiery, but first-rate smart boys, and as good natured as kittens, and he meant to see to them. he meant to amuse himself with them too, it seemed. the boys fired up at once, and a hot answer was only arrested on their lips, by the timely interference of graeme. "whist, norman. harry, mind it is the sabbath-day, and look yonder is papa coming up with judge merle," and turning smilingly to mr snow, she added, "we like the place very much. it's beautiful everywhere. it's far bonnier than a town. i'm glad there's no town, and so are the boys, though they were disappointed at first." "no town?" repeated mr snow. but there was no time for explanations. their father had reached the steps, and the children were replying to the greeting of the judge. judge merle, was in the opinion of the majority, the greatest man in merleville, if not in the country. the children had made his acquaintance on saturday. he had brought them with his own hands, through the rain, a pail of sweet milk, and another of hominy, a circumstance which gave them a high idea of his kindness of heart, but which sadly overturned all their preconceived notions with regard to the dignity of his office. janet, who looked on the whole thing as a proper tribute of respect to the minister, augured well from it, what he might expect in his new parish, and congratulated herself accordingly. the children were glad to see him, among the many strangers around them, and when mr snow gave him a familiar nod, and a "morning judge," graeme felt a little inclined, to resent the familiarity. the judge did not resent it, however. on the contrary, when mr snow, nodding sideways toward the minister, said, "he guessed the folks would get about fitted this time," he nodded as familiarly back, and said, "he shouldn't wonder if they did." there are no such churches built in new england now, as that into which the minister and his children were led by the judge. it was very large and high, and full of windows. it was the brilliant light that struck the children first, accustomed as they had been to associate with the sabbath worship, the dimness of their father's little chapel in clayton. norman the mathematician was immediately seized with a perverse desire to count the panes, and scandalised graeme by communicating to her the result of his calculation, just as her father rose up to begin. how many people there were in the high square pews, and in the galleries, and even in the narrow aisles. so many, that graeme not dreaming of the quiet nooks hidden among the hills she had thought so beautiful, wondered where they all could come from. keen, intelligent faces, many of them were, that turned toward the minister as he rose; a little hard and fixed, perhaps, those of the men, and far too delicate, and care-worn, those of the women, but earnest, thoughtful faces, many of them were, and kindly withal. afterwards--years and years afterwards, when the bairns had to shut their eyes to recall their father's face, as it gleamed down upon them from that strange high pulpit, the old people used to talk to them of this first sermon in merleville. there was a charm in the scottish accent, and in the earnest manner of the minister, which won upon these people wonderfully. it was heart speaking to heart, an earnest, loving, human heart, that had sinned and had been forgiven, that had suffered and had been comforted; one who, through all, had by god's grace struggled upwards, speaking to men of like passions and necessities. he spoke as one whom god had given a right to warn, to counsel, to console. he spoke as one who must give account, and his hearers listened earnestly. so earnestly that deacon fish forgot to hear for deacon slowcome, and deacon slowcome forgot to hear for people generally. deacon sterne who seldom forgot anything which he believed to be his duty, failed for once to prove the orthodoxy of the doctrine by comparing it with his own, and received it as it fell from the minister's lips, as the very word of god. "he means just as he says," said mr snow to young mr greenleaf, as he overtook him in going home that afternoon. "he wasn't talking just because it was his business to. when he was a telling us what mighty things the grace of god can do, he believed it himself, i guess." "they all do, don't they?" said mr greenleaf. "well, i don't know. they all say they do. but there's deacon fish now," said mr snow, nodding to that worthy, as his wagon whirled past, "he don't begin to think that grace or anything else, could make _me_ such a good man as he is." mr greenleaf laughed. "if the vote of the town was taken, i guess it would be decided that grace wouldn't have a great deal to do." "well, the town would make a mistake. deacon fish ain't to brag of for goodness, i don't think; but he's a sight better than i be. but see here, squire, don't you think the new minister'll about fit?" "he'll fit _me_," said the squire. "it is easy to see that he is not a common man. but he won't fit the folks here, or they won't fit him. it would be too good luck if he were to stay here." "well, i don't know about that. there are folks enough in the town that know what's good when they hear it, and i guess they'll keep him if they can. and i guess he'll stay. he seems to like the look of things. he is a dreadful mild-spoken man, and i guess he won't want much in the way of pay. i guess you had better shell out some yourself, squire. _i_ mean to." "you are a rich man, mr snow. you can afford it." "come now, squire, that's good. i've worked harder for every dollar i've got, than you've done for any ten you ever earned." the squire shook his head. "you don't understand my kind of work, or you wouldn't say so. but about the minister? if i were to pledge myself to any amount for his support, i should feel just as though i were in a measure responsible for the right arrangement of all things with regard to his salary, and the paying of it. anything i have to do with, i want to have go right along without any trouble, and unless merleville folks do differently than they have so far, it won't be so in this matter." "yes, i shouldn't wonder if there would be a hitch before long. but i guess you'd better think before you say no. i guess it'll pay in the long run." "thank you, mr snow. i'll take your advice and think of it," said mr greenleaf, as sampson stopped at his own gate. he watched him going up the hill. "he's goin' along up to the widow jones' now, i'll bet. i shouldn't wonder if he was a goin' to lose me my chance of getting her place. it kind o' seems as though i ought to have it; it fits on so nice to mine. and they say old skinflint is going to foreclose right off. i'll have to make things fit pretty tight this winter, if i have to raise the cash. but it does seem as if i ought to have it. maybe it's celestia the squire wants, and not the farm." he came back to close the gate which, in his earnestness, he had forgotten, and leaned for a moment over it. "well, now, it does beat all. here have i been forgetting all about what i have heard over yonder to the meeting-house. deacon sterne needn't waste no more words, to prove total depravity to me. i've got to know it pretty well by this time;" and, with a sigh, he turned toward the house. chapter seven. the next week was a busy one to all. mr elliott, during that time, took up his residence at judge merle's, only making daily visits to the little brown house behind the elms where janet and the bairns were putting things to rights. there was a great deal to be done, but it was lovely weather, and all were in excellent spirits, and each did something to help. the lads broke sticks and carried water, and janet's mammoth washing was accomplished in an incredibly short time; and before the week was over the little brown house began to look like a home. a great deal besides was accomplished this week. it was not all devoted to helping, by the boys. norman caught three squirrels in a trap of his own invention, and harry shot as many with mr snow's wonderful rifle. they and marian had made the circuit of the pond, over rocks, through bushes and brambles, over brooks, or through them, as the case might be. they came home tired enough, and in a state which naturally suggested thoughts of another mammoth washing, but in high spirits with their trip, only regretting that graeme and janet had not been with them. it was saturday night, after a very busy week, and janet had her own ideas about the enjoyment of such a ramble, and was not a little put out with them for "their thoughtless ruining of their clothes and shoon." but the minister had come home, and there was but a thin partition between the room that must serve him for study and parlour, and the general room for the family, and they got off with a slight reprimand, much to their surprise and delight. for to tell the truth, janet's patience with the bairns, exhaustless in most circumstances, was wont to give way in the presence of "torn clothes and ruined shoon." the next week was hardly so successful. it was cold and rainy. the gold and crimson glories of the forest disappeared in a night, and the earth looked gloomy and sad under a leaden sky. the inconveniences of the little brown house became more apparent now. it had been declared, at first sight, the very worst house in merleville, and so it was, even under a clear sky and brilliant sunshine. a wretched place it looked. the windows clattered, the chimney smoked, latches and hinges were defective, and there were a score of other evils, which janet and the lads strove to remedy without vexing their father and graeme. a very poor place it was, and small and inconvenient besides. but this could not be cured, and therefore must be endured. the house occupied by mr elliott's predecessor had been burned down, and the little brown house was the only unoccupied house in the village. when winter should be over something might be done about getting another, and in the meantime they must make the best of it. the people were wonderfully kind. one man came to mend windows and doors, another to mend the chimney. orrin green spent two days in banking up the house. deacons fish and slowcome sent their men to bring up wood; and apples and chickens, and pieces of beef were sent in by some of the village people. there were some drawbacks. the wood was green, and made more smoke than heat; and janet mortally offended mr green by giving him his dinner alone in the kitchen. every latch and hinge, and pane of glass, and the driving of every nail, was charged and deducted from the half year's salary, at prices which made janet's indignation overflow. this latter circumstance was not known, however, till the half year was done; and in the meantime it helped them all through this dreary time to find their new friends so kind. in the course of time, things were put to rights, and the little bare place began to look wonderfully comfortable. with warm carpets on the floors, and warm curtains on the windows, with stools and sofas, and tables made out of packing boxes, disguised in various ways, it began to have a look of home to them all. the rain and the clouds passed away, too, and the last part of november was a long and lovely indian-summer. then the explorations of the boys were renewed with delight. graeme and rosie and will went with the rest, and even janet was beguiled into a nutting excursion one afternoon. she enjoyed it, too, and voluntarily confessed it. it was a fair view to look over the pond and the village lying so quietly in the valley, with the kirk looking down upon it from above. it was a fine country, nobody could deny; but janet's eyes were sad enough as she gazed, and her voice shook as she said it, for the thought of home was strong at her heart. in this month they made themselves thoroughly acquainted with the geography of the place, and with the kindly inmates of many a farm-house besides. and a happy month it was for them all. one night they watched the sun set between red and wavering clouds, and the next day woke to behold "the beauty and mystery of the snow." far-away to the highest hill-top; down to the very verge of pond and brook; on every bush, and tree, and knoll, and over every silent valley, lay the white garment of winter. how strange! how wonderful! it seemed to their unaccustomed eyes. "it 'minds me of white grave-clothes," said marian, with a shudder. "whist, menie," said her sister. "it makes me think, of how full the air will be of bonnie white angels at the resurrection-day. just watch the flakes floating so quietly in the air." "but, graeme, the angels will be going up, and--" "well, one can hardly tell by looking at them, whether the snow-flakes are coming down or going up, they float about so silently. they mind me of beautiful and peaceful things." "but, graeme, it looks cold and dreary, and all the bonnie flowers are covered in the dark." "menie! there are no flowers to be covered now, and the earth is weary with her summer work, and will rest and sleep under the bonnie white snow. and, dear, you mustna think of dreary things when you look out upon the snow, for it will be a long time before we see the green grass and the bonnie flowers again," and graeme sighed. but it was with a shout of delight that the boys plunged headlong into it, rolling and tumbling and tossing it at one another in a way that was "perfect ruination to their clothes;" and yet janet had not the heart to forbid it. it was a holiday of a new kind to them; and their enjoyment was crowned and completed when, in the afternoon, mr snow came down with his box-sleigh and his two handsome greys to give them a sleigh-ride. there was room for them all, and for mr snow's little emily, and for half a dozen besides had they been there; so, well wrapped up with blankets and buffalo-robes, away they went. was there ever anything so delightful, so exhilarating? even graeme laughed and clapped her hands, and the greys flew over the ground, and passed every sleigh and sledge on the road. "the bonnie creatures!" she exclaimed; and mr snow, who loved his greys, and was proud of them, took the oft repeated exclamation as a compliment to himself, and drove in a way to show his favourites to the best advantage. away they went, up hill and down, through the village and over the bridge, past the mill to the woods, where the tall hemlocks and cedars stood dressed in white "like brides." marian had no thought of sorrowful things in her heart now. they came home again the other way, past judge merle's and the school-house, singing and laughing in a way that made the sober-minded boys and girls of merleville, to whom sleigh-riding was no novelty, turn round in astonishment as they passed. the people in the store, and the people in the blacksmith's shop, and even the old ladies in their warm kitchens, opened the door and looked out to see the cause of the pleasant uproar. all were merry, and all gave voice to their mirth except mr snow's little emily, and she was too full of astonishment at the others to think of saying anything herself. but none of them enjoyed the ride more than she, though it was not her first by many. none of them all remembered it so well, or spoke of it so often. it was the beginning of sleigh-riding to them, but it was the beginning of a new life to little emily. "isna she a queer little creature?" whispered harry to graeme, as her great black eyes turned from one to another, full of grave wonder. "she's a bonnie little creature," said graeme, caressing the little hand that had found its way to hers, "and good, too, i'm sure." "grandma don't think so," said the child, gravely. "no!" exclaimed harry. "what bad things do you do?" "i drop stitches and look out of the window, and i hate to pick over beans." harry whistled. "what an awful wee sinner! and does your grandma punish you ever? does she whip you?" the child's black eyes flashed. "she daren't. father wouldn't let her. she gives me stints, and sends me to bed." "the turk!" exclaimed harry. "run away from her, and come and bide with us." "hush, harry," said graeme, softly, "grandma is mr snow's mother." there was a pause. in a little emily spoke for the first time of her own accord. "there are no children at our house," said she. "poor wee lammie, and you are lonely sometimes," said graeme. "yes; when father's gone and mother's sick. then there's nobody but grandma." "have you a doll?" asked menie. "no: i have a kitten, though." "ah! you must come and play with my doll. she is a perfect beauty, and her name is flora macdonald." menie's doll had become much more valuable in her estimation since she had created such a sensation among the little merleville girls. "will you come? mr snow," she said, climbing upon the front seat which norman shared with the driver, "won't you let your little girl come and see my doll?" "well, yes; i guess so. if she's half as pretty as you are, she is well worth seeing." menie was down again in a minute. "yes, you may come, he says. and bring your kitten, and we'll play all day. graeme lets us, and doesna send us to bed. will you like to come?" "yes," said the child, quickly, but as gravely as ever. they stopped at the little brown house at last, with a shout that brought their father and janet out to see. all sprang lightly down. little emily stayed alone in the sleigh. "is this your little girl, mr snow?" said mr elliott, taking the child's hand in his. emily looked in his face as gravely and quietly as she had been looking at the children all the afternoon. "yes; she's your marian's age, and looks a little like her, too. don't you think so mrs nasmyth?" janet, thus appealed to, looked kindly at the child. "she might, if she had any flesh on her bones," said she. "well, she don't look ragged, that's a fact," said her father. the cold, which had brought the roses to the cheeks of the little elliotts, had given emily a blue, pinched look, which it made her father's heart ache to see. "the bairn's cold. let her come in and warm herself," said janet, promptly. there was a chorus of entreaties from the children. "well, i don't know as i ought to wait. my horses don't like to stand much," said mr snow. "never mind waiting. if it's too far for us to take her home, you can come down for her in the evening." emily looked at her father wistfully. "would you like to stay, dear?" asked he. "yes, sir." and she was lifted out of the sleigh by janet, and carried into the house, and kissed before she was set down. "i'll be along down after dark, sometime," said mr snow, as he drove away. little emily had never heard so much noise, at least so much pleasant noise, before. mr elliott sat down beside the bright wood fire in the kitchen, with marian on one knee and the little stranger on the other, and listened to the exclamations of one and all about the sleigh-ride. "and hae you nothing to say, my bonnie wee lassie?" said he pushing back the soft, brown hair from the little grave face. "what is your name, little one?" "emily snow arnold," answered she, promptly. "emily arnold snow," said menie, laughing. "no; emily snow arnold. grandma says i am not father's own little girl. my father is dead." she looked grave, and so did the rest. "but it is just the same. he loves you." "oh, yes!" there was a bright look in the eyes for once. "and you love him all the same?" "oh, yes." so it was. sampson snow, with love enough in his heart for half a dozen children, had none of his own, and it was all lavished on this child of his wife, and she loved him dearly. but they did not have "good times" up at their house the little girl confided to graeme. "mother is sick most of the time, and grandma is cross always; and, if it wasn't for father, i don't know what we _should_ do." indeed, they did not have good times. old mrs snow had always been strong and healthy, altogether unconscious of "nerves," and she could have no sympathy and very little pity for his son's sickly wife. she had never liked her, even when she was a girl, and her girlhood was past, and she had been a sorrowful widow before her son brought her home as his wife. so old mrs snow kept her place at the head of the household, and was hard on everybody, but more especially on her son's wife and her little girl. if there had been children, she might have been different; but she almost resented her son's warm affection for his little step-daughter. at any rate she was determined that little emily should be brought up as children used to be brought up when _she_ was young, and not spoiled by over-indulgence as her mother had been; and the process was not a pleasant one to any of them, and "good times" were few and far between at their house. her acquaintance with the minister's children was the beginning of a new life to emily. her father opened his eyes with astonishment when he came into janet's bright kitchen that night and heard his little girl laughing and clapping her hands as merrily as any of them. if anything had been needed to deepen his interest in them all, their kindness to the child would have done it; and from that day the minister, and his children, and mrs nasmyth, too, had a firm and true friend in mr snow. chapter eight. from the time of their arrival, the minister and his family excited great curiosity and interest among the good people of merleville. the minister himself, as mr snow told mrs nasmyth, was "popular." not, however, that any one among them all thought him faultless, unless mr snow himself did. every old lady in the town saw something in him, which she not secretly deplored. indeed, they were more unanimous, with regard to the minister's faults, than old ladies generally are on important subjects. the matter was dispassionately discussed at several successive sewing-circles, and when mrs page, summing up the evidence, solemnly declared, "that though the minister was a good man, and a good preacher, he lacked considerable in some things which go to make a man a good pastor," there was scarcely a dissenting voice. mrs merle had ventured to hint that, "they could not expect everything in one man," but her voice went for nothing, as one of the minister's offences was, having been several times in at the judge's, while he sinfully neglected others of his flock. "it's handy by," ventured mrs merle, again. but the judge's wife was no match for the blacksmith's lady, and it was agreed by all, that whatever else the minister might be, he was "no hand at visiting." true he had divided the town into districts, for the purpose of regularly meeting the people, and it was his custom to announce from the pulpit, the neighbourhood in which, on certain days, he might be expected. but that of course, was a formal matter, and not at all like the affectionate intercourse that ought to exist between a pastor and his people. "he might preach like paul," said mrs page, "but unless on week days he watered the seed sown, with a word in season, the harvest would never be gathered in. the minister's face ought to be a familiar sight in every household, or the youth would never be brought into the fold," and the lady sighed, at the case of the youth, scattered over the ten miles square of merleville. the minister was not sinning in ignorance either, for she herself, had told him his duty in this respect. "and what did he say?" asked some one. "oh! he didn't say much, but i could see that his conscience wasn't easy. however, there has been no improvement yet," she added, with grave severity. "he hain't got a horse, and i've heard say, that deacon fish charges him six cents a mile for his horse and cutter, whenever he has it. he couldn't afford to ride round much at that rate, on five hundred dollars a year." this bold speech was ventured by miss rebecca pettimore, mrs captain liscome's help, who took turns with that lady, in attending the sewing-circle. but it was well known, that she was always "on the off side," and mrs page deigned no reply. there was a moment's silence. "eli heard mr snow say so, in page's shop yesterday," added rebecca, who always gave her authority, when she repeated an item of news. mrs fish took her up sharply. "sampson snow had better let the minister have his horse and cutter, if he can afford to do it for nothing. mr fish can't." "my goodness, mis' fish, i wouldn't have said a word, if i'd thought you were here," said rebecca, with an embarrassed laugh. "mr snow often drives the minister, and thinks himself well paid, just to have a talk with him," said a pretty black-eyed girl, trying to cover rebecca's retreat. but rebecca wouldn't retreat. "i didn't mean any offence, mis' fish, and if it ain't so about the deacon, you can say so now, before it goes farther." but it was not to be contradicted, and that mrs fish well knew, though what business it was of anybody's, and why the minister, who seemed to be well off, shouldn't pay for the use of a horse and cutter, she couldn't understand. the subject was changed by mrs slowcome. "he must have piles and piles of old sermons. it don't seem as though he needs to spend as much time in his study, as mrs nasmyth tells about." here there was a murmur of dissent. would sermons made for the british, be such as to suit free-born american citizens? the children of the puritans? the prevailing feeling was against such a supposition. "old or new, i like them," said celestia jones, the pretty black-eyed girl, who had spoken before. "and so do others, who are better judges than i." "squire greenleaf, i suppose," said ruby fox, in a loud whisper. "he was up there last sunday night; she has been aching to tell it all the afternoon." celestia's black eyes flashed fire at the speaker, and the sly ruby said no more. indeed, there was no more said about the sermons, for that they were something for the merleville people to be proud of, all agreed. mr elliott's preaching had filled the old meeting-house. people who had never been regular churchgoers came now; some from out of the town, even. young squire greenleaf, who seemed to have the prospect of succeeding judge merle, as the great man of merleville, had brought over the judges from rixford, and they had dined at the minister's, and had come to church on sunday. young squire greenleaf was a triumph of himself. he had never been at meeting "much, if any," since he had completed his legal studies. if he ever did go, it was to the episcopal church at rixford, which, to the liberal mrs page, looked considerably like coquetting with the scarlet woman. now, he hardly ever lost a sunday, besides going sometimes to conference meetings, and making frequent visits to the minister's house. having put all these things together, and considered the matter, mrs page came to the conclusion, that the squire was not in so hopeless a condition as she had been wont to suppose, a fact which, on this occasion, she took the opportunity of rejoicing over. the rest rejoiced too. there was a murmur of dissent from miss pettimore, but it passed unnoticed, as usual. there was a gleam which looked a little like scorn, in the black eyes of miss celestia, which said more plainly than miss pettimore's words could have done, that the squire was better now, than the most in merleville, but like a wise young person as she was, she expended all her scornful glances on the shirt sleeve she was making, and said nothing. the minister was then allowed to rest a little while, and the other members of the family were discussed, with equal interest. upon the whole, the conclusion arrived at was pretty favourable. but mrs page and her friends were not quite satisfied with graeme. as the minister's eldest daughter, and "serious," they were disposed to overlook her youthfulness, and give her a prominent place in their circle. but graeme hung back, and would not be prevailed upon to take such honour to herself, and so some said she was proud, and some said she was only shy. but she was kindly dealt with, even by mrs page, for her loving care of the rest of the children had won for her the love of many a motherly heart among these kind people. and she was after all but a child, little more than fifteen. there were numberless stories afloat about the boys,--their mirth, their mischief, their good scholarship, their respect and obedience to their father, which it was not beneath the dignity of the ladies assembled to repeat and discuss. the boys had visited faithfully through the parish, if their father had not, and almost everywhere they had won for themselves a welcome. it is true, there had been one or two rather serious scrapes, in which they had involved themselves, and other lads of the village; but kind-hearted people forgot the mischief sooner than the mirth, and norman and harry were very popular among old and young. but the wonder of wonders, the riddle that none could read, the anomaly in merleville society was janet, or mrs nasmyth, as she was generally called. in refusing one of the many invitations which she had shared with the minister and graeme, she had thought fit to give society in general a piece of her mind. she was, she said, the minister's servant, and kenned her place better than to offer to take her tea with him in any strange house; she was obliged for the invitation all the same. "servant!" echoed mrs sterne's help, who was staying to pass the evening, while her mistress went home, "to see about supper." and, "servant!" echoed the young lady who assisted mrs merle in her household affairs. "i'll let them see that i think myself just as good as queen victoria, if i do live out," said another dignified auxiliary. "she must be a dreadful mean-spirited creature." "why, they do say she'll brush them great boys' shoes. i saw her myself, through the study-door, pull off mr elliott's boots as humble as could be." "to see that little girl pouring tea when there's company, and mrs nasmyth not sitting down. it's ridiculous." "i wouldn't do so for the president!" "well, they seem to think everything of her," said miss pettimore, speaking for the first time in this connection. "why, yes, she does just what she has a mind to about house. and the way them children hang about her, and fuss over her, i never see. they tell her everything, and these boys mind her, as they do their father." "and if any one comes to pay his minister's tax, it's always, `ask mrs nasmyth,' or, `mrs nasmyth will tell you.'" "they couldn't get along without her. if i was her i'd show them that i was as good as them, and no servant." "she's used to it. she's been brought up so. but now that she's got here, i should think she'd be sick of it." "i suppose `servant' there, means pretty much what `help' does here. there don't seem to be difference enough to talk about," said rebecca. "i see considerable difference," said mrs merle's young lady. "it beats all," said another. yes, it did beat all. it was incomprehensible to these dignified people, how janet could openly acknowledge herself a servant, and yet retain her self-respect. and that "mrs nasmyth thought considerable of herself," many of the curious ladies of merleville had occasion to know. the relations existing between her and "the bairns," could not easily be understood. she acknowledged herself their servant, yet she reproved them when they deserved it, and that sharply. she enforced obedience to all rules, and governed in all household matters, none seeking to dispute her right. they went to her at all times with their troubles and their pleasures, and she sympathised with them, advised them, or consoled them, as the case might need. that they were as the very apple of her eye, was evident to all, and that they loved her dearly, and respected her entirely, none could fail to see. there were stories going about in the village to prove that she had a sharp tongue in her head, and this her warmest friends did not seek to deny. of course, it was the duty of all the female part of the congregation to visit at the minister's house, and to give such advice and assistance, with regard to the arrangements, as might seem to be required of them. it is possible they took more interest in the matter than if there had been a mistress in the house. "more liberties," janet indignantly declared, and after the first visitation or two she resolutely set her face against what she called the answering of impertinent questions. according to her own confession, she gave to several of them, whose interest in their affairs was expressed without due discretion, a "downsetting," and graeme and the boys, and even mr elliott, had an idea that a downsetting from janet must be something serious. it is true her victims' ignorance of the scottish tongue must have taken the edge a little off her sharp words, but there was no mistaking her indignant testimony, as regarding "upsettin' bodies," and "meddlesome bodies," that bestowed too much time on their neighbours' affairs, and there was some indignation felt and expressed on the subject. but she had her friends, and that not a few, for sweet words and soft came very naturally to janet's lips when her heart was touched, and this always happened to her in the presence of suffering and sorrow, and many were the sad and sick that her kind words comforted, and her willing hands relieved. for every sharp word brought up against her, there could be told a kindly deed, and janet's friends were the most numerous at the sewing-circle that night. merleville was by no means on the outskirts of civilisation, though viewed from the high hill on which the old meeting-house stood, it seemed to the children to be surrounded with woods. but between the hills lay many a fertile valley. except toward the west, where the hills became mountains, it was laid out into farms, nearly all of which were occupied, and very pleasant homes some of these farm-houses were. the village was not large enough to have a society within itself independent of the dwellers on these farms, and all the people, even to the borders of the "ten miles square," considered themselves neighbours. they were very socially inclined, for the most part, and merleville was a very pleasant place to live in. winter was the time for visiting. there was very little formality in their entertainments. nuts and apples, or doughnuts and cheese, was usually the extent of their efforts in the way of refreshments, except on special occasions, when formal invitations were given. then, it must be confessed, the chief aim of each housekeeper seemed to be to surpass all others in the excellence and variety of the good things provided. but for the most part no invitations were given or needed, they dropped in on one another in a friendly way. the minister's family were not overlooked. scarcely an evening passed but some of their neighbours came in. indeed, this happened too frequently for janet's patience, for she sorely begrudged the time taken from the minister's books, to the entertainment of "ilka idle body that took leave to come in." it gave her great delight to see him really interested with visitors, but she set her face against his being troubled at all hours on every day in the week. "if it's anything particular i'll tell the minister you're here," she used to say; "but he bade the bairns be quiet, and i doubt he wouldna like to be disturbed. sit down a minute, and i'll speak to miss graeme, and i dare say the minister will be at leisure shortly." generally the visitor, by no means displeased, sat down in her bright kitchen for a chat with her and the children. it was partly these evening visits that won for mrs nasmyth her popularity. even in her gloomy days--and she had some days gloomy enough about this time--she would exert herself on such an occasion, and with the help of the young people the visitor was generally well entertained. such singing of songs, such telling of tales, such discussions as were carried on in the pleasant firelight! there was no such thing as time lagging there, and often the nine o'clock worship came before the visitor was aware. even judge merle and young squire greenleaf were sometimes detained in the kitchen, if they happened to come in on a night when the minister was more than usually engaged. "for you see, sir," said she, on one occasion, "what with ae thing and what with anither, the minister has had so many interruptions this week already, that i dinna like to disturb him. but if you'll sit down here for a minute or two, i daresay he'll be ben and i'll speak to miss graeme." "mr elliott seems a close student," said the judge, as he took the offered seat by the fire. "ay, is he. though if you are like the lave o' the folk, you'll think no more o' him for that. folk o' my country judge o' a minister by the time he spends in his study; but here he seems hardly to be thought to be in the way of his duty, unless he's ca'ing about from house to house, hearkening to ilka auld wife's tale." "but," said the judge, much amused, "the minister has been studying all his life. it seems as though he might draw on old stores now." "ay, but out o' the old stores he must bring new matter. the minister's no one that puts his people off with `cauld kail het again,' and he canna make sermons and rin here and there at the same time." "and he can't attend to visitors and make sermons at the same time. that would be to the point at present," said the judge, laughing, "i think i'll be going." "'deed, no, sir," said janet, earnestly, "i didna mean you. i'm aye glad to see you or any sensible person to converse with the minister. it cheers him. but this week it's been worse than ever. he has hardly had an unbroken hour. but sit still, sir. he would be ill-pleased if you went away without seeing him." "i'll speak to papa, judge merle," said graeme. "never mind, my dear. come and speak to me yourself. i think mrs nasmyth is right. the minister ought not to be disturbed. i have nothing particular to say to him. i came because it's a pleasure to come, and i did not think about its being so near the end of the week." graeme looked rather anxiously from him to janet. "my dear, you needna trouble yourself. it's no' folk like the judge and young mr greenleaf that will be likely to take umbrage at being kept waiting a wee while here. it's folk like the 'smith yonder, or orrin green, the upsettin' body. but you can go in now and see if your papa's at leisure, and tell him the judge is here." "we had mr greenleaf here awhile the ither night," she continued, as graeme disappeared. "a nice, pleasant spoken gentleman he is, an no' ae bit o' a yankee." the judge opened his eyes. it was rather an equivocal compliment, considering the person to whom she spoke. but he was not one of the kind to take offence, as janet justly said. chapter nine. other favourites of mrs nasmyth's were mr snow and the schoolmaster, and the secret of her interest in them was their interest in the bairns, and their visits were made as often to the kitchen as to the study. mr snow had been their friend from the very first. he had made good his promise as to nutting and squirrel-hunting. he had taught them to skate, and given them their first sleigh-ride; he had helped them in the making of sleds, and never came down to the village but with his pockets full of rosy apples to the little ones. they made many a day pleasant for his little girl, both at his house and theirs; and he thought nothing too much to do for those who were kind to emily. janet's kind heart had been touched, and her unfailing energies exercised in behalf of mr snow's melancholy, nervous wife. in upon the monotony of her life she had burst like a ray of wintry sunshine into her room, brightening it to at least a momentary cheerfulness. during a long and tedious illness, from which she had suffered, soon after the minister's arrival in merleville, janet had watched with her a good many nights, and the only visit which the partially-restored invalid made during the winter which stirred so much pleasant life among them, was at the minister's, where she was wonderfully cheered by the kindness of them all. but it was seldom that she could be prevailed upon to leave her warm room in wintry weather, and sampson's visits were made alone, or in company with little emily. the schoolmaster, mr isaac newton foster, came often, partly because he liked the lads, and partly because of his fondness for mathematics. the night of his visit was always honoured by the light of an extra candle, for his appearance was the signal for the bringing forth of slates and books, and it was wonderful what pleasure they all got together from the mysterious figures and symbols, of which they never seemed to grow weary. graeme, from being interested in the progress of her brothers, soon became interested in their studies for their own sake, and mr foster had not a more docile or successful pupil than she became. janet had her doubts about her "taking up with books that were fit only for _laddies_," but mr foster proved, with many words, that her ideas were altogether old-fashioned on the subject, and as the minister did not object, and graeme herself had great delight in it, she made no objections. her first opinion on the schoolmaster had been that he was a well-meaning, harmless lad, and it was given in a tone which said plainer than words, that little more could be put forth in his favour. but by and by, as she watched him, and saw the influence for good which he exerted over the lads, keeping them from mischief, and really interesting them in their studies, she came to have a great respect for mr foster. but all the evenings when mr foster was with them were not given up to lessons. when, as sometimes happened, mr snow or mr greenleaf came in, something much more exciting took the place of algebra. mr greenleaf was not usually the chief speaker on such occasions, but he had the faculty of making the rest speak, and having engaged the lads, and sometimes even graeme and janet, in the discussion of some exciting question, often the comparative merits of the institutions of their respective countries, he would leave the burden of the argument to the willing mr foster, while he assumed the position of audience, or put in a word now and then, as the occasion seemed to require. they seldom lost their tempers when he was there, as they sometimes did on less favoured occasions. for janet and janet's bairns were prompt to do battle where the honour of their country was concerned, and though mr foster was good nature itself, he sometimes offended. he could not conscientiously withhold the superior light which he owed to his birth and education in a land of liberty, if he might dispel the darkness of old-world prejudice in which his friends were enveloped. mr snow was ready too with his hints about "despotism" and "aristocracy," and on such occasions the lads never failed to throw themselves headlong into the thick of the battle, with a fierce desire to demolish things in general, and yankee institutions in particular. it is to be feared the disputants were not always very consistent in the arguments they used; but their earnestness made up for their bad logic, and the hot words spoken on both sides were never remembered when the morrow came. a chance word of the master's had set them all at it, one night when mr snow came in; and books and slates were forgotten in the eagerness of the dispute. the lads were in danger of forgetting the respect due to mr foster, as their teacher, at such times; but he was slow to resent it, and mr snow's silent laughter testified to his enjoyment of this particular occasion. the strife was getting warm when mr greenleaf's knock was heard. norman was in the act of hurling some hundred thousands of black slaves at the schoolmaster's devoted head, while mr foster strove hard to shield himself by holding up "britain's wretched operatives and starving poor." "come along, squire," said mr snow. "we want you to settle this little difficulty. mrs nasmyth ain't going to let you into the study just now, at least she wouldn't let me. the minister's busy to-night." mr greenleaf, nothing loth, sat down and drew marian to his knee. neither norman nor mr foster was so eager to go on as mr snow was to have them; but after a little judicious stirring up on his part, they were soon in "full blast," as he whispered to his friend. the discussion was about slavery this time, and need not be given. it was not confined to norman and mr foster. all the rest had something to say; even janet joined when she thought a side thrust would be of use. but norman was the chief speaker on his side. the subject had been discussed in the village school lyceum, and norman had distinguished himself there; not exactly by the clearness or the strength of his arguments--certainly not by their originality. but he thundered forth the lines beginning "i would not have a slave," etcetera, to the intense delight of his side, and to at least the momentary discomfiture of the other. to-night he was neither very logical nor very reasonable, and mr foster complained at last. "but, norman, you don't keep to the point." "talks all round the lot," said mr snow. "i'm afraid that is not confined to norman," said mr greenleaf. "norman is right, anyway," pronounced menie. "he reasons in a circle," said the master. "and because slavery is the only flaw in--" "the only flaw!" said norman, with awful irony. "well, yes," interposed mr snow. "but we have had enough of the constitution for to-night. let's look at our country. _it_ can't be beaten any way you take it. physically or morally," pursued he, with great gravity, "it can't be beaten. there are no such mountains, rivers, nor lakes as ours are. our laws and our institutions generally are just about what they ought to see. even foreigners see that, and prove it, by coming to share our privileges. where will you find such a general diffusion of knowledge among all classes? classes? there is only one class. all are free and equal." "folk thinking themselves equal doesna make them equal," said mrs nasmyth, to whom the last remark had been addressed. "for my part, i never saw pride--really to call pride--till i saw it in this fine country o' yours--ilka ane thinking himself as good as his neighbour." "well--so they be. liberty and equality is our ticket." "but ye're no' a' equal. there's as muckle difference among folks here as elsewhere, whatever be your ticket. there are folk coming and going here, that in my country i would hate sent round to the back door; but naething short of the company of the minister himself will serve them. gentlemen like the judge, or like mr greenleaf here, will sit and bide the minister's time; but upsettin' bodies such as i could name--" "well, i wouldn't name them, i guess. general principles are best in such a case," said mr snow. "and i am willing to confess there is among us an aristocracy of merit. your friend the judge belongs to that and your father, miss graeme; and i expect squire greenleaf will, too, when he goes to congress. but no man is great here just because his father was before him. everybody has a chance. now, on your side of the water, `a man must be just what his father was.' folks must stay just there. that's a fact." "you seem to be weel informed," said janet drily. "ah! yes; i know all about it. anybody may know anything and everything in this country. we're a great people. ain't that so, mr foster?" "it must be granted by all unprejudiced minds, that britain has produced some great men," said mr foster, breaking out in a new spot as mr snow whispered to the squire. "surely that would be granting too much," said norman. "but," pursued mr foster, "britons themselves confess that it is on this western continent that the anglo-saxon race is destined to triumph. descended from britons, a new element has entered into their blood, which shall--which must--which--" "sounds considerable like the glorious fourth, don't it?" whispered mr snow. "which hasna put muckle flesh on their bones as yet," said the literal mrs nasmyth. "i was about to say that--that--" "that the british can lick all creation, and we can lick the british," said mr snow. "any crisis involving a trial of strength, would prove our superiority," said mr foster, taking a new start. "that's been proved already," said mr snow, watching the sparkle in graeme's eye. she laughed merrily. "no, mr snow. they may fight it out without me to-night." "i am glad you are growing prudent. mrs nasmyth, you wouldn't believe how angry she was with me one night." "angry!" repeated graeme. "ask celestia." "well, i guess i shouldn't have much chance between celestia and you. but i said then, and i say now, you'll make a first-rate yankee girl yourself before seven years." "a yankee!" repeated her brothers. "a yankee," echoed menie. "hush, menie. mr snow is laughing at us," said graeme. "i would rather be just a little scotch lassie, than a yankee queen," said menie, firmly. there was a laugh, and menie was indignant at her brothers for joining. "you mean a president's wife. we don't allow queens here--in this free country," said mr snow. "but it is dreadful that you should hate us so," said the squire. "i like you, and the judge. and i like mrs merle." "and is that all?" asked mr snow, solemnly. "i like emily. and i like you when you don't vex graeme." "and who else?" asked mr greenleaf. "i like celestia. she's nice, and doesna ask questions. and so does graeme. and janet says that celestia is a lady. don't you like her?" asked menie, thinking her friend unresponsive. "you seem to be good at asking questions yourself, menie, my woman," interposed mrs nasmyth. "i doubt you should be in your bed by this time." but mr snow caused a diversion from anything so melancholy. "and don't cousin celestia like me?" asked he. "yes; she said you were a good friend of hers; but is she your cousin?" "well, not exactly--we're not very near cousins. but i see to her some, and mean to. i like her." the study-door opened, and there was no time for an answer from any one; but as mr snow went up the hill he said to himself: "yes, i shall see to her. she is smart enough and good enough for him if he does expect to go to congress." chapter ten. "i like the wood fires," said graeme. "they are far clearer than the peat fires at home." they were sitting, graeme and janet, according to their usual custom, a little after the others had all gone to bed. the study-door was closed, though the light still gleamed beneath it; but it was getting late, and the minister would not be out again. graeme might well admire such a wood fire as that before which they were sitting: the fore-stick had nearly burned through, and the brands had fallen over the andirons, but the great back-log glowed with light and heat, though only now and then a bright blaze leapt up. it was not very warm in the room, however, except for their faces, and graeme shivered a little as she drew nearer to the fire, and hardly heeding that janet did not answer her, fell to dreaming in the firelight. without, the rude march winds were roaring, and within, too, for that matter. for though carpets, and curtains, and listings nailed over seams might keep out the bitter frost when the air was still, the east winds of march swept in through every crack and crevice, chilling them to the bone. it roared wildly among the boughs of the great elms in the yard, and the tall well-sweep creaked, and the bucket swung to and fro with a noise that came through graeme's dream and disturbed it at last. looking up suddenly she became aware that the gloom that had been gathering over janet for many a day hung darkly round her now. she drew near to her, and laying her arms down on her lap in the old fashion, said softly: "the winter's near over now, janet." "ay, thank the lord for that, any way," said janet. she knew that graeme's words and movement were an invitation to tell her thoughts, so she bent forward to collect the scattered brands and settle the fore-stick, for she felt that her thoughts were not of the kind to bear telling to graeme or to any one. as she gathered them together between the andirons, she sighed a sigh of mingled sorrow and impatience. and the light that leapt suddenly up made the cloud on her brow more visible. for the winter that had been so full of enjoyment to all the rest had been a time of trial to janet. to the young people, the winter had brought numberless pleasures. the lads had gone to the school, where they were busy and happy, and the little ones had been busy and happy at home. none had enjoyed the winter more than graeme. the change had been altogether beneficial to rose; and never since their mother's death had the elder sister been so much at ease about her. there was little to be done in the way of making or mending, and, with leisure at her disposal, she was falling into her old habits of reading and dreaming. she had been busy teaching the little ones, too, and at night worked with her brothers at their lessons, so that the winter had been profitable as well as pleasant to her. at all times in his study, amid the silent friends that had become so dear to him, mr elliott could be content; and in his efforts to become acquainted with his people, their wants and tastes, he had been roused to something like the cheerfulness of former years. but to janet the winter had been a time of conflict, a long struggle with unseen enemies; and as she sat there in the dim firelight, she was telling herself sorrowfully that she would be worsted by them at last. home-sickness, blind and unreasoning, had taken possession of her. night by night she had lain down with the dull pain gnawing at her heart. morning by morning she had risen sick with the inappeasable yearning for her home, a longing that would not be stilled, to walk again through familiar scenes, to look again on familiar faces. the first letters from home, so longed for by all, so welcomed and rejoiced over by the rest, brought little comfort to her. arthur's letters to his father and graeme, so clear and full of all they wished to hear about, "so like a printed book," made it all the harder for her to bear her disappointment over sandy's obscure, ill-spelt and indifferently-written letter. she had of old justly prided herself on sandy's "hand o' write;" but she had yet to learn the difference between a school-boy's writing, with a copper-plate setting at the head of the page, and that which must be the result of a first encounter with the combined difficulties of writing, spelling and composition. poor sandy! he had laboured hard, doubtless, and had done his best, but it was not satisfactory. in wishing to be minute, he had become mysterious, and, to the same end, the impartial distribution through all parts of the letter of capitals, commas and full stops, had also tended. there was a large sheet closely written, and out of the whole but two clear ideas could be gathered! mr more of the parish school was dead, and they were to have a new master, and that mrs smith had changed her mind, and he was not to be at saughless for the winter after all. there were other troubles too, that janet had to bear alone. the cold, that served to brace the others, chilled her to the bone. unaccustomed to any greater variation of temperature than might be very well met by the putting on or taking off of her plaid, the bitter cold of the new england winter, as she went out and in about her work, was felt keenly by her. she could not resist it, nor guard herself against it. stove-heat was unbearable to her. an hour spent in mrs snow's hot room often made her unfit for anything for hours after; and sleigh-riding, which never failed to excite the children to the highest spirits, was as fatal to her comfort as the pitching of the "steadfast" had been. to say that she was disappointed with herself in view of all this, is, by no means, saying enough. she was angry at her folly, and called herself "silly body" and "useless body," striving with all her might to throw the burden from her. then, again, with only a few exceptions, she did not like the people. they were, in her opinion, at the same time, extravagant and penurious, proud and mean, ignorant, yet wise "above what is written," self-satisfied and curious. the fact was, her ideas of things in general were disarranged by the state of affairs in merleville. she never could make out "who was somebody and who was naebody;" and what made the matter more mysterious, they did not seem to know themselves. mrs judge merle had made her first visit to the minister's in company with the wife of the village blacksmith, and if there was a lady between them mrs page evidently believed it to be herself. mrs merle was a nice motherly body, that sat on her seat and behaved herself, while mrs page went hither and thither, opening doors and spying fairlies, speiring about things she had no concern with, like an ill-bred woman as she is; and passing her remarks on the minister and the preaching, as if she were a judge. both of them had invited her to visit them very kindly, no doubt; but janet had no satisfaction in this or in anything that concerned them. she was out of her element. things were quite different from anything she had been used with. she grew depressed and doubtful of herself, and no wonder that a gloom was gathering over her. some thought of all this came into graeme's mind, as she sat watching her while she gathered together the brands with unsteady hands, and with the thought came a little remorse. she had been thinking little of janet and her trials all these days she had been passing so pleasantly with her books, in the corner of her father's study. she blamed herself for her thoughtlessness, and resolved that it should not be so in future. in the mean time, it seemed as though she must say something to chase the shadow from the kind face. but she did not know what to say. janet set down the tongs, and raised herself with a sigh. graeme drew nearer. "what is it, janet?" asked she, laying her hand caressingly on hers. "winna you tell me?" janet gave a startled look into her face. "what is what, my dear?" "something is vexing you, and you winna tell me," said graeme, reproachfully. "hoot, lassie! what should ail me. i'm weel enough." "you are wearying for a letter, maybe. but it's hardly time yet, janet." "i'm no wearyin' the night more than usual. and if i got a letter, it mightna give me muckle comfort." "then something ails you, and you winna tell me," said graeme again, in a grieved voice. "my dear, i hae naething to tell." "is it me, janet? hae i done anything? you ken i wouldna willingly do wrong?" pleaded graeme. janet put her fingers over the girl's lips. "whist, my lammie. it's naething--or naething that can be helpit," and she struggled fiercely to keep back the flood that was swelling in her full heart. graeme said nothing, but stroked the toil-worn hand of her friend, and at last laid her cheek down upon it. "lassie, lassie! i canna help it," and the long pent up flood gushed forth, and the tears fell on graeme's bent head like rain. graeme neither moved nor spoke, but she prayed in her heart that god would comfort her friend in her unknown sorrow; and by the first words she spoke she knew that she was comforted. "i am an auld fule, i believe, or a spoiled bairn, that doesna ken it's ain mind, and i think i'm growing waur ilka day," and she paused to wipe the tears from her face. "but what is it, janet?" asked graeme, softly. "it's naething, dear, naething that i can tell to mortal. i dinna ken what has come ower me. it's just as if a giant had a gripe o' me, and move i canna. but surely i'll be set free in time." there was nothing graeme could say to this; but she laid her cheek down on janet's hand again, and there were tears upon it. "now dinna do that, miss graeme," cried janet, struggling with another wave of the returning flood. "what will come o' us if you give way. there's naething ails me but that i'm an auld fule, and i canna help that, you ken." "janet, it was an awful sacrifice you made, to leave your mother and sandy to come with us. i never thought till to-night how great it must have been." "ay, lassie. i'll no deny it, but dinna think that i grudge it now. it wasna made in a right sperit, and that the lord is showing me. i thought you couldna do without me." "we couldna, janet." "and i aye thought if i could be of any use to your father and your father's bairns, and could see them contented, and well in a strange land, that would be enough for me. and i hae gotten my wish. you're a' weel, and weel contented, and my heart is lying in my breast as heavy as lead, and no strength of mine can lift the burden. god help me." "god will help you," said graeme, softly. "it is the sore home-sickness, like the captives by babel stream. but the lord never brought you here in anger, and, janet, it will pass away." "weel, it may be. that's what my mother said, or something like it. he means to let me see that you can do without me. but i'll bide still awhile, anyway." graeme's face was fall of dismay. "janet! what could we ever do without you?" "oh, you could learn. but i'm not going to leave you yet. the giant shallna master me with my will. but, oh! lassie, whiles i think the lord has turned against me for my self-seeking and pride." "but, janet," said graeme, gravely, "the lord never turns against his own people. and if anybody in the world is free from self-seeking it is you. it is for us you are living, and not for yourself." janet shook her head. "and, janet, when the bonny spring days come, the giant will let you go. the weight will be lifted off, i'm sure it will. and, janet, about sandy--. you may be sure o' him. if you had been there to guide him, he might have been wilful, and have gone astray, like others. but now the lord will have him in his keeping, for, janet, if ever a fatherless child was left to the lord, you left sandy for our sakes, and he will never forsake him--never, _never_!" janet's tears were falling softly now, like the bright drops after the tempest is over, and the bow of promise is about to span the heavens. "and, janet, we all love you dearly." graeme had risen, and put her arms round her neck by this time. "sometimes the boys are rough, and don't seem to care, but they do care; and i'm thoughtless, too, and careless," she added, humbly, "but i was that with my mother, whiles, and you ken i loved her dearly." and the cry of pain that came with the words, told how dearly her mother was remembered still. janet held her close. "and, janet, you must 'mind me of things, as my mother used to do. when i get a book, you ken i forget things, and you winna let me do wrong for my mother's sake. we have no mother, janet, and what could we do without you? and all this pain will pass away, and you will grow light-hearted again." and so it was. the worst was over after that night. much more was said before they separated, and graeme realised, for the first time, some of the discomforts of their present way of living, as far as janet was concerned. housekeeping affairs had been left altogether in her hands, and everything was so different from all that she had been accustomed to, and she was slow to learn new ways. the produce system was a great embarrassment to her. this getting "a pickle meal" from one, and "a corn tawties" from another, she could not endure. it was "living from hand to mouth" at best, to say nothing of the uncomfortable doubts now and then, as to whether the articles brought were intended as presents, or as the payment of the "minister's tax," as the least delicate among the people called it. "and, my dear, i just wish your father would get a settlement with them, and we would begin again, and put aething down in a book. for i hae my doubts as to how we are to make the two ends meet. things mount up you ken, and we maun try and guide things." graeme looked grave. "i wonder what my father thinks," said she. janet shook her head. "we mauna trouble your father if we can help it. the last minister they had had enough ado to live, they say, and he had fewer bairns. i'm no' feared but we'll be provided for. and, miss graeme, my dear, you'll need to begin and keep an account again." janet's voice had the old cheerful echo in it by this time, and graeme promised, with good heart, to do all she could to keep her father's mind easy, and the household accounts straight. weeks passed on, and even before the bonny spring days had come, the giant had let janet go, and she was her own cheerful self again. the letter that harry brought in with a shout before march was over, was a very different letter from the one that had caused janet to shed such tears of disappointment on that sad november, though sandy was the writer still. the two only intelligible items of news which the last one had conveyed, were repeated here, and enlarged upon, with reason. a new master had come to the school, who was taking great pains with all the lads, and especially with sandy, "as you will see by this letter, mother," he wrote, "i hope it will be better worth reading than the last." if mrs smith had changed her mind, it was all for good. janet was no more to think of her mother as living by herself, in the lonely cot in the glen, but farther up in another cottage, within sight of the door of saughless. and sandy was to go to the school a while yet and there was no fear but something would be found for him to do, either on the farm, or in the garden. and so his mother was to set her heart at rest about them. and her heart was set at rest; and janet sang at her work again, and cheered or chid the bairns according as they needed, but never more, though she had many cares, and troubles not a few, did the giant hold her in his grasp again. chapter eleven. "miss graeme," said janet, softly opening the study-door, and looking in. graeme was at her side in a moment. "never mind putting by your book, i only want to tell you, that i'm going up the brae to see mrs snow awhile. it's no' cold, and i'll take the bairns with me. so just give a look at the fire now and then, and have the kettle boiling gin tea time. i winna bide late." graeme put down her book, and hastened the preparations of the little ones. "i wish i could up with you, janet. how mild and bright it is to-day." "but your papa mustna be left to the keeping of fires, and the entertainment of chance visitors. you winna think long with your book, you ken, and we'll be home again before it's dark." "think long!" echoed graeme. "not if i'm left at peace with my book--i only hope no one will come." "my dear!" remonstrated janet, "that's no' hospitable. i daresay if anybody comes, you'll enjoy their company for a change. you maun try and make friends with folk, like menie here." graeme laughed. "it's easy for menie, she's a child. but i have to behave myself like a grown woman, at least, with most folk. i would far rather have the afternoon to myself." she watched them down the street, and then betook herself to her book, and her accustomed seat at the study window. life was very pleasant to graeme, these days. she did not manifest her light-heartedness by outward signs; she was almost always as quiet as sorrow and many cares had made her, since her mother's death. but it was a quiet always cheerful, always ready to change to grave talk with janet, or merry play with the little ones. janet's returning cheerfulness banished the last shade of anxiety from her mind, and she was too young to go searching into the future for a burden to bear. she was fast growing into companionship with her father. she knew that he loved and trusted her entirely, and she strove to deserve his confidence. in all matters concerning her brothers and sisters, he consulted her, as he might have consulted her mother, and as well as an elder sister could, she fulfilled a mother's duty to them. in other matters, her father depended upon her judgment and discretion also. often he was beguiled into forgetting what a child she still was, while he discussed with her subjects more suited for one of maturer years. and it was pleasant to be looked upon with respect and consideration, by the new friends they had found here. she was a little more than a child in years, and shy and doubtful of herself withal, but it was very agreeable to be treated like a woman, by the kind people about her. not that she would have confessed this. not that she was even conscious of the pleasure it gave her. indeed, she was wont to declare to janet, in private, that it was all nonsense, and she wished that people would not speak to her always, as though she were a woman of wisdom and experience. but it was agreeable to her all the same. she had her wish that afternoon. nobody came to disturb them, till the failing light admonished her that it was time to think of janet, and the tea-kettle. then there came a knock at the door, and graeme opened it to mr greenleaf. if she was not glad to see him, her looks belied her. he did not seem to doubt a welcome from her, or her father either, as he came in. what the charm was, that beguiled mr greenleaf into spending so many hours in the minister's study, the good people of merleville found it difficult to say. the squire's ill-concealed indifference to the opinions of people generally, had told against him always. for once, mrs page had been too charitable. he was not in a hopeful state, at least, in her sense of the term, and it might be doubted, whether frequent intercourse with the minister, would be likely to encourage the young man to the attainment of mrs page's standard of excellence. but to the study he often came, and he was never an unwelcome guest. "if i am come at a wrong time, tell me so," said he, as he shook hands with mr elliott, over a table covered with books and papers. "you can hardly do that," said the minister, preparing to put the books and papers away. "i am nearly done for the night. excuse me, for a minute only." graeme lingered talking to their visitor, till her father should be quite at liberty. "i have something for you," said mr greenleaf, in a minute. graeme smiled her thanks, and held out her hand for the expected book, or magazine. it was a note this time. "from celestia!" she exclaimed, colouring a little. graeme did not aspire to the honour of celestia's confidence in all things, but she knew, or could guess enough, about the state of affairs between her friend and mr greenleaf, to be wonderfully interested in them, and she could not help feeling a little embarrassed, as she took the note, from his hands. "read it," said he. graeme stooped down to catch the firelight. the note was very brief. celestia was going away, and wished graeme to come and see her, to-morrow. mr greenleaf would fetch her. "celestia, going away!" she exclaimed, raising herself up. "yes," said he, "have you not heard it?" "i heard the farm was to be sold, but i hoped they would still stay in merleville." "so did i," said mr greenleaf, gravely. "when will they go?" "miss jones is to be a teacher, in the new seminary at rixford. they are going to live there, and it cannot be very long before they go." "to her uncle?" "no, celestia thinks her mother would not be happy there. they will live by themselves, with the children." "how sorry celestia will be to go away," said graeme, sadly. "she will not be persuaded to stay," said mr greenleaf. graeme darted a quick, embarrassed look at him, as much as to say, "have you asked her?" he answered her in words. "yes, i have tried, and failed. she does not care to stay." there was only sadness in his voice; at least, she detected nothing else. there was none of the bitterness which, while it made celestia's heart ache that afternoon, had made her all the more determined to do what she believed to be right. "oh! it's not that," said graeme, earnestly, "i'm sure she cares. i mean if she goes, it will be because she thinks it right, not because she wishes it." "is it right to make herself and me unhappy?" "but her mother and the rest. they are in trouble; it would seem like forsaking them." "it need not. they might stay with her." "i think, perhaps--i don't think--" graeme hesitated, and then said hurriedly,-- "are you rich, mr greenleaf?" he laughed. "i believe you are one of those who do not compute riches by the number of dollars one possesses. so i think, to you i may safely answer, yes. i have contentment with little, and on such wealth one pays no taxes." "yes; but--i think,--oh, i can't say what i think; but i'm sure celestia is right. i am quite sure of that." mr greenleaf did not look displeased, though graeme feared he might, at her bold speech. "i don't believe i had better take you to see her to-morrow. you will encourage her to hold out against me." "not against you. she would never do that. and, besides, it would make no difference. celestia is wise and strong, and will do what she believes to be right." "wise and strong," repeated mr greenleaf, smiling, but his face grew grave in a minute again. mr elliott made a movement to join them, and graeme thought of her neglected tea-kettle, and hastened away. "never mind," she whispered, "it will all end well. things always do when people do right." mr greenleaf might have some doubt as to the truth of this comforting declaration in all cases, but he could have none as to the interest and good wishes of his little friend, so he only smiled in reply. not that he had really many serious doubts as to its ending well. he had more than once that very afternoon grieved celestia by saying that she did not care for him; but, if he had ever had any serious trouble on the subject, they vanished when the first touch of anger and disappointment had worn away, giving him time to acknowledge and rejoice over the "strength and wisdom" so unhesitatingly ascribed by graeme to her friend. so that it was not at all in a desponding spirit that he turned to reply, when the minister addressed him. they had scarcely settled down to one of their long, quiet talks, when they were summoned to tea by graeme, and before tea was over, janet and the bairns came home. the boys had found their way up the hill when school was over, and they all came home together in mr snow's sleigh. to escape from the noise and confusion which they brought with them, mr greenleaf and the minister went into the study again. during the silence that succeeded their entrance, there came into mr greenleaf's mind a thought that had been often there before. it was a source of wonder to him that a man of mr elliott's intellectual power and culture should content himself in so quiet a place as merleville, and to-night he ventured to give expression to his thoughts. mr elliott smiled. "i don't see that my being content to settle down here for life, is any more wonderful than that you should have done so. indeed, i should say, far less wonderful. you are young and have the world before you." "but my case is quite different. i settle here to get a living, and i mean to get a good one too, and besides," added he, laughing, "merleville is as good a place as any other to go to congress from; there is no american but may have that before him you know." "as for the living, i can get here such as will content me. for the rest, the souls in this quiet place are as precious as elsewhere. i am thankful for my field of labour." mr greenleaf had heard such words before, and he had taken them "for what they were worth," as a correct thing for a minister to say. but the quiet earnestness and simplicity of mr elliott's manner struck him as being not just a matter of course. "he is in earnest about it, and does not need to use many words to prove it. there must be something in it." he did not answer him, however. "there is one thing which is worth consideration," continued mr elliott, "you may be disappointed, but i cannot be so, in the nature of things." "about getting a living?" said mr greenleaf, and a vague remembrance of deacons fish and slowcome made him move uneasily in his chair. "that is not what i was thinking of, but i suppose i may be sure of that, too. `your bread shall be given you, and your water sure.' and there is no such thing as disappointment in that for which i really am labouring, the glory of god, and the good of souls." "well," said mr greenleaf, gravely, "there must be something in it that i don't see, or you will most assuredly be disappointed. it is by no means impossible that i may have my wish, men of humbler powers than mine--i may say it without vanity--have risen higher than to the congress of our country. i don't look upon mine as by any means a hopeless ambition. but the idea of your ever seeing all the crooked natures in merleville made straight! well, to say the least, i don't see how you can be very sanguine about it." "well, i don't say that even that is beyond my ambition, or beyond the power of him whom i serve to accomplish. but though i may never see this, or the half of this accomplished, it does not follow that i am to be disappointed, more than it follows that your happiness will be secured when you sit in the congress of this great nation, or rule in the white house even, which is not beyond your ambition either, i suppose. you know how a promise may be `kept to the ear and broken to the heart,' as somebody says." "i know it is the fashion to speak in that way. we learn, in our school books, all about the folly of ambition, and the unsatisfying nature of political greatness. but even if the attainment must disappoint, there is interest and excitement in the pursuit. and, if you will allow me to say so, it is not so in your case, and to me the disappointment seems even more certain." mr elliott smiled. "i suppose the converse of the poet's sad declaration may be true. the promise may be broken to the eye and ear, and yet fulfilled divinely to the heart. i am not afraid." "and, certainly," thought the young man, "he looks calm and hopeful enough." "and," added mr elliott, "as to the interest of the pursuit, if that is to be judged by the importance of the end to be attained, i think mine may well bear comparison to yours." "yes, in one sense, i suppose--though i don't understand it. i can imagine an interest most intense, an engagement--a happiness altogether absorbing in such a labour of love, but--i was not looking at the matter from your point of view." "but from no other point of view can the subject be fairly seen," said mr elliott, quietly. "well, i have known few, even among clergymen, who have not had their eyes turned pretty frequently to another side of the matter. one ought to be altogether above the necessity of thinking of earthly things, to be able to enjoy throwing himself wholly into such a work, and i fancy that can be said of few." "i don't understand you," said mr elliott. "do you mean that you doubt the sincerity of those to whom you refer." "by no means. my thoughts were altogether in another direction. in fact, i was thinking of the great `bread and butter' struggle in which ninety-nine out of every hundred are for dear life engaged; and none more earnestly, and few with less success, than men of your profession." mr elliott looked as though he did not yet quite understand. mr greenleaf hesitated, slightly at a loss, but soon went on. "constituted as we are, i don't see how a man can wholly devote himself to a work he thinks so great, and yet have patience to struggle with the thousand petty cares of life. the shifts and turnings to which insufficient means must reduce one, cannot but vex and hurt such a nature, if it does not change it at last. but i see i fail to make myself understood by you; let me try again. i don't know how it may be in your country, but here, at least as far as my personal observation has extended, the remuneration received by ministers is insufficient, not to say paltry. i don't mean that in many cases they and their families actually suffer, but there are few of them so situated as regards income, that economy need not be the very first consideration in all their arrangements. comparing them with other professional men they may be called poor. such a thing as the gratification of taste is not to be thought of in their case. there is nothing left after the bare necessaries are secured. it is a struggle to bring up their children, a struggle to educate them, a struggle to live. and what is worse than all, the pittance, which is rightly theirs, comes to them often in a way which, to say the least, is suggestive of charity given and received. no, really, i cannot look on the life of a minister as a very attractive one." "i should think not, certainly, if such are your views of it," said mr elliott. "i wish i could have the comfort of doubting their justness, but i cannot, unless the majority of cases that have fallen under my observation are extreme ones. why, there are college friends of mine who, in any other profession, might have distinguished themselves--might have become wealthy at least, who are now in some out of the way parish, with wives and little children, burdened with the cares of life. how they are to struggle on in the future it is sad to think of. they will either give up the profession or die, or degenerate into very commonplace men before many years." "unless they have some charm against it--which may very well be," said mr elliott, quietly. "i see you do not agree with me. take yourself for instance, or rather, let us take your predecessor. he was a good man, all say who knew him well, and with time and study he might have proved himself a great man. but if ever a man's life was a struggle for the bare necessaries of life, his was, and the culpable neglect of the people in the regular payment of his very small salary was the cause of his leaving them at last. he has since gone west, i hear, to a happier lot, let us hope. the circumstances of his predecessor were no better. he died here, and his wife broke down in a vain effort to maintain and educate his children. she was brought back to merleville and laid beside her husband less than a year ago. there is something wrong in the matter somewhere." there was a pause, and then mr greenleaf continued. "it may seem an unkindly effort in me to try to change your views of your future in merleville. still, it is better that you should be in some measure prepared, for what i fear awaits you. otherwise, you might be disgusted with us all." "i shall take refuge in the thought that you are showing me the dark side of the picture," said mr elliott. "pray do. and, indeed, i am. i may have said more than enough in my earnestness. i am sure when you really come to know our people, you will like them notwithstanding things that we might wish otherwise." "i like you already," said mr elliott, smiling. "i assure you i had a great respect for you as the children of the puritans, before ever i saw you." "yes, but i am afraid you will like us less; before you like us better. we are the children of the puritans, but very little, i daresay, like the grave gentlemen up on your shelves yonder. your countrymen are, at first, generally disappointed in us as a people. mind, i don't allow that we are in reality less worthy of respect than you kindly suppose us to be for our fathers' sakes. but we are different. it is not so much that we do not reach so high a standard, as that we have a different standard of excellence--one that your education, habits, and prepossessions as a people, do not prepare you to appreciate us." "well," said mr elliott, as his friend paused. "oh! i have little more to say, except, that what is generally the experience of your countrymen will probably be yours in merleville. you have some disappointing discoveries to make among us, you who are an earnest man and a thinker." "i think a want of earnestness can hardly be called a sin of your countrymen," said the minister. "earnestness!" said mr greenleaf. "no, we are earnest enough here in merleville. but the most of even the good men among us seem earnest, only in the pursuit of that, in comparison to which my political aspirations seem lofty and praiseworthy. it is wealth they seek. not that wealth which will result in magnificent expenditure, and which, in a certain sense, may have a charm for even high-minded men, but money-making in its meanest form--the scraping together of copper coins for their own sakes. at least one might think so, for any good they ever seem to get of it." "you are severe," said the minister, quietly. "not too severe. this seems to be the aim of all of us, whether we are willing to acknowledge it or not. and such a grovelling end will naturally make a man unscrupulous as to the means to attain it. there are not many men among us here--i don't know more than two or three--who would not be surprised if you told them, being out of the pulpit, that they had not a perfect right to make the very most out of their friends--even by shaving closely in matters of business." "and yet you say their standard is a high one?" "high or not, the religious people among us don't seem to doubt their own christianity on account of these things. and what is more, they don't seem to lose faith in each other. but how it will all seem to you is another matter." "how does it seem to you?" "oh, i am but a spectator. being not one of the initiated, i am not supposed to understand the change they profess to have undergone; and so, instead of being in doubt about particular cases, i am disposed to think little of the whole matter. with you it is different." "yes, with me it is indeed different," said the minister, gravely--so gravely, that mr greenleaf almost regretted having spoken so freely, and when he spoke again it was to change the subject. "it must have required a great wrench to break away from your people and country and old associations," said he, in a little. mr elliott started,-- "no, the wrench came before. it would have cost me more to stay and grow old in my own land than it did to leave it, than it ever can do to live and die among strangers." fearful that he had awakened painful thoughts, mr greenleaf said no more. in a little mr elliott went on,-- "it was an old thought, this wishing to find a home for our children in this grand new world. we had always looked forward to it sometime. and when i was left alone, the thought of my children's future, and the longing to get away--anywhere--brought me here." he paused, and when he spoke again it was more calmly. "perhaps it was cowardly in me to flee. there was help for me there, if my faith had not failed. i thought it would be better for my children when i left them to leave them here. but god knows it was no desire to enrich myself that brought me to america." "we can live on little. i trust you will be mistaken in your fears. but if these troubles do come, we must try, with god's grace, and mrs nasmyth's help, to get through them as best we can. we might not better ourselves by a change, as you seem to think the evil a national one." "the love and pursuit of the `almighty dollar,' is most certainly a national characteristic. as to the bearing it may have in church matters in other places, of course i have not the means of judging. here i know it has been bad enough in the past." "well, i can only say i have found the people most kind and liberal hitherto," said mr elliott. "have you had a settlement with them since you came?" asked the squire; the remembrance of various remarks he had heard of late coming unpleasantly to his mind. "no, i have not yet. but as the half-year is nearly over, i suppose it will come soon. still i have no fears--i think i need have none. it is not _theirs_ but _them_ i seek." "do you remember the sabbath i first came among you? i saw you there among the rest. if my heart rose up in thankfulness to god that day, it was with no thought of gold or gear. god is my witness that i saw not these people as possessors of houses and lands, but of precious souls-- living souls to be encouraged--slumbering souls to be aroused--dead souls to be made alive in christ, through his own word, spoken by me and blessed by him. "no, i do not think i can possibly be disappointed in this matter. i may have to bear trial, and it may come to me as it oftenest comes to god's people, in the very way that seems hardest to bear, but god _will bless his word_. and even if i do not live to see it, i can rest in the assurance that afterward, `both he that soweth and he that reapeth shall rejoice together.'" he paused. a momentary gleam of triumph passed over his face and left it peaceful. "the peace that passeth understanding," thought the young man, with a sigh. for he could not quite satisfy himself by saying, that mr elliott was no man of business, an unworldly man. it came into his mind that even if the minister were chasing a shadow, it was a shadow more satisfying than his possible reality of political greatness. so he could not but sigh as he sat watching that peaceful face. the minister looked up and met his eye. "and so, my friend, i think we must end where we begun. you may be disappointed even in the fulfilment of your hopes. but for me, all must end well--let the end be what it may." chapter twelve. the time of settlement came at last. the members of the church and congregation were requested to bring to deacon sterne and his coadjutors an account of money and produce already paid by each, and also a statement of the sum they intended to subscribe for the minister's support during the ensuing half year. after a delay which, considering all things, was not more than reasonable, this was done, and the different accounts being put into regular form by the proper persons, they were laid before the minister for his inspection and approval. this was done by deacons fish and slowcome alone. deacon sterne, as his brethren in office intimated to mrs nasmyth, when she received them, having just then his hands fall of his own affairs. deacon fish "expected" that brother sterne had got into trouble. it had been coming on for some time. his son, the only boy he had left, had been over to rixford, and had done something dreadful, folks said, he did not exactly know what, and the deacon had gone over to see about it. deacon sterne was janet's favourite among the men in office, and apart from her regret that he should not be present on an occasion so important, she was greatly concerned for him on his own account. "dear me!" said she, "i saw him at the kirk on the sabbath-day, looking just as usual." "well, yes, i expect so," said mr fish. "brother sterne looks always pretty much so. he ain't apt to show his feelin's, if he's got any. he'll have something to suffer with his son william, i guess, whether he shows it or not." janet liked both father and son, though it was well known in the town that there was trouble between them; so instead of making any answer, she hastened to usher them into the study. the minister awaited them, and business began. first was displayed the list of subscriptions for the coming half-year. this was quite encouraging. three hundred and fifty and odd dollars. this looked well. there had never been so much subscribed in merleville before. the deacons were elated, and evidently expected that the minister should be so, too. he would be well off now, said they. but the minister was always a quiet man, and said little, and the last half-year's settlement was turned to. there were several sheets of it. the minister in danger of getting bewildered among the items, turned to the sum total. "two hundred and seventy-two dollars, sixty-two and a-half cents." he was a little mystified still, and looked so. "if there is anything wrong, anything that you object to, it must be put right," said deacon slowcome. deacon fish presumed, "that when mr elliott should have compared it with the account which he had no doubt kept, it would be found to be all right." mr elliott had to confess that no such account had been kept. he supposed it was all it should be. he really could say nothing with regard to it. he left the management of household affairs entirely to his daughter and mrs nasmyth. it was suggested that mrs nasmyth should be called in, and the deacon cleared his voice to read it to her. "if there's anything you don't seem to understand or remember," prefaced the accommodating deacon slowcome, "don't feel troubled about saying so. i expect we'll make things pretty straight after a while." mrs nasmyth looked at the minister, but the minister did not look at her, and the reading began. after the name of each person, came the days' work, horse hire, loads of firewood, bushels of corn, pounds of butter and cheese, sugar and dried apples, which he or she had contributed. deacon fish's subscription was chiefly paid by his horse and his cow. the former had carried the minister on two or three of his most distant visits, and the latter had supplied a quart or two of milk daily during a great part of the winter. it was overpaid indeed by just seventeen and a-half cents, which, however, the deacon seemed inclined to make light of. "there ain't no matter about it. it can go right on to the next half year. it ain't no matter about it anyhow," said he, in liberal mood. he had an attentive listener. mrs nasmyth listened with vain efforts not to let her face betray her utter bewilderment at the whole proceeding, only assenting briefly when mr slowcome interrupted the reading, now and then, to say interrogatively,-- "you remember?" it dawned upon her at last that these were the items that made up the subscription for the half year that was over; but except that her face changed a little, she gave no sign. it is possible the deacon had had some slight misgiving as to how mrs nasmyth might receive the statement; certainly his voice took a relieved tone as he drew near the end, and at last read the sum total: "two hundred and seventy-two dollars sixty-two and a-half cents." again janet's eye sought the minister's, and this time he did not avoid her look. the rather pained surprise had all gone out of his face. intense amusement at janet's changing face, on which bewilderment, incredulity and indignation were successively written, banished, for a moment, every other feeling. but that passed, and by the look that followed janet knew that she must keep back the words that were rising to her lips. it required an effort, however, and a rather awkward silence followed. deacon slowcome spoke first: "well, i suppose, we may consider that it stands all right. and i, for one, feel encouraged to expect great things." "i doubt, sirs," said janet in a voice ominously mild and civil, "there are some things that haena been put down on yon paper. there was a cum apples, and a bit o' unco spare rib, and--" "well, it's possible there are some folks ain't sent in their accounts yet. that can be seen to another time." janet paid no attention to the interruption. "there were some eggs from mrs sterne--a dozen and three, i think--and a goose at the new year from somebody else; and your wife sent a pumpkin-pie; and there was the porridge and milk that judge merle brought over when first we came here--" "ah! the pie was a present from my wife," said deacon fish, on whom mrs nasmyth's awful irony was quite lost. "and i presume judge merle didn't mean to charge for the porridge, or hominy, or whatever it was," said deacon slowcome. "and what for no'?" demanded janet, turning on him sharply. "i'm sure we got far more good and pleasure from it than ever we got o' your bloody fore-quarter of beef, that near scunnered the bairns ere we were done with it. things should stand on your papers at their true value." deacon slowcome was not, in reality, more surprised at this outbreak than he had been when his "fore-quarter of bloody beef" had been accepted unchallenged, but he professed to be so; and in his elaborate astonishment allowed janet's remarks about a slight mistake she had made, and about the impropriety of "looking a gift horse in the mouth" to pass unanswered. "you were at liberty to return the beef if you didn't want it," said he, with an injured air. "weel, i'll mind that next time," said she in a milder tone, by no means sure how the minister might approve of her plain speaking. deacon fish made a diversion in favour of peace, by holding up the new subscription-list, and asking her triumphantly if that "didn't look well." "ay, on paper," said janet, dryly. "figures are no' dollars. and if your folk have been thinking that the minister and his family hae been living only on the bits o' things written down on your paper you are mistaken. the gude money that has helped it has been worth far more than the like o' that, as i ken weel, who hae had the spending o' it; but i daresay you're no' needing me longer, sir," she added, addressing the minister, and she left the room. this matter was not alluded to again for several days, but it did janet a deal of good to think about it. she had no time to indulge in homesick musings, with so definite a subject of indignant speculation as the meanness of the deacons. she "was nettled at herself beyond all patience" that she should have allowed herself, to fancy that so many of the things on the paper had been tokens of the people's good-will. "two hundred and seventy dollars and more," she repeated. "things mount up, i ken weel; but i maun take another look at it. and i'll hae more sense anither time, i'm thinking." she did not speak to graeme. there would be no use to vex her; but she would fain have had a few words with the minister, but his manner did not encourage her to introduce the subject. a circumstance soon occurred which gave her an opening, and the subject, from first to last, was thoroughly discussed. march was nearly over. the nights were cold still, but the sun was powerful during the day, and there were many tokens that the earth was about to wake from her long sleep and prepare for the refreshment of her children. "and time for her," sighed janet, taking a retrospective view of all that had happened since she saw her face. the boys had been thrown into a state of great excitement by a proposal made to them by their friend mr snow. he had offered to give them sixty of the best trees in his sugar place, with all the articles necessary to the making of sugar, on terms that, to them, seemed easy enough. they were to make their own preparations, gather the sap, cut their own wood, in short, carry on the business entirely themselves; and, nothing daunted, they went the very first fine day to see the ground and make a beginning. graeme and the other girls went with them as far as mr snow's house, and janet was left alone. the minister was in his study as usual, and when they were all gone, uncomfortable with the unaccustomed quietness of the house, she arose and went to the door and looked rather sadly down the street. she had not long to indulge her feelings of loneliness, however. a sleigh came slowly grating along the half-bare street, and its occupant, mr silas spears, not one of her favourites, stopped before the door, and lost no time in "hitching" his horse to the post. janet set him a chair, and waited for the accustomed question whether the minister was at home, and whether he could see him. "the body has some sense and discretion," said janet to herself, as he announced instead that he "wa'ant a going to stay but a minute, and it wouldn't be worth while troubling the minister." he did stay, however, telling news and giving his opinion on matters and things in general in a way which was tolerable to janet in her solitude. he rose to go at last. "i've got a bucket of sugar out here," said he. "our folks didn't seem to want it, and i thought i'd fetch it along down. i took it to cook's store, but they didn't want it, and they didn't care enough about it at sheldon's to want to pay for it, so i thought i might as well turn it in to pay my minister's tax." so in he came within a minute. "there's just exactly twenty-nine pounds with the bucket. sugar's been sellin' for twelve and a-half this winter, and i guess i ought to have that for it, then we'll be about even, according to my calculation." "sugar!" ejaculated janet, touching the solid black mass with her finger. "call you _that_ sugar?" "why, yes, i call it sugar. not the best, maybe, but it's better than it looks. it'll be considerable whiter by the time you drain it off, i expect." "and weigh considerable lighter, i expect," said mrs nasmyth, unconsciously imitating mr spears' tone and manner in her rising wrath. "i'm very much obliged to you, but we're in no especial need o' sugar at this time, and we'll do without a while before we spend good siller on staff like that." "well i'll say eleven cents, or maybe ten, as sugarin' time is 'most here. it _ain't_ first-rate," he added, candidly. "it mightn't just do for tea, but it's as good as any to sweeten pies and cakes." "many thanks to you. but we're no' given to the makin' o' pies and cakes in this house. plain bread, or a sup porridge and milk does for us, and it's mair than we're like to get, if things dinna mend with us. so you'll just take it with you again." "well," said mr spears, slightly at a loss, "i guess i'll leave it. i ain't particular about the price. mr elliott can allow me what he thinks it worth, come to use it. i'll leave it anyhow." "but you'll no' leave it with my consent. deacon slowcome said the minister wasna needing to take anything he didna want, and the like o' that we could make no use of." "the deacon might have said that in a general kind of way, but i rather guess he didn't mean you to take him up so. i've been calculating to pay my minister's tax with that sugar, and i don't know as i've got anything else handy. i'll leave it, and if you don't conclude to keep it, you better speak to the deacon about it, and maybe he'll give you the money for it. i'll leave it anyhow." "but you'll no leave it here," exclaimed mrs nasmyth, whose patience was not proof against his persistence, and seizing the bucket, she rushed out at the door, and depositing it in the sleigh, was in again before the astonished mr spears quite realised her intention. "you'll no' find me failing in my duty to the minister, as i hae done before," exclaimed she, a little breathless with the exertion. "if the minister canna hae his stipend paid in good siller as he has been used wi', he shall at least hae nae trash like yon. so dinna bring here again what ither folk winna hae from you, for i'll hae none o' it." "i should like to see the minister a minute," said mr spears, seating himself with dignity. "i don't consider that you are the one to settle this business." "there's many a thing that you dinna consider that there's sense in, notwithstanding. it's just me that is to decide this business, and a' business where the minister's welfare, as regards meat and drink, is concerned. so dinna fash yourself and me mair about it." "i'd like to see him, anyhow," said he, taking a step towards the study-door. "but you'll no' see him about any such matter," and janet placed herself before him. "i'm no' to hae the minister vexed with the like o' that nonsense to-night, or any night. i wonder you dinna think shame, to hold up your face to me, forby the minister. what kens the minister about the like o' that? he has other things to think about. it's weel that there's aye me to stand between him and the like o' your `glegs and corbies'."--and janet, as her manner was when excited, degenerated into scotch to such a degree, that her opponent forgot his indignation in astonishment, and listened in silence. janet was successful. mr spears was utterly nonplussed, and took his way homeward, by no means sure that he hadn't been abused! "considerable beat, anyhow." scarcely had he taken his departure, when mr elliott made his appearance, having had some idea that something unusual had been going on. though loth to do so, janet thought best to give a faithful account of what had taken place. he laughed heartily at her success and mr spears' discomfiture, but it was easy to see he was not quite at his ease about the matter. "i am at a loss to know how all this will end," he said, gravely, after a minute. "indeed, sir, you need be at no loss about that. it will end in a `toom pantry' for us, and that before very long." this was the beginning of a conversation with regard to their affairs, that lasted till the children came home. much earnest thought did the minister bestow on the subject for the next three days, and on the evening of the fourth, at the close of a full conference meeting, when most of the members of the church were present, the result of his meditations was given to the public. he did not use many words, but they were to the point. he told them of the settlement for the past, and the prospect for the future. he told them that the value to his family of the articles brought in, was not equal to their value, as named in the subscription-lists, their real value he supposed. they could not live in comfort on these terms, and they should never try it. he had a proposal to make to them. the deacon had estimated that an annual amount equal to seven hundred dollars could be raised. let each subscriber deduct a seventh part of what he had promised to pay, and let the remainder be paid in money to the treasurer, so that he might receive his salary in quarterly payments. this would be the means of avoiding much that was annoying to all parties, and was the only terms on which he would think it wise to remain in merleville. he alluded to a report that had lately reached him, as to his having money invested in scotland. in the hand of a friend he had deposited sufficient to defray the expenses of his eldest son, until his education should be completed. he had no more. the comfort of his family must depend upon his salary; and what that was to be, and how it was to be paid, must be decided without loss of time. he said just two or three words about his wish to stay, about the love he felt for many of them, and of his earnest desire to benefit them all. he had no other desire than to cast in his lot with theirs, and to live and die among them. but no real union or confidence could be maintained between them, while the matter of support was liable at any moment to become a source of discomfort and misunderstanding to all concerned. he added, that as so many were present, perhaps no better time than to-night could be found for arranging the matter, and so he left them. there was quite a gathering that night. judge merle was there, and the deacons, and the pages, and mr spears, and a great many besides. behind the door, in a corner seat, sat mr snow, and near him, mr greenleaf. he evidently felt he was not expected to remain, and made a movement to go, but sampson laid his hand on his arm. "hold on, squire," he whispered; "as like as not they'd spare us, but i'm bound to see this through." there was a long pause. then deacon fish got up and cleared his throat, and "felt as though he felt," and went over much ground, without accomplishing much. deacon slowcome did pretty much the same. judge merle came a little nearer the mark, and when he sat down, there was a movement behind the door, and sampson snow rose, and stepped out. he laid his hand on the door latch, and then turned round and opened his lips. "i expect you'll all think it ain't my place to speak in meetin', and i ain't goin' to say a great deal. it's no more than two hours or so since i got home from rixford, and squire stone, he told me that their minister had given notice that he was goin' to quit. goin' to boston, i guess. and the squire, says he to me, `we've a notion of talking a little to your mr elliott,' and says he, `we wouldn't begrudge him a thousand dollars cash down, and no mistake.' so now don't worry any about the minister. _he's_ all right, and worth his pay any day. that's all i've got to say," and mr snow opened the door and walked out. sampson's speech was short, but it was the speech of the evening, and told. that night, or within a few days, arrangements were made for the carrying out of the plan suggested by mr elliott, with this difference, that the seventh part was not to be deducted because of money payment. and the good people of merleville did not regret their promptitude, when the very next week there came a deputation from rixford, to ascertain whether mr elliott was to remain in merleville, and if not, whether he would accept an invitation to settle in the larger town. mr elliott's answer was brief and decided. he had no wish to leave merleville while the people wished him to remain. he hoped never to leave them while he lived. and he never did. chapter thirteen. spring came and went. the lads distinguished themselves both for the quantity and quality of their sugar, and highly enjoyed the work besides. the free out-of-door life, the camping in the woods beside a blazing fire, and the company of the village lads who daily and nightly crowded around them, charmed them from all other pursuits. mr foster and his mathematics were sadly neglected in these days. in future they were to devote themselves to agriculture. in vain janet hinted that "new things aye pleased light heads," and warned them that they were deciding too soon. in vain mr snow said that it was not sugaring time all the year; and that they should summer and winter among the hills before they committed themselves to a farmer's life. harry quoted cincinnatus, and norman proved to his own satisfaction, if not to mr snow's, that on scientific principles every farm in merleville could be cultivated with half the expense, and double the profits. even their father was carried away by their enthusiasm; and it is to be feared, that if he had had a fortune to invest, it would have been buried for ever among these beautiful hills of merleville. an opportunity to test the strength of the lads' determination, came in a manner which involved less risk than a purchase would have done. early in may a letter was received from mr ross, in which he offered to take the charge of arthur's education on himself, and, as he was well able to do so, mr elliott saw no reason for refusing the offer. the money, therefore, that he had set apart for his son's use, returned to his hands, and he did a wiser thing than to invest it either in mountain or valley. it came, about this time, to the worst, with mrs jones and her daughter celestia. the mortgage on the farm could not be paid, even the interest had fallen far behind, and squire skinflint had foreclosed. nothing remained for the widow, but to save what she could from the wreck of a property that had once been large, and go away to seek a new home for herself and her children. on the homestead she was about to leave, the heart and eyes of mr snow had long been fixed. as a relation of the widow, he had done what could be done, both by advice and assistance, to avert the evil day; but the widow was no farmer, and her boys were children, and the longer she kept the place, the more she must involve herself; and now that the land must pass from her hands, sampson would fain have it pass into his. but the only condition of sale was for ready money, and this without great sacrifice he could not obtain. meanwhile, others were considering the matter of the purchase, and the time was short; for there had been some failure in squire skinflint's western land speculation, and money must be had. if the widow could have held it still, mr snow would never have desired to have the land; but what with the many thoughts he had given to it, and the fear of getting bad neighbours, he had about come to the conclusion that it was not worth while to farm at all, unless he could have the two farms put into one. just at this juncture, the minister surprised him greatly by asking his advice about the investment of the money which his brother-in-law's generosity had placed at his disposal. a very few words settled the matter. the minister lent the money to mr snow, and for the annual interest of the same, he was to have the use of the farm-house and the ten acres of meadow and pasture land, that lay between it and the pond. the arrangement was in all respects advantageous to both parties, and before may was out, the little brown house behind the elms was left in silence, to await the coming of the next chance tenants; and the pleasurable excitement of settling down in their new home, filled the minds of janet and the bairns. and a very pleasant home it promised to be. even in that beautiful land of mountain and valley they would have sought in vain for a lovelier spot. sheltered by high hills from the bleak winds of the north and east, it was still sufficiently elevated to permit a wide view of the farms and forests around it. close below, with only a short, steep bank, and a wide strip of meadow land between, lay merle pond, the very loveliest of the many lovely lakelets, hidden away among these mountains. over on the rising ground beyond the pond stood the meeting-house, and scattered to the right and left of it were the white houses of the village, half-hidden by the tall elms and maples that fringed the village street. close by the farm-house, between it and the thick pine grove on the hill, ran carson's brook, a stream which did not disappear in summer-time, as a good many of these hill streams are apt to do, and which, for several months in the year was almost as worthy of the name of river as the merle itself. before the house was a large grassy yard, having many rose-bushes and lilac trees scattered along the fences and the path that led to the door. there were shade trees, too. once they had stood in regular lines along the road, and round the large garden. some of these had been injured because of the insufficient fences of late years; but those that remained were trees worthy of the name of trees. there were elms whose branches nearly touched each other, from opposite sides of the wide yard; and great maples that grew as symmetrically in the open space, as though each spring they had been clipped and cared for by experienced hands. there had been locusts once, but the old trees had mostly died, and there were only a few young ones springing up here and there, but they were trees before the children went away from the place which they were now beginning to look upon as home. formerly, there had been a large and handsome garden laid out at the end of the house, but since trouble had come on the family, its cultivation had been considered too much expense, and the grass was growing green on its squares and borders now. there were a few perennials easy to cultivate; and annuals such as sow themselves, marigolds and pansies. there was balm in abundance, and two or three gigantic peonies, in their season the admiration of all passers by; and beds of useful herbs, wormwood and sage, and summer savory. but, though it looked like a wilderness of weeds the first day they came to see it, janet's quick eye foresaw a great deal of pleasure and profit which might be got for the bairns out of the garden, and, as usual, janet saw clearly. there was a chance to find fault with the house, if anyone had at this time been inclined to find fault with anything. it was large and pleasant, but it was sadly out of repair. much of it had been little used of late, and looked dreary enough in its dismantled state. but all this was changed after a while, and they settled down very happily in it, without thinking about any defect it might have, and these disappeared in time. for, by and by, all necessary repairs were made by their provident landlord's own hands. he had no mind to pay out money for what he could do himself; and many a wet afternoon did he and his hired man devote to the replacing of shingles, the nailing on of clapboards, to puttying, painting, and other matters of the same kind. a good landlord he was, and a kind neighbour too; and when the many advantages of their new home were being told over by the children, the living so near to mr snow and little emily was never left till the last. a very pleasant summer thus began to them all. it would be difficult to say which of them all enjoyed their new life the most. but janet's prophecy came true. the _newness_ of farming proved to be its chief charm to the lads; and if it had been left entirely to them to plant and sow, and care for, and gather in the harvest, it is to be feared there would not have been much to show for the summer's work. but their father, who was by no means inexperienced in agricultural matters, had the success of their farming experiment much at heart, and with his advice and the frequent expostulations and assistance of mr snow, affairs were conducted on their little farm on the whole prosperously. not that the lads grew tired of exerting themselves. there was not a lazy bone in their bodies, mr snow declared, and no one had a better opportunity of knowing than he. but their strength and energy were not exerted always in a direction that would _pay_, according to mr snow's idea of remuneration. much time and labour were expended on the building of a bridge over carson's brook, between the house and pine grove hill, and much more to the making of a waterfall above it. even mr snow, who was a long time in coming to comprehend why they should take so much trouble with what was no good but to look at, was carried away by the spirit of the affair at last, and lent his oxen, and used his crowbar in their cause, conveying great stones to the spot. when the bridge and the waterfall were completed, a path was to be made round the hill, to the pine grove at the top. then, among the pines, there was a wonderful structure of rocks and stones, covered with mosses and creeping plants. the grotto, the children called it, mr snow called it the cave. a wonderful place it was, and much did they enjoy it. to be sure, it would not hold them all at once, but the grove would, and the grotto looked best on the outside, and much pleasure did they get out of their labours. the lads did not deserve all the credit of these great works. the girls helped, not only with approving eyes and lips, but with expert hands as well. even graeme grew rosy and sunburnt by being out of doors so much on bright mornings and evenings, and if it had been always summer-time, there might have been some danger that even graeme would not very soon have come back to the quiet indoor enjoyment of work and study again. as for janet, her home-sickness must have been left in the little brown house behind the elms, for it never troubled her after she came up the brae. with the undisputed possession of poultry, pigs and cows, came back her energy and peace of mind. the first basket of eggs collected by the children, the first churning of golden butter which she was able to display to their admiring gaze, were worth their weight in gold as helps to her returning cheerfulness. not that she valued her dumb friends for their usefulness alone, or even for the comforts they brought to the household. she had a natural love for all dependent creatures, and petted and provided for her favourites, till they learned to know and love her in return. all helpless creatures seemed to come to her naturally. a dog, which had been cruelly beaten by his master, took refuge with her; and being fed and caressed by her hand, could never be induced to leave her guardianship again. the very bees, at swarming time, did not sting janet, though they lighted in clouds on her snowy cap and neckerchief; and the little brown sparrows came to share with the chickens the crumbs she scattered at the door. and so, hens and chickens, and little brown sparrows did much to win her from a regretful remembrance of the past, and to reconcile her to what was strange--"unco like" in her new home. her cows were, perhaps, her prime favourites. not that she would acknowledge them at all equal to "fleckie" or "blackie," now, probably, the favourites of another mistress on the other side of the sea. but "brindle and spottie were wise-like beasts, with mair sense and discretion than some folk that she could name," and many a child in merleville got less care than she bestowed on them. morning and night, and, to the surprise of all the farmers' wives in merleville, at noon too, when the days were long she milked them with her own hands, and made more and better butter from the two, than even old mrs snow, who prided herself on her abilities in these matters, made from any three on her pasture. and when in the fall mr snow went to boston with the produce of his mother's dairy, and his own farm, a large tub of janet's butter went too, for which was to be brought back "tea worth the drinking, and at a reasonable price," and other things besides, which at merleville and at merleville prices, could not be easily obtained. the indian-summer had come again. its mysterious haze and hush were on all things under the open sky, and within the house all was quiet, too. the minister was in the study, and the bairns were in the pine grove, or by the water side, or even farther away; for no sound of song or laughter came from these familiar places. janet sat at the open door, feeling a little dreary, as she was rather apt to do, when left for hours together alone by the bairns. besides, there was something in the mild air and in the quiet of the afternoon, that "'minded" her of the time a year ago, when the bairns, having all gone to the kirk on that first sabbath-day, she had "near grat herself blind" from utter despairing home-sickness. she could now, in her restored peace and firmness, afford to to feel a little contemptuous of her former self, yet a sense of sadness crept over her, at the memory of the time, a slight pang of the old malady stirred at her heart. even now, she was not quite sure that it would be prudent to indulge herself in thoughts of the old times, lest the wintry days, so fast hastening, might bring back the old gloom. so she was not sorry when the sound of footsteps broke the stillness, and she was pleased, for quite other reasons, when mr snow appeared at the open door. he did not accept her invitation to enter, but seated himself on the doorstep. "your folks are all gone, are they?" asked he. "the minister is in his study, and miss graeme and the bairns are out by, some way or other. your emily's with them." "yes, i reckoned so. i've just got home from rixford. it wouldn't amount to much, all i could do to-night, so i thought i'd come along up a spell." janet repeated her kindly welcome. "the minister's busy, i presume," said he. "yes,--as it's saturday,--but he winna be busy very long now. if you'll bide a moment, he'll be out, i daresay." "there's no hurry. it's nothing particular." but mr snow was not in his usual spirits evidently, and watching him stealthily, janet saw a care-worn anxious expression fastening on his usually, cheerful face. "are you no' weel the night?" she asked. "sartain. i never was sick in my life." "and how are they all down-by?" meaning at mr snow's house, by "down-by." "well, pretty much so. only just middling. nothing to brag of, in the way of smartness." there was a long silence after that. mr snow sat with folded arms, looking out on the scene before them. "it's kind o' pleasant here, ain't it?" said he, at last. "ay," said janet, softly, not caring to disturb his musings. he sat still, looking over his own broad fields, not thinking of them as his, however, not calculating the expense of the new saw-mill, with which he had been threatening to disfigure carson's brook, just at the point where its waters fell into the pond. he was looking far-away to the distant hills, where the dim haze was deepening into purple, hiding the mountain tops beyond. but it could not be hills, nor haze, nor hidden mountain tops, that had brought that wistful longing look into his eyes, janet thought, and between doubt as to what she ought to say, and doubt as to whether she should say anything at all, she was for a long time silent. at last, a thought struck her. "what for wasna you at the lord's table, on the sabbath-day?" asked she. sampson gave her a queer look, and a short amused laugh. "well, i guess our folks would ha' opened their eyes, if i had undertook to go there." janet looked at him in some surprise. "and what for no? i ken there are others of the folk, that let strifes and divisions hinder them from doing their duty, and sitting down together. though wherefore the like of these things should hinder them from remembering their lord, is more than i can understand. what hae you been doing, or what has somebody been doing to you?" there was a pause, and then sampson looked up and said, gravely. "mis' nasmyth, i ain't a professor. i'm one of the world's people deacon fish tells about." janet looked grave. "come now, mis' nasmyth, you don't mean to say you thought i was one of the good ones?" "you ought to be," said she, gravely. "well,--yes, i suppose i ought to. but after all, i guess there ain't a great sight of difference between folks,--leastways, between merleville folks. i know all about _them_. i was the first white child born in the town, i was raised here, and in some way or other, i'm related to most folks in town, and i ought to know them all pretty well by this time. except on sundays, i expect they're all pretty much so. it wouldn't do to tell round, but there are some of the world's people, that i'd full as lief do business with, as with most of the professors. now that's a fact." "you're no' far wrong _there_, i daresay," said janet, with emphasis. "but that's neither here nor there, as far as your duty is concerned, as you weel ken." "no,--i don't know as it is. but it kind o' makes me feel as though there wasn't much in religion, anyway." janet looked mystified. mr snow continued. "well now, see here, i'll tell you just how it is. there ain't one of them that don't think i'm a sinner of the worst kind--gospel hardened. they've about given me up, i know they have. well now, let alone the talk, i don't believe there's a mite of difference, between me, and the most of them, and the lord knows i'm bad enough. and so you see, i've about come to the conclusion, that if there is such a thing as religion, i haven't never come across the real article." "that's like enough," said janet, with a groan. "i canna say that i have seen muckle o' it myself in this town, out of our own house. but i canna see that that need be any excuse to you. you have aye the word." "well, yes. i've always had the bible, and i've read it considerable, but i never seem to get the hang of it, somehow. and it ain't because i ain't tried, either. there was one spell that i was dreadful down, and says i to myself, if there's comfort to be got out of that old book, i'm bound to have it. so i began at the beginning about the creation, and adam and eve, but i didn't seem to get much comfort there. there was some good reading, but along over a piece, there was a deal that i could see nothing to. some of the psalms seemed to kind o' touch the spot, and the proverbs _are_ first-rate. i tell _you_ he knew something of human nature, that wrote _them_." "there's one thing you might have learned, before you got far over in genesis," said mrs nasmyth, gravely, "that you are a condemned sinner. you should have settled that matter with yourself, before you began to look for comfort." "yes. i knew that before, but i couldn't seem to make it go. then i thought, maybe i didn't understand it right, so i talked with folks and went to meeting, and did the best i could, thinking surely what other folks had got, and i hadn't, would come sometime. but it didn't. the talking, and the going to meeting, didn't help me. "now there's deacon sterne; he'd put it right to me. he'd say, says he, `sampson, you're a sinner, you know you be. you've got to give up, and bow that stiff neck o' your'n to the yoke.' well, `i'd say, i'd be glad to, if i only knew how to.' then he'd say, `but you can't do it yourself, no how. you're clay in the hands of the potter, and you'll have to perish, if the lord don't take right hold to save you.' then says i, `i wish to mercy he would.' then he'd talk and talk, but it all came to about that, `i must, and i couldn't,' and it didn't help me a mite. "that was a spell ago, after captain jennings' folks went west. i wanted to go awfully, but father he was getting old, and mother she wouldn't hear a word of it. i was awful discontented, and then, after a spell, worse came, and i tell _you_, i'd ha' given most anything, to have got religion, just to have had something to hold on to." mr snow paused. there was no doubting his earnestness now. janet did not speak, and in a little while he went on again. "i'd give considerable, just to be sure there's anything in getting religion. sometimes i seem to see that there is, and then again i think, why don't it help folks more. now, there's deacon sterne, he's one of the best of them. he wouldn't swerve a hair, from what he believed to be right, not to save a limb. he is one of the real old puritan sort, not a mite like fish and slowcome. but he ain't one of the meek and lowly, i can tell you. and he's made some awful mistakes in his lifetime. he's been awful hard and strict in his family. his first children got along pretty well. most of them were girls, and their mother was a smart woman, and stood between them and their father's hardness. and besides, in those days when the country was new, folks had to work hard, old and young, and that did considerable towards keeping things straight. but his boys never thought of their father, but to fear him. they both went, as soon as ever they were of age. silas came home afterwards, and died. joshua went west, and i don't believe his father has heard a word from him, these fifteen years. the girls scattered after their mother died, and then the deacon married again, abby sheldon, a pretty girl, and a good one; but she never ought to have married him. she was not made of tough enough stuff, to wear along side of him. she has changed into a grave and silent woman, in his house. her children all died when they were babies, except william, the eldest,--wilful will, they call him, and i don't know but he'd have better died too, for as sure as the deacon don't change his course with him, he'll drive him right straight to ruin, and break his mother's heart to boot. now, what i want to know is--if religion is the powerful thing it is called, why don't it keep folks that have it, from making such mistakes in life?" janet did not have her answer at her tongue's end, and sampson did not give her time to consider. "now there's becky pettimore, she's got religion. but it don't keep her from being as sour as vinegar, and as bitter as gall--" "whist, man!" interrupted janet. "it ill becomes the like o' you to speak that way of a poor lone woman like yon--one who never knew what it was to have a home, but who has been kept down with hard work and little sympathy, and many another trial. she's a worthy woman, and her deeds prove it, for all her sourness. there's few women in the town that i respect as i do her." "well, that's so. i know it. i know she gets a dollar a week the year round at captain liscome's, and earns it, too; and i know she gives half of it to her aunt, who never did much for her but spoil her temper. but it's an awful pity her religion don't make her pleasant." "one mustna judge another," said mrs nasmyth, gently. "no, and i don't want to. only i wish--but there's no good talking. still i must say it's a pity that folks who have got religion don't take more comfort out of it. now there's mother; she's a pillar in the church, and a good woman, i believe, but she's dreadful crank sometimes, and worries about things as she hadn't ought to. now it seems to me, if i had all they say a christian has, and expects to have, i'd let the rest go. they don't half of them live as if they took more comfort than i do, and there are spells when i don't take much." janet's eyes glistened with sympathy. there was some surprise in them, too. mr snow continued-- "yes, i do get pretty sick of it all by spells. after father died--and other things--i got over caring about going out west, and i thought it as good to settle down on the old place as any where. so i fixed up, and built, and got the land into prime order, and made an orchard, a first-rate one, and made believe happy. and i don't know but i should have stayed so, only i heard that joe arnold had died out west--he had married rachel jennings, you know; so i got kind of unsettled again, and went off at last. rachel had changed considerable. she had seen trouble, and had poor health, and was kind o' run down, but i brought her right home--her and little emily. well--it didn't suit mother. i hadn't said anything to her when i went off. i hadn't anything to say, not knowing how things might be with rachel. come to get home, things didn't go smooth. mother worried, and rachel worried, and life wasn't what i expected it was going to be, and i worried for a spell. and mis' nasmyth, if there had been any such thing as getting religion, i should have got it then, for i tried hard, and i wanted something to help me bad enough. there didn't seem to be anything else worth caring about any way. "well, that was a spell ago. emily wasn't but three years old when i brought them home. we've lived along, taking some comfort, as much as folks in general, i reckon. i had got kind of used to it, and had given up expecting much, and took right hold to make property; and have a good time, and here is your minister has come and stirred me up, and made me as discontented with myself and everything else as well." "you should thank the lord for that," interrupted janet, devoutly. "well, i don't know about that. sometimes when he has been speaking, i seem to see that there is something better than just to live along and make property. but then again, i don't see but it's just what folks do who have got religion. most of the professors that i know--" "man!" exclaimed janet, hotly, "i hae no patience with you and your professors. what need you aye to cast them up? canna you read your bible? it's that, and the blessing that was never yet withheld from any one that asked it with humility, that will put you in the way to find abiding peace, and an abiding portion at the last." "just so, mis' nasmyth," said mr snow, deprecatingly, and there was a little of the old twinkle in his eye. "but it does seem as though one might naturally expect a little help from them that are spoken of as the lights of the world; now don't it?" "there's no denying that, but if you must look about you, you needna surely fix your eyes on such crooked sticks as your fishes and your slowcomes. it's no breach o' charity to say that _they_ dinna adorn the doctrine. but there are other folk that i could name, that are both light and salt on the earth." "well, yes," admitted sampson; "since i've seen your folks, i've about got cured of one thing. i see now there is something in religion with some folks. your minister believes as he says, and has a good time, too. he's a good man." "you may say that, and you would say it with more emphasis if you had seen him as i have seen him for the last two twelve-months wading through deep waters." "yes, i expect he's just about what he ought to be. but then, if religion only changes folks in one case, and fails in ten." "man! it never fails!" exclaimed janet, with kindling eye. "it never failed yet, and never will fail while the heavens endure. and lad! take heed to yourself. that's satan's net spread out to catch your unwary soul. it may serve your turn now to jeer at professors, as you call them, and at their misdeeds that are unhappily no' few; but there's a time coming when it will fail you. it will do to tell the like of me, but it winna do to tell the lord in `that day.' you have a stumbling block in your own proud heart that hinders you more than all the fishes and slowcomes o' them, and you may be angry or no' as you like at me for telling you." sampson opened his eyes. "but you don't seem to see the thing just as it is exactly. i ain't jeering at professors or their misdeeds, i'm grieving for myself. if religion ain't changed them, how can i expect that it will change me; and i need changing bad enough, as you say." "if it hasna changed them, they have none of it," said mrs nasmyth, earnestly. "a christian, and no' a changed man! is he no' a sleeping man awakened, a dead man made alive--born again to a new life? has he not the spirit of god abiding in him? and no' changed!--no' that i wish to judge any man," added she, more gently. "we dinna ken other folk's temptations, or how small a spark of grace in the heart will save a man. we have all reason to be thankful that it's the lord and no' man that is to be our judge. maybe i have been over hard on those men." here was a wonder! mrs nasmyth confessing herself to have been hard upon the deacons. sampson did not speak his thoughts, however. he was more moved by his friend's earnestness than he cared to show. "well, i expect there's something in it, whether i ever see it with my own eyes or not," said he, as he rose to go. "ay, is there," said mrs nasmyth, heartily; "and there's no fear but you'll see it, when you ask in a right spirit that your eyes may be opened." "mis' nasmyth," said sampson, quietly and solemnly, "i may be deceiving myself in this matter. i seem to get kind o' bewildered at times over these things. but i do think i am in earnest. surely i'll get help some time?" "ay--that you will, as god is true. but oh man! go straight to _him_. it's between you and him, this matter. but winna you bide still? i daresay the minister will soon be at leisure now." "i guess not. i hadn't much particular to say to him. i can just as well come again." and without turning his face toward her, he went away. janet looked after him till the turn of the road hid him, saying to herself,-- "if the lord would but take him in hand, just to show what he could make of him. something to his praise, i hae no doubt--yankee though he be. god forgive me for saying it. i daresay i hae nae all the charity i might hae for them, the upsettin' bodies." chapter fourteen. even in quiet country places, there are changes many and varied wrought by the coming and going of seven years, and merleville has had its share of these since the time the minister's children looked upon the pleasant place with the wondering eyes of strangers. standing on the church-steps, one looks down on the same still hamlet, and over the same hills and valleys and nestling farm-houses. but the woods have receded in some places, and up from the right comes the sound of clashing machinery, telling that the merle river is performing its mission at last, setting in motion saws and hammers and spindles, but in so unpretending a manner that no miniature city has sprung up on its banks as yet; and long may that day be distant. the trees in the grave-yard cast a deeper shadow, and the white grave-stones seem to stand a little closer than of old. the tall, rank grass has many times been trodden by the lingering feet of the funeral-train, and fresh sods laid down above many a heart at rest forever. voices beloved, and voices little heeded, have grown silent during these seven years. some have died and have been forgotten; some have left a blank behind them which twice seven years shall have no power to fill. the people have changed somewhat, some for the better, some for the worse. judge merle has grown older. his hair could not be whiter than it was seven years ago, but he is bent now, and never forgets his staff as he takes his daily walk down the village street; but on his kindly face rests a look of peace, deeper and more abiding than there used to be. his kind and gentle wife is kind and gentle still. she, too, grows old, with a brightening face, as though each passing day were bringing her nearer to her hope's fulfilment. deacon sterne is growing older; his outward man gives no token thereof. his hair has been iron-grey, at least since anybody in merleville can remember, and it is iron-grey still. he looks as if seven times seven years could have no power to make his tall form less erect, or to soften the lines on his dark, grave face. and yet i am not sure. they say his face is changing, and that sometimes in the old meeting-house on sabbath afternoons, there has come a look over it as though a bright light fell on it from above. it comes at other times, too. his patient wife, pretending to look another way as he bends over the cradle of his wilful william's little son, yet turns stealthily to watch for the coming of the tender smile she has so seldom seen on her husband's face since the row of little graves was made in the church-yard long ago. by the deacon's fireside sits a pale, gentle woman, will's bride that was, will's sorrowing widow now. but though the grave has closed over him, whom his stern father loved better than all the world beside, there was hope in his death, and the mourner is not uncomforted; and for the deacon there are happier days in store than time has brought him yet. deacon slowcome has gone west, but, "yearning for the privileges he left behind,"--or not successful in his gains-getting, is about to return. deacon fish has gone west and has prospered. content in his heart to put the wonderful wheat crops in place of school and meeting, he yet deplores aloud, and in doleful terms enough, the want of these, and never ends a letter to a merleville crony without an earnest adjuration to "come over and help us." but on the whole, it is believed that, in his heart, deacon fish will not repine while the grain grows and the markets prosper. mr page is growing rich, they say, which is a change indeed. his nephew, timothy, having invented a wonderful mowing or reaping-machine, mr page has taken out a patent for the same, and is growing rich. mrs page enjoys it well, and goes often to rixford, where she has her gowns and bonnets made now; and patronises young mrs merle, and young mrs greenleaf, and does her duty generally very much to her own satisfaction, never hearing the whispered doubts of her old friends-- which are audible enough, too--whether she is as consistent as she ought to be, and whether, on the whole, her new prosperity is promoting her growth in grace. becky pettimore has got a home of her own, and feels as if she knows how to enjoy it. and so she does, if to enjoy it means to pick her own geese, and spin her own wool, and set her face like a flint against the admission of a speck of dirt within her own four walls. but it is whispered among some people, wise in these matters, that there is something going to happen in becky's home, which may, sometime or other, mar its perfect neatness, without, however, marring becky's enjoyment of it. it may be so, for hidden away in the corner of one of her many presses, is a little pillow of down, upon which no mortal head has ever rested, and which no eyes but becky's own have ever seen; and they fill with wonder and tenderness whenever they fall upon it; and so there is a chance that she may yet have more of home's enjoyments than geese or wool or dustless rooms can give. behind the elms, where the old brown house stood, stands now a snow-white cottage, with a vine-covered porch before it. it is neat without and neat within, though often there are children's toys and little shoes upon the floor. at this moment there is on the floor a row of chairs overturned, to make, not horses and carriages as they used to do in my young days, but a train of cars, and on one of them sits arthur elliott greenleaf, representing at once engine, whistle, conductor and freight. and no bad representative either, as far as noise is concerned, and a wonderful baby that must be who sleeps in the cradle through it all. beside the window, unruffled amid the uproar, sits celestia with her needle in her hand--a little paler, a little thinner than she used to be, and a little care-worn withal. for celestia is "ambitious," in good housewife phrase, and thereto many in merleville and beyond it who like to visit at her well-ordered home. the squire's newspaper nestles as peacefully amid the din as it used to do in the solitude of his little office seven years ago. he is thinner, too, and older, and more care-worn, and there is a look in his face suggestive of "appeals" and knotty points of law; and by the wrinkles on his brow and at the corners of his eyes, one might fancy he is looking out for the capitol and the white house in the distance still. "he is growing old while he is young," as mrs nasmyth says, "yankees have a knack of doing--standing still at middle age and never changing more." but despite the wrinkles, the squire's face is a pleasant one to see, and he has a way of turning back a paragraph or two to read the choice bits to celestia, which proves that he is not altogether absorbed in law or politics, but that he enjoys all he has, and all he hopes to be, the more that he has celestia to enjoy it with him. as for her, seven years have failed to convince her that mr greenleaf is not the gentlest, wisest, best in all the world. and as her opinion has survived an attack of dyspepsia, which for months held the squire in a giant's gripe, and the horrors of a contested election, in which the squire was beaten, it is to be supposed it will last through life. at this very moment her heart fills to the brim with love and wonder as he draws his chair a little nearer and says: "see, here, celestia. listen to what daniel webster says," and then goes on to read. "now, what do you think of that?" he asks, with sparkling eyes. hers are sparkling too, and she thinks just as he does, you may be sure, whatever that may be. not that she has a very clear idea of what has been read, as how could she amid rushing engines and railroad whistles, and the energetic announcement of the conductor that "the cars have got to boston." "see here, elliott, my son. ain't you tired riding?" asks papa, gently. "ain't you afraid you'll wake sister?" says mamma. "i wouldn't make quite so much noise, dear." "why, mother, i'm the cars," says elliott. "but hadn't you better go out into the yard? carlo! where's carlo? i haven't seen carlo for a long time. where's carlo?" it is evident solomon is not in the confidence of these good people. moral suasion is the order of the day. they often talk very wisely to each other, about the training of their children, and gravely discuss the prescriptions given long ago, for the curing of evils which come into the world with us all. they would fain persuade themselves that there is not so much need for them in the present enlightened age. they do not quite succeed, however, and fully intend to commence the training process soon. celestia, especially, has some misgivings, as she looks into the face of her bold, beautiful boy, but she shrinks from the thought of severe measures, and hopes that it will all come out right with him, without the wise king's medicine; and if mother's love and unfailing patience will bring things out right, there need be no fear for little elliott. it is a happy home, the greenleaf's. there are ease and comfort without luxury; there is necessity for exertion, without fear of want. there are many good and pretty things in the house, for use and ornament. there are pictures, books and magazines in plenty, and everything within and without goes to prove the truth of mr snow's declaration, that "the greenleafs take their comfort as they go along." but no change has come to anyone in merleville, so great as the change that has come to mr snow himself. death has been in his dwelling once--twice. his wife and his mother have both found rest, the one from her weary waiting, the other from her cares. the house to which sampson returns with lagging footsteps, is more silent than ever now. but a change greater than death can make, had come to sampson first, preparing him for all changes. it came to him as the sight of rushing water comes to the traveller who has been long mocked with the sound of it. it came, cleansing from his heart and from his life the dust and dimness of the world's petty cares, and vain pursuits. it found him weary of gains-getting, weary of toiling and moiling amid the dross of earth for that which could not satisfy, and it gave him for his own, the pearl which is above all price. weary of tossing to and fro, it gave him a sure resting-place, "a refuge whereunto he may continually resort," a peace that is abiding. with its coming the darkness passed away, and light to cheer and guide was his for evermore. behind the closed blinds of his deserted house, he was not alone. the promise, made good to so many in all ages, was made good to him. "he that loveth me shall be loved of my father, and we will come and make our abode with him." that wonderful change has come to him, which the world would fain deny-- the change which so many profess to have experienced, but which so few manifest in their lives. he has learned of the "meek and lowly." he is a christian at last. he has "experienced religion," the neighbours say, looking on with varied feelings to see what the end may be. sampson snow never did anything like anybody else, it was said. he "stood it" through "a season of interest," when deacons fish and slowcome had thought it best to call in the aid of the neighbouring ministers, to hold "a series of meetings." good, prudent men these ministers were, and not much harm was done, and some good. some were gathered into the church from the world; some falling back were restored; some weak ones were strengthened; some sorrowing ones comforted. and through all, the interested attention of mr snow never flagged. he attended all the meetings, listened patiently to the warnings of deacon fish, and the entreaties of deacon slowcome. he heard himself told by mr page that he was on dangerous ground, "within a few rods of the line of demarcation." he was formally given up as a hopeless case, and "left to himself", by all the tender-hearted old ladies in merleville, and never left the stand of a spectator through it all. then when deacons fish and slowcome, and all merleville with them, settled down into the old gloom again, his visits to the minister became more frequent, and more satisfactory, it seemed, for in a little time, to the surprise of all, it was announced in due form, that sampson snow desired to be admitted into fellowship with the church of merleville. after that time his foes watched for his halting in vain. different from other folks before, he was different from them still. he did not seem to think his duty for the week was done, when he had gone twice to meeting on the day time, and had spoken at conference on the sunday evening. indeed, it must be confessed, that he was rather remiss with regard to the latter duty. he did not seem to have the gift of speech on those occasions. he did not seem to have the power of advising or warning, or even of comforting, his neighbours. his gift lay in helping them. "inasmuch as ye have done it unto the least of these, my brethren, ye have done it unto me," were words that sampson seemed to believe. "he does folks a good turn, as though he would a little rather do it than not," said the widow lovejoy, and no one had a better right to know. as for the poor, weak, nervous rachel, who could only show her love for her husband, by casting all the burden of her troubles, real and imaginary, upon him, she could hardly love and trust him more than she had always done, but he had a greater power of comforting her now, and soon the peace that reigned in his heart influenced hers a little, and as the years went on, she grew content, at last, to bear the burdens god had laid upon her, and being made content to live and suffer on, god took her burden from her and laid her to rest, where never burden presses more. if his mother had ever really believed that no part of her son's happiness was made by his peevish, sickly wife, she must have acknowledged her mistake when poor rachel was borne away forever. she must have known it by the long hours spent in her silent room, by the lingering step with which he left it, by the tenderness lavished on every trifle she had ever cared for. "sampson seemed kind o' lost," she said; and her motherly heart, with all its worldliness, had a spot in it which ached for her son in his desolation. she did not even begrudge his turning to emily with a tender love. she found it in her heart to rejoice that the girl had power to comfort him as she could not. and little emily, growing every day more like the pretty rachel who had taken captive poor sampson's youthful fancy, did what earnest love could do to comfort him. but no selfishness mingled with her stepfather's love for emily. it cost him much to decide to send her from him for a while, but he did decide to do so. for he could not but see that emily's happiness was little cared for by his mother, even yet. she could not now, as in the old time, take refuge in her mother's room. she was helpful about the house too, and could not often be spared to her friends up the hill, or in the village; for old mrs snow, much as she hated to own it, could no longer do all things with her own hands, as she used to do. to be sure, she could have had help any day, or every day in the year; but it was one of the old lady's "notions" not to be able "to endure folks around her." and, besides, "what was the use of emily arnold?" and so, what with one thing and another, little emily's cheek began to grow pale; and the wilful gaze with which she used to watch her father's home-coming, came back to her eyes again. "there is no kind o' use for emily's being kept at work," said her father. "she ain't strong; and there's hannah lovejoy would be glad to come and help, and i'd be glad to pay her for it. emily may have a good time as well as not." but his mother was not to be moved. "girls used to have a good time and work too, when i was young. emily arnold is strong enough, if folks would let her alone, and not put notions in her head. and as for hannah, i'll have none of her." so mr snow saw that if emily was to have a good time it must be elsewhere; and he made up his mind to the very best thing he could have done for her. he fitted her out, and sent her to mount holyoke seminary; that school of schools for earnest, ambitions new england girls. and a good time she had there, enjoying all that was pleasant, and never heeding the rest. there were the first inevitable pangs of home-sickness, making her father doubt whether he had done best for his darling after all. but, in a little, her letters were merry and healthful enough. one would never have found out from them anything of the hardships of long stairs and the fourth storey, or of extra work on recreation day. pleasantly and profitably her days passed, and before she returned home at the close of the year, mrs snow had gone, where the household work is done without weariness. her father would fain have kept her at home then, but he made no objections to her return to school as she wished, and he was left to the silent ministrations of hannah lovejoy in the deserted home again. by the unanimous voice of his brethren in the church, he was, on the departure of deacons fish and slowcome, elected to fill the place of one of them, and in his own way he magnified the office. he was "lonesome, awful lonesome," at home; but cheerfulness came back to him again, and there is no one more gladly welcomed at the minister's house, and at many another house, than he. there have been changes in the minister's household, too. when his course in college was over, arthur came out to the rest. he lingered one delightful summer in merleville, and then betook himself to canada, to study his profession of the law. for arthur, wise as the merleville people came to think him, was guilty of one great folly in their eye. he could never, he said, be content to lose his nationality and become a yankee; so, for the sake of living in the queen's dominions, he went to canada; a place, in their estimation, only one degree more desirable as a place of residence than greenland or kamtschatka. that was five years ago. arthur has had something of a struggle since then. by sometimes teaching dull boys latin, sometimes acting as sub-editor for a daily paper, and at all times living with great economy, he has got through his studies without running much in debt; and has entered his profession with a fair prospect of success. he has visited merleville once since he went away, and his weekly letter is one of the greatest pleasures that his father and sisters have to enjoy. norman and harry have both left home, too. mr snow did his best to make a farmer first of the one and then of the other, but he failed. to college they went in spite of poverty, and having passed through honourably, they went out into the world to shift for themselves. norman writes hopefully from the far west. he is an engineer, and will be a rich man one day he confidently asserts, and his friends believe him with a difference. "he will make money enough," janet says, "but as to his keeping it, that's another matter." harry went to canada with the intention of following arthur's example and devoting himself to the law, but changed his mind, and is now in the merchant's counting-room; and sends home presents of wonderful shawls and gowns to janet and his sisters, intending to impress them with the idea that he is very rich indeed. those left at home, are content now to be without the absent ones; knowing that they are doing well their share in the world's work, and certain that whatever comes to them in their wanderings, whether prosperity to elate, or adversity to depress them, their first and fondest thought is, and ever will be, of the loving and beloved ones at home. chapter fifteen. the indian-summer-time was come again. the gorgeous glory of the autumn was gone, but so, for one day, at least, was its dreariness. there was no "wailing wind" complaining among the bare boughs of the elms. the very pines were silent. the yellow leaves, still lingering on the beech-trees in the hollow, rustled, now and then, as the brown nuts fell, one by one, on the brown leaves beneath. the frosts, sharp and frequent, had changed the torrent of a month ago into a gentle rivulet, whose murmur could scarce be heard as far as the gate over which graeme elliott leaned, gazing dreamily upon the scene before her. she was thinking how very lovely it was, and how very dear it had become to her. seen through "the smoky light," the purple hills beyond the water seemed not so far-away as usual. the glistening spire of the church on the hill, and the gleaming grave-stones, seemed strangely near. it looked but a step over to the village, whose white houses were quite visible among the leafless trees, and many farm-houses, which one could never see in summer for the green leaves, were peeping out everywhere from between the hills. "there is no place like merleville," graeme thinks in her heart. it is home to them all now. there were few but pleasant associations connected with the hills, and groves, and homesteads over which she was gazing. it came very vividly to her mind, as she stood there looking down, how she had stood with the bairns that first sabbath morning on the steps of the old meeting-house; and she strove to recall her feeling of shyness and wonder at all that she saw, and smiled to think how the faces turned to them so curiously that day were become familiar now, and some of them very dear. yes; merleville was home to graeme. not that she had forgotten the old home beyond the sea. but the thought of it came with no painful longing. even the memory of her mother brought now regret, indeed, and sorrow, but none of the loneliness and misery of the first days of loss, for the last few years had been very happy years to them all. and yet, as graeme stood gazing over to the hills and the village, a troubled, vexed look came over her face, and, with a gesture of impatience, she turned away from it all and walked up and down among the withered leaves outside the gate with an impatient tread. something troubled her with an angry trouble that she could not forget; and though she laughed a little, too, as she muttered to herself, it was not a pleasant laugh, and the vexed look soon came back again, indeed, it never went away. "it is quite absurd," she murmured, as she came within the gate, and then turned and leaned over it. "i won't believe it; and yet--oh, dear! what shall we ever do if it happens?" "it's kind o' pleasant here, ain't it?" said a voice behind her. graeme started more violently than there was any occasion for. it was only mr snow who had been in the study with her father for the last hour, and who was now on his way home. graeme scarcely answered him, but stood watching him, with the troubled look deepening on her face, as he went slowly down the road. mr snow had changed a good deal within these few years. he had grown a great deal greyer and graver, and graeme thought, with a little pang of remorse, as she saw him disappear round the turn of the road, that she had, by her coldness, made him all the graver. and yet she only half regretted it; and the vexed look came back to her face again, as she gathered up her work that had fallen to the ground and turned toward the house. there was no one in the usual sitting-room, no one in the bright kitchen beyond, and, going to the foot of the stairs, graeme raises her voice, which has an echo of impatience in it still, and calls: "mrs nasmyth." for janet is oftener called mrs nasmyth than the old name, even by the bairns now, except at such times as some wonderful piece of coaxing is to be done, and then she is janet, the bairn's own janet still. there was no coaxing echo in graeme's voice, however, but she tried to chase the vexed shadow from her face as her friend came slowly down the stairs. "are you not going to sit down?" asked graeme, as she seated herself on a low stool by the window. "i wonder where the bairns are?" "the bairns are gone down the brae," said mrs nasmyth; "and i'm just going to sit down to my seam a wee while." but she seemed in no hurry to sit down, and graeme sat silent for a little, as she moved quietly about the room. "janet," said she, at last, "what brings deacon snow so often up here of late?" janet's back was toward graeme, and, without turning round, she answered: "i dinna ken that he's oftener here than he used to be. he never stayed long away. he was ben the house with the minister. i didna see him." there was another pause. "janet," said graeme again, "what do you think mrs greenleaf told me all merleville is saying?" janet expressed no curiosity. "they say deacon snow wants to take you down the brae." still mrs nasmyth made no answer. "he hasna ventured to hint such a thing?" exclaimed graeme interrogatively. "no' to me," said janet, quietly, "but the minister." "the minister! he's no' blate! to think of him holding up his face to my father and proposing the like of that! and what did my father say?" "i dinna ken what he said to him; but to me he said he was well pleased that it should be so, and--" "janet!" graeme's voice expressed consternation as well as indignation, mrs nasmyth took no notice, but seated herself to her stocking-darning. "janet! if you think of such a thing for a moment, i declare i'll take second thoughts and go away myself." "weel, i aye thought you might have done as weel to consider a wee afore you gave mr foster his answer," said janet, not heeding graeme's impatient answer. "janet! a sticket minister!" "my dear, he's no' a sticket minister. he passed his examinations with great credit to himself. you hae your father's word for that, who was there to hear him. and he's a grand scholar--that's weel kent; and though he mayna hae the gift o' tongues like some folk, he may do a great deal of good in the world notwithstanding. and they say he has gotten the charge of a fine school now, and is weel off. i aye thought you might do worse than go with him. he's a good lad, and you would have had a comfortable home with him." "thank you. but when i marry it won't be to get a comfortable home. i'm content with the home i have." "ay, if you could be sure of keeping it," said janet, with a sigh; "but a good man and a good home does not come as an offer ilka day." "the deacon needna be feared to leave his case in your hands, it seems," said graeme, laughing, but not pleasantly. "miss graeme, my dear," said mrs nasmyth, gravely, "there's many a thing to be said of that matter; but it must be said in a different spirit from what you are manifesting just now. if i'm worth the keeping here, i'm worth the seeking elsewhere, and deacon snow has as good a right as another." "right, indeed! nobody has any right to you but ourselves. you are ours, and we'll never, never let you go." "it's no' far down the brae," said janet, gently. "janet! you'll never think of going! surely, surely, you'll never leave us now. and for a stranger, too! when you gave up your own mother and sandy, and the land you loved so well, to come here with us--!" graeme could not go on for the tears that would not be kept back. "miss graeme, my dear bairn, you were needing me then. nae, hae patience, and let me speak. you are not needing me now in the same way. i sometimes think it would be far better for you if i wasna here." graeme dissented earnestly by look and gesture, but she had no words. "it's true though, my dear. you can hardly say that you are at the head of your father's house, while i manage all things, as i do." but graeme had no desire to have it otherwise. "you can manage far best," said she. "that's no to be denied," said mrs nasmyth, gravely; "but it ought not to be so. miss graeme, you are no' to think that i am taking upon myself to reprove you. but do you think that your present life is the best to fit you for the duties and responsibilities that, sooner or later, come to the most of folk in the world? it's a pleasant life, i ken, with your books and your music, and your fine seam, and the teaching o' the bairns; but it canna last; and, my dear, is it making you ready for what may follow? it wouldna be so easy for you if i were away, but it might be far better for you in the end!" there was nothing graeme could answer to this, so she leaned her head upon her hand, and looked out on the brown leaves lying beneath the elms. "and if i should go," continued janet, "and there's many an if between me and going--but if i should go, i'll be near at hand in time of need--" "i know i am very useless," broke in graeme. "i don't care for these things as i ought--i have left you with too many cares, and i don't wonder that you want to go away." "whist, lassie. i never yet had too much to do for your mother's bairns; and if you have done little it's because you havena needed. and if i could aye stand between you and the burdens of life, you needna fear trouble. but i canna. miss graeme, my dear, you were a living child in your mother's arms before she was far past your age, and your brother was before you. think of the cares she had, and how she met them." graeme's head fell lower, as she repeated her tearful confession of uselessness, and for a time there was silence. "and, dear," said janet, in a little, "your father tells me that mr snow has offered to send for my mother and sandy. and oh! my bairn, my heart leaps in my bosom at the thought of seeing their faces again." she had no power to add more. "but, janet, your mother thought herself too old to cross the sea when we came, and that is seven years ago." "my dear, she kenned she couldna come, and it was as well to put that face on it. but she would gladly come now, if i had a home to give her." there was silence for a while, and then graeme said,-- "it's selfish in me, i know, but, oh! janet, we have been so happy lately, and i canna bear to think of changes coming." mrs nasmyth made no answer, for the sound of the bairns' voices came in at the open door, and in a minute marian entered. "where have you been, dear? i fear you have wearied yourself," said janet, tenderly. "we have only been down at mr snow's barn watching the threshing. but, indeed, i have wearied myself." and sitting down on the floor at janet's feet, she laid her head upon her lap. a kind, hard hand was laid on the bright hair of the bonniest of a' the bairns. "you mustna sit down here, my dear. lie down on the sofa and rest yourself till the tea be ready. have you taken your bottle to-day?" marian made her face the very picture of disgust. "oh! janet, i'm better now. i dinna need it. give it to graeme. she looks as if she needed something to do her good. what ails you, graeme?" "my dear," remonstrated janet, "rise up when i bid you; and go to the sofa, and i'll go up the stair for the bottle." marian laid herself wearily down. in a moment mrs nasmyth reappeared with a bottle and spoon in one hand, and a pillow in the other, and when the bitter draught was fairly swallowed, marian was laid down and covered and caressed with a tenderness that struck graeme as strange; for though janet loved them all well, she was not in the habit of showing her tenderness by caresses. in a little, marian slept. janet did not resume her work immediately, but sat gazing at her with eyes as full of wistful tenderness as ever a mother's could have been. at length, with a sigh, she turned to her basket again. "miss graeme," said she, in a little, "i dinna like to hear you speak that way about changes, as though they did not come from god, and as though he hadna a right to send them to his people when he pleases." "i canna help it, janet. no change that can come to us can be for the better." "that's true, but we must even expect changes that are for the worse; for just as sure as we settle down in this world content, changes will come. you mind what the word says, `as an eagle stirreth up her nest.' and you may be sure, if we are among the lord's children, he'll no leave us to make a portion of the rest and peace that the world gives. he is kinder to us than we would be to ourselves." a restless movement of the sleeper by her side, arrested janet's words, and the old look of wistful tenderness came back into her eyes as she turned toward her. graeme rose, and leaning over the arm of the sofa, kissed her softly. "how lovely she is!" whispered she. a crimson flush was rising on marian's cheeks as she slept. "ay, she was aye bonny," said janet, in the same low voice, "and she looks like an angel now." graeme stood gazing at her sister, and in a little janet spoke again. "miss graeme, you canna mind your aunt marian?" no, graeme could not. "menie is growing very like her, i think. she was bonnier than your mother even, and she kept her beauty to the very last. you ken the family werena well pleased when your mother married, and the sisters didna meet often till miss marian grew ill. they would fain have had her away to italy, or some far awa' place, but nothing would content her but just her sister, her sister, and so she came home to the manse. that was just after i came back again, after sandy was weaned; and kind she was to me, the bonny, gentle creature that she was. "for a time she seemed better, and looked so blooming--except whiles, and aye so bonny, that not one of them all could believe that she was going to die. but one day she came in from the garden, with a bonny moss-rose in her hand--the first of the season--and she said to your mother she was wearied, and lay down; and in a wee while, when your mother spoke to her again, she had just strength to say that she was going, and that she wasna feared, and that was all. she never spoke again." janet paused to wipe the tears from her face. "she was good and bonny, and our menie, the dear lammie, has been growing very like her this while. she 'minds me on her now, with the long lashes lying over her cheeks. miss marian's cheeks aye reddened that way when she slept. her hair wasna so dark as our menie's, but it curled of itself, like hers." mrs nasmyth turned grave pitying eyes toward graeme, as she ceased speaking. graeme's heart gave a sudden painful throb, and she went very pale. "janet," said she, with difficulty, "there is not much the matter with my sister, is there? it wasna that you meant about changes! menie's not going to die like our bonny aunt marian!" her tones grew shrill and incredulous as she went on. "i cannot tell. i dinna ken--sometimes i'm feared to think how it may end. but oh! miss graeme--my darling--" "but it is quite impossible--it can't be, janet," broke in graeme. "god knows, dear." janet said no more. the look on graeme's face showed that words would not help her to comprehend the trouble that seemed to be drawing near. she must be left to herself a while, and janet watched her as she went out over the fallen leaves, and over the bridge to the pine grove beyond, with a longing pity that fain would have borne her trouble for her. but she could not bear it for her--she could not even help her to bear it. she could only pray that whatever the end of their doubt for marian might be, the elder sister might be made the better and the wiser for the fear that had come to her to-day. there are some sorrows which the heart refuses to realise or acknowledge, even in knowing them to be drawing near. possible danger or death to one beloved is one of these; and as graeme sat in the shadow of the pines shuddering with the pain and terror which janet's words had stirred, she was saying it was impossible--it could not be true--it could never, _never_ be true, that her sister was going to die. she tried to realise the possibility, but she could not. when she tried to pray that the terrible dread might be averted, and that they might all be taught to be submissive in god's hands, whatever his will might be, the words would not come to her. it was, "no, no! no, no! it cannot be," that went up through the stillness of the pines; the cry of a heart not so much rebellious as incredulous of the possibility of pain so terrible. the darkness fell before she rose to go home again, and when she came into the firelight to the sound of happy voices, menie's the most mirthful of them all, her terrors seemed utterly unreasonable, she felt like one waking from a painful dream. "what could have made janet frighten herself and me so?" she said, as she spread out her cold hands to the blaze, all the time watching her sister's bright face. "graeme, tea's over. where have you been all this time?" asked rose. "my father was asking where you were. he wants to see you," said will. "i'll go ben now," said graeme, rising. the study lamp was on the table unlighted. the minister was sitting in the firelight alone. he did not move when the door opened, until graeme spoke. "i'm here, papa. did you want me?" "graeme, come in and sit down. i have something to say to you." she sat down, but the minister did not seem in haste to speak. he was looking troubled and anxious, graeme thought; and it suddenly came into her mind as she sat watching him, that her father was growing an old man. indeed, the last seven years had not passed so lightly over him as over the others. the hair which had been grey on his temples before he reached his prime, was silvery white now, and he looked bowed and weary as he sat there gazing into the fire. it came into graeme's mind as she sat there in the quiet room, that there might be other and sadder changes before them, than even the change that janet's words had implied. "my dear," said the minister, at last, "has mrs nasmyth been speaking to you?" "about--" menie, she would have asked, but her tongue refused to utter the word. "about mr snow," said her father, with a smile, and some hesitation. graeme started. she had quite forgotten. "mrs greenleaf told me something--and--" "i believe it is a case of true love with him, if such a thing can come to a man after he is fifty--as indeed why should it not?" said the minister. "he seems bent on taking janet from us, graeme." "papa! it is too absurd," said graeme, all her old vexation coming back. mr elliott smiled. "i must confess it was in that light i saw it first, and i had well nigh been so unreasonable as to be vexed with our good friend. but we must take care, lest we allow our own wishes to interfere with what may be for mrs nasmyth's advantage." "but, papa, she has been content with us all these years. why should there be a change now?" "if the change is to be for her good, we must try to persuade her to it, however. but, judging from what she said to me this afternoon, i fear it will be a difficult matter." "but, papa, why should we seek to persuade her against her own judgment." "my dear, we don't need to persuade her against her judgment, but against her affection for us. she only fears that we will miss her sadly, and she is not quite sure whether she ought to go and leave us." "but she has been quite happy with us." "yes, love--happy in doing what she believed to be her duty--as happy as she could be so far separated from those whom she must love better than she loves us even. i have been thinking of her to-night, graeme. what a self-denying life janet's has been! she must be considered first in this matter." "yes, if it would make her happier--but it seems strange that--" "graeme, mr snow is to send for her mother and her son. i could see how her heart leapt up at the thought of seeing them, and having them with her again. it will be a great happiness for her to provide a home for her mother in her old age. and she ought to have that happiness after such a life as hers." graeme sighed, and was silent. "if we had golden guineas to bestow on her, where we have copper coins only, we could never repay her love and care for us all; and it will be a matter of thankfulness to me to know that she is secure in a home of her own for the rest of her life." "but, papa, while we have a home, she will never be without one." "i know, dear, while we have a home. you need not tell me that; but graeme, there is only my frail life between you and homelessness. not that i fear for you. you are all young and strong, and the god whom i have sought to serve, will never leave my children. but janet is growing old, graeme, and i do think this way has been providentially opened to her." "if it were quite right to marry for a home, papa--" graeme hesitated and coloured. her father smiled. "mrs nasmyth is not so young as you, my dear. she will see things differently. and besides, she always liked and respected mr snow. i have no doubt she will be very happy with him." "we all liked him," said graeme, sighing. "but oh! i dread changes. i can't bear to break up our old ways." "graeme," said her father, gravely, "changes must come, and few changes can be for the better, as far as we are concerned. we have been very happy of late--so happy that i fear we were in danger of sitting down contented with the things of this life, and we need reminding. we may think ourselves happy if no sadder change than this comes to us." the thought of menie came back to graeme, with a pang, but she did not speak. "i know, dear," said her father, kindly, "this will come hardest upon you. it will add greatly to your cares to have mrs nasmyth leave us, but you are not a child now, and--" "oh, papa! it is not that--i mean it is not that altogether, but--" graeme paused. she was not sure of her voice, and she could not bear to grieve her father. in a little, she asked. "when is it to be?" "i don't know, indeed, but soon, i suppose; and my dear child, i trust to you to make smooth much that might otherwise be not agreeable in this matter to us all. the change you dread so much, will not be very great. our kind friend is not going very far-away, and there will be pleasant things connected with the change. i have no doubt, it will be for the best." "shall i light your lamp, papa?" said graeme, in a little while. "no, love, not yet. i have no mind for my book to-night." graeme stirred the fire, and moved about the room a little. when she opened the door, the sound of the children's voices came in merrily, and she shrunk from going out into the light. so she sat down in her accustomed place by the window, and thought, and listened to the sighs, that told her that her father was busy with anxious thoughts, too. "only my frail life between my children and homelessness," he had said. it seemed to graeme, as she sat there in the darkness, that since the morning, everything in the world had changed. they had been so at rest, and so happy, and now it seemed to her, that they could never settle down to the old quiet life again. "as an eagle stirreth up her nest," she murmured to herself. "well, i ought no' to fear the changes he brings--but, oh! i am afraid." chapter sixteen. the rest of the bairns received the tidings of the change that was going to take place among them, in a very different way from graeme. their astonishment at the idea of janet's marriage was great, but it did not equal their delight. graeme was in the minority decidedly, and had to keep quiet. but then janet was in the minority, too, and mr snow's suit was anything but prosperous for some time. indeed, he scarcely ventured to show his face at the minister's house, mrs nasmyth was so evidently out of sorts, anxious and unhappy. her unhappiness was manifested by silence chiefly, but the silent way she had of ignoring sampson and his claims, discouraging all approach to the subject, that lay so near the good deacon's heart, was worse to bear than open rebuff would have been; and while mrs nasmyth's silence grieved mr snow, the elaborate patience of his manner, his evident taking for granted that "she would get over it," that "it would all come right in the end," were more than she could sometimes patiently endure. "he's like the lave o' them," said she to graeme one day, after having closed the door, on his departure, with more haste than was at all necessary. "give a man an inch, and he'll take an ell. because i didna just set my face against the whole matter, when the minister first spoke about it, he's neither to hold nor bind, but `when will it be?' and `when will it be?' till i have no peace of my life with him." graeme could not help laughing at her excitement. "but, when will it be?" asked she. "my dear, i'm no sure that it will ever be." "janet!" exclaimed graeme. "what has happened?" "nothing has happened; but i'm no' sure but i ought to have put a stop to the matter at the very first. i dinna weel ken what to do." "janet," said graeme, speaking with some embarrassment, "my father thinks it right, and it does not seem so--so strange as it did at first--and you should speak to mr snow about it, at any rate." "to put him out o' pain," said janet, smiling grimly. "there's no fear o' him. but i'll speak to him this very night." and so she did, and that so kindly, that the deacon, taking heart, pleaded his own cause, with strong hopes of success. but janet would not suffer herself to be entreated. with tearful eyes, she told him of her fears for marian, and said, "it would seem like forsaking the bairns in their trouble, to leave them now." mr snow's kind heart was much shocked at the thought of marian's danger. she had been his favourite among the bairns, and emily's chief friend from the very first, and he could not urge her going away, now that there was so sorrowful a reason for her stay. "so you'll just tell the minister there is to be no more said about it. he winna ask any questions, i dare say." but in this janet was mistaken. he did ask a great many questions, and failing to obtain satisfactory answers, took the matter into his own hands, and named an early day for the marriage. in vain janet protested and held back. he said she had been thinking of others all her life, till she had forgotten how to think of herself, and needed some one to think and decide for her. as to marian's illness being an excuse, it was quite the reverse. if she was afraid marian would not be well cared for at home, she might take her down the brae; indeed, he feared there was some danger that he would be forsaken of all his children when she went away. and then he tried to thank her for her care of his motherless bairns, and broke down into a silence more eloquent than words. "and, my dear friend," said he, after a little, "i shall feel, when i am to be taken away, i shall not leave my children desolate, while they have you to care for them." so for mrs nasmyth there was no help. but on one thing she was determined. the day might be fixed, but it must be sufficiently distant to permit the coming home of the lads, if they could come. they might come or not, as it pleased them, but invited they must be. she would fain see them all at home again, and that for a better reason than she gave the minister. to mr snow, who doubted whether "them boys" would care to come so far at such expense, she gave it with a sadder face than he had ever seen her wear. "if they are not all together soon, they may never be together on earth again; and it is far better that they should come home, and have a few blithe days to mind on afterward, than that their first home-coming should be to a home with the shadow of death upon it. they must be asked, any way." and so they were written to, and in due time there came a letter, saying that both harry and arthur would be home for a week at the time appointed. from norman there came no letter, but one night, while they were wondering why, norman came himself. his first greeting to janet was in words of grave expostulation, that she should think of forsaking her "bairns" after all these years; but when he saw how grave her face became, he took it all back, and declared that he had been expecting it all along, and only wondered that matters had not been brought to a crisis much sooner. he rejoiced mr snow's heart, first by his hearty congratulations, and then by his awful threats of vengeance if mrs snow was not henceforth the happiest woman in merleville. norman was greatly changed by his two years' absence, more than either of his brothers, the sisters thought. arthur was just the same as ever, though he was an advocate and a man of business; and harry was a boy with a smooth chin and red cheeks, still. but, with norman's brown, bearded face the girls had to make new acquaintance. but, though changed in appearance, it was in appearance only. norman was the same mirth-loving lad as ever. he was frank and truthful, too, if he was still thoughtless; and graeme told herself many a time, with pride and thankfulness, that as yet, the world had not changed for the worse, the brother for whom she had dreaded its temptations most of all. norman's letters had always been longest and most frequent; and yet, it was he who had the most to tell. if his active and exposed life as an engineer at the west had anything unpleasant in it, this was kept out of sight at home, and his adventures never wearied the children. his "once upon a time" was the signal for silence and attention among the little ones; and even the older ones listened with interest to norman's rambling stories. nor did their interest cease when the sparkle in norman's eye told that his part in the tale was ended; and the adventures of an imaginary hero begun. there was one story which they were never tired of hearing. it needed none of norman's imaginary horrors to chase the blood from the cheeks of his sisters, when it was told. it was the story of the burning steamboat, and how little hilda bremer had been saved from it; the only one out of a family of eight. father, mother, brothers, all perished together; and she was left alone in a strange land, with nothing to keep here from despair but the kind words of strangers, uttered in a tongue that she could not understand. it would, perhaps, have been wiser in norman to have given her up to the kind people who had known her parents in their own land; but he had saved the child's life, and when she clung to him in her sorrow, calling him dear names in her own tongue, he could not bear to send her away. "these people were poor, and had many children of their own," said norman. "i would have thought it a hard lot for menie or rosie to go with them; and when she begged to stay with me, i could not send her with them. if it had not been so far, i would have sent her to you, graeme. but as i could not do that, i kept her with me while i stayed in c, and there i sent her to school. they say she bids fair to be a learned lady some day." this was an item of news that norman's letters had not conveyed. they only knew that he had saved hilda from the burning boat, and that he had been kind to her afterwards. "but norman, man, the expense!" said the prudent mrs nasmyth, "you havena surely run yourself in debt?" norman laughed. "no; but it has been close shaving sometimes. however, it would have been that anyway. i am afraid i have not the faculty for keeping money, and i might have spent it to worse purpose." "and is the little thing grateful?" asked graeme. "oh! yes; i suppose so. she is a good little thing, and is always glad to see me in her quiet way." "it's a pity she's no' bonny," said marian. "oh! she is bonny in german fashion; fair and fat." "how old is she?" asked mrs nasmyth. norman considered. "well, i really can't say. judging by her inches, i should say about rosie's age. but she is wise enough and old-fashioned enough to be rosie's grandmother. she's a queer little thing." "tell us more," said rose; "do you go to see her often?" "as often as i can. she is very quiet; she was the only girl among the eight, and a womanly little thing even then. you should hear her talk about her little business matters. my dear mrs nasmyth, you need not be afraid of my being extravagant, with such a careful little woman to call me to account. "i have a great mind to send her home to you in the spring, graeme. it seems very sad for a child like her to be growing up with no other home but a school. she seems happy enough, however." "and would she like to come?" "she says she wouldn't; but, of course, she would like it, if she were once here. i must see about it in the spring." the wedding-day came, and in spite of many efforts to prevent it, it was rather a sad day to them all. it found janet still "in a swither." she could not divest herself of the idea that she was forsaking "the bairns." "and, oh! miss graeme, my dear, if it werena for the thought of seeing my mother and sandy, my heart would fail me quite. and are you quite sure that you are pleased now, dear?" "janet, it was because i was selfish that i wasna pleased from the very first; and you are not really going away from us, only just down the brae." graeme did not look very glad, however. but if the wedding-day was rather sad, thanksgiving-day, that soon followed, was far otherwise. it was spent at the deacon's. miss lovejoy distinguished herself forever by her chicken-pies and fixings. mr and mrs snow surpassed themselves as host and hostess; and even the minister was merry with the rest. emily was at home for the occasion; and though at first she had been at a loss how to take the change, menie's delight decided her, and she was delighted, too. they grew quiet in the evening but not sad. seated around the fire in the parlour, the young people spoke much of the time of their coming to merleville. and then, they went further back, and spoke about their old home, and their mother, and their long voyage on the "steadfast." "i wonder what has become of allan ruthven," said marian. "it's strange that you have never seen him, arthur." "i may have seen him twenty times without knowing him. you mind, i was not on the `steadfast' with you." "but harry saw him; and, surely, he could not have changed so much but that he would know him now if he saw him." "and do you know no one of the name?" asked graeme. "i have heard of several ruthvens in canada west. and the house of elphinstone and gilchrist have a western agent of that name. do you know anything about him, harry? who knows but he may be allan ruthven of the `steadfast.'" "no, i thought he might be, and made inquiries," said harry. "but that ruthven seems quite an old fogey. he has been in the employment of that firm ever since the flood,--at least, a long time. do you mind allan ruthven, menie?" "mind him!" that she did. menie was very quiet to-night, saying little, but listening happily as she lay on the sofa, with her head on graeme's knee. "allan was the first one i heard say our menie was a beauty," said norman. "menie, do you mind?" menie laughed. "yes, i mind." "but i think rosie was his pet. graeme, don't you mind how he used to walk up and down the deck, with rosie in his arms?" "but that was to rest graeme," said harry. "miss rosie was a small tyrant in those days." rosie shook her head at him. "eh! wasna she a cankered fairy?" said norman, taking rosie's fair face between his hands. "graeme had enough ado with you, i can tell you." "and with you, too. never heed him, rosie," said graeme, smiling at her darling. "i used to admire graeme's patience on the `steadfast'," said harry. "i did that before the days of the `steadfast,'" said arthur. rosie pouted her pretty lips. "i must have been an awful creature." "oh! awful," said norman. "a spoilt bairn, if ever there was one," said harry. "i think i see you hiding your face, and refusing to look at any of us." "i never thought graeme could make anything of you," said norman. "graeme has though," said the elder sister, laughing. "i wouldna give my bonny scottish rose, for all your western lilies, norman." and so they went on, jestingly. "menie," said arthur, suddenly, "what do you see in the fire?" menie was gazing with darkening eyes, in among the red embers. she started when her brother spoke. "i see--oh! many things. i see our old garden at home,--in clayton, i mean--and--" "it must be an imaginary garden, then. i am sure you canna mind that." "mind it! indeed i do. i see it as plainly as possible, just as it used to be. only somehow, the spring and summer flowers all seem to be in bloom together. i see the lilies and the daisies, and the tall white rose-bushes blossoming to the very top." "and the broad green walk," said harry. "and the summer-house." "and the hawthorn hedge." "and the fir trees, dark and high." "and the two apple trees." "yes,--the tree of life, and the tree of the knowledge of good and evil, i used to think them," said norman. "and i, too," said menie. "whenever i think of the garden of eden, i fancy it like our garden at home." "your imagination is not very brilliant, if you can't get beyond _that_ for paradise," said arthur, laughing. "well, maybe not, but i always do think of it so. oh! it was a bonny place. i wish i could see it again." "well, you must be ready to go home with me, in a year or two," said norman. "you needna laugh, graeme, i am going home as soon as i get rich." "in a year or two! you're nae blate!" "oh! we winna need a great fortune, to go home for a visit. we'll come back again. it will be time enough to make our fortune then. so be ready, menie, when i come for you." "many a thing may happen, before a year or two," said marian, gravely. "many a thing, indeed," said graeme and norman, in a breath. but while graeme gazed with sudden gravity into her sister's flushed face, norman added, laughingly. "i shouldn't wonder but you would prefer another escort, before that time comes. i say, menie, did anybody ever tell you how bonny you are growing?" menie laughed, softly. "oh! yes. emily told me when she came home; and so did harry. and you have told me so yourself to-day, already." "you vain fairy! and do you really think you're bonny?" "janet says, i'm like aunt marian, and she was bonnier even than mamma." "like aunt marian!" graeme remembered janet's words with a pang. but she strove to put the thought from her; and with so many bright faces round her, it was not difficult to do to-night. surely if marian were ill, and in danger, the rest would see it too. and even janet's anxiety had been at rest for a while. menie was better now. how merry she had been with her brothers for the last few days. and though she seemed very weary to-night, no wonder. so were they all. even rosie, the tireless, was half asleep on arthur's knee, and when all the pleasant bustle was over, and they were settled down in their old quiet way, her sister would be herself again. nothing so terrible could be drawing near, as the dread which janet had startled herewith that day. "emily," said harry, "why do you persist in going back to that horrid school? why don't you stay at home, and enjoy yourself?" "i'm not going to any horrid school," said emily. "you can't make me believe that you would rather be at school than at home, doing as you please, and having a good time with rose and menie here." emily laughed. "i would like that; but i like going back to school too." "but you'll be getting so awfully wise that there will be no talking to you, if you stay much longer." "in that case, it might do you good to listen," said emily, laughing. "but you are altogether too wise already," harry persisted. "i really am quite afraid to open my lips in your presence." "we have all been wondering at your strange silence, and lamenting it," said arthur. "but, indeed, i must have a word with the deacon about it," said harry. "i can't understand how he has allowed it so long already. i must bring my influence to bear on him." "you needn't," said emily. "i have almost prevailed upon graeme, to let menie go back with me. there will be two learned ladies then." graeme smiled, and shook her head. "not till summer. we'll see what summer brings. many things may happen before summer," she added, gravely. they all assented gravely too, but not one of them with any anxious thought of trouble drawing near. they grew quiet after that, and each sat thinking, but it was of pleasant things mostly; and if on anyone there fell a shadow for a moment, it was but with the thought of the morrow's parting, and never with the dread that they might not all meet on earth again. chapter seventeen. they all went away--the lads and emily, and quietness fell on those that remained. the reaction from the excitement in which they had been living for the last few weeks was very evident in all. even will and rosie needed coaxing to go back to the learning of lessons, and the enjoyment of their old pleasures; and so graeme did not wonder that marian was dull, and did not care to exert herself. the weather had changed, too, and they quite agreed in thinking it was much nicer to stay within doors than to take their usual walks and drives. so marian occupied the arm-chair or the sofa, with work in her hand, or without it, as the case might be, and her sister's fears with regard to her were, for a time, at rest. for she did not look ill; she was as cheerful as ever, entering into all the new arrangements which janet's departure rendered necessary with interest, and sharing with graeme the light household tasks that fell to her lot when the "help" was busy with heavier matters. there was not much that was unpleasant, for the kind and watchful eyes of mrs snow were quite capable of keeping in view the interests of two households, and though no longer one of the family, she was still the ruling spirit in their domestic affairs. with her usual care for the welfare of the bairns, she had sent the experienced hannah lovejoy up the brae, while she contented herself with "breaking in" sephronia, hannah's less helpful younger sister. there was a great difference between the service of love that had all their life long shielded them from trouble and annoyance, and miss lovejoy's abrupt and rather familiar ministrations. but hannah was faithful and capable, indeed, "a treasure," in these days of destitution in the way of help; and if her service was such as money could well pay, she did not grudge it, while her wages were secure; and housekeeping and its responsibilities were not so disagreeable to graeme as she had feared. indeed, by the time the first letter from norman came, full of mock sympathy for her under her new trials, she was quite as ready to laugh at herself as any of the rest. her faith in hannah was becoming fixed, and it needed some expostulations from mrs snow to prevent her from letting the supreme power, as to household matters, pass into the hands of her energetic auxiliary. "my dear," said she, "there's many a thing that hannah could do well enough, maybe better than you could, for that matter; but you should do them yourself, notwithstanding. it's better for her, and it's better for you, too. every woman should take pleasure in these household cares. if they are irksome at first they winna be when you are used to them; and, my dear, it may help you through many an hour of trouble and weariness to be able to turn your hand to these things. there is great comfort in it sometimes." graeme laughed, and suggested other resources that might do as well to fall back upon in a time of trouble, but mrs snow was not to be moved. "my dear, that may be all true. i ken books are fine things to keep folk from thinking, for a time; but the trouble that is put away that way comes back on one again; and it's only when folk are doing their duty that the lord gives them abiding comfort. i ken by myself. there have been days in my life when my heart must have been broken, or my brain grown crazed, if i hadna needed to do this and to do that, to go here and to go there. my dear, woman's work, that's never done, is a great help to many a one, as well as me. and trouble or no trouble, it is what you ought to know and do in your father's house." so graeme submitted to her friend's judgment, and conscientiously tried to become wise in all household matters, keeping track of pieces of beef and bags of flour, of breakfasts, dinners and suppers, in a way that excited admiration, and sometimes other feelings, in the mind of the capable hannah. so a very pleasant winter wore on, and the days were beginning to grow long again, before the old dread was awakened in graeme. for only in one way was marian different from her old self. she did not come to exert herself. she was, perhaps, a little quieter, too, but she was quite cheerful, taking as much interest as ever in home affairs and in the affairs of the village. almost every day, after the sleighing became good, she enjoyed a drive with graeme or her father, or with mr snow in his big sleigh after the "bonny greys." they paid visits, too, stopping a few minutes at judge merle's or mr greenleaf's, or at some other friendly home in the village; and if their friends' eyes grew grave and very tender at the sight of them, it did not for a long time come into graeme's mind that it was because they saw something that was invisible as yet to hers. so the time wore on, and not one in the minister's happy household knew that each day that passed so peacefully over them was leaving one less between them and a great sorrow. the first fear was awakened in graeme by a very little thing. after several stormy sabbaths had kept her sister at home from church, a mild, bright day came, but it did not tempt her out. "i am very sorry not to go, graeme," said she; "but i was so weary last time. let me stay at home to-day." so she stayed; and all the way down the hill and over the valley the thought of her darkened the sunlight to her sister's eyes. nor was the shadow chased away by the many kindly greetings that awaited her at the church door; for no one asked why her sister was not with her, but only how she seemed to-day. it was well that the sunshine, coming in on the corner where she sat, gave her an excuse for letting fall her veil over her face, for many a bitter tear fell behind it. when the services were over, and it was time to go home, she shrunk from answering more inquiries about marian, and hastened away, though she knew that mrs merle was waiting for her at the other end of the broad aisle, and that mrs greenleaf had much ado to keep fast hold of her impatient boy till she should speak a word with her. but she could not trust herself to meet them and to answer them quietly, and hurried away. so she went home again, over the valley and up the hill with the darkness still round her, till menie's bright smile and cheerful welcome chased both pain and darkness away. but when the rest were gone, and the sisters were left to the sabbath quiet of the deserted home, the fear came back again, for in a little marian laid herself down with a sigh of weariness, and slept with her cheek laid on the bible that she held in her hand. as graeme listened to her quick breathing, and watched the hectic rising on her cheek, she felt, for the moment, as though all hope were vain. but she put the thought from her. it was too dreadful to be true; and she chid herself for always seeing the possible dark side of future events, and told herself that she must change in this respect. with all her might she strove to reason away the sickening fear at her heart, saying how utterly beyond belief it was that menie could be going to die--menie, who had always been so well and so merry. she was growing too fast, that was all; and when the spring came again, they would all go to some quiet place by the sea-shore, and run about among the rocks, and over the sands, till she should be well and strong as ever again. "if spring were only come!" she sighed to herself. but first there were weeks of frost and snow, and then weeks of bleak weather, before the mild sea-breezes could blow on her drooping flower, and graeme could not reason her fears away; nor when the painful hour of thought was over, and menie opened her eyes with a smile, did her cheerful sweetness chase it away. after this, for a few days, graeme grow impatient of her sister's quietness, and strove to win her to her old employments again. she would have her struggle against her wish to be still, and took her to ride and to visit, and even to walk, when the day was fine. but this was not for long. menie yielded always, and tried with all her might to seem well and not weary; but it was not always with success; and graeme saw that it was in vain to urge her beyond her strength; so, in a little, she was allowed to fall back into her old ways again. "i will speak to doctor chittenden, and know the worst," said graeme, to herself, but her heart grew sick at the thought of what the worst might be. by and by there came a mild bright day, more like april than january. mr elliott had gone to a distant part of the parish for the day, and had taken will and rosie with him, and the sisters were left alone. graeme would have gladly availed herself of deacon snow's offer to lend them grey major, or to drive them himself for a few miles. the day was so fine, she said to menie; but she was loth to go. it would be so pleasant to be a whole day quite alone together. or, if graeme liked, they might send down for janet in the afternoon. graeme sighed, and urged no more. "we can finish our book, you know," went on menie. "and there are the last letters to read to mrs snow. i hope nobody will come in. we shall have such a quiet day." but this was not to be. there was the sound of sleigh-bells beneath the window, and graeme looked out. "it is doctor chittenden," said she. marian rose from the sofa, trying, as she always did, when the doctor came, to look strong and well. she did not take his visits to herself. doctor chittenden had always come now and then to see her father, and if his visits had been more frequent of late they had not been more formal or professional than before. graeme watched him as he fastened his horse, and then went to the door to meet him. "my child," said he, as he took her hand, and turned her face to the light, "are you quite well to-day?" "quite well," said graeme; but she was very pale, and her cold hand trembled in his. "you are quite well, i see," said he, as marian came forward to greet him. "i ought to be," said marian, laughing and pointing to an empty bottle on the mantelpiece. "i see. we must have it replenished." "don't you think something less bitter would do as well?" said marian, making a pitiful face. "graeme don't think it does me much good." "miss graeme had best take care how she speaks disrespectfully of my precious bitters. but, i'll see. i have some doubts about them myself. you ought to be getting rosy and strong upon them, and i'm afraid you are not," said he, looking gravely into the fair pale face that he took between his hands. he looked up, and met graeme's look fixed anxiously upon him. he did not avert his quickly as he had sometimes done on such occasions. the gravity of his look deepened as he met hers. "where has your father gone?" asked he. "to the bell neighbourhood, for the day. the children have gone with him, and graeme and i are going to have a nice quiet day," said marian. "_you_ are going with me," said the doctor. "with you!" "yes. have you any objections?" "no. only i don't care to ride just for the sake of riding, without having anywhere to go." "but, i am going to take you somewhere. i came for that purpose. mrs greenleaf sent me. she wants you to-day." "but, i can go there any time. i was there, not long ago; i would rather stay at home to-day with graeme, thank you." "and what am i to say to mrs greenleaf? no, i'm not going without you. so, get ready and come with me." menie pouted. "and graeme had just consented to my staying at home quietly for the day." "which does not prove miss graeme's wisdom," said the doctor. "why, child, how many april days do you think we are going to have in january? be thankful for the chance to go out; for, if i am not much mistaken, we are to have a storm that will keep us all at home. miss graeme, get your sister's things. it is health for her to be out in such a day." graeme went without a word, and when she came back the doctor said,-- "there is no haste. i am going farther, and will call as i come back. lie down, dear child, and rest just now." graeme left the room, and as the doctor turned to go out, she beckoned him into the study. "you don't mean to tell me that menie is in danger?" said she, with a gasp. "i am by no means sure what i shall say to you. it will depend on how you are likely to listen," said the doctor, gravely. graeme strove to command herself and speak calmly. "anything is better than suspense." then, laying her hand on his arm, she added, "she is not worse! surely you would have told us!--" "my dear young lady, calm yourself. she is not worse than she has been. the chances of recovery are altogether in her favour. the indications of disease are comparatively slight--that is, she has youth on her side, and a good constitution. if the month of march were over, we would have little to fear with another summer before us. your mother did not die of consumption?" "no, but--" the remembrance of what janet had told her about their "bonny aunt marian" took away graeme's power to speak. "well, we have everything to hope if we can see her safely through the spring without taking cold, and you must keep her cheerful." "she is always cheerful." "well--that's well. you must not let her do anything to weary herself. i don't like the stove-heat for her. you should let her sleep in the other room where the fireplace is. when the days are fine, she must be well wrapped up and go out, and i will send her something. my dear, you have no occasion for despondency. the chances are all in her favour." he went toward the door, but came back again, and after walking up and down the room for a little, he came close to graeme. "and if it were not so, my child, you are a christian. if the possibility you have been contemplating should become a reality, ought it to be deplored?" a strong shudder passed over graeme. the doctor paused, not able to withstand the pain in her face. "nay, my child--if you could keep her here and assure to her all that the world can give, what would that be in comparison with the `rest that remaineth?' for her it would be far better to go, and for you--when your time comes to lie down and die--would it sooth you then to know that she must be left behind, to travel, perhaps, with garments not unspotted, all the toilsome way alone?" graeme's face drooped till it was quite hidden, and her tears fell fast. her friend did not seek to check them. "i know the first thought is terrible. but, child! the grave is a safe place in which to keep our treasures. mine are nearly all there. i would not have it otherwise--and they are safe from the chances of a changeful world. you will be glad for yourself by and by. you should be glad for your sister now." "if i were sure--if i were quite sure," murmured graeme through her weeping. "sure that she is going home?" said the doctor, stooping low to whisper the words. "i think you may be sure--as sure as one can be in such a case! it is a great mystery. your father will know best. god is good. pray for her." "my father! he does not even think of danger." graeme clasped her hands with a quick despairing motion. "miss graeme," said the doctor, hastily, "you must not speak to your father yet. marian's case is by no means hopeless, and your father must be spared all anxiety at present. a sudden shock might--" he paused. "is not my father well? has he not quite recovered?" asked graeme. "quite well, my dear, don't be fanciful. but it will do no good to disturb him now. i will speak to him, or give you leave to speak to him, if it should become necessary. in the meantime you must be cheerful. you have no cause to be otherwise." it was easy to say "be cheerful." but graeme hardly hoped for her sister, after that day. often and often she repeated to herself the doctor's words, that there was no immediate danger, but she could take no comfort from them. the great dread was always upon her. she never spoke of her fears again, and shrank from any allusion to her sister's state, till her friends--and even the faithful janet, who knew her so well--doubted whether she realised the danger, which was becoming every day more apparent to them all. but she knew it well, and strove with all her power, to look calmly forward to the time when the worst must come; and almost always, in her sister's presence, she strove successfully. but these quiet, cheerful hours in marian's room, were purchased by hours of prayerful agony, known only to him who is full of compassion, even when his chastisements are most severe. chapter eighteen. no. none knew so well as graeme that her sister was passing away from among them; but even she did not dream how near the time was come. even when the nightly journey up-stairs was more than marian could accomplish, and the pretty parlour, despoiled of its ornaments, became her sick-room, graeme prayed daily for strength to carry her through the long months of watching, that she believed were before her. as far as possible, everything went on as usual in the house. the children's lessons were learned, and recited as usual, generally by marian's side for a time, but afterwards they went elsewhere, for a very little thing tired her now. still, she hardly called herself ill. she suffered no pain, and it was only after some unusual exertion that she, or others, realised how very weak she was becoming day by day. her work-basket stood by her side still, for though she seldom touched it now, graeme could not bear to put it away. their daily readings were becoming brief and infrequent. one by one their favourite books found their accustomed places on the shelves, and remained undisturbed. within reach of her hand lay always menie's little bible, and now and then she read a verse or two, but more frequently it was graeme's trembling lips, that murmured the sweet familiar words. almost to the very last she came out to family worship with the rest, and when she could not, they went in to her. and the voice, that had been the sweetest of them all, joined softly and sweetly still in their song of praise. very quietly passed these last days and nights. many kind inquiries were made, and many kind offices performed for them, but for the most part the sisters were left to each other. even the children were beguiled into frequent visits to mrs snow and others, and many a tranquil hour did the sisters pass together. tranquil only in outward seeming many of these hours were to graeme, for never a moment was the thought of the parting, that every day brought nearer, absent from her, and often when there were smiles and cheerful words upon her lips, her heart was like to break for the desolation that was before them. "graeme," said marian, one night, as the elder sister moved restlessly about the room, "you are tired to-night. come and lie down beside me and rest, before will and rosie come home." weary graeme was, and utterly despondent, with now and then such bitter throbs of pain, at her heart, that she felt she must get away to weep out her tears alone. but she must have patience a little longer, and so, lying down on the bed, she suffered the wasted arms to clasp themselves about her neck, and for a time the sisters lay cheek to cheek in silence. "graeme," said marian, at last, "do you think papa kens?" "what love?" "that i am going soon. you know it, graeme?" graeme's heart stirred with a sudden throb of pain. there was a rushing in her ears, and a dimness before her eyes, as though the dreaded enemy had already come, but she found voice to say, softly,-- "you're no' feared, menie?" "no," said she, quickly, then raising herself up, and leaning close over, so as to see her sister's face, she added, "do you think i need to fear, graeme?" if she had had a thousand worlds to give, she would have given all to know that her little sister, standing on the brink of the river of death, need not fear to enter it. "none need fear who trust in jesus," said she, softly. "no. and i do trust him. who else could i trust, now that i am going to die? i know he is able to save." "all who come to him," whispered graeme. "my darling, have you come?" "i think he has drawn me to himself. i think i am his very own. graeme, i know i am not wise like you--and i have not all my life been good, but thoughtless and wilful often--but i know that i love jesus, and i think he loves me, too." she lay quietly down again. "graeme, are you afraid for me?" "i canna be afraid for one who trusts in jesus." it was all she could do to say it, for the cry that was rising to her lips from her heart, in which sorrow was struggling with joy. "there is only one thing that sometimes makes me doubt," said marian, again. "my life has been such a happy life. i have had no tribulation that the bible speaks of--no buffetting--no tossing to and fro. i have been happy all my life, and happy to the end. it seems hardly fair, graeme, when there are so many that have so much suffering." "god has been very good to you, dear." "and you'll let me go willingly, graeme?" "oh! menie, must you go. could you no' bide with us a little while?" said graeme, her tears coming fast. a look of pain came to her sister's face. "graeme," said she, softly; "at first i thought i couldna bear to go and leave you all. but it seems easy now. and you wouldna bring back the pain, dear?" "no, no! my darling." "at first you'll all be sorry, but god will comfort you. and my father winna have long to wait, and you'll have rosie and will--and, graeme, you will tell papa?" "yes, i will tell him." "he'll grieve at first, and i could not bear to see him grieve. after he has time to think about it, he will be glad." "and arthur, and all the rest--" murmured graeme. a momentary shadow passed over marian's face. "oh! graeme, at first i thought it would break my heart to leave you all--but i am willing now. god, i trust, has made me willing. and after a while they will be happy again. but they will never forget me, will they, graeme?" "my darling! never!" "sometimes i wish i had known--i wish i had been quite sure, when they were all at home. i would like to have said something. but it doesna really matter. they will never forget me." "we will send for them," said graeme, through her tears. "i don't know. i think not. it would grieve them, and i can bear so little now. and we were so happy the last time. i think they had best not come, graeme." but the words were slow to come, and her eyes turned, oh! so wistfully, to her sister's face, who had no words with which to answer. "sometimes i dream of them, and when i waken, i do so long to see them," and the tears gathered slowly in her eyes. "but it is as well as it is, perhaps. i would rather they would think of me as i used to be, than to see me now. no, graeme, i think i will wait." in the pause that followed, she kissed her sister softly many times. "it won't be long. and, graeme--i shall see our mother first--and you must have patience, and wait. we shall all get safe home at last--i am quite, _quite_ sure of that." a step was heard at the door, and mrs snow entered. "weel, bairns!" was all she said, as she sat down beside them. she saw that they were both much moved, and she laid her kind hand caressingly on the hair of the eldest sister, as though she knew she was the one who needed comforting. "have the bairns come?" asked menie. "no, dear, i bade them bide till i went down the brae again. do you want them home?" "oh no! i only wondered why i didna hear them." the wind howled drearily about the house, and they listened to it for a time in silence. "it's no' like spring to-night, janet," said menie. "no, dear, it's as wintry a night as we have had this while. but the wind is changing to the south now, and we'll soon see the bare hills again." "yes; i hope so," said menie, softly. "are you wearying for the spring, dear?" "whiles i weary." but the longing in those "bonny e'en" was for no earthly spring, janet well knew. "i aye mind the time when i gathered the snowdrops and daisies, and the one rose, on my mother's birthday. it was long before this time of the year--and it seems long to wait for spring." "ay, i mind; but that was in the sheltered garden at the ebba. there were no flowers blooming on the bare hills in scotland then more than here. you mustna begin to weary for the spring yet. you'll get down the brae soon, maybe, and then you winna weary." menie made no answer, but a spasm passed over the face of graeme. the same thought was on the mind of all the three. when menie went down the brae again, it must be with eyelids closed, and with hands folded on a heart at rest forever. "janet, when will sandy come? have you got a letter yet?" "yes; i got a letter to-day. it winna be long now." "oh! i hope not. i want to see him and your mother. i want them to see me, too. sandy would hardly mind me, if he didna come till afterwards." "miss graeme, my dear," said mrs snow, hoarsely, "go ben and sit with your father a while. it will rest you, and i'll bide with menie here." graeme rose, and kissing her sister, softly went away. not into the study, however, but out into the darkness, where the march wind moaned so drearily among the leafless elms, that she might weep out the tears which she had been struggling with so long. up and down the snow-encumbered path she walked, scarce knowing that she shivered in the blast. conscious only of one thought, that menie must die, and that the time was hastening. yes. it was coming very near now. god help them all. weary with the unavailing struggle, weary to faintness with the burden of care and sorrow, she had borne through all these months of watching, to-night she let it fall. she bowed herself utterly down. "so let it be! god's will be done!" and leaning with bowed head and clasped hands over the little gate, where she had stood in many a changing mood, she prayed as twice or thrice in a lifetime. god gives power to his children to pray--face to face--in his very presence. giving her will and wish up quite, she lay at his feet like a little child, chastened, yet consoled, saying not with her lips, but with the soul's deepest breathing, "i am thine. save me." between her and all earthly things, except the knowledge that her sister was dying, a kindly veil was interposed. no foreshadowing of a future more utterly bereaved than menie's death would bring, darkened the light which this momentary glimpse of her lord revealed. in that hour she ate angel's food, and from it received strength to walk through desert places. she started as a hand was laid upon her shoulder, but her head drooped again as she met mr snow's look, so grave in its kindliness. "miss graeme, is it best you should be out here in the cold?" "no," said graeme, humbly. "i am going in." but she did not move even to withdraw herself from the gentle pressure of his hand. "miss graeme," said he, as they stood thus with the gate between them, "hadn't you better give up now, and let the lord do as he's a mind to about it?" "yes," said graeme, "i give up. his will be done." "amen!" said her friend, and the hand that rested on her shoulder was placed upon her head, and graeme knew that in "the golden vials full of odours" before the throne, deacon snow's prayer for her found a place. she opened the gate and held it till he passed through, and then followed him up the path into hannah's bright kitchen. "will you go in and see papa, or in there?" asked she, glancing towards the parlour door, and shading her eyes as she spoke. "well, i guess i'll sit down here. it won't be long before mis' snow'll be going along down. but don't you wait. go right in to your father." graeme opened the study-door and went in. "i will tell him to-night," said she. "god help us." her father was sitting in the firelight, holding an open letter in his hand. "graeme," said he, as she sat down, "have you seen janet?" "yes, papa. i left her with marian, a little ago." "poor janet!" said her father, sighing heavily. no one was so particular as the minister in giving janet her new title. it was always "mistress snow" or "the deacon's wife" with him, and graeme wondered to-night. "has anything happened?" asked she. "have you not heard? she has had a letter from home. here it is. her mother is dead." the letter dropped from graeme's outstretched hand. "yes," continued her father. "it was rather sudden, it seems--soon after she had decided to come out here. it will be doubly hard for her daughter to bear on that account. i must speak to her, poor janet!" graeme was left alone to muse on the uncertainly of all things, and to tell herself over and over again, how vain it was to set the heart on any earthly good. "poor janet!" well might her father say; and amid her own sorrow graeme grieved sincerely for the sorrow of her friend. it was very hard to bear, now that she had been looking forward to a happy meeting, and a few quiet years together after their long separation. it did seem very hard, and it was with a full heart that in an hour afterward, when her father returned, she sought her friend. mr snow had gone home and his wife was to stay all night, graeme found when she entered her sister's room. marian was asleep, and coming close to mrs snow, who sat gazing into the fire, graeme knelt down beside her and put her arm's about her neck without a word. at first graeme thought she was weeping. she was not; but in a little she said, in a voice that showed how much her apparent calmness cost her, "you see, my dear, the upshot of all our fine plans." "oh, janet! there's nothing in all the world that we can trust in." "ay, you may weel say that. but it is a lesson that we are slow to learn; and the lord winna let us forget." there was a pause. "when was it?" asked graeme, softly. "six weeks ago this very night, i have been thinking, since i sat here. her trouble was short and sharp, and she was glad to go." "and would she have come?" "ay, lass, but it wasna to be, as i might have kenned from the beginning. i thought i asked god's guiding, and i was persuaded into thinking i had gotten it. but you see my heart was set on it from the very first--guiding or no guiding--and now the lord has seen fit to punish me for my self-seeking." "oh, janet!" said graeme, remonstratingly. "my dear, it's true, though it sets me ill to vex you with saying it now. i have more need to take the lesson to heart. may the lord give me grace to do it." graeme could say nothing, and janet continued-- "it's ill done in me to grieve for her. she is far better off than ever i could have made her with the best of wills, and as for me--i must submit." "you have sandy still." "aye, thank god. may he have him in his keeping." "and he will come yet." "yes, i have little doubt. but i'll no' set myself to the hewing out of broken cisterns this while again. the lord kens best." after that night mrs snow never left the house for many hours at a time till menie went away. graeme never told her father of the sorrow that was drawing near. as the days went on, she saw by many a token, that he knew of the coming parting, but it did not seem to look sorrowful to him. he was much with her now, but all could see that the hours by her bedside were not sorrowful ones to him or to her. but to graeme he did not speak of her sister's state till near the very last. they were sitting together in the firelight of the study, as they seldom sat now. they had been sitting thus a long time--so long that graeme, forgetting to wear a cheerful look in her father's presence, had let her weary eyes close, and her hands drop listlessly on her lap. she looked utterly weary and despondent, as she sat there, quite unconscious that her father's eyes were upon her. "you are tired to-night, graeme," said he, at last. graeme started, but it was not easy to bring her usual look back, so she busied herself with something at the table and did not speak. her father sighed. "it will not be long now." graeme sat motionless, but she had no voice with which to speak. "we little thought it was our bonny menie who was to see her mother first. think of the joy of that meeting, graeme!" graeme's head drooped down on the table. if she had spoken a word, it must have been with a great burst of weeping. she trembled from head to foot in her effort to keep herself quiet. her father watched her for a moment. "graeme, you are not grudging your sister to such blessedness?" "not now, papa," whispered she, heavily. "i am almost willing now." "what is the happiest life here--and menie's has been happy--to the blessedness of the rest which i confidently believe awaits her, dear child?" "it is not that i grudge to let her go, but that i fear to be left behind." "ay, love! but we must bide god's time. and you will have your brothers and rose, and you are young, and time heals sore wounds in young hearts." graeme's head drooped lower. she was weeping unrestrainedly but quietly now. her father went on-- "and afterwards you will have many things to comfort you. i used to think in the time of my sorrow, that its suddenness added to its bitterness. if it had ever come into my mind that your mother might leave me, i might have borne it better, i thought. but god knows. there are some things for which we cannot prepare." there was a long silence. "graeme, i have something which i must say to you," said her father, and his voice showed that he was speaking with an effort. "if the time comes--when the time comes--my child, i grieve to give you pain, but what i have to say had best be said now; it will bring the time no nearer. my child, i have something to say to you of the time when we shall no longer be together--" graeme did not move. "my child, the backward look over one's life, is so different from the doubtful glances one sends into the future. i stand now, and see all the way by which god has led me, with a grieved wonder, that i should ever have doubted his love and care, and how it was all to end. the dark places, and the rough places that once made my heart faint with fear, are, to look back upon, radiant with light and beauty--mounts of god, with the bright cloud overshadowing them. and yet, i mind groping about before them, like a bond man, with a fear and dread unspeakable. "my child, are you hearing me? oh! if my experience could teach you! i know it cannot be. the blessed lesson that suffering teaches, each must bear for himself; and i need not tell you that there never yet was sorrow sent to a child of god, for which there is no balm. you are young; and weary and spent as you are to-night, no wonder that you think at the sight, of the deep wastes you may have to pass, and the dreary waters you may have to cross. but there is no fear that you will be alone, dear, or that he will give you anything to do, or bear, and yet withhold the needed strength. are you hearing me, my child?" graeme gave a mute sign of assent. "menie, dear child, has had a life bright and brief. yours may be long and toilsome, but if the end be the same, what matter! you may desire to change with her to-night, but we cannot change our lot. god make us patient in it,--patient and helpful. short as your sister's life has been, it has not been in vain. she has been like light among us, and her memory will always be a blessedness--and to you graeme, most of all." graeme's lips opened with a cry. turning, she laid her face down on her father's knee, and her tears fell fast. her father raised her, and clasping her closely, let her weep for a little. "hush, love, calm yourself," said he, at last. "nay," he added, as she would have risen, "rest here, my poor tired graeme, my child, my best comforter always." graeme's frame shook with sobs. "don't papa--i cannot bear it--" she struggled with herself, and grew calm again. "forgive me, papa. i know i ought not. and indeed, it is not because i am altogether unhappy, or because i am not willing to let her go--" "hush, love, i know. you are your mother's own patient child. i trust you quite, graeme, and that is why i have courage to give you pain. for i must say more to-night. if anything should happen to me--hush, love. my saying it does not hasten it. but when i am gone, you will care for the others. i do not fear for you. you will always have kind friends in janet and her husband, and will never want a home while they can give you one, i am sure. but graeme, i would like you all to keep together. be one family, as long as possible. so if arthur wishes you to go to him, go all together. he may have to work hard for a time, but you will take a blessing with you. and it will be best for all, that you should keep together." the shock which her father's words gave, calmed graeme in a moment. "but, papa, you are not ill, not more than you have been?" "no, love, i am better, much better. still, i wished to say this to you, because it is always well to be prepared. that is all i had to say, love." but he clasped her to him for a moment still, and before he let her go, he whispered, softly,-- "i trust you quite, love, and you'll bring them all home safe to your mother and me." it was not very long after this, a few tranquil days and nights only, and the end came. they were all together in marian's room, sitting quietly after worship was over. it was the usual time for separating for the night, but they still lingered. not that any of them thought it would be to-night. mrs snow might have thought so, for never during the long evening, had she stirred from the side of the bed, but watched with earnest eyes, the ever changing face of the dying girl. she had been slumbering quietly for a little while, but suddenly, as mrs snow bent over her more closely, she opened her eyes, and seeing something in her face, she said, with an echo of surprise in her voice,-- "janet, is it to be to-night? are they all here? papa, graeme. where is graeme?" they were with her in a moment, and graeme's cheek was laid on her sister's wasted hand. "well, my lammie!" said her father, softly. "papa! it is not too good to be true, is it?" her father bent down till his lips touched her cheek. "you are not afraid, my child?" afraid! no, it was not fear he saw in those sweet triumphant eyes. her look never wandered from his face, but it changed soon, and he knew that the king's messenger was come. murmuring an inarticulate prayer, he bowed his head in the awful presence, and when he looked again, he saw no more those bonny eyes, but janet's toil-worn hand laid over them. graeme's cheek still lay on her sister's stiffening hand, and when they all rose up, and her father, passing round the couch put his arm about her, she did not move. "there is no need. let her rest! it is all over now, the long watching and waiting! let the tired eyelids close, and thank god for the momentary forgetfulness which he has given her." chapter nineteen. that night, graeme slept the dreamless sleep of utter exhaustion, and the next day, whenever her father or mrs snow stole in to look at her, she slept or seemed to sleep still. "she is weary," they said, in whispers. "let her rest." kind neighbours came and went, with offers of help and sympathy, but nothing was suffered to disturb the silence of the now darkened chamber. "let her rest," said all. but when the next night passed, and the second day was drawing to a close, mrs snow became anxious, and her visits were more frequent. graeme roused herself to drink the tea that she brought her, and to mrs snow's question whether she felt rested, she said, "oh! yes," but she closed her eyes, and turned her face away again. janet went out and seated herself in the kitchen, with a picture of utter despondency. just then, her husband came in. "is anything the matter?" asked he, anxiously. "no," said his wife, rousing herself. "only, i dinna ken weel what to do." "is miss graeme sick? or is she asleep?" "i hope she's no' sick. i ken she's no sleeping. but she ought to be roused, and when i think what she's to be roused to--. but, if she wants to see her sister, it must be before--before she's laid in--" a strong shudder passed over her. "oh! man! it's awful, the first sight of a dear face in the coffin--" "need she see her again?" asked mr snow. "oh! yes, i doubt she must. and the bairns too, and it will soon be here, now." "her father," suggested mr snow. "he has seen her. he was there for hours, both yesterday and to-day. but he is asleep now, and he has need of rest. i canna disturb him." "couldn't you kind of make her think she was needed--to her father or the little ones? she would rouse herself if they needed her." "that's weel said," said mrs snow, gratefully. "go you down the brae for the bairns, and i'll go and speak to her again." "miss graeme, my dear," said she, softly; "could you speak to me a minute?" her manner was quite calm. it was so like the manner in which graeme had been hundreds of times summoned to discuss domestic matters, that without seeming to realise that there was anything peculiar in the time or circumstances, she opened her eyes and said, quietly,-- "well, what is it, janet?" "my dear, it is the bairns. there is nothing the matter with them," added she hastily, as graeme started. "they have been down the brae with emily all the day, but they are coming home now; and, my dear, they havena been ben yonder, and i think they should see her before--before she's moved, and i dinna like to disturb your father. my bairn, are you able to rise and take will and wee rosie ben yonder." graeme raised herself slowly up. "janet, i have been forgetting the bairns." mrs snow had much ado to keep back her tears; but she only said cheerfully: "my dear, you were weary, and they have had emily." she would not be tender with her, or even help her much in her preparations; though her hands trembled, and she touched things in a vague, uncertain way, as though she did not know what she was doing. janet could not trust herself to do what she would like to have done; she could only watch her without appearing to do so, by no means sure that she had done right in rousing her. she was ready at last. "are they come?" asked graeme, faintly. "no, dear. there's no haste. rest yourself a wee while. my dear, are you sure you are quite able for it?" added she, as graeme rose. "yes, i think so. but i would like to go alone, first." "my poor lamb! if i were but sure that i have been right," thought janet, as she sat down to wait. an hour passed, and when the door opened, and graeme came out again, the fears of her faithful friend were set at rest. "she hasna' been alone all this time, as i might have known," said janet to herself, with a great rush of hidden tears. "i'm faithless, and sore beset myself whiles, but i needna fear for them. the worst is over now." and was the worst over? after that was the covering of the beloved forever from their sight, and the return to the silent and empty home. there was the gathering up of the broken threads of their changed life; the falling back on their old cares and pleasures, all so much the same, and yet so different. there was the vague unbelief in the reality of their sorrow, the momentary forgetfulness, and then the pang of sudden remembrance,--the nightly dreams of her, the daily waking to find her gone. by and by, came letters from the lads; those of norman and harry full of bitter regrets, which to graeme seemed almost like reproaches, that they had not been sent for before the end; and the grief of those at home came back strong and fresh again. the coming of the "bonny spring days" for which norman had so wished, wakened "vain longings for the dead." the brooks rose high, and the young leaves rustled on the elms; and all pleasant sounds spoke to them with menie's voice. the flowers which she had planted,--the may-flower and the violets by the garden path, looked at them with menie's eyes. the odour of the lilacs, by the gate, and of the pine trees on the hill came with that mysterious power to awaken old associations, bringing back to graeme the memory of the time when they first came to the house on the hill, when they were all at home together, and menie was a happy child. all these things renewed their sorrow, but not sharply or bitterly. it was the sorrow of chastened and resigned hearts, coming back with hopeful patience to tread the old paths of their daily life, missing the lost one, and always with a sense of waiting for the time when they shall meet again, but quite content. and mrs snow, watching both the minister and graeme, "couldna be thankful enough" for what she saw. but as the weeks passed on there mingled with her thankfulness an anxiety which she herself was inclined to resent. "as though the lord wasna bringing them through their troubles in a way that was just wonderful," she said to herself, many a time. at last, when the days passed into weeks, bringing no colour to the cheeks, and no elasticity to the step of graeme, she could not help letting her uneasiness be seen. "it's her black dress that makes her look so pale, ain't it?" said mr snow, but his face was grave, too. "i dare say that makes a difference, and she is tired to-day, too. she wearied herself taking the flowers and things over yonder," said mrs snow, glancing towards the spot where the white grave-stones gleamed out from the pale, green foliage of spring-time. "and no wonder. even emily was over tired, and hasna looked like herself since. i dare say i'm troubling myself when there is no need." "the children, will, and rosie, don't worry her with their lessons, do they?" "i dinna ken. sometimes i think they do. but she would weary far more without them. we must have patience. it would never do to vex the minister with fears for her." "no, it won't do to alarm him," said mr snow, with emphasis; and he looked very grave. in a little he opened his lips as if to say more, but seemed to change his mind. "it ain't worth while to worry her with it. i don't more than half believe it myself. doctors don't know everything. it seems as though it couldn't be so--and if it is so, it's best to keep still about it-- for a spell, anyhow." and mr snow vaguely wished that doctor chittenden had not overtaken him that afternoon, or that they had not talked so long and so gravely beneath the great elms. "and the doctor ain't given to talking when he had ought to keep still. can't nothing be done for him? i'll have a talk with the squire, anyhow." that night mr and mrs snow were startled by a message from graeme. her father had been once or twice before sharply and suddenly seized with illness. the doctor looked very grave this time, but seeing graeme's pale, anxious face, he could not find it in his heart to tell her that this was something more than the indigestion which it had been called--severe but not dangerous. the worst was over for this time, and graeme would be better able to bear a shock by and by. the minister was better, but his recovery was very slow--so slow, that for the first time during a ministry of thirty years he was two sabbaths in succession unable to appear in his accustomed place in the pulpit. it was this which depressed him and made him grow so grave and silent, graeme thought, as they sat together in the study as it began to grow dark. she roused herself to speak cheerfully, so as to win him from the indulgence of his sad thoughts. "shall i read to you, papa? you have hardly looked at the book that mr snow brought. i am sure you will like it. shall i read awhile." "yes, if you like; by and by, when the lamp is lighted. there is no haste. i have been thinking as i sat here, graeme--and i shall find no better time than this to speak of it to you--that--" but what he had been thinking graeme was not to hear that night, for a hand was laid on the study-door, and in answer to graeme's invitation, mr and mrs snow came in, "just to see how the folks were getting along," said mr snow, as graeme stirred the fire into a blaze. but there was another and a better reason for the visit, as he announced rather abruptly after a little. "they've been talking things over, down there to the village, and they've come to the conclusion that they'd better send you off--for a spell--most anywhere--so that you come back rugged again. some say to the seaside, and some say to the mountains, but _i_ say to canada. it's all fixed. there's no trouble about ways and means. it's in gold, to save the discount," added he, rising, and laying on the table something that jingled. "for they do say they are pretty considerable careful in looking at our bills, up there in canada, and it is all the same to our folks, gold or paper," and he sat down again, as though there was enough said, and then he rose as if to go. graeme was startled, and so was her father. "sit down, deacon, and tell me more. no, i'm not going to thank you-- you need not run away. tell me how it happened." "they don't think papa so very ill?" said graeme, alarmed. "well--he ain't so rugged as he might be--now is he?" said mr snow, seating himself. "but he ain't so sick but that he can go away a spell, with you to take care of him--i don't suppose he'd care about going by himself. and mis' snow, and me--we'll take care of the children--" "and what about this, deacon?" asked mr elliott, laying his hand on the purse that sampson had placed on the table. but mr snow had little to say about it. if he knew where the idea of the minister's holidays originated, he certainly did not succeed in making it clear to the minister and graeme. "but that matters little, as long as it is to be," said mrs snow, coming to the deacon's relief. "and it has all been done in a good spirit, and in a proper and kindly manner, and from the best of motives," added she, looking anxiously from graeme to her father. "you need not be afraid, my kind friends," said mr elliott, answering her look, while his voice trembled. "the gift shall be accepted in the spirit in which it is offered. it gives me great pleasure." "and, miss graeme, my dear," continued mrs snow, earnestly, "you needna look so grave about it. it is only what is right and just to your father--and no favour--though it has been a great pleasure to all concerned. and surely, if i'm satisfied, you may be." sampson gave a short laugh. "she's changed her mind about us merleville folks lately--" "whist, man! i did that long ago. and, miss graeme, my dear, think of seeing your brothers, and their friends, and yon fine country, and the grand river that harry tells us of! it will be almost like seeing scotland again, to be in the queen's dominions. my dear, you'll be quite glad when you get time to think about it." "yes--but do they really think papa is so ill?" she had risen to get a light, and mrs snow had followed her from the room. "ill? my dear, if the doctor thought him ill would he send him from home? but he needs a rest, and a change--and, my dear, you do that yourself, and i think it's just providential. not but that you could have gone without their help, but this was done in love, and i would fain have you take pleasure in it, as i do." and graeme did take pleasure in it, and said so, heartily, and "though it wasna just the thing for the sabbath night," as janet said, they lingered a little, speaking of the things that were to be done, or to be left undone, in view of the preparations for the journey. they returned to the study with the light just as mr elliott was saying,-- "and so, i thought, having the prospect of but few sabbaths, i would like to spend them all at home." janet's first impulse was to turn and see whether graeme had heard her father's words. she evidently had not, for she came in smiling, and set the lamp on the table. there was nothing reassuring in the gravity of her husband's face, mrs snow thought, but his words were cheerful. "well, yes, i vote for canada. we ain't going to believe all the boys say about it, but it will be a cool kind of place to go to in summer, and it will be a change, to say nothing of the boys." graeme laughed softly. the boys would not have been the last on her list of good reasons, for preferring canada as the scene of their summer wanderings. she did not join in the cheerful conversation that followed, however, but sat thinking a little sadly, that the meeting with the boys, in their distant home, would be sorrowful as well as joyful. if mrs snow had heard anything from her husband, with regard to the true state of the minister's health, she said nothing of it to graeme, and she went about the preparations for their journey cheerfully though very quietly. indeed, if her preparations had been on a scale of much greater magnificence, she needed not have troubled herself about them. ten pairs of hands were immediately placed at her disposal, where half the number would have served. her affairs were made a personal matter by all her friends. each vied with the others in efforts to help her and save her trouble; and if the reputation of merleville, for all future time, had depended on the perfect fit of graeme's one black silk, or on the fashion of her grey travelling-dress, there could not, as mrs snow rather sharply remarked, "have been more fuss made about it." and she had a chance to know, for the deacon's house was the scene of their labours of love. for mrs snow declared "she wouldna have the minister and miss graeme fashed with nonsense, more than all their proposed jaunt would do them good, and so what couldna be redone there needna be done at all." but mrs snow's interest and delight in all the preparations were too real and manifest, to permit any of the willing helpers to be offended at her sharpness. in her heart mrs snow was greatly pleased, and owned as much in private, but in public, "saw no good in making a work about it," and, on behalf of the minister and his daughter, accepted the kindness of the people as their proper right and due. when mrs page identified herself with their affairs, and made a journey to rixford for the purpose of procuring the latest boston fashion for sleeves, before graeme's dress should be made, she preserved the distant civility of manner, with which that lady's advances were always met; and listened rather coldly to graeme's embarrassed thanks, when the same lady presented her with some pretty lawn handkerchiefs; but she was warm enough in her thanks to becky pettimore--i beg her pardon, mrs eli stone--for the soft lamb's wool socks, spun and knitted for the minister by her own hands, and her regrets that her baby's teeth would not permit her to join the sewing parties, were far more graciously received than were mrs page's profuse offers of assistance. on the whole, it was manifest that mrs snow appreciated the kindness of the people, though she was not quite impartial in her bestowment of thanks; and, on the whole, the people were satisfied with the "deacon's wife," and her appreciation of them and their favours. nothing could be more easily seen, than that the deacon's wife had greatly changed her mind about many things, since the minister's janet used "to speak her mind to the merleville folk," before they were so well known to her. as for graeme, her share in the business of preparation was by no means arduous. she was mostly at home with the bairns, or sharing the visits of her father to the people whom he wished to see before he went away. it was some time before will and rosie could be persuaded that it was right for graeme to leave them, and that it would be altogether delightful to live all the time at mr snow's, and go to school in the village--to the fine new high-school, which was one of the evidences of the increasing prosperity of merleville. but they were entirely persuaded of it at last, and promised to become so learned, that graeme should afterward have nothing to teach them. about the little ones, the elder sister's heart was quite at rest. it was not the leaving them alone, for they were to be in the keeping of the kind friend, who had cared for them all their lives. graeme never ceased to remember those happy drives with her father, on his gentle ministrations to the sick and sorrowful of his flock, in those days. she never thought of the cottage at the foot of the hill, but she seemed to see the suffering face of the widow lovejoy, and her father's voice repeating,-- "god is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble." long afterwards, when the laughter of little children rose where the widow's groans had risen, graeme could shut her eyes and see again the suffering face--the dooryard flowers, the gleaming of the sunlight on the pond-- the very shadows of the maples on the grass. then it was her sorrowful delight to recall those happy hours of quiet converse, the half sad, half joyful memories which her father loved to dwell upon--the firm and entire trust for the future, of which his words assured her. afterwards it came to her, that through all this pleasant time, her father was looking at a possibility to which her eyes were shut. he had spoke of her mother as he had seldom spoken even to graeme, of the early days of their married-life--of all she had been to him, of all she had helped him to be and to do. and more than once he said,-- "you are like your mother, graeme, in some things, but you have not her hopeful nature. you must be more hopeful and courageous, my child." he spoke of marian, graeme remembered afterward. not as one speaks of the dead, of those who are hidden from the sight, but as of one near at hand, whom he was sure to meet again. of the lads far-away, he always spoke as "your brothers, graeme." he spoke hopefully, but a little anxiously, too. "for many a gallant bark goes down when its voyage is well nigh over; and there is but one safe place of anchorage, and i know not whether they have all found it yet. not that i am afraid of them. i believe it will be well with them at last. but in all the changes that may be before you, you will have need of patience. you must be patient with your brothers, graeme; and be faithful to them, love, and never let them wander unchecked from what is right, for your mother's sake and mine." he spoke of their leaving home, and very thankfully of the blessings that had followed them since then; of the kindness of the people, and his love to them; and of the health and happiness of all the bairns, "of whom one has got home before me, safely and soon." "we might have come here, love, had your mother lived. and yet, i do not know. the ties of home and country are strong, and there was much to keep us there. her departure made all the rest easy for me, and i am quite convinced our coming was for the best. there is only one thing that i have wished, and i know it is a vain thing." he paused a moment. "of late i have sometimes thought--i mean the thought has sometimes come to me unbidden--that i would like to rest beside her at last. but it is only a fancy. i know it will make no difference in the end." if graeme grew pale and trembled as she listened, it was with no dread that she could name. if it was forced upon her that the time must come when her father must leave them, it lay in her thoughts, far-away. she saw his grave dimly as a place of rest, when the labours of a long life should be ended; she had no thought of change, or separation, or of the blank that such a blessed departure must leave. the peace, which had taken possession of his mind had its influence on hers, and she "feared no evil." afterwards, when the thought of this time and of these words came back she chid herself with impatience, and a strange wonder, that she should not have seen and understood all that was in his thought--forgetting in her first agony how much better was the blessed repose of these moments, than the knowledge of her coming sorrow could have made them. they all passed the rides and visits and the happy talks together. the preparations for the journey were all made. the good-byes were said to all except to mrs snow and emily. the last night was come, and graeme went round just as she always did, to close the doors and windows before she went to bed. she was tired, but not too tired to linger a little while at the window, looking out upon the scene, now so familiar and so dear. the shadows of the elms lay dark on the town, but the moonlight gleamed bright on the pond, and on the white houses of the village, and on the white stones in the grave-yard, grown precious to them all as menie's resting-place. how peaceful it looked! graeme thought of her sister's last days, and joyful hope, and wondered which of them all should first be called to lie down by menie's side. she thought of the grave far-away on the other side of the sea, where they had laid her mother with her baby on her breast; but her thoughts were not all sorrowful. she thought of the many happy days that had come to them since the time that earth had been left dark and desolate by their mother's death, and realised for the moment how true it was, as her father had said to her, that god suffers no sorrow to fall on those who wait on him, for which he does not also provide a balm. "i will trust and not be afraid," she murmured. she thought of her brothers and of the happy meeting that lay before them, but beyond their pleasant holiday she did not try to look; but mused on till her musings lost themselves in slumber, and changed to dreams. at least, she always thought she must have fallen asleep, and that it was the sudden calling of her name, that awakened her with a start. she did not hear it when she listened for it again. she did not think of rosie or will, but went straight to her father's room. through the half-open door, she saw that the bed was undisturbed, and that her father sat in the arm-chair by the window. the lamp burned dimly on the table beside him, and on the floor lay an open book, as it had fallen from his hand. the moonlight shone on his silver hair, and on his tranquil face. there was a smile on his lips, and his eyes were closed, as if in sleep; but even before she touched his cold hand, graeme knew that from that sleep her father would never waken more. chapter twenty. it was a very changed life that opened before the bairns when arthur took them home with him to montreal. a very dismal change it seemed to them all, on the first morning when their brothers left them alone. home! could it ever seem like home to them? think of the dwellers among the breezy hills of merleville shut up in a narrow brick house in a close city street. graeme had said that if they could all keep together, it did not so much matter how or where; but her courage almost failed as she turned to look out of the window that first morning. before her lay a confined, untidy yard, which they were to share with these neighbours; and beyond that, as far as could be seen, lay only roofs and chimneys. from the room above the view was the same, only the roofs and chimneys stretched farther away, and here and there between them showed the dusty bough of a maple or elm, or the ragged top of a lombardy poplar, and, in the distance, when the sun shone, lay a bright streak, which they came at last to know as harry's grand river. on the other side, toward the street, the window looked but on a brick wall, over which hung great willow-boughs shading half the street. the brick wall and the willows were better than the roofs and chimney-tops, rosie thought; but it was a dreary sort of betterness. from graeme's room above were seen still the wall and the willows, but over the wall and between the willows was got a glimpse of a garden--a very pretty garden. it was only a glimpse--a small part of a circular bit of green grass before the door of a handsome house, and around this, and under the windows, flowers and shrubs of various kinds. there was a conservatory at one end, but of that they saw nothing but a blinding glare when the sun shone on it--many panes of glass when the sun was gone. the garden seemed to extend behind the house; but they could only see a smooth gravel walk with an edge of green. clumps of evergreens and horse-chestnuts hid all the rest. but even these were very beautiful; and this glimpse of a rich man's garden, from an upper window, was the redeeming feature in their new home. for it was summer--the very prime of summer-time--and except for that little glimpse of garden, and the dusty maple boughs, and the ragged tops of the poplars, it might just as well have been winter. there was nothing to remind them of summer, but the air hanging over them hot and close, or sweeping in sudden dust-laden gusts down the narrow street. yes; there was the long streak of blue, which harry called the river, seen from the upper window; but it was only visible in sunny days, at least it only gleamed and sparkled then; it was but a dim, grey line at other times. how changed their life was; how they drooped and pined for the sights and sounds and friends of merleville. "if there were but a green field in sight, or a single hill," said rosie; but she always added, "how nice it is to have the willow trees and the sight of the garden." for rose was by no means sure that their longing for green fields and hills and woods was not wrong. it seemed like ingratitude to arthur, this pining for the country and their old home; and these young girls from the very first made a firm stand against the home-sickness that came upon them. not that home-sickness is a sickness that can be cured by struggling against it; but they tried hard to keep the knowledge of it from their brothers. whatever happened during the long days, they had a pleasant breakfast-hour and a pleasant evening together. they seldom saw their brothers at other times during the first few months. harry's hours were long, and arthur's business was increasing so as to require close attention. this was a matter of much rejoicing to graeme, who did not know that all arthur's business was not strictly professional--that it was business wearisome enough, and sometimes bringing in but little, but absolutely necessary for that little's sake. graeme and rosie were at home alone, and they found the days long and tedious often, though they conscientiously strove to look at all things from their best and brightest side. for a while they were too busy--too anxious for the success of their domestic plans, to have time for home-sickness. but when the first arrangements were made--when the taste and skill of graeme, and the inexhaustible strength of their new maid, nelly anderson, had changed the dingy house into as bright and pleasant a place as might well be in a city street, then came the long days and the weariness. then came upon graeme that which janet had predicted, when she so earnestly set her face against their going away from merleville till the summer was over. her fictitious strength failed her. the reaction from all the exertion and excitement of the winter and spring came upon her now, and she was utterly prostrate. she did not give up willingly. indeed, she had no patience with herself in the miserable state into which she had fallen. she was ashamed and alarmed at her disinclination to exert herself--at her indifference to everything; but the exertion she made to overcome the evil only aggravated it, and soon was quite beyond her power. her days were passed in utter helplessness on the sofa. she either denied herself to their few visitors, or left them to be entertained by rose. all her strength and spirits were needed for the evening when her brothers were at home. some attention to household affairs was absolutely necessary, even when the time came, that for want of something else to do nelly nodded for hours in the long afternoons over the knitting of a stocking. for though nelly could do whatever could be accomplished by main strength, the skill necessary for the arrangement of the nicer matters of their little household was not in her, and graeme was never left quite at rest as to the progress of events in her dominions. it was a very fortunate chance that had cast her lot with theirs soon after their arrival, graeme knew and acknowledged; but after the handiness and immaculate neatness of hannah lovejoy, it was tiresome to have nothing to fall back upon but the help of the untaught nelly. her willingness and kind-heartedness made her, in many respects, invaluable to them; but her field of action had hitherto been a turnip-field, or a field in which cows were kept; and though she was, by her own account, "just wonderfu' at the making of butter," she had not much skill at anything else. if it would have brought colour to the cheek, or elasticity to the step of her young mistress, nelly would gladly have carried her every morning in her arms to the top of the mountain; but nothing would have induced her, daring these first days, to undertake the responsibility of breakfast or dinner without graeme's special overlooking. she would walk miles to do her a kindness; but she could not step lightly or speak softly, or shut the door without a bang, and often caused her torture when doing her very best to help or cheer her. but whatever happened through the day, for the evening graeme exerted herself to seem well and cheerful. it was easy enough to do when harry was at home, or when arthur was not too busy to read to them. then she could still have the arm-chair or the sofa, and hear, or not hear, as the case might be. but when any effort was necessary--when she must interest herself, or seem to interest herself in her work, or when arthur brought any one home with him, making it necessary for graeme to be hospitable and conversational, then it was very bad indeed. she might get through very well at the time with it all, but a miserable night was sure to follow, and she could only toss about through the slow hours exhausted yet sleepless. oh, how miserable some of these sultry august nights were, when she lay helpless, her sick fancy changing into dear familiar sounds the hum that rose from the city beneath. now it was the swift spring-time rush of carson's brook, now the gentle ripple of the waters of the pond breaking on the white pebbles of the beach. the wind among the willow-boughs whispered to her of the pine grove and the garden at home, till her heart grew sick with longing to see them again. it was always the same. if the bitter sorrow that bereavement had brought made any part of what she suffered now; if the void which death had made deepened the loneliness of this dreary time, she did not know it. all this weariness of body and sinking of heart might have come though she had never left merleville, but it did not seem so to her. it was always of _home_ she thought. she rose up and lay down with longing for it fresh and sore. she started from troubled slumber to break into passionate weeping when there was no one to see her. she struggled against the misery that lay so heavily upon her, but not successfully. health and courage failed. of course, this state of things could not continue long. they must get either better or worse, graeme thought, and worse it was. arthur and harry coming home earlier than usual found her as she had never allowed them to find her before, lying listlessly, almost helplessly on the sofa. her utmost effort to appear well and cheerful at the sight of them failed this once. she rose slowly and leaned back again almost immediately, closing her eyes with a sigh. "graeme!" exclaimed harry, "what ails you! such a face! look here, i have something for you. guess what." "a letter," said rose. "oh! graeme look!" but graeme was past looking by this time. her brothers were startled and tried to raise her. "don't, arthur," said rose; "let her lie down. she will be better in a little. harry get some water." poor, wee rosie! her hands trembled among the fastenings of graeme's dress, but she knew well what to do. "you don't mean that she has been like this before?" said arthur, in alarm. "yes, once or twice. she is tired, she says. she will soon be better, now." in a minute graeme opened her eyes, and sat up. it was nothing, she said, and arthur was not to be frightened; but thoroughly frightened arthur was, and in a little while graeme found herself placed in the doctor's hands. it was a very kind, pleasant face that bent over her, but it was a grave face too, at the moment. when graeme repeated her assurance that she was not ill, but only overcome with the heat and weariness, he said these had something to do with it, doubtless, and spoke cheerfully about her soon being well again; and arthur's face quite brightened, as he left the room with him. rose followed them, and when her brother's hand was on the door, whispered,-- "please, arthur, may i say something to the doctor? i think it is partly because graeme is homesick." "homesick!" repeated the doctor and arthur in a breath. "perhaps not homesick exactly," said rose, eagerly addressing her brother. "she would not go back again you know; but everything is so different--no garden, no hills, no pond. and oh! arthur, don't be vexed, but we have no janet nor anything here." rosie made a brave stand against the tears and sobs that were rising in spite of her, but she was fain to hide her face on her brother's arm as he drew her toward him, and sat down on the sofa. the doctor sat down, too. "why, rosie! my poor, wee rosie! what has happened to my merry little sister?" "i thought the doctor ought to know, and you must not tell graeme. she does not think that i know." "know what?" asked arthur. "that she is so sad, and that the time seems long. but i have watched her, and i know." "well, i fear it is not a case for you, doctor," said arthur, anxiously. but the doctor thought differently. there was more the matter with graeme than her sister knew, though the home-sickness may have something to do with it; and then he added,-- "her strength must have been severely tried to bring her to this state of weakness." arthur hesitated a moment. "there was long illness in the family--and then death--my sister's first, and then my father's. and then i brought the rest here." it was not easy for arthur to say all this. in a little he added with an effort,-- "i fear i have not done well in bringing them. but they wished to come, and i could not leave them." "you did right, i have no doubt," said the doctor. "your sister might have been ill anywhere. she might have been worse without a change. the thing is to make her well again--which, i trust, we can soon do-- with the help of miss rosie, who will make a patient and cheerful nurse, i am sure." "yes," said rose, gravely. "i will try." arthur said something about taking them to the country, out of the dust and heat of the town. "yes," said the doctor. "the heat is bad. but it will not last long now, and on the whole, i think she is better where she is, at present. there is no danger. she will soon be as well as usual, i think." but it was not very soon. indeed, it was a long time before graeme was as well as usual; not until the leaves on the willows had grown withered and grey, and the summer had quite gone. not until kind doctor mcculloch had come almost daily for many weeks--long enough for him to become much interested in both patient and nurse. a wonderful nurse rose proved herself to be. at first something was said about introducing a more experienced person into graeme's chamber, but both rose and nelly anderson objected so decidedly to this, and aided and abetted one another so successfully in their opposition to it, that the design was given up on condition that rosie kept well and cheerful to prove her claim to the title of nurse. she kept cheerful, but she grew tall and thin, and a great deal too quiet to be like herself, her brothers thought; so whatever was forgotten or neglected during the day, rosie must go out with one of them for a long walk while the other stayed with graeme, and by this means the health and spirits of the anxious little lady were kept from failing altogether. for indeed the long days and nights might well be trying to the child, who had never needed to think twice about her own comfort all her life, and who was now quite too acutely sensible, how much the comfort of all the rest depended upon her. but she bore the trial well, and indeed came to the conclusion, that it was quite as pleasant to be made useful, to be trusted and consulted, and depended upon, as to be petted and played with by her brothers. she quite liked the sense of responsibility, especially when graeme began to get well again, and though she got tired very often, and grew pale now and then, they all agreed afterward that this time did rose no harm, but a great deal of good. as for nelly anderson, circumstances certainly developed her powers in a most extraordinary manner--not as a nurse, however. her efforts in that line were confined to rambling excursions about the sick-room in her stockinged-feet, and to earnest entreaties to graeme not to lose heart. but in the way of dinners and breakfasts, she excited the astonishment of the household, and her own most of all. when arthur had peremptorily forbidden that any reference should be made to graeme in household matters, nelly had helplessly betaken herself to rose, and rose had as helplessly betaken herself to "catherine beecher." nothing short of the state of absolute despair in which she found herself, would have induced nelly to put faith in a "printed book," in any matter where the labour of her hands was concerned. but her accomplishments as a cook did not extend the making of "porridge" or the "choppin' of potatoes," and more was required. so with fear and trembling, rose and she "laid their heads together," over that invaluable guide to inexperienced housekeepers, and the result was success--indeed a series of successes. for emboldened by the favourable reception of their efforts, nelly want on and prospered; and rose, content that she should have all the honour of success, permitted her to have all the responsibility also. almost every morning rose had a walk, either with harry to his office, or with will, to the school, while arthur stayed with graeme. the walk was generally quick enough to bring a bright colour to her cheeks, and it was always a merry time if harry was with her, and then she was ready for her long day at home. she sometimes lingered on the way back. on the broad shady pavements of the streets she used to choose, when she was alone, she made many a pause to watch the little children at their play. she used to linger, too, wherever the ugly brick walls had been replaced by the pretty iron railings, with which every good rich man will surround his gardens, in order that they who have no gardens of their own may have a chance to see something beautiful too. and whenever she came to an open gate, the pause was long. she was in danger then of forgetting her womanliness and her gravity, and of exclaiming like a little girl, and sometimes she forgot herself so far as to let her feet advance farther up the gravel walk than in her sober moments she would have considered advisable. one bright morning, as she returned home, she found herself standing before the large house on the other side of the street. for the first time she found the large gate wide open. there was no one in sight, and taking two steps forward, rose saw more of the pretty garden within than she had ever seen before. she had often been tempted to walk round the smooth broad walks of other gardens, but second thoughts had always prevented her. this time she did not wait for second thoughts, but deliberately determined to walk round the carriage way without leave asked or given. the garden belonged to mr elphinstone, a great man--at least a great merchant in the eyes of the world. one of rose's amusements during the time she was confined in her sister's sick-room was to watch the comings and goings of his only child, a girl only a little older than rose herself. sometimes she was in a little pony-carriage, which she drove herself; sometimes she was in a large carriage driven by a grave-looking coachman with a very glossy hat, and very white gloves. rosie used to envy her a little when she saw her walking about in the garden gathering the flowers at her own will. "how happy she must be!" she thought now, as she stood gazing about her. "if she is a nice young lady, as i am almost sure she is, she would rather that i enjoyed her flowers than not. at any rate i am going to walk round just once--and then go." but it was not an easy matter to get round the circle. it was not a very large one, but there were flowers all round it, and rosie passed slowly on lost in wonder and delights as some strange blossom presented itself. it took a long time to pass quite round, and before this was accomplished, her footsteps were arrested by a splendid cardinal flower, that grow within the shadow of the wall. it was not quite a stranger. she had gathered a species of it often in the low banks of the pond; and as she bent over it with delight, a voice startled her-- "you should have soon it a while ago. it is past its best now." rose turning saw the gardener, and hastily stammering an excuse, prepared to go. but he did not seem to understand that she was an intruder. "if you'll come, round this way i'll show you flowers that are worth looking at," said he. "he thinks i am a visitor," said rose to herself. "i'm sure i admire his flowers as much as any of them can do. it won't trouble him much to show them to me, and i'll just go with him." so picking up her bonnet that had fallen on the walk, she followed him, a little frightened at her own boldness, but very much elated. she did not think the garden grew prettier as they went on, and her conductor hurried her past a great many pretty squares and circles without giving her time to admire them. he stopped at last before a long, narrow bed, where the flowers were growing without regard to regularity as to arrangement; but oh! such colouring! such depth and richness! what verbenas and heliotropes!--what purples--crimsons--scarlets! rose could only gaze and wonder and exclaim, while her friend listened, and was evidently well pleased with her delight. at last it was time to go, and rose sighed as she said it. but she thanked him with sparkling eyes for his kindness, and added deprecatingly-- "i am not a visitor here. i saw the gate open and came in. i couldn't help it." it was a small matter to her new friend whether she were a visitor at the great house or not. "you ken a flower when you see it," said he, "and that's more than can be said of some of the visitors here." he led the way round the garden till they came to a summer-house covered with a flowering vine, which was like nothing ever rose had seen before. "it was just like what a bower ought to be," she told graeme, afterwards. "it was just like a lady's bower in a book." there was a little mound before it, upon which and in the borders close by grew a great many flowers. not rare flowers, such as she had just been admiring, but flowers sweet and common, pansies and thyme, sweet peas and mignonette. it was miss elphinstone's own bower, the gardener said, and these were her favourite flowers. rose bent over a pale little blossom near the path-- "what is this?" asked she; and then she was sorry, fearing to have it spoiled by some long unpronounceable name. "surely you have seen that--and you from scotland? that's a gowan." "a gowan!" she was on her knees beside it in a moment. "is it the real gowan, `that glints on bank and brae'? no, i never saw one; at least i don't remember. i was only a child when i came away. oh! how graeme would like to see them. and i must tell janet. a real gowan! `wee, modest, crimson-tipped flower'--you mind? and here is a white one, `with silver crest and golden eye.' oh! if graeme could only see them! give me just one for my sister who is ill. she has gathered them on the braes at home." "ahem! i don't know," said her friend, in a changed voice. "these are miss elphinstone's own flowers. i wouldna just like to meddle with them. but you can ask her yourself." rose turned. the pretty young lady of the pony-carriage, was standing beside her. rose's confusion was too deep for words. she felt for a minute as though she must run away, but thought better of it, and murmured something about the flowers being so beautiful, and about not wishing to intrude. the young lady's answer was to stoop down and gather a handful of flowers, gowans, sweet peas, violets and mignonette. when she gave them into rose's hand she asked,-- "is your sister very ill? i have seen the doctor going often to your house." "she is getting better now. she has been very ill. the doctor says she will soon be well." "and have you taken care of her all the time? is there no one else?" "i have taken care of her, nelly anderson and i, all the day, and our brothers are home at night." "i am glad she is getting better. is she fond of flowers. mr stirling is thinking i haven't arranged mine nicely, but you can do that when you put them in water, you know." "oh! thank you. they are beautiful. yes, graeme is very fond of flowers. this will be like a bit of summer to her, real summer in the country, i mean. and besides, she has gathered gowans on the braes at home." "i am a canadian," said the young lady. "i never saw the `gowany braes,' but i shall see them soon." they had reached the gate by this time. "come again, soon. come into the garden, whenever you like. i am sure mr stirling will like to show you his flowers, you are so fond of them. i think a few of his would improve your bouquet." mr stirling touched his hat to his young lady. "i shall be proud to show the flowers to miss rose, and i shall have the honour of making her a bouquet soon." the young lady laughed. "you are to be a favourite. is your name rose," added she, lingering by the gate. "yes, rose elliott. i am the youngest. we all live over there, my brothers, and graeme and i. it would be a dreary place, if it were not for the glimpse we get of your garden. look, there is nelly looking for me. i am afraid i have hindered arthur. thank you very much, and good-bye." rose shyly put forth her hand. the young lady took it in both hers, and drawing her within the gate again, kissed her softly, and let her go. "stirling," said she, as she turned toward the house, "how did you know the young lady's name is rose? is she a friend of yours? do you know her?" "i know her face, that is all i have seen her for hours together, looking in on the garden from that upper window. and whiles she looks through the gate. i heard her brothers calling her rose. she's a bonny lassie, and kens a flower when she sees it." that night, nelly was startled into a momentary forgetfulness of her thick shoes, and her good manners, and came rushing into graeme's room, where they were all sitting after tea, bearing a bouquet, which a man, "maybe a gentleman," nelly seemed in doubt, had sent in with his compliments to miss rose elliott. a bouquet! it would have won the prize at any floral exhibition in the land, and never after that, while the autumn frosts spared them, were they without flowers. even when the autumn beauties hung shrivelled and black on their stems, and afterwards, when the snows of winter lay many feet above the pretty garden beds, many a rare hot-house blossom brightened the little parlour, where by that time graeme was able to appear. "for," said mr stirling, to the admiring nelly, "such were miss elphinstone's directions before she went away, and besides, directions or no directions, the flowers are well bestowed on folk that take real pleasure in their beauty." the autumn and winter passed pleasantly away. as graeme grew strong, she grew content. the children were well and happy, and arthur's business was prospering in a wonderful way, and all anxiety about ways and means, might be put aside for the present. they often heard from norman, and from their friends in merleville, and graeme felt that with so much to make her thankful and happy, it would be ungrateful indeed to be otherwise. in the spring, they removed to another house. it was in town, but compared with the only one they had left, it seemed to be quite in the country. for the street was not closely built up, and it stood in the middle of a little garden, which soon became beautiful under the transforming hands of rose and her brothers. there was a green field behind the house too, and the beautiful mountain was plainly visible from it; and half an hour's walk could take them to more than one place, where there was not a house to be seen. the house itself, seemed like a palace, after the narrow brick one they had just left. it was larger than they needed, graeme thought, and the rent was higher than they could well afford, but the garden was enough to content them with everything else. it was a source of health, if not of wealth, to them all, and a never failing source of delight besides. their new home was quite away from mr stirling's end of town, but he found time to come and look at their garden every week or two; and his gifts of roots, and seeds, and good advice were invaluable. this was a short and pleasant summer to them all. it is wonderful how much pleasure can be made out of the quiet every-day duties of life, by young and happy people on the watch for pleasant things. to will and rosie everything was delightful. the early marketing with nelly, to which graeme and arthur, and sometimes even harry was beguiled, never lost its charm for them. harry had lived in town, long enough, to permit himself to be a little scornful of the pleasure which the rest took, in wandering up and down among the vegetables and fruits, and other wares in the great market, and made himself merry over rosie's penchant for making acquaintance with the old french woman and little children whom they met. he mystified rose and her friends by his free interpretation of both french and english, and made the rest merry too; so it was generally considered a great thing when he could be induced to rise early enough to go with them. sometimes they went in the early boats to the other side of the river, a pleasure to be scorned by none on lovely summer mornings; and they would return home with appetites ready to do honour to the efforts of nelly and miss beecher. sometimes when a holiday came, it was spent by the whole family, nelly and all, at lachine or the back river, or on the top of the mountain. all this may seem stupid enough to them who are in the habit of searching long, and going far for pleasure, but with the help of books and pencils, and lively conversation, the elliotts were able to find a great deal of enjoyment at such holiday times. they had pleasures of another kind, too. arthur's temporary connection with one of the city newspapers, placed at their disposal magazines, and a new book now and then, as well as tickets for lectures and concerts, and there was seldom a treat of the kind but was highly enjoyed by one or other of them. they had not many acquaintances at this time. in janet's estimation, the averseness of graeme to bring herself in contact with strangers, had been a serious defect in her character. it was easier to avoid this in the town than it used to be in the country, graeme found. besides, she had no longer the sense of parish responsibilities as a minister's daughter, and was inclined for quietness. once or twice she made a great effort, and went with an acquaintance to the "sewing meetings" of the ladies of the church which they attended; but it cost her a great deal of self-denial to very little purpose, it seemed to her, and so she compromised the matter with her conscience, by working for, and being very kind indeed, to a family of little motherless girls, who lived in a lane near their house, and stayed at home. she was by no means sure that she did right. for everybody knows, or ought to know, how praiseworthy is the self-denial which is willing to give up an afternoon every week, or every second week, to the making of pincushions, and the netting of tidies, which are afterwards to appear in the form of curtains or pulpit covers, or organs, or perhaps in the form of garments for those who have none. but then, though the "sewing-circle" is the generally approved and orthodox outlet for the benevolent feelings and efforts of those dear ladies who _love to do good_, but who are apt to be bored by motherless little girls, and other poor people, who live in garrets, and out of the way places, difficult of access, it is just possible that direct efforts in their behalf may be accepted too. one thing is certain, though graeme did not find it easy for a while to satisfy herself, as to the "moral quality" of the motive which kept her at home, the little finlays were all the happier and better for the time she conscientiously bestowed on them and their affairs. they made some acquaintances that summer, and very pleasant ones, too. arthur used sometimes to bring home to their six o'clock dinner, a friend or two of his clients from the country, or a young lawyer, or lawyer's clerk, to whom the remembrance of his own first lonely days in the city made him wish to show kindness. there were two or three gay french lads of the latter class who, strange to say, had taken a great liking to the grave and steady arthur, and who often came to pass an evening at his pleasant fireside. graeme was shy of them for a while, not being clear as to the principles and practice of the french as a people, and as for rose, the very sight of these polite moustached gentlemen suggested historical names and events, which it was not at all comfortable to think about. but those light-hearted canadian lads soon proved themselves to be as worthy of esteem as though english had been their mother tongue. very agreeable visitors they were, with their nice gentlemanly manners, their good humour, and their music; and far better subjects for the exercise of rosie's french than the old market women were, and in a little while they never came but they were kindly welcomed. this was a busy time, too. graeme taught rosie english, and they studied together french and german, and music; and were in a fair way, harry declared, of becoming a pair of very learned ladies indeed. very busy and happy ladies they were, which was a matter of greater importance. and if sometimes it came into graeme's mind that the life they were living was too pleasant to last, the thought did not make her unhappy, but humble and watchful, lest that which was pleasant in their lot should make them forgetful of life's true end. chapter twenty one. "it is just three years to-night since we came to m. did you remember it, arthur?" said graeme, looking up from her work. "is it possible that it can be three years?" said arthur, in surprise. "it has been a very happy time," said graeme. rose left her book, and came and seated herself on the arm of her brother's chair. arthur took the cigar from his lips, and gently puffed the smoke into his sister's face. rose did not heed it. "three years!" repeated she. "i was quite a child then." the others laughed, but rose went on without heeding. "it rained that night, and then we had a great many hot, dusty days. how well i remember the time! graeme was ill and homesick, and we wished so much for janet." "that was only at first, till you proved yourself such a wonderful nurse and housekeeper," said graeme; "and you were not at all homesick yourself, i suppose?" "perhaps just a little at first, in those hot, dreary days," said rose, gravely; "but i was not homesick very long." "i am afraid there were a good many dreary days about that time--more than you let me know about," said arthur. graeme smiled and shook her head. "i am afraid you had a good many anxious days about that time. if i had known how hard you would have to work, i think i would have stayed in merleville after all." "pooh! nonsense! hard work is wholesome. and at the very worst time, what with one thing and another, we had a larger income than my father had in merleville." "but that was quite different--" "did i tell you that i have got a new client? i have done business for mr stone before, but to-day it was intimated to me, that henceforth i am to be the legal adviser of the prosperous firm of `grove & stone.' it will add something to our income, little woman." rose clapped her hands, and stooping down, whispered something in her brother's ear. "don't be planning any extravagance, you two, on the strength of `grove & stone.' you know any superfluous wealth we may have, is already appropriated," said graeme. "to the merleville visit. but this is not at all an extravagance, is it, arthur?" said rose. "that depends--. i am afraid graeme is the best judge. but we won't tell her to-night. we must break the matter to her gently," said arthur. "graeme is so dreadfully prudent," sighed rose. graeme laughed. "it is well there is one prudent one among us." "i don't believe she would at all approve of your smoking another cigar, for instance. they are nicer than usual, are they not?" said rose, inhaling the fragrance from her brother's case. "yes. i treated myself to a few of the very best, on the strength of grove & stone. they are very nice. have one?" rose took it with great gravity. "suppose we take a little walk first, and smoke afterwards," said she, coaxingly. arthur made a grimace. "and where will you beguile me to, when you get me fairly out?" "there is no telling, indeed," said rose. "graeme, i am going to put on my new hat. when mr elliott honours us with his company, we must look our very best, you know." "but, arthur, you have an engagement to-night. don't you remember?" asked graeme. "to mrs barnes'," said rose. "miss cressly brought home my dress to-day, and she told me all about it. her sister is nurse there. the party is to be quite a splendid affair. it is given in honour of miss grove, who has just come home. i wish i were going with you." "you may go without me! i will give you my invitation. it is a great bore, and i don't believe i shall go. i don't see the good of it." "but you promised," said graeme. "well, i suppose i must go for a while. but it is very stupid." "just as if you could make us believe that. it must be delightful. i think it's very stupid of you and graeme, not to like parties." "you forget. i was not asked," said graeme. "but you might have been, if you had returned mrs barnes' call soon enough. how nice it would have been! i wish i were miss grove, to have a party given for me. she is a beauty, they say. you must notice her dress, arthur, and tell me all about it." "oh! certainly," said arthur, gravely. "i'll take particular notice. but come, get your hats. there is time enough for a walk before i go. haste, rosie, before the finest of the evening is past. are you coming, will? man! you shouldna read by that light. you will blind yourself. put away your book, you'll be all the better for a walk." they lingered a moment at the gate. "here is harry!" exclaimed rose. "and some one with him. charlie millar, i think." "we will wait for them," said arthur. the look that came to graeme's face, as she stood watching her brother's coming, told that the shadow of a new care was brooding over her, and the light talk of her brother and sister told that it was one they did not see. she stood back a little, while they exchanged greetings, and looked at harry with anxious eyes. "are you going out, graeme?" asked he, coming within the gate. "only to walk. will you go with us? or shall i stay?" "miss elliott," interposed charlie millar, "i beg you will not. he doesn't deserve it at your hands. he is as cross as possible. besides, we are going to d street, by invitation, to meet the new partner. he came yesterday. did harry tell you?" "harry did not come home last night. what kept you, harry?" asked rose. "we were kept till a most unreasonable hour, and harry stayed with me last night," said charlie. "and of course graeme stayed up till all hours of the night, waiting for me," said harry, with an echo of impatience in his voice. "of course she did no such foolish thing. i saw to that," said arthur. "but which is it to be? a walk, or a quiet visit at home?" "oh! a walk, by all means," said charlie millar. "i have a great mind not to go," said harry. "nonsense, man! one would think you were about to receive the reward of your evil deeds. i refer to you, miss elliott. would it be respectful to the new firm, if he were to refuse to go?" "bother the new firm," said harry, impatiently. "the new partner, you mean. he has taken a most unreasonable dislike to my brother at first sight--calls him proud, and a snob, because he happens to be shy and awkward with strangers." "shy! a six-footer, with a beard enough for three. after that i'll vanish," said harry. "i don't think harry is very polite," said rose. "never mind. there are better things in the world than politeness. he will be more reasonable by and by," said harry's friend. "so your brother has come," said graeme. "how long is it since you have seen him?" "oh! not for ten years. he was home once after he came out here, but i was away at school, and did not see him. i remembered him quite well, however. he is not spoiled by his wanderings, as my mother used to fear he might be;" then he added, as harry reappeared, "the fact is, miss elliott, he expected to be asked to dinner. we must overlook his ill-temper." "by all means," said graeme, laughing. "thank you," said harry. "and i'll try to be patient." "well, shall we go now?" said arthur, who had been waiting patiently through it all. the others followed him and will. "is your brother going to remain here?" asked graeme. "that will be nice for you." "yes, on some accounts it would be nice. but if they send harry off to fill his place at the west, i shall not like that, unless, indeed, they send us both. and i am not sure i should like that long." "send harry!" exclaimed graeme. "nonsense, graeme!" said harry. "that is some of charlie's stuff." "i hope so; but we'll see," said charlie. "miss elliott, i had a letter from my mother to-day." the lad's eyes softened, as he turned them on graeme. "have you?" said graeme, turning away from her own thoughts to interest herself in his pleasure. "is she quite well?" "yes, she is much better than she was, and, miss elliott, she sends her love to you, and her best thanks." "for what?" said graeme, smiling. "oh! you know quite well for what. what should i have done, if it had not been for you and harry? i mean if you had not let me come to your house sometimes." "stuff!" said harry. "truth!" said charlie. "i never shall forget the misery of my first months, till harry came into our office. it has been quite different since the night he brought me to your house, and you were so kind as to ask me to come again." "that was no great self-denial on our part," said graeme, smiling. "you minded graeme on some one she used to know long ago," said rose. "and, besides, you are from scotland." both lads laughed. "and graeme feels a motherly interest in all scottish laddies, however unworthy they may be," said harry. and so they rambled on about many things, till they came to the gate of mr elphinstone's garden, beyond which arthur and will were loitering. "how pretty the garden is!" said rose. "look, graeme, at that little girl in the window. i wonder whether the flowers give her as much pleasure, as they used to give me." "i am afraid she does not get so many of them as you used to get," said graeme. "come in and let me gather you some," said charlie. "no, indeed. i should not venture. though i went in the first time without an invitation. and you dare not pick mr stirling's flowers." "dare i not?" said charlie, reaching up to gather a large spray from a climbing rose, that reached high above the wall. "oh! don't. oh! thank you," said rose. as far down as they could see for the evergreens and horse-chestnuts a white dress gleamed, and close beside the little feet that peeped out beneath it, a pair of shining boots crushed the gravel. "look," said rose, drawing back. "the new partner," said harry, with a whistle. "a double partnership-- eh, charlie?" "i shouldn't wonder," said charlie, looking wise. "he knows what he's about, that brother of yours. he's cute. he knows a thing or two, i guess." "harry," said rose, gravely, "don't talk slang. and i don't think it very polite to speak that way to mr millar about his brother." "my dear rosie, i am not talking slang, but the pure american language; and i think you are more considerate about other people's brothers than you are of your own. twice this night i have heard your brother called cross and disagreeable, without rebuke." "you deserved it," said rose, laughing. "miss rose," said charlie, "let your smile beam on him for one moment, and he can't look cross for the rest of the evening." rose turned her laughing face to her brother. "be a good boy, harry. good bye." as they returned, will and rose went on before, while graeme lingered with arthur. "did you hear what mr millar said about the possibility of harry's being sent west? it must be to take the new partner's place, i suppose," said graeme, after a little. "no; did he say so? it would be a capital good thing for harry." "do you think so? he would have to leave home." "yes; that would be a pity, of course; but the opening for him would be a very good one. i doubt whether there is much in it, however. harry has been for so short a time in the employment of the firm, and he is very young for a place so responsible. still, it may be. i know they have great confidence in him." there was a pause, and they walked slowly on. "arthur," said graeme, in a low voice. "do you think harry is--quite steady?" "steady," repeated arthur in a surprised and shocked tone. "why should you doubt it?" graeme strove to speak quietly, but her hand trembled on her brother's arm, and he knew it cost her an effort. "i dare say there is no cause for doubt. still, i thought i ought to speak to you. you will know better than i; and you must not think that i am unkind in speaking thus about harry." "you unkind! no; i should think two or three things before i thought that. but tell me why you have any fears?" "you know, arthur, harry has been very late in coming home, a good many times lately; and sometimes he has not come at all. and once or twice-- more indeed--he has been excited, more than excited--and--" graeme could not go on. "still, graeme, i do not think there is any real cause for apprehension. he is young and full of spirit, and his society is sought after--too much for his good, i dare say. but he has too much sense to give us any real cause for uneasiness on that ground. why, graeme, in p street harry is thought much of for his sense and talent." graeme sighed. there came into her mind something that her father had once said, about gallant ships being wrecked at last. but she did not speak. "shall i speak to him, graeme? what would you like me to do? i don't think there is much to fear for him." "well, i will think so, too. no; don't speak to him yet. it was hearing that he might be sent away, that made me speak to-night. i dare say i am foolish." they walked on in silence for a little, and then graeme said,-- "i hope it is only that i am foolish. but we have been so happy lately; and i mind papa and janet both said to me--it was just when we were beginning to fear for menie--that just as soon as people were beginning to settle down content, some change would come. it proved so then." "yes; i suppose so," said arthur, with a sigh. "we must expect changes; and scarcely any change would be for the better as far as we are concerned. but, graeme, we must not allow ourselves to become fanciful. and i am quite sure that after all your care for harry, and for us all, you will not have to suffer on his account. that would be too sad." they said no more till they overtook the children,--as rose and will were still called in this happy household. "i have a good mind not to go, after all. i would much rather stay quietly at home," said arthur, sitting down on the steps. "but you promised," said graeme. "you must go. i will get a light, and you need not stay long." "you must go, of course," said rose. "and graeme and i will have a nice quiet evening. i am going to practise the new music you brought home." "a quiet evening," said will. "yes; i have rather neglected my music of late, and other things, too. i'm sure, i don't know where the time goes to. i wish i were going with you, arthur." "you are far better at home." "yes, indeed," said graeme; and will added,-- "a child like rosie!" "well, be sure and look well at all the dresses, especially miss grove's, and tell me all about them." "yes; especially miss grove, if i get a glimpse of her in the crowd, which is doubtful." "well, good-night," said rose. "i don't believe there will be a gentleman there to compare to you." arthur bowed low. "i suppose i ought to say there will be no one there to compare with you. and i would, if i could conscientiously. but `fine feathers make fine birds,' and miss grove aspires to be a belle it seems,--and, many who don't aspire to such distinction, will, with the help of the dressmaker, eclipse the little scottish rose of our garden. good-night to you all--and graeme, mind you are not to sit up for me past your usual time." he went away, leaving rose to her practising, will to his books, and graeme to pace up and down the gallery in the moonlight, and think her own thoughts. they were not very sad thoughts, though arthur feared they might be. her brother's astonishment at her fears for harry, had done much to re-assure her with regard to him; for surely, if there were danger for harry, arthur would see it; and she began to be indignant with herself for having spoken at all. "arthur will think i am foolish. he will think that i have lost confidence in harry, which is not true. i wish i were more hopeful. i wish i did not take fright at the very first shadow. janet aye said that the first gloom of the cloud, troubled me more than the falling of the shower should do. such folly to suppose that anything could happen to our harry! i won't think about it. and even if harry has to go away, i will believe with arthur, that will be for the best. he will be near norman, at any rate, and that will be a great deal. norman will be glad. and i will not fear changes. why should i? they cannot come to us unsent. i will trust in god." but quite apart from the thought of harry's temptation or prospects, there was in graeme's heart a sense of pain. she was not quite satisfied in looking back over these pleasant years. she feared she had been beginning to settle down content with their pleasant life, forgetting higher things. except the thought about harry, which had come and gone, and come again a good many times within the last few months, there had scarcely been a trouble in their life daring these two years and more. she had almost forgotten how it would seem, to waken each morning to the knowledge that painful, self-denying duties lay before her. even household care, nelly's skill and will had put far from her. and now as she thought about all of this, it came into her mind how her father and janet had always spoken of life as a warfare--a struggle, and the bible so spoke of it, too. she thought of janet's long years of self-denial, her toils, her disappointments; and how she had always accepted her lot as no uncommon one, but as appointed to her by god. she thought of her father--how, even in the most tranquil times of his life--the time she could remember best, the peaceful years in merleville, he had given himself no rest, but watched for souls as one who must give account. yes, life was a warfare. not always with outward foes. the struggle need not be one that a looker-on could measure or see, but the warfare must be maintained--the struggle must only cease with life. it had been so with her father, she knew; and through his experience, graeme caught a glimpse of that wonderful paradox of the life that is hid with christ in god,--constant warfare-- and peace that is abiding; and could the true peace be without the warfare? she asked herself. and what was awaiting them after all these tranquil days? it was not the fear that this might be the lull before the storm that pained her, so much as the doubt whether this quiet time had been turned to the best account. had she been to her brothers all that father had believed she would be? had her influence always been decidedly on the side where her father's and her mother's would have been? they had been very happy together, but were her brothers really better and stronger christian men, because of her? and if, as she had sometimes feared, harry were to go astray, could she be altogether free from blame? the friends that had gathered around them during these years, were not just the kind of friends they would have made, had her father instead of her brother been at the head of the household; and the remembrance of the pleasure they had taken in the society of some who did not think as their father had done on the most important of all matters, came back to her now like a sin. and yet if this had worked for evil among them, it was indirectly; for it was the influence of no one whom they called their friend that she feared for harry. she always came back to harry in her thoughts. "but i will not fear for him," she repeated often. "i will trust god's care for harry and us all. surely i need not fear, i think i have been beginning at the wrong end of my tangled thoughts to-night. outward circumstances cannot make much difference, surely. if we are humble and trustful god will guide us." and busy still with thoughts from which renewed trust had taken the sting, graeme sat still in the moonlight, till the sound of approaching footsteps recalled her to the present. chapter twenty two. the shining boots crashed the gravel, and the white dress gleamed through the darkness, some time after the young men were seated in mr elphinstone's handsome drawing-room. the master of the mansion sat alone when they entered, gazing into a small, bright coal fire, which, though it was not much past midsummer, burned in the grate. for mr elphinstone was an invalid, with little hope of being other than an invalid all his life, though he was by no means an old man yet. if he had been expecting visitors, he had forgotten it, for they had come quite close to him before he looked up, and he quite started at the sound of mr millar's voice. he rose and received them courteously and kindly, however. mr elphinstone in his own drawing-room was a different person, or rather, he showed a different manner from mr elphinstone in his counting-room in intercourse with his clerks; and harry, who had had none but business intercourse with him, was struck with the difference. it required an effort for him to realise that the bland, gentle voice was the same that he had so often heard in brief and prompt command. business was to be ignored to-night, however. their talk was of quite other matters. there was an allusion to the new partnership, and to mr millar's half-brother, the new partner, who at the moment, as they all knew, was passing along the garden walk with a little white hand on his coat-sleeve. this was not alluded to, however, though each thought his own thoughts about it, in the midst of their talk. that those of mr elphinstone were rather agreeable to himself, the lads could plainly see. he had no son, and that his partner and nephew should fall into a son's place was an idea that pleased him well. indeed, it had cost him some self-denial to-night not to intimate as much to him after the pretty lilias had withdrawn, and the smile that harry was stealthily watching on his face, was called up by the remembrance of the admiration which his daughter had evidently called forth. harry watched the smile, and in his heart called the new partner "lucky," and "cute," and looked at charlie's discontented face with a comic astonishment that would have excited some grave astonishment to their host, if by any chance he had looked up to see. though why charlie should look discontented about it, harry could not well see. they talked about indifferent matters with a little effort till the white dress gleamed in the firelight, and a soft voice said-- "what, still in the dark, papa!" the lights came in, and harry was introduced to miss elphinstone. he had shared rosie's interest in the lady of the pony-carriage, long ago, and had sometimes seen and spoken with her in the garden in those days, but he had not seen her since her return from scotland, where her last three years had been spent. a very sweet-looking and graceful little lady she was, though a little silent and shy at first, perhaps in sympathy, harry thought, with the tall, bearded gentleman who had come in with her. it was evidently harry's interest to be on good terms with the new partner, and common politeness might have suggested the propriety of some appearance of interest in him and his conversation. but he turned his back upon the group by the fire, and devoted himself to the entertainment of their young hostess who was by this time busy with her tea-cups in another part of the room. there was some talk about the weather and the voyage and sea-sickness, and in the first little pause that came, the young lady looked up and said,-- "you don't live in the house opposite now, i think." it was the first voluntary remark she had made, and thankful for a new opening, harry said,-- "no; my sisters were never quite contented there. we left it as soon as possible; and we are quite at the other end of the town now." "and is your little sister as fond of flowers as ever?" "rose? oh, yes! she has a garden of her own now, and aspires to rival the pansies and verbenas of mr stirling, even." miss elphinstone smiled brightly. "i remember the first time she came into the garden." "yes, that was a bright day in rosie's life. she has the gowans you gave her still. the garden was a great resource to her in those days." "yes; so she said. i was very glad. i never gathered gowans among the hills at home, but i seemed to see that pretty shy face looking up at me." "yes," said harry, meditatively, "rose was a very pretty child." mr millar had drawn near by this time. indeed, the other gentlemen were listening too, and when miss elphinstone looked up it was to meet a very wondering look from the new partner. "by the by, mr elliott," said her father, breaking rather suddenly into the conversation, "whom did your elder brother marry?" "marry!" repeated charles. "he is not married," said harry. "no? well he is to be, i suppose. i saw him walking the other day with a young lady. indeed, i have often seen them together, and i thought--" "it was my sister, i presume," said harry. "perhaps so. she was rather tall, with a pale, grave face--but pretty-- quite beautiful indeed." "it was graeme, i daresay. i don't know whether other people think her beautiful or not." harry did not say it, but he was thinking that his sister seemed beautiful to them all at home, and his dark eyes took the tender look of graeme's own as he thought. it vanished quickly as a heavy hand was laid on his shoulder, and he turned to meet the look of the new partner. "you don't mean that you are the harry elliott that sailed with me in the `steadfast,' ten years ago." "yes, i am harry elliott, and i crossed the sea in the `steadfast' ten years ago. i knew _you_ at the first glance, mr ruthven." "i never should have known you in the least," said mr ruthven. "why, you were quite a little fellow, and now you can nearly look down on me." "i never thought of that," said harry, looking foolish. "and you thought the new partner fancied himself too big a man to know you," said charlie. "and that's the reason you took umbrage at him, and told your sister he was--ahem, harry?" miss elphinstone's laugh recalled charlie to a sense of propriety, and harry looked more foolish than ever. but mr ruthven did not seem to notice what they were saying. "i never should have known you. i see your father's look in you now-- and you have your elder sister's eyes. why did you not write to me as you promised?" "we did write--norman and i both, and afterwards graeme. we never heard a word from you." "you forget, it was not decided where you were to settle when i left you. you promised to write and tell me. i wrote several times to your father's friend in c---, but i never heard from him." "he died soon after we arrived," said harry. "and afterward i heard of a reverend mr elliott in the western part of new york, and went a day's journey thinking i had found you all at last. but i found this mr elliott was a very young man, an englishman--a fine fellow, too. but i was greatly disappointed." harry's eyes grew to look more like graeme's than ever, as they met allan's downward gaze. "i can't tell you how many mr elliotts i have written to, and then i heard of your father's death, harry, and that your sisters had gone home again to scotland. i gave up all hope then, till last winter, when i heard of a young elliott, an engineer--norman, too--and when i went in search of him, he was away from home; then i went another fifty miles to be disappointed again. they told me he had a sister in a school at c---, but rose never could have grown into the fair, blue-eyed little lady i found there, and i knew it could not be either of the others, so i only said i was sorry not to see her brother, and went away." harry listened eagerly. "i daresay it was our norman, and the little girl you saw was his adopted sister, hilda. if norman had only known--" said harry. and then he went on to tell of how norman had saved the little girl from the burning boat, and how he had cared for her since. by and by they spoke of other things and had some music, but the new partner said little, and when it was time for the young men to go, he said he would walk down the street with them. "so, charlie, you have found the friends who were so kind to me long ago," said his brother, as they shut the gate. "yes," said charlie, eagerly, "i don't know how i should have lived in this strange land without them. it has been a different place to me since harry came to our office, and took me home with him." "and i suppose i am quite forgotten." "oh, no, indeed!" said harry, and charlie added-- "don't you mind, harry, your sister rose said to-night that i reminded miss elliott of some one she knew long ago. it was allan, i daresay, she meant. my mother used to say i looked as allan did when he went away." they did not speak again till they came near the house. then charlie said,-- "it is not very late, harry. i wonder whether they are up yet. there is a light." "allan," said harry, lingering behind, "marian died before my father. don't speak of her to graeme." graeme was still sitting on the steps. "miss elliott," whispered charlie, eagerly, "who is the new partner, do you think? did i ever tell you my half-brother's name? it is allan ruthven." graeme gave neither start nor cry, but she came forward holding out her hands to the tall figure who came forward with an arm thrown over harry's shoulder. they were clasped in his. "i knew you would come. i was quite sure that some time we should see you again," said graeme, after a little. "and i--i had quite lost hope of ever finding you," said allan. "i wonder if you have missed me as i have missed you?" "we have been very happy together since we parted from you," said graeme, "and very sorrowful, too. but we never forgot you, either in joy or sorrow; and i was always sure that we should see you again." they went into the house together. rose, roused from the sleep into which she had fallen, stood very much amazed beneath the chandelier. "you'll never tell me that my wee white rose has grown into a flower like this!" said allan. it was a bold thing for him to do, seeing that rose was nearly as tall as her sister; but he clasped her in his arms and kissed her "cheek and chin" as he had done that misty morning on the deck of the "steadfast" so many years ago. "rose," said graeme, "it is allan--allan ruthven. don't you remember. i was always sure we should see him again." they were very, very glad, but they did not say so to one another in many words. the names of the dead were on their lips, making their voices trembling and uncertain. "arthur," said rose, as they were all sitting together a day or two after, "you have forgotten to tell us about the party." "you have forgotten to ask me, you mean. you have been so taken up with your new hero that i have had few of your thoughts." mr ruthven smiled at rose from the other side of the table. "well, tell us about it now," said she. "you must have enjoyed it better than you expected, for more than one of the `small-hours' had struck before you came home." "oh, yes, i enjoyed it very well. i met young storey, who has just returned from europe. i enjoyed his talk very much. and then mrs gridley took me under her protection. she is a clever woman, and handsome, too." "handsome!" echoed rose. "why she is an old woman, with grown-up daughters. and if you were to see her by daylight!" they all laughed. "well, that might make a difference. but she says very clever, or maybe very sharp, things about her neighbours, and the time passed quickly till supper. it was rather late but i could not leave before supper-- the event of the evening." "i should think not," said harry. "well, we won't ask about the supper, lest it might make harry discontented with his own. and what happened after supper?" "oh! after supper mr grove and his friend barnes began to discuss the harbour question, and i very foolishly allowed myself to be drawn into the discussion. mr green was there, the great western merchant. he is a long-headed fellow, that. you must know him, mr ruthven." "i know him well. he is a remarkably clever business-man, and a good fellow; though, i suppose, few know it so well as i do. i had a long illness in c once, and he nursed me as if i had been a brother. i might have known him for years in the way of business, without discovering his many excellent qualities. he has the name of being rather hard in the way of business, i believe?" "he has a clear head of his own," said arthur; "i enjoyed a talk with him very much. he intends visiting europe, he tells me." "well, what next?" said rose, to whom mr green and his good qualities were matters of indifference. "then i came home. mr green walked down the street with me." "and didn't you see miss grove, the belle of the evening!" exclaimed rose. "oh, yes! i had the honour of an introduction to her. she is a pretty little thing." "pretty! is that all you can say for the belle? how does she look? is she fair or dark? what colour are her eyes?" "i can hardly say. she would be called fair, i think. i can't say about her eyes. she has a very pretty hand and arm, and--is aware of it." "don't be censorious, arthur! does she wear curls? and what did she say to you?" "curls! i cannot say. i have the impression of a quantity of hair, not in the best order toward the end of the evening. she seemed to be dancing most of the time, and she dances beautifully." "but she surely said something to you. what did you talk about?" demanded rose, impatiently. "she told that if she were to dance all the dances for which she was engaged, she wouldn't get home till morning." "you don't mean to say you asked her to dance?" "oh, no! she volunteered the information. i could have waited so long as to have the honour." "and, of course, you can't tell a word about her dress?" "i beg your pardon," said arthur, searching his pocket. "it must be in my other vest. i asked mrs gridley what the young lady's dress was made of, and put it down for your satisfaction. rosie, i hope i haven't lost it." "arthur! what nonsense!" said graeme, laughing. "i am sure mrs gridley was laughing in her sleeve at you all the time." "she hadn't any sleeve to laugh in. but when i told her that i was doing it for the benefit of my little sister rosie, she smiled in her superior way." "i think i see her," said rosie, indignantly. "but what was her dress, after all? was it silk or satin?" "no, nothing so commonplace as that. i could have remembered silk or satin. it was--" "was it lace, or gauze, or crape?" suggested rose. "or tarltan or muslin?" said graeme, much amused. "or damask, or velvet, or cloth of gold, or linsey-woolsey?" said harry. arthur assumed an air of bewilderment. "it was gauze or crape, i think. no; it had a name of three syllables at least. it was white or blue, or both. but i'll write a note to mrs gridley, shall i, rosie?" "it would be a good plan. i wonder what is the use of your going to parties?" "so do i, indeed," said her brother. "i am quite in the dark on the subject. but i was told in confidence that there are cards to be issued for a great entertainment in grove house, and i should not wonder if my `accomplished sisters'--as mrs gridley in her friendly way calls them-- were to be visited in due form by the lady of the grove preparatory to an invitation to the same. so be in readiness. i think i should write the note to mrs gridley, rosie; you'll need a hint." graeme laughed, while rose clapped her hands. "i am not afraid of the call or the invitation," said graeme. but they came--first the call, which was duly returned, and then the invitation. that was quite informal. mrs grove would be happy if miss elliott and her sister would spend the evening at her house to meet a few friends. to their surprise, harry, as well as arthur, came home with a little pink note to the same effect. "i didn't know that you knew the groves, harry," said arthur. "oh, yes, i know mr grove in a general way; but i am invited through a mistake. however, i shall go all the same. i am not responsible for other people's mistakes. nothing can be plainer than that." "a mistake!" repeated several voices. "yes; mrs grove thinks i am a rising man, like the squire here; and why undeceive her? i shall add to the brilliancy of her party, and enjoy it mightily myself. why undeceive her, i ask?" "don't be nonsensical, harry," said rose. "how came mrs grove to make such an absurd mistake?" said arthur, laughing. "she's _cute_, i know; still it was not surprising in the circumstances. i met her on the street yesterday, and i saw the invitation in her eyes as plainly as i see this little pink concern now;" and he tossed the note to rose. "i think i should send the acceptance to miss elphinstone. it was she who obtained the invitation for me." "miss elphinstone!" "yes, or jack, or both, i should perhaps say. for if jack had been at his post, i should not have been politely requested to call a carriage for miss elphinstone, and mrs grove would not have seen me escorting her down the street as she sat in her carriage at alexander's door. i know she was thinking i was very bold to be walking on n street with my master's daughter. of course she didn't know that i was doing the work of that rascal jack. and so i am going to the grove party, unless, indeed, there is any objection to our going _en masse_. eh, graeme?" "it is not a party, only a few friends," said rose, eagerly. "certainly, we'll all go," said arthur. "if they had not wanted us all, they would not have asked us. of course, we'll all go for once." "but, graeme," said harry, coming back after he had left to go away, "don't let the idea of `a few friends' delude you. make yourselves as fine as possible. there will be a great crowd, you may be sure. miss elphinstone and mr ruthven are invited, and they are not among the intimate friends of such people as the groves. shall i send you home a fashion book, rosie?" "or write a note to mrs gridley," said arthur. rose laughed. she was pleasantly excited at the prospect of her first large party, there was no denying it. indeed, she did not seek to deny it, but talked merrily on, not seeing, or not seeming to see, the doubtful look on graeme's face. she alone, had not spoken during the discussion. she had not quite decided whether this invitation was so delightful as rosie thought, and in a little when her sister had left the room, she said-- "shall i accept the invitation then for rose and me?" "have you not accepted yet? you need not of course, unless you wish. but i think you will enjoy it, and rosie, too." "yes, but i am by no means sure, that i like mrs grove," said she, hesitating. "are you not?" said her brother, laughing. "well, i have got much farther than you. i am sure that i don't like her at all. but, what of that?" "only that i don't fancy accepting kindness, from a person i don't like, and to whom i don't think it would be pleasant to repay in kind." "oh! nonsense. the obligation is mutual. her kindness will be quite repaid, by having a new face in her splendid rooms. and as for repaying her in kind, as you call it, that is quite out of the question. there are not a dozen people in town who do the thing on the scale the groves attempt. and besides, rosie would be disappointed." graeme did not believe that it was the best thing that could happen to rosie, to be gratified in this matter, but she did not say so. "after all," thought she, "i daresay there is no harm in it. i shall not spoil the pleasure of the rest, by not seeming to enjoy it. but i don't like mrs grove." the last words were emphatically repeated. she did not like her. she did not wish to see her frequently, or to know her intimately. she wished she had neither called, nor invited them. she wished she had followed her first impulse, which had been to refuse at once without referring to her brothers. now, however, she must go with a good grace. so they all went, and enjoyed it very much, one and all, as they found on comparing notes around the bright little fire, which nelly had kept burning, against their return. "only," said rosie, with a little shamefacedness, "i am not sure that graeme liked me to dance quite so much." graeme was not sure either, but she did not think this the best time to speak about it. so she did not. "but how you ever learned to dance is a mystery to me," said arthur, "and harry too, i saw him carrying off miss elphinstone, with all the coolness imaginable. really, the young people of the present day amaze me." "oh! one can dance without learning," said rose, laughing. "the music inspires it." "and i have danced many a time before," said harry. "you are not sorry you went, are you graeme?" "sorry! no indeed! i have had a very pleasant evening." and so had they all. mrs grove had made a great effort to get a great many nice and clever people together, and she had succeeded. it had required an effort, for it was only lately, since his second marriage, that mr grove had affected the society of clever people, or indeed, any society at all. there were people who fancied that he did not affect it yet, and who pitied him, as he wandered about, or lingered in corners among the guests, that his more aspiring wife managed to bring together. he did not enjoy society much, but that was a small matter in the opinion of his wife. he was as little of a drawback to the general enjoyment, as could be expected in the circumstances. if he was not quite at his ease, at least he was seldom in anybody's way, and mrs grove was quite able to do the honours for both. mr grove was a man whom it was not difficult to ignore, even in his own dining-room. indeed, the greatest kindness that could be shown to the poor little man in the circumstances, was to ignore him, and a great deal of this sort of kind feeling was manifested towards him by his guests. on the first entrance of arthur and graeme, their host fastened on the former, renewing with great earnestness a conversation commenced in the morning in the young man's office. this did not last long, however. the hostess had too high an opinion of mr elliott's powers of pleasing, to permit them to be wasted on her husband, so she smilingly carried him off, leaving mr grove, for the present, to the tender mercies of graeme. he might have had a worse fate; for graeme listened and responded with a politeness and interest, to which he was little accustomed from his wife's guests. before he became unbearably tedious, she was rescued by mr ruthven, and mr grove went to receive mr elias green, the great western merchant, a guest far more worthy of his attention than any of the fine ladies and gentlemen, who only knew him in the character of feast-maker, or as the stupid husband of his aspiring wife. graeme had seen allan ruthven often since that first night. they had spoken of the pleasant and painful things that had befallen them, since they parted so long ago, or they might not have been able to walk so quietly up and down the crowded rooms, as they did for a while. then they found a quiet, or rather a noisy, corner in the music room, where they pursued their conversation unmolested, till harry brought miss elphinstone to be introduced to graeme. this was a mutual pleasure, for graeme wished to know the young lady who had long been rosie's ideal of all that was sweet and beautiful, and miss elphinstone was as pleased to become the friend of one whom her cousins allan and charlie admired so much. and when she begged permission to call upon her and rose, what could graeme do, but be charmed more and more. then miss elphinstone was claimed for another dance, and who should present himself again but their host, and with him the guest of the evening, the great western merchant! then there were a few minutes not so pleasant, and then mr green proposed that they "should make the tour of the rooms." but graeme had not the courage for such an ordeal, and smilingly begged to be excused; and so he sat down beside her, and by and by, graeme was surprised to find herself interested in his conversation. before he had been a great merchant. mr green had been a farmer's boy among the hills of vermont, and when he knew that miss elliott had passed seven happy years in a new england village, he found enough to say to her; and graeme listened and responded, well pleased. she had one uncomfortable moment. it was when the supper movement began to be made, and the thought flashed upon her, that she must be led to the supper room, by this western giant. mr ruthven saved her from this, however, to the discontent of the giant, who had been so engaged in talking and listening, as not to have perceived that something interesting was about to take place. the sight of the freely flowing champagne gave graeme a shock, but a glance at harry reassured her. there was no danger for him to-night. yes, they had all enjoyed it, they acknowledged, as they lingered over the fire after their return. "but, arthur," said graeme, "i was disappointed in miss grove. she is pretty, certainly, but there is something wanting--in expression i mean. she looks good tempered, but not intellectual." "intellectual!" repeated arthur. "no. one would hardly make use of that word in describing her. but she is almost the prettiest little thing i ever saw, i think." "and she certainly is the silliest little thing i ever saw," said harry. "rosie, if i thought you capable of talking such stuff, as i heard from her pretty lips to-night, _i_ would--" arthur laughed; less, it seemed, at what harry had said, than at what it recalled. "she is not likely to astonish the world by her wisdom, i should think," said he, as he rose to go up-stairs. "nor rosie either, for that matter," he added, laughing, and looking back. "none of us are giving great proof of wisdom just now, i think," said graeme. "come, rosie, nelly will lose patience if breakfast is kept waiting. good-night, harry. don't sit long." chapter twenty three. whether nelly lost her patience next morning or not, history does not record; but it is a fact that breakfast was late, and late as it was, rosie did not make her appearance at it. graeme had still a very pleasant remembrance of the evening; but it was not altogether unmixed. the late breakfast, the disarrangement of household matters, rosie's lassitude, and her own disinclination to engage in any serious occupation, was some drawback to the remembrance of her enjoyment. all were more or less out of sorts, some from one cause, some from another. this did not last long, however. the drawback was forgotten, the pleasure was remembered, so that when a day or two afterward, a note came from mrs gridley, begging the presence of the brothers and sisters at a small party at her house, nothing was said about refusing. mrs gridley had promised some friends from toronto, a treat of scottish music, and she would be inconsolable should they disappoint her. but the consolation of mrs gridley was not the chief reason of the acceptance. arthur was to be out of town, but will was to go in his place. they went, and enjoyed it well; indeed, it was very enjoyable. mrs gridley was a serious person, said her friends, and some, who had no claim to the title said the same--the tone and manner making all the difference in the sense of the declaration. she would not for much, have been guilty of giving dancing or card parties in her own house, though by some mysterious process of reasoning, she had convinced herself that she could quite innocently make one of such parties in the houses of other people. so there was only music and conversation, and a simple game or two for the very young people. graeme and rosie, and will too, enjoyed it well. harry professed to have been bored. out of these parties sprang others. graeme hardly knew how it happened, but the number of their acquaintances greatly increased about this time. perhaps it was partly owing to the new partnership entered into by arthur, with the long-established firm of black & company. they certainly owed to this, the sight of several fine carriages at their door, and of several pretty cards in their receiver. invitations came thick and fast, until an entire change came over their manner of life. regular reading was interfered with or neglected. household matters must have fallen into confusion, if nelly had not proved herself equal to all emergencies. the long quiet evening at home became the exception. they went out, or some one came in, or there was a lecture or concert, or when the sleighing became good a drive by moonlight. there were skating parties, and snow-shoeing parties, enough to tire the strongest; and there was no leisure, no quiet time. graeme was not long in becoming dissatisfied with this changed, unsettled life. the novelty soon wore off for her, and she became painfully conscious of the attendant evils. sadly disinclined herself to engage in any serious occupation, she could not but see that with her sister it was even worse. rose enjoyed all these gay doings much more, and in a way quite different from her; and the succeeding lassitude and depression were proportionably greater. indeed, lassitude and depression were quite too gentle terms to apply to the child's sensations, and her disinclination to occupation sometimes manifested itself in an unmistakable approach to peevishness, unless, indeed, the party of the evening was to be followed by the excursion of the day. then the evil effects were delayed, not averted. for a time, graeme made excuses for her to herself and to her brothers; then she did what was much wiser. she determined to put a stop to the cause of so much discomfort. several circumstances helped her to this decision, or rather to see the necessity for it. she only hesitated as to the manner in which she was to make her determination known; and while she hesitated, an opportunity to discuss their changed life occurred, and she did not permit it to pass unimproved. christmas and new year's day had been past for some weeks, and there was a pause in the festivities of their circle, when a billet of the usual form and purport was left at the door by a servant in livery. rose, who had seen him pass the window, had much to do to keep herself quiet, till nelly had taken it from his hand. she just noticed that it was addressed to graeme, in time to prevent her from opening it. "what is it, graeme?" asked she, eagerly, as she entered the room where her sister was writing. "i am almost sure it was left by mrs roxbury's servant. see, there is their crest. what is it? an invitation?" "yes," said graeme, quietly, laying down the note. "for the twenty-seventh." "such a long time! it will be a grand affair. we must have new dresses, graeme." she took up the note and read: "mrs roxbury's compliments to miss elliott." "miss elliott!" she repeated. "why, graeme! i am not invited." "so it seems; but never mind, rosie. i am not going to accept it." rose was indeed crestfallen. "oh, you must go, of course. you must not stay at home on my account." "no; certainly. that is not the reason. your being invited would have made no difference." "i could hardly have gone without you," said rose, doubtfully. "certainly not. neither of us would have gone. if i don't accept this invitation our acquaintance with the roxburys will perhaps go no further. that would be a sufficient reason for my refusal, if there were no others." "a sufficient reason for not refusing, i should rather say," said rose. "no. there is no good reason for keeping up an acquaintance with so many people. there is no pleasure in it; and it is a great waste of time and strength, and money too, for that matter." "but arthur wishes it. he thinks it right." "yes, to a certain extent, perhaps, but not at too great a cost. i don't mean of money, though in our circumstances that is something, too. but so much going out has been at a great sacrifice of time and comfort to us all. i am tired of it. we won't speak of it now, however; i must finish my letter." for to tell the truth, rosie's face did not look promising. "don't send a refusal till you have spoken to arthur, graeme. if he wishes you to go, you ought, you know." "i am by no means sure of that. arthur does not very often go to these large parties himself. he does not enjoy them, and i see no reason why i should deny myself, in so bad a cause." "but graeme, you have enjoyed some of them, at least. i am sure i have always enjoyed them." "yes, i have enjoyed some of them, but i am not sure that it is a right kind of enjoyment. i mean, it may be too dearly bought. and besides, it is not the party, as a party, that i ever enjoy. i have had more real pleasure in some of our quiet evenings at home, with only--only one or two friends, than i ever had at a party, and--, but we won't talk about it now," and she bent over her letter again. she raised her head almost immediately, however. "and yet, rosie, i don't know why this is not the best time to say what, for a long time, i have meant to say. we have not been living a good or wise life of late. do you mind, love, what janet said to us, the night before we came away? do you mind the charge she gave us, to keep our garments unspotted till we meet our father and mother again? do you think, dear, the life of pleasure we have been living, will make us more like what our mother was, more like what our father wished us to be-- more fit to meet them where they are?" graeme spoke very earnestly. there were tears in her eyes. "graeme," said rose, "do you think it wrong to go to parties--to dance? many good people do not." "i don't know, love. i cannot tell. it might be right for some people, and yet quite wrong for us. certainly, if it withdraws our minds from things of importance, or is the cause of our neglecting duty, it cannot be right for us. i am afraid it has been doing this for us all lately." rosie looked grave, but did not reply. in a little, graeme added,-- "i am afraid our last letters have not given much satisfaction to mrs snow, rosie. she seems afraid for us; afraid, lest we may become too much engrossed with the pleasant things about us, and reminds us of the care and watchfulness needed to keep ourselves unspotted from the world." "but, graeme, everything is so different in merleville, janet cannot know. and, besides--" "i know, dear; and i would not like to say that we have been doing anything very wrong all this time, or that those who do the same are doing wrong. if we were wiser and stronger, and not so easily influenced for evil, i daresay it would do us no harm. but, rosie, i am afraid for myself, that i may come to like this idle gay life too much, or, at least, that it may unfit me for a quiet useful life, as our father would have chosen for us, and i am afraid for you, too, dear rose." "i enjoy parties very much, and i can't see that there is any harm in it," said rosie, a little crossly. "no, not in enjoying them, in a certain way, and to a certain extent. but, rose, think how dreadful, to become `a lover of pleasure.' is there no danger do you think, love?" rose hung her head, and was silent. graeme went on,-- "my darling, there is danger for you--for me--for us all. how can we ever hope to win harry from the society of those who do him harm, when we are living only to please ourselves?" "but, graeme, it is better that we should all go together--i mean harry is more with us than he used to be. it must be better." "i don't know, dear. i fear it is only a change of evils. harry's temptation meets him even with us. and, oh! rosie, if our example should make it easier for harry to go astray! but we won't speak about harry. i trust god will keep him safe. i believe he will." though graeme tried to speak calmly, rose saw that she trembled and grew very white. "at any rate, rose, we could not hope that god would hear our prayers for harry, or for each other, if we were living in a way displeasing to him. for it is not well with us, dear. we need not try to hide it from ourselves. we must forget the last few troubled months, and begin again. yes, we must go farther back than that, rosie," said graeme, suddenly rising, and putting her arms about her sister. "do you mind that last night, beside the two graves? how little worth all seemed to us then, except to get safe home together. rosie! i could not answer for it to our father and mother if we were to live this troubled life long. my darling! we must begin again." there were tears on rose's cheeks, as well as graeme's, by this time. but in a little graeme sat down again. "it is i who have been most to blame. these gay doings never should have commenced. i don't think arthur will object to our living much more quietly than we have done of late. and if he does, we must try and reconcile him to the change." it was not difficult to reconcile arthur to the change. "graeme must do as she thought right," he said. "it must be rather a troublesome thing to keep up such a general acquaintance--a loss of time to little purpose," and so it would have ended, as far as he was concerned, if harry had not discovered mrs roxbury's note. "i declare mrs gridley is right," said he. "we are a rising family. i hope you gave that lady a chance to peep into this note, when she was here to-day. but how is this? miss elliott. have you one, rosie?" rose shook her head. "no. have you, harry?" "have i? what are you thinking of, rose? do you suppose those lofty portals would give admission to one who is only a humble clerk? it is only for such commercial successes as mr green, or allan ruthven, that that honour is reserved. but never mind, rosie. we shall find something to amuse us that night, i have no doubt." "graeme is not going," said rose. "not going! oh! she'll think better of it." "no, she has sent her refusal." "and why, pray?" "oh! one can't go everywhere, as mrs gridley says," replied graeme, thus appealed to. "yes; but mrs gridley said that with regard to a gathering of our good friend, willie birnie, the tailor. i can understand how she should not find time to go there. but how you should find time to shine on that occasion, and have none to spare for mrs roxbury's select affair, is more than i can comprehend." "don't be snobbish, harry," said will. "i think the reasons are obvious," said arthur. "yes," said graeme, "we knew willie birnie when we were children. he was at the school with you all. and i like his new wife very much, and our going gave them pleasure, and, besides, i enjoyed it well." "oh! if you are going to take a sentimental view of the matter, i have nothing to say. and willie is a fine fellow; i don't object to willie, or the new wife either--quite the contrary. but of the two, people generally would prefer to cultivate the acquaintance of mrs roxbury and her set." "graeme is not like people generally," said rose. "i hope not," said will. "and, harry, what do you suppose mrs roxbury cares about any of us, after all?" "she cares about graeme going to her party, or she would not have asked her." "i am not sure of that," said graeme, smiling at the eagerness of the brothers. "i suppose she asked me for the same reason that she called here, because of the partnership. they are connected with the blacks, in some way. now, that it is off her conscience, having invited me, i daresay she will be just as well pleased that i should stay at home." "that is not the least bit uncharitable, is it graeme?" "no. i don't think so. it certainly cannot make much difference to her, to have one more or less at her house on the occasion. i really think she asks me from a sense of duty--or rather, i ought to say, from a wish to be polite to her friends the blacks. it is very well that she should do so, and if i cared to go, it would, of course, be agreeable to her, but it will not trouble her in the least though i stay away." "well, i can't but say you have chosen an unfortunate occasion to begin to be fastidious. i should think the roxbury's would be the very house you would like to go to." "oh! one has to make a beginning. and i am tired of so much gaiety. it makes no difference about its being mrs roxbury." "very well. please yourself and you'll please me," said harry, rising. "are you going out to-night, harry?" said graeme, trying not to look anxious. "yes; but pray don't wait for me if i should not be in early," said harry, rather hastily. there was nothing said for some time after harry went out. will went to his books, and rose went to the piano. graeme sewed busily, but she looked grave and anxious. "what can make harry so desirous that you should go to mrs roxbury's?" said arthur, at last. "have you any particular reason for not wishing to go?" "do you think harry really cared? no; i have no reason for not wishing to go there. but, arthur, we have been going out too much lately. it is not good for rosie, nor for me, either; and i refused this invitation chiefly because she was not invited, i might not have had the courage to refuse to go with her--as she would have been eager to go. but it is not good for her, all this party-going." "i dare say you are right. she is too young, and not by any means beyond being spoiled. she is a very pretty girl." "pretty! who can compare with her?" said graeme. "but she must not be spoiled. she is best at home." "proudfute tells me this is to be a reception in honour of your friend ruthven, and miss elphinstone," said arthur. "it seems the wedding is to come off soon. proudfute is a relation of theirs, you know." "no; i did not know it," said graeme; and in a little she added, "ought that to make any difference about my going? my note is written but not sent." "i should think not. you are not supposed to know anything about it. it is very likely not true. and it is nothing to us." "no; that is true," said graeme. "rosie, my dear, you are playing too quickly. that should be quite otherwise at the close," and rising, she went to the piano and sat down beside her sister. they played a long time together, and it was rose who was tired first `for a wonder.' "graeme, why did you not tell harry the true reason that you did not wish to go to mrs roxbury's?" said rose, when they went up-stairs together. "the true reason?" repeated graeme. "i mean, why did you not speak to him as you spoke to me?" "i don't know, dear. perhaps i ought to have done so. but it is not so easy to speak to others as it is to you. i am afraid harry would have cared as little for the true reason as for the one i gave." "i don't know, graeme. he was not satisfied; and don't you think it would have been better just to say you didn't think it right to go out so much--to large parties, i mean." "perhaps it would have been better," said graeme, but she said no more; and sat down in the shadow with her bible in her hand for the nightly reading. rose had finished her preparations for bed before she stirred, and coming up behind her she whispered softly,-- "graeme, you are not afraid for harry now? i mean not more afraid?" graeme started. her thoughts were painful, as her face showed; but they were not of harry. "i don't know, love. i hope not. i pray god, no harm may come to harry. oh! rosie, rosie, we have been all wrong this long, long time. we have been dreaming, i think. we must waken up, and begin again." chapter twenty four. graeme's first judgment of allan ruthven, had been, "how these ten years have changed him;" but she quite forgot the first judgment when she came to see him more, and meeting his kind eyes and listening to his kind voice, in the days that followed she said to herself, "he is the same, the very same." but her first judgment was the true one. he was changed. it would have been strange if the wear and tear of commercial life for ten years had not changed him, and that not for the better. in the renewal of intercourse with his old friends, and in the new acquaintance he made with his brother charlie, he came to know himself that he had changed greatly. he remembered sadly enough, the aspirations that had died out of his heart since his youth, the temptations that he had struggled against always, but which, alas! he had not always withstood. he knew now that his faith had grown weak, that thoughts of the unseen and heavenly had been put far-away from him. yes; he was greatly changed since the night he had stood with the rest an the deck of the "steadfast," watching the gleaming lights of a strange city. standing now face to face with the awakened remembrance of his own ideal, he knew that he had fallen far short of its attainment; and reading in graeme's truthful eye "the same, the very same," his own often fell with a sense of shame as though he were deceiving her. he was changed, and yet the wonder was, that the influences of these ten years had not changed him more. the lonely life he had pictured to his friends, that last night on the "steadfast," fell far short of the reality that awaited him. removed from the kindly associations of home, and the tranquil pursuits and pleasures of a country village, to the turmoil of a western city, and the annoyance of a subordinate in a merchant's office, he shrunk, at first, in disgust from the life that seemed opening before him. his native place, humble as it was, had lived in song and story for many centuries; and in this city which had sprung up in a day, nothing seemed stable or secure. a few months ago the turf of the prairie had been undisturbed, where to-day its broad streets are trodden by the feet of thousands. between gigantic blocks of buildings rising everywhere, strips of the prairie turf lay undisturbed still. the air of newness, of incompleteness, of insecurity that seemed to surround all things impressed him painfully; the sadden prosperity seemed unreal and unnatural, as well it might, to one brought up in a country where the first thought awakened by change or innovation is one of mistrust and doubt. all his preconceived ideas of business and a business-life, availed him nothing in the new circumstances in which he found himself. if business men were guided in their mutual relations by any principle of faith or honour, he failed in the first bitterness of his disgust to see it. business-life seemed but a scramble, in which the most alert seized the greatest portion. the feverish activity and energy which were fast changing the prairie into a populous place seemed directed to one end-- the getting of wealth. wealth must be gotten by fair means or foul, and it must be gotten suddenly. there was no respite, no repose. one must go onward or be pushed aside, or be trodden under foot. fortune was daily tempted, and the daily result was success, or utter failure, till a new chance could be grasped at. "honest labour! patient toil!" allan wondered within himself if the words had ever reached the inward sense of these eager, anxious men, jostling each other in their never-ceasing struggle. allan watched, and wondered, and mused, trying to understand, and to make himself charitable over the evil, by calling it a national one, and telling himself that these men of the new world were not to be judged by old laws, or measured by old standards. but there were among the swiftest runners of the race for gold men from all lands, men whose boyish feet had wandered over english meadows, or trod the heather on scottish hills. men whose fathers had spent their lives content in mountain sheilings, with no wish beyond their flocks and their native glens; humble artisans, smiths, and masons, who had passed in their own country for honest, patient, god-fearing men, grew as eager, as unscrupulous, as swift as the fleetest in the race. the very diggers of ditches, and breakers of stone on the highway, the hewers of wood and drawers of water; took with discontent that it was no more their daily wages, doubled or tripled to them, since they set foot on the soil of the new world. that there might be another sort of life in the midst of this turmoil, he did not consider. he never could associate the idea of home or comfort with those dingy brick structures, springing up in a day at every corner. he could not fancy those hard voices growing soft in the utterance of loving words, or those thin, compressed lips gladly meeting the smiling mouth of a little child. home! why, all the world seemed at home in those vast hotels; the men and women greeting each other coldly, in these great parlours, seemed to have no wants that a black man, coming at the sound of a bell, might not easily supply. even the children seemed at ease and self-possessed in the midst of the crowd. they troubled no one with noisy play or merry prattle, but sat on chairs with their elders, listening to, or joining in the conversation, with a coolness and appropriateness painfully suggestive of what their future might be. looking at these embryo merchants and fine ladies, from whose pale little lips "dollar" and "change" fall more naturally than sweeter words, ruthven ceased to wonder at the struggle around him. he fancied he could understand how these little people, strangers, as it seemed to him, to a home or even to a childhood, should become in time the eager, absorbed, unscrupulous runners and wrestlers, jostling each other in the daily strife. ruthven was very bitter and unjust in many of his judgments during the first part of his residence in c. he changed his opinions of many things afterwards, partly because he became wiser, partly because he became a little blind, and, especially, because he himself became changed at last. by and by his life was too busy to permit him to watch those about him, or to pronounce judgment on their aims or character. uncongenial as he had at first found the employment which his uncle had provided for him, he pursued it with a patient steadiness, which made it first endurable, then pleasant to him. at first his duties were merely mechanical; so much writing, so much computing each day, and then his time was his own. but this did not continue long. trusted always by the firm, he was soon placed in a position where he was able to do good service to his employers. his skill and will guided their affairs through more than one painful crisis. his integrity kept their good name unsullied at a time when too many yielding to what seemed necessity, were betaking themselves to doubtful means to preserve their credit. he thoroughly identified himself with the interests of the firm, even when his uncle was a comparative stranger to him. he did his duty in his service as he would have done it in the service of another, constantly and conscientiously, because it was right to do so. so passed the first years of his commercial life. in default of other interests, he gave himself wholly up to business pursuits, till no onlooker on the busy scene in which he was taking part would have thought of singling him out as in any respect different from those who were about him. those who came into close contact with him called him honourable and upright, indeed, over scrupulous in many points; and he, standing apart from them, and in a certain sense above them, was willing so to be called. but as one cannot touch pitch without being defiled, so a man must yield in time to the influences in the midst of which he has voluntarily placed himself. so it came to pass that, as the years went on, allan ruthven was greatly changed. it need not have been so. it doubtless was far otherwise with some who, in his pride and ignorance, he had called earth-worms and worshippers of gold; for though, in the first bitterness of his isolation, he was slow to discover it, there were in the midst of the turmoil and strife of that new city warm hearts and happy homes, and the blessed influence of the christian faith and the christian life. there were those over whom the gains-getting demon of the place had no power, because of a talisman they held, the "constraining love of christ," in them. those walked through the fire unscathed, and, in the midst of much that is defiling, kept their garments clean. but ruthven was not one of them. he had the name of the talisman on his lips, but he had not its living power in his heart. he was a christian only in name; and so, when the influence of early associations began to grow weak, and he began to forget, as men will for a time, his mother's teachings "in the house, and by the way," at the "lying down and the rising up," no wonder that the questionable maxims heard daily from the lips of the worldly-wise should come to have weight with him at last. not that in those days he was, in any sense, a lover of gold for its own sake. he never sank so low as that. but in the eagerness with which he devoted himself to business, he left himself no time for the performance of other and higher duties, or for the cultivation of those principles and affections which can alone prevent the earnest business-man from degenerating into a character so despicable. if he was not swept away by the strong current of temptation, it was because of no wisdom or strength or foresight of his. another ten years of such a life would have made him, as it has made many another, a man outwardly worthy of esteem, but inwardly selfish, sordid, worldly--all that in his youth he had most despised. this may seem a hard judgment, but it is the judgement he passed on himself, when there came a pause in his busy life, and he looked back over those years and felt that he did not hold the world loosely--that he could not open his hand and let it go. he had been pleasing himself all along with the thought that he was not like the men about him-- content with the winning of wealth and position in the world; but there came a time when it was brought sharply home to him that without these he could not be content. it was a great shock and surprise to him to be forced to realise how far he had drifted on with the current, and how impossible it had become to get back to the old starting-place again, and in the knowledge he did not spare himself, but used harder and sterner words of self-contempt than any that are written here. ruthven's intercourse with his uncle's family, though occurring at long intervals, had been of a very pleasant kind, for he was a great favourite with his aunt and his cousin lilias, who was then a child. indeed, she was only a child when her mother died; and when there fell into his hands a letter written by his aunt to his mother, during one of his first visits to m, in which half seriously, half playfully, was expressed a wish that the cousins might one day stand in a nearer and dearer relation to one another, he was greatly surprised and amused. i am afraid it was only the thought that the hand that had penned the wish was cold in death, that kept him from shocking his mother by laughing outright at the idea. for what a child lilias must have been when that was written, thought he! what a child she was still! but the years went on, and the child grew into a beautiful woman, and the remembrance of his aunt's wish was pleasant to allan ruthven, because of his love and admiration for his cousin, and because of other things. he could not be blind to the advantages that such a connection would ensure to him. the new partnership was anticipated and entered upon, on very different terms from those which might have been, but for the silent understanding with regard to lilias that existed between the uncle and nephew. it was no small matter that the young merchant should find himself in a position to which the greater number attain only after half a lifetime of labour. he was at the head of a lucrative business, conscious of possessing skill and energy to conduct it well--conscious of youth and health and strength to enjoy the future opening before him. nor was there anything wrong in this appreciation of the advantages of his position. he knew that this wealth had not bought him. he loved his cousin lilias, or he thought he loved her; and though up to this time, and after this time their intercourse was only after a cousinly sort, he believed she loved him. the thought _did_ come into his mind sometimes whether his cousin was all to him that a woman might be, but never painfully. he did not doubt that, as years went on, they would be very happy together after a quiet, rational fashion, and he smiled, now and then, at the fading remembrance of many a boyish dream as to how his wife was to be wooed and won. he was happy--they were all happy; and the tide of events flowed quietly on the the night when allan clasped the trembling hand of graeme elliott. indeed, it flowed quietly on long after that, for in the charm that, night after night, drew him into the happy circle of the elliotts, he recognised only the pleasure that the renewal of old friendships and the awakening of old associations gave him. the pleasure which his cousin took in the society of these young people was scarcely less than his own. around the heiress and only child of mr elphinstone there soon gathered a brilliant circle of admirers, the greater part of whom would hardly have recognised the elliotts as worthy of sharing the honour with them. but there was to the young girl, who had neither brother nor sister, something better than brilliancy or fashion in graeme's quiet parlour. the mutual love and confidence that made their home so happy, filled her with wonder and delight, and there were few days, for several pleasant months, in which they did not meet. the pleasant intercourse was good for lilias. she brightened under it wonderfully, and grew into a very different creature from the pale, quiet, little girl, who used to sit so gravely at her father's side. her father saw the change and rejoiced over it, and though at first he was not inclined to be pleased with the intimacy that had sprung up so suddenly, he could not but confess that the companionship of one like rose elliott must be good for her. graeme he seldom saw. the long morning calls, and spending of days with her friend, which were rosie's delight, graeme seldom shared. but she was quite as much the friend of lilias as was her livelier sister, and never did his cousin seem so beautiful to allan, never was she so dear, as when, with pretty willfulness; she hung about graeme, claiming a right to share with rose the caresses or gentle reproofs of the elder sister. he did not think of danger to himself in the intercourse which lilias shared so happily. he was content with the present, and did not seek to look into the future. but he was not quite free from troubled thoughts at this time. in the atmosphere in which he lived things wore a new aspect to him. almost unconsciously to himself at first, he began to judge of men, and motives, and actions, by a new rule--or rather, he came back to the old rule, by which he had measured all things in his youthful days. these days did not seem so far removed from him now as they used to do, and sometimes he found himself looking back over the last ten years, with the clear truthful eyes of eighteen. it was not always a pleasant retrospect. there were some things covered up by that time, of which the review could not give unmingled pleasure. these were moments when he could not meet graeme's truthful eyes, as with "don't you remember?" she recalled his own words, spoken long ago. he knew, though she did not, how his thoughts of all things had changed since then; and though the intervening years had made him a man of wealth and note, there came to him, at such moments, a sense of failure and regret, as though his manhood had belied the promise of his youth--a strong desire to begin anew--a longing after a better life than these ten years had witnessed. but these pleasant days came to an end. business called allan, for a time, to his old home in c, and to his uncongenial life there. it was not pleasant business. there was a cry, louder than usual, of "hard times" through the country, and the failure of several houses, in which he had placed implicit confidence, threatened, not, indeed, to endanger the safety, but greatly to embarrass the operations of the new firm. great losses were sustained, and complicated as their affairs at the west had become, allan began to fear that his own presence there would for some time be necessary. he was surprised and startled at the pain which the prospect gave him, and before he had time to question himself as to why it should be so, the reason was made plain to him. a letter written by his uncle immediately after a partial recovery from an illness, a return of which, his physicians assured him, must prove fatal, set the matter before him in its true light. the letter was brief. knowing little of the disorder into which recent events had thrown their affairs, he entreated allan's immediate return, for his sake, and for the sake of lilias, whom it distressed him to think of leaving till he should see her safe with one who should have a husband's right to protect and console her. it was simply and frankly said, as one might speak of a matter fully understood and approved of by all concerned. but the words smote on allan's heart with sharp and sudden pain, and he knew that something had come into his life, since the time when he had listened in complacent silence to mr elphinstone's half-expressed ideas, concerning lilias and her future. there was pleasure in the pain, sharp and sweet while it lasted, for with the knowledge that came to him, that he loved graeme elliott, there came also the hope, that there was something more than gentle friendliness in the feelings with which she regarded him. but the pleasure passed, and the pain remained, growing sharper and deeper as he looked the future in the face. it was not a hopeful future. as for his cousin, there had passed between them no words or tokens of affection, that cousins might not very well exchange; at least, he was willing to believe so now; and judging her feelings, partly by his own, and partly by the remembrance of many a chance word and action of the last few months, he said to himself, the happiness of her life would not be marred though they might never be more than cousins to each other. but this did not end his doubts as to the course that lay before him, and every day that he lingered in miserable indecision, made more evident to him the difficulties of his position. he knew it was a son's place that he had got in the firm. he could only claim it as a son. if his relations to lilias and her father were changed, it seemed to him that he could not honourably claim a position which had been urged upon him, and which he had gladly accepted with a view to these relations. the past ten years must be as nothing to him, except for the experience they had given him, the good name they had won for him. he must begin life again a poor man. but let me not be unjust to him. it was not this that made all the misery of his indecision. had all this come in a time of prosperity, or when mr elphinstone had strength and courage to meet disaster unmoved, it would have been different. but now, when all things looked threatening, when certain loss--possible ruin--lay before them, when the misfortunes of some, and the treachery of others were making the very ground beneath their feet insecure, could he leave the feeble old man to struggle through these difficult and dangerous times alone? he knew his uncle too well to believe that he would willingly accept help from him, their relations being changed, and he knew that no skill and knowledge but his own, could conduct to a successful issue, enterprises undertaken under more favourable circumstances. he was very wretched. he could not put away the discomfort of his indecision by permitting time and circumstances to decide in the course which he must take. whatever was done must be done by him, and at once. there was no respite of time or chance to fall back upon, in the strait in which he found himself. he did not hasten home. he had cause enough to excuse the delay to himself, and he threw himself into the increasingly painful details of business, with an energy that, for the time, left no room for painful thoughts. but it was only for the time. he knew that his lingering was useless, in view of what the end must be, and he despised himself for his indecision. if his choice had been altogether between poverty and wealth, it would have been easy to him, he thought, though it forced itself upon him with intense bitterness during these days, how the last ten years had changed the meaning of the word to him. but his honour was involved--his honour as a man, and as a merchant. he could not leave his uncle to struggle with misfortune in his old age. he could not let the name, so long honoured and trusted in the commercial world, be joined with the many which during the last few months had been coupled with ruin, and even with shame. he was responsible for the stability or the failure of the house, which for thirty years had never given cause for doubt or fear. more than this. his own reputation as a wise and successful man of business, if not even his personal honour was at stake, to make it impossible for him to separate himself from the affairs of the firm at a juncture so perilous. and then, lilias. nothing but her own spoken word could free him from the tacit engagement that existed between them. in honour he could never ask her to speak that word. through his long journey of days and nights he pondered it all, making no decision as to what was to be done or said, but growing gradually conscious as he drew near home, that the life of the last few months, was coming to seem more and more like a pleasant dream that must be forgotten in the future. he met his uncle's eager greeting with no word of change. his face was pale and very grave when he met his cousin, but not more so than hers. but that might very well be said each of the other. lilias knew more of the losses which the firm had sustained than her father knew; and allan might well look grave, she thought, and the watching and anxiety for her father's sake might well account to him for her sad looks. after the first clasp of their hands he knew that the vows hitherto unspoken, must now be fulfilled. chapter twenty five. graeme did go to mrs roxbury's party, and it happened in this way. the invitations had been sent out before mr elphinstone's short, sharp illness, and lilias had been made very useful by her aunt on the occasion. she had not been consulted about the sending of graeme's invitation, or probably rose would have had one too, but by good fortune, as she declared, graeme's refusal came first to her hand, and the little lady did a most unprecedented thing. she put it quietly into her pocket, and going home that night by the elliott's, ventured to expostulate. "first, you must promise not to be vexed," and then she showed the note. graeme looked grave. "now you must not be angry with me. rosie, tell her not to be vexed, because, you know you can write another refusal, if you are determined. but i am sure you will not be so cruel. i can't tell you any reason, except that i have set my heart on your being there, and you'll come to please me, will you not?" "to please you, ought to be sufficient reasons, i know," said graeme, smiling. and lilias knew she had prevailed with her friend. she saw the acceptance written, and carried it off to place it with dozens of others, in the hands of mrs roxbury. she did not say much to graeme about it, but to rosie, she triumphed. "i want aunt roxbury to see graeme looking her very best. graeme will look like a queen among us. aunt will see that allan and i have good reasons for our admiration. fancy any of these trumpery people patronising graeme! but you are not to tell her what i say. you don't think she was really vexed with me, do you? and she must wear her new peach-blossom silk. i am so glad." but poor little lilias went through deep waters, before the peach-blossom silk was worn by graeme. mr elphinstone was brought very near the gates of death, and anxious days and nights were passed by his daughter at his bedside. mrs roxbury would have recalled her invitations, and lilias' soul sickened at the thought of the entertainment; but when the immediate danger was over, events fell into their usual channel, and though she gave no more assistance, either by word or deed, her aunt counted on her presence on the occasion, and even her father insisted that it was right for her to go. "and so, my love," said mrs roxbury, "as your father and i see no impropriety in your coming, there can be none, and you will enjoy it, indeed you will. you are tired now." "impropriety! it is not that i don't wish to go. i cannot bear the thought of going." "nonsense! you are overtired, that is all. and mr ruthven will be here by that time, and i depend on you to bring him." but if allan's presence had depended on lilias, mrs roxbury would not have seen him in her splendid rooms that night. it was mr elphinstone that reminded her of the note that awaited the return of her cousin, and it was he who insisted that they should appear, for at least an hour or two, at the party. and they went together, a little constrained and uncomfortable, while they were alone, but to all appearance at their ease, and content with one another when they entered the room. graeme saw them the moment they came in, and she saw, too, many a significant glance exchanged, as they made their way together to mrs roxbury. lilias saw graeme almost as soon. she was standing near the folding-doors, seemingly much interested in what mr proudfute, her brother's friend, was saying to her. "there, aunt," said lilias, eagerly, when the greetings were over, "did i not tell you that my friend miss elliott would eclipse all here to-night? look at her now." "my dear," said her aunt, "she does better than that. she is very lovely and lady-like, and tries to eclipse no one, and so wins all hearts." lilias' eyes sparkled as she looked at her cousin, but he did not catch her look. "my dear," continued mrs roxbury, "i have news for you, but perhaps it is no news to you. ah! he has found her." mr elias green was at the moment, making his bow to graeme. "there was no truth in the rumour, about him and little miss grove. mr green has more sense. your friend is fortunate, lilias." lilias looked at her aunt in astonishment, but nothing more could be said, for there were more arrivals, and her attention was claimed. "aunt roxbury does not know what she is talking about," said she, to her cousin, as he led her away. "the idea of mr green's daring to lift his eyes to graeme elliott. she would not look at him." "mr green is a great man in his own circle, i can assure you," said mr ruthven. "miss elliott will be thought fortunate by people generally." "do you think so? you know very little about her, if you think that," said lilias, impatiently. "i know mr green better than most people do, and i respect him--and he is very rich--" "oh! don't talk folly," cried lilias. "i have no patience with people who think, because a man is rich--. but you don't know graeme, cousin allan--i thought--" they were very near graeme by this time. she turned at the moment, and greeted them frankly enough, as far as any one could see. she noticed the cloud on lilias' face, and asked her if she was quite well; she expressed pleasure at the return of mr ruthven too, but she did not meet his eye, though he told her he had seen her brother norman at a station by the way, and detained her to give her a message that he had sent. he had schooled himself well, if he was really as unmoved by the words of mrs roxbury and lilias, as to his cousin he appeared to be. but he was not a man who let his thoughts write themselves on his face, and she might easily be deceived. it was not a pleasant moment, it was a very bitter moment indeed, to him, when with a smile to them, graeme placed her hand on the willing arm of mr green, and walked away "like a queen," he said to himself, but to his cousin he said-- "my friend will be a very happy man, and _your_ friend may be happy too, let us hope." but lilias never answered a word. she followed them, with her eyes, till they disappeared through the door that led to the room beyond; and then she said only,-- "i have made a great mistake." had she made a mistake or had he? a mistake never to be undone, never outlived--a mistake for graeme, for himself, perhaps for lilias too. it was not a thought to be borne, and he put it from him sternly, saying it could not have been otherwise--nothing could be changed now; and he was very gentle and tender with his little cousin that night and afterwards, saying to himself that she, at least, should have no cause to grieve in the future, if his loving care for her could avail. about this time will was threatened with a serious illness. it did not prove so serious as they at first feared, but it was long and tedious, and gave his eldest sister an excuse for denying herself to many who called, and accounted for her pale looks to those whom she was obliged to see. in the silence of her brother's sick-room, graeme looked a great sorrow in the face. in other circumstances, with the necessity laid upon her to deceive others, she might for a time have deceived herself; for the knowledge that one's love has been given unsought, is too bitter to be accepted willingly. but the misery of those long silent nights made plain to her what the first sharp pang had failed to teach her. in the first agony of her self-scorn, she saw herself without excuse. she was hard and bitter to herself. she might have known, she thought, how it was with allan and his cousin. during all those years in which she had been a stranger to them both, they had loved each other; and now, with no thought of her, they loved each other still. it was natural that it should be so, and right. what was she, to think to come between them with her love? she was very bitter to herself and unjust in her first misery, but her feeling changed. her heart rebelled against her own verdict. she had not acted an unmaidenly part in the matter. she had never thought of harm coming to her, or to anyone, out of the pleasant intercourse of these months--the renewal of their old friendship. if she had sinned against lilias, it had been unconsciously. she had never thought of these things in those days. if she had only known him sooner, she thought, or not so soon, or not at all! how should she ever be able to see them again in the old unrestrained way? how should she be able to live a life changed and empty of all pleasure? then she grew bitter again, and called herself hard names for her folly, in thinking that a change in one thing must change all her life. would not the passing away of this vain dream leave her as rich in the love of brothers and sister, as ever? hitherto their love had sufficed for her happiness, and it should still suffice. the world need not be changed to her, because she had wished for one thing that she could not have. she could be freed from no duty, absolved from no obligation because of this pain; it was a part of her life, which she must accept and make the best of, as she did of all other things that came upon her. as she sat one night thinking over the past and the future, wearily enough, but without the power to withdraw her mind from what was sad in them, there suddenly came back to her one of janet's short, sharp speeches, spoken in answer to a declaration half vexed, half mirthful, made by her in the days when the mild mr foster had aspired to be more to her than a friend. "my dear," she had said, "bide till your time comes. you are but a woman like the lave, and you maun thole the brunt of what life may bring. love! ay will you, and that without leave asked or given. and if you get love for love, you'll thank god humbly for one of his best gifts; and if you do not well, he can bring you through without it, as he has done many a one before. but never think you can escape your fate, and make the best of it when it comes." "and so my fate has found me," murmured graeme to herself. "this is part of my life, and i must make the best of it. well, he can bring me through, as janet said." "graeme," said will suddenly, "what are you thinking about?" graeme started painfully. she had quite forgotten will. those bright, wakeful eyes of his had been on her many a time when she thought he was asleep. "what were you thinking about? you smiled first, then you sighed." "did i? well, i was not aware that i was either smiling or sighing. i was thinking about janet, and about something that she said to me once." she rose and arranged the pillows, stooping down to kiss her brother as she did so, and then she said sadly,-- "i am afraid you are not much better to-night, will." "yes; i think i am better. my head is clearer. i have been watching your face, graeme, and thinking how weary and ill you look." "i am tired, will, but not ill." graeme did not like the idea of her face having been watched, but she spoke cheerfully. "i have been a great trouble to you," said will. "yes, indeed! a dreadful trouble. i hope you are not going to try my patience much longer." "i don't know. i hope not, for your sake." and then in a little will added, "do you know, graeme, i am beginning to be glad of this illness after all." graeme laughed. "well, if you are glad of it, i will try and bear it patiently a little longer. i daresay we are taking the very best means to prolong it chattering at this unreasonable hour." "i am not sleepy," said will, "and i am not restless either. i think i am really better, and it will do me good to have a little talk; but you are tired." "i am tired, but i am not sleepy. besides, if you are really better, i can sleep for a week, if i like. so, if it be a pleasure to you, speak on." "what was it that janet said that made you sigh so drearily just now?" asked will. graeme would have liked the conversation to take any other turn rather than that, but she said, gently,-- "i think my smile must have been for what janet said. i am sure i laughed heartily enough when she said it to me so long ago. i suppose i sighed to think that what she said has come true." "what was it, graeme?" "oh! i can hardly tell you--something about the changes that come to us as we grow older, and how vain it is to think we can avoid our fate." "our fate?" repeated will. "oh, yes! i mean there are troubles--and pleasures, too, that we can't foresee--that take us at unawares, and we have just to make the best of them when they come." "i don't think i quite understand you, graeme." "no, i daresay not; and it is not absolutely necessary that you should,--in the connection. but i am sure a great many pleasant things that we did not expect, have happened to us since we came here." "and was it thinking of these pleasant things that made you sigh?" asked will. "no. i am afraid i was thinking of the other kind of surprises; and i daresay i had quite as much reason to smile as to sigh. we can't tell our trials at first sight, will, nor our blessings either. time changes their faces wonderfully to us as the years go on. at any rate, janet's advice is always appropriate; we must make the best of them when they come." "yes;" said will, doubtfully; he did not quite understand yet. "for instance, will, you were disconsolate enough when the doctor told you you must give up your books for an indefinite time, and now you are professing yourself quite content with headache and water-gruel--glad even at the illness that at first was so hard to bear." will made a face at the gruel she presented. "i dare say it is good for me, though i can't say i like it, or the headache. but, graeme, i did not get this check before i needed it. it is pleasant to be first, and i was beginning to like it. now this precious month taken from me, at the time i needed it most, will put me back. to be sure," added he, with a deprecating glance, "it is not much to be first among so few. but as janet used to say, pride is an ill weed and grows easily--flourishes even on a barren soil; and in the pleasure and excitement of study, it is not difficult to forget that it is only a means to an end." "yes," said graeme, "it is easy to forget what we ought to remember." but it came into will's mind that her sympathy did not come so readily as usual, that her thoughts were elsewhere, and he had a feeling that they were such as he was not to be permitted to share. in a little he said,-- "graeme; i should like very much to go home to scotland." graeme roused herself and answered cheerfully,-- "yes, i have never quite given up the hope of going home again; but we should find sad changes, i doubt." "but i mean i should like to go home soon. not for the sake of clayton and our friends there. i would like to go to fit myself better for the work i have to do in the world." "you mean, you would like to go home to study." "yes. one must have a far better opportunity there, and it is a grand thing to be `thoroughly furnished'." there was a pause, and then he added, "if i go, i ought to go soon--within a year or two, i mean." "oh, will, how could i ever let you go away?" "why, graeme! that is not at all like you; you could let me go if it were right. but i have not quite decided that it is not selfish in me to wish to go." "but why?" asked graeme. "partly because it would be so pleasant. don't you remember how janet used to say, we are not so likely to see all sides of what we desire very much. perhaps i desire it more for the pleasure it would give me, than for the benefit it might be to me. and then the expense. it would be too much to expect from arthur." "but there is the merleville money. it was meant for arthur's education, and as he did not need it, it is yours." "no, that belongs to you and rose. it would not be right to take that." "nonsense, will. what is ours is yours; if the expense were all! but i cannot bear to think of you going away, and harry, too, perhaps." "rose tells me that harry is more bent on going west than ever." "yes, within a few days he has become quite eager about it. i cannot understand why he should be so. oh, i cannot feel hopeful about it." "arthur thinks it may be a good thing for harry," said will. "yes, for some things i suppose so. but, oh! will, i could not let harry go as i could let you, sure that he would be kept safe till--" graeme laid her head down on her brother's pillow, and the tears she had been struggling with for so long a time burst forth. she had never spoken to will of her fears for harry, but he knew that they all had had cause for anxiety on his account, so instead of speaking he laid his arm over his sister's neck. she struggled with herself a moment, unable to speak. "graeme," said will, softly, "we cannot keep harry safe from evil, and he who can is able to keep him safe there as well as here." "i know it; i say it to myself twenty times a day. that is, i say it in words; but i do not seem to get the comfort i might from them." "but, graeme, harry has been very little away this winter, and i had thought--" "i know, dear, and i have been quite hopeful about him till lately. but, oh, will! it won't bear talking about. we can only wait patiently." "yes, graeme, we can pray and trust, and you are exaggerating to yourself harry's danger, i think. what has happened to make you so faint-hearted, dear?" "what should have happened, will? i am tired--for one thing--and something is wrong i know." she paused to struggle with her tears. "somehow, i don't feel so anxious about harry as you do, graeme. he will come back again. i am sure this great sorrow is not waiting you." he paused a moment, and then added, hesitatingly,-- "i have had many thoughts since i sat down here, graeme. i think one needs--it does one good, to make a pause to have time to look back and to look forward. things change to us; we get clearer and truer views of life, alone in the dark, with nothing to withdraw our thoughts from the right and the wrong of things, and we seem to see more clearly how true it is, that though we change god never changes. we get courage to look our troubles fairly in the face, when we are alone with god and them." still graeme said nothing, and will added,-- "graeme, you must take hope for harry. and there is nothing else, is there?--nothing that you are afraid to look at--nothing that you cannot bring to the one place for light and help?" she did not answer for a minute. "no, will, i hope not. i think not. i daresay--i am quite sure that all will be for the best, and i shall see at some time." not another word was said till graeme rose and drawing aside the curtains, let in on them the dim dawn of a bleak march morning. in a few more days will was down-stairs again. not in his accustomed corner among his books, but in the arm-chair in the warmest place by the fire, made much of by rose and them all. it seemed a long time since he had been among them. a good many things had happened during the month that graeme and he had passed together up-stairs. march, that had come in "like a lion" was hastening out "like a lamb;" the sky was clear and the air was mild; spring was not far-away. the snow lay still in sullied ridges in the narrow streets where the sun had little power, and the mud lay deep in the streets where the snow had nearly disappeared. but the pavements were dry and clean, and in spite of dirty crossings and mud bespattering carriages, they were thronged with gay promenaders, eager to welcome the spring. those who were weatherwise shook their heads, declaring that having april in march would ensure march weather when april came, or it might be even in may. so it might prove, but there was all the more need, because of this, that the most should be made of the sunshine and the mild air, and even their quiet sweet was quite gay with the merry goers to and fro, and it seemed to will and graeme that more than a month had passed since his illness began. harry had quite decided to go west now, and was as eager and impatient to be gone as if he had all his life been dreaming of no other future than that which awaited him there. that he should be so glad to go, pained his sister as much as the thought of his going. that was at first, for it did not take graeme long to discover that harry was not so gay as he strove to appear. but her misgivings as to his departure were none the less sad on that account, and it was with a heavy heart that she listened to his plans. perhaps it was in contrast to harry's rather ostentations mirth that his friend charlie millar seemed so very grave on the first night that will ventured to prolong his stay among them after the gas had been lighted. rose was grave, too, and not at ease, though she strove to hide it by joining in harry's mirth. charlie did not strive to hide his gravity, but sat silent and thoughtful after his first greetings were over. even harry's mirth failed at last, and he leaned back on the sofa, shading his face with his hands. "i am afraid your brother would think us very ungrateful if he could see how badly we are thanking him for his great kindness to harry." graeme forced herself to say it. allan's name had not been mentioned among them for days, and the silence, at first grateful, had come to seem strange and unnatural, and it made graeme's cheeks tingle to think what might be the cause. so, looking into charlie's face with a smile, she spoke to him about his brother. but charlie did not answer, or graeme did not hear, and in a little while she said again,-- "is mr ruthven still in town?" "oh! yes. it is not likely he will leave again soon." "and your uncle is really recovering from his last attack? what on anxious time miss elphinstone must have had!" "yes, he seems better, and, contrary to all expectation, seems likely to live for some time yet. but his mind is much affected. at least it seems so to me." "poor lilias!" said graeme, "is she still alone?" "oh, no. there is a houseful of them. her aunt mrs roxbury is there, and i don't know how many besides. i declare, i think those women enjoy it." graeme looked shocked. "charlie means the preparations for the wedding," said rose. "it is to take place soon, is it not?" "within the month, i believe," said charlie, gravely. "so soon!" said graeme; and in a little she added, "is it not sudden?" "no--yes, i suppose so. they have been engaged, or something like it for some time; but the haste is because of mr elphinstone. he thinks he cannot die happy till he sees his daughter safe under the care of her husband. just as if allan would not be her friend all the same. it seems to me like madness." "and lilias," said rose, almost in a whisper, "is she content?" "on the whole, i suppose so. but this haste and her father being so ill, and all these horrid preparations are too much for her. she looks ill, and anything but cheerful." "we have not seen your brother for a long time," said will. "i have scarcely seen him, either. he did not find matters much to his mind in c, i fear. harry will have to keep his eyes open among those people." "how soon will harry have to go?" asked rose. "the sooner the better, i suppose," said charlie, rising and walking about. "oh! dear me. this is a miserable overturning that has come upon us--and everything seemed to be going on so smoothly." "harry will not have to go before arthur comes back, i hope," said rose. "i don't know, indeed. when does he come?" "charlie, man," said harry, rising suddenly, "did i not hear you promising crofts to meet him to-night? it is eight o'clock." "no. i don't care if i never see crofts, or any of his set again. you had much better stay where you are harry." "charlie, don't be misanthropical. i promised if you didn't. come along. no? well, good-night to you all. will, it is time you were in bed, your eyes are like saucers. don't sit up for me, graeme." graeme had no heart to remonstrate. she felt it would do no good, and he went away leaving a very silent party behind him. charlie lingered. when graeme came down-stairs after seeing will in his room she found him still sitting opposite rose, silent and grave. he roused himself as she entered. graeme would gladly have excused him, but she took a seat and her work, and prepared to be entertained. it was not an easy matter, though charlie had the best will in the world to be entertaining, and graeme tried to respond. she did not think of it at the time, but afterwards, when charlie was gone, she remembered the sad wistful look with which the lad had regarded her. rose too, hung about her, saying nothing, but with eyes full of something to which graeme would not respond. one angry throb, stirred her heart, but her next thoughts were not in anger. "these foolish young people have been dreaming dreams about allan and me,--and i must undeceive them--or deceive them--" "graeme," said rose, softly, "if either of us wait for harry it must be me, for you are very tired." "yes, i am very tired." "charlie said, perhaps he would take harry home with him. should we wait?" said rose. "no. he may not come. we will not wait. i shall sleep near will. he cannot spare me yet. now go, love." she kissed the troubled face upturned to her, but would suffer no lingering over the good-night. she was in no haste to go herself, however. she did not mean to wait for harry, but when two hours had passed, she was still sitting where rose had left her, and then harry came. but oh! the misery of that home-coming. graeme must have fallen asleep, she thought, for she heard nothing till the door opened, and then she heard harry's voice, thick and interrupted, thanking someone, and then stupidly insisting on refusing all further help. "never mind, gentlemen--i can manage--thank you." there were two persons with him, charlie millar was one of them. "hush, harry. be quiet, man. are you mad? you will waken your sister." the light which someone held behind them, flushed for a moment on graeme's pale face. "oh! miss elliott," said charles, "i tried to keep him with me. he is mad, i think. be quiet, harry." harry quite incapable of walking straight, struggled to free himself and staggered toward his sister. "i knew you would sit up, graeme--though i told you not--and so i came home." "of course, you did right to come home. but hush, harry! you will waken will." "oh! yes! poor will!" he mumbled. "but graeme, what ails you, that you look at me with a face like that?" "miss elliott," entreated charlie, "leave him to us, you can do nothing with him to-night." she went up-stairs before them carrying the light, and held firmly the handle of will's door till they passed. she stood there in the darkness till they came out again and went down-stairs. poor harry lay muttering and mumbling, entreating graeme to come and see him before she went to bed. when she heard the door close she went down again, not into the parlour where a light still burned, but into the darkness of the room beyond. "oh harry! harry! harry!" she cried, as she sank on her knees and covered her face. it was a dark hour. her hope, her faith, her trust in god--all that had been her strength and song, from day to day was forgotten. the bitter waters of fear and grief passed over her, and she was well nigh overwhelmed. "oh papa! mamma! oh harry! oh! my little brothers." "miss elliott," said a voice that made her heart stand still, "graeme, you must let me help you now." she rose and turned toward him. "mr ruthven! i was not aware--" said she, moving toward the door through which light came from the parlour. "miss elliott, forgive me. i did not mean to intrude. i met your brother and mine by chance, and i came with them. you must not think that i--" "thank you, you are very kind." graeme was trembling greatly and sat down, but rose again immediately. "you are very kind," repeated she, scarcely knowing what she said. "graeme," said mr ruthven, "you must let me help you in this matter. tell me what you wish. must harry stay or go?" graeme sank down with a cry, wringing her hands. "oh! harry! harry!" mr ruthven made one step toward her. "miss elliott, i dare not say to you that you think too severely of harry's fault. but he is young, and i do not really fear for him. and you have more cause to be hopeful than i. think of your father, and your father's god. graeme, be sure harry will come back to you again." graeme sat still with her head bowed down. "graeme--miss elliott. tell me what you would have me do?" graeme rose. "you are very kind," she repeated. "i cannot think to-night. we must wait--till arthur comes home." he went up and down the room several times, and then came and stood by her side again. "graeme," said he, in a low voice, "let me hear you once say, that you believe me to be your true and faithful friend." "why should i not say it, allan. you are my true and faithful friend, as i am yours." her voice did not tremble, and for a moment she calmly met his eye. he turned and walked away, and when he came back again he held out his hand and said,-- "good-night." "good-night," said graeme. "and you will see about harry--what you wish for him?" "yes. good-bye." he raised the hand he held to his lips, and then said, "good-bye." chapter twenty six. the next few days were weary ones to all. will had reached that stage of convalescence in which it was not easy to resign himself to utter idleness, and yet he had not strength to be able to occupy himself long without fatigue; and in the effort to amuse and interest him, graeme's spirits flagged sadly. she looked so exhausted and ill one day when the doctor came in, that he declared that will must be left to the tender mercies of rose, while her sister went first for a walk in the keen morning air, and then to her room for the rest of the day. it is possible that solitude and her own thoughts did graeme less good than attendance on will would have done, but doctors cannot be supposed to know everything; and even had he known all there was to account for her hot hands and pale cheeks, it is doubtful whether his skill could have suggested anything more to the purpose than his random prescription was. at any rate, graeme was thankful for a few days' quiet, whether it was good for her or not; and in the mean time rose and will got on very well without her. and harry--poor, unhappy, repentant harry, trying under a mask of sullen indifference to hide the shame and misery he felt at the remembrance of that night--these were dreary days to him. graeme never spoke to him about that night. she had not the courage, even if she had felt hot that it would be better not to do so. the preparations for his departure went on slowly, though it was becoming doubtful, whether he should go west after all. he said little about it himself, but that little it was not pleasant for graeme to hear. much to the surprise of everyone, and to the extreme indignation of harry, mr ruthven had again left town, saying nothing of his destination or the length of his stay, only in very brief fashion, telling him to make no further arrangements for his departure until his return. "he does not trust me. he does not think me fit to take charge of his affairs," said harry to himself, with his vague remembrance of allan's share in the events of that miserable night, he could hardly wonder that it should be so, and in his shame and impatience he was twenty times on the point of breaking his connection with his employers, and going his own way. however, he forced himself to wait a little. "if i am sent west after all, well and good. if not i shall remain no longer. the change of arrangements will be sufficient excuse, at least i will make it so. i can't stay, and i won't. if he would but come back and put an end to it all." and harry was not the only one who was impatient under the unreasonable absence of mr ruthven. poor mr elphinstone, ill and irritable, suffered not an hour to pass without vexing himself and others, wondering at, and lamenting, his delay. lilias had much ado to keep him from saying angry and bitter things about his nephew, and exaggerated the few details she had gathered with regard to their recent losses, in order to account to him for allan's untimely devotion to business. poor girl, she looked sad and ill in these days, and grew irritable and unreasonable amid the preparations of mrs roxbury, in a way that shocked and alarmed that excellent and energetic lady. she considered it a very equivocal proof of lilias' love to her father, that she should be so averse to the carrying out of his express wishes. there had been nothing that is proper on such an occasion, and mrs roxbury seemed bent on fulfilling his wishes to the very letter. so, at last, lilias was fain for the sake of peace to grow patient and grateful, and stayed more and more closely in her father's room, and her aunt had her will in all things that concerned the wedding, that under such melancholy circumstances was drawing near. "graeme," said harry, one night, when they were sitting together after the rest had all gone up-stairs, "don't you think we have been uncomfortable long enough? don't you think you have given us enough of that miserable, hopeless face for one occasion? i think a change would be agreeable to all concerned. it would to me, at any rate." graeme was so startled at this speech, that for a little she could not say a word. then she said something about being tired and not very well--and about its being impossible always to help one's looks. "why don't you say at once that it is i who have made you so miserable that you have lost all faith in me--that i am going straight to ruin. that is what you mean to say--you know very well." "harry," said she, gently, "i did not mean to say anything unkind." harry left his seat, and threw himself on the sofa with a groan. "if you would only rate a fellow soundly, graeme! if you would only tell me at once, what a weak, pitiful wretch you think me! i could bear that; but your silence and that miserable face, i cannot bear." "i cannot say i think you weak or pitiful, harry. it would not be true. and i am afraid you would not like my rating better than my silence. i can only say, i have had less courage in thinking of your going away to fill an important and responsible situation, since that night." harry groaned. "oh! well; don't bother yourself about my going away, and my responsibilities. the chances are some one else will have to fill the important situation." "have you seen--has mr ruthven returned?" "mr ruthven has returned, and i have seen him, but i have not spoken with him. it was not his will and pleasure to say anything to-night about that which has been keeping me in such miserable suspense. he was engaged, forsooth, when a moment would have settled it. well, it does not matter. i shall take the decision into my own hands." "what do you mean, harry?" "i mean, i shall give up my situation if he does not send me west--if he hesitates a moment about sending me, i shall leave his employment." "but why, harry?" "because--because i am determined. ruthven does not think me fit to be entrusted with the management of his affairs, i suppose." "harry," said his sister, gravely, "is it surprising if he does not?" "well, if i am not to be trusted there, neither am i to be trusted here, and i leave. graeme, you don't know what you are talking about. it is quite absurd to suppose that what happened that night would make any difference to allan ruthven. you think him a saint, but trust me, he knows by experience how to make allowance for that sort of thing. if he has nothing worse than that against any one in his employment, he may think himself fortunate." "then, why do you say he does not trust you?" "i shall call it sufficient evidence that he does not, if he draws back in this. not that i care much. i would rather be in the employment of some one else. i shall not stay here." "harry," said graeme, coming quite close to the sofa on which he had thrown himself, "what has happened between you and allan ruthven." "happened! what should have happened? what an absurd question to ask, graeme." "harry, why are you so determined to leave him? it was not so a little while ago." "was it not? oh, well! i daresay not. but one wants a change. one gets tired of the same dull routine, always. now, graeme," added he, as she made an incredulous gesture, "don't begin to fancy any mystery. that would be too absurd, you know." graeme came and knelt close beside him. his face was turned away so that she could not see it. her own was very pale. "harry, speak to me. do you believe that allan ruthven is otherwise than an honourable and upright gentleman in business and--in other matters? tell me, harry." "oh, yes! as gentlemen go. no, graeme, that is not right. i believe him in all things to be upright and honourable. i think more highly of him than i did at first. it is not that." the colour came slowly back to graeme's face. it was evident that harry had no foolish thoughts of her and allan. in a little she said,-- "and you, harry--you have not--you are--" "i hope i am an honourable man, graeme," said harry, gravely. "there is nothing between mr ruthven and me. i mean, he does not wish me to leave him. but i must go, graeme. i cannot stay here." "harry, why? tell me." graeme laid her hand caressingly on his hair. "it is nothing that i can tell," said harry, huskily. "harry--even if i cannot help it, or remove it--it is better that i should know what is making you so unhappy. harry, is it--it is not lilias?" he did not answer her. "harry, harry! do not say that this great sorrow has fallen upon us, upon you, too." she drew back that he might not feel how she was trembling. in a little she said,-- "brother, speak to me. what shall i say to you, my poor harry?" but harry was not in a mood to be comforted. he rose and confronted her. "i think the most appropriate remark for the occasion would be that i am a fool, and deserve to suffer for my folly. you had better say that to me, graeme." but something in his sister's face stopped him. his lips trembled, and he said,-- "at any rate, it isn't worth your looking so miserable about." "hush, harry," whispered she, and he felt her tears dropping on his hands. "and lilias?" "graeme, i do not know. i never spoke to her, but i hoped--i believed till lately--." he laid his head down on his sister's shoulder. in a little he roused himself and said,-- "but it is all past now--all past; and it won't bear talking about, even with you, graeme, who are the dearest and best sister that ever unworthy brother had. it was only a dream, and it is past. but i cannot stay here--at least it would be very much better--" graeme sighed. "yes, i can understand how it should seem impossible to you, and yet-- but you are right. it won't bear talking about. i have nothing to say to comfort you, dear, except to wait, and the pain may grow less." no, there was nothing that graeme could say, even if harry would have listened to her. her own heart was too heavy to allow her to think of comfort for him; and so they sat in silence. it seemed to graeme that she had never been quite miserable until now. yesterday she had thought herself wretched, and now her burden of care for harry was pressing with tenfold weight. why had this new misery come upon her? she had been unhappy about him before, and now it was worse with him than all her fears. in her misery she forgot many things that might have comforted her with regard to her brother. she judged him by herself, forgetting the difference between the woman and the man--between the mature woman, who having loved vainly, could never hope to dream the sweet dream again, and the youth, hardly yet a man, sitting in the gloom of a first sorrow, with, it might well be, a long bright future stretching before him. sharp as the pain at her own heart was, she knew she should not die of it. she took no such consolation to herself as that. she knew she must live the old common life, hiding first the fresh wound and then the scar, only hoping that as the years went on the pain might grow less. she accepted the lot. she thought if the darkness of her life never cast a shadow on the lives of those she loved, she would strive, with god's help, to be contented. but harry--poor harry! hitherto so careless and light-hearted, how was he to bear the sorrow that had fallen upon him? perhaps it was as well that in her love and pity for her brother, graeme failed to see how different it might be with him. harry would hardly have borne to be told even by her that his sorrow would pass away. the commonplaces supposed to be appropriate about time and change and patience, would have been unwelcome and irritating, even from his sister's lips, and it was all the better that graeme should sit there, thinking her own dreary thoughts in silence. after the momentary pain and shame which the betrayal of his secret had caused him, there was a certain consolation in the knowledge that he had his sister's sympathy, and i am afraid, if the truth must be told, that graeme that night suffered more for harry than harry suffered for himself. if she looked back with bitter regret on the vanished dream of the last six months, it was that night at least less for her own sake than for his. if from the future that lay before them she shrank appalled, it was not because the dreariness that must henceforth be on her life, but because of something worse than dreariness that might be on the life of her brother, unsettled, almost reckless, as he seemed to be to-night. she could not but see the danger that awaited him, should he persist in leaving home, to cast himself among strangers. how gladly would she have borne his trouble for him. she felt that going away now, he would have no shield against the temptation that had of late proved too strong for him; and yet would it be really better for him, could she prevail upon him to stay at home? remembering her own impulse to be away--anywhere--to escape from the past and its associations, she could not wonder at his wish to go. that the bitterness of the pain would pass away, she hoped and believed, but would he wait with patience the coming of content. alas! her fears were stronger than her hopes. best give him into god's keeping and let him go, she thought. "but he must not leave mr ruthven. that will make him no better, but worse. he must not go from us, not knowing whither. oh, i wish i knew what to do!" the next day the decision was made. it would not be true to say that harry was quite calm and at his ease that morning, when he obeyed a summons into mr ruthven's private room. there was more need for charlie's "keep cool, old fellow," than charlie knew, for harry had that morning told graeme that before he saw her face again he would know whether he was to go or stay. in spite of himself he felt a little soft-hearted, as he thought of what might be the result of his interview, and he was glad that it was not his friend allan, but mr ruthven the merchant, brief and business-like in all he said, whom he found awaiting him. he was busy with some one else when harry entered, talking coolly and rapidly on business matters, and neither voice nor manner changed as he turned to him. there was a good deal said about matters that harry thought might very well have been kept till another time; there were notes compared and letters read and books examined. there were some allusions to past transactions, inquiries and directions, all in the fewest possible words, and in the quietest manner. harry, replied, assented and suggested, making all the time the strongest effort to appear as there was nothing, and could be nothing, beyond these dull details to interest him. there came a pause at last. mr ruthven did not say in words that he need not wait any longer, but his manner, as he looked up, and turned over a number of letters that had just been brought in, said it plainly. indeed, he turned quite away from him, and seemed absorbed in his occupation. harry waited till the lad that brought in the letters had mended the fire, and fidgeted about the room, and gone out again; then he said, in a voice that ought to have been quiet and firm, for he took a great deal of pains to make it so,-- "mr ruthven, may i trespass a moment on your valuable time _now_?" mr ruthven immediately laid his letters on the table, and turned round. harry thought, like a man who found it necessary to address himself, once for all, to the performance of an unpleasant duty. certainly, he had time to attend to anything of importance that mr elliott might have to say. "it is a matter of great importance to _me_, and i have been led to suppose that it is of some consequence to you. the western agency--" "you are right. it is of great consequence to the firm. there is, perhaps, no immediate necessity for deciding--" "i beg your pardon, sir, there is absolute necessity for my knowing at once, whether it is your pleasure that i should be employed in it." "will a single day make much difference to you?" said mr ruthven, looking gravely at the young man, who was certainly not so calm as he meant to be. "excuse me, sir, many days have passed since. but, mr ruthven, it is better i should spare you the pain of saying that you no longer consider me fit for the situation. allow me, then, to inform you that i wish-- that i no longer wish to remain in your employment." "harry," said mr ruthven, gravely, "does your brother--does your sister know of your desire to leave me? would they approve, if you were sent west?" "pardon me, mr ruthven, that question need not be discussed. i must be the best judge of the matter. as for them, they were at least reconciled to my going when you--drew back." mr ruthven was evidently uncomfortable. he took up his bundle of letters again, murmuring something about their not wishing it now. "i understand you, sir," said harry, with a very pale face. "allow me to say that as soon as you can supply my place--or at once, if you like--i must go." but mr ruthven was not listening to him. he had turned over his letters till a little note among them attracted his attention. he broke the seal, and read it while harry was speaking. it was very brief, only three words and one initial letter. "let harry go. g." he read it, and folded it, and laid it down with a sigh. then he turned to harry, just as he was laying his hand on the door. "what is it, harry? i did not hear what you were saying." "i merely said, sir," said harry, turning round and facing him, "that as soon as you can supply my place in the office, i shall consider myself at liberty to go." "but why should you wish to go?" "there are several reasons. one is, i shall never stay anywhere on sufferance. if i am not to be trusted at a distance, i shall certainly not stay to give my employers the trouble of keeping an eye upon me." his own eye flashed as he spoke. "but, harry, man, that is nonsense, you know." it was not his master, but his friend, that spoke, and harry was a little thrown off his guard by the change in his tone. "i do not think it is nonsense," said he. "harry, i have not been thinking of myself in all this, nor of the interests of the firm. let me say, once for all, that i should consider them perfectly safe in your hands, in all respects. harry, the world would look darker to me the day i could not trust your father's son." harry made no answer. "it is of you i have been thinking, in the hesitation that has seemed so unreasonable to you. harry, when i think of the home you have here, and of the wretched changed life that awaits you there, it seems selfish-- wrong to wish to send you away." harry made a gesture of dissent, and muttered something about the impossibility of staying always at home. "i know it, my lad, but the longer you can stay at home--such a home as yours--the better. when i think of my own life there, the first miserable years, and all the evil i have seen since--. well, there is no use in going over all that. but, harry, it would break your sister's heart, were you to change into a hard, selfish, worldly man, like the rest of us." there was nothing harry could say to this. "so many fail in the struggle--so many are changed or ruined. and, dear lad, you have one temptation that never was a temptation to me. don't be angry, harry," for harry started and grew red. "even if that is not to be feared for you, there is enough besides to make you hesitate. i have known and proved the world. what we call success in life, is not worth one approving smile from your sister's lips. and if you should fall, and be trodden down, how should i ever answer to her?" he walked up and down the room two or three times. "don't go, harry." for harry had risen as though he thought the interview was at on end. "you said, just now, that you must decide for yourself, and you shall do so. but, consider well, and consult your brother and sister. as for the interests of the firm, i have no fear." "i may consider it settled then," said harry, huskily. "arthur was always of opinion that i should go, and graeme is willing now. and the sooner the better, i suppose?" "the sooner the better for us. but there is time enough. do not be hasty in deciding." "i have decided already, i thank you, sir--" he hesitated, hardly knowing what to say more. "i hope it will prove that you will have good reason to thank me. remember, harry, whatever comes out of this, you left us with my full and entire confidence. i do not believe i shall have cause to regret it, or that you will fail me or disappoint me." harry grasped the hand held out to him without a word, but inwardly he vowed, that come what might, the confidence so generously expressed should never, for good cause, be withdrawn. and so the decision was made. after this the preparations did not occupy a long time. the second day found harry ready for departure. "graeme," said harry, "i cannot be content to take away with me such a melancholy remembrance of your face. i shall begin to think you are not willing that i should go after all." "you need not think so, harry. i am sure it is best since you are determined. but i cannot but look melancholy at the necessity. you would not have me look joyful, when i am going to lose my brother?" "no--if that were all. but you have often said how impossible it was that we should always keep together. it is only what we have been expecting, and we might have parted in much more trying circumstances. i shall be home often--once a year at the least; perhaps oftener." "yes, dear, i know." "well, then, i think there is no cause for grief in my going, even if i were worthy of it, which i very much doubt." graeme's face did not brighten. in a little while her tears were falling fast. "graeme, what is it? there is some other reason for your tears, besides my going away. you do not trust me, graeme, you are afraid." graeme made an effort to quiet herself. "yes, harry, i am a little afraid, since you give me the opportunity to say so. you have hardly been our own harry for a while, as you know, dear. and what will you be when you are far from us all? i am afraid to let you go from me, harry, far more afraid than i should be for will." harry rose and walked about a while, with an air that seemed to be indignant; but if he was angry, he thought better of it, and in a little he came and sat down beside his sister again. "i wish i could make you quite satisfied about me, graeme." "i wish you could, dear. i will try to be so. i daresay you think me unreasonable, harry. i know i am tired, and foolish, and all wrong," said she, trying in vain to keep back her tears. "you look at this moment as though you had very little hope in anything," said harry, with a touch of bitterness. "do i? well, i am all wrong, i know. there ought to be hope and comfort too, if i sought them right. i will try to leave you in god's keeping, harry, the keeping of our father's and our mother's god." harry threw himself on his knees beside her. "graeme, you are making yourself unhappy without cause. if you only knew! such things are thought nothing of. if i disgraced myself the other night, there are few young men of our acquaintance who are not disgraced." graeme put her hand upon his lips. "but, graeme, it is true. i must speak, i can't bear to have you fretting, when there is no cause. even allan ruthven thought nothing of it, at least, he--" "hush, harry, you do not need mr ruthven to be a conscience to you. and it is not of the past i am thinking, but the future! how can i bear to think of you going the way so many have gone, knowing the danger all the greater because you feel yourself so safe. i am afraid for you, harry." it was useless to speak, she knew that quite well. the words of another can never make danger real, to those who are assailed with poor harry's temptation. so she shut her lips close, as he rose from her side, and sat in silence; while he walked up and down the room. by and by he came back to her side, again. "graeme," said he, gravely. "indeed, you may trust me. the shame of that night shall never be renewed. you shall never have the same cause to be sorry for me, or ashamed of me again." she put her arms round his neck, and laid her head down on his shoulder, but she did not speak. it was not that she was altogether hopeless about her brother, but harry understood it so. "graeme, what shall i say to you? how shall i give you courage--faith to trust me? graeme, i promise, that till i see you again i shall not taste nor touch that which so degraded me in your eyes. i solemnly promise before god, graeme." "harry," said his sister, "it is a vow--an oath, that you have taken." "yes, and it shall be kept as such. do you trust me, graeme? give me that comfort before i go away." "i trust you, harry," was all she had voice to say. she clasped him and kissed him, and by and by she prayed god to bless him, in words such as his mother might have used. and harry vowed, with god's help, to be true to himself and her. he did not speak the words again, but none the less was the vow registered in heaven. that was the real farewell between the brother and sister. next morning there was little said by any one, and not a word by graeme, but the last glimpse harry had of home, showed his eldest sister's face smiling and hopeful, saying as plainly as her words had said before,-- "harry, i trust you quite." chapter twenty seven. the brilliant sunlight of a september morning was shining full into the little breakfast-room, where graeme sat at the head of the table, awaiting the coming of the rest. the morning paper was near her, but she was not reading; her hands were clasped and rested on the table, and she was looking straight before her, seeing, probably, further than the pale green wall, on which the sunshine fell so pleasantly. she was grave and quiet, but not in the least sad. indeed, more than once, as the voices of rose and arthur came sounding down-stairs, a smile of unmistakable cheerfulness overspread her face. presently, arthur entered, and graeme made a movement among her cups and saucers. "your trip has done you good, graeme," said arthur, as he sat down opposite to her. "yes, indeed. there is nothing like the sea-breezes, to freshen one. i hardly know myself for the tired, exhausted creature you sent away in june." graeme, rose, and will, had passed the summer at cacouna. nelly had gone with them as housekeeper, and arthur had shut the house, and taken lodgings a little out of town for the summer. "i am only afraid," added graeme, "that all our pleasure has been at the expense of some discomfort to you." "by no means, a change is agreeable. i have enjoyed the summer very much. i am glad to get home again, however." "yes, a change does one good. if i was only quite at ease about one thing, we might have gone to merleville, instead of cacouna, and that would have given janet and a good many others pleasure." "oh! i don't know," said arthur. "the good people there must have forgotten us by this time, i fancy. there are no sea-breezes there, and they were what you needed." "arthur! janet forgotten us! never, i am quite sure of that. but at the time it seemed impossible to go, to make the effort, i mean. i quite shrunk from the thought of merleville. indeed, if you had not been firm, i fear i should not have had the sea-breezes." "yes. you owe me thanks. you needed the change. what with will's illness, and harry's going away, and one thing and another; you were quite in need of a change." "i was not well, certainly," said graeme. "will has gone to the post, i suppose?" "yes," said rose, who entered at the moment. "i see him coming up the street." "as for rosie," said arthur, looking at her gravely, as she sat down. "she has utterly ruined her complexion. such freckles! such sunburning! and how stout she has grown!" rose laughed. "yes, i know i'm a fright. you must bring me something, arthur. toilette vinegar, or something." "oh! it would not signify. you are quite beyond all that." "here comes will, with a letter for each of us, i declare." arthur's letter was soon despatched, a mere business missive. graeme's was laid down beside her, while she poured will's coffee. rose read hers at once, and before she was well down the first page, she uttered a cry of delight. "listen all. no, i won't read it just yet. arthur, don't you remember a conversation that you and i had together, soon after sandy was here?" "conversation," repeated arthur. "we have talked, that is, you have talked, and i have listened, but as to conversation:--" "but arthur, don't you remember saying something about emily, and i did not agree with you?" "i have said a great many times, that i thought emily a very pretty little creature. if you don't agree, it shows bad taste." "i quite agree. i think her beautiful. she is not very little, however. she is nearly as tall as i am." "what is it, rose?" asked graeme, stretching out her hand for the letter. "you'll spoil your news, with your long preface," said will. "no, but i want arthur to confess that i am wisest." "oh! i can do that, of course, as regards matters in general; but i should like to hear of this particular case." "well, don't you remember saying that you did not think sandy and emily would ever fall in love?" "i remember no such assertion, on my part. on the contrary, i remember feeling pretty certain that the mischief was done already, as far as sandy was concerned, poor fellow; and i remember saying, much to your indignation, more's the pity." "yes; and i remember you said it would be just like a sentimental little blue, like emily, to slight the handsome, hearty young farmer, and marry some pale-faced yankee professor." "you put the case a little strongly, perhaps," said arthur, laughing. "but, on the whole, that is the way the matter stood. that was my opinion, i confess." "and they are going to be married!" exclaimed graeme and will in a breath. "how glad janet will be!" "emily does not say so, in so many words. it won't be for a long time yet, they are so young. but i am to be bridesmaid when the time comes." "well, if that is not saying it!" said will laughing. "what would you have, rosie?" graeme opened and read her letter, and laid it down beside her, looking a little pale and anxious. "what is it, graeme? nothing wrong, i hope." "no; i hope not. i don't know, i am sure. norman says he is going to be married." "married!" cried rose and will. "to hilda?" said arthur. "yes; but how could you have guessed?" said graeme, bewildered. "i did not guess. i saw it. why it was quite easy to be seen that events have been tending toward it all these years. it is all very fine, this brother and sister intercourse; but i have been quite sure about them since harry wrote about them." "well, norman seems surprised, if you are not. he says, `you will be very much astonished at all this; but you cannot be more astonished than i was myself. i did not think of such a thing; at least, i did not know that i was thinking of such a thing till young conway, my friend, asked permission to address my sister. i was very indignant, though, at first, i did not, in the least, know why. however, hilda helped me to find out all about it. at first i meant she should spend the winter with you all i want very much that you should know each other. but, on the whole, i think i can't spare her quite so long. expect to see us therefore in november--one flesh!'" there was much more. "well done, norman!" cried arthur. "but, graeme, i don't see what there is to look grave about. she seems to be a nice little thing, and norman ought to know his own mind by this time." "she's a great deal more than a nice little thing," said graeme earnestly. "if one can judge by her letters and by harry's description of her--to say nothing of norman's opinion--she must be a very superior person, and good and amiable besides. but it seems so strange, so sudden. why, it seems only the other day since norman was such a mere boy. i wish she could have passed the winter with us. i think, perhaps, i should write and say so." "yes, if you like. but norman must judge. i think it is the wisest thing for him. he will have a settled home." "i do believe it is," said graeme, earnestly. "i am very glad--or i shall be in a little. but, just at first, it seems a little as though norman would not be quite so much one of us--you know--and besides there really is something odd in the idea of norman's being married; now, is there not?" "i confess i fail to see it," said arthur, a little sharply. graeme had hardly time to notice his tone. an exclamation from will startled her. "what is it, will?" said rose: "another wedding?" "you'll never guess, rosie. never. you need not try." "is it harry this time?" said arthur, looking in from the hall with his hat on. "no. listen, arthur! harry says, `what is this that mr green has been telling me about arthur and little miss grove? i was greatly amused at the idea _their_ mutual admiration. mr green assures me that he has the best authority for saying that arthur is to carry off the heiress. charlie, too, has hinted something of the same kind. tell graeme, when that happens, i shall expect her to come and keep my house.'" "they said mr green was going to carry off the heiress himself!" exclaimed rose. "listen!" continued will. "`unless, indeed, graeme should make up her mind to smile on mr green and take possession of the "palatial residence," of which he has just laid the foundation near c---.'" "here is a bit for you, graeme. nobody is to be left out, it seems. it will be your turn next, rosie," said arthur, as he went away laughing. "but that is all nonsense about arthur and little miss grove?" said rose, half questioningly. "i should think so, indeed! fancy arthur coming to that fate," said graeme. "that would be too absurd." and yet the thought came uncalled several times that day, and her repetitions of "too absurd," became very energetic in her attempts to drive it quite away. the thought was unpleasantly recalled to her when, a day or two after, she saw her brother, standing beside the grove carriage, apparently so interested in his conversation with the pretty fanny that she and rose passed quite close to them unobserved. it was recalled more unpleasantly still, by the obliging care of mrs gridley, who was one of their first visitors after their return. the grove carriage passed as she sat with them, and, nodding significantly toward it, she said: "i don't know whether i ought to congratulate you or sympathise with you." graeme laughed, but she was very much afraid she changed colour, too, as she answered: "there is no haste. when you make up your mind as to which will be most appropriate, you will be in time." "ah! you are not to commit yourself, i see. well, you are quite right. she is a harmless little person, i believe, and may turn out very well if withdrawn from the influence of her stepmother." something in graeme's manner stopped the voluble lady more effectually than words could have done, and a rather abrupt turn was given to the conversation. but graeme could not forget it. not that she believed in the truth of what mrs gridley had hinted at, yet she could not help being annoyed at it. it was rather foolish, she thought, for arthur to give occasion for such gossip. it was so unlike him, too. and yet so little was enough to raise a rumour like that, especially with so kind a friend as mrs gridley to keep the ball rolling. very likely arthur knew nothing at all about this rumour, and, as the thought passed through her mind, graeme determined to tell him about it. but she did not; she could not do so--though why she could not was a mystery to herself. sometimes she fancied there was that in arthur's manner which prevented her from pursuing the subject, when an opportunity seemed to offer. when he was not there, she was quite sure it was only her own fancy, but no sooner was the name of grove mentioned; than the fancy returned, till the very sight of the grove carriage made her uncomfortable at last, especially if the lady of the mansion was in it. she never failed to lean forward and bow to them with the greatest interest and politeness; and more than once graeme was left standing looking in at a shop-window, while arthur obeyed the beckoning hand of the lady, and went to speak to her. sometimes the pretty fanny was there; sometimes she was not. but her absence did not set graeme's uncomfortable feelings at rest with regard to her brother. and yet, why should she be uncomfortable? she asked herself, a thousand times. what right had she to interfere, even in thought, with her brother's friendship? if he admired miss grove, if even he were attached to her, or engaged to her, it was nothing with which she could interfere--nothing to which she could even allude--until he should speak first. but then, of course, that was quite absurd! miss grove, though very pretty, and the daughter of a man who was reported to be rich, was no more worthy to be arthur's wife--than-- oh! of course it was all nonsense. no one had ever heard three words of common sense from those pretty lips. she had heard arthur say as much as that himself. miss grove could dance and flirt and sing a little; that was all that could be said for her, and to suppose that arthur would ever-- and yet graeme grew a little indignant standing there looking at, but scarcely seeing the beautiful things in savage's window, and she inwardly resolved that never again should she wait for the convenience of the free-and-easy occupant of the carriage standing a few doors down the street. she had time to go over the same thoughts a good many times, and the conclusion always was that it was exceedingly impertinent of mrs grove, and exceedingly foolish of arthur, and exceedingly disagreeable to herself, before she was recalled by her brother's voice from her enforced contemplation of the beautiful things before her. "mrs grove wanted to speak to you, graeme," said he, with a little embarrassment. "i could hardly be expected to know that by intuition," said graeme, coldly. "she beckoned. did you not see?" "she beckoned to you; she would hardly venture on such a liberty with me. there is not the slightest approach to intimacy between us, and never will be, unless i have greatly mistaken her character." "oh, well, you may very easily have done that, you know very little about her. she thinks very highly of you, i can assure you." "stuff!" pronounced graeme, with such emphasis that she startled herself, and provoked a hearty laugh from her brother. "i declare, graeme, i thought for the moment it was harry that spoke for mrs gridley in one of her least tolerant moods. it did not sound the least like you." graeme laughed, too. "well, i was thinking of harry at the minute, and as for mrs gridley--i didn't mean to be cross, arthur, but something disagreeable that she once said to me did come into my mind at the moment, i must confess." "well, i wish you a more pleasant subject for meditation on your way home," said arthur. "wait till i see if there are any letters. none, i believe. good-bye." mrs gridley did not occupy graeme's thoughts on her way home, yet they were not very pleasant. all the way along the sunny streets she was repeating to herself, "so absurd", "so foolish", "so impertinent of mrs grove", "so disagreeable to be made the subject of gossip," and so on, over and over again, till the sight of the obnoxious carriage gave her a fresh start again. the lady did not beckon this time, she only bowed and smiled most sweetly. but her smiles did not soothe graeme's ruffled temper, and she reached home at last quite ashamed of her folly. for, after all, it was far less disagreeable to call herself silly than to call arthur foolish, and mrs grove impertinent, and she would not think about it any more. so she said, and so she repeated, still thinking about it more than was either pleasant or needful. one night, charlie millar paid them a visit. he made no secret of his delight at their return home, declaring that he had not known what to do with himself in their absence, and that he had not been quite content or at his ease since he sat in graeme's arm-chair three months ago. "one would not think so from the visits you have made us since we came home," said graeme, smiling. "you have only looked in upon us. we were thinking you had forsaken us, or that you had found a more comfortable arm-chair, at a pleasanter fireside." "business, business," repeated charlie, gravely. "i assure you that harry out there, and i here, have had all that we have been able to attend to during the last three months. it is only to the unexpected delay of the steamer that i owe the leisure of this evening." "you expect us to believe all that, i suppose," said graeme, laughing. "indeed, you may believe me, miss elliott. it is quite true. i can't understand how it is that my wise brother can stay away so long just now. if he does not know how much he is needed it is not for want of telling, i assure you." "you hear often from him, i suppose?" "yes. i had a note from lilias the other day, in a letter i got from my mother. she sent `kind regards' to the misses elliott, which i take the present opportunity of delivering." "business having hitherto prevented," said rose. "you don't seem to have faith in my business engagements, miss rose; but i assure you that harry and i deserve great credit for having carried on the business so successfully for the last three months." "where is mr gilchrist?" asked arthur. "oh, he's here, there, and everywhere. but mr gilchrist is an `old fogey,' and he has not helped but hindered matters, now and then. it is not easy getting on with those slow-going, obstinate old gentlemen; i can't understand how allan used to manage him so well. however, he had unbounded confidence in allan's powers, and let him do as he pleased." "and the obstinate old gentleman has not unbounded confidence in the powers of you and harry?" said arthur, laughing. "upon the whole i think, in the absence of your brother, it is as well, that you two lads should have some check upon you, now and then." "not at all, i assure you," said charlie. "as for harry--miss elliott, i wish i could tell you half the kind things i hear about harry from our correspondents out there." graeme smiled brightly. she was permitting herself to rely entirely upon harry now. "but, charlie," said will from his corner, "what is this nonsense you have been telling harry about arthur and the beautiful miss grove?" charlie started and coloured, and so did graeme, and both glanced hastily at arthur, who neither started nor coloured, as graeme was very glad to perceive. "nonsense!" said charlie, with a great show of astonishment and indignation. "i don't understand you, will." "will," said rose, laughing, "you are mistaken. it was mr green who had been hinting to harry something you remember; you read it to us the other morning." "yes, but harry said that charlie had been saying something of the same kind," persisted simple will, who never dreamed of making any one feel uncomfortable. "hinting!" repeated charlie. "i never hint. i leave that to mrs gridley and her set. i think i must have told harry that i had seen arthur in the grove carriage one morning, and another day standing beside it talking to miss fanny, while her mamma was in ordering nice things at alexander's." graeme laughed, she could not help it. "oh, that terrible carriage!" said rose. "a very comfortable and convenient carriage i found it, many a time, when i was staying at mrs smith's," said arthur, coolly. "mrs grove was so polite as to invite me to take a seat in it more than once, and much obliged i was to her, some of those warm august mornings." "so you see, will," said charlie, triumphantly, "i was telling harry the simple truth, and he was mean to accuse me of hinting `nonsense,' as you call it." "i suppose that is what mrs gridley meant the other day when she nodded so significantly toward the grove carriage, and asked whether she was to congratulate us." rose spoke with a little hesitation. she was not sure that her brother would be quite pleased by mrs gridley's congratulations, and he was not. "oh! if we are to have mrs gridley's kind concern and interest in our affairs, we shall advance rapidly," said he, a little crossly. "it would of course be very desirable to discuss our affairs with that prudent and charitable lady." "but as i did not suppose there was on that occasion any matters to discuss there was no discussion," said graeme, by no means unwilling that her brother should see that she was not pleased by his manner and tone to rose. "oh! never mind, graeme," said rose, laughing, "we shall have another chance of being congratulated, and i only hope arthur may be here himself. mrs gridley was passing when the grove carriage stood at our door this morning. i saw her while i was coming up the street. she will be here in a day or two to offer again her congratulations or her sympathy." "was mrs grove here this morning?" enquired arthur. "she must have given you her own message then, i suppose." "she was at the door, but she did not get in. i was out, and graeme was busy, and sent her word that she was engaged." "yes," said graeme, "i was helping nelly, and i was in my old blue wrapper." "now, graeme," said will, "that is not the least like you. what about a wrapper?" "nothing, of course. but a call at that hour is not at all times convenient, unless from once intimate friends, and we are not intimate." "but perhaps she designs to honour you with her intimate friendship," said charlie. graeme laughed. "i am very much obliged to her. but i think we could each make a happier choice of friends." "she is a very clever woman, though, let me tell you," said arthur; "and she can make herself very agreeable, too, when she chooses." "well, i cannot imagine ever being charmed by her," said graeme, hastily. "there is something--a feeling that she is not sincere--that would spoil all her attempts at being agreeable, as far as i am concerned." "smooth and false," said charlie. "no, charlie. you are much too severe," said arthur. "graeme's idea of insincerity is better, though very severe for her. and, after all, i don't think that she is consciously insincere. i can scarcely tell what it is that makes the dear lady other than admirable. i think it must be her taste for management, as miss fanny calls it. she does not seem to be able to go straight to any point, but plans and arranges, and thinks herself very clever when she succeeds in making people do as she wishes, when in nine cases out of ten, she would have succeeded quite as well by simply expressing her desires. after all, her manoeuvring is very transparent, and therefore very harmless." "transparent! harmless!" repeated charlie. "you must excuse me if i say i think you do the lady's talents great injustice. not that i have any personal knowledge of the matter, however: and if i were to repeat the current reports, miss elliott would call them gossip and repudiate them, and me too, perhaps. she has the reputation of having the `wisdom of the serpent;' the slyness of the cat, i think." they all laughed, for charlie had warmed as he went on. "i am sure it must be very uncomfortable to have anything to do with such a person," said rose. "i should feel as though i must be always on the watch for something unexpected." "to be always on the watch for something unexpected, would be rather uncomfortable--`for a continuance,' as janet would say. but i don't see the necessity of that with mrs grove. i think it must be rather agreeable to have everything arranged for one, with no trouble. you should hear miss fanny, when in some difficult conjunction of circumstances--she resigns herself to superior guidance. `mamma will manage it.' certainly she does manage some difficult matters." there was the faintest echo of mimicry in arthur's tone, as he repeated miss fanny's words, which graeme was quite ashamed of being glad to hear. "it was very stupid of me, to be sure! such folly to suppose that arthur would fall into that shallow woman's snares. no; arthur's wife must be a very different woman from pretty little fanny grove. i wish i knew anyone good enough and lovely enough for him. but there is no haste about it. ah, me! changes will come soon enough, we need not seek to hasten them. and yet, we need not fear them whatever they may be. i am very sure of that. but i am very glad that there is no harm done." and yet, the harm that graeme so much dreaded, was done before three months were over. before that time she had it from arthur's own lips, that he had engaged himself to fanny grove; one who, to his sisters, seemed altogether unworthy of him. she never quite knew how to receive his announcement, but she was conscious at the time of feeling thankful; and she was ever afterwards thankful, that she had not heard it a day sooner, to mar the pleasure of the last few hours of norman's stay. for norman came with his bride even sooner than they had expected. graeme was not disappointed in her new sister, and that is saying much, for her expectations had been highly raised. she had expected to find her an intellectual and self-reliant woman, but she had not expected to see so charming and lovable a little lady. they all loved her dearly from the very first; and graeme satisfied norman by her unfeigned delight in her new sister, who was frank, and natural and childlike, and yet so amiable and wise as well. and graeme rejoiced over norman even more than over hilda. he was just what she had always hoped he might become. contact with the world had not spoiled him. he was the same norman; perhaps a little graver than he used to be in the old times, but in all things true, and frank, and earnest, as the merleville school-boy had been. how they lived over those old times! there was sadness in the pleasure, for norman had never seen the two graves in that quiet church-yard; and the names of the dead were spoken softly. but the bitterness of their grief had long been past, and they could speak cheerfully and hopefully now. there was a great deal of enjoyment crowded into the few weeks of their stay. "if harry were only here!" was said many times. but harry was well, and well content to be where he was, and his coming home was a pleasure which lay not very far before them. their visit came to an end too soon for them all; but norman was a busy man, and they were to go home by merleville, for norman declared he should not feel quite assured of the excellence of his wife till janet had pronounced upon her. graeme was strongly tempted to yield to their persuasions, and go to merleville with them; but her long absence during the summer, and the hope that they might go to emily's wedding soon, decided her to remain at home. yes; they had enjoyed a few weeks of great happiness; and the very day of their departure brought upon graeme the pain which she had almost ceased to fear. arthur told her of his engagement to miss grove. his story was very short, and it was told with more shamefacedness than was at all natural for a triumphant lover. it did not matter much, however, as there was no one to take note of the circumstances. from the first shock of astonishment and pain which his announcement gave her, graeme roused herself to hear her brother say eagerly, even a little impatiently-- "of course, this will make no difference with us at home? you will never _think_ of going away because of this, rose and you?" by a great effort graeme forced herself to speak-- "of course not, arthur. what difference could it make? where could we go?" when arthur spoke again, which he did not do for a moment, his tone showed how much he was relieved by his sister's words. it was very gentle and tender too, graeme noticed. "of course not. i was quite sure this would make no change. rather than my sisters should be made unhappy by my--by this affair--i would go no further in it. my engagement should be at an end." "hush, arthur! it is too late to say that now." "but i was quite sure you would see it in the right way. you always do, graeme. it was not my thought that you would do otherwise. and it will only be a new sister, another rosie to care for, and to love, graeme. i know you will be such a sister to my wife, as you have ever been to rose and to us all." graeme pressed the hand that arthur laid on hers, but she could not speak. "if it had been any one else but that pretty, vain child," thought she. she almost fancied she had spoken her thought aloud, when arthur said,-- "you must not be hard on her, graeme. you do not know her yet. she is not so wise as you are, perhaps, but she is a gentle, yielding little thing; and removed from her stepmother's influence and placed under yours, she will become in time all that you could desire." she would have given much to be able to respond heartily and cheerfully to his appeal, but she could not. her heart refused to dictate hopeful words, and her tongue could not have uttered them. she sat silent and grave while her brother was speaking, and when he ceased she hardly knew whether she were glad or not, to perceive that, absorbed in his own thoughts, he did not seem to notice her silence or miss her sympathy. that night graeme's head pressed a sleepless pillow, and among her many, many thoughts there were few that were not sad. her brother was her ideal of manly excellence and wisdom, and no exercise of charity on her part could make the bride that he had chosen seem other than weak, frivolous, vain. she shrank heartsick from the contemplation of the future, repeating rather in sorrow and wonder, than in anger, "how could he be so blind, so mad?" to her it was incomprehensible, that with his eyes open he could have placed his happiness in the keeping of one who had been brought up with no fear of god before her eyes--one whose highest wisdom did not go beyond a knowledge of the paltry fashions and fancies of the world. he might dream, of happiness now, but how sad would be the wakening. if there rose in her heart a feeling of anger or jealousy against her brother's choice, if ever there came a fear, that the love of years might come to seem of little worth beside the love of a day, it was not till afterwards. none of these mingled with the bitter sadness and compassion of that night. her brother's doubtful future, the mistake he had made, and the disappointment that must follow, the change that might be wrought in his character as they went on; all these came and went, chasing each other through her mind, till the power of thought was well nigh lost. it was a miserable night to her, but out of the chaos of doubts and fears and anxieties, she brought one clear intent, one firm determination. she repeated it to herself as she rose from her sister's side in the dawn of the dreary autumn morning, she repeated it as part of her tearful prayer, entreating for wisdom and strength to keep the vow she vowed, that whatever changes or disappointments or sorrows might darken her brother's future, he should find her love and trust unchanged for ever. chapter twenty eight. arthur elliott was a young man of good intellect and superior acquirements, and he had ever been supposed to possess an average amount of penetration, and of that invaluable quality not always found in connection with superior intellect--common sense. he remembered his mother, and worshipped her memory. she had been a wise and earnest-minded woman, and one of god's saints besides. living for years in daily intercourse with his sister graeme, he had learnt to admire in her the qualities that made her a daughter worthy of such a mother. yet in the choice of one who was to be "till death did them part" more than sister and mother in one, the qualities which in them were his pride and delight, were made of no account. flesh of his flesh, the keeper of his honour and his peace henceforth, the maker or marrer of his life's happiness, be it long or short, was this pretty unformed, wayward child. one who has made good use of long opportunity for observation, tells me that arthur elliott's is by no means a singular case. quite as often as otherwise, men of high intellectual and moral qualities link their lot with women who are far inferior to them in these respects; and not always unhappily. if, as sometimes happens, a woman lets her heart slip from her into the keeping of a man who is intellectually or morally her inferior, happiness is far more rarely the result. a woman, may, with such help as comes to her by chance, keep her _solitary_ way through life content. but if love and marriage, or the ties of blood, have given her an arm on which she has a right to lean, a soul on whose guidance she has a right to trust, it is sad indeed if these fail her. for then she has no right to walk alone, no power to do so happily. her intellectual and social life must grow together, or one must grow awry. what god has joined cannot be put asunder without suffering or loss. but it _is_ possible for a man to separate his intellectual life from the quiet routine of social duties and pleasures. it is not always necessary that he should have the sympathy of his housekeeper, or even of the mother of his children, in those higher pursuits and enjoyments, which is the true life. the rising doubt, whether the beloved one have eyes to see what is beautiful to him in nature and art, may come with a chill and a pang; the certain knowledge of her blindness must come with a shock of pain. but when the shudder of the chill and the shock of the pain are over, he finds himself in the place he used to occupy before a fair face smiled down on him from all high places, or a soft voice mingled with all harmonies to his entranced ear. he grows content in time with his old solitary place in the study, or with striving upward amid manly minds. when he returns to the quiet and comfort of his well-arranged home, the face that smiles opposite to him is none the less beautiful because it beams only for home pleasures and humble household successes. the voice that coos and murmurs to his baby in the cradle, that recounts as great events the little varieties of kitchen and parlour life, that tells of visits made and received, with items of harmless gossip gathered up and kept for his hearing, is none the less dear to him now that it can discourse of nothing beyond. the tender care that surrounds him with quiet and comfort in his hours of leisure, in a little while contents him quite, and he ceases to remember that he has cares and pains, aspirations and enjoyments, into which she can have no part. but this is a digression, and i daresay there are many who will not agree with all this. indeed, i am not sure that i quite agree with all my friend said on this subject, myself. there are many ways of looking at the same thing, and if all were said that might be said about it, it would appear that an incapacity on the part of the wife to share, or at least to sympathise with all the hopes, pursuits, and pleasures of her husband, causes bitter pain to both; certainly, he who cannot assure himself of the sympathy of the woman he loves, when he would pass beyond the daily routine of domestic duties and pleasures, fails of obtaining the highest kind of domestic happiness. charlie millar's private announcement to his friend harry of his brother arthur's engagement, was in these words: "the efforts of the maternal grove have been crowned with success. your brother is a captive soon to be chained--" charlie was right. his clear eye saw, that of which arthur himself remained in happy unconsciousness. and what charlie saw other people saw also, though why the wise lady should let slip through her expert fingers the wealthy mr green, the great western merchant, and close them so firmly on the comparatively poor and obscure young lawyer, was a circumstance that could not so easily be understood. had the interesting fact transpired, that the great elias had not so much slipped through her fingers, as, to use his own forcible and elegant language, "wriggled himself clear," it might have been satisfactory to the world in general. but mr green was far-away intent on more important matters, on the valuation and disposal of fabulous quantities of pork and wheat, and it is not to be supposed that so prudent a general as mrs grove would be in haste to proclaim her own defeat. she acted a wiser part; she took the best measures for covering it. when the pretty fanny showed an inclination to console herself for the defection of her wealthy admirer by making the most of the small attentions of the handsome young lawyer, her mamma graciously smiled approval. fanny might do better she thought, but then she might do worse. mr elliott was by no means mr green's equal in the great essentials of wealth won, and wealth in prospect, still he was a rising man as all might see; quite presentable, with no considerable connections,--except perhaps his sisters, who could easily be disposed of. and then fanny, though very pretty, was "a silly little thing," she said to herself with great candour. her beauty was not of a kind to increase with years, or even to continue long. the chances were, if she did not go off at once, she would stay too long. then there were her sisters growing up so fast, mamma's own darlings; charlotte twelve and victoria seven, were really quite tall and mature for their years, and at any rate, it would be a relief to have fanny well away. and so the unsuspecting youth enjoyed many a drive in the grove carriage, and ate many a dinner in the grove mansion, and roamed with the fair fanny by daylight and by moonlight among the flowers and fruits of the grove gardens, during the three months that his brother and sisters passed at the seaside. he made one of many a pleasant driving or riding party. there were picnics at which his presence was claimed in various places. not the cumbrous affairs which called into requisition all the baskets, and boxes, and available conveyances of the invited guests--parties of which the aim seems to be, to collect in one favoured spot in the country, all the luxuries, and airs, and graces of the town--but little impromptu efforts in the same direction in which mrs grove had all the trouble, and her guests all the pleasure. very charming little fetes her guests generally pronounced them to be. arthur enjoyed them vastly, and all the more that it never entered into his head, that he was in a measure the occasion of them all. he enjoyed the companionship of pleasant people, brought together in those pleasant circumstances. he enjoyed the sight of the green earth, and the blue water, the sound of the summer winds among the hills, the songs of birds amid rustling leaves and waving boughs, until he came to enjoy, at last the guardianship of the fair fanny, generally his on those occasions; and to associate her pretty face and light laughter with his enjoyment of all those pleasant things. everything went on naturally and quietly. there was no open throwing them together to excite speculation in the minds of beholders, or uncomfortable misgivings in the minds of those chiefly concerned. quite the contrary. if any watchful fairy had suggested to arthur the possibility of such a web, as the skillful mamma was weaving around him, he would have laughed at the idea as the suggestion of a very ill-natured, evil-minded sprite indeed. did not mamma keep watchful eyes on fanny always? had she not many and many a time, interrupted little confidences on the part of the young lady, at the recollection of which he was sometimes inclined to smile? had she not at all times, and in all places, acted the part of a prudent mamma to her pretty step-daughter, and of a considerate hostess to him, her unworthy guest? and if the fairy, in self-justification, had ventured further to insinuate, that there is more than one kind of prudence, and that the prudence of mrs grove was of another and higher kind, than a simple youth could be supposed to comprehend, his enlightenment might not yet have been accomplished. if it had been averred that mamma's faith, in her daughter's tact and conversational powers was not sufficient to permit her to allow them to be too severely tried, he might have paused to recall her little airs and gestures, and to weigh the airy nothings from those pretty lips, and he could not but have acknowledged that mamma's faithlessness was not surprising. as to the ultimate success of the sprite in opening his eyes, or in breaking the invisible meshes which were meant to hold the victim fast, that is quite another matter. but there was no fairy, good or bad, to mingle in their affairs, and they flowed smoothly on, to the content of all concerned, till graeme came home from cacouna, to play, in mrs grove's opinion, the part of a very bad fairy indeed. she was mistaken, however. graeme took no part in the matter, either to make or to mar. even had she been made aware of all the possibilities that might arise out of her brother's short intimacy with the groves, she never could have regarded the matter as one in which she had a right to interfere. so, if there came a pause in the lady's operations, if arthur was more seldom one of their party, even when special pains had been taken to secure him, it was owing to no efforts of graeme. if he began to settle down into the old quiet home life, it was because the life suited him; and graeme's influence was exerted and felt, only as it had ever been in a silent, sweet, sisterly fashion, with no reference to mrs grove, or her schemes. but that there came a pause in the effective operations of that clever lady, soon became evident to herself. she could not conceal from herself or miss fanny, that the beckonings from the carriage window were not so quickly seen, or so promptly responded to as of old. not that this defection on arthur's part was ever discussed between them. mrs grove had not sufficient confidence in her daughter to admit of this. fanny was not reliable, mamma felt. indeed, she was very soon taking consolation in the admiration excited by a pair of shining epaulets, which began about this time to gleam with considerable frequency in their neighbourhood. but mamma did not believe in officers, at least matrimonially speaking, and as to the consolation to be derived from a new flirtation, it was but doubtful and transitory at the best. besides she fancied that mr elliott's attentions had been observed, and she was quite sure that his defection would be so, too. two failures succeeding each other so rapidly, would lay her skill open to question, and "mar dear fanny's prospects." and so mrs grove concentrated all her forces to meet the emergency. another invitation was given, and it was accepted. in the single minute that preceded the entrance into the dining-room, the first of a series of decisive measures was carried into effect. with a voice that trembled, and eyes that glistened with grateful tears, the lady thanked her "dear friend" for the kind consideration, the manly delicacy that had induced him to withdraw himself from their society, as soon as he had become aware of the danger to her sweet, but too susceptible fanny. "fanny does not dream that her secret is suspected. but oh! mr elliott, when was a mother at fault when the happiness of her too sensitive child was concerned?" in vain arthur looked the astonishment he felt. in vain he attempted to assure her in the strongest terms, that he had had no intention of withdrawing from their society--that he did not understand--that she must be mistaken. the tender mother's volubility was too much for him. he could only listen in a very embarrassed silence as she went on. mr elliott was not to suppose that she blamed him for the unhappiness he had caused. she quite freed him from all intention of wrong. and after all, it might not be so bad. a mother's anxiety might exaggerate the danger; she would try and hope for the best. change of scene must be tried; in the meantime, her fear was, that pique, or wounded pride, or disappointed affection might induce the unhappy child to--in short mr elliott must understand--. and mrs grove glanced expressively toward the wearer of the shining epaulets, with whom arthur being unenlightened, might have fancied that the unhappy child was carrying on a pretty energetic and prosperous flirtation. but "pique and wounded pride!" he had never in all his life experienced a moment of such intense uncomfortableness as that in which he had the honour to hand the lady of the house to her own well-appointed table. indignation, vexation, disbelief of the whole matter spoiled his dinner effectually. mrs grove's exquisite soup might have been ditch-water for all he knew to the contrary. the motherly concern so freely expressed, looked to him dreadfully like something not so praiseworthy. how she could look her dear fanny in the face, and talk, so softly on indifferent subjects, after having so--so unnecessarily, to say the least, betrayed her secret, was more than he could understand. if, indeed, miss fanny had a secret. he wished very much not to believe it. secret or not, this was a very uncomfortable ending to a pleasant three months' acquaintance, and he felt very much annoyed, indeed. not till course after course had been removed, and the dessert had been placed on the table, did he summon resolution to withdraw his attention from the not very interesting conversation of his host, and turn his eyes to miss grove and the epaulets. the result of his momentary observation was the discovery that the young lady was looking very lovely, and not at all miserable. greatly relieved, he ventured an appropriate remark or two, on the subject under discussion. he was listened to with politeness, but not with miss fanny's usual amiability and interest, that was evident. by and by the gentlemen followed the ladies into the drawing-room, and here miss fanny was distant and dignified still. she gave brief answers to his remarks, and glanced now and then toward the epaulets, of whom mrs grove had taken possession, and to whom she was holding forth with great energy about something she had found in a book. arthur approached the centre-table, but mrs grove was too much occupied with captain starr to include him in the conversation. mr grove was asleep in the dining-room still, and arthur felt there was no help for him. miss fanny was left on his hands; and after another vain attempt at conversation, he murmured something about music, and begged to be permitted to hand her to the piano. miss grove consented, still with more than her usual dignity and distance, and proposed to sing a new song that captain starr had sent her. she did sing it, very prettily, too. she had practised it a great deal more than was necessary, her mamma thought, within the last few days. then she played a brilliant piece or two; then mrs grove, from the centre-table, proposed a sweet scottish air, a great favourite of hers, and, as it appeared, a great favourite of mr elliott's, also. then there were more scottish airs, and french airs, and then there was a duet with captain starr, and mamma withdrew mr elliott to the centre-table, and the book, and did not in the least resent the wandering of his eyes and his attention to the piano, where the captain's handsome head was at times in close proximity with that of the fair musician. then, when there had been enough of music, miss grove returned to her embroidery, and captain starr held her cotton and her scissors, and talked such nonsense to her, that arthur hearing him now and then in the pauses of the conversation, thought him a great simpleton; and firmly believed that miss fanny listened from "pique or wounded pride," or something else, not certainly because she liked it. not but that she seemed to like it. she smiled and responded as if she did, and was very kind and gracious to the handsome soldier, and scarcely vouchsafed to mr elliott a single glance. by and by mr grove came in and withdrew mr elliott to the discussion of the harbour question, and as arthur knew everything that could possibly be said on that subject, he had a better opportunity still of watching the pair on the other side of the table. it was very absurd of him, he said to himself, and he repeated it with emphasis, as the young lady suddenly looking up, coloured vividly as she met his eye. it was very absurd, but, somehow, it was very interesting, too. never, during the whole course of their acquaintance, had his mind been so much occupied with the pretty, silly little creature. it is very likely, the plan of piers and embankments, of canals and bridges, which miss fanny's working implements were made to represent, extending from an imaginary point saint charles, past an imaginary griffintown, might have been worthy of being laid before the town council, or the commissioner for public works. it is quite possible that mr grove's explanations and illustrations of his idea of the new harbour, by means of the same, might have set at rest the doubts and fears of the over-cautious, and proved beyond all controversy, that there was but one way of deciding the matter, and of securing the prosperity of mount royal city, and of canada. and if mr grove had that night settled the vexed question of the harbour to the satisfaction of all concerned, he would have deserved all the credit, at least his learned and talented legal adviser would have deserved none of it. it was very absurd of him, he said again, and yet the interest grew more absorbing every moment, till at last he received a soft relenting glance as he bowed over miss fanny's white hand when he said good-night. he had one uncomfortable moment. it was when mrs grove hoped aloud that they should see him often, and then added, for his hearing alone,-- "it would look so odd, you know, to forsake us quite." he was uncomfortable and indignant, too, when the captain, as they walked down the street together, commented in a free and easy manner on miss grove's "good points," and wondered "whether the old chap had tin enough to make it worth a fellow's pains to follow up the impression he seemed certain he had made." he was uncomfortable when he thought about it afterward. what if "pique, or wounded pride, or disappointed affection" should tempt the poor little girl to throw herself away on such an ass! it would be sad, indeed. and then he wondered if miss grove really cared for him in that way. surely her stepmother would not have spoken as she had done to him on a mere suspicion. as he kept on thinking about it, it began to seem more possible to him, and then more pleasant, and what with one thing, and what with another, miss fanny began to have a great many of his thoughts indeed. he visited grove house a good many times--not to seem odd--and saw a good deal of miss fanny. mamma was prudent still, and wise, and far-seeing, and how it came about i cannot tell, but the result of his visits, and the young lady's smiles, and the old lady's management was the engagement of these two; and the first intimation that graeme had of it was given by arthur on the night that norman went away. time passed on. the wedding day was set, but there were many things to be brought to pass before it should arrive. graeme had to finish the task she had set for herself on the night, when arthur had bespoken her love and care for a new sister. she had to reconcile herself fully to the thought of the marriage, and truly the task did not seem to her easier as time went on. there were moments when she thought herself content with the state of affairs, when, at least, the coming in among them of this stranger did not seem altogether like the end of their happy life, when miss grove seemed a sweet and lovable little thing, and graeme took hope for arthur. this was generally on those occasions when they were permitted to have fanny all to themselves, when she would come in of her own accord, in the early part of the day, dressed in her pretty morning attire, without her company manners or finery. at such times she was really very charming, and flitted about their little parlour, or sat on a footstool chattering with rose in a way that quite won her heart, and almost reconciled the elder sister to her brother's choice. but there were a great many chances against the pleasure lasting beyond the visit, or even to the end of it. on more than one occasion graeme had dispatched nelly as a messenger to arthur, to tell him that fanny was to lunch with them, though her magnanimity involved the necessity of her preparing the greater part of that pleasant meal with her own hands; but she was almost always sorry for it afterward. for fanny never appeared agreeable to her in arthur's presence; and what was worse to bear still, arthur never appeared to advantage, in his sister's eyes, in the presence of miss grove. the coquettish airs, and pretty tyrannical ways assumed by the young lady toward her lover, might have excited only a little uncomfortable amusement in the minds of the sisters, to see arthur yielding to all her whims and caprices, not as one yields in appearance, and for a time, to a pretty spoiled child, over whom one's authority is only delegated and subject to appeal, but _really_ as though her whims were wisdom, and her caprices the result of mature deliberation, was more than graeme could patiently endure. it was irritating to a degree that she could not always control or conceal. the lovers were usually too much occupied with each other to notice the discomfort of the sisters, but this indifference did not make the folly of it all less distasteful to them: and at such times graeme used to fear that it was vain to think of ever growing content with the future before them. and almost as disagreeable were the visits which fanny made with her stepmother. these became a great deal more frequent, during the last few months, than graeme thought at all necessary. they used to call on their way to pay visits, or on their return from shopping expeditions, and the very sight of their carriage of state, and their fine array, made graeme and rose uncomfortable. the little airs of superiority, with which miss fanny sometimes favoured them, were only assumed in the presence of mamma, and were generally called forth by some allusion made by her to the future, and they were none the less disagreeable on that account. how would it be when fanny's marriage should give her stepmother a sort of right to advise and direct in their household? at present, her delicate attempts at patronage, her hints, suggestive or corrective, were received in silence, though resented in private with sufficient energy by rose, and sometimes even by graeme. but it could not be so always, and she should never be able to tolerate the interference of that vain, meddlesome, superficial woman, she said to herself many a time. it must be confessed that graeme was a little unreasonable in her dread and dislike of fanny's clever stepmother. sometimes she was obliged to confess as much to herself. more than once, about this time, it was brought home to her conscience that she was unjust in her judgment of her, and her motives, and she was startled to discover the strength of her feelings of dislike. many times she found herself on the point of dissenting from opinions, or opposing plans proposed by mrs grove, with which she might have agreed had they come from any one else. it is true her opinions and plans were not generally of a nature to commend themselves to graeme's judgment, and there was rather apt to be more intended by them than at first met the eye and ear. as miss fanny said on one occasion, "one could never tell what mamma meant by what she said," and the consequence often was an uncomfortable state of expectation or doubt on the part of those who were included in any arrangement dependent on mamma. yet, her schemes were generally quite harmless. they were not so deep as to be dangerous. the little insincerities incident to their almost daily intercourse, the small deceits made use of in shopping, marketing, making visits, or sending invitations, were no such mighty matters as to jeopardise the happiness, or even the comfort of any one with eyes keen enough to detect, and with skill and will to circumvent them. so graeme said to herself many a time, and yet, saying it she could not help suffering herself to be made uncomfortable still. the respect and admiration which mrs grove professed for miss elliott might have failed to propitiate her, even had she given her credit for sincerity. they were too freely expressed to be agreeable under any circumstances. her joy that the elliotts were still to form one household, that her dear thoughtless fanny was to have the benefit of the elder sister's longer experience and superior wisdom, was great, and her surprise was great also, and so was her admiration. it was so dear in miss elliott to consent to it. another person might have resented the necessity of having to take the second place, where she had so long occupied the first in her brother's house. and then to be superceded by one so much younger than herself, one so much less wise, as all must acknowledge her dear fanny to be, was not, could not, be pleasant. miss elliott must be a person possessing extraordinary qualities, indeed. how could she ever be grateful enough that her wayward child was to have the advantage of a guardianship so gentle and so judicious as hers was sure to be! she only hoped that fanny might appreciate the privilege, and manifest a proper and amiable submission in the new circumstances in which she was to be placed. graeme might well be uncomfortable under all this, knowing as she did, that mamma's private admonitions to her "wayward daughter" tended rather to the encouragement of a "judicious resistance" than of "a proper and amiable submission" to the anticipated rule. but as a necessary abdication of all household power made no part of graeme's trouble, except as she might sometimes doubt the chances of a prosperous administration for her successor, she was able to restrain all outward evidence of discomfort and indignation. she was the better able to do this, as she saw that the clever lady's declaration of her sentiments on this subject, made arthur a little uncomfortable too. he had a vague idea that the plan as to their all continuing to live together, had not at first been so delightful to mrs grove. he had a remembrance that the doubts as to how his sisters might like the idea of his intended marriage, had been suggested by her, and that these doubts had been coupled with hints as to the proper means to be taken in order that the happiness of her dear daughter might be secured, he remembered very well; and that she had expected and desired no assistance from his sisters to this end, he was very well assured. "however, it is all right now," said arthur, congratulating himself. "graeme has too much sense to be put about by mamma's twaddle, and there is no fear as far as fanny and she are concerned." the extent to which "mamma's twaddle" and other matters "put graeme about" at this time she concealed quite, as far as arthur was concerned. the best was to be made of things now; and though she could not help wishing that his eyes might be more useful to him on some occasions, she knew that it would not have mended matters could he have been induced to make use of her clearer vision, and so her doubts and fears were kept to herself, and they did not grow fewer or less painful as time went on. but her feelings changed somewhat. she did not cease to grieve in secret over what she could not but call arthur's mistake in the choice he had made. but now, sometimes anger, and sometimes a little bitter amusement mingled with her sorrow. there seemed at times something ludicrous in bestowing her pity on one so content with the lot he had chosen. she was quite sure that arthur would have smiled at the little follies and inconsistencies of miss grove, had he seen them in any one else. she remembered that at their first acquaintance he had smiled at them in her. _now_ how blind he was! all her little defects of character, so painfully apparent to his sisters were quite invisible to him. she was very amiable and charming in his eyes. there were times when one might have supposed that he looked upon her as the wisest and most sensible of women; and he began to listen to her small views and assent to her small opinions, in a way, and to an extent that would have been amusing if it had not been painful and irritating to those looking on. graeme tried to believe that she was glad of all this--that it was better so. if it was so that these two were to pass their lives together, it was well that they should be blind to each other's faults. somehow married people seemed to get on together, even when their tastes, and talents, and tempers differed. if they loved one another that was enough, she supposed; there must be something about it that she did not understand. at any rate, there was no use vexing herself about arthur now. if he was content, why should not she be so? her brother's happiness might be safer than she feared, but whether or not, nothing could be changed now. but as her fears for her brother were put from her, the thought of what the future might bring to rose and her, came oftener, and with a sadder doubt. she called herself foolish and faithless--selfish even, and scolded herself vigorously many a time; but she could not drive away her fears, or make herself cheerful or hopeful in looking forward. when arthur should come quite to see with fanny's eyes, and hear with her ears, and rely upon her judgment, would they all live as happily together as they had hitherto done? fanny, kept to themselves, she thought she would not fear, but influenced by her stepmother, whose principles and practice were so different from all they had been taught to consider right, how might their lives be changed! and so the wedding-day was drawing nigh. as a part of her marriage-portion, mr grove was to present to his daughter one of the handsome new houses in the neighbourhood of columbus square, and there the young lady's married-life was to commence. the house was quite a little fortune in itself, mrs grove said, and she could neither understand nor approve of the manner in which her triumphant announcement of its destination was received by the elliotts. it is just possible that arthur's intimate knowledge of the state of his future father-in-law's affairs, might have had something to do with his gravity on the occasion. the troubles in the mercantile world, that had not left untouched the long-established house of elphinstone & company, had been felt more seriously still by mr grove, and a doubt as to whether he could, with justice to all concerned, withdraw so large an amount from his business, in order to invest it for his daughter's benefit, could not but suggest itself to arthur. he was not mercenary; it would not be true to say he had not felt a certain degree of satisfaction in knowing that his bride would not be altogether undowered. but the state of mr grove's affairs, was, to say the least, not such as to warrant a present withdrawal of capital from his business, and arthur might well look grave. not that he troubled himself about it, however. he had never felt so greatly elated at the prospect of marrying an heiress, as to feel much disappointed when the prospect became doubtful. he knew that miss grove had a right to something which she had inherited from her mother, but he said to himself that her right should be set aside, rather than that there should be any defilement of hands in the transfer. so, if to mrs grove's surprise and disgust, he remained silent when she made known the munificent intentions of fanny's father, it was not for a reason that he chose to discuss with her. his remarks were reserved for mr grove's private ear, and to him they were made with sufficient plainness. as for graeme, she could not but see that their anticipated change of residence might help to make certainties of all her doubts and fears for their future. if she had dreaded changes in their manner of life before, how much more were they to be dreaded now? they might have fallen back, after a time, into their old, quiet routine, when fanny had quite become one of them, had they been to remain still in the home where they had all been so happy together. but there seemed little hope of anything so pleasant as that now, for fanny's handsome house was in quite a fashionable neighbourhood, away from their old friends, and that would make a sad difference in many ways, she thought; and all this added much to her misgivings for the future. "fanny's house!" could it ever seem like home to them? her thoughts flew back to janet and merleville, and for a little, notwithstanding all the pain she knew the thought would give her brother, it seemed possible--nay best and wisest, for her and rose to go away. "however, we must wait a while; we must have patience. things may adjust themselves in a way that i cannot see just now." in the lesson, which with tears and prayers and a good-will graeme had set herself to learn, she had got no farther than this, "we must wait-- we must have patience." and she had more cause to be content with the progress she had made than she thought; for, amid all the cures for the ills of life, which wisdom remembers, and which folly forgets, what better, what more effectual than "patient waiting?" chapter twenty nine. "are you quite sure that you are glad, graeme." "i am very glad, will. why should you doubt it? you know i have not so heartsome a way of showing my delight as rosie has." "no. i don't know any such thing. i can't be quite glad myself, till i am sure that you are glad, too." "well, you may be quite sure, will. it is only my old perverse way of looking first at the dark side of things, and this matter has a dark side. it will seem less like home than ever when you are gone, will." "less like home than ever!" repeated will. "why, graeme, that sounds as if you were not quite contented with the state of affairs." "does it?" said graeme, laughing, but not pleasantly. "but, graeme, everything has turned out better than we expected. fanny is very nice, and--" "yes, indeed," said graeme, heartily. "everything has turned out much better than we used to fear. i remember the time when i was quite afraid of fanny and her fine house--my old perversity, you see." "i remember," said will, gravely. "i was quite morbid on the subject, at one time. mamma grove was a perfect night-mare to me. and really, she is well! she is not a very formidable person, after all." "well, on the whole, i think we could dispense with mamma grove," said will, with a shrug. "oh! that is because she is down upon you in the matter of master tom. you will have to take him, will." "of course. but then, i would do a great deal more than that for fanny's brother, without all this talk." "but then, without `all this talk,' as you call it, you might not have discovered that the favour is done you, nor that the letter to her english friend will more than compensate you, for going fifty miles out of your way for the boy." "oh! well, it is her way, and a very stupid way. let her rest." "yes, let her rest. and, will, you are not to think i am not glad that you are going home. i would choose no other lot for you, than the one that is before you, an opportunity to prepare yourself for usefulness, and a wide field to labour in. only i am afraid i would stipulate that the field should be a canadian one." "of course. canada is my home." "or merleville. deacon snow seems to think you are to be called to that field, when you are ready to be called." "but that is a long day hence. perhaps, the deacon may change his mind, when he hears that i am going home to learn from the `british.'" "there is no fear. sandy has completed the work which my father and janet began. mr snow is tolerant of the north british, at any rate. what a pleasant life our merleville life was. it seems strange that none of us, but norman, has been back there. it won't belong now, however." "i am afraid i cannot wait for emily's wedding. but i shall certainly go and see them all, before i go to scotland." "if you do, i shall go with you, and spend the summer there." "and leave rose here?" said will, in some surprise. "no. i wish to go for rose's sake, as much as for my own. it seems as though going to merleville and janet, would put us all right again." "i hope you may both be put right, without going so far," said will. "do you know, will, i sometimes wonder whether i can be the same person who came here with rose and you? circumstances do change people, whether they will or not. i think i should come back to my old self again, with janet to take me to task, in her old sharp, loving way." "i don't think i understand you, graeme." "don't you? well, that is evidence that i have changed; and that i have not improved. but i am not sure that i understand myself." "what is wrong with you, graeme." "i cannot tell you, will. i don't know whether the wrong is with me, or with matters and things in general. but there is no good in vexing you, unless you could tell me how to help it." "if i knew what is wrong i might try," said will, gravely. "then, tell me, what possible good i shall be able to do in the world, when i shall no longer have you to care for?" "if you do no good, you will fall far short of your duty." "i know it, will. but useless as my way of life is, i cannot change it. next year must be like this one, and except nursing you in your illness, and fanny in hers, i have done nothing worth naming as work." "that same nursing was not a little. and do you call the housekeeping nothing? it is all very well, fanny's jingling her keys, and playing lady of the house, but we all know who has the care and trouble. if last year has nothing to show for work, i think you may make the same complaint of all the years that went before. it is not that you are getting weary of the `woman's work, that is never done,' is it, dear?" "no, will. i hope not. i think not. but this last year has been very different from all former years. i used to have something definite to do, something that no one else could do as well. i cannot explain it. you would laugh at the trifles that make the difference." "i see one difference," said will. "you have the trouble, and fanny has the credit." "no, will. don't say that i don't think that troubles me. it ought not; but it is not good for fanny, to allow her to suppose she has the responsibility and care, when she has not really. and it is not fair to her. when the time comes that she must have them, she will feel the trouble all the more for her present delusion. and she is learning nothing. she is utterly careless about details, and complicates matters when she thinks she is doing most, though, i must say, nelly is very tolerant of the `whims' of her young mistress, and makes the best of everything. but will, all this must sound to you like finding fault with fanny, and indeed, i don't wish to do anything so disagreeable." "i am sure you do not, graeme. i think i can understand your troubles, but i am afraid i cannot tell you how to help them." "no, will. the kind of life we are living is not good for any of us. what i want for myself is some kind of real work to do. and i want it for rose." "but, graeme, you would never surely think of going away,--i mean, to stay always?" "why not? we are not needed here, rose and i. no, will, i don't think it is that i am growing tired of `woman's work.' it was very simple, humble work i used to do, trifles, odds and ends of the work of life; stitching and mending, sweeping and dusting, singing and playing, reading and talking, each a trifling matter, taken by itself. but of such trifles is made up the life's work of thousands of women, far wiser and better than i am; and i was content with it. it helped to make a happy home, and that was much." "you have forgotten something in your list of trifles, graeme,--your love and care for us all." "no, will. these are implied. it is the love and care that made all these trifles really `woman's work.' a poor dreary work it would be without these." "and, graeme, is there nothing still, to sanctify your daily labour, and make it work indeed?" said will. "there is, indeed, will. if i were only sure that it is my work. but, i am not sure. and it seems as though--somewhere in the world, there must be something better worth the name of work, for me to do." and letting her hands fall in her lap, she looked away over the numberless roofs of the city, to the grey line of the river beyond. "oh! will," she went on in a little, "you do not know. you who have your life's work laid out before you, can never understand how it is with me. you know the work before you is your work--given you by god himself. you need have no misgivings, you can make no mistake. and look at the difference. think of all the years i may have to spend, doing the forgotten ends of another's duty, filling up the time with trifles, visits, frivolous talk, or fancy work, or other things which do good to no one. and all the time not knowing whether i ought to stay in the old round, or break away from it all--never sure but that elsewhere, i might find wholesome work for god and man." very seldom did graeme allow herself to put her troubled thoughts into words, and she rose now and went about the room, as if she wished to put an end to their talk. but will said,-- "even if it were true and real, all you say, it may not be for long. some day, you don't know how soon, you may have legitimate `woman's work' to do,--love, and sympathy, and care, and all the rest, without encroaching on fanny's domain." he began gravely, but blushed and stammered; and glanced with laughing deprecation at his sister, as he ended. she did not laugh. "i have thought of that, too. it seems so natural and proper, and in the common course of things, that a woman should marry. and there have been times, during this last year, when, just to get away from it all, i have thought that any change would be for the better. but it would not be right, unless--" she hesitated. "no, unless it was the right person, and all that, but may we not reasonably hope that the right person may come?" "we won't talk about it, will. there must be some other way than that. many women find an appropriate work to do without marrying. i wish i could do as the merleville girls used to do, spin and weave, or keep a school." "but they don't spin and weave now, since the factories have been built. and as for school-keeping--" "it would be work, good wholesome work, in which, with god's help, i might try to do as our father and mother did, and leave the world better for my labour." "but you could not part from rose, and arthur could never be made to see it right that you should go away," said will. "rose should go with me. and arthur would not like it at first, nor fanny, but they would reconcile themselves to it in time. and as to the school, that is only one kind of work, though there are few kinds left for a woman to do, the more's the pity." "there is work enough of the best kind. it is the remuneration that is scant. and the remuneration could not be made a secondary consideration; if you left home." "in one sense, it ought to be secondary. but i think it must be delightful to feel that one is `making one's living,' as mr snow would say. i _should_ like to know how it feels to be quite independent, will, i must confess." "but graeme, there is no need; and it would make arthur quite unhappy, if he were to hear you speak in that way. even to me, it sounds a little like pride, or discontent." "does it, will. that is dreadful. it is quite possible that these evil elements enter into my vexed thoughts. we won't speak any more about it, will." "but, why should we not speak about it? you may be quite right. at any rate, you are not likely to set yourself right, by keeping your vexed thoughts to yourself." but, if graeme had been ever so willing, there was no more time just now. there was a knock at the door, and sarah, the housemaid, presented herself. "if you please, miss graeme, do you think i might go out as usual. it is wednesday, you know." wednesday was the night of the weekly lecture, in sarah's kirk. she was a good little girl, and a worshipper in a small way of a popular young preacher of the day. "if nelly thinks she can manage without you," said graeme. "it was nelly proposed it. she can do very well, unless mrs elliott brings home some one with her, which is unlikely so late." "well, go then, and don't be late. and be sure you come home with the shaws' sarah," said miss elliott. "they are late," said will. "i am afraid i cannot wait for dinner. i promised to be with doctor d at seven." they went down-stairs together. nelly remonstrated, with great earnestness against will's "putting himself off with bread and cheese, instead of dinner." "though you need care the less about it, that the dinner's spoiled already. the fowls werena much to begin with. it needs sense and discretion to market, as well as to do most things, and folk that winna come home at the right hour, must content themselves with things overdone, or else in the dead thraw." "i am very sorry will should lose his dinner," said graeme; "but they cannot be long in coming now." "there's no saying. they may meet in with folk that may keep them to suit their ain convenience. it has happened before." more than once, when fanny had been out with her mother, they had gone for arthur and dined at grove house, without giving due notice at home, and the rest, after long waiting, had eaten their dinner out of season. to have a success in her department rendered vain by careless or culpable delay, was a trial to nelly at any time. and if mrs grove had anything to do with causing it, the trial was all the greater. for nelly--to use her own words--had no patience with that "meddlesome person." any interference on her part in household matters, was considered by her a reflection on the housekeeping of her young ladies before mrs arthur came among them, and was resented accordingly. all hints, suggestions, recipes, or even direct instructions from her, were utterly ignored by nelly, when it could be done without positive disobedience to miss graeme or mrs elliott. if direct orders made it necessary for her to do violence to her feelings to the extent of availing herself of mrs grove's experience, it was done under protest, or with an open incredulousness as to results, at the same time irritating and amusing. she had no reason to suppose that mrs grove had anything to do with her vexation to-night, but she chose to assume it to be so, and following graeme into the dining-room, where will sat contentedly eating his bread and cheese, she said,-- "as there is no counting on the time of their home-coming, with other folks' convenience to consult, you had best let me bring up the dinner, miss graeme." "we will wait a few minutes longer. there is no haste," said graeme, quietly. graeme sat a long time looking out of the window before they came--so long that nelly came up-stairs again intending to expostulate still, but she did not; she went down again, quietly, muttering to herself as she went,-- "i'll no vex her. she has her ain troubles, i daresay, with her young brother going away, and many another thing that i ken nothing about. it would ill set me to add to her vexations. she is not at peace with herself, that's easy to be seen." chapter thirty. graeme was not at peace with herself and had not been so for a long time, and to-night she was angry with herself for having spoiled will's pleasure, by letting him see that she was ill at ease. "for there is no good vexing him. he cannot even advise me; and, indeed, i am afraid i have not the courage really to go away." but she continued to vex herself more than was wise, as she sat there waiting for the rest in the gathering darkness. they came at last, but not at all as they ought to have come, with the air of culprits, but chatting and laughing merrily, and quite at their leisure, accompanied--to nelly's indignant satisfaction--by mrs grove. graeme could hardly restrain an exclamation of amusement as she hastened toward the door. rose came first, and her sister's question as to their delay was stopped by a look at her radiant face. "graeme, i have something to tell you. what is the most delightful, and almost the most unlikely thing that could happen to us?" graeme shook her head. "i should have to consider a while first--i am not good at guessing. but won't it keep? nelly is out of all patience." but rose was too excited to heed her. "no; it won't keep. guess who is coming--janet!" graeme uttered an exclamation of surprise. "arthur got a letter from mr snow to-day. read it." graeme read, rose looking over her shoulder. "i am very glad. but, rosie, you must make haste. fanny will be down in a minute, and nelly is impatient." "no wonder! but i must tell her about mrs snow." and with her bonnet in her hand, she went dancing down the kitchen stairs. nelly would have been in an implacable humour, indeed, if the sight of her bright face had not softened her. regardless of the risk to muslins and ribbons, she sprang at once into the midst of the delayed preparations. "nelly! who do you think is coming? you will never guess. i may as well tell you. mrs snow!" "eh, me! that's news, indeed. take care of the gravy, miss rose, dear. and when is she coming?" there was not the faintest echo of rebuke in nelly's tone. there was no possibility of refusing to be thus included in the family joy, even in the presence of overdone fowls and ruined vegetables. besides, she had the greatest respect for the oldest friend of the family, and a great desire to see her. she looked upon her as a wonderful person, and aspired in a humble way to imitate her virtues, so she set the gravy-dish on the table to hear more. "and when will she be coming?" she asked. "some time in june. and, nelly, such preparations as we shall have! but it is a shame, we kept dinner waiting. we could not help it, indeed." "you dinna need to tell me that. i heard who came with you. carry you up the plates, and the dinner will be up directly." "and so your old nurse is coming?" said mrs grove, after they had been some time at the table. "how delightful! you look quite excited, rose. she is a very nice person, i believe, miss elliott." graeme smiled. mrs grove's generally descriptive term hardly indicated the manifold virtues of their friend; but, before she could say so, mrs grove continued. "we must think of some way of doing her honour. we must get up a little _fete_--a pic-nic or something. will she stay here or at mr birnie's. she is a friend of his, i suppose, as rose stopped him in the street to tell him she is coming. it is rather awkward having such people staying in the house. they are apt to fancy, you know; and really, one cannot devote all one's time--" rose sent her a glance of indignation; graeme only smiled. arthur had not heard her last remark, so he answered the first. "i doubt such things would hardly be in mrs snow's way. mrs grove could hardly make a lion of our janet, i fancy, graeme." "i fancy not," said graeme, quietly. "oh! i assure you, i shall be willing to take any trouble. i truly appreciate humble worth. we so seldom find among the lower classes anything like the faithfulness, and the gratitude manifested by this person to your family. you must tell me all about her some day, rose." rose was regarding her with eyes out of which all indignation had passed, to make room for astonishment. mrs grove went on. "didn't she leave her husband, or something, to come with you? certainly a lifetime of such devotion should be rewarded--" "by a pic-nic," said rose, as mrs grove hesitated. "rose, don't be satirical," said arthur, trying not to laugh. "i am sure you must be delighted, fanny--arthur's old nurse you know. it need not prevent you going to the seaside, however. it is not you she comes to see." "i am not so sure of that," said arthur, smiling across the table to his pretty wife. "i fancy fanny has as much to do with the visit as any of us. she will have to be on her good behaviour, and to look her prettiest, i can assure her." "and janet was not arthur's nurse," said rose. "graeme was baby when she came first." "and i fancy nursing was but a small part of janet's work in those days," said arthur. "she was nurse, and cook, and housemaid, all in one. eh, graeme?" "ay, and more than that--more than could be told in words," said graeme, with glistening eyes. "and i am sure you will like her," said rose, looking straight into mrs grove's face. "her husband is very rich. i think he must be almost the richest man in merleville." arthur did not reprove rose this time, though she well deserved it. she read her reproof in graeme's look, and blushed and hung her head. she did not look very much abashed, however. she knew arthur was enjoying the home thrust; but the subject was pursued no farther. "do you know, fanny," said mrs grove, in a little, "i saw mrs tilman this morning, and a very superior person she turns out to be. she has seen better days. it is sad to see a lady--for she seems to have been quite a lady--so reduced." "and who is mrs tilman?" asked arthur. fanny looked annoyed, but her mamma went on. "she is a person mrs gridley was speaking to fanny about--a very worthy person indeed." "she was speaking to you, you mean, mamma," said fanny. "was it to me? well, it is all the same. she is a widow. she lived in q---a while and then came here, and was a housekeeper in haughton place. i don't know why she left. some one married, i think. since then she has been a sick nurse, but it didn't agree with her, and lately she has been a cook in a small hotel." "she seems to have experienced vicissitudes," said arthur, for the sake of saying something. "has she not? and a very worthy person she is, i understand, and an admirable cook. she markets, too--or she did at haughton house--and that is such a relief. she must be an invaluable servant." "i should think so, indeed," said arthur, as nobody else seemed inclined to say anything. graeme and rose were speaking about janet and her expected visit, and fanny sat silent and embarrassed. but nelly, busy in taking away the things, lost nothing of what was said; and mrs grove, strange to say, was not altogether inattentive to the changing face of the energetic table maid. an uncomplimentary remark had escaped the lady, as to the state of the overdone fowls, and nelly "could put this and that together as well as another." the operation of removing the things could not be indefinitely prolonged, however, and as nelly shut the door mrs grove said,-- "she is out of place now, fanny, and would just suit you. but you must be prompt if you wish to engage her." "oh! there is no hurry about it, i suppose," said fanny, glancing uneasily at graeme. but graeme took no notice. mrs grove was rather in the habit of discussing domestic affairs at the table, and of leaving graeme out of the conversation. she was very willing to be left out. besides, she never thought of influencing fanny in the presence of her stepmother. "oh! but i assure you there is," said mrs grove. "there are several ladies wishing to have her. mrs ruthven, among the rest." "oh! it is such a trouble changing," said fanny, wearily, as if she had had a trying experience and spoke advisedly. "not at all. it is only changing for the worse that is so troublesome," said mrs grove, and she had a right to know. "i advise you not to let this opportunity pass." "but, after all, nelly does very well. she is stupid sometimes and cross, but they are all that, more or less, i suppose," said fanny. "you are quite right, fanny," said arthur, who saw that his wife was annoyed without very well knowing why. "i daresay nelly is a better servant--notwithstanding the unfortunate chickens of to-day, which was our own fault, you know--than the decayed gentlewoman. she will be a second janet, yet--an institution, an established fact in the history of the family. we couldn't do without nelly. eh, graeme?" graeme smiled, and said nothing. rose answered for her. "no, indeed i am so glad nelly will see mrs snow." "very well," said mrs grove. "since miss elliott seems to be satisfied with nelly, i suppose she must stay. it is a pity you had not known sooner, fanny, so as to save me the trouble of making an appointment for her. but she may as well come, and you can see her at any rate." her carriage being at the door, she went away, and a rather awkward silence followed her departure. "what is it all about! who is mrs tilman?" asked arthur. "some one mrs grove has seen," said graeme, evasively. "but what about nelly? surely you are not thinking of changing servants, graeme?" "oh! i hope not; but nelly has been out of sorts lately--grumbled a little--" "out of sorts, grumbled!" exclaimed fanny, vexed that mrs grove had introduced the subject, and more vexed still that arthur should have addressed his question to graeme. "she has been very disagreeable, indeed, not to say impertinent, and i shall not bear it any longer." poor little fanny could hardly keep back her tears. "impertinent to you, fanny," cried graeme and arthur in a breath. "well, to mamma--and she is not very respectful to me, sometimes, and mamma says nelly has been long enough here. servants always take liberties after a time; and, besides, she looks upon graeme as mistress rather than me. she quite treats me like a child," continued fanny, her indignation increasing as she proceeded. "and, besides," she added, after there had been a moment's uncomfortable silence, "nelly wishes to go." "is barkis willing at last?" said arthur, trying to laugh off the discomfort of the moment. rose laughed too. it had afforded them all much amusement to watch the slow courtship of the dignified mr stirling. nelly always denied that there was anything more in the gardener's attentions, than just the good-will and friendliness of a countryman, and he certainly was a long time in coming to the point they all acknowledged. "nonsense, arthur! that has nothing to do with it," said fanny. "then, she must be going to her sister--the lady with a fabulous number of cows and children. she has spoken about that every summer, more or less. her conscience pricks her, every new baby she hears of. but she will get over it. it is all nonsense about her leaving." "but it is not nonsense," said fanny, sharply. "of course graeme will not like her to go, but nelly is very obstinate and disagreeable, and mamma says i shall never be mistress in my own house while she stays. and i think we ought to take a good servant when we have the chance." "but how good a servant is she?" asked arthur. "didn't you hear what mamma said about her? and, of course, she has references and written characters, and all that sort of thing." "well, i think we may as well `sleep upon it,' as janet used to say. there will be time enough to decide after to-night," said arthur, taking up his newspaper, more annoyed than he was willing to confess. the rest sat silent. rose was indignant, and it needed a warning glance, from graeme to keep her indignation from overflowing. graeme was indignant, but not surprised. indeed, nelly had given warning that she was to leave; but she hoped and believed that she would think better of it, and said nothing. she was not indignant with fanny, but with her mother. she felt that there was some truth in fanny's declaration, that nelly looked upon her as a child. she had nelly's own word for that. she considered her young mistress a child to be humoured and "no' heeded" when any serious business was going on. but fanny would not have found this out if left to herself, at least she would not have resented it. the easiest and most natural thing for graeme, in the turn affairs had taken, would be to withdraw from all interference, and let things take their course; but just because this would be easiest and most agreeable, she hesitated. she felt that it would not be right to stand aside and let fanny punish herself and all the rest because of the meddlesome folly of mrs grove. besides, it would be so ungrateful to nelly, who had served them so faithfully all those years. and yet, as she looked at fanny's pouting lips and frowning brow, her doubts as to the propriety of interference grew stronger, and she could only say to herself, with a sigh,-- "we must have patience and wait." and the matter was settled without her interference, though not to her satisfaction. before a week, nelly was on her way to the country to make acquaintance of her sister's cows and children, and the estimable mrs tilman was installed in her place. it was an uncomfortable time for all. rose was indignant, and took no pains to hide it. graeme was annoyed and sorry, and, all the more, as nelly did not see fit to confine the stiffness and coldness of her leave-takings to mrs elliott as she ought to have done. if half as earnestly and frankly as she expressed her sorrow for her departure, graeme had expressed her vexation at its cause, nelly would have been content. but graeme would not compromise fanny, and she would not condescend to recognise the meddlesomeness of mrs grove in their affairs. and yet she could not bear that nelly should go away, after five years of loving service, with such angry gloom in her kind eyes. "will you stay with your sister, nelly, do you think? or will you come back to town and take another place? there are many of our friends who would be very glad to get you." "i'm no' sure, miss elliott. i have grown so fractious and contrary lately that maybe my sister winna care to have me. and as to another place--" nelly stopped suddenly. if she had said her say, it would have been that she could bear the thought of no other place. but she said nothing, and went away--ran away, indeed. for when she saw the sorrowful tears in graeme's eyes, and felt the warm pressure of her hand, she felt she must run or break out into tears; and so she ran, never stopping to answer when graeme said: "you'll let us hear from you, nelly. you'll surely let us hear from you soon?" there was very little said about the new order of affairs. the remonstrance which fanny expected from graeme never came. mrs grove continued to discuss domestic affairs, and to leave graeme out, and she was quite willing to be left out, and, after a little, things moved on smoothly. mrs tilman was a very respectable-looking person. a little stout, a little red in the face, perhaps. indeed, very stout and very red in the face; so stout that arthur suggested the propriety of having the kitchen staircase widened for her benefit; and so red in the face as to induce graeme to keep her eyes on the keys of the sideboard when fanny, as she was rather apt to do, left them lying about. she was a very good servant, if one might judge after a week's trial; and fanny might have triumphed openly if it had not been that she felt a little uncomfortable in finding herself, without a struggle, sole ruler in their domestic world. mrs tilman marketed, and purchased the groceries, and that in so dignified a manner that fanny almost wondered whether the looking over the grocer's book and the butcher's book might not be considered an impertinent interference on her part. her remarks and allusions were of so dignified a character as to impress her young mistress wonderfully. she was almost ashamed of their limited establishment, in view of mrs tilman's magnificent experiences. but the dignified cook, or housekeeper, as she preferred being called, had profited by the afflictive dispensations that seemed to have fallen upon her, and resigned herself to the occupancy of her present humble sphere in a most exemplary manner. to be sure, her marketing and her shopping, interfered a little with her less conspicuous duties, and a good deal more than her legitimate share of work was left to sarah. but fortunately for her and the household generally, graeme was as ready as ever to do the odds-and-ends of other people's duties, and to remember things forgotten, so that the domestic machinery moved on with wonderful smoothness. not that nelly's departure was no longer regretted; but in her heart graeme believed that they would soon have her in her place again, and she was determined that, in the meantime, all should be pleasant and peaceful in their family life. for graeme had set her heart on two things. first, that there should be no drawback to the pleasure of mrs snow's visit; and second, that mrs snow should admire and love arthur's wife. she had had serious doubts enough herself as to the wisdom of her brother's choice, but she tried to think herself quite contented with it now. at any rate, she could not bear to think that janet should not be quite content. not that she was very much afraid. for graeme's feelings toward fanny had changed very much since she had been one of them. she was not very wise or sensible, but she was very sweet-tempered and affectionate, and graeme had come to love her dearly, especially since the very severe illness from which fanny was not long recovered. her faults, at least many of them, were those of education, which she would outlive, graeme hoped, and any little disagreeable display which it had been their misfortune to witness during the year could, directly or indirectly, be traced to the influence or meddlesomeness of her stepmother, and so it could easily be overlooked. this influence would grow weaker in time, and fanny would improve in consequence. the vanity, and the carelessness of the feelings of others, which were, to graeme, her worst faults, were faults that would pass away with time and experience, she hoped. indeed, they were not half so apparent as they used to be, and whether the change was in fanny or herself she did not stop to inquire. but she was determined that her new sister should appear to the best advantage in the eyes of their dear old friend, and to this end the domestic sky must be kept clear of clouds. so mrs tilman's administration commenced under the most favourable circumstances, and the surprise which all felt at the quietness with which this great domestic revolution had been brought about was beginning to give place, on fanny's part, to a little triumphant self-congratulation which rose was inclined to resent. graeme did not resent it, and rose was ready to forgive fanny's triumph, since fanny was so ready to share her delight at the thought of mrs snow's visit. as for will, he saw nothing in the whole circle of events to disturb anybody's equanimity or to regret, except, perhaps, that the attraction of the mcintyre children and cows had proved irresistible to nelly at last. and arthur congratulated himself on the good sense and good management of his little wife, firmly believing in the wisdom of the deluded little creature, never doubting that her skill and will were equal to the triumphant encounter with any possible domestic emergency. chapter thirty one. they came at last. arthur and will met them on the other side of the river, and graeme and rose would fain have done the same, but because of falling rain, and because of other reasons, it was thought not best for them to go. it was a very quiet meeting--a little restrained and tearful just at first; but that wore away, and janet's eyes rested on the bairns from whom she had been so long separated with love and wonder and earnest scrutiny. they had all changed, she said. arthur was like his father; will was like both father and mother. as for rosie-- "miss graeme, my dear," said mrs snow, "i think rosie is nearly as bonny as her sister marian," and her eye rested on the girl's blushing face with a tender admiration that was quite as much for the dead as for the living. graeme had changed least of all, she said; and yet in a little she found herself wondering whether, after all, graeme had not changed more than any of them. as for fanny she found herself in danger of being overlooked in the general joy and excitement, and went about jingling her keys, and rather ostentatiously hastening the preparations for the refreshment of the travellers. she need not have been afraid. her time was coming. even now she encountered an odd glance or two from mr snow, who was walking off his excitement in the hall. that there was admiration mingled with the curiosity they expressed was evident, and fanny relented. what might soon have become a pout on her pretty lip changed to a smile. they were soon on very friendly terms with each other, and before janet had got through with her first tremulous recognition of her bairns, mr snow fancied he had made a just estimate of the qualities--good--and not so good--of the pretty little housekeeper. after dinner all were more at their ease. mr snow walked up and down the gallery, past the open window, and arthur sat there beside him. they were not so far withdrawn from the rest but that they could join in the conversation that went on within. fanny, tired of the dignity of housekeeping, brought a footstool and sat down beside graeme; and janet, seeing how naturally and lovingly the hand of the elder sister rested on the pretty bowed head, gave the little lady more of her attention than she had hitherto done, and grew rather silent in the scrutiny. graeme grew silent too. indeed she had been rather silent all the afternoon; partly because it pleased her best to listen, and partly because she was not always sure of her voice when she tried to speak. she was not allowed to be silent long, however, or to fall into recollections too tender to be shared by them all. rose's extraordinary restlessness prevented that. she seemed to have lost the power of sitting still, and flitted about from one to another; now exchanging a word with fanny or will, now joining in the conversation that was going on between mr snow and arthur outside. at one moment she was hanging over graeme's chair, at the next, kneeling at mrs snow's side; and all the time with a face so radiant that even will noticed it, and begged to be told the secret of her delight. the truth was, rose was having a little private jubilation of her own. she would not have confessed it to graeme, she was shy of confessing it to herself, but as the time of mrs snow's visit approached, she had not been quite free from misgivings. she had a very distinct recollection of their friend, and loved her dearly. but she found it quite impossible to recall the short active figure, the rather scant dress, the never-tiring hands, without a fear that the visit might be a little disappointing--not to themselves. janet would always be janet to them-- the dear friend of their childhood, with more real worth in her little finger than there was in ten such fine ladies as mrs grove. but rose, grew indignant beforehand, as she imagined the supercilious smiles and forced politeness of that lady, and perhaps of fanny too, when all this worth should appear in the form of a little, plain old woman, with no claim to consideration on account of externals. but that was all past now. and seeing her sitting there in her full brown travelling-dress, her snowy neckerchief and pretty quaint cap, looking as if her life might have been passed with folded hands in a velvet arm-chair, rose's misgivings gave place to triumphant self-congratulation, which was rather uncomfortable, because it could not well be shared. she had assisted at the arrangement of the contents of the travelling trunk in wardrobe and bureau, and this might have helped her a little. "a soft black silk, and a grey poplin, and such lovely neckerchiefs and handkerchiefs of lawn--is not little emily a darling to make her mother look so nice? and such a beauty of a shawl!--that's the one sandy brought." and so rose came down-stairs triumphant, without a single drawback to mar the pleasure with which she regarded janet as she sat in the arm-chair, letting her grave admiring glances fall alternately on graeme and the pretty creature at her feet. all rosie's admiration was for mrs snow. "is she not just like a picture sitting there?" she whispered to will, as she passed him. and indeed rosie's admiration was not surprising; she was the very janet of old times; but she sat there in fanny's handsome drawing-room, with as much appropriateness as she had ever sat in the manse kitchen long ago, and looked over the vases and elegant trifles on the centre-table to graeme with as much ease and self-possession as if she had been "used with" fine things all her life, and had never held anxious counsels with her over jackets and trowsers, and little half-worn stockings and shoes. and yet there was no real cause for surprise. for janet was one of those whose modest, yet firm self-respect, joined with a just appreciation of all worldly things, leaves to changing circumstances no power over their unchanging worth. that mr snow should spend the time devoted to their visit within four walls, was not to be thought of. the deacon, who, in the opinion of those who knew him best, "had the faculty of doing 'most anything," had certainly not the faculty of sitting still in a chair like other people. the hall or the gallery was his usual place of promenade, but when the interest of the conversation kept him with the rest, fanny suffered constant anxiety as to the fate of ottomans, vases and little tables. a judicious, re-arrangement of these soon gave him a clearer space for his perambulations; but a man accustomed to walk miles daily on his own land, could not be expected to content himself long within such narrow limits. so one bright morning he renewed the proposal, made long before, that will should show him canada. up to a comparatively recent period, all mr snow's ideas of the country had been got from the careful reading of an old "history of the french and indian war." of course, by this time he had got a little beyond the belief that the government was a military despotism, that the city of montreal was a cluster of wigwams, huddled together within a circular enclosure of palisades, or that the commerce of the country consisted in an exchange of beads, muskets, and bad whiskey for the furs of the aborigines. still his ideas were vague and indistinct, not to say disparaging, and he had already quite unconsciously excited the amusement of will and the indignation of rose, by indulging in remarks indicative of a low opinion of things in general in the queen's dominions. so when he proposed that will should show him canada, rose looked gravely up and asked,-- "where will you go first, will? to the red river or hudson's bay or to nova scotia? you must be back to lunch." they all laughed, and arthur said,-- "oh, fie, rosie! not to know these places are all beyond the limits of canada!--such ignorance!" "they are in the queen's dominions, though, and mr snow wants to see all that is worth seeing on british soil." "well, i guess we can make out a full day's work in canada, can't we? it is best to take it moderate," said mr snow, smiling benignly on rose. he was tolerant of the young lady's petulance, and not so ready to excite it as he used to be in the old times, and generally listened to her little sallies with a deprecating smile, amusing to see. he was changed in other respects as well. indeed, it must be confessed that just at first arthur was a little disappointed in him. he had only a slight personal acquaintance with him, but he had heard so much of him from the others that he had looked forward with interest to making the acquaintance of the "sharp yankee deacon." for harry had a good story about "uncle sampson" ready for all occasions, and there was no end to the shrewd remarks and scraps of worldly wisdom that he used to quote from his lips. but harry's acquaintance had been confined to the first years of their merleville life, and mr snow had changed much since then. he saw all things in a new light. wisdom and folly had changed their aspect to him. the charity which "believeth and hopeth all things," and which "thinketh no evil," lived within him now, and made him slow to see, and slower still to comment upon the faults and foibles of others with the sharpness that used to excite the mirth of the lads long ago. not that he had forgotten how to criticise, and that severely too, whatever he thought deserved it, or would be the better for it, as will had good reason to know before he had done much in the way of "showing him canada," but he far more frequently surprised them all by his gentle tolerance towards what might be displeasing to him, and by his quick appreciation of whatever was admirable in all he saw. the first few days of sightseeing were passed in the city and its environs. with the town itself he was greatly pleased. the great grey stone structures suited him well, suggesting, as they often do to the people accustomed to houses of brick or wood, ideas of strength and permanence. but as he was usually content with an outside view of the buildings, with such a view as could be obtained by a slow drive through the streets, the town itself did not occupy him long. then came the wharves and ships; then they visited the manufactories and workshops, lately become so numerous in the neighbourhood of the canal. all these pleased and interested him greatly, but he never failed, when opportunity offered, to point out various particulars, in which he considered the montrealers "a _leetle_ behind the times." on the whole, however, his appreciation of british energy and enterprise was admiring and sincere, and as warmly expressed as could be expected under the circumstances. "you've got a river, at any rate, that about comes up to one's ideas of what a river ought to be--broad and deep and full," he said to arthur one day. "it kind of satisfies one to stand and look at it, so grand and powerful, and still always rolling on to the sea." "yes, it is like your father of waters," said arthur, a little surprised at his tone and manner. "one wouldn't be apt to think of mills and engines and such things at the first glimpse of that. i didn't see it the day when i crossed it, for the mist and rain. to-day, as we stood looking down upon it, i couldn't but think how it had been rolling on and on there, ever since creation, i suppose, or ever since the time of adam and eve--if the date ain't the same, as some folks seem to think." "i always think how wonderful it must have seemed to jacques cartier and his men, as they sailed on and on, with the never-ending forest on either shore," said rose. "no wonder they thought it would never end, till it bore them to the china seas." "a wonderful highway of nations it is, though it disappointed them in that," said arthur. "the sad pity is, that it is not available for commerce for more than two-thirds of the year." "if ever the bridge they talk about should be built, it will do something towards making this a place of importance in this part of the world, though the long winter is against, too." "oh! the bridge will be built, i suppose, and the benefit will not be confined to us. the western trade will be benefited as well. what do you think of your massachusetts men, getting their cotton round this way? this communication with the more northern cotton growing states is more direct by this than any other way." "well, i ain't prepared to say much about it. some folks wouldn't think much of that. but i suppose you are bound to go ahead, anyhow." but to the experienced eye of the farmer, nothing gave so much pleasure as the cultivated country lying around the city, and beyond the mountain, as far as the eye could reach. of the mountain itself, he was a little contemptuous in its character of mountain. "a mountain with smooth fields, and even orchards, reaching almost to the top of it! why, our sheep pasture at merleville is a deal more like a mountain than that. it is only a hill, and moderate at that. you must have been dreadful hard up for mountains, to call _that_ one. you've forgotten all about merleville, rosie, to be content with that for a mountain." while, he admired the farms, he did not hesitate to comment severely on the want of enterprise shown by the farmers, who seemed to be content "to putter along" as their fathers had done, with little desire to avail themselves of the many inventions and discoveries which modern science and art had placed at the disposal of the farmer. in merleville, every man who owned ten, or even five acres of level land, had an interest in sowing and mowing machines, to say nothing of other improvements, that could be made available on hill or meadow. if the strength and patience so freely expended among the stony new england hills, could but be applied to the fertile valley of the saint lawrence, what a garden it might become! and the yankee farmer grew a little contemptuous of the contented acquiescence of canadians to the order of affairs established by their fathers. one afternoon he and will went together to the top of the mountain toward the western end. they had a fair day for a fair sight, and when mr snow looked down on the scene, bounded by the blue hills beyond both rivers, all other thoughts gave place to feelings of wondering admiration. above was a sky, whose tender blue was made more lovely by the snowy clouds that sailed now and then majestically across it, to break into flakes of silver near the far horizon. beneath lay the valley, clothed in the numberless shades of verdure with which june loves to deck the earth in this northern climate. there were no waste places, no wilderness, no arid stretches of sand or stone. far as the eye could reach, extended fields, and groves, and gardens, scattered through with clusters of cottages, or solitary farm-houses. up through the stillness of the summer air, came stealing the faint sound of a distant bell, seeming to deepen the silence round them. "i suppose the land that moses saw from pisgah, must have been like this," said mr snow, as he gazed. "yes, the promised land was a land of hills, and valleys, and brooks of water," said will softly, never moving his eyes from the wonderful picture. could they ever gaze enough? could they ever weary themselves of the sight? the shadows grew long; the clouds, that had made the beauty of the summer sky, followed each other toward the west, and rose in pinnacles of gold, and amber, and amethyst; and then they rose to go. "i wouldn't have missed _that_ now, for considerable," said mr snow, coming back with an effort to the realisation of the fact that this was part of the sightseeing that he had set himself. "no, i wouldn't have missed it for considerable more than that miserable team'll cost," added he, as he came in sight of the carriage, on whose uncomfortable seat the drowsy driver had been slumbering all the afternoon. will smiled, and made no answer. he was not a vain lad, but it is just possible that there passed through his mind a doubt whether the enjoyment of his friend had been as real, as high, or as intense, as his had been all the afternoon. to will's imagination, the valley lay in the gloom of its primeval forests, peopled by heroes of a race now passed away. he was one of them. he fought in their battles, triumphed in their victories, panted in the eagerness of the chase. in imagination, he saw the forest fall under the peaceful weapons of the pale face; then wondered westward to die the dreary death of the last of a stricken race. then his thoughts come down to the present, and on into the future, in a vague dream, which was half a prayer, for the hastening of the time when the lovely valley should smile in moral and spiritual beauty too. and coming back to actual life, with an effort--a sense of pain, he said to himself, that the enjoyment of his friend had been not so high and pure as his. but will was mistaken. in the thoughts of his friend, that summer afternoon, patent machines, remunerative labour, plans of supply and demand, of profit and loss, found no place. he passed the pleasant hour on that green hill-side, seeing in that lovely valley, stretched out before them, a very land of beulah. looking over the blue line of the ottawa, as over the river of death, into a land visible and clear to the eye of faith, he saw sights, and heard sounds, and enjoyed communion, which, as yet, lay far in the future, as to the experience of the lad by his side; and coming back to actual life, gave no sign of the divine companionship, save that which afterward, was to be seen in a life, growing liker every day to the divine exemplar. will thought, as they went home together, that a new light beamed, now and then, over the keen but kindly face, and that the grave eyes of his friend had the look of one who saw something beyond the beauty of the pleasant fields, growing dim now in the gathering darkness; and the lad's heart grew full and tender as it dawned upon him, how this was a token of the shining of god's face upon his servant, and he longed for a glimpse of that which his friend's eyes saw. a word might have won for him a glimpse of the happiness; but will was shy, and the word was not spoken; and, all unconscious of his longing, his friend sat with the smile on his lips, and the light in his eye, no thought further from him than that any experience of his should be of value to another. and so they fell quite into silence, till they neared the streets where the lighted lamps were burning dim in the fading daylight. that night, in the course of his wanderings up and down, mr snow, paused, as he often did, before a portrait of the minister. it was a portrait taken when the minister had been a much younger man than mr snow had ever known him. it had belonged to a friend in scotland, and had been sent to arthur, at his death, about a year ago. the likeness had been striking, and to janet, the sight of it had been a great pleasure and surprise. she was never weary of looking at it, and even mr snow, who had never known the minister but as a grey-haired man, was strangely fascinated by the beauty of the grave smile that he remembered so well on his face. that night he stood leaning on the back of a chair, and gazing at it, while the conversation flowed on as usual around him. in a little, rose came and stood beside him. "do you think it is very like him?" asked she. "well," said mr snow, meditatively, "it's like him and it ain't like him. i love to look at it, anyhow." "at first it puzzled me," said rose. "it seemed like the picture of some one i had seen in a dream; and when i shut my eyes, and tried to bring back my father's face as it used to be in merleville, it would not come--the face of the dream came between." "well, there is something in that," said mr snow, and he paused a moment, and shut his eyes, as if to call back the face of his friend. "no, it won't do that for me. it would take something i hain't thought of yet, to make me forget his face." "it does not trouble me now," said rose. "i can shut my eyes, and see him, oh! so plainly, in the church, and at home in the study, and out under the trees, and as he lay in his coffin--" she was smiling still, but the tears were ready to gush over her eyes. mr snow turned, and laying his hand on her bright head, said softly,-- "yes, dear, and so can i, if we didn't know that it must be right, we might wonder why he was taken from us. but i shall never forget him-- never. he did too much for me, for that. he was the best friend i ever had, by all odds--the very best." rose smiled through her tears. "he brought you mrs snow," said she, softly. "yes, dear. that was much, but he did more than that. it was through him that i made the acquaintance of a better and dearer friend than even _she_ is--and that is saying considerable," added he, turning his eyes toward the tranquil figure knitting in the arm-chair. "were you speaking?" said mrs snow, looking up at the sound of his voice. "yes, i was speaking to rosie, here. how do you suppose we can ever persuade her to go back to merleville with us?" "she is going with us, or she will soon follow us. what would emily say, if she didna come?" "yes, i know. but i meant to stay for good and all. graeme, won't you give us this little girl?" graeme smiled. "yes. on one condition--if you will take me too." mr snow shook his head. "i am afraid that would bring us no nearer the end. we should have other conditions to add to that one." "yes," said arthur, laughing. "you would have to take fanny and me, as well, in that case. i don't object to your having one of them at a time, now and then, but both of them--that would never do." "but it must be both or neither," said graeme, eagerly, "i couldna' trust rosie away from me. i havena these sixteen years--her whole life, have i, janet? if you want rosie, you must have me, too." she spoke lightly, but earnestly; she meant what she said. indeed, so earnest was she, that she quite flushed up, and the tears were not far away. the others saw it, and were silent, but fanny who was not quick at seeing things, said,-- "but what could we do without you both? that would not be fair--" "oh! you would have arthur, and arthur would have you. at any rate, rosie is mine, and i am not going to give her to any one who won't have me, too. she is all i shall have left when will goes away." "graeme would not trust rosie with arthur and me," said fanny, a little pettishly. "there are so many things that graeme don't approve of. she thinks we would spoil rose." janet's hand touched hers, whether by accident or design graeme did not know, but it had the effect of checking the response that rose to her lips, and she only said, laughingly,-- "mrs snow thinks that you and arthur are spoiling us both, fanny." janet smiled fondly and gravely at the sisters, as she said, stroking graeme's bowed head,-- "i dare say you are no' past spoiling, either of you, but i have seen worse bairns." after this, mr snow and will began the survey of canada in earnest. first they went to quebec, where they lingered several days. then they went farther down the river, and up the saguenay, into the very heart of the wilderness. this part of the trip will enjoyed more than his friend, but mr snow showed no sign of impatience, and prolonged their stay for his sake. then they went up the country, visiting the chief towns and places of interest. they did not confine themselves, however, to the usual route of travellers, but went here and there in wagons and stages, through a farming country, in which, though mr snow saw much to criticise, he saw more to admire. they shared the hospitality of many a quiet farm-house, as freely as it was offered, and enjoyed many a pleasant conversation with the farmers and their families, seated on door-steps, or by the kitchen-fire. though the hospitality of the country people was, as a general thing, fully and freely offered, it was sometimes, it must be confessed, not without a certain reserve. that a "live yankee," cute, and able-bodied, should be going about in these out-of-the-way parts, for the sole purpose of satisfying himself as to the features, resources, and inhabitants of the country, was a circumstance so rare, so unheard of, indeed, in these parts, that the shrewd country people did not like to commit themselves at the first glance. will's frank, handsome face, and simple, kindly manners, won him speedily enough the confidence of all, and mr snow's kindly advances were seldom long withstood. but there sometimes lingered an uneasy feeling, not to say suspicion, that when he had succeeded in winning their confidence, he would turn round and make some startling demand on their faith or their purses in behalf of some patent medicine or new invention--perhaps one of those wonderful labour-saving machines, of which he had so much to say. as for himself, if he ever observed their reserve or its cause, he never resented it, or commented upon it, but entered at once into the discussion of all possible subjects with the zest of a man determined to make the most of the pleasant circumstances in which he found himself. if he did not always agree with the opinions expressed, or approve of the modes of farming pursued, he at least found that the sturdy farmers of glengarry and the country beyond had more to say for their opinions and practice than "so had their fathers said and done before them," and their discussions ended, quite as frequently as otherwise, in the american frankly confessing himself convinced that all the agricultural wisdom on the continent did not lie on the south side of the line forty-five. will was greatly amused and interested by all this. he was, to a certain extent, able to look at the ideas, opinions, and prejudices of each from the other's point of view, and so to enjoy with double zest the discussion of subjects which could not fail to present such dissimilar aspects to minds so differently constituted, and developed under circumstances and influences so different. this power helped him to make the opinions of each more clear to the other, presenting to both juster notions of each other's theory and practice than their own explanations could have done. by this means, too, he won for himself a reputation for wisdom, about matters and things in general, which surprised no one so much as himself. they would have liked to linger far longer, over this part of their trip, than they had time to do, for the days were hastening. before returning home, they visited niagara, that wonderful work of god, too great and grand, as mr snow told rosie, to be the pride of one nation exclusively, and so it had been placed on the borders of the two greatest nations in the world. this part of the trip was for will's sake. mr snow had visited them on his way west many years ago. indeed, there were other parts of the trip made for will's benefit, but those were not the parts which mr snow enjoyed least, as he said to his wife afterwards. "it paid well. i had my own share of the pleasure, and will's, too. if ever a lad enjoyed a holiday he enjoyed his. it was worth going, just to see his pleasure." when the time allotted to their visit was drawing to a close, it was proposed that a few days should be passed in that most beautiful part of canada, known as the eastern townships. arthur went with them there. it was but a glimpse they could give it. passing in through missisquoi county to the head of the lovely lake memphremagog, they spent a few days on it, and along its shores. their return was by a circuitous course across the country through the county of stanstead, in the midst of beautiful scenery, and what mr snow declared to be "as fine a farming country as anybody need wish to see." this "seeing canada" was a more serious matter than he had at first supposed, mr snow acknowledged to the delighted rose. it could not be done justice to in a few days, he said; but he would try and reconcile himself to the hastiness of his trip, by taking it for granted that the parts he had not seen were pretty much like those he had gone through, and a very fine country it was. "canada will be heard from yet, i expect," said he, one night when they had returned home. "by the time that you get some things done that you mean to now, you'll be ready to go ahead. i don't see but you have as good a chance as ever we had--better, even. you have got the same elements of prosperity and success. you have got the bible and a free press, and a fair proportion of good soil, and any amount of water-power. then for inhabitants, you've got the scotchman, cautious and far-seeing; the irishman, a little hot and heady, perhaps, but earnest; you've got the englishman, who'll never fail of his aim for want of self-confidence, anyhow; you've got frenchmen, germans, and a sprinkling of the dark element out west; and you've got what we didn't have to begin with, you've got the yankee element, and that is considerable more than you seem to think it is, rosie." rose laughed and shook her head. she was not going to allow herself to be drawn into a discussion of nationalities that night. "yes," continued he, "the real live yankee is about as complete a man as you'll generally meet anywhere. he has the caution of the scot, to temper the fire of the irishman, and he has about as good an opinion of himself as the englishman has. he'll keep things going among you. he'll bring you up to the times, and then he won't be likely to let you fall back again. yes; if ever canada is heard from, the yankee will have something to do with it, and no mistake." chapter thirty two. in the mean time very quiet and pleasant days were passing over those who were at home. fanny jingled her keys, and triumphed a little at the continued success of affairs in mrs tilman's department. graeme took no notice of her triumph, but worked away at odds and ends, remembering things forgotten, smoothing difficulties, removing obstacles, and making, more than she or any one knew, the happiness of them all. rose sung and danced about the house as usual, and devoted some of her superfluous energy to the embellishment of a cobweb fabric, which was, under her skillful fingers, destined to assume, by and by, the form of a wedding pocket handkerchief for emily. and through all, mrs snow was calmly and silently pursuing the object of her visit to canada. through the pleasant hours of work and leisure, in all their talk of old times, and of the present time, in all moods, grave and gay, she had but one thought, one desire, to assure herself by some unfailing token that her bairns were as good and happy as they ought to be. the years that had passed since the bairns had been parted from her had made janet older than they ought to have done, graeme thought. it was because she was not so strong as she used to be, she said herself; but it was more than sickness, and more than the passing years that had changed her. the dreadful shock and disappointment of her mother's death, followed so soon by the loss of marian and the minister, had been too much for janet. it might not have been, her strong patient nature might have withstood it, if the breaking up of the beloved family circle, the utter vanishing of her bairns from her sight, had not followed so close upon it. for weeks she had been utterly prostrate. the letters, which told the bairns, in their canadian home, that their dear friend was ill, and "wearying" for them, told them little of the terrible suffering of that time. the misery that had darkened her first winter in merleville came upon her again with two-fold power. worse than the home-sickness of that sad time, was the never-ceasing pain, made up of sorrow for the dead, and inappeasable longing for the presence of the living. that she should have forsaken her darlings, to cast in her lot with others--that between her and them should lie miles and miles of mountain and forest, and barriers, harder to be passed than these, it sickened her heart to know. she knew it never could be otherwise now; from the sentence she had passed upon herself she knew there could be no appeal. she knew that unless some great sorrow should fall upon them, they could never have one home again; and that peace and happiness could ever come to her, being separated from them, she neither believed nor desired. oh! the misery of that time! the fields and hills, and pleasant places she had learnt to love, shrouded themselves in gloom. the very light grew hateful to her. her prayer, as she lay still, while the bitter waters rolled over her, was less the prayer of faith, than of despair. and, through all the misery of that time, her husband waited and watched her with a tender patience, beautiful to see; never, by word or deed, giving token of aught but sympathy, and loving pity for the poor, sick, struggling heart. often and often, during that dreary time, did she wake to hear, in the stillness of the night, or of the early morning, his whispered prayer of strong entreaty rising to heaven, that the void might be filled, that in god's good time and way, peace, and healing, and content, might come back to the sick and sorrowful heart. and this came after long waiting. slowly the bitter waters rolled away, never to return. faith, that had seemed dead, looked up once more. the sick heart thrilled beneath the touch of the healer. again the light grew pleasant to her eyes, and janet came back to her old household ways, seeing in the life before her god-given work, that might not be left undone. but she was never quite the same. there was never quite the old sharp ring in her kindly voice. she was not less cheerful, perhaps, in time, but her cheerfulness was of a far quieter kind, and her chidings were rare, and of the mildest, now. indeed, she had none to chide but the motherless emily, who needed little chiding, and much love. and much love did janet give her, who had been dear to all the bairns, and the especial friend of marian, now in heaven. and so god's peace fell on the deacon's quiet household, and the gloom passed away from the fields and hills of merleville, and its pleasant nooks and corners smiled once more with a look of home to janet, as she grew content in the knowledge that her darlings were well and happy, though she might never make them her daily care again. but she never forgot them. her remembrance of them never grew less loving, and tender, and true. and so, as the years passed, the old longing came back, and, day by day, grew stronger in her heart the wish to know assuredly that the children of her love were as good and happy as they ought to be. had her love been less deep and yearning she might have been more easily content with the tokens of an innocent and happy life visible in their home. if happiness had been, in her estimation, but the enjoyment of genial days and restful nights, with no cares to harass, and only pleasant duties to perform; if the interchange of kindly offices, the little acts of self-denial, the giving up of trifles, the taking cheerfully of the little disappointments, which even their pleasant life was subject to--if these had been to her sufficient tests of goodness, she might have been satisfied with all she saw. but she was not satisfied, for she knew that there are few hearts so shallow as to be filled full with all that such a life of ease could give. she knew that the goodness, that might seem to suffice through these tranquil and pleasant days, could be no defence against the strong temptations that might beset them amid the cares of life. "for," said she to herself, "the burn runs smoothly on over the pebbles in its bed without a break or eddy, till the pebbles change to rocks and stones, and then it brawls, and murmurs, and dashes itself to foam among them-- and no help." she was content with no such evidence of happiness or goodness as lay on the surface of their pleasant life, so she waited, and watched, seeing without seeming to see, many things that less loving eyes might have overlooked. she saw the unquiet light that gleamed at times in graeme's eyes, and the shadow of the cloud that now and then rested on her brow, even in their most mirthful moments. she smiled, as they all did, at the lively sallies, and pretty wilfulness of rose, but she knew full well, that that which made mirth in the loving home circle, might make sorrow for the household darling, when the charm of love was no longer round her. and so she watched them all, seeing in trifles, in chance words and unconscious deeds, signs and tokens for good or for evil, that would never have revealed themselves to one who loved them less. for will she had no fear. he was his father's own son, with his father's work awaiting him. all would be well with will. and for arthur, too, the kind and thoughtful elder brother--the father and brother of the little household, both in one, her hopes were stronger than her doubts or fears. it would have given her a sore heart, indeed, to believe him far from the way in which his father walked. "he has a leaven of worldliness in him, i'll no deny," said she to her husband one night, when they were alone in the privacy of their own apartment. "and there is more desire for wealth in his heart, and for the honour that comes from man, than he himself kens. he'll maybe get them, and maybe no'. but if he gets them, they'll no' satisfy him, and if he gets them not, he'll get something better. i have small fear for the lad. he minds his father's ways and walk too well to be long content with his own halting pace. it's a fine life just now, with folk looking up to him, and patting trust in him, but he'll weary of it. there is nothing in it to fill, for long, the heart of his father's son." and in her quiet waiting and watching, janet grew assured for them all at last. not that they were very wise or good, but her faith that they were kept of god grew stronger every day; and to be ever in god's keeping, meant to this humble, trustful, christian woman, to have all that even her yearning love could crave for her darlings. it left her nothing to fear for them, nothing to wish in their behalf; so she came to be at peace about them all; and gently checked the wilful words and ways of rose, and waited patiently till graeme, of her own accord, should show her the cloud in the shadow of which she sometimes sat. as to fanny, the new claimant for her love and interest, she was for from being overlooked all this time, and the pretty little creature proved a far greater mystery to the shrewd, right-judging friend of the family than seemed at all reasonable. there were times when, had she seen her elsewhere, she would not have hesitated to pronounce her frivolous, vain, overbearing. even now, seeing her loved and cared for, in the midst of the bairns, there were moments when she found herself saying it in her heart. a duller sense, and weaker penetration could not have failed to say the same. but fanny was arthur's wife, and arthur was neither frivolous, nor vain, nor overbearing, but on the contrary, wise, and strong, and gentle, possessing all the virtues that ever had made his father a model in janet's admiring eyes, and it seemed a bold thing, indeed, to think lightly of his wife. so she mused, and pondered, and watched, and put fanny's beautiful face and winning manners, and pretty, affectionate ways, against her very evident defects, and said to herself, though arthur's wife was not like arthur's mother, nor even like his sisters, yet there were varieties of excellence, and surely the young man was better able to be trusted in the choice of a life-long friend than on old woman like her could be; and still she waited and pondered, and, as usual, the results of her musings were given to her attentive husband, and this time with a little impatient sigh. "i needna wonder at it. love is blind, they say, and goes where it is sent, and it is sent far more rarely to wisdom and worth, and humble goodness, than to qualities that are far less deserving of the happiness it brings; and mr arthur is no' above making a mistake. though how he should--minding his mother as he does--amazes me. but he's well pleased, there can be no doubt of that, as yet, and miss graeme is no' ill-pleased, and love wouldna blind her. still i canna but wonder after all is said." and she still wondered. there were in her vocabulary no gentler names for the pretty fanny's defects, than just frivolity and vanity, and even after a glimpse or two of her stepmother, janet's candid, straightforward nature could hardly make for those defects all the allowance that was to be made. she could not realise how impossible it was, that a fashionable education, under such a teacher as mrs grove should have made her daughter other than she was, and so not realising that her worst faults were those of education, which time, and experience, and the circumstances of her life must correct, she had, at times, little hope of fanny's future worth or wisdom. that is, she would have had little hope but for one thing--graeme had faith in fanny, that was clear. love might blind arthur's eyes to her faults, or enlighten them to see virtues invisible to other eyes, but it would not do that for graeme; and graeme was tolerant of fanny, even at times when her little airs and exactions made her not quite agreeable to her husband. she was patient and forbearing towards her faults, and smiled at the little housekeeping airs and assumptions, which rose openly, and even in arthur's presence, never failed to resent. indeed, graeme refused to see fanny's faults, or she refused to acknowledge that she saw them, and treated her always with the respect due to her brother's wife, and the mistress of the house, as, well as with the love and forbearance due to a younger sister. and that fanny, with all her faults and follies, loved and trusted graeme was very evident. there was confidence between them, to a certain extent at any rate, and seeing these things, janet took courage to hope that there was more in the "bonny vain creature" than it was given her to see, and to hope also that arthur might not one day find himself disappointed in his wife. her doubts and hopes on the matter were all silent, or shared only with the worthy deacon, in the solitude of their chamber. she was slow to commit herself to graeme, and graeme was in no haste to ask her friend's opinion of her brother's wife. they had plenty of other subjects to discuss. all their merleville life was gone over and over during these quiet summer days. the talk was not always gay; sometimes it was grave enough, even sad, but it was happy, too, in a way; at any rate they never grew weary of it. and mrs snow had much to tell them about the present state of their old home; how the old people were passing away, and the young people were growing up; how well the minister was remembered there still, and how glad all would be to see the minister's bairns among them again; and then sandy and emily, and the approaching wedding made an endless subject of talk. rose and fanny never wearied of that, and mrs snow was as pleased to tell, as they were to hear. and when rose and fanny were away, as they often were, and graeme was left alone with her friend, there were graver things discussed between them. graeme told her more of their family life, and of their first experiences than she had ever heard before. she told her of her illness, and home-sickness, and of the many misgivings she had had as to whether it had been wise for them all to come to burden arthur. she told her of harry, and her old terrors on his account, and how all these had given place to hope, that was almost certainty now, that she need never fear for him for the same cause more. they rejoiced together over hilda, and norman, and recalled to one another their old pride in the lad when he had saved the little german girl from the terrible fate that had overtaken her family, and smiled at the misgivings they had had when he refused to let her go with the friends who would have taken her. this was all to be rejoiced over now. no doubt the care and pains which norman had needed to bestow on his little adopted sister, had done much to correct the native thoughtlessness of his character, and no doubt her love and care would henceforth make the happiness of his life. so they said to one another with smiles, and not without grateful tears, in view of the overruling love and care visible in all they had to remember of one and all. and will, who seemed to be graeme's own more than either of the other brothers, because she had cared for him, and taught him, and watched over him from the very first, she permitted herself to triumph a little over him, in private with her friend, and janet was nothing loth to hear and triumph too, for in the lad his father lived again to her, and she was not slow to believe in his sister's loving prophecy as to his future. graeme could not conceal, indeed she did not try to conceal, from her friend, how much she feared the parting from him, and though janet chid her for the tears that fell so fast, it was with a gentle tenderness that only quickened their flow. and now and then, in these long talks and frequent silence, janet fancied that she caught a glimpse of the cloud that had cast a shadow over graeme's life, but she was never sure. it was not to be spoken about, however, nothing could be clearer than that. "for a cloud that can be blown away by a friend's word, will lift of itself without help in a while. and if it is no' a cloud of that kind, the fewer words the better. and time heals many a wound that the touch of the kindest hand would hurt sorely. and god is good." but all this was said in janet's secret prayer. not even her husband shared her thoughts about graeme. "what a dismal day it is!" said fanny, as she stood at the window, listening to the wind and watching the fall of the never-ceasing rain. it was dismal. it must have been a dismal day even in the country, where the rain was falling on beautiful green things to their refreshment; and in the city street, out upon which fanny looked, it was worse. now and then a milk cart, or a carriage with the curtains closely drawn, went past; and now and then a foot passenger, doing battle with the wind for the possession of his umbrella; but these did not brighten the scene any. it was dismal within doors, too, fanny thought. it was during the time of mr snow and will's first trip, and arthur had gone away on business, and was not expected home for a day or two, at least. a household of women is not necessarily a dismal affair, even on a rainy day, but a household suddenly deprived of the male element, is apt to become so in those circumstances, unless some domestic business supposed to be most successfully accomplished at such a time is being carried on; and no wonder that fanny wandered from room to room, in an uncomfortable state of mind. graeme and rose were not uncomfortable. rose had a way of putting aside difficult music to be practised on rainy days, and she was apt to become so engrossed in her pleasant occupation, as to take little heed of what was going on about her, and all fanny's exclamations of discontent were lost on her. graeme was writing letters in the back parlour, and mrs snow was supposed to be taking her after-dinner's rest, up-stairs, but she came into the room in time to hear fanny exclaim petulantly,-- "and we were very foolish to have an early dinner. that would have been something to look forward to. and no one can possibly call. even mr green would be better than nobody--or even charlie millar." "these gentlemen would be highly flattered if they heard you," said rose, laughing, as she rose to draw forward the arm-chair, to mrs snow. "are you not tired playing rose," said fanny, fretfully. "by no means. i hope my playing does not disturb you. i think this march is charming. come and try it." "no, i thank you. if the music does not disturb mrs snow, _i_ don't mind it." "i like it," said mrs snow. "the music is cheerful this dull day. though i would like a song better." "by and by you shall have a song. i would just like to go over this two or three times more." "two or three times! two or three hundred times, you mean," said fanny. "there's no end to rose's playing when she begins." then she wandered into the back parlour again. "are you going to write all day, graeme?" "not all day. has mrs snow come down?" asked she, coming forward. "i have been neglecting harry lately, and i have so much to tell him, but i'll soon be done now." "my dear," said mrs snow, "dinna heed me; i have my knitting, and i enjoy the music." "oh! dear! i wish it didn't rain," said fanny. "my dear, the earth was needing it," said mrs snow, by way of saying something, "and it will be beautiful when the rain is over." "i believe graeme likes a rainy day," said fanny. "it is very stupid, i think." "yes, i sometimes like a rainy day. it brings a little leisure, which is agreeable." fanny shrugged her shoulders. "it is rather dismal to-day, however," said graeme. "you look cold with that light dress on, fanny, why don't you go and change it?" "what is the use? i wish arthur were coming home. he might have come, i'm sure." "you may be sure he will not stay longer than he can help," said graeme; turning to her letter again. "and my dear, might you no' take a seam? it would pass the time, if it did nothing else," said mrs snow. but the suggestion was not noticed, and partly because she did not wish to interfere, and partly because she had some curiosity to see how the little lady would get out of her discomfort, mrs snow knitted on in silence. "make something nice for tea," suggested rose, glancing over her shoulder. "that is not necessary _now_," said fanny, shortly. "oh! i only suggested it for your sake--to pass the time," said rose. it lasted a good while longer. it lasted till graeme, catching mrs snow's look, became suddenly aware that their old friend was thinking her own thoughts about "mrs arthur." she rose at once, and shutting her desk, and going to the window where fanny was standing, said with a shiver:-- "it _is_ dismal, indeed. fanny, look at that melancholy cat. she wants to come in, but she is afraid to leave her present shelter. poor wee pussy." "graeme, don't you wish arthur were coming home," said fanny, hanging about her as she had a fashion of doing now and then. "yes, indeed. but we must not tell him so. it would make him vain if he knew how much we missed him. go and change your dress, dear, and we'll have a fire, and an early tea, and a nice little gossip in the firelight, and then we won't miss him so much." "fire!" repeated rose, looking disconsolately at the pretty ornaments of the grate with which she had taken so much pains. "who ever heard of a fire in a grate at this time of the year?" but rose was overruled. they had a fire and an early tea, and then, sitting in the firelight, they had a gossip, too; about many different things. janet told them more than she had ever told them before, of how she had "wearied for them" when they first left merleville, and by and by rose said,-- "but that was all over when sandy came." "it was over before that, for his coming was long delayed, as you'll mind yourselves. i was quite content before that time, but of course it was a great thing to me, the coming of my sandy." "oh! how glad you must have been!" said rose. "i wish i had been there to see. tell us what you said to him, and what he said to you." "i dinna mind what i said to him, or if i said anything at all. and he just said, `well, mother!' with his heartsome smile, and the shine of tears in his bonny blue e'en," said janet, with a laugh that might very easily have changed to a sob; "and oh! bairns, if ever i carried a thankful heart to a throne of grace, i did that night." "and would you have known him?" asked rose, gently. "oh! ay, would i. no' but what he was much changed. i wouldna have _minded_ him, but i would have kenned him anywhere." janet sat silent with a moved face for a little, and then she went on. "i had had many a thought about his coming, and i grew afraid as the time drew near. either, i thought, he winna like my husband, or they winna agree, or he will have forgotten me altogether, and winna find it easy to call me his mother, or he'll disappoint me in some way, i thought. you see i had so set my heart on seeing him, that i was afraid of myself, and it seemed to be more than i could hope that he should be to me all that i desired. but when he came, my fears were set at rest. he is an honest, god fearing lad, my sandy, and i need say nae mair about him." "and so clever, and handsome! and what did mr snow say?" "oh! his heart was carried captive, from the very first, with sandy's heartsome, kindly ways. it made me laugh to myself, many a time, to see them together, and it made me greet whiles, as well. all my fears were rebuked, and it is the burden of my prayers from day to day, that i may have a thankful heart." "and how did sandy like merleville, and all the people?" "oh, he liked them well, you may be sure. it would have been very ungrateful if he had not, they made so much of him--mr and mrs greenleaf, especially, and the merles, and plenty besides. he made himself very useful to mr greenleaf, in many ways, for he is a clever lad, my sandy. it's on his business that he's west now. but he'll soon be home again." "and emily! tell us just what they said to each other at first, and what they thought of each other." "i canna do that, for i wasna there to hear. emily saw my sandy before i saw him myself, as you'll mind i told you before." "and was it love at first sight?" asked fanny. "and did the course of true love for once run smooth," said rose. mrs snow smiled at their eagerness. "as for the love at first sight--it came very soon to my sandy. i am no' sure about emily. as for its running smooth, there was a wee while it was hindered. they had their doubts and fears, as was natural, and their misunderstandings. but, oh! bairns, it was just wonderful to sit by and look at them. i saw their happy troubles coming on before they saw it themselves, i think. it was like a story out of a book, to watch them; or like one of the songs folk used to sing when i was young--the sweet old scottish songs, that are passing out of mind now, i fear. i never saw the two together in our garden, but i thought of the song that begins,--" "ae simmer nicht when blobs o' dew, garred ilka thing look bonny--" "ah! well, god has been good to them, and to us all." "and mr snow was well pleased, of course," said fanny. "pleased is hardly the word for it. he had just set his heart on it from the very first, and i had, whiles, much ado to keep him from seeming to see things and to keep him from putting his hand to help them a wee, which never does, you ken. folk must find out such things for themselves, and the canniest hand may hinder, rather than help, with the very best will. oh ay, he was well pleased." "and it is so nice that they are to be so close beside you. i daresay we shall hardly know our old home, it will be so much improved." "it is improved, but no' beyond your knowledge of it. it was ay a bonny place, you'll mind. and it _is_ improved, doubtless, for her father thinks there is nothing too good for emily." "and oh! bairns, we have a reason to be thankful. if we trust our affairs in god's hand, he'll `bring it to pass,' as he has said. and if we are his, there is no' fear but the very best thing for us will happen in the end." chapter thirty three. "who is is mr green, anyhow?" the question was addressed by mr snow to the company generally, as he paused in his leisurely walk up and down the gallery, and stood leaning his elbow on the window, looking in upon them. his manner might have suggested the idea of some mystery in connection with the name he had mentioned, so slowly and gravely did his eyes travel from one face to another turned toward him. as his question had been addressed to no one in particular, no one answered for a minute. "who is mr green, that i hear tell so much about?" he repeated impressively, fixing will with his eye. "mr green? oh! he is an american merchant from the west," said the literal will, not without a vague idea that the answer, though true and comprehensive, would fail to convey to the inquiring mind of the deacon all the information desired. "he is a green mountain boy. he is the most perfect specimen of a real live yankee ever encountered in these parts,--cool, sharp, far-seeing,--" charlie millar was the speaker, and he was brought up rather suddenly in the midst of his descriptive eloquence by a sudden merry twinkle in the eye of his principal listener; and his confusion was increased by a touch from rose's little hand, intended to remind him that real live yankees were not to be indiscreetly meddled with in the present company. "is that all you can say for your real live yankee, charlie, man?" said arthur, whose seat on the gallery permitted him to hear, but not to see, all that was going on in the room. "why don't you add, he speculates, he whittles, he chews tobacco, he is six feet two in his stockings, he knows the market value of every article and object, animate and inanimate, on the face of the earth, and is a living illustration of the truth of the proverb, that the cents being cared for, no apprehension need be entertained as to the safety of the dollars." "and a living contradiction of all the stale old sayings about the vanity of riches, and their inability to give even a transitory content," said charlie, with laughing defiance at rose. "quite true, charlie," said arthur; "if mr green has ever had any doubts about the almighty dollar being the `ultimate end,' he has nursed or combated his doubts in secret. nothing has transpired to indicate any such wavering of faith." "yes; it is his only standard of worth in all things material and moral," said charlie. "when he enters a room, you can see by his look that he is putting a price on all things in it--the carpet and curtains--the books and pretty things--even the ladies--" "yes," continued arthur; "if he were to come in here just now, it would be--mrs snow worth so much--naming the sum; miss elliott so much more, because she has on a silk gown; mrs elliott more still, because she is somehow or other very spicy, indeed, to-night; he would appreciate details that go beyond me! as for rosie, she would be the most valuable of all, according to his estimate, because of the extraordinary shining things on her head." "the possibility of their being only imitations, might suggest itself," interposed charlie. "yes, to be sure. and imitation or not, they would indicate all the same the young lady's love of finery, and suggest to his acute mind the idea of danger to the purse of her future possessor. no, rosie wouldn't have a chance with him. you needn't frown, rosie, you haven't. whether it is the shining things on your head, or the new watch and chain, or the general weakness in the matter of bonnets that has been developing in your character lately, i can't say, but nothing can be plainer, than the fact that hitherto you have failed to make the smallest impression on him." "a circumstance which cannot fail to give strength to the general impression that he is made of cast iron," said charlie. "arthur, i am shocked and astonished at you," said rose, as soon as she was permitted to speak. "you have forgotten, charlie, how kindly he cared for your brother when he was sick, long ago. and harry says that his hardness and selfishness is more in appearance, than real. he has a very kind heart." "oh! if you come to his heart, miss rose, i can't speak for that. i have never had an opportunity of satisfying myself as to that particular. i didn't know he had one, indeed, and should doubt it now, if we had not harry's authority and yours." "you see, rosie, when it comes to the discussion of hearts, charlie gets beyond his depth. he has nothing to say." "especially tender hearts," said charlie; "i have had a little experience of a flinty article or two of that sort." "charlie, i won't have you two quarrelling," said graeme, laughing. "rose is right. there is just a grain or two of truth in what they have been saying," she added, turning to mr snow. "mr green is a real live yankee, with many valuable and excellent qualities. a little hard perhaps, a little worldly. but you should hear him speak of his mother. you would sympathise with him then, charlie. he told me all about his mother, one evening that i met him at grove house, i think. he told me about the old homestead, and his father's saw-mill, and the log school-house; and his manner of speaking quite raised him, in my opinion. arthur is wrong in saying he cares for nothing but money." "but, who is he?" asked mr snow, with the air of one much interested; his question was this time addressed to fanny, who had seated herself on the window seat close by her husband, and she replied eagerly,-- "oh, he is a rich merchant--ever so rich. he is going to give up business, and travel in europe." "for the improvement of his mind," said arthur. "i don't know what he goes for, but he is very rich, and may do what he likes. he has built the handsomest house in the state, miss smith tells me. oh! he is ever so rich, and he is a bachelor." "i want to know?" said mr snow, accepting fanny's triumphant climax, as she gave it, with great gravity. "he is a great friend of mine, and a great admirer of miss elliott," said mrs grove, with her lips intending that her face should say much more. "do tell?" said mr snow. "a singular and eccentric person you see he must be," said will. "a paradoxical specimen of a live yankee. don't frown, miss rose. mrs grove's statement proves my assertion," said charlie. "if you would like to meet him, mr snow, dine with us on friday," said mrs grove. "i am quite sure you will like and admire each other. i see many points of resemblance between you. well, then, i shall expect you _all_. miss elliott, you will not disappoint me, i hope." "but so large a party! mrs grove, consider how many there are of us," said graeme, who knew as well as though she were speaking aloud, that the lady was saying that same thing to herself, and that she was speculating as to the necessity of enlarging the table. "pray, don't mention it. we are to have no one else. quite a family party. i shall be quite disappointed if i don't see you all. the garden is looking beautifully now." "and one more wouldn't make a bit of difference. miss rose, can't you speak a good word for me," whispered charlie. "thank you," said graeme, in answer to mrs grove. "i have been longing to show mrs snow your garden. i hope the roses are not quite over." "oh, no!" said arthur. "there are any number left; and charlie, man, be sure and bring your flute to waken the echoes of the grove. it will be delightful by moonlight, won't it, rosie?" mrs grove gave a little start of surprise at the liberty taken by arthur. "so unlike him," she thought. mr millar's coming would make the enlargement of the table absolutely necessary. however, she might ask one or two other people whom she ought to have asked before, "and have it over," as she said. so she smiled sweetly, and said,-- "pray do, mr millar. we shall expect you with the rest." charlie would be delighted, and said so. "but the flute," added he to rose. "well, for that agreeable fiction your brother is responsible. and a family party will be indeed charming." dining at grove house was not to any of them the pleasantest of affairs, on those occasions when it was mrs grove's intention to distinguish herself, and astonish other people, by what she called a state dinner. graeme, who was not apt to shirk unpleasant duties, made no secret of her dislike to them, and caught at any excuse to absent herself with an eagerness which fanny declared to be anything but polite. but, sitting at table in full dress, among dull people, for an indefinite length of time, for no good purpose that she had been able to discover, was a sacrifice which neither graeme nor any of the others felt inclined to make often. a dinner _en famille_, however, with the dining-room windows open, and the prospect of a pleasant evening in the garden, was a very different matter. it was not merely endurable, it was delightful. so rose arrayed herself in her pretty pink muslin, and then went to superintend the toilette of mrs snow--that is, she went to arrange the folds of her best black silk, and to insist on her wearing her prettiest cap--in a state of pleasurable excitement that was infectious, and the whole party set off in fine spirits. graeme and rose exchanged doubtful glances as they passed the dining-room windows. there was an ominous display of silver on the sideboard, and the enlargement of the table had been on an extensive scale. "if she has spoiled janet's evening in the garden, by inviting a lot of stupids, it will be too bad," whispered rose. it was not so bad as that, however. of the guests whose visits were to be "put over," on this occasion, only mr proudfute, a very pleasant, harmless gentleman, and fanny's old admirer, captain starr, came. as to making it a state affair, and sitting two or three hours at table, such a thing was not to be thought of. mr snow could eat his dinner even in the most unfavourable circumstances, in a tenth part of that time, and so could mr green, for that matter; so within a reasonable period, the ladies found themselves, not in the drawing-room, but on the lawn, and the gentlemen soon followed. it was the perfection of a summer evening, with neither dust nor insects to be a drawback, with just wind enough to make tremulous the shadows on the lawn, and to waft, from the garden above the house, the odours of a thousand flowers. the garden itself did not surpass, or even equal, in beauty of arrangement, many of the gardens of the neighbourhood; but it was very beautiful in the unaccustomed eyes of mr and mrs snow, and it was with their eyes that graeme looked at it to-night. they left the others on the lawn, the gentlemen--some of them at least--smoking in the shade of the great cedar, and rose and fanny making wreaths of the roses the children were gathering for them. the garden proper was behind the house, and thither they bent their steps, graeme inwardly congratulating herself that she and will were to have the pointing out of its beauties to the friends all to themselves. they did not need to be pointed out to the keen, admiring eyes of mr snow. nothing escaped him, as he walked slowly before them, looking over his shoulder now and then, to remark on something that particularly interested him. mrs snow's gentle exclamations alone broke the silence for some time. she lingered with an interest, which to graeme was quite pathetic, over flowers familiar in her childhood, but strangers to her for many a year. "it minds me of the ebba gardens," said she, after a little. "not that it is like them, except for the flowers. the ebba gardens were on a level, not in terraces like this. you winna mind the ebba gardens, miss graeme." they had reached by this time a summer-house, which commanded a view of the whole garden, and of a beautiful stretch of country beyond, and here they sat down to wait the coming of the others, whose voices they heard below. "no," said graeme, "i was not at the ebba often. but i remember the avenue, and the glimpse of the lake that comes so unexpectedly after the first turning from the gate. i am not sure whether i remember it, or whether it is only fancy; but it must have been very beautiful." "it is only fancy to you, i doubt, for we turned many a time after going in at the gate, before the lake came in sight." "perhaps so. but i don't think it can all be fancy. i am sure i mind the lake, with the swans sailing, on it, and the wee green islets, and the branches of the birch trees drooping down into the water. don't you mind?" "yes, i mind well. it was a bonny place," said janet, with a sigh. "but, what a tiny lake it must have been! i remember we could quite well see the flowers on the other side. it could not have been half so large as merleville pond." "it wasn't hardly worth while calling it a lake, was it?" said mr snow. "it did for want of a bigger, you know," said graeme, laughing. "it made up in beauty what it wanted in size." "it was a bonny spot," said mrs snow. "and the birds! whenever i want to imagine bird music in perfection, i shut my eyes, and think of the birches drooping over the water. i wonder what birds they were that sang there? i have never heard such singing of birds since then." "no, there are no such singing birds here," said mrs snow. "i used to miss the lark's song in the morning, and the evening voices of the cushat and the blackbird. there are no birds like them here." "ain't it just possible that the music may be fancy, too, miss graeme," said mr snow, who did not like to hear the regretful echo in his wife's voice when she spoke of "home." graeme laughed, and mrs snow smiled, for they both understood his feeling very well, and mrs snow said,-- "no, the music of the birds is no fancy, as you might know from sandy. there are no birds like them here; but i have learnt to distinguish many a pleasant note among the american birds--not like our own linties at home, but very sweet and cheerful notwithstanding." "the birds were real birds, and the music was real music. oh! i wonder if i ever shall hear it again!" said graeme, with a sigh. "you will hear it, will, and see the dear old place. oh! how i wish you could take me too." will smiled. "i shall be glad to hear the birds and see the places again. but i don't remember the ebba, or, indeed, any of the old places, except our own house and garden, and your mother's cottage, mrs snow. i mind the last time we were there well." "i mind it, too," said mrs snow, gravely. "and yet, i should be almost sorry to go back again, lest i should have my ideas disturbed by finding places and people different from what i have been fancying them all this time. all those old scenes are so many lovely pictures to me, and it would be sad to go and find them less lovely than they seem to me now. i have read of such things," said graeme. "i wouldna fear anything of that kind," said mrs snow; "i mind them all so well." "do you ever think you would like to go back again?" said will. "would not you like to see the old faces and the old places once more?" "no, lad," said mrs snow, emphatically. "i have no wish ever to go back." "you are afraid of the sea? but the steamers are very different from the old `steadfast'." "i was not thinking of the sea, though i would dread that too. but why should i wish to go back? there are two or three places i would like to see the glen where my mother's cottage stood, and two or three graves. and when i shut my eyes i can see them here. no, i have no wish to go back." there was a moment's silence, and then mrs snow, turning her clear, kind eyes on her husband, over whose face a wistful, expostulating look was stealing, said,-- "i like to think about the dear faces, and the old places, sometimes, and to speak about them with the bairns; it is both sad and pleasant now and then. but i am quite content with all things as they are. i wouldna go back, and i wouldna change my lot if i might. i am quite content." mr snow smiled and nodded in his own peculiar fashion for reply. there could be no doubt of _his_ content, or mrs snow's either, graeme acknowledged, and then her thoughts went back to the time when janet's lot had been so different. she thought of the husband of her youth, and how long the grave had closed over him; she remembered her long years of patient labour in the manse; the bitter home-sickness of the first months in merleville, and all the changes that had come since then. and yet, janet was not changed. she was the very same. the qualities that had made her invaluable to them all those years, made the happiness of her husband and her home still, and after all the changes that life had brought she was content. no one could doubt that. and graeme asked herself, would it ever be so with her? would she ever cease to regret the irrevocable past and learn to grow happy in a new way? she prayed that it might be so. she longed for the tranquil content of those old days before her heart was startled from its girlhood's quiet. how long it seemed since she had been quite at peace with herself! would she ever be so again? it did not seem possible. she tried in vain to fancy herself among other scenes, with other hopes, and friends, and interests. and yet, here was janet, not of a light or changeful nature; how she had loved, and lost, and suffered! and yet she had grown content? "what are you thinking about, graeme?" said will, who, as well as mr snow, had been watching her troubled face, graeme started. "oh! of a great many things. i don't know why it should have come to my mind just now, but i was thinking of a day in merleville, long ago--an indian-summer day. i remember walking about among the fallen leaves, and looking over the pond to the hills beyond, wondering foolishly, i suppose, about what the future might bring to us all. how lovely it was that day!" "and then you came and stood within the gate, and hardly gave me a look as i passed out. i mind it, very well," said mr snow. "i was not friends with you that day. but how should you remember it? how should you know it was that day, of which i was thinking?" "i saw, by your face, you were thinking of old times, and of all the changes that had come to you and yours; and it was on that day you first heard of one of them. that is how i came to think of it." "and then you came into the house, and called me from the foot of the stairs. you werena well pleased with me, either, that day," said mrs snow. "oh! i was afraid; and you spoke to me of aunt marian, and of our own menie, and how there might be sadder changes than even your going away. ah, me! i don't think i have been quite at peace with myself since that night." "miss graeme! my dear," expostulated mrs snow. "no, i have ay been afraid to find myself at peace. but i am glad of one thing, though i did not think that day it would ever make me glad. uncle sampson, did i ever tell you--i am afraid i never did--how glad i am now, that you were stronger than i was, and prevailed--in taking janet from us, i mean?" she was standing behind him, so that he did not see her face. he did not turn round, or try to see it. he looked towards his wife, with a grave smile. "i don't think you ever told me in words." "no, because it is only a little while that i have been really glad; it is only since your coming has made me sure she is happier--far happier with you and emily and sandy, than ever we could make her now; almost as happy as she deserves to be." "i reckon, the happiness ain't all on one side of the house, by a great deal," said mr snow, gravely. "no, i know that--i am sure of that. and i am glad--so glad, that it reconciles me to the knowledge that we can never be quite the same to her as we used to be, and that is saying much." "ain't you most afraid that it might hurt her to hear you say so?" said mr snow, his eyes never leaving his wife's face. they were quite alone by this time. will had obeyed the call of the children, and was gone away. "no, i am not afraid. she knows i would not hurt her willingly, by word or deed, so you must let me say how very glad i am we lost her, for her sake. and when i remember all that she has lived through--all the sorrow she has seen; knowing her steadfast, loving, heart, and how little she is given to change, yet seeing her happy, and with power to make others happy, it gives me courage to look into the future; it makes me less afraid." his eyes left his wife's face now, and turned, with a look of wonder, to graeme. "what is it, dear?" he asked. "is there anything i may not know?" "no. only i am glad for janet's sake, and for yours, and for mine, too, because--" it would not have been easy to say more, and, besides, the others were coming up the walk, and, partly because there were tears in her eyes, and partly because she shrunk nervously from the excessive friendliness with which it seemed to be mrs grove's intention on the occasion to distinguish her, she turned, hoping to escape. she did not succeed, however, and stood still at the door, knowing very well what would be mrs grove's first remark. "ah! i see you have an eye for the beautiful." she had heard her say it just as many times as she had stood with her on that very beautiful spot; and she never expected to stand there without hearing it, certainly not if, as on the present occasion, there were strangers there too. it was varied a little, this time. "you see, mr green, miss elliott has an eye for the beautiful. i knew we should find her here, with her friends." the rest was as usual. "observe how entirely different this is, from all the other views about the place. there is not a glimpse of the river, or of the mountains, except that blue line of hills, very distant indeed. the scene is quite a pastoral one, you see. can you imagine anything more tranquil? it seems the very domain of silence and repose." the last remark was not so effective as usual, because of the noise made by charlie millar and will, and the young groves, as they ran along the broad walk full in sight. "it is a bonny, quiet place," said mrs snow. "the garden is not seen at its best now," continued mrs grove. "the beauty of the spring flowers is over, and except the roses, we have not many summer flowers; we make a better show later in the season." "it looks first-rate," said mr snow. "it costs a great deal of trouble and expense to keep it up as it ought to be kept," continued mrs grove. "i sometimes think it is not right to spend so much time and money for what is a mere gratification to the eye." mrs grove was bent on being agreeable, to all present, and she thought "the economical dodge" was as good as any, considering her audience. "there is something in that," said mr snow, meditatively; "but a place like this ought to be a great deal more than that, i think." "oh! i expect it pays," said mr green. "to people who are fond of such things, i expect there is more pleasure to be got for the same money from a garden than from 'most any other thing." "to say nothing of the pleasure given to other folk--to one's friends," suggested mrs snow. "i was calculating that, too," said mr green. "the pleasure one's friends get tells on one's own comfort; you feel better yourself, if the folks about you feel well, especially if you have the doing of it. _that_ pays." "if we are travelling in the right road, the more we see of the beautiful things god has made, the better and the happier we will be," said mr snow. "it will pay in that way, i guess." he turned an inquiring look on mr green, as he spoke, but that gentleman, probably not being prepared to speak advisedly on the subject, neither agreed nor dissented, and his eyes travelled on till they rested on the face of his wife. "yes," said, she, softly, "the more we see of god's love and wisdom in the beautiful things he has made, the more we shall love him, and in loving him we shall grow like him." mr snow nodded. mr green looked curiously from one to the other as they spoke. "i suppose we may expect something wonderful in the way of gardens and pleasure-grounds, when you have completed your place, mr green," said mrs grove, who did not care that the conversation should take a serious turn on this occasion. she flattered herself that she had already won the confidence and admiration of mr and mrs snow, by her warmly-expressed sympathy with their "rather peculiar" views and opinions. whether mr green would be so fortunate was questionable, so she went on quickly,-- "miss elliott, mr green has been telling me about his place as we come up the garden. it must be very lovely, standing, as it does, on the borders of one of those vast prairies that we all admire." thus appealed to, it was unpardonable in graeme that she should respond to the lady's admiring enthusiasm with only the doubtful assent implied in a hesitating "indeed;" but her enthusiasm was not to be damped. "there must be something grand and elevating in the constant view of a prairie. it must tend to enlarge one's ideas, and satisfy one; don't you think so, miss elliott?" "i don't know," said graeme, hesitatingly. "for a place of residence, i should suppose it might be a little dull, and unvaried." "of course, if there was nothing besides the prairie; but, with such a residence as mr green's--i forget what style of architecture it is." but mr green was not learned on the subject of architecture, and said nothing about it. he only knew that people called his house a very handsome one, and that it had cost him a deal of money, and he said so, emphatically, adding his serious doubts whether the investment would "pay." "oh! you cannot tell yet," said mrs grove. "that will depend altogether on circumstances. it is quite time that you were settling down into a quiet family man. you have been roaming about the world quite long enough. i don't at all approve of the european trip, unless, indeed--" she paused, and looked so exceedingly arch and wise, that mr green looked a little puzzled and foolish by contrast, perhaps. "miss elliott," continued mrs grove, bent on carrying out her laudable intention of drawing graeme into the conversation, "have you quite decided on not accompanying your brother?" "accompanying will? oh! i have never for a moment thought of such a thing. the expense would put it quite out of the question, even if there were no other reasons against it." "indeed, then i must have misunderstood you when i fancied i heard you say how much you would like to go. i thought you longed for a chance to see scotland again." "i daresay you heard me say something of the kind. i should like to visit scotland very much, and other countries, too. and i intend to do so when i have made my fortune," added she, laughing. "or, when some one has made it for you; that would do as well, would it not?" asked mrs grove. "oh, yes! a great deal better. when some one makes my fortune for me, i shall visit europe. i think i may promise that." "have you ever been west, yet, miss elliott? you spoke of going at one time, i remember," said mr green. "never yet. all my travelling has been done at the fireside. i have very much wished to visit my brother norman. i daresay rose and i will find ourselves there some day," added she, turning to mr snow. "unless we keep you in merleville," said he, smiling. "oh! well, i am very willing to be kept there on certain conditions you know." "how do you suppose fanny could ever do without you?" asked mrs grove, reproachfully. "oh! she would miss us, i daresay. but i don't think we are absolutely necessary to her happiness." "of course, she will have to lose you one of these days. we cannot expect that you will devote yourself to your brothers always, i know." "especially as they don't stand in particular need of my devotion," said graeme stiffly, as she offered her arm to mrs snow. "let us walk, again. what can will and the children be doing? something extraordinary, if one may judge by the noise." mrs grove rose to go with them, but lingered a moment behind to remark to mr snow on the exceeding loveliness of miss elliott's disposition and character, her great superiority to young ladies in general, and especially on the devotion so apparent in all her intercourse with her old friend. "and with you, too," she added; "i scarcely can say which she honours most, or on which she most relies for counsel." "there," said she to herself, as she followed the others down the walk, "i have given him an opening, if he only has the sense to use it. one can see what _he_ wants easily enough, and if he knows what is for his advantage he will get the good word of his countryman, and he ought to thank me for the chance." chapter thirty four. why mrs grove thought mr green might need an opening for anything he had to say to mr snow did not appear, as he did not avail himself of it. it was mr snow who spoke first, after a short silence. "going to give up business and settle down. eh?" "i have thought of it. i don't believe i should enjoy life half as well if i did, however." "how much do you enjoy it now?" inquired mr snow. "well, not a great deal, that is a fact; but as well as folks generally do, i reckon. but, after all, i do believe to keep hard to work is about as good a way as any to take comfort in the world." mr green took a many-bladed knife from his pocket, and plucking a twig from the root of a young cedar, began fashioning it into an instrument slender and smooth. "that is about the conclusion i have come to," repeated he; "and i expect i will have to keep to work if i mean to get the good of life." "there are a good many kinds of work to be done in the world," suggested mr snow. mr green gave him a glance curious and inquiring. "well, i suppose there are a good many ways of working in the world, but it all comes to the same thing pretty much, i guess. folks work to get a living, and then to accumulate property. some do it in a large way, and some in a small way, but the end is the same." "suppose you should go to work to spend your money now?" suggested mr snow, again. "well, i've done a little in that way, too, and i have about come to the conclusion that that don't pay as well as the making of it, as far as the comfort it gives. i ain't a very rich man, not near so rich as folks think; but i had got a kind of sick of doing the same thing all the time, and so i thought i would try something else a spell. so i rather drew up, though i ain't out of business yet, by a great deal. i thought i would try and see if i could make a home, so i built. but a house ain't a home--not by a great sight. i have got as handsome a place as anybody need wish to have, but i would rather live in a hotel any day than have the bother of it. i don't more than half believe i shall ever live there long at a time." he paused, and whittled with great earnestness. "it seems a kind of aggravating, now, don't it, when a man has worked hard half his life and more to make property, that he shouldn't be able to enjoy it when he has got it." "what do you suppose is the reason?" asked mr snow, gravely, but with rather a preoccupied air. he was wondering how it was that mr green should have been betrayed into giving his dreary confidences to a comparative stranger. "well, i don't know," replied mr green, meditatively. "i suppose, for one thing, i have been so long in the mill that i can't get out of the old jog easily. i should have begun sooner, or have taken work and pleasure by turns as i went along. i don't take much comfort in what seems to please most folks." there was a pause; mr snow had nothing to say in reply, however, and in a little mr green went on: "i haven't any very near relations; cousins and cousin's children are the nearest. i have helped them some, and would rather do it than not, and they are willing enough to be helped, but they don't seem very near to me. i enjoy well enough going to see them once in a while, but it don't amount to much all they care about me; and, to tell the truth, it ain't much i care about them. if i had a family of my own, it would be different. women folks and young folk enjoy spending money, and i suppose i would have enjoyed seeing them do it. but i have about come to the conclusion that i should have seen to that long ago." without moving or turning his head, he gave his new friend a look out of the corner of his eyes that it might have surprised him a little to see; but mr snow saw nothing at the moment. to wonder as to why this new acquaintance should bestow his confidence on him, was succeeding a feeling of pity for him--a desire to help him--and he was considering the propriety of improving the opportunity given to drop a "word in season" for his benefit. not that he had much confidence in his own skill at this sort of thing. it is to be feared the deacon looked on this way of witnessing for the truth as a cross to be borne rather than as a privilege to be enjoyed. he was readier with good deeds than with good words, and while he hesitated, mr green went on: "how folks can hang round with nothing particular to do is what i can't understand. i never should get used to it, i know. i've made considerable property, and i expect i have enjoyed the making more than i ever shall enjoy the spending of it." "i shouldn't wonder if you had," said mr snow, gravely. "i _have_ thought of going right slap into political life. i might have got into the legislature, time and again; and i don't doubt but i might find my way to congress by spending something handsome. that might be as good a way to let off the steam as any. when a man gets into politics, he don't seem to mind much else. he has got to drive right through. i don't know how well it pays." "in the way of comfort, i'm afraid it _don't_ pay," said mr snow. "i expect not. i don't more than half think it would pay _me_. politics have got to be considerably mixed up in our country. i don't believe i should ever get to see my way clear to go all lengths; and i don't believe it would amount to anything if i could. besides, if a man expects to get very far along in _that_ road, he has got to take a fair start in good season. i learnt to read and cypher in the old log school-house at home, and my mother taught me the catechism on sunday afternoons, and that is about all the book-learning i ever got. i shouldn't hardly have an even chance with some of those college-bred chaps, though there are _some_ things i know as well as the best of them, i reckon. have you ever been out west?" "i was there once a good many years ago. i had a great notion of going to settle there when i was a young man. i am glad i didn't, though." "money ain't to be made there anything like as fast as it used to be," said mr green. "but there is chance enough, if a man has a head for it. i have seen some cool business done there at one time and another." the chances in favour of mr snow's "word in season" were becoming fewer, he saw plainly, as mr green wandered off from his dissatisfaction to the varied remembrances of his business-life; so, with a great effort, he said: "ain't it just possible that your property and the spending of it don't satisfy you because it is not in the nature of such things to give satisfaction?" mr green turned and looked earnestly at him. "well, i have heard so, but i never believed it any more for hearing it said. the folks that say it oftenest don't act as if they believed it themselves. they try as hard for it as any one else, if they are to be judged by their actions. it is all right to say they believe it, i suppose, because it is in the bible, or something like it is." "and you believe it, not because it is in the bible, but because you are learning, by your own experience, every day you live." mr green whistled. "come, now; ain't that going it a little too strong? i never said i didn't expect to enjoy my property. i enjoy it now, after a fashion. if a man ain't going to enjoy his property, what is he to enjoy?" "all that some people enjoy is the making of it. you have done that, you say. there is less pleasure to be got from wealth, even in the most favourable circumstances, than those who haven't got it believe. they who have it find that out, as you are doing. "but i can fancy myself getting all the pleasure i want out of my property, if only some things were different--if i had something else to go with it. other folks seem to take the comfort out of theirs as they go along." "they seem to; but how can you be sure as to the enjoyment they really have? how many of your friends, do you suppose, suspect that you don't get all the satisfaction out of yours that you seem to? do you suppose the lady who was saying so much in praise of your fine place just now, has any idea that it is only a weariness to you?" "i was telling her so as we came along. she says the reason i don't enjoy it is because there is something else that i haven't got, that ought to go along with it and i agreed with her there." again a furtive glance was sent towards mr snow's thoughtful face. he smiled and shook his head. "yes, it is something else you want. it is always something else, and ever will be till the end comes. that something else, if it is ever yours, will bring disappointment with it. it will come as you don't expect it or want it, or it will come too late. there is no good talking. there is nothing in the world that it will do to make a portion of." mr green looked up at him with some curiosity and surprise. this sounded very much like what he used to hear in conference meeting long ago, but he had an idea that such remarks were inappropriate out of meeting, and he wondered a little what could be mr snow's motive for speaking in that way just then. "as to making a portion of it, i don't know about that; but i do know that there is considerable to be got out of money. what can't it get? or rather, i should say, what can be got without it? i don't say that they who have the most of it are always best off, because other things come in to worry them, maybe; but the chances are in favour of the man that has all he wants to spend. you'll never deny that." "that ain't just the way i would put it," said mr snow. "i would say that the man who expects his property to make him happy, will be disappointed. the amount he has got don't matter. it ain't in it to give happiness. i know, partly because i have tried, and it has failed me, and partly because i am told that `a man's life consisteth not in the abundance of the things that he possesseth.' "well, now, if that is so, will you tell me why there ain't one man in ten thousand who believes it, or at least who acts as if he believed it? why is all the world chasing after wealth, as if it were the one thing for body and soul? if money ain't worth having, why hasn't somebody found it out, and set the world right about it before now?" "as to money not being worth the having, i never said that. what i say is, that god never meant that mere wealth should make a man happy. that has been found out times without number; but as to setting the world right about it, i expect that is one of the things that each man must learn by experience. most folks do learn it after a while, in one way or other." "well," said mr green, gravely, "you look as if you believed what you say, and you look as if you enjoyed life pretty well too. if it ain't your property that makes you happy, what is it?" "it ain't my property, _sartain_," said mr snow, with emphasis. "i know i shouldn't be any happier if i had twice as much. and i am sure i shouldn't be less happy if i hadn't half as much; my happiness rests on a surer foundation than anything i have got." he paused, casting about in his thoughts for just the right word to say--something that might be as "a fire and a hammer" to the softening and breaking of that world-hardened heart. "he _does_ look as if he believed what he was saying," mr green was thinking to himself. "it is just possible he might give me a hint. he don't look like a man who don't practise as he preaches." aloud, he said,-- "come, now, go ahead. what has cured one, may help another, you know. give us your idea as to what is a sure foundation for a man's happiness." mr snow looked gravely into his face and said, "blessed is the man who feareth the lord." "blessed is the man whose trust the lord is." "blessed is the man whose transgression is forgiven, whose sin is covered." "blessed is the man to whom the lord imputeth not iniquity, in whose spirit there is no guile." mr green's eye fell before his earnest gaze. it came into his mind that if there was happiness to be found in the world, this man had found it. but it seemed a happiness very far-away from him--quite beyond his reach--something that it would be impossible for him ever to find now. the sound of his mother's voice, softly breaking the stillness of a sabbath afternoon, with some such words as these, came back to him, and just for a moment he realised their unchangeable truth, and for that moment he knew that his life had been a failure. a pang of regret, a longing for another chance, and a sense of the vanity of such a wish, smote on his heart for an instant and then passed away. he rose from his seat, and moved a few paces down the walk, and when he came back he did not sit down again. his cedar twig was smoothed down at both ends to the finest possible point, and after balancing it for a minute on his forefingers, he tossed it over his shoulder, and shutting his knife with a click, put it in his pocket before he spoke. "well, i don't know as i am much better off for that," said he, discontentedly. "i suppose you mean that i ought to get religion. that is no new idea. i have heard _that_ every time i have gone to meeting for the last thirty years, which hasn't been as often as it might have been, but it has been often enough for all the good it has done me." he looked at mr snow as if he expected him to make some sort of a reply, but he was silent. he was thinking how vain any words of his would be to convince him, or to show him a more excellent way. he was thinking of the old time, and of the talk wasted on him by the good people who would fain have helped him. at last he said, gravely: "it wouldn't amount to much, all i could say to you, even if i was good at talking, which i ain't. i can only tell you that i never knew what it was to be satisfied till i got religion, and i have never been discontented since, and i don't believe i ever shall again, let what will happen to me." he paused a moment, and added,-- "i don't suppose anything i could say would help you to see things as i wish you did, if i were to talk all night. talk always falls short of the mark, unless the heart is prepared for it, and then the simplest word is enough. there are none better than the words i gave you a minute ago; and when everything in the world seems to be failing you, just you try what trust in the lord will do." nothing more was said. the sound of approaching footsteps warned them that they were no longer alone, and in a little mrs elliott and rose were seen coming up the walk, followed by arthur and captain starr. they were discussing something that interested them greatly, and their merry voices fell pleasantly on the ear. very pretty both young ladies looked, crowned with the roses they had been weaving into wreaths. the grave look which had settled on mr green's face, passed away as he watched their approach. "pretty creatures, both of them," remarked he. "mrs elliott appears well, don't she? i never saw any one improve so much as she has done in the last two years. i used to think her--well not very superior." "she is a pretty little thing, and good tempered, i think," said mr snow, smiling. "i shouldn't wonder if our folks made something of her, after all. she is in better keeping than she used to be, i guess." "she used to be--well, a little of a flirt, and i don't believe she has forgot all about it yet," said mr green, nodding in the direction of captain starr, with a knowing look. the possibility of a married woman's amusing herself in that way was not among the subjects to which mr snow had given his attention, so he had nothing to say in reply. "and the other one--she understands a little of it, too, i guess." "what, rosie? she is a child. graeme will teach her better than that. she despises such things," said mr snow, warmly. "she don't flirt any herself, does she?" asked mr green, coolly. "miss elliott, i mean." mr snow turned on him astonished eyes. "i don't know as i understand what you mean by flirting. i always supposed it was something wrong, or, at least, something unbecoming in any woman, married or single. graeme ain't one of that sort." mr green shrugged his shoulders incredulously. "oh! as to its being wrong, and so forth, i don't know. they all do it, i guess, in one way or other. i don't suppose miss graeme would go it so strong as that little woman, but i guess she knows how." the voice of rose prevented mr snow's indignant reply. "but, arthur, you are not a disinterested judge. of course you would admire fanny's most, and as for captain starr, he is--" "he is like the ass between two bundles of hay." "nonsense, arthur. fanny, let us ask mr snow," said rose, springing forward, and slightly bending her head. "now, uncle sampson, which is prettiest? i'll leave the decision to you." "uncle sampson" was a very pleasant sound in mr snow's ears, and never more so, than when it came from the lips of rose, and it was with a loving as well as an admiring look that he answered-- "well i can't say which is the prettiest. you are both as pretty as you need to be. if you were as good as you are pretty!" rose pouted, impatient of the laughter which this speech excited. "i mean our wreaths. look, mine is made of these dear little scotch roses, with here and there a moss-rose bud. fanny's, you see, are all open roses, white and damask. now, which is the prettiest?" she took her wreath from her head in her eagerness, and held it up, admiringly. "yours ain't half so pretty as it was a minute ago. i think, now, i should admire mrs elliott's most," said mr green, gravely. they both curtseyed to him. "you see, rosie, mr green has decided in my favour," said fanny, triumphantly. "yes, but not in favour of your wreath. the others thought the same, but i don't mind about that. it is our wreaths i want to know about. let us ask graeme." but graeme did not come alone. the little groves came with her, and will and charlie followed, a rather noisy party. the little girls were delighted, and danced about, exclaiming at the beauty of the flowery crowns; and in a little, miss victoria was wearing that of rose, and imitating the airs and graces of her elder sister in a way that must have encouraged her mother's hopes as to her ultimate success in life. the other begged piteously for fanny's, but she was too well aware of its charming effect on her own head to yield at once to her entreaties, and, in the midst of the laughing confusion that accompanied the carrying of the child's point, graeme and mrs snow, who confessed herself a little tired after her walk, entered the summer-house again. mrs grove and mr proudfute entered with them, and the others disposed, themselves in groups about the door. mr green stood leaning on the door-post looking in upon them. "miss elliott," said mr proudfute, presently, "what has become of you for a long time? i have hardly seen you for years--for a year at least--and we used to meet so often." graeme laughed. "i have seen you a great many times within a year. i am afraid my society doesn't make the impression on you it ought. have you forgotten your new year's visit, and a visit or two besides, to say nothing of chance meetings in the street and in the market?" "oh, but excuse me. i mean we have not met in society. you have been making a hermit of yourself, which is not very kind or very complimentary to your friends, i assure you." "i am very glad to hear you say so," exclaimed mrs grove. "that is a subject on which miss elliott and i never agree--i mean the claims society has upon her. if she makes a hermit of herself, i assure you she is not permitted to do so without remonstrance." "your ideas of a hermit's life differ from those generally held," said graeme, vexed at the personal turn of the conversation, and more vexed still with mrs grove's interference. "what does the ballad say? "`a scrip with fruits and herbs well stored, and water from the spring.' "i am afraid a hermit's life would not suit me." "oh! of course, we are speaking of comparative seclusion," said mrs grove. "still, as ladies are supposed to have a fancy for going to extremes, miss elliott's taste for quietness is the most desirable extreme of the two." the remark was addressed to mr green, who was an interested listener, but mr proudfute answered it. "i am by no means sure of that, my dear madam. i can understand how those who have an opportunity of daily or frequent intercourse with miss elliott should be content to think so; but that she should withdraw herself altogether from society, should not be permitted. what charming parties, i remember, we used to enjoy." "mr proudfute," said graeme, gravely, "look at mrs snow's face. you are conveying to her the idea that, at one time, i was quite given up to the pursuit of pleasure, and she is shocked, and no wonder. now, my own impression is, that i was never very fond of going into society, as you call it. i certainly never met you more than two or three times--at large parties, i mean." mr proudfute bowed low. "well, that shows how profound was the impression which your society made on me, for on looking back i uniformly associate you with all the pleasant assemblies of the season. you went with us to beloeil, did you not?" graeme shook her head. "well, no wonder i forget, it is so long ago, now. you were at mrs roxbury's great affair, were you not? it happened not long before mr elphinstone's death. yes, i remember you were there." "yes, i remember you were kind enough to point out to me the beauties of that wonderful picture, in the little room up-stairs," said graeme, smiling. "yes, you were ill, or slightly unwell, i should say, for you recovered immediately. you were there, mr green, i remember. it was a great affair, given in honour of miss elphinstone and your friend ruthven. by-the-by, miss elliott, they lay themselves open to censure, as well as you. they rarely go out now, i hear." "i am to be censured in good company, it seems," said graeme, laughing. "i suppose you see them often," continued he. "you used to be quite intimate with my pretty cousin--i call her cousin, though we are only distantly connected. she is a very nice little woman." "yes. i believe you used to be very intimate with them both," said mrs grove, "and there has hardly been any intercourse since fanny's marriage. i have often wondered at and regretted it." "have you?" said graeme, coldly. "we have had little intercourse with many old friends since then." "oh! yes, i daresay, but the ruthvens are very different from most of your old friends, and worth the keeping. i must speak to fanny about it." "we saw miss elphinstone often during the first winter after her return. that was the winter that mr proudfute remembers as so gay," said graeme. "did i ever tell you about the beginning of rosie's acquaintance with her, long before that, when she wandered into the garden and saw the gowans?" "yes, dear, you told me about it in a letter," said mrs snow. "i never shall forget the first glimpse i got of that bunch of flowers," said graeme, rather hurriedly. "rose has it yet among her treasures. she must show it you." but mrs grove did not care to hear about rosie's flowers just then, and rather perversely, as graeme thought, reverted to the falling away of their old intimacy with the ruthvens, and to wonder at its cause; and there was something in her tone that made mrs snow turn grave, astonished eyes upon her, and helped graeme to answer very quietly and coldly to her remark: "i can easily see how marriage would do something towards estranging such warm friends, when only one of the parties are interested; but you were very intimate with mr ruthven, as well, were you not?" "oh! yes; more so than with miss elphinstone. mr ruthven is a very old friend of ours. we came over in the same ship together." "i mind him well," interposed mrs snow; "a kindly, well-intentioned lad he seemed to be. miss rose, my dear, i doubt you shouldna be sitting there, on the grass, with the dew falling, nor mrs arthur, either." a movement was made to return to the house. "oh! janet," whispered graeme, "i am afraid you are tired, mind as well as body, after all this foolish talk." "by no means, my dear. it wouldna be very edifying for a continuance, but once in a way it is enjoyable enough. he seems a decent, harmless body, that mr proudfute. i wonder if he is any friend of dr proudfute, of knockie?" "i don't know, indeed," said graeme, laughing; "but if he is a great man, or connected with great folk, i will ask him. it will be an easy way of giving him pleasure." they did not make a long evening of it. mr green was presented by mrs grove with a book of plates, and graeme was beguiled to a side-table to admire them with him. mr proudfute divided his attention between them and the piano, to which rose and fanny had betaken themselves, till at the suggestion of mrs grove, arthur challenged him to a game of chess, which lasted all the evening. mrs grove devoted herself to mrs snow, and surprised her by the significant glances she sent now and then in the direction of graeme and mr green; while mr grove got mr snow into a corner, and enjoyed the satisfaction of pouring out his heart on the harbour question to a new and interested auditor. "rose," said fanny, as they sat together the next day after dinner, "what do you think mamma said to me this morning? shall i tell you?" "if it is anything particularly interesting you may," said rose, in a tone that implied a doubt. "it was about you," said fanny, nodding significantly. "well, the subject is interesting," said rose, "whatever the remark might be." "what is it, fanny?" said arthur. "rose is really very anxious to know, though she pretends to be so indifferent. i daresay it was some appropriate remark's on her flirtation with the gallant captain, last night." "mamma didn't mention captain starr, but she said she had never noticed before that rose was so fond of admiration, and a little inclined to flirt." rose reddened and bit her lips. "i am much obliged to mrs grove, for her good opinion. were there any other appropriate remarks?" "oh! yes; plenty more," said fanny, laughing. "i told mamma it was all nonsense. she used to say the same of me, and i reminded her of it. i told her we all looked upon rose as a child, and that she had no idea of flirting--and such things." "i hope you did not do violence to your conscience when you said it," said arthur, gravely. "of course not. but still when i began to think about it, i could not be quite sure." "set a thief to catch a thief," said her husband. fanny shook her finger at him. "but it wasn't captain starr nor charlie millar mamma meant. it was mr green." the cloud vanished from rosie's face. she laughed and clapped her hands. her brothers laughed, too. "well done, rosie," said arthur. "but from some manoeuvring i observed last night, i was led to believe that mrs grove had other views for the gentleman." "so she had," said fanny, eagerly. "and she says rose may spoil all if she divides his attention. it is just what a man of his years is likely to do, mamma says, to fall in love with a young girl like rosie, and graeme is so much more suitable. but i told mamma graeme would never have him." "allow me to say, fanny, that i think you might find some more suitable subject for discussion with mrs grove," said rose, indignantly. arthur laughed. "you ought to be very thankful for the kind interest taken in your welfare, and for graeme's, too. i am sure mr green would be highly flattered if he could be aware of the sensation he is creating among us." "mr green admires graeme very much, he told mamma; and mamma says he would have proposed to her, when he was here before, if it had not been for mr ruthven. you know he was very intimate here then, and everybody said he and graeme were engaged. mamma says it was a great pity he did not. it would have prevented the remarks of ill-natured people when mr ruthven was married--about graeme, i mean." "it is be hoped no one will be ill-natured enough to repeat anything of that sort in graeme's hearing," said arthur, very much annoyed. "oh! don't be alarmed. graeme is too well accustomed by this time, to mrs grove's impertinences, to allow anything she says to trouble her," said rose, with flashing eyes. mrs snow's hand was laid softly on that of the young girl, who had risen in her indignation. "sit down, my dear," she whispered. "nonsense, rosie," said her brother; "there is nothing to be vexed about. how can you be so foolish?" "indeed," said fanny, a little frightened at the excitement she had raised, "mamma didn't mean anything that you wouldn't like. she only thought--" "we had better say nothing more about it," said arthur, interrupting her. "i dare say graeme can manage her own affairs without help from other people. but there is nothing to be vexed about, rosie. don't put on a face like that about it, you foolish lassie." "what is the matter here, good people?" said graeme, entering at the moment. "what are you quarrelling about? what ails rosie?" "oh! mrs grove has been giving her some good advice, which she don't receive so meekly as she might," said arthur. "that is very ungrateful of you, rosie," said her sister. mrs grove's interference didn't seem a sufficient matter to frown about. "how is she now, my dear?" inquired mrs snow, by way of changing the subject. _she_ was mrs tilman, who had of late become subject to sudden attacks of illness, "not dangerous, but severe," as she herself declared. they had become rather frequent, but as they generally came on at night, and were over before morning, so that they did not specially interfere with her work, they were not alarming to the rest of the household. indeed, they seldom heard of them till they were over; for the considerate mrs tilman was wont to insist to sarah, that the ladies should not be disturbed on her account. but sarah had become a little uncomfortable, and had confessed as much to graeme, and graeme desired to be told the next time she was ill, and so it happened that she was not present when a subject so interesting to herself was discussed. "is mrs tilman ill again?" asked fanny. "how annoying! she is not very ill, i hope." "no," said graeme, quietly; "she will be better to-morrow." that night, in the retirement of their chamber, mr and mrs snow were in no haste to begin, as was their custom, the comparing of notes over the events of the day. this was usually the way when anything not very pleasant had occurred, or when anything had had been said that it was not agreeable to recall. it was mr snow who began the conversation. "well, what do you think of all that talk?" asked he, when his wife sat down, after a rather protracted putting away of various articles in boxes and drawers. "oh! i think little of it--just what i have ay thought--that yon is a meddlesome, short-sighted woman. it is a pity her daughter hasna the sense to see it." "oh! i don't think the little thing meant any harm. but rosie flared right up, didn't she?" "i shouldna wonder but her conscience told her there was some truth in the accusation--about her love of admiration, i mean. but mrs arthur is not the one that should throw stones at her for that, i'm thinking." "but about graeme! she will never marry that man, will she?" "he'll never ask her," said mrs snow, shortly. "at least i think he never will." "well, i don't know. it looked a little like it, last night and come to think of it, he talked a little like it, too." "he is no' the man to ask any woman, till he is sure he will not ask in vain. he may, but i dinna think it." "well, perhaps not. of course, i could see last night, that it was all fixed, their being together. but i thought she stood it pretty well, better than she would if she hadn't liked it." "hoot, man! she thought nothing about it. her thoughts were far enough from him, and his likes, and dislikes," said mrs snow, with a sigh. "as a general thing, girls are quick enough to find out when a man cares for them, and he showed it plainly to me. i guess she mistrusts." "no, a woman kens when a man his lost his heart to her. he lets her see it in many ways, when he has no thought of doing so. but a woman is not likely to know it, when a man without love wishes to marry her, till he tells her in words. and what heart has twenty years cheat'ry of his fellow men left to yon man, that my bairn should waste a thought on a worldling like him?" mr snow was silent. his wife's tone betrayed to him that something was troubling her, or he would have ventured a word in his new friend's defence. not that he was inclined to plead mr green's cause with graeme, but he could not help feeling a little compassion for him, and he said: "well, i suppose i feel inclined to take his part, because he makes me think of what i was myself once, and that not so long ago." the look that mrs snow turned upon her husband was one of indignant astonishment. "like you! you dry stick!" "well, ain't he? you used to think me a pretty hard case. now, didn't you?" "i'm no' going to tell you to-night what i used to think of you," said his wife, more mildly. "i never saw you on the day when you didna think more of other folks' comfort than you thought of your own, and that couldna be said of him, this many a year and day. he is not a fit mate for my bairn." "well--no, he ain't. he ain't a christian, and that is the first thing she would consider. but he ain't satisfied with himself, and if anybody in the world could bring him to be what he ought to be, she is the one." and he repeated the conversation that had taken place when they were left alone in the summer-house. "but being dissatisfied with himself, is very far from being a changed man, and that work must be done by a greater than graeme. and besides, if he were a changed man to-night, he is no' the man to win miss graeme's heart, and he'll no ask her. he is far more like to ask rosie; for i doubt she is not beyond leading him on for her own amusement." "oh! come now, ain't you a little too hard on rosie," said mr snow, expostulatingly. he could not bear that his pet should be found fault with. "i call _that_ as cruel a thing as a woman can do, and rosie would never do it, i hope." "not with a conscious desire to give pain. but she is a bonny creature, and she is learning her own power, as they all do sooner or later; and few make so good a use of such power as they might do;" and mrs snow sighed. "you don't think there is anything in what mrs grove said about graeme and her friend i have heard so much about?" asked mr snow, after a pause. "i dinna ken. i would believe it none the readier that yon foolish woman said it." "she seems kind of down, though, these days, don't she? she's graver and quieter than she used to be," said mr snow, with some hesitation. he was not sure how his remark would be taken. "oh! well, maybe. she's older for one thing," said his wife, gravely. "and she has her cares; some of them i see plainly enough, and some of them, i daresay, she keeps out of sight. but as for allan ruthven, it's not for one woman to say of another that, she has given her heart unsought. and i am sure of her, that whatever befalls her, she is one of those that need fear no evil." chapter thirty five. "it is a wonder to me, miss graeme," said mrs snow, after one of their long talks about old times--"it is a wonder to me, that minding merleville and all your friends there as well as you do, you should never have thought it worth your while to come back and see us." "worth our while!" repeated graeme. "it was not indifference that hindered us, you may be sure of that. i wonder, myself, how it is we have never gone back again. when we first came here, how will, and rosie, and i, used to plan and dream about it! i may confess, now, how very homesick we all were--how we longed for you. but, at first, the expense would have been something to consider, you know; and afterwards, other things happened to prevent us. we were very near going once or twice." "and when was that?" asked mrs snow, seemingly intent on her knitting, but all the time aware that the old shadow was hovering over graeme. she did not answer immediately. "once was with norman and hilda. oh! i did so long to go with them! i had almost made up my mind to go, and leave rosie at home. i was glad i didn't, afterward." "and why did you not?" demanded her friend. "for one thing, we had been away a long time in the summer, and i did not like to leave home again; arthur did not encourage me to go. it was on the very night that norman went away that arthur told me of his engagement." "i daresay you did right to bide at home, then." "yes, i knew it was best, but that did not prevent me wishing very much to go. i had the greatest desire to go to you. i had no one to speak to. i daresay it would not have seemed half so bad, if i could have told you all about it." "my dear, you had your sister." "yes, but rosie was as bad as i was. it seemed like the breaking up of all things. i know now, how wrong and foolish i was, but i could not help being wretched then." "it was a great change, certainly, and i dinna wonder that the prospect startled you." mrs snow spoke very quietly; she was anxious to hear more; and forgetting her prudence in the pleasure it gave her to unburden her heart to her friend, graeme went on rapidly,-- "if it only had been any one else, i thought. we didn't know fanny very well, then--hardly at all, indeed, and she seemed such a vain, frivolous little thing, so different from what i thought arthur's wife should be; and i disliked her stepmother so much more than i ever disliked any one, i think, except perhaps mrs page, when we first came to merleville. do you mind her first visit with mrs merle, janet?" "i mind it well," said mrs snow, smiling. "she was no favourite of mine. i daresay i was too hard on her sometimes." graeme laughed at the remembrance of the "downsettings" which "the smith's wife" had experienced at janet's hands in those early days. the pause gave her time to think, and she hastened to turn the conversation from arthur and his marriage to merleville and the old times. janet did not try to hinder it, and answered her questions, and volunteered some new items on the theme, but when there came a pause, she asked quietly,-- "and when was the other time you thought of coming to see us all?" "oh! that was before, in the spring. arthur proposed that we should go to merleville, but we went to the seaside, you know. it was on my account; i was ill, and the doctor said the sea-breeze was what i needed." "the breezes among our hills would have been as good for you, i daresay. i wonder you didn't come then." "oh! i could not bear the thought of going then. i was ill, and good for nothing. it would have been no pleasure for any one to see me then. i think i should hardly have cared to go away anywhere, if arthur had not insisted, and the doctor too." unconsciously graeme yielded to the impulse to say to her friend just what was in her heart. "but what ailed you?" asked mrs snow, looking up with astonished eyes, that reminded graeme there were some things that could not be told even to her friend. "what ailed you?" repeated mrs snow. "i can't tell you. an attack of the nerves, nelly called it, and she was partly right. i was tired. it was just after will's long illness, and harry's going away, and other things." "i daresay you were weary and sorrowful, too, and no wonder," said mrs snow, tenderly. "yes, about harry. i was very anxious. there were some doubts about his going, for a while. mr ruthven hesitated, and harry chafed and vexed himself and me, too, poor laddie; but we got through that time at last," added graeme, with a great sigh. "did mr ruthven ken of harry's temptation? was it for that he hesitated?" asked mrs snow. "i cannot say. oh! yes, he knew, or he suspected. but i don't think he hesitated altogether because of that. as soon as he knew that we were quite willing--arthur and i--he decided at once. mr ruthven was very kind and considerate through it all." "miss graeme, my dear," said mrs snow, with some hesitation, "did you ever think there was anything between your brother harry and his master's daughter--the young lady that allan ruthven married--or was it only sandy's fancy?" graeme's face grew white as she turned her startled eyes on her friend. "sandy! did he see it? i did not think about it at the time; but afterward i knew it, and, oh! janet, you cannot think how it added to my wretchedness about harry." "my bairn! there have been some rough bits on the road you have been travelling. no wonder your feet get weary, whiles." graeme rose, and, without speaking, came and laid her head upon her friend's lap. in a little she said,-- "how i longed for this place! i had no one to speak to. i used to think you might have helped and comforted me a little." she did not try to hide her tears; but they did not flow long. janet's kind hand had not lost its old soothing power, and by and by graeme raised herself up, and, wiping away her tears, said, with a faint smile,-- "and so sandy saw poor harry's secret? i did not, at first. i suppose little emily had sharpened his eyes to see such things, even then." "yes, sandy saw it, and it was a great surprise to us all when there came word of her marriage. sandy never thought of allan ruthven and his cousin coming together." graeme rose and took her work again. it was growing dark, and she carried it to the window and bent over it. "was it for her money--or why was it?" "oh! no. i never could think so. she was a very sweet and lovely creature; we loved her dearly, rose and i. they had been engaged a long time, i believe, though the marriage was sudden at last. that was because of her father's illness. he died soon after, you remember." "yes, i remember. well, i didna think that allan ruthven was one to let the world get a firm grip of him. but folk change. i didna ken." "oh! no, it was not that," said graeme, eagerly. "indeed, at that time mr elphinstone's affairs were rather involved. he had met with great losses, harry says, and arthur thought that nothing but mr ruthven's high character and great business talents could have saved the firm from ruin. oh! no; it was not for money." "well, my dear, i am glad to hear you say it. i am glad that allan ruthven hasna changed. i think you said he hasna changed?" "at first i thought him changed, but afterwards i thought him just the same." "maybe it was her that wanted the money? if her father was in trouble--" "no, oh! no! you could never have such a thought if you had ever seen her face. i don't know how it happened. as all marriages happen, i suppose. it was very natural; but we won't speak about it." "they seem to have forgotten their friends. i think you said you seldom see them now." "we don't see them often. they have been out of town a good deal, and we have fallen a little out of acquaintance. but we have done that with many others; we have made so many new acquaintances since arthur's marriage--friends of fanny's, you know; and, somehow, nothing seems quite the same as it used to do. if mr ruthven knew you were in town, i am sure he would have been to see you before now." "i am no' wearying to see him," said mrs snow, coldly. "but, my dear, is your work of more value than your eyes, that you are keeping at it in the dark?" graeme laughed and laid it down, but did not leave the window, and soon it grew so dark that she had no excuse for looking out. so she began to move about the room, busying herself with putting away her work, and the books and papers that were scattered about. janet watched her silently. the shadow was dark on her face, and her movements, as she displaced and arranged and re-arranged the trifles on the table were quick and restless. when there seemed nothing more for her to do, she stood still with an uneasy look on her face, as though she thought her friend were watching her, and then moved to the other end of the room. "my dear," said mrs snow, in a little, "how old are you now?" graeme laughed, and came and took her old seat. "oh! janet, you must not ask. i have come to the point when ladies don't like to answer that question, as you might very well know, if you would stop to consider a minute." "and what point may that be, if i may ask?" "oh! it is not to be told. do you know fanny begins to shake her head over me, and to call me an old maid." "ay! that is ay the way with these young wives," said janet, scornfully. "there must be near ten years between you and rose." "yes, quite ten years, and she is almost a woman--past sixteen. i _am_ growing old." "what a wee white rose she was, when she first fell to your care, dear. who would have thought then that she would ever have grown to be the bonny creature she is to-day?" "is she not lovely? and not vain or spoiled, though it would be no wonder if she were, she is so much admired. do you mind what a cankered wee fairy she used to be?" "i mind well the patience that never wearied of her, even at the worst of times," said mrs snow, laying her hand tenderly on graeme's bowed head. "i was weary and impatient often. what a long time it is since those days, and yet it seems like yesterday." and graeme sighed. "were you sighing because so many of your years lie behind you, my bairn?" said mrs snow, softly. "no, rather because so many of them lie before me," said graeme, slowly. "unless, indeed, they may have more to show than the years that are past." "we may all say that, dear," said mrs snow, gravely. "none of us have done all that we might have done. but, my bairn, such dreary words are not natural from young lips, and the years before you may be few. you may not have time to grow weary of them." "that is true," said graeme. "and i ought not to grow weary, be they many or few." there was a long pause, broken at last by graeme. "janet," said she, "do you think i could keep a school?" "a school," repeated mrs snow. "oh, ay, i daresay you could, if you put your mind to it. what would binder you? it would depend some on what kind of a school it was, too, i daresay." "you know, teaching is almost the only thing a woman can do to earn a livelihood. it is the only thing i could do. i don't mean that i could take charge of a school; i am afraid i am hardly fit for that. but i could teach classes. i know french well, and music, and german a little." "my dear," said mrs snow, gravely, "what has put such a thought in your head? have you spoken to your brother about it? what does he say?" "to arthur? no, i haven't spoken to him. he wouldn't like the idea at first, i suppose; but if it were best, he would reconcile himself to it in time." "you speak about getting your livelihood. is there any need for it? i mean, is there more need than there has been? is not your brother able, and willing--" "oh! yes, it is not that i don't know. our expenses are greater than they used to be--double, indeed. but there is enough, i suppose. it is not that--at least it is not that only, or chiefly." "what is it then, dear child?" asked her friend. but graeme could not answer at the moment. there were many reasons why she should not continue to live her present unsatisfying life, and yet she did not know how to tell her friend. they were all plain enough to her, but some of them she could not put in words for the hearing of janet, even. she had been saying to herself, all along, that it was natural, and not wrong for her to grow tired of her useless, aimless life, and to long for earnest, bracing work, such as many a woman she could name was toiling bravely at. but with janet's kind hand on her head, and her calm, clear eyes looking down upon her face, she was constrained to acknowledge that, but for one thing, this restless discontent might never have found her. to herself she was willing to confess it. long ago she had looked her sorrow in the face, and said, "with god's help i can bear it." she declared to herself that it was well to be roused from sloth, even by a great sorrow, so that she could find work to do. but, that janet should look upon her with pitying or reproving eyes, she could not bear to think; so she sat at her feet, having no power to open her lips, never thinking that by her silence, and by the unquiet light in her downcast eyes, more was revealed to her faithful old friend than spoken words could have told. "what is it my dear?" said mrs snow. "is it pride or discontent, or is it something worse?" graeme laughed a little bitterly. "can anything be worse than these?" "is it that your brother is wearying of you?" "no, no! i could not do him the wrong to think that. it would grieve him to lose us, i know. even when he thought it was for my happiness to go away, the thought of parting gave him pain." "and you have more sense than to let the airs and nonsense of his bairn-wife vex you?" graeme was silent a moment. she did not care to enter upon the subject of arthur's wife just at this time. "i don't think you quite understand fanny, janet," said she, hesitating. "weel, dear, maybe no. the bairns that i have had to deal with have not been of her kind. i have had no experience of the like of her." "but what i mean is that her faults are such as every one can see at a glance, and she has many sweet and lovable qualities. i love her dearly. and, janet, i don't think it is quite kind in you to think that i grudge fanny her proper place in her own house. i only wish that--" "you only wish that she were as able to fill it with credit, as you are willing to let her. i wish that, too. and i am very far from thinking that you grudge her anything that she ought to have." "oh! janet," said graeme, with a sigh, "i shall never be able to make you understand." "you might try, however. you havena tried yet," said janet, gently. "it is not that you are growing too proud to eat bread of your brother's winning, is it?" "i don't think it is pride. i know that arthur considers that what belongs to him belongs to us all. but, even when that is true, it may be better, for many reasons, that i should eat bread of my own winning than of his. everybody has something to do in the world. even rich ladies have their houses to keep, and their families to care for, and the claims of society to satisfy, and all that. an idle life like mine is not natural nor right. no wonder that i weary of it. i ought not to be idle." "idle! i should lay that imputation at the door of anybody in the house rather than at yours. you used to be over fond of idle dreaming, but i see none of it now. you are ay busy at something." "yes, busy about something," repeated graeme, a little scornfully. "but about things that might as well be left undone, or that another might do as well." "and i daresay some one could be found to do the work of the best and the busiest of us, if we werena able to do it. but that is no' to say but we may be working to some purpose in the world for all that. but it is no' agreeable to do other folks' work, and let them get the wages, i'll allow." "will said something like that to me once, and it is possible that i may have some despicable feeling of that sort, since you and he seem to think it," said graeme, and her voice took a grieved and desponding tone. "my dear, i am bringing no such accusation against you. i am only saying that the like of that is not agreeable, and it is not profitable to anybody concerned. i daresay mrs arthur fancies that it is her, and no' you that keeps the house in a state of perfection that it is a pleasure to see. she persuades her husband of it, at any rate." "fanny does not mean--she does not know much about it. but that is one more reason why i ought to go. she ought to have the responsibility, as well as to fancy that she has it; and they would get used to being without us in time." "miss graeme, my dear, i think i must have told you what your father said to me after his first attack of illness, when he thought, maybe, the end wasna far-away." "about our all staying together while we could. yes, you told me." "yes, love, and how he trusted in you, that you would always be, to your brothers and rose, all that your mother would have been if she had been spared; and how sure he was that you would ever think less of yourself than of them. my dear, it should not be a light thing that would make you give up the trust your father left to you." "but, janet, it is so different now. when we first came here, the thought that my father wished us to keep together made me willing and glad to stay, even when arthur had to struggle hard to make the ends meet. i knew it was better for him and for harry, as well as for us. but it is different now. arthur has no need of us, and would soon content himself without us, though he may think he would not; and it may be years before this can be will's home again. it may never be his home, nor harry's either." "my dear, it will be harry's home, and will's, too, while it is yours. their hearts will ay turn to it as home, and they wouldna do so if you were only coming and going. and as for mr arthur, miss graeme, i put it to yourself, if he were left alone with that bonny, wee wife of his, would his home be to him what it is now? would the companionship of yon bairn suffice for his happiness?" "it ought to do so. a man's wife ought to be to him more than all the rest of the world, when it is written, `a man shall leave all, and cleave to his wife.' married people ought to suffice for one another." "well, it may be. and if you were leaving your brother's house for a house of your own, or if you were coming with us, as my husband seems to have set his heart on, i would think it different. not that i am sure of it myself, much as it would delight me to have you. for your brother needs you, and your bonny new sister needs you. have patience with her, and with yourself, and you will make something of her in time. she loves you dearly, though she is not at all times very considerate of you." graeme was silent. what could she say after this, to prove that she could not stay, that she must go away. where could she turn now? she rose with a sigh. "it is growing dark. i will get a light. but, janet, you must let me say one thing. you are not to think it is because of fanny that i want to go away. at first, i was unhappy--i may say so, now that it is all over. it was less for myself and rose than for arthur. i didn't think fanny good enough for him. and then, everything was so different, for a while it seemed impossible for me to stay. fanny was not so considerate as she might have been, about our old friends, and about household affairs, and about nelly, and all that. arthur saw nothing, and rosie got vexed sometimes. will preached patience to us both; you know, gentlemen cannot understand many things that may be vexatious to us; and we were very uncomfortable for a while. i don't think fanny was so much to blame; but her mother seemed to fancy that the new mistress of the house was not to be allowed to have her place without a struggle. arthur saw nothing wrong. it was laughable, and irritating, too, sometimes, to see how blind he was. but it was far better he did not. i can see that now." "well, we went on in this way a while. i daresay a good deal of it was my fault. i think i was patient and forbearing, and i am quite sure i gave fanny her own place from the very first. but i was not cheerful, partly because of the changes, and all these little things, and partly for other reasons. and i am not demonstrative in my friendliness, like rosie, you know. fanny soon came to be quite frank and nice with rosie, and, by and by, with me too. and now, everything goes on just as it ought with us. there is no coldness between us, and you must not think there is, or that it is because of fanny i must go away." she paused, and began to arrange the lamp. "never mind the light, dear, unless your work canna be left," said mrs snow; and in a little graeme came and sat down again. "and about fanny's not being good enough for arthur," she went on. "if people really love one another, other things don't seem to make so much difference. arthur is contented. and janet, i don't think i am altogether selfish in my wish to go away. it is not entirely for my own sake. i think it would be better, for them both to be left to each other for a little while. if fanny has faults, it is better that arthur should know them for the sake of both--that he may learn to have patience with them, and that she may learn to correct them. it is partly for them, as well as for rose and me. for myself, i must have a change." "you didna use to weary for changes. what is the reason now? you may tell me, dear, surely. there can be no reason that i may not know?" janet spoke softly, and laid her hand lovingly on that of graeme. "oh! i don't know: i cannot tell you," she cried, with a sudden movement away from her friend. "the very spirit of unrest seems to have gotten possession of me. i am tired doing nothing, i suppose. i want real earnest work to do, and have it i will." she rose hastily, but sat down again. "and so you think you would like to keep a school?" said mrs snow, quietly. "oh! i don't know. i only said that, because i did not know what else i could do. it would be work." "ay. school-keeping is said to be hard work, and thankless, often. and i daresay it is no better than it is called. but, my dear, if it is the work you want, and not the wages, surely among the thousands of this great town, you might find something to do, some work for the lord, and for his people. have you never thought about working in that way, dear?" graeme had thought of it many a time. often had she grieved over the neglected little ones, looking out upon her from narrow lanes and alleys, with pale faces, and great hungry eyes. often had the fainting hearts of toilers in the wretched places of the city been sustained and comforted by her kind words and her alms-deeds. there were many humble dwellings within sight of her home, where her face came like sunlight, and her voice like music. but these were the pleasures of her life, enjoyed in secret. this was not the work that was to make her life worthy, the work for god and man that was to fill the void in her life, and still the pain in her heart. so she only said, quietly,-- "it is not much that one can do. and, indeed, i have little time that is not occupied with something that cannot be neglected, though it can hardly be called work. i cannot tell you, but what with the little things to be cared for at home, the visits to be made, and engagements of one kind or other, little time is left. i don't know how i could make it otherwise. my time is not at my own disposal." mrs snow assented, and graeme went on. "i suppose i might do more of that sort of work--caring for poor people, i mean, by joining societies, and getting myself put on committees, and all that sort of thing, but i don't think i am suited for it, and there are plenty who like it. however, i daresay, that is a mere excuse. don't you mind, janet, how mrs page used to labour with me about the sewing meetings." "yes, i mind," said mrs snow, with the air of one who was thinking of something else. in a little she said, hesitatingly: "miss graeme, my dear, you speak as though there were nothing between living in your brother's house, and keeping a school. have you never glanced at the possibility that sometime you may have a house of your own to keep." graeme laughed. "will said that to me once. yes, i have thought about it. but the possibility is such a slight one, that it is hardly worth while to take it into account in making plans for the future." "and wherefore not?" demanded mrs snow. "wherefore not?" echoed graeme. "i can only say, that here i am at six and twenty; and the probabilities as to marriage don't usually increase with the years, after that. fanny's fears on my account have some foundation. janet, do you mind the song foolish jean used to sing? "`the lads that cast a glance at me i dinna care to see, and the lads that i would look at winna look at me.' "well, dear, you mustna be angry though i say it, but you may be ower ill to please. i told you that before, you'll mind." "oh! yes, i mind. but i convinced you of your error. indeed, i look upon myself as an object for commiseration rather than blame; so you mustna look cross, and you mustna look too pitiful either, for i am going to prove to you and fanny and all the rest that an old maid is, by no means, an object of pity. quite the contrary." "but, my dear, it seems strange-like, and not quite right for you to be setting your face against what is plainly ordained as woman's lot. it is no' ay an easy or a pleasant one, as many a poor woman kens to her sorrow; but--" "but, janet, you are mistaken. i am not setting my face against anything; but why should you blame me for what i canna help? and, besides, it is not ordained that every woman should marry. they say married-life is happier, and all that; but a woman may be happy and useful, too, in a single life, even if the higher happiness be denied her." "but, my dear, what ailed you at him you sent away the other week--him that rosie was telling me of?" "rosie had little to do telling you anything of the kind. nothing particular ailed me at him. i liked him very well till--. but we won't speak of it." "was he not good enough? he was a christian man, and well off, and well-looking. what said your brother to your refusal?" persisted janet. "oh! he said nothing. what could he say? he would have known nothing about it if i had had my will. a woman must decide these things for herself. i did what i thought right. i could not have done otherwise." "but, my love, you should consider--" "janet, i did consider. i considered so long that i came very near doing a wrong thing. because he was arthur's friend, and because it seems to be woman's lot, and in the common course of things, and because i was restless and discontented, and not at peace with myself, and nothing seemed to matter to me, i was very near saying `yes,' and going with him, though i cared no more for him than for half a dozen others whom you have seen here. what do you think of that for consideration?" "that would have been a great wrong both to him and to yourself. i canna think you would ever be so sinful as to give the hand where the heart is withheld. but, my dear, you might mistake. there are more kinds of love than one; at least there are many manifestations of true love; and, at your age, you are no' to expect to have your heart and fancy taken utterly captive by any man. you have too much sense for the like of that." "have i?" said graeme. "i ought to have at my age." it was growing quite dark--too dark for mrs snow to see graeme's troubled face; but she knew that it was troubled by the sound of her voice, by the weary posture into which she drooped, and by many another token. "my dear," said her friend, earnestly, "the wild carrying away of the fancy, that it is growing the fashion to call love, is not to be desired at any age. i am not denying that it comes in youth with great power and sweetness, as it came to your father and mother, as i mind well, and as you have heard yourself. but it doesna always bring happiness. the lord is kind, and cares for those who rush blindly to their fate; but to many a one such wild captivity of heart is but the forerunner of bitter pain, for which there is no help but just to `thole it,' as they say." she paused a moment, but graeme did not, by the movement of a finger, indicate that she had anything to say in reply. "mutual respect, and the quiet esteem that one friend gives to another who is worthy, is a far surer foundation for a lifetime of happiness to those who have the fear of god before their eyes, and it is just possible, my dear, that you may have been mistaken." "it is just possible, and it is too late now, you see, janet. but i'll keep all you have been saying in mind, and it may stand me in stead for another time, you ken." she spoke lightly, but there was in her voice an echo of bitterness and pain that her friend could not bear to hear; and when she raised herself up to go away, as though there were nothing more to be said, janet laid her hand lightly but firmly on her shoulder, and said,-- "my dear, you are not to be vexed with what i have said. do you think i can have any wish but to see you useful and happy? you surely dinna doubt me, dear?" "i am not vexed, janet," said she. "and who could i trust if i doubted you?" "and you are not to think that i am meaning any disrespect to your new sister, if i say it is no wonder that i dinna find you quite content here. and when i think of the home that your mother made so happy, i canna but wish to see you in a home of your own." "but happiness is not the only thing to be desired in this world," graeme forced herself to say. "no, love, nor the chief thing--that is true," said mrs snow. "and even if it were," continued graeme, "there is more than one way to look for happiness. it seems to me the chances of happiness are not so unequal in single and married-life as is generally supposed." "you mayna be the best judge of that," said mrs snow, gravely. "no, i suppose not," said graeme, with a laugh. "but i have no patience with the nonsense that is talked about old maids. why! it seems to be thought if a woman reaches thirty, still single, she has failed in life, she has missed the end of her creation, as it were; and by and by people begin to look upon her as an object of pity, not to say of contempt. in this very room i have heard shallow men and women speak in that way of some who are doing a worthy work for god and man in the world." "my dear, it is the way with shallow men and women to put things in the wrong places. why should you be surprised at that?" "but, janet, more do it than these people. don't you mind, the other day, when mrs grove was repeating that absurd story about miss lester, and i said to her that i did not believe miss lester would marry the best man on the face of the earth, you said in a way that turned the laugh against me, that you doubted the best man on the face of the earth wasna in her offer." "but, miss graeme, i meant no reflection on your friend, though i said that. i saw by the shining of your eyes, and the colour on your cheek, that you were in earnest, and i thought it a pity to waste good earnest words on yon shallow woman." "well," said graeme, with a long breath, "you left the impression on her mind that you thought her right and me wrong." "that is but a small matter. and, my dear, i am no' sure, and you canna be sure either, that mrs grove was altogether wrong. if, in her youth, some good man--not to say the best man on the face of the earth--had offered love to your friend, are you sure she would have refused him?" "there!--that is just what i dislike so much. that is just what mrs grove was hinting with regard to miss lester. if a woman lives single, it is from necessity--according to the judgment of a discriminating and charitable world. i _know_ that is not the case with regard to miss lester. but even if it were, if no man had ever graciously signified his approbation of her--if she were an old maid from dire necessity-- does it follow that she has lost her chance in life?--that life has been to her a failure? "if she has failed in life; so do god's angels. janet, if i could only tell you half that she has done! i am not intimate with her, but i have many ways of knowing about her. if you could know all that she has done for her family! she was the eldest daughter, and her mother was a very delicate, nervous woman, and the charge of the younger children fell to her when she was quite a girl. then when her father failed, she opened a school and the whole family depended on her. she helped her sisters till they married, and liberally educated her younger brothers, and now she is bringing up the four children of one of them who died young. her father was bedridden for several years before he died, and he lived in her home, and she watched over him, and cared for him, though she had her school. and she has prepared many a young girl for a life of usefulness, who but for her might have been neglected or lost. half of the good she has done in this way will never be known on earth. and to hear women who are not worthy to tie her shoe, passing their patronising or their disparaging remarks upon her! it incenses me!" "my dear, i thought you were past being incensed at anything yon shallow woman can say." "but she is not the only one. even arthur sometimes provokes me. because she has by her laborious profession made herself independent, he jestingly talks about her bank stock, and about her being a good speculation for some needy old gentleman. and because that beautiful, soft grey hair of hers will curl about her pale face, it is hinted that she makes the most of her remaining attractions, and would be nothing loth. it is despicable." "but, my dear, it would be no discredit to her if it were proved that she would marry. she has a young face yet, though her hair is grey, and she may have many years before her. why should she not marry?" "don't speak of it," said graeme, with great impatience; "and yet, as you say, why should she not? but that is not the question. what i declare is, that her single life has been an honourable and an honoured one--and a happy one too. who can doubt it? there is no married woman of my acquaintance whose life will compare with here. and the high place she will get in heaven, will be for no work she will do as mrs dale, though she were to marry the reverend doctor to-night, but for the blessed success that god has given her in her work as a single woman." "i believe you, dear," said mrs snow, warmly. "and she is not the only one i could name," continued graeme. "she is my favourite example, because her position and talents, her earnest nature and her piety, make her work a wonderful one. but i know many, and have heard of more, who in a quiet, unobtrusive way are doing a work, not so great as to results, but as true and holy. some of them are doing it as aunts or maiden sisters; some as teachers; some are only humble needlewomen; some are servants in other people's kitchens or nurseries--women who would be spoken of by the pitying or slighting name of `old maid,' who are yet more worthy of respect for the work they are doing, and for the influence they are exerting, than many a married woman in her sphere. why should such a woman be pitied or despised, i wonder?" "miss graeme, you look as though you thought i was among the pitiers and despisers of such women, and you are wrong. every word you say in their praise and honour is truth, and canna be gainsaid. but that doesna prove what you began with, that the chances of happiness in married and single life are equal." "it goes far to prove it--the chances of usefulness, at any rate." "no, my dear, because i dare say, on the other hand, many could be told of who fail to do their work in single life, and who fail to get happiness in it as well. put the one class over against the other, and then consider the many, many women who marry for no other reason than from the fear of living single, it will go far to account for the many unhappy marriages that we see, and far to prove that marriage is the natural and proper expectation of woman, and that in a sense she _does_ fail in life, who falls short of that. in a certain sense, i say." "but it does not follow from that that she is thenceforth to be an object of pity or derision, a spectacle to men and angels!" "whist, my dear; no, that doesna follow of necessity. that depends on herself somewhat, though not altogether, and there are too many single women who make spectacles of themselves in one way or other. but, my dear, what i say is this: as the world is, it is no easy thing for a woman to warstle through it alone, and the help she needs she can get better from her husband than from any other friend. and though it is a single woman's duty to take her lot and make the best of it, with god's help, it is no' to be denied, that it is not the lot a woman would choose. my saying it doesna make it true, but ask you the women to whom you justly give so high a place, how it was with them. was it their own free choice that put them where they are? if they speak the truth, they will say `no.' either no man asked them--though that is rare--or else in youth they have had their work laid ready to their hands. they had a father and mother, or brothers and sisters, that they could not forsake for a stranger. or they gave their love unsought, and had none to give when it was asked. or they fell out with their lovers, or another wiled them away, or death divided them. sometimes a woman's life passes quietly and busily away, with no thoughts of the future, till one day she wakes up with a great start of surprise and pain, to the knowledge that her youth is past--that she is an `old maid.' and if a chance offer comes then, ten to one but she shuts her eyes, and lays hold on the hand that is held out to her--so feared is she of the solitary life before her." "and," said graeme, in a low voice, "god is good to her if she has not a sadder wakening soon." "it is possible, my dear, but it proves the truth of what i was saying, all the same; that it is seldom by a woman's free choice that she finds herself alone in life. sometimes, but not often, a woman sits down and counts the cost, and chooses a solitary path. it is not every wise man that can discern a strong and beautiful spirit, if it has its home in an unlovely form, and many such are passed by with a slighting look, or are never seen at all. it is possible that such a woman may have the sense to see, that a solitary life is happiness compared with the pain and shame a true woman must feel in having to look down upon her husband; and so when the wise and the worthy pass by, she turns her eyes from all others, and says to herself and to the world, with what heart she may, that she has no need of help. but does that end the pain? does it make her strong to say it? may not the slight implied in being overlooked rankle in her heart till it is changed and hardened? i am afraid the many single women we see and hear of, who live to themselves, giving no sympathy and seeking none, proves it past all denying. my dear, folk may say what they like about woman's sphere and woman's mission--and great nonsense they have spoken of late--but every true woman kens well that her right sphere is a home of her own, and that her mission is to find her happiness in the happiness of her husband and children. there are exceptional cases, no doubt, but that is the law of nature. though why i should be saying all this to you, miss graeme, my dear, is mair than i ken." there was a long silence after this. mrs snow knew well that graeme sat without reply because she would not have the conversation come back to her, or to home affairs, again. but her friend had something more to say, and though her heart ached for the pain she might give, she could not leave it unsaid. "we were speaking about your friend and the work she has been honoured to do. it is a great work, and she is a noble woman. god bless her! and, dear, though i dinna like the thought of your leaving your brother's house, it is not because i dinna think that you might put your hand to the same work with the same success. i am sure you could do, in that way, a good work for god and man. it is partly that i am shy of new schemes, and partly because i am sure the restlessness that is urging you to it will pass away; but it is chiefly because i think you have good and holy work laid to your hand already. whatever you may think now, dear, they are far better and happier here at home, and will be all their lives, because of you. "i'm no' saying but you might go away for a wee while. the change would do you good. you will come with us, or you will follow after, if you like it better; and then you might take your sister, and go and see your brother norman, and your wee nephew, as we spoke of the other day. but this is your home, love, and here lies your work, believe me. and, my bairn, the restless fever of your heart will pass away; not so soon, maybe, as if it had come upon you earlier in life, or as if you were of a lighter nature. but it will pass. whist! my darling," for graeme had risen with a gesture of entreaty or denial. "whist, love; i am not asking about its coming or its causes. i am only bidding you have patience till it pass away." graeme sat down again without a word. they sat a long time quite silent, and when graeme spoke, it was to wonder that arthur and the others were not come home. "they must have gone to the lecture, after all, but that must be over by this time. they will be as hungry as hawks. i must go and speak to sarah." and she went away, saying sadly and a little bitterly to herself, that the friend on whose kindness and counsel she had relied, had failed her in her time of need. "but i must go all the same. i cannot stay to die by slow degrees, of sloth, or weariness, or discontent, whichever it may be. oh me! and i thought the worst was past, and janet says it will never be quite past, till i am grown old." and janet sat with reverent, half-averted eyes, seeing the sorrow, that in trying to hide, the child of her love had so plainly revealed. she knew that words are powerless to help the soreness of such wounds, and yet she chid herself that she had so failed to comfort her. she knew that graeme had come to her in the vague hope for help and counsel, and that she was saying now to herself that her friend had failed her. "for, what could i say? i couldna bid her go. what good would that do, when she carries her care with her? and it is not for the like of her to vex her heart out with bairns, keeping at a school. i ken her better than she kens herself. oh! but it is sad to think that the best comfort i can give her, is to look the other way, and not seem to see. well, there is one she winna seek to hide her trouble from, and he can comfort her." chapter thirty six. the only event of importance that occurred before mrs snow went away, was the return of nelly. she came in upon them one morning, as they sat together in the breakfast-room, with more shamefacedness than could be easily accounted for at the first moment. and then she told them she was married. her sudden departure had been the means of bringing mr stirling to a knowledge of his own mind on the matter of wedlock, and he had followed her to her sister's, and "married her out of hand." of course, she was properly congratulated by them all, but rose was inclined to be indignant. "you promised that i was to be bridesmaid, and i think it is quite too bad that you should disappoint me," said she. "yes, i know i promised, but it was with a long prospect of waiting. i thought your own turn might come first, miss rose, he didna seem in a hurry about it. but his leisure was over when i was fairly away out of reach. so he came after me to my sister's, and nothing would do, but back i must go with him. he couldna see what difference a month or two could make in a thing that was to be for a lifetime; and my sister and the rest up there--they sided with him. and there was reason in it, i couldna deny; so we just went down to the manse one morning, and had it over, and me with this very gown on, not my best by two or three. he made small count of any preparations; so you see, miss rose, i couldna well help myself; and i hope it will all be for the best." they all hoped that, and, indeed, it was not to be doubted. but, though congratulating mrs stirling heartily, graeme was greatly disappointed for themselves. she had been looking forward to the time when, mrs tilman's temporary service over, they should have nelly back in her old place again; but the best must be made of it now, and nelly's pleasure must not be marred by a suspicion of her discontent. so she entered, with almost as much eagerness as rose, into a discussion of the plans of the newly married pair. "and is the market garden secured?" asked she. "or is that to come later?" "it will not be for a while yet. he is to stay where he is for the present. you will have heard that mr ruthven and his family are going home for a while, and we are to stay in the house. i am to have the charge. it will be something coming in through my own hands, which will be agreeable to me," added the prudent and independent nelly. the meeting of mrs snow and mrs stirling was a great pleasure to them both. they had much to say to one another before the time of mrs snow's departure came, and she heard many things about the young people, their way of life, their love to each other, and their forbearance with fanny and her friends, which she would never have heard from them. she came to have a great respect for mrs stirling's sense and judgment, as well as for her devotion to the interests of the young people. one of the few expeditions undertaken by her was to choose a wedding present for the bride, and rose had the satisfaction of helping her to decide upon a set of spoons, useful and beautiful at the same time; and "good property to have," as mr snow justly remarked, whether they used them or not. the day of departure came at last. will, graeme, and rose went with them over the river, and fanny would have liked to go, too, but she had an engagement with mrs grove, and was obliged to stay at home. arthur was to be at the boat to see them on, if it could be managed, but that was doubtful, so he bade them good-bye in the morning before he went away. there was a crowd, as usual, on the boat, and graeme made haste to get a seat with mrs snow, in a quiet corner out of the way. "look, graeme," said rose. "there is mr proudfute, and there are the roxburys, and ever so many more people. and there is mr ruthven. i wonder if they are going away to-day." "i don't know. don't let us get into the crowd," said graeme, rather hurriedly. "we shall lose the good of the last minutes. stay here a moment, will, and see whether arthur comes. i will find a seat for mrs snow. let us get out of the crowd." it was not easy to do, however, and they were obliged to pass quite close by the party towards which rose had been looking, and which graeme had intended to avoid. "who is that pretty creature with the child on her lap?" asked mrs snow, with much interest. "you bowed to her, i think." "yes. that is mrs ruthven. i suppose they are going away to-day. i should like to say good-bye to her, but there are so many people with her, and i am not sure that she knew me, though she bowed. ah! she has seen rosie. they are coming over here." she rose and went to meet them as they came near. "you have never seen my baby," said mrs ruthven, eagerly. "and i want to see mrs snow." graeme took the little creature in her arms. "no, we were unfortunate in finding you out when we called, more than once--and now you are going away." "yes, we are going away for a little while. i am so glad we have met to-day. i only heard the other day that mrs snow had come, and i have not been quite strong, and they would not let me move about, i am so very glad to see you," added she, as she took janet's hand. "i have heard your name so often, that i seem to know you well." mrs snow looked with great interest on the lovely, delicate face, that smiled so sweetly up into hers. "i have heard about you, too," said she, gravely. "and i am very glad that we chanced to meet to-day. and you are going home to scotland?" "yes, for a little while. i have not been quite well, and the doctor advises the voyage, but we shall be home again before winter, i hope, or at the latest, in the spring." there was not time for many words. arthur came at the last minute, and with him charlie millar. he held out his arms for the baby, but she would not look at him, and clung to graeme, who clasped her softly. "she has discrimination, you see," said charlie. "she knows who is best and wisest." "she is very like what rosie was at her age," said mrs snow. "don't you mind, miss graeme?" "do you hear that, baby!" said charlie. "take heart. the wee white lily may be a blooming rose, yet--who knows?" "you have changed," said mrs snow, as mr ruthven came up to her with will. "yes, i have changed; and not for the better, i fear," said he, gravely. "i do not say that--though the world and it's ways do not often change a man for the better. keep it out of your heart." there was only time for a word or two, and graeme would not lose the last minutes with their friend. so she drew her away, and turned her face from them all. "oh, janet! must you go? oh! if we only could go with you! but that is not what i meant to say. i am so glad you have been here. if you only knew how much good you have done me!" "have i? well, i am glad if i have. and my dear, you are soon to follow us, you ken; and it will do you good to get back for a little while to the old place, and the old ways. god has been very good to you all." "yes, and janet, you are not to think me altogether unthankful. forget all the discontented foolish things i have said. god _has_ been very good to us all." "yes, love, and you must take heart, and trust him. and you must watch over your sister, your sisters, i should say. and rose, dear, you are never to go against your sister's judgment in anything. and my bairns, dinna let the pleasant life you are living make you forget another life. god be with you." mr snow and will made a screen between them and the crowd, and janet kissed and blessed them with a full heart. there were only a few confused moments after that, and then the girls stood on the platform, smiling and waving their hands to their friends, as the train moved off. and then graeme caught a glimpse of the lovely pale face of lilias ruthven, as she smiled, and bowed, and held up her baby in her arms; and she felt as if that farewell was more for her, than any of the many friends who were watching them as they went away. and then they turned to go home. there was a crowd in the boat still, in the midst of which the rest sat and amused themselves, during the few minutes sail to the other side. but graeme stood looking away from them all, and from the city and crowded wharf to which they were drawing near. her eyes were turned to the far horizon toward which the great river flowed, and she was saying to herself,-- "i _will_ take heart and trust him, as janet said. he _has_ been good to us all i will not be afraid even of the days that look so dull and profitless to me. god will accept the little i can do, and i _will_ be content." will and charlie millar left them, after they had passed through a street or two. "we might just as well have gone to merleville with them, for all the difference in the time," said rose. "but then our preparations would have interfered with our enjoyment of janet's visit, and with her enjoyment, too. it was a much better way for us to wait." "yes. and for some things it will be better to be there after the wedding, rather than before. but i don't at all like going back to an empty house. i don't like people going away." "but people must go away, dear, if they come; and a quiet time will be good for us both, before we go away," said graeme. but the quiet was not for that day. on that day, two unexpected events occurred. that is, one of them was unexpected to graeme, and the other was unexpected to all the rest. mr green proposed that miss elliott should accompany him on his contemplated european tour; and mrs tilman's time of service came to a sudden end. as graeme and rose turned the corner of the street on their way home, they saw the grove carriage standing at their door. "_that_ does not look much like quiet," said rose. "however, it is not quite such a bugbear as it used to be; don't you remember, graeme?" rose's fears were justified. they found fanny in a state of utter consternation, and even mrs grove not quite able to conceal how much she was put about. mrs tilman had been taken suddenly ill again, and even the undiscerning fanny could not fail to understand the nature of her illness, when she found her unable to speak, with a black bottle lying on the bed beside her. mrs grove was inclined to make light of the matter, saying that the best of people might be overtaken in a fault, on occasion; but graeme put her very charitable suggestions to silence, by telling the secret of the housekeeper's former illnesses. this was not the first fault of the kind, by many. there were a good many words spoken on this occasion, more than it would be wise to record. mrs grove professed indignation that the "mistress of the house" should have been kept in ignorance of the state of affairs, and resented the idea of fanny's being treated as a child. but fanny said nothing; and then her mother assured her, that in future she would leave her to the management of her own household affairs; and graeme surprised them all, by saying, very decidedly, that in doing this, she would be quite safe and right. of course, after all this, fanny could not think of going out to pass the afternoon, and graeme had little quiet that day. there were strangers at dinner, and arthur was busy with them for some time after; and when, being at liberty at last, he called to graeme that he wanted to see her for a minute, it must be confessed that she answered with impatience. "oh! arthur, i am very tired. won't it keep till morning? do let mrs tilman and domestic affairs wait." "mrs tilman! what can you mean, graeme? i suppose mrs grove has been favouring the household with some advice, has she?" "has not fanny told you about it?" asked graeme. "no. i saw fanny was in tribulation of some kind. i shall hear it all in good time. it is something that concerns only you that i wish to speak about. how would you like to visit europe, graeme?" "in certain circumstances i might like it." "mr green wished me to ask the question--or another--" "arthur, don't say it," said graeme, sitting down and turning pale. "tell me that you did not expect this." "i cannot say that i was altogether taken by surprise. he meant to speak to you himself, but his courage failed him. he is very much in earnest, graeme, and very much afraid." "arthur," said his sister, earnestly, "you do not think this is my fault? if i had known it should never have come to this." "he must have an answer now." "yes, you will know what to say to him. i am sorry." "but, graeme, you should take time to think. in the eyes of the world this would be a good match for you." graeme rose impatiently. "what has the world to do with it? tell me, arthur, that you do not think me to blame for this." "i do not think you intended to give mr green encouragement. but i cannot understand why you should be so surprised. i am not." "you have not been seeing with your own eyes, and the encouragement has not been from _me_. it cannot be helped now. you will know what to say. and, arthur, pray let this be quite between you and me." "then, there is nothing more to be said?" "nothing. good-night." arthur was not surprised. he knew quite well that mr green was not good enough for graeme. but, then, who was? mr green was very rich, and it would have been a splendid settlement for her, and she was not very young now. if she was ever to marry, it was surely time. and why should she not? he had intended to say something like this to her, but somehow he had not found it easy to do. well, she was old enough and wise enough to know her own mind, and to decide for herself; and, taken without the help of his position and his great wealth, mr green was certainly not a very interesting person; and probably graeme had done well to refuse him. he pondered a long time on this question, and on others; but when he went up-stairs, fanny was waiting for him, wide awake and eager. "well, what did graeme say? has she gone to bed?" arthur was rather taken aback. he was by no means sure that it would be a wise thing to discuss his sister's affairs with his wife. fanny would never be able to keep his news to herself. "you ought to be in bed," said he. "yes, i know i ought. but is she not a wretch?" "graeme, a wretch!" "nonsense, arthur! i mean mrs tilman. you know very well." "mrs tilman! what has she to do with it?" "what! did not graeme tell you?" and then the whole story burst forth--all, and a good deal more than has been told, for fanny and rose had been discussing the matter in private with sarah, and she had relieved her mind of all that had been kept quiet so long. "the wretch!" said arthur. "she might have burned us in our beds." "just what i said," exclaimed fanny, triumphantly. "but then, sarah was there to watch her, and graeme knew about it and watched too. it was very good of her, i think." "but why, in the name of common sense, did they think it necessary to wait and watch, as you call it? why was she not sent about her business? why was not i told?" "sarah told us, it was because miss elliott would not have mrs snow's visit spoiled; and _rose_ says she wanted everything to go smoothly, so that she should think i was wise and discreet, and a good housekeeper. i am very much afraid i am not." arthur laughed, and kissed her. "live and learn," said he. "yes, and i shall too, i am determined. but, arthur, was it not very nice of graeme to say nothing, but make the best of it? especially when mamma had got nelly away and all." "it was very nice of her," said arthur. "and mamma was very angry to-day, and graeme said--no, it was mamma who said she would let me manage my own affairs after this, and graeme said that would be much the best way." "i quite agree," said her husband, laughing. "but, arthur, i am afraid if it had not been for graeme, things would have gone terribly wrong all this time. i am afraid, dear, i _am_ rather foolish." "i am sure graeme does not say so," said arthur. "no. she does not say so. but i am afraid it is true all the same. but, arthur, i do mean to try and learn. i think rose is right when she says there is no one like graeme." her husband agreed with her here, too, and he thought about these things much more than he said to his wife. it would be a different home to them all. without his sister, he acknowledged, and he said to himself, that he ought to be the last to regret graeme's decision with regard to mr green and his european tour. in the meantime, graeme, not caring to share her thoughts with her sister just then, had stolen down-stairs again, and sat looking, with troubled eyes, out into the night. that was at first, while her conversation with her brother remained in her mind. she was annoyed that mr green had been permitted to speak, but she could not blame herself for it. now, as she was looking back, she said she might have seen it coming; and so she might, if she had been thinking at all of mr green and his hopes. she saw now, that from various causes, with which she had had nothing at all to do, they had met more frequently, and fallen into more familiar acquaintanceship than she had been aware of while the time was passing, and she could see where he might have taken encouragement where none was meant, and she was grieved that it had been so. but she could not blame herself, and she could not bring herself to pity him very much. "he will not break his heart, if he has one; and there are others far better fitted to please him, and to enjoy what he has to bestow, than i could ever have done; and, so that arthur says nothing about it, there is no harm done." so she put the subject from her as something quite past and done with. and there was something else quite past and done with. "i am afraid i have been very foolish and wrong," she said, letting her thoughts go farther back into the day. she said it over and over again, and it was true. she had been foolish, and perhaps a little wrong. never once, since that miserable night, now more than two years ago, when he had brought harry home, had graeme touched the hand or met the eye of allan ruthven. she had frequently seen lilias, and she had not consciously avoided him, but it had so happened that they had never met. in those old times she had come to the knowledge that, unasked, she had given him more than friendship, and she had shrunk, with such pain and shame, from the thought that she might still do so, that she had grown morbid over the fear. to-day she had seen him. she had clasped his hand, and met his look, and listened to his friendly words, and she knew it was well with her. they were friends whom time, and absence, and perhaps suffering, had tried, and they would be friends always. she did not acknowledge, in words, either her fear or her relief; but she was glad with a sense of the old pleasure in the friendship of allan and lilias; and she was saying to herself that she had been foolish and wrong to let it slip out of her life so utterly as she had done. she told herself that true friendship, like theirs, was too sweet and rare a blessing to be suffered to die out, and that when they came home again the old glad time would come back. "i am glad that i have seen them again, very glad. and i am glad in their happiness. i know that i am glad now." it was very late, and she was tired after the long day, but she lingered still, thinking of many things, and of all that the past had brought, of all that the future might bring. her thoughts were hopeful ones, and as she went slowly up the stairs to her room, she was repeating janet's words, and making them her own. "i will take heart and trust. if the work i have here is god-given, he will accept it, and make me content in it, be it great or little, and i will take heart and trust." chapter thirty seven. if, on the night of the day when janet went away, graeme could have had a glimpse of her outward life for the next two years, she might have shrunk, dismayed, from the way that lay before her. and yet when two years and more had passed, over the cares, and fears, and disappointments, over the change and separation which the time had brought, she could look with calm content, nay, with grateful gladness. they had not been eventful years--that is, they had been unmarked by any of the especial tokens of change, of which the eye of the world is wont to take note, the sadden and evident coming into their lives of good or evil fortune. but graeme had only to recall the troubled days that had been before the time when she had sought help and comfort from her old friend, to realise that these years had brought to her, and to some of those she loved, a change real, deep, and blessed, and she daily thanked god, for contentment and a quiet heart. that which outwardly characterised the time to graeme, that to which she could not have looked forward hopefully or patiently, but upon which she could look back without regret, was her separation from her sister. at first all things had happened as had been planned. they made their preparations for their long talked of visit to merleville; they enjoyed the journey, the welcome, the wedding. will went away, and then they had a few quiet, restful days with janet; and then there came from home sad tidings of fanny's illness--an illness that brought her in a single night very near to the gates of death, and graeme did not need her brother's agonised entreaties to make her hasten to her side. the summons came during a brief absence of rose from merleville, and was too imperative to admit of graeme's waiting for her return, so she was left behind. afterwards, when fanny's danger was over, she was permitted to remain longer, and when sudden business brought their brother norman east, his determination to take her home with him, and her inclination to go, prevailed over graeme's unwillingness to consent, and the sisters, for the first time in their lives, had separate homes. the hope of being able to follow her in the spring, had at first reconciled graeme to the thought, but when spring came, fanny was not well enough to be left, nor would norman consent to the return of rose; and so for one reason or other, more than two years passed before the sisters met again. they were not unhappy years to graeme. many anxious hours came in the course of them, to her and to them all; but out of the cares and troubles of the time came peace, and more than peace at last. the winter that followed her return from merleville, was rather a dreary one. the restraints and self-denials, which the delicate state of her health necessarily imposed upon her, were very irksome to fanny; and graeme's courage and cheerfulness, sometimes during these first months, were hardly sufficient to answer the demands made upon her. but all this changed as the hour of fanny's trial approached--the hour that was to make her a proud and happy mother; or to quench her hope, perhaps, her life, in darkness. all this was changed. out of the entire trust which fanny had come to place in her sister graeme, grew the knowledge of a higher and better trust. the love and care which, during those days of sickness and suffering, and before those days, were made precious and assured, were made the means of revealing to her a love which can never fail to do otherwise than the very best for its object-- a care more than sufficient for all the emergencies of life, and beyond life. and so, as the days went on, the possibilities of the future ceased to terrify her. loving life, and bound to it by ties that grew stronger and closer every day, she was yet not afraid to know, that death might be before her; and she grew gentle and quiet with a peace so sweet and deep, that it sometimes startled graeme with a sadden dread, that the end might, indeed, be drawing near. graeme was set at rest about one thing. if there had lingered in her heart any fear lest her brother's happiness was not secure in fanny's keeping, or that his love for her would not stand the wear and tear of common life, when the first charms of her youth and beauty, and her graceful, winning ways were gone, that fear did not outlast this time. through the weariness and fretfulness of the first months of her illness, he tended her, and hung about her, and listened to her complaints with a patience that never tired; and when her fretful time was over, and the days came when she lay hushed and peaceful, yet a little awed and anxious, looking forward to she knew not what, he soothed and encouraged her with a gentle cheerfulness, which was, to graeme, pathetic, in contrast with the restless misery that seemed to take possession of him when he was not by her side. one does not need to be very good, or very wise, or even beautiful to win true love; and fanny was safe in the love of her husband, and to her sister's mind, growing worthier of it every day. graeme would have hardly acknowledged, even to herself, how much arthur needed the discipline of this time, but afterwards she saw it plainly. life had been going very smoothly with him, and he had been becoming content with its routine of business and pleasure. the small successes of his profession, and the consideration they won for him, were in danger of being prized at more than their value, and of making him forget things better worth remembering, and this pause in his life was needed. these hours in his wife's sick-room, apparently so full of rest and peace, but really so anxious and troubled, helped him to a truer estimate of the value of that which the world can bestow, and forced him to compare them with those things over which the world has no power! fanny's eager, sometimes anxious questionings, helped to the same end. the confidence with which she brought her doubts and difficulties to him for solution, her evident belief in his superior wisdom and goodness, her perfect trust in his power and skill to put her right about matters of which until now she had never thought, were a reproach to him often. listening to her, and pondering on the questions which her words suggested, he saw how far he had wandered from the paths which his father had trod, how far he had fallen short of the standard at which he had aimed, and the true object of life grew clearer to him during those days. they helped each other to the finding of the better way; she helped him most, and graeme helped them both. these were anxious days to her, but happy days, as well. in caring for these two, so dear to her in seeking for them the highest happiness, in striving, earnestly, that this time might not be suffered to pass, without leaving a blessing behind, she forgot herself and her own fears and cares and in seeking their happiness found her own. this quiet time came to an end. the little life so longed for, so precious, lingered with them but a day, and passed away. fanny hovered for a time on the brink of the grave, but was restored again, to a new life, better loved and more worthy of love than ever she had been before. that summer they went south, to the seaside, and afterwards before they returned home, to merleville, where arthur joined them. it was a time of much pleasure and profit to them all. it did arthur good to stand with his sister beside the two graves. they spoke there more fully and freely than they had ever spoken to each other before, of the old times, of their father and mother, and of the work they had been honoured to do in the world; and out of the memories thus awakened, came earnest thoughts and high resolves to both. viewed in the light which shone from his father's life and work, his own could not but seem to arthur mean and worthless. truths seen dimly, and accepted with reserve, amid the bustle of business, and the influence of the world, presented themselves clearly and fully here, and bowed both his heart and his reason, and though he said little to his sister, she knew that life, with its responsibilities and duties, would henceforth have a deeper and holier meaning to him. janet never spoke to graeme of her old troubled thoughts. "it is all coming right with my bairn," she said, softly, to herself, the very first glimpse she got of her face, and seeing her and watching her during these few happy days, she knew that she had grown content with her life, and its work, and that the fever of her heart was healed. and as the days went on, and she saw arthur more and more like his father, in the new earnestness of his thoughts and hopes, and watched fanny gentle, and loving, mindful of others, clinging to graeme, and trusting and honouring her entirely,--a fanny as different as could well be imagined from the vain, exacting little housekeeper, who had so often excited her indignation, a year ago, she repeated again and again. "it is coming right with them all." another year passed, bringing new cares, and new pleasures, and, to arthur and fanny, the fulfilment of new hopes in the birth of a son. to graeme, it brought many longings for the sight of her sister's face, many half formed plans for going to her, or for bringing her home, but arthur's boy was three months old before she saw her sister. will was still in scotland, to stay for another year, at least harry had been at home several times since his first sorrowful departure, and now there was a prospect that he would be at home always. a great change had taken place in his affairs. the firm of elphinstone and company no longer existed. it was succeeded by one, which bade fair to be as prosperous, and in time, as highly honoured as it had been, the firm of elliott, millar and company. mr ruthven was still in the business, that is, he had left in it the capital necessary to its establishment on a firm basis, but he took no part in the management of its affairs. he lived in scotland now, and had done so ever since the death of his wife, which, had taken place soon after they had reached that country. he had since succeeded, on the death of his uncle, his father's brother, to the inheritance of a small estate near his native place, and there, with his mother and his little daughter, he resided. either, it was said, his uncle had made his residence on the place a condition of possession, or he had grown tired of a life of business, but he, evidently, did not intend to return to canada at present; even his half-brother, who deeply regretted his early withdrawal from active life, and earnestly remonstrated with him concerning it, knew little about his motives, except that his health was not so firm as it used to be, and that he had determined not to engage in business again. harry had changed much, during the years of his absence. up to the time of his leaving home, he had retained his boyish frankness and love of fun, more than is usual in one really devoted to business, and successful in it. when he came back, he seemed older than those years ought to have made him. he was no longer the merry, impulsive lad, ready on the shortest notice, to take part in anything that promised amusement for the moment, whatever the next might bring. he was quiet and observant now; hardly doing his part in general conversation, holding his own views and opinions with sufficient tenacity when they were assailed, but rather indifferent as to what might be the views and opinions of others; as unlike as possible to the harry who had been so ready on all occasions, either in earnest or in sport, to throw himself into the discussion of all manner of questions, with all kind of people. even in their own circle, he liked better to listen than to speak, but he fell quite naturally and happily into his place at home, though it was not just the old place. graeme thought him wonderfully improved, and made no secret of her pride and delight in him. arthur thought him improved too, but he shocked his sister dreadfully, by professing to see in him indications of character, that suggested a future resemblance to their respected friend, mr elias green, in more than in success. "he is rather too devoted to business, too indifferent to the claims of society, and to the pursuits of the young swells of the day, to be natural, i am afraid. but it will pay. in the course of fifteen or twenty years, we shall have him building a `palatial residence', and boring himself and other people, like our respected friend. you seem to be a little discontented with the prospect, graeme." "discontented!" echoed graeme. "it is with you, that i am discontented. how can you speak of anything so horrible? you don't know harry." "i know what the result of such entire devotion to business must be, joined to such talents as harry's. success, of course, and a measure of satisfaction with it, more or less, as the case maybe. no, you need not look at harry's friend and partner. he is `tarred with the same stick,' as mrs snow would say." harry's friend and partner, laughed. "mrs snow would never say that about mr millar," said graeme indignantly, "nor about harry either; and neither of them will come to a fate like that." "they may fail, or they may marry. i was only speaking of the natural consequences of the present state of affairs, should nothing intervene to prevent such a conclusion." "harry will never grow to be like mr green," said fanny, gravely. "graeme will not let him." "there is something in that," said arthur. "there is a great deal in that," said mr millar. "there are a great many to keep harry from a fate like that, besides me," said graeme, "even if there was any danger to one of his loving and generous nature." she was more in earnest than the occasion seemed to call for. "graeme," said fanny, eagerly, "you don't suppose arthur is in earnest. he thinks there is no one like harry." arthur laughed. "i don't think there are many like him, certainly, but he is not beyond spoiling, and graeme, and you, too, make a great deal too much of him, i am afraid." "if that would spoil one, you would have been spoiled long ago," said graeme, laughing. "oh! that is quite another matter; but as to harry, it is a good thing that rose is coming home, to divert the attention of you two from him a while," added he, as his brother came into the room. "and you will do your best to spoil her, too, if some of the rest of us don't counteract your influence." "what is it all about?" said harry. "are you spoiling your son, fanny? is that the matter under discussion?" "no. it is you that we are spoiling, graeme and i. we admire you quite too much, arthur says, and he is afraid we shall do the same for rose." "as for rose, i am afraid the spoiling process must have commenced already, if admiration will do it," said harry. "if one is to believe what norman says, she has been turning a good many heads out there." "so that her own head is safe, the rest cannot be helped," said graeme, with a little vexation. it was not harry's words, so much as his tone, that she disliked. he shrugged his shoulders. "oh! as to that, i am not sure. i don't think she tried to help it. why should she? it is her natural and proper sphere of labour--her vocation. i think she enjoyed it, rather." "harry, don't! i can't bear to hear you speak of rose in that way." "oh! my speaking of it can't make any difference, you know; and if you don't believe me, you can ask charlie. he is my authority for the last bit of news of rosie." charlie looked up astonished and indignant, and reddened as he met graeme's eye. "i don't understand you, harry--the least in the world," said he. "do you mean to say you have forgotten the postscript i saw in rowland's letter about mr green and his hopes and intentions? come, now, charlie, that is a little too much." "mr green!" repeated arthur and fanny, in a breath. "are we never to have done with that unhappy man?" said graeme, indignantly. "the idea of rose ever looking at him!" said fanny. "oh! she might look at him without doing herself any harm," said harry. "she might even indulge in a little innocent flirtation--" "harry," said fanny, solemnly, "if there is a word in the english language that graeme hates it is that. don't say it again, i beg." harry shrugged his shoulders. graeme looked vexed and anxious. "miss elliott," said charlie, rising, in some embarrassment, "i hope you don't think me capable of discussing--or permitting--. i mean, in the letter to which harry refers, your sister's name was not mentioned. you have received a wrong impression. i am the last person in the world that would be likely to offend in that way." "charlie, man! you are making much ado about nothing; and, graeme, you are as bad. of course, rosie's name was not mentioned; but i know quite well, and so do you, who `la belle canadienne' was. but no harm was meant, and none was done." "it would be rather a good joke if rosie were to rule in the `palatial residence' after all, wouldn't it?" said arthur, laughing. "arthur, don't! it is not nice to have the child's name coupled with-- with any one," said graeme. "it may not be nice, but it cannot be helped," said harry. "it is the penalty that very pretty girls, like rose, have to pay for their beauty--especially when they are aware of it--as rose has good right to be by this time. small blame to her." "and i don't see that there is really anything to be annoyed about, graeme," said arthur. "a great deal more than the coupling of names might happen without rosie being to blame, as no one should know better than you." "of course. we are not speaking of blame, and we will say no more about it," said graeme, rising; and nothing more was said. by and by harry and his friend and partner rose to go. they lived together, now, in the house behind the willow trees, which rose had taken such pleasure in watching. it was a very agreeable place of residence still, though a less fashionable locality than it used to be; and they were fortunate enough to have the efficient and kindly nelly as housekeeper, and general caretaker still, and she magnified her office. harry had some last words to exchange with arthur, and then mr millar approached graeme and said, with a smile that was rather forced and uncertain,-- "i ought to apologise for coming back to the subject again. i don't think you believe me likely to speak of your sister in a way that would displease you. won't you just say so to me?" "charlie! i know you could not. you are one of ourselves." charlie's face brightened. of late it had been "mr millar," mostly-- not that graeme liked him less than she used to do; but she saw him less frequently, and he was no longer a boy, even to her. but this time it was, "charlie," and he was very much pleased. "you have been quite a stronger, lately," she went on; "but now that mrs elliott is better and rose coming home, we shall be livelier and better worth visiting. we cannot bring the old times quite back, even with harry and rose, but we shall always be glad to see you." she spoke cordially, as she felt, and he tried to answer in the same way; but he was grave, and did not use many words. "i hope there is nothing wrong," said graeme, observing his changing look. "nothing for which there is any help," said he. "no there is nothing wrong." "i am ready, charlie," said harry, coming forward. "and graeme, you are not to trouble yourself about rose's conquests. when she goes to her own house--`palatial' or otherwise--and the sooner the better for all concerned--you are coming to take care of charlie and me." "there may be two or three words to be said on that subject," said arthur, laughing. "i am sure neither you nor fanny will venture to object; you have had graeme all your life--at least for the last seven years. i should like to hear you, just. i am not joking, graeme." graeme laughed. "there is no hurry about it, is there? i have heard of people changing their minds; and i won't set my heart on it, in case i should be disappointed." chapter thirty eight. so rose came home at last. not just the rose who had left them, now more than two years ago, even in the eyes of her sister. her brothers thought her greatly changed and improved. she was more womanly, and dignified, and self-reliant, they said, and graeme assented, wondering and pleased; though it had been the desire of her heart that her sister should come back to her just what she was when she went away. she would probably have changed quite as much during those two years, had they been passed at home, though they might not have seen it so plainly. but arthur declared that she had become americanised to an astonishing degree, not making it quite clear whether he thought that an improvement, indeed not being very clear about it himself. harry agreed with him, without the reservation; for harry admired the american ladies, and took in good part rose's hints and congratulations with regard to a certain miss cora snider, an heiress and a beauty of c---. "a trifle older than harry," explained she, laughing, aside to graeme; "but that, of course, is a small matter, comparatively, other things `being agreeable.'" "of course," said harry, with a shrug that set graeme's fancy at rest about miss cora snider. in less time than graeme at first supposed possible, they fell back into their old ways again. rose's dignity and self-reliance were for her brothers and her friends generally. with graeme she was, in a day or two, just what she had been before she went away--a dear child and sister, to be checked and chided, now and then; to be caressed and cared for always; growing, day by day, dearer and fairer to her sister's loving eyes. she was glad to be at home again. she was very fond of norman and hilda and their boys, and she had been very happy with them; but there was no one like graeme, and there was no place like home. so she fell into her old place and ways, and was so exactly the rosie of old times, that graeme smiled in secret over the idea of her child having been in danger of being spoiled by admiration or by a love of it. it was quite impossible to believe that a love of pleasure would let her be so content with their quiet life, their household occupations, their unvaried round of social duties and pleasures. admired she might have been, but it had not harmed her; she had come back to them quite unspoiled, heart-free and fancy-free, graeme said to herself, with a sense of relief and thankfulness, that grew more assured as the time went on. "it amuses me very much to hear arthur say i am changed," said rose, one day, when the sisters were sitting together. "why, if i had come home a strong-minded woman and the president of a convention, it would have been nothing to the change that has taken place in fanny, which i daresay he does not see at all, as a change; he always was rather blind where she was concerned. but what have you being doing to fanny, graeme?" "rose, my dear," said graeme, gravely, "fanny has had a great deal of sickness and suffering, and her change is for the better, i am sure; and, besides, are you not speaking a little foolishly?" "well, perhaps so, but not unkindly, as far as fanny is concerned. for the better! i should think so. but then i fancied that fanny was just the one to grow peevish in sickness, and ill to do with, as janet would say; and i confess, when i heard of the arrival of young arthur, i was afraid, remembering old times, and her little airs, that she might not be easier to live with." "now, rosie, that is not quite kind." "but it is quite true. that is just what i thought first, and what i said to norman. i know you said how nice she was, and how sweet, and all that, but i thought that was just your way of seeing things; you never would see fanny's faults, you know, even at the very first." graeme shook her head. "i think you must have forgotten about the very first. we were both foolish and faithless, then. it has all come right; arthur is very happy in his wife, though i never thought it could be in those days." there was a long pause after that, and then rose said,-- "you must have had a very anxious time, and a great deal to do, when she was so long ill that first winter. i ought to have been here to help you, and i should have been, if i had known." "i wished for you often, but i did not have too much to do, or to endure. i am none the worse for it all." "no," said rose, and she came over and kissed her sister, and then sat down again. graeme looked very much pleased, and a little surprised. rose took up her work, and said, with a laugh that veiled something,-- "i think you have changed--improved--almost as much as fanny, though there was not so much need." graeme laughed, too. "there was more need for improvement than you know or can imagine. i am glad you see any." "i am anxious about one thing, however, and so is fanny, i am sure," said rose, as fanny came into the room, with her baby in her arms. "i think i see an intention on your part to become stout. i don't object to a certain roundness, but it may be too decided." "graeme too stout! how can you say such things, rosie?" said fanny, indignantly. "she is not so slender as when i went away." "no, but she was too slender then. arthur thinks she is growing handsomer, and so do i." "well, perhaps," said rose, moving believe to examine graeme critically; "still i must warn her against future possibilities as to stoutness--and other things." "it is not the stoutness that displeases her, fanny," said graeme, laughing; "it is the middle-aged look that is settling down upon me, that she is discontented with." "fanny," said rose, "don't contradict her. she says that on purpose to be contradicted. a middle-aged look, is it? i dare say it is!" "a look of contentment with things as they are," said graeme. "there is a look of expectation on most _young_ faces, you know, a hopeful look, which too often changes to an anxious look, or look of disappointment, as youth passes away. i mean, of course, with single women. i suppose it is that with me; or, do i look as if i were settling down content with things as they are?" "graeme," said her sister, "if some people were to speak like that in my hearing, i should say it sounded a little like affectation." "i hope it is not politeness, alone, which prevents you from saying it to me?" "but it is all nonsense, graeme dear," said fanny. "how old are you, graeme?" said rose. "middle-aged, indeed!" "rosie, does not ten years seem a long time, to look forward to? shall you not begin to think yourself middle-aged ten years hence?" "certainly not; by no means; i have no such intention, unless, indeed--. but we won't speak about such unpleasant things. fanny, shan't i take the baby while you do that?" "if you would like to take him," said fanny, with some hesitation. baby was a subject on which rose and fanny had not quite come to a mutual understanding. rose was not so impressed with the wonderful attractions of her son as fanny thought she ought to be. even graeme had been surprised at her indifference to the charms of her nephew, and expostulated with her on the subject. but rose had had a surfeit of baby sweetness, and, after hilda's strong, beautiful boys, fanny's little, delicate three months' baby was a disappointment to her, and she made no secret of her amusement at the devotion of graeme, and the raptures of his mother over him. but now, as she took him in her arms, she astonished them with such eloquence of baby-talk as baby had never heard before. fanny was delighted. happily graeme prevented the question that trembled on her lips as to the comparative merits of her nephews, by saying,-- "well done, rosie! if only harry could hear you!" "i have often wished that hilda could see and hear you both over this little mortal. you should see hilda. does not she preserve her equanimity? fancy her walking the room for hours with any of her boys, as you did the other night with this one. not she, indeed, nor any one else, with her permission." "i thought--i am sure you have always spoken about hilda as a model mother," said fanny, doubtfully. "and a fond mother," said graeme. "she _is_ a model mother; she is fond, but she is wise," said rose, nodding her head. "i say no more." "fanny dear, we shall have to learn of rose. we are very inexperienced people, i fear," said graeme, smiling. "well, i daresay even i might teach you something. but you should see hilda and her babies. her eldest son is three years old, and her second will soon be two, and her daughter is four months. suppose she had begun by walking all night with each of them, and by humouring every whim?" and then rose began her talk with the baby again, saying all sorts of things about the fond foolishness of his little mamma and his aunt graeme, that it would not have been at all pretty, she acknowledged, to say to themselves. graeme listened, smiling, but fanny looked anxious. "rose," said she, "tell me about hilda's way. i want to have the very best way with baby. i know i am not very wise, but i do wish to learn and to do right!" her words and her manner reminded rose so forcibly, by contrast, of the fanny whose vanity and self-assertion had been such a vexation so often, that, in thinking of those old times, she forgot to answer her, and sat playing with the child's clasping fingers. "she thinks i will never be like hilda," said fanny, dolefully, to graeme. rose shook her head. "there are not many like hilda; but i don't see any reason why you should not be as good a mother as she is, and have as obedient children. you have as good a teacher. no, don't look at graeme. i know what you mean. she has taught you all the good that is in you. there are more of us who could say the same--except for making her vain. it is this young gentleman, i mean, who is to teach you." and she began her extraordinary confidences to the child, till graeme and fanny were both laughing heartily at her nonsense. "i'll tell you what, fanny," said she, looking up in a little. "it is the mother-love that makes one wise, and solomon has something to do with it. you must take him into your confidence. but, dear me! think of my venturing to give you good advice, i might be janet herself." "but, rosie, dear," said graeme, still laughing, "solomon has nothing to say about such infants as this one." "has he not? well, that is hilda's mistake, then. she is responsible for my opinions. i know nothing. the wisdom i am dispensing so freely is entirely hers. you must go and see hilda and her babies, and you will understand all about it." "i mean to go and see her, not entirely for the sake of her wisdom, however, though it must be wonderful to have impressed you so deeply." "yes, it _is_ wonderful. but you will be in no hurry about going, will you? two or three years hence will be time enough, i should think. i mean to content myself here for that time, and you are not going there, or anywhere, without me. that is quite decided, whatever arrangements norman may have made." "i don't think he will object to your going with me, if arthur doesn't, and fanny," said graeme, smiling. "possibly not. but i am not going yet. and no plan that is meant to separate you and me shall prosper," said rose, with more heat than the occasion seemed to call for, as though the subject had been previously discussed in a manner not to her liking. graeme looked grave and was silent a moment, then she said,-- "i remember saying almost these very words before we went to merleville, to emily's wedding. but you know how differently it turned out for you and me. we will keep together while we can, dear, but we must not set our hearts upon it, or upon any other earthly good, as though we knew best what is for our own happiness." "well, i suppose that is the right way to look at it. but i am to be your first consideration this winter, you must remember, and you are to be mine." "graeme," said fanny, earnestly, "i don't think rose is spoiled in the least." fanny made malapropos speeches sometimes still, but they were never unkindly meant now, and she looked with very loving eyes from one sister to the other. "i hope you did not think hilda was going to spoil me. did you?" said rose, laughing. "no, not hilda; and it was not i who thought so, nor graeme. but harry said you were admired more than was good for you, perhaps, and--" rose shrugged her shoulders. "oh! harry is too wise for anything. i had a word or two with him on that subject myself, the last time he was out at norman's. you must not mind what harry says about me, fanny, dear." "but, rose, you are not to think that harry said anything that was not nice. it was one night when mr millar was here, and there was something said about mr green. and he thought--one of them thought that you--that he--i have forgotten what was said. what was it, graeme? you were here as well as i." "i am very sure there was nothing said that was not nice," said graeme. "i don't quite remember about it. there was nothing worth remembering or repeating." "i daresay harry told you i was a flirt. he told me so, myself, once," said rose, tossing her head in a way graeme did not like to see. "hush, dear. he said nothing unkind, you may be sure." "and, now i remember, it was not harry but mr millar who spoke about mr green," said fanny, "and about the `palatial residence,' and how rose, if she liked, might--" rose moved about impatiently. "i must say i cannot admire the taste that would permit the discussion of anything of that sort with a stranger," said she, angrily. "my dear, you are speaking foolishly. there was no such discussion. and if you say anything more on the subject, i shall think that harry was right when he said you were fond of admiration, and that your conscience is troubling you about something. here comes nurse for baby. i suppose it is time for his bath, is it mamma?" fanny left the room with the child, and, after a few minutes' silence, rose said, with an effort,-- "now, graeme, please tell me what all this is about." "dear, there is nothing to tell. i fancy harry used to think that i was too anxious and eager about your coming home, and wanted to remind me that you were no longer a child, but a woman, who was admired, and who might, by and by, learn to care for some one else, more than for your sister and brothers. but he did not seriously say anything that you need care about. it would have been as well, perhaps, not to have said anything in mr millar's presence, since we seem to have fallen a little out of acquaintance with him lately. but harry has not, and he did not consider, and, indeed, there was nothing said that he might not very well hear." "it seems it was he who had most to say." "no. you are mistaken. fanny did not remember correctly. it was either arthur or harry who had something to say about mr green. i don't think charlie had anything to say about it. i am sure he would be the last one willingly to displease me or you. and, really, i don't see why you should be angry about it, dear rosie." "i am not angry. why should i be angry?" but she reddened as she met graeme's eye. graeme looked at her in some surprise. "harry is--is unbearable sometimes," said rose. "fancy his taking me to task about--about his friend--oh! there is no use talking about it. graeme, are you going out?" "yes, if you like. but, rose, i think you are hard upon harry. there must be some misunderstanding. why! he is as fond and as proud of you as possible. you must not be vain when i say so." "that does not prevent his being very unreasonable, all the same. however, he seems to have got over it, or forgotten it. don't let us speak any more about it, graeme, or think about it either." but graeme did think about it, and at first had thoughts of questioning harry with regard to rose's cause of quarrel with him, but she thought better of it and did not. nor did she ever speak about it again to rose; but it came into her mind often when she saw the two together, and once, when she heard harry say something to rose about her distance and dignity, and how uncalled for all that sort of thing was, she would have liked to know to what he was referring to, but she did not ask, for, notwithstanding little disagreements of this kind, they were evidently excellent friends. how exactly like the old time before arthur's marriage, and before will or harry went away, some of the days were, that followed the coming home of rose. they seemed like the days even longer ago, graeme felt, with a sense of rest and peace at her heart unspeakable. for the old content, nay, something better and more abiding had come back to her. the peace that comes after a time of trouble, the content that grows out of sorrow sanctified, are best. remembering what has gone before, we know how to estimate the depth, and strength, and sweetness--the sharpness of past pain being a measure for the present joy. and, besides, the content that comes to us from god, out of disappointment and sorrow, is ours beyond loss, because it is god-given, and we need fear no evil. so these were truly peaceful days to graeme, untroubled by regret for the past, or by anxious fears for the future. they were busy days, too, filled with the occupations that naturally sprung out of happy home life, and agreeable social relations. rose had been honoured, beyond her deserts, she said, by visits since she came home. these had to be returned, and graeme, who had fallen off from the performance of such duties, during rose's absence, and fanny's illness, took pleasure in going with her. she took real pleasure in many of these visits, sometimes because of the renewal of friendly interest, sometimes for other reasons. the new way in which the character and manner of rose came out never failed to amuse her. at home, and especially in her intercourse with her, rose was just what she had been as a child, except the difference that a few added years must make. but it was by no means so in her intercourse with the rest of the world. she had ideas and opinions of her own, and she had her own way of making them known, or of defending them when attacked. there was not much opportunity for seeing this during brief formal visits, but now and then graeme got a glimpse that greatly amused her. the quiet self-possession with which she met condescending advances, and accepted or declined compliments, the serene air with which she ignored or rebuked the little polite impertinences, not yet out of fashion in fine drawing-rooms, it was something to see. and her perfect unconsciousness of her sister's amusement or its cause was best of all to graeme. arthur amused himself with this change in her, also, and had a better opportunity to do so. for graeme seldom went to large parties, and it was under the chaperonage of mrs arthur that rose, as a general thing, made her appearance in their large and agreeable circle, on occasions of more than usual ceremony. not that there were very many of these. fanny was perfectly well now, and enjoyed these gay gatherings in moderation, but they were not so necessary to her happiness as they used to be, and rose, though she made no secret of the pleasure she took in them, was not unreasonable in her devotion to society. so the winter was rather quiet than otherwise, and graeme and rose found themselves with a good deal of leisure time at their disposal. for true to her first idea of what was for the happiness of her brother's household, graeme, as fanny grew stronger, gradually withdrew from the bearing of responsibility where household matters were concerned, and suffered it to fall, as she felt it to be right, on arthur's wife. not that she refused to be helpful; either in word or in deed, but it was as much as possible at the bidding of the mistress of the house. it was not always very easy to do, often not by any means so easy as it would have been to go on in the old way, but she was very much in earnest about this thing. it was right that it should be so, for many reasons. the responsibilities, as well as the honour, due to the mistress of the house, were fanny's. these could not, she being in health and able to bear them, be assumed by her sister without mutual injury. the honour and responsibility could not be separated without danger and loss. all this graeme tried to make fanny see without using many words, and she had a more docile pupil than she would have had during the first year of her married-life. for fanny had now entire confidence in the wisdom and love of her sister, and did her best to profit by her teaching: it was the same where the child was concerned. while she watched over both with loving care, she hesitated to interfere or to give advice, even in small matters, lest she should lessen in the least degree the young mother's sense of responsibility, knowing this to be the best and surest guide to the wise and faithful performance of a mother's duties. and every day she was growing happier in the assurance that all was coming right with her sister, that she was learning the best of all wisdom, the wisdom of gentleness and self-forgetfulness, and of devotion to the welfare of others, and that all this was bearing fruit in the greater happiness of the household. and besides this, or rather as a result of this, she bade fair to be a notable little house-mother also; a little over-anxious, perhaps, and not very patient with her own failures, or with the failures of others, but still in earnest to attain success, and to be in all things what in the old times, she had only cared to seem. though harry did not now form one of the household, he was with them very often. mr millar did not quite fall into the place which harry's friend charlie had occupied, but though he said less about his enjoyment of the friendship of their circle, it was evident that it was not because he enjoyed it less than in the old times. he had only changed since then by growing quieter and graver, as they all had done. his brother's determination not to return to canada had been a great disappointment to him at the time, and he still regretted it very much, but he said little about it, less than was quite natural, perhaps, considering that they had once been such friends. circumstances had made the brothers strangers during the boyhood of the younger, and it was hard that circumstances should separate them again, just as they had been beginning to know and to value each other. charlie had hoped for a long time that allan might come back after a year or two; for his estate was by no means a large one, and he believed that he would soon weary of a life of inactivity, and return to business again. he was still young, and might, with his knowledge and experience, do anything he liked in the way of making money, charlie thought, and he could not be satisfied with his decision. but will, who had visited allan lately, assured charlie that his brother was settling down to the enjoyment of a quiet country life, and that though he might visit canada, there was little chance of his ever making that country his home again. "i should think not, indeed," said arthur, one night, as they were discussing the matter in connection with will's last letter. "you don't display your usual good judgment, charlie, man, where your brother is concerned. why should he return? he is enjoying now, a comparatively young man, all that you and harry expect to enjoy after some twenty or thirty years of hard labour--a competency in society congenial to him. why should he wait for this longer than he need?" "twenty or thirty years!" said harry. "not if i know it. you are thinking of old times. but i must say i agree with charlie. it is strange that mr ruthven should be content to sit down in comparative idleness, for, of course, the idea of farming his own land is absurd. and to tell you the truth, i never thought him one to be satisfied with a mere competency. i thought him at one time ambitious to become a rich, man--a great merchant." "it would not be safe or wise to disparage the life and aims of a great merchant in your presence, harry," said rose, "but one would think the life of a country gentleman preferable in some respects." "i don't think allan aspires to the position of a country gentleman--in the dignified sense in which the term is used where he is. his place is very beautiful, but it is not large enough to entitle him to the position of one of the great landed proprietors." "oh! as to that, the extent makes little difference. it is the land that his fathers have held for generations, and that is a thing to be proud of, and to give position, rose thinks," said arthur. "his father never owned it, and his grandfather did not hold it long. it was lost to the name many years ago, and bought back again by allan's uncle within ten years." "yes, with the good money of a good merchant," said harry. "and did he make it a condition that he should live on it?" said arthur. "no, i think not. allan never has said any such thing as that to me, or to my mother." "still he may think it his duty to live there." "i don't know. it is not as though it were a large estate, with many tenants, to whom he owed duty and care and all that. i think the life suits him. my mother always thought it was a great disappointment to him to be obliged to leave home when he did to enter upon a life of business. he did not object decidedly. there seemed at the time nothing else for him to do. so he came to canada." "i daresay his present life is just the very life he could enjoy most. i wonder that you are so vexed about his staying at home, charlie." "i daresay it is selfishness in me. and yet i don't think it is so altogether. i know, at least i am almost sure, that it would be better for him to come here, at least for a time. he might always have the going home to look forward to." "i cannot imagine how he can content himself there, after the active life he lived on this side of the water; he will degenerate into an old fogey, vegetating there," said harry. "but i think you are hard on yourself, mr millar, calling it selfishness in you to wish your brother to be near you," said graeme, smiling. "i could find a much nicer name for it than that." "i would like him to come for his own sake," said charlie. "as for me, i was just beginning to know him--to know how superior he is to most men, and then i lost him." he paused a moment-- "i mean, of course, we can see little of each other now, and we shall find it much easier to forget one another than if we had lived together and loved and quarrelled with each other as boys. i shall see him if i go home next summer, and i don't despair of seeing him here for a visit, at least." "will says he means to come some time. perhaps he will come back with you, or with will himself, when he comes," said rose. "oh! the voyage is nothing; a matter of ten days or less," said arthur. "it is like living next door neighbours, in comparison to what it was when we came over. of course he may come any month. i don't understand your desolation, charlie." charlie laughed. "when is will coming?" "it does not seem to be decided yet," said graeme. "he may come in the spring, but if he decides to travel first, as he seems to have an opportunity to do, he will not be here till next autumn, at the soonest. it seems a long time to put it off; but we ought not to grudge the delay, especially as he may never get another chance to go so easily and pleasantly." "what if will should think like mr ruthven, that a life at home is to be desired? how would you like that, girls?" said harry. "oh! but he never could have the same reason for thinking so. there is no family estate in his case," said rose, laughing. "who knows?" said arthur. "there may be a little dim kirk and a low-roofed manse waiting him somewhere. that would seem to be the most appropriate inheritance for his father's youngest son. what would you say to that graeme?" "i would rather say nothing--think nothing about it," said graeme, hastily. "it is not likely that could ever happen. it will all be arranged for us, doubtless." "it was very stupid of you, harry, to say anything of that sort to graeme," said rose. "now, she will vex herself about her boy, as though it were possible that he could stay there. he never will, i know." "i shall not vex myself, indeed, rosie--at least i shall not until i have some better reason for doing so, than harry's foolish speeches. mr millar, you said you might go home next summer. is that something new? or is it only new to us?" "it is possible that i may go. indeed, it is very likely. i shall know soon." "it depends on circumstances over which he has no control," said harry, impressively. "he has my best wishes, and he would have yours, graeme, i think, if you knew about it." "he has them, though i don't know about it," said graeme. "i have confidence in him that he deserves success." "yes, it is safe to wish him success--if not in one thing, in another. i am not sure that he quite knows what he wants yet, but i think i know what is good for him." "rosie," said fanny, suddenly, "mr millar can set us right now. i am glad i thought of it. mr millar, is mrs roxbury your aunt, or only your brother's?" "i am afraid it is only allan who can claim so close a relationship as that. i don't think i can claim any relationship at all. i should have to consider, before i could make it clear even to myself, how we are connected." "it is much better not to consider the subject, then," said arthur, "as they are rather desirable people to have for relations; call them cousins, and let it go." "but at any rate she is not your aunt, and amy roxbury is not your cousin, as some one was insisting over rose and me the other day. i told you so, rosie." "did you?" said rose, languidly. "i don't remember." "it was mrs gridley, i think, and she said--no, it must have been some one else--she said you were not cousins, but that it was a very convenient relationship, and very pleasant in certain circumstances." "very true, too, eh, charlie," said arthur, laughing. "i should scarcely venture to call miss roxbury cousin," said charlie. "she is very nice, indeed," pursued fanny. "rose fell in love with her at first sight, and the admiration was mutual, i think." rose shrugged her shoulders. "that is, perhaps, a little strong, fanny, dear. she is very charming, i have no doubt, but i am not so apt to fall into sudden admirations as i used to be." "but you admired her very much. and you said she was very like lily elphinstone, when you first saw her. i am sure you thought her very lovely, and so did graeme." "did i?" said rose. "she is very like her," said mr millar. "i did not notice it till her mother mentioned it. she is like her in other respects, too; but livelier and more energetic. she is stronger than lily used to be, and perhaps a little more like the modern young lady." "fast, a little, perhaps," said arthur. "oh! no; not like one in the unpleasant sense that the word has. she is self-reliant. she has her own ideas of men and things, and they are not always the same as her mamma's. but she is a dutiful daughter, and she is charming with her little brothers and sisters. such a number there are of them, too." charlie spoke eagerly, looking at graeme. "you seem deeply interested in her," said arthur, laughing. harry rose impatiently. "we should have mrs gridley here. i never think a free discussion of our neighbours and their affairs can be conducted on proper principles without her valuable assistance. your _cousin_ would be charmed to know that you made her the subject of conversation among your acquaintance, i have no doubt, charlie." "but she is not his cousin," said fanny. "and harry, dear, you are unkind to speak of us as mere acquaintances of mr millar. of course, he would not speak of her everywhere; and you must permit me to say you are a little unreasonable, not to say cross." and rose smiled very sweetly on him as she spoke. harry did look cross, and charlie looked astonished. graeme did not understand it. "was that young roxbury i saw you driving with the other day?" asked arthur. "he is going into business, i hear." "it was he," said charlie. "as to his going into business, i cannot say. he is quite young yet. he is not of age. are you going, harry? it is not very late yet." they did not go immediately, but they did not have much pleasure after that. he was very lively and amusing, and tried to propitiate harry, graeme thought, but she was not quite sure; there were a good many allusions to events and places and persons that she did not understand, and nothing could be plainer than that she did not succeed. then they had some music. rose sat at the piano till they went away, playing pieces long, loud, and intricate; and, after they went away, she sat down again, and played on still. "what put harry out of sorts to-night?" asked arthur. "was he out of sorts?" asked graeme, a little anxiously. rose laughed. "i shall have to give harry some good advice," said she; and that was the last word she said, till she said "good-night." "there is something wrong," said graeme to herself, "though i am sure i cannot tell what it is. in old times, rosie would have burst forth with it all, as soon as we came up-stairs. but it is nothing that can trouble her, i am sure. i hope it is nothing that will trouble her. i will not fret about it beforehand. we do not know our troubles from our blessings at first sight. it ought not to be less easy to trust for my darling than for myself. but, oh! rosie, i am afraid i have been at my old folly, dreaming idle dreams again." chapter thirty nine. graeme had rejoiced over her sister's return, "heart-free and fancy-free," rather more than was reasonable, seeing that the danger to her freedom of heart and fancy was as great at home as elsewhere, and, indeed, inevitable anywhere, and, under certain circumstances, desirable, as well. a very little thing had disturbed her sense of security before many weeks were over, and then, amid the mingling of anxiety and hope which followed, she could not but feel how vain and foolish her feeling of security had been. it was the look that had come into charlie millar's face one day, as his eye fell suddenly on the face of rose. graeme's heart gave a sudden throb of pain and doubt, as she saw it, for it told her that a change was coming over their quiet life, and her own experience made it seem to her a change to be dreaded. there had been a great snow-shoe race going on that day, in which they were all supposed to be much interested, because master albert grove was one of the runners, and had good hope of winning a silver medal which was to be the prize of the foremost in the race. graeme and rose had come with his little sisters to look, on, and rose had grown as eager and delighted as the children, and stood there quite unconscious of the admiration in charlie's eyes, and of the shock of pain that thrilled at her sister's heart. it was more than admiration that graeme saw in his eyes, but the look passed, and he made no movement through the crowd toward them, and everything was just as it had been before, except that the thought had come into graeme's mind, and could not quite be forgotten again. after that the time still went quietly on, and charlie came and went, and was welcomed as before; but graeme looking on him now with enlightened eyes, saw, or thought she saw, more and more clearly every day, the secret that he did not seem in haste to utter. and every day she saw it with less pain, and waited, at last, glad and wondering, for the time when the lover's word should change her sister's shy and somewhat stately courtesy into a frank acceptance of what could not but be precious, graeme thought, though still unknown or unacknowledged. and then the mention of amy roxbury's name, and the talk that followed, startled her into the knowledge that she had been dreaming. "rose," said she, after they had been up-stairs for some time, and were about to separate for the night, "what was the matter with harry this evening?" "what, indeed?" said rose, laughing. "he was quite out of sorts about something." "i did not think he knew the roxburys. he certainly has not known them long," said graeme. "no, not very long--at least, not miss amy, who has only just returned home, you know. but i think she was not at the root of his trouble; at least, not directly. i think he has found out a slight mistake of his, with regard to `his friend and partner.' that is what vexed him," said rose. "i don't know what you mean?" said graeme, gravely. "i should think harry could hardly be seriously mistaken in his friend by this time, and certainly i should not feel inclined to laugh at him." "oh! no. not _seriously_ mistaken; and i don't think he was so much vexed at the mistake, as that i should know it." "i don't understand you," said graeme. "it does not matter, graeme. it will all come out right, i daresay. harry was vexed because he saw that i was laughing at him, and it is just as well that he should be teased a little." "rose, don't go yet. what is there between you and harry that i don't know about? you would not willingly make me unhappy, rose, i am sure. tell me how you have vexed each other, dear. i noticed it to-night, and i have several times noticed it before. tell me all about it, rose." "there is nothing to tell, graeme, indeed. i was very much vexed with harry once, but i daresay there was no need for it. graeme, it is silly to repeat it," added rose, reddening. "there is no one to hear but me, dear." "it was all nonsense. harry took it into his head that i had not treated his friend well, when he was out west, at norman's, i mean. of course, we could not fall into home ways during his short visit there; everything was so different. but i was not `high and mighty' with him, as harry declared afterwards. he took me to task, sharply, and accused me of flirting, and i don't know what all, as though that would help his friend's cause, even if his friend had cared about it, which he did not. it was very absurd. i cannot talk about it, graeme. it was all harry's fancy. and to-night, when mr millar spoke so admiringly of amy roxbury, harry wasn't pleased, because he knew i remembered what he had said, and he knew i was laughing at him. and i fancy he admires the pretty little thing, himself. it would be great fun to see the dear friends turn out rivals, would it not?" said rose, laughing. "but that is all nonsense, rose." "of course, it is all nonsense, from beginning to end. that is just what i think, and what i have been saying to you. so don't let us say or think anything more about it. good-night." "good-night. it will all come right, i daresay;" and graeme put it out of her thoughts, as rose had bidden her do. after this, harry was away for a while, and they saw less of mr millar, because of his absence, graeme thought. he must have more to do, as the busy time of the coming and going of the ships was at hand. so their days passed very quietly, with only common pleasures to mark them, but they were happy days for all that; and graeme, seeing her sister's half-veiled pleasure when charlie came, and only half conscious impatience when he stayed away, smiled to herself as she repeated, "it will all come right." it was a fair april day; a little colder than april days are generally supposed to be, but bright and still--just the day for a long walk, all agreed; and rose went up-stairs to prepare to go out, singing out of a light heart as she went. graeme hastened to finish something that she had in her hand, that she might follow, and then a visitor came, and before rose came down with her hat on, another came; and the one that came last, and stayed longest, was their old friend, and harry's aversion, mrs gridley. rose had reconciled herself to the loss of her walk, by this time, and listened amused to the various subjects discussed, laying up an item now and then, for harry's special benefit. there was variety, for this was her first visit for a long time. after a good many interesting excursions among the affairs of their friends and neighbours, she brought them back in her pleasant way to their own. "by the by, is it true that young roxbury is going into business with mr millar and your brother?" "we have not bees informed of any such design," said rose. "your brother is away just now, is he not? will he return? young men who have done business elsewhere, are rather in the habit of calling our city slow. i hope your brother harry does not. is young roxbury to take his place in the firm, or are all three to be together?" "harry does not make his business arrangements the subject of conversation very often," said graeme, gravely. "he is quite right," said mrs gridley. "and i daresay, young roxbury would not be a great acquisition to the firm, though his father's money might. however, some of _that_ may be got in a more agreeable way. mr millar is doing his best, they say. but, amy roxbury is little more than a child. still some very foolish marriages seem to turn out very well. am i not to see mrs elliott, to-day? she is a very devoted mother, it seems." "she would have been happy to see you, if she had been at home." "and she is quite well again? what a relief it must be to you," said mrs gridley, amiably. "and you are all quite happy together! i thought you were going to stay at the west, rose?" "i could not be spared any longer; they could not do without me." "and are you going to keep house for harry, at elphinstone house, or is mr millar to have that?" and so on, till she was tired, at last, and went away. "what nonsense that woman talks, to be sure!" said rose. "worse than nonsense, i am afraid, sometimes," said graeme. "really, harry's terror of her is not surprising. nobody seems safe from her tongue." "but don't let us lose our walk, altogether. we have time to go round the square, at any rate. it is not late," said rose. they went out, leaving, or seeming to leave, all thought of mrs gridley and her news behind them. they met fanny returning home, before they had gone far down the street. "come with us, fanny. baby is all right. are you tired?" said rose. "no, i am not tired. but is it not almost dinner time? suppose we go and meet arthur." "well--only there is a chance of missing him; and it is much nicer up toward s street. however, we can go home that way. there will be time enough. how delightful the fresh air is, after a whole day in the house!" "and after mrs gridley," said graeme, laughing. "have you had mrs gridley?" said fanny. "yes, and columns of news, but it will keep. is it not nice to be out? i would like to borrow that child's skipping rope, and go up the street as she does." fanny laughed. "wouldn't all the people be amazed? tell me what news mrs gridley gave you." rose went over a great many items, very fast, and very merrily. "all that, and more besides, which graeme will give you, if you are not satisfied. there is your husband. i hope he may be glad to see us all." "if he is not, he can go home by himself." arthur professed himself delighted, but suggested the propriety of their coming one at a time, after that, so that the pleasure might last longer. "very well, one at a time be it," said rose. "come, fanny, he thinks it possible to have too much of a good thing. let him have graeme, to-night, and we will take care of ourselves." they went away together, and arthur and graeme followed, and so it happened that graeme had lost sight of her sister; when she saw something that brought some of mrs gridley's words unpleasantly to her mind. they had turned into s street, which was gay with carriages, and with people riding and walking, and the others were at a distance before them under the trees, when arthur spoke to some one, and looking up, she saw miss roxbury, on horseback, and at her side rode mr millar. she was startled, so startled that she quite forgot to return miss roxbury's bow and smile, and had gone a good way down the street before she noticed that her brother was speaking to her. he was saying something about the possible admission of young roxbury into the new firm, apropos of the encounter of mr millar and amy. "harry is very close about his affairs," said graeme, with a little vexation. "mrs gridley gave us that among other pieces of news, to-day. i am not sure that i did not deny it, decidedly. it is rather awkward when all the town knows of our affairs, before we know them ourselves." "awkward, indeed!" said arthur, laughing. "but then this partnership is hardly our affair, and mrs gridley is not all the town, though she is not to be lightlified, where the spreading of news is concerned; and she tells things before they happen, it seems, for this is not settled, yet, and may never be. it would do well for some things." but graeme could not listen to this, or to anything else, just then. she was wondering whether rose had seen charles millar and miss roxbury, and hoping she had not. and then she considered a moment whether she might not ask arthur to say nothing about meeting them; but she could not do it without making it seem to herself that she was betraying her sister. and yet, how foolish such a thought was; for rose had nothing to betray, she said, a little anxiously, to herself. she repeated it more firmly, however, when they came to the corner of the street where fanny and rose were waiting for them, and laughing and talking merrily together. if rose felt any vexation, she hid it well. "i will ask fanny whom they met. no, i will not," said graeme, to herself, again. "why should rose care. it is only i who have been foolish. they have known each other so long, it would have happened long ago, if it had been to happen. it would have been very nice for some things. and it might have been, if rose had cared for him. he cared for her, i am quite sure. who would not? but she does not care for him. i hope she does not care for him. oh! i could not go through all that again! oh, my darling, my darling!" it was growing dark, happily, or her face might have betrayed what graeme was thinking. she started a little when her sister said,-- "graeme, do you think it would be extravagant in me to wish for a new velvet jacket?" "not very extravagant just to wish for one," said graeme, dubiously. rose laughed. "i might as well wish for a gown, too, while i am wishing, i suppose, you think. no, but i do admire those little jackets so much. i might cut over my winter one, but it would be a waste of material, and something lighter and less expensive would do. it wouldn't take much, they are worn so small. what do you think about it, graeme?" "if you can afford it. they are very pretty, certainly." "yes, are they not? but, after all, i daresay i am foolish to wish for one." "why, as to that, if you have set your heart on one, i daresay we can manage it between us." "oh! as to setting my heart on it, i can't quite say that. it is not wise to set one's heart on what one is not sure of getting--or on things that perish with the using--which is emphatically true of jackets. this one has faded a great deal more than it ought to have done, considering the cost," added she, looking gravely down at her sleeve. there was no time for more. "here we are," said fanny, as they all came up to the door. "how pleasant it has been, and how much longer the days are getting. we will all come to meet you again, dear. i only hope baby has been good." "she did not see them," said graeme, to herself, "or she does not care. if she had seen them she would have said so, of course, unless--. i will watch her. i shall see if there is any difference. but she cannot hide it from me, if she is vexed or troubled. i am quite sure of that." if there was one among them that night more silent than usual, or less cheerful, it certainly was not rose. she was just what she always was. she was not lively and talkative, as though she had anything to hide; nor did she go to the piano, and play on constantly and noisily, as she sometimes did when she was vexed or impatient. she was just as usual. she came into graeme's room and sat down for a few minutes of quiet, just as she usually did. she did not stay very long, but she did not hurry away as though she wished to be alone, and her mind was full of the velvet jacket still, it seemed, though she did not speak quite so eagerly about it as she had done at first. still it was an important matter, beyond all other matters for the time, and when she went away she laughingly confessed that she ought to be ashamed to care so much about so small a matter, and begged her sister not to think her altogether vain and foolish. and then graeme said to herself, again, that rose did not care, she was quite sure, and very glad and thankful. glad and thankful! yet, graeme watched her sister next day, and for many days, with eyes which even fanny could see were wistful and anxious. rose did not see it, or she did not say so. she was not sad in the least degree, yet not too cheerful. she was just as usual, graeme assured herself many times, when anxious thoughts would come; and so she was, as far as any one could see. when mr millar called the first time after the night when graeme had met him with miss roxbury, rose was not at home. he had seen her going into the house next door, as he was coming up the street, he told mrs elliott, when she wondered what had become of her. she did not come in till late. she had been beguiled into playing and singing any number of duets and trios with the young gilberts, she said, and she had got a new song that would just suit fanny's voice, and fanny must come and try it. and then, she appealed to arthur, whether it was a proper thing for his wife to give up all her music except nursery rhymes, and carried her in triumph to the piano, where they amused themselves till baby wanted mamma. she was just as friendly as usual with mr millar during the short time he stayed after that--rather more so, perhaps, for she reminded him of a book which he had promised to bring and had forgotten. he brought it the very next night, but rose, unhappily, had toothache, and could not come down. she was not "making believe," graeme assured herself when she went up-stairs, for her face was flushed, and her hands were hot, and she paid a visit to the dentist next morning. in a day or two harry came home, and mr millar came and went with him as usual, and was very quiet and grave, as had come to be his way of late, and to all appearance everything went on as before. "graeme," said fanny, confidentially, one night when all but rose were sitting together, "i saw the _prettiest_ velvet jacket to-day! it was trimmed in quite a new style, quite simply, too. i asked the price." "and were astonished at its cheapness," said harry. "for baby, i suppose?" said arthur. "for baby! a velvet jacket! what are you thinking of, arthur?" said fanny, answering her husband first. "no, harry, i was not astonished at the cheapness. but it was a beauty, and not very dear, considering." "and it is for baby's mamma, then," said arthur, making believe to take out his pocket book. fanny shook her head. "i have any number of jackets," said she. "but, then, you have worn them any number of times," said harry. "they are as good as new, but old-fashioned? eh, fanny?" said her husband. "three weeks behind the latest style," said harry. "nonsense, arthur! what do you know about jackets, harry? but, graeme, rosie ought to have it. you know, she wants one so much." "she spoke about it, i know; but i don't think she really cares for one. at any rate, she has made up her mind to do without one." "of course, it would be foolish to care about what she could not get," said fanny, wisely. "but she would like it, all the same, i am sure." the velvet jacket had been discussed between these two with much interest; but rose had given up all thought of it with great apparent reluctance, and nothing had been said about it for some days. judging from what her own feelings would have been in similar circumstances, fanny doubted the sincerity of rose's resignation. "i believe it is that which has been vexing her lately, though she says nothing," continued she. "vexing her," repeated graeme. "what do you mean, fanny? what have you seen?" "oh! i have seen nothing that you have not seen as well. but i know i should be vexed if i wanted a velvet jacket, and could not get it; at least i should have been when i was a young girl like rose," added fanny, with the gentle tolerance of a young matron, who has seen the folly of girlish wishes, but does not care to be hard on them. the others laughed. "and even later than that--till baby came to bring you wisdom," said her husband. "and it would be nice if rosie could have it before the convocation," continued fanny, not heeding him. "it would just be the thing with her new hat and grey poplin." "yes," said graeme, "but i don't think rosie would enjoy it unless she felt that she could quite well afford it. i don't really think she cares about it much." "i know what you mean, graeme. she would not like me to interfere about it, you think. but if arthur or harry would have the sense to make her a present of it, just because it is pretty and fashionable, and not because she is supposed to want it, and without any hint from you or me, that would be nice." "upon my word, fanny, you are growing as wise as your mamma," said harry. "a regular manager." fanny pouted a little for she knew that her mamma's wisdom and management were not admired. graeme hastened to interfere. "it is very nice of you to care so much about it, fanny. you know rose is very determined to make her means cover her expenses; but still if, as you say, harry should suddenly be smitten with admiration for the jacket, and present it to her, perhaps it might do. i am not sure, however. i have my misgivings." and not without reason. rose had an allowance, liberal enough, but not too liberal; not so liberal but that taste, and skill, and care were needed, to enable her to look as nice as she liked to look. but more than once she had failed to express, or to feel gratitude to fanny, in her attempts to make it easier for her, either by an appeal to her brothers, or by drawing on her own means. even from graeme, she would only accept temporary assistance, and rather prided herself on the little shifts and contrivances by which she made her own means go to the utmost limit. but there was no difficulty this time. it all happened naturally enough, and rose thanked harry with more warmth than was necessary, in his opinion, or, indeed, in the opinion of graeme. "i saw one on miss roxbury," said harry, "or, i ought to say, i saw miss roxbury wearing one; and i thought it looked very well, and so did charlie." "oh!" said rose, with a long breath. "but then you know, harry dear, that i cannot pretend to such style as miss roxbury. i am afraid you will be disappointed in my jacket." "you want me to compliment you, rosie. you know you are a great deal prettier than little amy roxbury. but she is very sweet and good, if you would only take pains to know her. you would win her heart directly, if you were to try." "but then i should not know what to do with it, if i were to win it, unless i were to give it away. and hearts are of no value when given by a third person, as nobody should know better than you, harry, dear. but i shall do honour to your taste all the same; and twenty more good brothers shall present jackets to grateful sisters, seeing how well i look in mine. it is very nice, and i thank you very much." but she did not look as though she enjoyed it very much, graeme could not help thinking. "of course, she did not really care much to have it. she does not need to make herself fine. i daresay she will enjoy wearing it, however. it is well she can enjoy something else besides finery." they all went to the convocation, and rose wore her new jacket, and her grey poplin, and looked beautiful, the rest thought. the ladies went early with arthur, but he was called away, and it was a little tedious waiting, or it would have been, only it was very amusing to see so many people coming in, all dressed in their new spring attire. fanny enjoyed this part of the affair very much, and rose said she enjoyed it, too, quite as much as any part of the affair; and, by and by, fanny whispered that there was harry, with miss roxbury. "i thought harry was not coming," said she. "i suppose, he was able to get away after all," said graeme, and she looked round for mr millar. he was not to be seen, but by and by harry came round to them, to say that there were several seats much better than theirs, that had been reserved for the roxbury party, because mr roxbury had something to do with the college, and mrs roxbury wanted them to come round and take them, before they were filled. "oh! how charming!" said rose. "if we only could. we should be quite among the great people, then, which is what i delight in." "i thought you were not coming, harry," said graeme. "i was afraid i could not get away, but i made out to do so. no, not at charlie's expense. there he is now, speaking to mrs roxbury, and looking about for us, i daresay." "well, fanny, you go on with harry, and graeme and i will follow," said rose. "it would not do to separate, i suppose? are you sure there is room for all, harry?" "quite sure. no fear; we will make room." so harry gave his arm to fanny, and graeme rose to follow them, though she would much rather have stayed where she was. when she reached the other end of the long hall, she turned to look for her sister, but rose had not moved. she could not catch her eye, for her attention was occupied by some one who had taken the seat beside her, and graeme could not linger without losing sight of harry and fanny, for the people were crowding up, now, and only the seats set apart for the students were left vacant. so she was obliged to hasten on. "i will send harry back for her," said graeme, to herself. "or, perhaps, when arthur returns, she will cross the hall with him. we have made a very foolish move for all concerned, i think. but rosie seemed to like the idea, and i did not care. i only hope we are not separated for the whole affair." but separated for the whole affair they were. arthur returned, but it was not easy for him to get through the crowd to the place where he had left his wife and sisters, and when he reached it, he saw that it would not be easy to get away again. so as he could see and hear very well where he was, and as rose seemed quite satisfied with her place, and with the companionship of her little friend, miss etta goldsmith, he contented himself where he was. miss goldsmith had come to town to see her brother take his diploma as doctor of medicine, and she was in a fever of anxiety till "dear dick," had got his precious bit of parchment in his hands. and after that, till he had performed his duty as orator of his class, and had bidden farewell to each and all, in english so flowing and flowery, that she was amazed, as well as delighted, and very grateful to his classmates for the applause, which they did not spare. rose sat beside the eager little girl, so grave and pale, by contrast, perhaps, that arthur leaned over, and asked her if she were ill, or only very tired of it all. then she brightened. "there is great deal more of it, is there not? i must not be tired yet. why don't you find your way over to fanny and graeme?" "where are they? ah! yes, i see them over there among the great folks-- and harry, too, no less, and his friend and partner. and that bonny little amy is not far-away, i'll venture to say. no. i shall stay where i am for the present." miss goldsmith did not feel bound to be specially interested in anybody or anything, except her big brother and his bit of parchment. and so, when he had given her a nod and a smile, as he came down from the dais, crumpling his papers in his big hands, she was ready to look about and enjoy herself. and to the unaccustomed eyes of the country girl, there was a great deal worth seeing. "how beautifully the ladies are dressed! how pretty the spring fashions are! i feel like an old dowdy! who is that lady in blue? what a love of a hat! and your jacket! it is a beauty!" it was through such a running fire of questions and exclamations that rose listened to all that was going on. there was a good deal more to be said, for the law students were addressed by a gentleman, whose boast it seemed to be, that he had once been a law student himself. then they had some latin muttered over them, and their heads tapped by the principal, and some one else gave them their bits of parchment, and then their orator spoke their farewell in flowing and flowery english. and "will it ever be done?" thought rose, with a sigh. it was not "just the thing," all this discussion of hats and fashions; but little miss goldsmith spoke very softly, and disturbed no one, breathed her questions almost, and rose answered as silently, with a nod, or a smile, or a turn of the eye; and, at any rate, they were not the only people who were thus taking refuge from the dullness of the dean, and the prosing of the chancellor, rose thought to herself; as she glanced about. arthur whispered that the chancellor surpassed himself on the occasion, and that even the dean was not very prosy, and rose did not dissent, but she looked as if it was all a weariness to her? she brightened a little when it was all over, and they rose to go. "go and find fanny and graeme," said she to her brother. "dr goldsmith will take care of his sister and me." dr goldsmith was nothing loth, and rose was so engaged in offering her congratulations, and in listening to his replies, and in responding to the greetings of her many friends as she came down into the hall, that she did not notice that graeme and mr millar were waiting for her at the head of the stairs. there was a little delay at the outer door, where there were many carriages waiting. the roxbury carriage was among the rest, and miss roxbury was sitting in it, though rose could not help thinking she looked as though she would much rather have walked on with the rest, as harry was so bold as to propose. they were waiting for mr roxbury, it seemed, and our party lingered over their last words. "i will walk on with the goldsmiths. i have something to say to etta," said rose, and before graeme could expostulate, or, indeed, answer at all, she was gone. the carriage passed them, and miss roxbury leaned forward and bowed and smiled, and charmed miss goldsmith with her pretty manner and perfect hat. in a little, harry overtook them. rose presented him to miss goldsmith, and walked on with the doctor. at the gate of the college grounds, their ways separated. "mr elliott," said miss goldsmith, "your sister has almost promised to come and visit us when i go home. i do so want papa and mamma to see her. brother dick goes home to-morrow, but i am going to stay a day or two, and then i want rose to go with me. do try and persuade miss elliott to let her go." harry promised, with more politeness than sincerity, saying he had no doubt graeme would be happy to give rose the pleasure, and then they got away. "papa, and mamma, and brother dick. i declare it looks serious. what are you meditating, now, rosie, if i may ask?" "my dear harry, if you think by chaff to escape the scolding you know you deserve, you will find yourself mistaken. the idea of your taking graeme and fanny away, and leaving me there by myself! i don't know what i should have done if arthur had not come back. to be sure i had etta goldsmith, who is a dear little thing. i don't think her big brother is so very ugly if he hadn't red hair. and he must be clever, or he would not have been permitted to make that speech. his papa and mamma must be delighted. but it was very shabby of you, harry, to go and leave me alone; was it not, arthur?" "but, you might have come, too," said fanny. "i thought you were following us." "and so did i," said graeme. "well, dear little etta goldsmith pounced upon me the moment you left, and then it was too late. i did not feel sufficiently strong-minded to elbow my way through the crowd alone, or i might have followed you." "i did not miss you at first," said harry, "and then i wanted charlie to go for you, but--" "he very properly refused. don't excuse yourself, harry. and i had set my heart on comparing jackets with miss roxbury, too." "why did you not stay and speak to her at the door, then?" said harry, who had rather lost his presence of mind under his sister's reproaches. he had hurried after her, fully intending to take her to task for being so stiff and distant, and he was not prepared to defend himself,-- "why didn't you wait and speak to her at the door?" "oh! you know, i could not have seen it well then, as she was in the carriage. it is very awkward looking up to carriage people, don't you think? and, besides, it would not have been quite polite to the goldsmiths," added she, severely. "you know they befriended me when i was left alone." "befriended you, indeed. i expected every minute to see your feather take fire as he bent his red head down over it. i felt like giving him a beating," said harry, savagely. rose laughed merrily. "my dear harry! you couldn't do it. he is so much bigger than you. at least, he has greater weight, as the fighting people say." "but it is all nonsense, rose. i don't like it. it looked to me, and to other people, too, very much like a flirtation on your part, to leave the rest, and go away with that big--big--" "doctor," suggested rose. "and we shall have all the town, and mrs gridley, telling us next, that you--" "harry, dear, i always know when i hear you mention mrs gridley's name, that you are becoming incoherent. _i_ leave _you_. quite the contrary. and please don't use that naughty word in connection with my name again, or i may be driven to defend myself in a way that might not be agreeable to you. dear me, i thought you were growing to be reasonable by this time. don't let graeme see us quarrelling." "you look tired, dear," said graeme, as they went up-stairs together. "well, it was a little tedious, was it not? of course, it wouldn't do to say so, you know. however, i got through it pretty well, with little etta's help. did you enjoy the roxbury party much?" "i kept wishing we had not separated," said graeme. "oh! yes, i enjoyed it. they asked us there to-night to meet some nice people, they said. it is not to be a party. harry is to dine here, and go with us, and so is mr millar." "it will be very nice, i daresay, only i am so very tired. however, we need not decide till after dinner," said rose. after dinner she declared herself too sleepy for anything but bed, and she had a headache, besides. "i noticed you looked quite pale this afternoon," said arthur. "don't go if you are tired. graeme, what is the use of her going if she does not want to?" "certainly, she ought not to go if she is not well. but i think you would enjoy this much, better than a regular party? and we might come home early." "oh! i enjoy regular parties only too well. i will go if you wish it, graeme, only i am afraid i shall not shine with my usual brilliancy-- that is all!" "i hope you are really ill," said harry. "i mean, i hope you are not just making believe to get rid of it." "my dear harry! why, in all the world, should i make believe not well `to get rid of it,' as you so elegantly express it? such great folks, too!" "harry, don't be cross," said fanny. "i am sure i heard you say, a day or two since, that rose was looking thin." "harry, dear!" said rose, with effusion, "give me your hand. i forgive you all the rest, for that special compliment. i have had horrible fears lately that i was getting stout--middle-aged looking, as graeme says. are you quite sincere in saying that, or are you only making believe?" "i didn't intend it as a compliment, i assure you. i didn't think you were looking very well." "did you not? what would you advise? should i go to the country; or should i put myself under the doctor's care? not our big friend, whom you were going to beat," said rose, laughing. "i think you are a very silly girl," said harry, with dignity. "you told me that once before, don't you remember? and i don't think you are at all polite,--do you, fanny? come up-stairs, graeme, and i will do your hair. it would not be proper to let harry go alone. he is in a dreadful temper, is he not?" and rose made a pretence of being afraid to go past him. "mr millar, cannot you do or say something to soothe your friend and partner?" harry might understand all this, but graeme could not, and she did not like this mood of rose at all. however, she was very quiet; as she dressed her sister's hair, and spoke of the people they had seen in the afternoon, and of the exercises at the college, in her usual merry way. but she did not wish to go out; she was tired, and had a headache, listening to two or three things at one time, she said, and if graeme could only go this once without her, she would be so glad. graeme did not try to persuade her, but said she must go to bed, and to sleep at once, if she were left at home, and then she went away. she did not go very cheerfully. she had had two or three glimpses of her sister's face, after she had gone to the other side of the hall with harry, before miss goldsmith had commenced her whispered confidences to rose, and she had seen there a look which brought back her old misgivings that there was something troubling her darling. she was not able to put it away again. the foolish, light talk between rose and harry did not tend to re-assure her, and when she bade her sister good-night, it was all that she could do not to show her anxiety by her words. but she only said, "good-night, and go to sleep," and then went down-stairs with a heavy heart. she wanted to speak with harry about the sharp words that had more than once passed between him and rose of late; but mr millar walked with them, and she could not do so, and it was with an anxious and preoccupied mind that she entered mr roxbury's house. the drawing-room was very handsome, of course, with very little to distinguish it from the many fine rooms of her friends. yet when graeme stood for a moment near the folding-doors, exchanging greetings with the lady of the house, the remembrance of one time, when she had stood there before, came sharply back to her, and, for a moment, her heart grew hot with the angry pain and shame that had throbbed in it then. it was only for a moment, and it was not for herself. the pain was crossed by a thrill of gladness, for the more certain knowledge that came to her that for herself she was content, that she wished nothing changed in her own life, that she had outlived all that was to be regretted of that troubled time. she had known this before, and the knowledge came home to her joyfully as she stood there, but it did not lighten her burden of dread of what might lie in the future for her sister. it did not leave her all the evening. she watched the pretty, gentle amy, flitting about among her father's guests, with a feeling which, but for the guileless sweetness of the girl's face, the innocent unconsciousness of every look and movement, might have grown to bitterness at last. she watched her ways and words with mr millar, wishing, in her look or manner, to see some demand for his admiration and attention, that might excuse the wandering of his fancy from rose. but she watched in vain. amy was sweet and modest with him as with others, more friendly and unreserved than with most, perhaps, but sweet and modest, and unconscious, still. "she is very like lily elphinstone, is she not?" said her brother harry in her ear. she started at his voice; but she did not turn toward him, or remove her eyes from the young girl's face. "she is very like lily--in all things," said graeme; and to herself she added, "and she will steal the treasure from my darling's life, as lily stole it from mine--innocently and unconsciously, but inevitably still-- and from harry's, too, it may be." and, with a new pang, she turned to look at her brother's face; but harry was no longer at her side. mr millar was there, and his eyes had been following hers, as harry's had been. "she is very sweet and lovely--very like lily, is she not?" he whispered. "very like her," repeated graeme, her eyes closing with a momentary feeling of sickness. "you are very tired of all this, i am afraid," said he. "very tired! if harry only would take me home!" "shall i take you home? at least, let me take you out of the crowd. have you seen the new picture they are all talking about? shall i take you up-stairs for a little while." graeme rose and laid her hand on his arm, and went up-stairs in a dream. it was all so like what had been before--the lights, and the music, and the hum of voices, and the sick pain at her heart; only the pain was now for rose, and so much worse to bear. still in a dream, she went from picture to picture, listening and replying to she knew not what; and she sat down, with her eyes fixed on one beautiful, sad face, and prayed with all her heart, for it was rosie's face that looked down at her from the canvas; it was rosie's sorrow that she saw in those sweet, appealing eyes. "anything but this great sorrow," she was saying in her heart, forgetting all else in the agony of her entreaty; and her companion, seeing her so moved, went softly away. not very far, however. at the first sound of approaching footsteps he was at her side again. "that is a very sad picture, i think," she said, coming back with an effort to the present. "i have seen it once before." charlie did not look at the picture, but at her changing face. an impulse of sympathy, of admiration, of respect moved him. scarce knowing what he did, he took her hand, and, before he placed it within his arm, he raised it to his lips. "miss elliott," murmured he, "_you_ will never take your friendship from me, whatever may happen?" she was too startled to answer for a moment, and then they were in the crowd again. what was he thinking of! of allan and the past, or of rose and amy and the future? a momentary indignation moved her, but she did not speak, and then little amy was looking up in her face, rather anxiously and wistfully, graeme thought. "you are not going away, miss elliott, are you?" said she. "i am very tired," said graeme. "oh! here is my brother. i am very sorry to take you away, harry, but if you don't mind much, i should like to go home. will you make my adieux to your mother, miss roxbury?--no, please do not come up-stairs. i would much rather you did not. good-night." "you might at least have been civil to the little thing," growled harry, as she took his arm when they reached the street. graeme laughed. "civil!" she repeated and laughed again, a little bitterly. "oh! harry, dear! there are so many things that you cannot be supposed to know. but, indeed, i did not mean to be uncivil to the child." "then you were uncivil without meaning it," said harry, sharply. graeme was silent a moment. "i do not choose to answer a charge like that," said she. "i beg your pardon, graeme, but--" "harry, hush! i will not listen to you." they did not speak again till they reached home. then graeme said,-- "i must say something to you, harry. let us walk on a little. it is not late. harry, what is the trouble between you and rose?" "trouble!" repeated harry, in amazement. "do you mean because she fancied herself left alone this afternoon?" "of course i do not mean that. but more than once lately you have spoken to each other as though you were alluding to something of which i am ignorant--something that must have happened when you were away from home--at the west, i mean--something which i have not been told." "graeme, i don't understand what you mean. what could possibly have happened which has been concealed from you? why don't you ask rose?" "because i have not hitherto thought it necessary to ask any one, and now i prefer to ask you. harry, dear, i don't think it is anything very serious. don't be impatient with me." "has rose been saying anything to you?" "nothing that i have not heard you say yourself. you accused her once in my hearing of being too fond of admiration, of--of flirting, in short--" "my dear graeme! i don't think i ever made any such assertion--at least in a way that you or rose need to resent--or complain of." "rose does not complain of it, she laughs at it. harry, dear, what is it? don't you remember one night when something was said about mrs gridley--no, don't be impatient. you were annoyed with rose, then, and it was not about anything that was said at the time, at least i thought not. i don't wish to seem prying or inquisitive, but what concerns rose is a great matter to me. she is more to me than any one." "graeme," said harry, gravely, "you don't suppose that i love rose less than you do. i think i know what you mean, however. i annoyed her once by something i said about charlie, but it was only for the moment. i am sure she does not care about that now." "about charlie!" repeated graeme. "yes; you did not know it, i suppose, but it was a serious matter to charlie when you and rose went away that time. he was like a man lost. and i do believe she cared for him, too--and i told him so--only she was such a child." "you told him so!" repeated graeme, in astonishment. "i could not help it, graeme. the poor fellow was in such a way, so--so miserable; and when he went west last winter, it was more to see rose than for anything else. but he came back quite downhearted. she was so much run after, he said, and she was very distant with him. not that he said very much about it. but when i went out there afterwards, i took her to task sharply about it." "harry! how could you?" "very easily. it is a serious thing when a girl plays fast and loose with a man's heart, and such a man as charlie. and i told her so roundly." "and how did she take it?" asked graeme, in a maze between astonishment and vexation. "oh! she was as high and mighty as possible, called my interference rudeness and impertinence, and walked out of the room like an offended princess--and i rather think i had the worst of it," added harry, laughing at the remembrance. "but i don't bear malice, and i don't think rose does." "of course, she does not. but harry, dear, though i should not call your interference impertinent in any bad sense, i must say it was not a very wise thing to take her to task, as you call it. i don't believe mr millar ever said a word to her about--about his feelings, and you don't suppose she was going to confess, or allow you to scold her about--any one." "now; graeme, don't be missish! `never said a word!'--why, a blind man might have seen it all along. i know we all looked upon her as a child, but a woman soon knows when a man cares for her." "no wise woman will acknowledge it to another till she has been told so in words; at least she ought not," said graeme, gravely. "oh, well!--there is no use talking. perhaps i was foolish; but i love charlie, dearly. i daresay rose thinks herself too good for him, because he does not pretend to be so wonderfully intellectual as some of her admirers do, and you may agree with her. but i tell you, graeme, charlie is pure gold. i don't know another that will compare with him, for everything pure and good and high-minded--unless it is our own will; and it is so long since we have seen him, we don't know how he may be changed by this time. but i can swear for charlie." "you don't need to swear to me, harry. you know well i have always liked charlie." "well, it can't be helped now. charlie has got over it. men _do_ get over these things, though it doesn't seem possible to them at the time," added harry, meditatively. "i was rather afraid of rosie's coming home, and i wanted charlie to go to scotland, then, but he is all right now. of course you are not to suppose that i blame rose. such things will happen, and it is well it is no worse. it is the way with those girls not to know or value true worth because they see it every day." "poor charlie!" said graeme, softly. "oh, don't fret about charlie. he is all right now. he is not the man to lose the good of his life because a silly girl doesn't know her own mind. `there's as good fish in the sea,' you know. if you are going to be sorry for any one, let it be for rosie. she has lost a rare chance for happiness in the love of a good man." "but it may not be lost," murmured graeme. "i am afraid it is," said harry, gravely. "it is not in rose to do justice to charlie. even you don't do it, graeme. because he lives just a commonplace life, and buys and sells, and comes and goes, like other men, you women have not the discrimination to see that he is one of a thousand. as for rose, with her romance, and her nonsense, she is looking for a hero and a paladin, and does not know a true heart when it is laid at her feet. i only hope she won't wait for the `hats till the blue-bonnets go by,' as janet used to say." "as i have done, you would like to add," said graeme, laughing, for her heart was growing light. "and harry, dear, rosie never had anybody's heart laid at her feet. it is you who are growing foolish and romantic, in your love for your friend." "oh! well. it doesn't matter. she will never have it now. charlie is all right by this time. her high and mighty airs have cured him, and her flippancy and her love of admiration. fancy her walking off to-day with that red-headed fool and quite ignoring mrs roxbury and her daughter, when they--miss roxbury, at least--wanted to see her to engage her for this evening." "he is not a fool, and he cannot help his red hair," said graeme, laughing, though there was both sadness and vexation in her heart. "the goldsmiths might have called her `high and mighty' if she had left them and gone quite out of her way, as she must have done, to speak to those `fine carriage people.' she could only choose between the two parties, and i think politeness and kindness suggested the propriety of going on with her friends, not a love of admiration, as you seem determined to suppose." "she need not have been rude to the roxburys, however. charlie noticed it as well as i." "i think you are speaking very foolishly, harry," said graeme. "what do the roxburys care for any of us? do you suppose mrs roxbury would notice a slight from a young girl like rose. and she was not rude." "no, perhaps not; but she was polite in a way so distant and dignified, so condescending, even, that i was amazed, and so was charlie, i know, though he did not say so." "nonsense, harry! rose knows them, but very slightly. and what has mr millar to do with it?" "mr millar!" exclaimed harry. "do be reasonable, graeme. is it not of mr millar that we have been speaking all this time? he has everything to do with it. and as for not knowing them. i am sure rose was at first delighted with miss roxbury. and amy was as delighted with her, and wanted to be intimate, i know. but rose is such a flighty, flippant little thing, that--" "that will do, harry. such remarks may be reserved for mr millar's hearing. i do not choose to listen to them. you are very unjust to rose." "it is you who are unjust, graeme, and unreasonable, and a little out of temper, which does not often happen with you. i am sure i don't understand it." graeme laughed. "well, perhaps i am a little out of temper, harry. i know i am dreadfully tired. we won't say anything more about it to-night, except that i don't like to have rose misunderstood." "i was, perhaps, a little hard on rosie, once, but i don't think i misunderstand her," said harry, wisely. "she is just like other girls, i suppose; only, graeme, you have got me into the way of thinking that my sisters should not be just like other girls, but a great deal better in every way. and i shan't be hard on her any more, now that it is all right with charlie." but was it all right with charlie? graeme's talk with harry had not enlightened her much. had pretty, gentle amy roxbury helped charlie "to get over it;" as harry's manner of speaking seemed to imply? or did charlie still care for rose? and had rose ever cared for him "in that way?" was rose foolish, and flippant, and fond of admiration, as harry declared; and was she growing dissatisfied with their quiet, uneventful life? was it this that had brought over her the change which could not be talked about or noticed, which, at most times, could not be believed in, but which, now and then, made itself evident as very real and very sad? or was it something else that was bringing a cloud and a shadow over the life of her young sister? even in her thoughts, graeme shrunk from admitting that rose might be coming to the knowledge of her own heart too late for her happiness. "i will not believe that she has all that to pass through. it cannot be so bad as that. i will have patience and trust. i cannot speak to her. it would do no good. i will wait and trust." graeme sat long that night listening to the quiet breathing of her sleeping sister; but all the anxious thoughts that passed through her mind, could only end in this: "i will wait and trust." chapter forty. graeme awoke in the morning to wonder at all the doubts and anxieties that had filled her mind in the darkness; for she was aroused by baby kisses on her lips, and opened her eyes to see her sister rose, with her nephew in her arms, and her face as bright as the may morning, smiling down upon her. rose disappointed and sad! rose hiding in her heart hopes that were never to be realised! she listened to her voice, ringing through the house, like the voice of the morning lark, and wondered at her own folly. she laughed, as rose babbled to the child in the wonderful baby language in which she so excelled; but tears of thankfulness rose to her eyes as she remembered the fears of the night, and set them face to face with the joy of the morning. "i could not have borne it," she said to herself. "i am afraid i never could have borne to see my darling drooping, as she must have done. i am content with my own lot. i think i would not care to change anything the years have brought to me. but rosie--. ah! well, i might have known! i know i ought to trust for rosie, too, even if trouble were to come. but oh! i am very glad and thankful for her sake." she was late in the breakfast-room, and she found harry there. "`the early bird,' you know, graeme," said he. "i have been telling rosie what a scolding you were giving me last night on our way home." "but he won't tell me what it was all about," said rose. "i cannot. i don't know myself. i have an idea that you had something to do with it, rosie. but i can give no detailed account of the circumstances, as the newspapers say." "it is not absolutely necessary that you should," said graeme, smiling. "i hope you are in a much better humour this morning, graeme." "i think i am in a pretty good humour. not that i confess to being very cross last night, however." "it was he who was cross, i daresay," said rose. "you brought him away before supper! no wonder he was cross. are you going to stay very long, harry?" "why? have you any commands for me to execute?" "no; but i am going to introduce a subject that will try your temper, judging from our conduct yesterday. i am afraid you will be threatening to beat some one." harry shrugged his shoulders. "now, graeme, don't you call that flippant? is it anything about the big doctor, rosie?" "you won't beat him, will you harry? no. it is only about his sister. graeme, fanny has given me leave to invite her here for a few days, if you have no objection. she cannot be enjoying herself very much where she is staying, and it will be a real holiday to the little thing to come here for a while. she is very easily amused. she makes pleasure out of everything. mayn't she come?" "certainly, if you would like her to come; i should like to know her very much." "and is the big brother to come, too?" asked arthur. "no. he leaves town to-day. will you go with me, harry, to fetch her here?" "but what about `papa and mamma,' to whom you were to be shown? the cunning, little thing has some design upon you, rosie, or, perhaps, on some of the rest of us." rose laughed. "don't be frightened, harry. you are safe, as you are not domesticated with us. and i intend to show myself to `papa and mamma' later, if you don't object." "there! look at graeme. she thinks you and i are quarrelling, rosie. she is as grave as a judge." "tell us about the party, harry," said fanny. "it was very pleasant. i don't think graeme enjoyed it much, however. i wonder, too, that she did not, for there were more nice people there than we usually see at parties. it was more than usually agreeable, i thought." "you are degenerating, harry," said his brother. "i thought you were beyond all that sort of thing. i should have thought you would have found it slow, to say the least." "and then to make him lose the supper! it was too bad of you, graeme," said rose. "oh! she didn't. i went back again." they all exclaimed. only harry laughed. "can i do anything for you and your friend, rosie?" asked he. "yes, indeed you can. i intend to make a real holiday for the little thing. we are open to any proposal in the way of pleasure, riding, driving, boating, picnicking, one and all." "it is very kind of you, harry, to offer," said graeme. "hem! not at all. i shall be most happy," said harry. "oh! we shall not be exacting. we are easily amused, little etta and i." miss goldsmith's visit was a success. she was a very nice little girl, whose life had been passed in the country--not in a village even, but quite away from neighbours, on a farm, in which her father had rather unfortunately invested the greater part of his means. it might not prove to be unfortunate in the end, etta explained to them, because the land was valuable, only in the meantime it seemed to take all the income just to keep things going. but by and by she hoped farming would pay, and the place was beautiful, and they lived very happily there, if they only had a little more money, etta added gravely. dick was the hero who was to retrieve the fallen fortunes of the family, etta thought. he was her only own brother. all the rest of the children were only her half-brothers and sisters. but notwithstanding the hard times to which etta confessed, they were a very happy family, it seemed. everything was made pleasure by this little girl. it was pleasure just to drive through the streets, to see the well-dressed people, to look in at the shop-windows. shopping was pleasure, though she had little to spend. an hour in a bookseller's, or in a fancy shop, was pleasure. the churches, old and new, were wonderful to her, some for one reason, some for another. rose and she became independent and strong-minded, and went everywhere without an escort. they spent a day in wandering about the shady walks of the new cemetery, and an afternoon gazing down on the city from the cathedral towers. they paid visits and received them; and, on rainy days, worked and read together with great delight, if not with much profit. rose, with both heart and hands, helped her friend to make the most of her small allowance for dress; and contrived, out of odds and ends, to make pretty, inexpensive ornaments for her, and presents for her little brothers and sisters at home. she taught her new patterns in crochet, and new stitches in berlin wool. she even gave her a music lesson, now and then, and insisted on her practising, daily, that she might get back what she had lost since she left school, and so be able the better to teach her little sisters when she went home. in short, she contrived to fill up the time with amusement, or with work of some sort. not a moment but was occupied in some way. of course, graeme was sometimes included in their plans for the day, and so were fanny and baby, but for the most part the young girls were occupied with each other; and the visit, which was to have been for a few days, lengthened out beyond the month, and might have been longer than that, even, only rose had a slight, feverish attack which confined her to her room for a day or two, and then etta could no longer hide from herself that she ought to go home. "i hope i shall not find that this pleasant time has spoiled me. i think papa and mamma are somewhat afraid. i mean to be good, and contented, and helpful; but i know i am only a silly little thing. oh! rosie! if you were only going home with me for a little while!" "i should like it very much, indeed," said rose. "of course, everything is very different at our house, but you wouldn't mind that. miss elliott, don't you think you could spare rose to me for a few days?" graeme shook her head. "i think i have spared her to you a good many days. i have seen very little of her for a long time, i think." miss goldsmith looked grieved and penitent. "nonsense, etta," said rose; "she is only laughing at you. she has had you and me, too. and i should like very much to go with you. this is the nicest time of the year to be in the country, i think. what do you say, graeme?" little etta clasped her hands, and looked at graeme so entreatingly, that rose laughed heartily. but graeme said nothing encouraging. however, the very hottest days of the summer came that season among the first june days, and, because of the heat, graeme thought rose did not recover from her illness so quickly as she ought to have done. she is languid and pale, though pretty busy still, and cheerful, and graeme proposed that she should go with her friend for a few days, at least. etta was enchanted. "i am afraid my resolutions about being good, and helping mamma, and teaching the little ones, would have fallen through, for i know i am a foolish girl. but with rose to help me, just at first, i shall succeed i know." "don't be silly, etta," said rose. "you are a great deal wiser and better, and of a great deal more use in the world, than ever i was, or am like to be. all my wisdom is lip-wisdom, and my goodness lip-goodness. if they will help you, you shall have the benefit of them; but pray don't make me blush before graeme and fanny, who know me so well." no time had to be lost in preparations. the decision was made one day, and they were to leave the next. harry, with his friend and partner, came up one night to bid miss goldsmith good-bye, and heard for the first time of rose's intention to go with her. harry did not hear it with pleasure, indeed; he made no secret of his vexation. there was a little bantering talk between them, in the style that graeme disliked so much, and then rose went away for a few minutes. "graeme," said harry, "what is all this about? it seems to me rose ought to have had enough of her little friend by this time. what freak is this she has taken about the country, and a change of air, and nonsense?" "if it is a freak, it is mine," said graeme, quietly. "rose needs a change. she is not ill, but still she is not quite well, and i am very glad she is to go with miss goldsmith." "a change," repeated harry. "why could she not go with fanny to the seaside, if she needs a change?" "but fanny is not going for several weeks yet. rose will be home before that time. she will not be away more than a fortnight, i hope." "a fortnight, indeed! what has the time to do with it? it is the going at all that is so foolish: you astonish me, graeme." "you astonish me, harry! really i cannot understand why you should care so much about it." "well, well! if you are pleased, and she is pleased, i need not trouble myself about it," said harry, sulkily. "what has happened to you, harry?" said fanny. "you are not like yourself, to-night." "he is a great deal more like the harry of old times," said graeme. "like the harry you used to know long ago, mr millar, than like the reasonable, dignified person we have had among us lately." "i was just thinking so," said mr millar. "why should not rosie go?" persisted fanny. "i think it must be a very stupid place, from all that etta says; still, if rose wishes it, why should she not go?" "i believe it is the big brother harry is afraid of," said arthur, laughing. graeme and fanny laughed, too. "i don't think it is a laughing matter," growled harry. "how would you like it if she were to throw herself away on that red-headed giant?" arthur and fanny laughed, still, but graeme looked grave. "it would be just like a silly girl like rose," continued harry, gloomily. "harry," said graeme, "i think you are forgetting what is due to your sister. you should be the last person to couple rose's name with that of any gentleman." "of course, it is only among ourselves; and, i tell you, graeme, you are spoiling rosie--" "harry! be quiet. i don't choose to listen to you on that subject." "i declare, harry, you are getting morbid on the subject of rosie's conquests. it is the greatest folly imaginable," said arthur. "well, it may be so. at any rate, i shall say no more. are you coming, charlie? i must go." he went to the foot of the stairs, and called: "rose, are you coming down again? i must go." rose came flying down. "must you go, harry? i am just done with what i needed to do. don't be cross with me, harry." and greatly to his surprise, as she put her arms around his neck, he felt her tears upon his cheek. "why, rosie, what ails you? i didn't mean to be cross, rosie, my darling." but, in a minute, rose was smiling through her tears. "rosie, dear," whispered her brother, "you are a very silly little girl. i think you are the very silliest girl i know. i wish--" rose wiped her eyes. "don't go yet, harry. i will come in immediately; and please don't tell graeme that i am so silly. she wouldn't like it at all." "graeme is as silly as you are," growled harry. rose laughed, and ran up-stairs, but came down in a minute with miss goldsmith. harry had brought a great paper of sweets for the little sisters at home, for which etta thanked him very prettily, and then she said: "i hope you are not afraid to trust rose with us? we will take great care of her, i assure you." "since i am too silly to take care of myself," said rose. they had a pleasant evening enough, all things considered, and it was some time before harry and his friend went away. "i must say good-bye for a long time, miss rose," said mr millar. "i shall have sailed before you are home again, i suppose." "you go in the first steamer, then?" "i don't know, i am not quite sure yet. i have not quite decided." "of course, he goes by the first steamer," said harry. "he should have gone long ago. there is no use dwelling longer over so simple a matter." rose opened her eyes very wide. "is that the way you speak to your friend and partner?" said fanny. "really, harry, i am afraid your fine temper is being spoiled," said rose. "i think mr millar is very good not to mind you." "i understand harry," said his friend. "you don't understand yourself, nor what is good for you. good-bye, dear, silly, little rose." "good-bye, harry. don't be cross." "rose," said graeme, when they were up-stairs alone for the night, "i think it is the big brother that put harry out of temper to-night." rose laughed. "he seems quite afraid of him," continued graeme. "and you are a little bit afraid of him, too, graeme, or you never would have told me about harry." "no. but i am just a little afraid for him." "you need not be. harry thinks my desire for admiration insatiable, i know, but it is too bad of you, graeme, to intimate as much. i have a great mind to tell you a secret, graeme. but you must promise not to tell it again; at least, not yet." "well," said graeme. "if i should stay away longer than i mean to do at present, and harry should get very unhappy about me, perhaps you might tell him. harry thinks i cannot manage my own affairs," added rose, a vivid colour rising on her cheeks. "and he has a mind to help me. he has not helped me much, yet. ah! well, there is no use going over all that." "what is the secret you are going to tell me?" asked graeme. "i don't know whether i ought to tell. but it will be safe with you. graeme, the big doctor is engaged." "well," said graeme. "it is not all smooth sailing, yet. i am afraid it may interfere somewhat with his success in retrieving the fortunes of the family, as etta has always been hoping he might do. but she is quite pleased for all that, poor dear little thing. see that you don't tell harry." "well, is that all you have to say on the subject?" asked her sister. "graeme! i do believe you are as bad as harry. do you fancy that it is i to whom dr goldsmith is engaged? by no means. i am afraid it is a foolish affair; but it may fall through yet. she is a young widow, and has two children, and a little money. no. it is very foolish of harry to fancy things. he is very stupid, i think. but you are not to tell him, because, really, the secret is not mine, and besides, i have another reason. good-night, dear." and so they went away in the morning. rose's visit to the country was quite as agreeable as had been miss goldsmith's to the town, judging from the time she stayed there, and from the letters she sent home. the country was lovely, and she wondered any one would live in the city who could leave it. she kept a journal for graeme, and it was filled with accounts of rides, and drives, and sails; with, now and then, hints of work done, books read, of children's lessons, and torn frocks, of hay-making, and butter-making; and if graeme had any misgiving as to the perfect enjoyment of her sister, it could not have been her letters that had anything to do with it. at last there came word of an expedition to be undertaken to a lake far-away in the woods, where there were pond-lilies and lake trout in abundance. they were to carry a tent, and be out one night, perhaps two, and mr and mrs goldsmith were going with them, and all the children as well. this was the last letter. rose herself came soon after, to find a very quiet house, indeed. fanny and her son had gone to the seaside, whither graeme and rose, perhaps, might go, later. mr millar had gone, too, not by the first steamer, nor by the second, however. if rose had been home two days sooner, she might have seen him before he went, harry told her; and rose said, "what a pity! if i had only known, i could so easily have come!" that was all. how quiet the house was during those long summer days! it was like the coming again of the old time, when they and nelly used to have the house in the garden to themselves, with only will coming and going, till night brought the brothers home. "what happy, happy days they were!" said rose, with a sigh. "they _were_ happy days," said graeme. "very happy days." she did not seem to hear the regretful echo in her sister's voice, nor did she take her to task for the idle hands that lay folded on her lap, nor disturb by word or look the times of silent musing, that grew longer and more frequent as those uneventful days passed on. what was to be said? the doubts and fears that had made her unhappy in the spring, and even before the spring, were coming back again. rose was not at peace with herself, nothing was easier to be seen than that; but whether the struggle was with pride, or anger, or disappointment, or whether all these and something more had to do with it, she could only wait till time, or chance, or rose of her own free will, should tell. for graeme could not bring herself to speak of the trouble which her sister, sad and preoccupied, in so many nameless ways betrayed. she would not even seem to see it, and so strove to make it appear that it was her own industry, her occupation with book, or pen, or needle, that made the silence between them, on those days when rose sat listless or brooding, heedless of books, or work, or of whatever the day might bring. and when the fit of gloom wore over, or when, startled by some sudden fear of being observed, she roused herself, and came back with an effort to the things about her, graeme was always ready, yet not too eager, to make the most of excuses. either the heat made her languid, or the rain made her dull, or the yesterday's walk had been exhausting; and graeme would assent, and warn or reprove, as the case seemed to require, never intimating, by word or look, how clearly she saw through it all, and how she grieved and suffered with her. and, when seized upon by restlessness or impatience, she grew irritable and exacting, and "ill to do with," as janet would have said, graeme stood between her and the wonder and indignation, of her brothers, and, which was harder to do, shielded her from her own anger and self-contempt, when she came to herself again. she went out with her for long walks, and did what was kinder still, she let her go by herself, to rest her mind by tiring out her body, at times when the fever fit was on her, making her fret and chafe at trifles that would have made her laugh if all had been well with her. it was an anxious time to graeme. when their brothers were with them, rose was little different from the rose of old, as far as they could see; and, at such times, even graeme would be beguiled into a momentary belief that she had been letting her fears speak, when there was little cause. but another day would come, bringing the old listlessness or restlessness, and graeme could only watch and wait for the moment when a cheerful word, or a chiding one, might be spoken for her sister's good, or a movement of some kind made to beguile her into occupation or pleasure for a little while. but, through all her watching, and waiting, and anxiety, graeme spoke no word that might betray to her sister her knowledge that something was amiss with her. for, indeed, what could she say? even in her secret thoughts she had shrunk from looking too closely on the cloud of trouble that had fallen on the life of her young sister. was it misunderstanding, or wounded pride, or disappointment? or was it something which time and change might not so easily or so surely dispel? there were no words to be spoken, however it might be. that was plain enough, graeme said to herself, remembering some years of her own experience, and the silent life she had lived unsuspected among them all. not that any such trouble as had befallen her, had come upon rose. that was never for a moment to be believed. nothing that had happened to rose, or was like to happen, could so change life to her as hers had been changed. rose was wiser and stronger than she had been, and she was younger, too, and, perhaps, as janet had said, "of a lighter nature." graeme comforted herself thus, saying to herself that the cloud would pass away; and she waited and watched, and cared for her, and soothed or chided, or shielded her still. she did all this sorrowfully enough at times, yet hopefully, too, for she knew that whatever the trouble might be that, for the present, made the summer days a weariness to the desponding girl, it would pass away; and so she waited, and had patience, and prayed that, out of it all, she might come wiser and stronger, and more fitted for the work that was awaiting her somewhere in the world. "graeme," said her sister, one day when they had been sitting for a long time silent together, "suppose we were to go and see norman and hilda this fall, instead of in the spring, as they propose." "would you like it?" asked graeme, a little surprised. "yes. for some things i would like it;" and graeme fancied there was suppressed eagerness in her manner. "it is a better season to go, for one thing--a better season for health, i mean. one bears the change of climate better, they say." "but you have been here so short a time. what would arthur say, and fanny? it would look as if you only thought yourself a visitor here--as if your home was with norman." rose shrugged her shoulders. "well! neither arthur nor fanny would be inconsolable. the chances are it may be my home. it is worth taking into consideration. indeed, i have been considering the matter for some time past." "nonsense! don't talk foolishly, rose. it is not long since you wished me to promise that we should always remain together, and i have no thought of going west to stay very long." "and why not? i am sure norman has a right to grumble at our being here so long." "not at you, rosie." "no. not at me. and, besides, i was not thinking of norman, altogether. i was thinking of making a home for myself out there. why not?" graeme looked up, a little startled. "i don't understand you, rose." rose laughed. "no, you don't. but you think you do. of course, there is only one way in which a woman can have a home according, to the generally received opinion. it must be made for her. but one might fancy you should be beyond that by this time, graeme," added rose, a little scornfully. graeme said nothing, and rose went on. "it would not be easy here, i know; but out there you and i could make a home to ourselves, and be independent, and have a life of our own. it is so different there. you ought to go there just to understand how very different it is." "if we needed a home," said graeme. "but, rose, i am content with the home we have." "content!" repeated rose, impatiently. "there is surely something better than content to be looked for in the world;" and she rose and walked about the room. "content is a very good thing to have," said graeme, quietly. "yes, if one could have it. but now, graeme, do tell me what is the good of such a life as we are living now?--as i am living, i ought to say. your life and work are worth a great deal to the rest of us; though you must let me say i often wonder it contents you. think of it, graeme! what does it all amount to, as far as i am concerned, i mean? a little working, and reading, and music; a little visiting and housekeeping, if fanny be propitious--coming, and going, and smiling, and making believe enjoy it, when one feels ready to fly. i am sick of the thought of it all." graeme did not answer her. she was thinking of the time when she had been as impatient of her daily life as this, and of how powerless words, better than she could hope to speak, had been to help her; and though she smiled and shook her head at the young girl's impetuous protest against the uselessness of her life, her eyes, quite unconsciously, met her sister's with a look of wistful pity, that rose, in her youthful impatience and jealousy, was quick to resent. "of course, the rest would make an outcry and raise obstacles--that is, if they were to be consulted at all," she went on. "but _you_ ought to know better, graeme," added she, in a voice that she made sharp, so that her sister need not know that it was very near being tearful. "but, rose, you have not told me yet what it is you would do, if you could have your own way. and what do you mean by having a life of your own, and being independent? have you any plan?" rose sat down, with a little sigh of impatience. "there is surely something that we could do, you and i together. i can have no plan, you know quite well; but you might help me, instead of--" instead of laughing at me, she was going to say, but she stopped, for though graeme's lips were smiling, her eyes had a shadow in them that looked like coming tears; and the gaze, that seemed resting on the picture on the wall, went farther, rose knew; but whether into the past or the future, or whether it was searching into the reason of this new eagerness of hers to be away and at work, she could not tell. however it might be, it vexed and fretted her, and she showed it by sudden impatient movements, which recalled her sister's thoughts. "what is it, rose? i am afraid i was thinking about something else. i don't think i quite understand what you were saying last," said graeme, taking up her work as a safe thing on which to fix her eyes. "for i must not let her see that i know there must be a cause for this sudden wish for a new life," said she to herself. if she had done what she longed to do, she would have taken the impatient, troubled child in her arms, and whispered, as janet had whispered to her that night, so long ago, that the restless fever of her heart would pass away; she would have soothed and comforted her, with tender words, as janet had not dared to do. she would have bidden her wait, and have patience with herself and her life, till this cloud passed by--this light cloud of her summer morning, that was only mist to make the rising day more beautiful, and not the sign of storm and loss, as it looked to her young, affrighted eyes. but this she could not do. even with certain knowledge of the troubles which she only guessed, she knew it would be vain to come to her with tender, pitying words, and worse than vain to try to prove that nothing had happened to her, or was like to happen, that could make the breaking up of her old life, and the beginning of a new one, a thing to be thought of by herself or those who loved her. so, after a few stitches carefully taken, for all her sister could see, she said,-- "and, then, there are so few things that a woman can do." the words brought back so vividly that night in the dark, when she had said them out of a sore heart to her friend, that her work fell on her lap again, and she met her sister's eye with a look that rose could not understand. "you are not thinking of what i have been saying. why do you look at me in that strange way?" said she, pettishly. "i am thinking of it, indeed. and i did not know that i was looking any other than my usual way. i was saying to myself, `has the poor child got to go through all that for herself, as i have done?' oh! rosie, dear! if i could only give you the benefit of all my vexed thoughts on that very subject!" "well, why not? that is just what i want. only, don't begin in that discouraging way, about there being so few things a woman can do. i know all that, already." "we might go to norman for a while together, at any rate," said graeme, feeling how impossible it would be to satisfy one another by what might be said, since all could not be spoken between them. "yes. that is just what i said, at first. and we could see about it there. we could much more easily make our plans, and carry them out there, than here. and, in the meantime, we could find plenty to do in hilda's house with the children and all the rest. i wish we could go soon." and then she went over what she had often gone over before, the way of life in their brother norman's house--hilda's housekeeping, and her way with her children, and in society, and so on, graeme asking questions, and making remarks, in the hope that the conversation might not, for this time, come back to the vexed question, of what women may do in the world. it grew dark in the meantime, but they were waiting for harry and letters, and made no movement; and, by and by, rose said, suddenly: "i am sure you used to think about all this, graeme--about woman's work, and how stupid it is to live on in this way, `waiting at the pool,' as hannah lovejoy used to say. i declare it is undignified, and puts thoughts into people's heads, as though--. it would be different, if we were living in our father's house, or, even, if we had money of our own. you used to think so, yourself, graeme. why should arthur and harry do everything for us?" "yes, i remember. when fanny first came, i think i had as many thoughts about all this as you have now. i was very restless, and discontented, and determined to go away. i talked to janet about it one night." "and she convinced you that you were all wrong, i suppose," said rose. "and you were content ever after." "no. i don't think she helped me much, at the time. but her great doctrine of patience and quiet waiting, and circumstances together, convinced me, afterward, that i did not need to go in search of my work, as seemed to me then the thing to do. i found it ready at my hand, though i could not see it then. her wisdom was higher than mine. she said that out of it all would come content, and so it has." "that was not saying much!" said rose. "no. it did not seem to me, much, when she said it. but she was right, all the same, and i was wrong. and it has all happened much better than if i had got my own way." "but, graeme, all that would not apply in the case of women, generally. that is begging the question, as harry would say." "but i am not speaking of women in general; i am speaking about myself, and my own work; and i say janet was wise, though i was far from thinking it that night, as i mind well." there was a pause, and then rose said, in a low voice. "it may have been right for you to stay at home then, and care for the rest of us, but it would be quite different now, with me, and i think with you, too. and how many women have to go and make a way of life for themselves. and it is right that it should be so; and graeme, we might try." instead of answering her directly, graeme said, after a little while,-- "did i ever tell you rose, dear, about that night, and all that janet said to me? i told her how i wished to get out of my useless, unsatisfactory life, just as you have been telling me. did i ever tell you all she said to me? i don't think i ever did. i felt then, just as you do now. i think i can understand your feeling, better than you suppose; and i opened my heart to janet--i mean, i told her how sick i was of it all, and how good-for-nothing i felt myself to be, and how it all might be changed, if only i could find real work to do--" and graeme went on to tell much that had been said between them that night, about woman's work, and about old maids, and a little about the propriety of not setting one's face against the manifest lot of woman; and when she came to this part of it, she spoke with an attempt at playfulness, meant to cover, a little, the earnestness of all that went before. but neither in this nor in the rest, did she speak as though she meant rose to take the lesson to herself, or as though it meant very much to either of them now; but rather implied by her words and manner, and by many a pathetic touch here and there, that she was dwelling on it as a pleasant reminiscence of the dear old friend, whose quaint sayings were household words among them, because of their wisdom, and because of the honour and the love they gave her. her earnestness increased, as, by and by, she saw the impatience pass out of her sister's face and manner; and it never came into her mind that she was turning back a page in her own experience, over which rose had long ago pondered with wonder and sadness. "i could not make janet see the necessity that seemed so clear to me," she went on. "i could not make her understand, or, at least, i thought she could not understand, for she spoke as though she thought that fanny's coming, and those old vexations, made me wish to get away, and it was not easy to answer her when she said that my impatience and restlessness would all pass away, and that i must fulfil papa's last wish, and stay with the rest. i thought the time had come when the necessity for that was over, and that another way would be better for _me_, certainly; and i thought for arthur and fanny, too, and for you, rosie. but, oh! how much wiser janet was than i, that night. but i did not think so at the time. i was wild to be set free from the present, and to have my own will and go away. it was well that circumstances were too strong for me. it has come true, as janet said. i think it is better for us all that i have been at home all those years. fanny and i have done each other good. it has been better for us all." she paused a moment, and then added,-- "of course, if it had been necessary that i should go out into the world, and make my own way, i might have done as others have done, and won, at least, a measure of success. and so we might still, you and i together, rose, if it were necessary, but that makes all the difference. there is no question of necessity for us, dear, at present, and as for god's work, and work for our fellow creatures, we can find that at home. without separating from the others, i mean." but rose's face clouded again. "there need be no question of separating from the others, graeme. norman is out there, and there are hundreds of women who have their own place and work in the world, who have not been driven by necessity to look for them--the necessity of making a living, i mean. there are other necessities that a woman must feel--some more than others, i suppose. it is an idle, foolish, vain life that i am living. i know that i have not enough to fill my life, graeme. i know it, though i don't suppose i can make you understand it. i am past the age now to care for being petted, and amused, and made much of by the rest of you. i mean, i am too old now to feel that enough for my satisfaction. it is different with you, who really are good for something, and who have done so much, for arthur and fanny, and us all. and, besides, as you say, you are content; but as for me--oh! i know there is no use talking. i could never make you understand--there, i don't want to be naughty, and vex you--and we will say no more to-night. shall i get a light?" she stooped over her sister, and kissed her, and graeme, putting her arms round her, said softly,-- "only one word more, rosie. i think i can understand you better than you believe, as janet understood me that night, though i did not see it then, and you must just let me say one thing. my darling, i believe all that is troubling you, now, will pass away; but, if i am wrong, and if it be best that you have your own way about this work of yours--i mean, if it is right--circumstances will arrange themselves to that end, and it will all come easy for you, and me, too. we shall keep together, at any rate, and i am not afraid. and, love, a year or two does make a difference in people's feelings about things, though there is no good in my saying it to you, now, i know. but we will wait till will comes home. we must be here to welcome him, even if his coming should be delayed longer than we hope now. i don't like to think of any plan for you and me, out of which will must be left. and so many things may happen before a year is over. i remember how restless and troubled i was at that time. i don't like to think of it even now--and it is all past--quite past. and we will stay together, whatever happens, if we can, and, darling, you must have patience." all this was said with many a caressing pause between, and then rose said,-- "well--yes--i suppose we must wait for will." but she did not say it cheerfully, and graeme went on, after a little: "and, dear, i have noticed more than once in my life that when a quiet time like this has come, it has come as a time of preparation for work of some sort; for the doing, or the bearing of god's will in some peculiar way; and we must not lose the good of these quiet days by being anxious about the future, or regretful over the past. it will all come right, love, you may be sure of that." the last words were spoken hastily, for harry's voice was heard, and rose went softly out at one door, as he came in at the other; and when, in a little, he called from the foot of the stairs, as he always did, when he did not find her in her parlour, she came down, affecting surprise. "so you are here at last, harry? are there any letters to-night?" yes, there were letters. harry had read his, and gave them the news with a little grumbling, while the gas was being lighted. his friend and partner seemed intent on making the most of his long delayed holiday, and was going to lengthen it a little, by taking a run to paris, perhaps even to rome. "with whom do you think, graeme?" added he, his face clearing up suddenly. "with his brother allan, and our will. won't they help one another to have a good time? charlie takes it quite coolly, however, i must say. it was an even chance, at one time, whether he would go at all, and now, there is no telling when he will be back again. that is always the way. i wonder when i shall have my holiday? `the willing horse,' you know, rosie." "it is very hard on you, harry, dear. but i fancied you had a little trip yourself, lately, and enjoyed it, too. was that in the interest of your friend?" "hem! yes--indirectly. i did enjoy it. fanny says she has had a very pleasant summer; and, if you are going down at all, rosie, it is time you were going. they seem to have a very nice set of people there. i think if you were to go at once, i would take a run down with you--next week, perhaps. i think you would enjoy it." "i thank you, harry, dear. but, you know, fanny's taste and mine are different. i don't always fancy _her_ pleasant people. and i should not think of taking you away on my account." "not at all. i shall go, at any rate. but i want you to go, rosie, for a reason i have. and i promise you won't regret it. i wish graeme would go, too." "it would be charming if we could all go together," said rose. "but it would be hardly worth while, we could make so short a stay, now." "i enjoyed it very much," said harry. "one gets to know people so much better in such a place, and i am sure you would like the roxburys, rosie, if you would only take pains to know them." "my dear harry! think what you are saying! would they take pains to know me? they are fanny's nice people, are they? yes, i suppose so. however, i don't believe graeme will care to go." graeme uttered an exclamation over her letter. "it is from. mr snow," said she, with a pale face. "bad news?" asked harry. it was bad news, indeed. it told, in mr snow's brief way, that, within a few days, the illness, from which his wife had been suffering for some time, had taken a dangerous turn, rendering an operation necessary; and the letter was sent to prepare them for a possible fatal result. "it gives her a chance, and that is all the doctors will say. _she_ says it will be all right whichever way it turns. god bless you all. emily will tell you more." "harry," said graeme, as he laid down the letter. "i must go to janet." "it would be a comfort to her if you could," said harry, gravely. "and to me," said graeme. "i shall go early to-morrow." there was not much more said about it. there was a little discussion about the trains, and the best way to take, and then harry went away. rose had not spoken a word while he was there, but the moment the door closed after him, she said, softly,-- "harry does not think that i am going; but, dear, you promised that, whatever happened, we should keep together. and, graeme, the quiet time has been to prepare you for this; and we are sure it will all be right, as janet says. you will let me go with you, graeme?" she pleaded; "you will never go and leave me here?" so whatever harry thought, graeme could do nothing but yield; and the next morning the sisters were speeding southward, with fear in their hearts, but with peace and hope in them, also; for they knew, and they said to one another many times that day, that the words of their dear old friend would come true, and that in whatever way the trouble that had fallen on her might end, it would be for her all well. chapter forty one. september was nearly over; there were tokens of the coming autumn on the hills and valleys of merleville, but the day was like a day in the prime of summer, and the air that came in through the open windows of the south room fell on mrs snow's pale cheeks as mild and balmy as a breeze of june. the wood-covered hills were unfaded still, and beautiful, though here and there a crimson banner waved, or a pillar of gold rose up amid the greenness. over among the valleys, were sudden, shifting sparkles from half-hidden brooks, and the pond gleamed in the sunshine without a cloud to dim its brightness. in the broken fields that sloped towards it, and in the narrow meadows that skirted that part of the merle river which could be seen, there were tokens of life and busy labour--dark stretches of newly-turned mould alternating with the green of the pastures, or the bleached stubble of the recent harvest. there were glimpses of the white houses of the village through the trees, and, now and then, a traveller passed slowly along the winding road, but there was nothing far or near to disturb the sweet quiet of the scene now so familiar and so dear, and mrs snow gazed out upon it with a sense of peace and rest at her heart which showed in her quiet face and in her folded hands. it showed in mr snow's face, too, as he glanced now and then over the edge of the newspaper he was holding in his hand. he was reading, and she was supposed to be listening, to one of the excellent articles which weekly enriched the columns of _the puritan_, but the look that was coming and going on his wife's face was not just the look with which she was wont to listen to the doings of the county association of ministers, mr snow thought, and, in a little, he let the paper drop from his hand. "well, and how did they come on with their discussions?" said mrs snow, her attention recalled by the silence. mr snow smiled. "oh! pretty much so. their discussions will keep a spell, i guess," said he, taking off his spectacles, and changing his seat so as to look out of the window. "it is a bonny day," said mrs snow, softly. "yes, it is kind of pleasant." there was nothing more said for a long time. many words were not needed between these two by this time. they had been passing through weeks of sore trial; the shadow of death had seemed to be darkening over them, and, worse to bear even than the prospect of death, had been the suffering which had brought it near. worse for her, for she had drawn very near to the unseen world--so near that the glory had been visible, and it had cost her a struggle to be willing to come back again; and worse for him, too, whose heart had grown sick at the sight of the slow, wearing pain, growing sharper every day. but that was past now. very slowly, but still surely, health was coming back to the invalid, and the rest from long pain, and the consciousness of returning strength, were making the bright day and the fair scene more beautiful to her. as for him, he could only look at her with thankful joy. "i never saw this bonny place bonnier than it is to-day, and so sweet, and quiet, and homelike. we live in a fair world, and, on a day like this, one is ready to forget that there is sin or trouble in it." "it is good to see you sitting there," said mr snow, for answer. "well, i am content to be sitting here. i doubt i shall do little else for the rest of my life. i must be a useless body, i'm afraid," added she, with a sigh. mr snow smiled. "you know better than that," said he. "i don't suppose it seems much to you to get back again; but it is a great deal for the rest of us to have you, if it is only to look at." "i am content to bide my time, useless or useful, as god wills," said his wife, gravely: "i was willing you should go--yes, i do think i was willing you should go. it was the seeing you suffer that seemed to take the strength out of me," said he, with a shudder. "it makes me kind of sick to think about it," added he, rising and moving about. "i believe i was willing, but i am dreadful glad to see you sitting there." "i am glad to be here, since it is god's will. it is a wonderful thing to stand on the very brink of the river of death, and then to turn back again. i think the world can never look quite the same to eyes that have looked beyond it to the other side. but i am content to be here, and to serve him, whether it be by working or by waiting." "on the very brink," repeated mr snow, musingly. "well, it _did_ look like that, one while. i wonder if i was really willing to have you go. it don't seem now as if i could have been--being so glad as i am that you did not go, and so thankful." "i don't think the gladness contradicts the willingness; and knowing you as i do, and myself as well, i wonder less at the willingness than at the gladness." this needed further consideration, it seemed, for mr snow did not answer, but sat musing, with his eyes fixed on the distant hills, till mrs snow spoke again. "i thought at first, when the worst was over, it was only a respite from pain before the end; but, to-day, i feel as if my life was really coming back to me, and i am more glad to live than i have been any day yet." mr snow cleared his throat, and nodded his head a great many times. it was not easy for him to speak at the moment. "if it were only may, now, instead of september! you always did find our winters hard; and it is pretty tough being hived up so many months of the year. i do dread the winter for you." "maybe it winna be so hard on me. we must make the best of it anyway. i am thankful for ease from pain. that is much." "yes," said mr snow, with the shudder that always came with the remembrance of his wife's sufferings, "thank god for that. i ain't a going to fret nor worry about the winter, if i can help it. i am going to live, if i can, from hour to hour, and from day to day, by the grace that is given me; but if i _could_ fix it so that graeme would see it best to stop here a spell longer, i should find it considerable easier, i expect." "but she has said nothing about going away yet," said mrs snow, smiling at his way of putting it. "you must take the grace of her presence, day by day, as you do the rest, at least till she shows signs of departure." "we never can tell how things are going to turn," said mr snow, musingly. "there is that good come out of your sickness. they are both here, and, as far as i see, they are content to be here. if we could prevail on will to see it his duty to look toward this field of labour, now, i don't doubt but we could fix it so that they should make their home, here always--right here in this house, i mean--only it would be 'most too good a thing to have in this world, i'm afraid." "we must wait for the leadings of providence," said his wife. "this field, as you call it, is no' at will's taking yet. what would your friend, mr perry, think if he heard you? and as for the others, we must not be over-anxious to keep them beyond what their brothers would like. but, as you say, they seem content; and it is a pleasure to have them here, greater than i can put in words; and i know you are as pleased as i am, and that doubles the pleasure to me," added mrs snow, looking gratefully toward her husband. "it might have been so different." "oh! come, now. it ain't worth while, to put it in that way at this time of day. i don't know as you'd allow it exactly; but i do think they are about as nigh to me as they are to you. i really do." "that's saying much, but i'll no' gainsay it," said mrs snow, smiling. "they are good bairns, and a blessing wherever they may go. but i doubt we canna hope to keep them very long with us." "it is amazing to me. i can't seem to understand it, or reconcile it to--." mr snow paused and looked at his wife in the deprecating manner he was wont to assume when he was not quite sure whether or not she would like what he was going to say, and then added: "however, she don't worry about it. she is just as contented as can be, and no mistake; and i rather seem to remember that you used to worry a little about her when they were here last." "about miss graeme, was it?" said mrs snow, with a smile; "maybe i did. i was as good at that as at most things. yes, she is content with life, now. god's peace is in her heart, and in her life, too. i need not have been afraid." "rosie's sobered down some, don't you think?" said mr snow, with some hesitation. "she used to be as lively as a cricket. maybe it is only my notion, but she seems different." "she's older and wiser, and she'll be none the worse to take a soberer view of life than she used to do," said mrs snow. "i have seen nothing beyond what was to be looked for in the circumstances. but i have been so full of myself, and my own troubles of late, i may not have taken notice. her sister is not anxious about her; i would have seen that. the bairn is gathering sense--that is all, i think." "well! yes. it will be all right. i don't suppose it will be more than a passing cloud, and i might have known better than to vex you with it." "indeed, you have not vexed me, and i am not going to vex myself with any such thought. it will all come right, as you say. i have seen her sister in deeper water than any that can be about her, and she is on dry land now. `and hath set my feet upon a rock, and established my goings,'" added mrs snow, softly. "that is the way with my bairn, i believe. thank god. and they'll both be the better for this quiet time, and we'll take the good of it without wishing for more than is wise, or setting our hearts on what may fail. see, they are coming down the brae together. it is good to see them." the first weeks of their stay in merleville had been weeks of great anxiety. long after a very difficult and painful operation had been successfully performed, mrs snow remained in great danger, and the two girls gave themselves up to the duty of nursing and caring for her, to the exclusion of all other thoughts and interests. to mr snow it seemed that his wife had been won back to life by their devotion, and janet herself, when her long swoon of exhaustion and weakness was over, remembered that, even at the worst time of all, a dim consciousness of the presence of her darlings had been with her, and a wish to stay, for their sakes, had held her here, when her soul seemed floating away to unseen worlds. by a change, so gradual as scarcely to be perceptible, from day to day, she came back to a knowledge of their loving care, and took up the burden of her life again. not joyfully, perhaps, having been so near to the attaining of heavenly joy, but still with patience and content, willing to abide god's time. after that the days followed one another quietly and happily, with little to break the pleasant monotony beyond the occasional visits of the neighbours from the village, or the coming of letters from home. to graeme it was a very peaceful time. watching her from day to day, her old friend could not but see that she was content with her life and its work, now; that whatever the shadow had been which had fallen on her earlier days, it had passed away, leaving around her, not the brightness of her youth, but a milder and more enduring radiance. graeme was, in janet's eyes, just what the daughter of her father and mother ought to be. if she could have wished anything changed, it would have been in her circumstances, not in herself. she was not satisfied that to her should be denied the higher happiness of being in a home of her own--the first and dearest to some one worthy of her love. "and yet who knows?" said she to herself. "one can never tell in which road true happiness lies; and it is not for me, who can see only a little way, to wish for anything that god has not given her. `a contented mind is a continual feast,' says the book. she has that. and `blessed are the meek, and the merciful, and the pure in heart.' what would i have? i'll make no plans, and i'll make no wishes. it is all in good hands, and there is nothing to fear for her, i am sure of that. as for her sister--. well, i suppose there will ay be something in the lot of those we love, to make us mindful that they need better help than ours. and it is too far on in the day for me to doubt that good guidance will come to her as to the rest." still, after her husband's words, mrs snow regarded rose's movements with an earnestness that she was not quite willing to acknowledge even to herself. it was rather unreasonable of him, she thought at first, to be otherwise than content with the young girl in her new sedateness. she was not quite so merry and idle as during her last visit; but that was not surprising, seeing she was older and wiser, and more sensible of the responsibilities that life brings to all. it was natural that it should be so, and well that it should be so. it was matter for thankfulness that the years were bringing her wisdom, and that, looking on life with serious eyes, she would not expect too much from it, nor be so bitterly disappointed at its inevitable failures. she was quieter and graver, but surely no fault was to be found with that, seeing there had been sickness and anxiety in the house. she was cheerful and busy too, mrs snow saw, accomplishing wonderful things in the way of learning to do housework, and dairy work, under the direction of hannah, and comporting herself generally in a way that was winning the good opinion of that experienced and rather exacting housekeeper. she took great interest in out-of-door affairs, going daily with the deacon to the high sheep pasture, or to the clearing beyond the swamp, or wherever else his oversight of farming matters led him, which ought to have contented mr snow, his wife thought, and which might have done so if he had been quite sure that her heart was in it all. by and by mrs snow wearied a little for the mirthfulness and laughter that had sometimes needed to be gently checked during her former visit. more than once, too, she fancied she saw a wistful look in graeme's eyes as they followed her sister's movements, and she had much ado to keep from troubling herself about them both. they were sitting one day together in the south room which looked out over the garden and the orchard and the pond beyond. rose was in the garden, walking listlessly up and down the long paths between the flower-beds, and mrs snow, as she watched her, wondered within herself whether this would be a good time to speak to graeme about her sister. before she had time to decide, however, they were startled by hannah's voice coming round the corner-- "rose," it said, "hadn't you just as leives do your walking right straight ahead? 'cause, if you had, you might take a pitcher and go over to emily's and borrow some yeast. i don't calculate, as a general thing, to get out of yeast, or any thing else, but the cat's been and keeled the jug right down, and spilled the last drop, and i want a little to set some more to rising." "hannah," said rose, with a penitent face, "i am afraid it was my fault. i left the jug on the corner of the shelf, instead of putting it away as i ought. i am very sorry." "well, i thought pretty likely it might be you, seeing it wasn't me," said hannah, grimly. "that jug has held the yeast in this house since grandma snow's time, and now it's broke to forty pieces." "oh, i am so sorry!" said rose. "well, i guess it don't matter a great sight. nobody will worry about it, if i don't, and it's no use crying over spilt milk. but i guess you'd better tell emily how it happened. i'd a little rather what borrowing there is between the two houses should be on t'other side. i wouldn't have asked you, only i thought you'd rather go than not. that walking up and down is about as shiftless a business as ever you undertook. but don't you go if you don't want to." rose shrugged her shoulders. "oh! i'll go, and i'll tell mrs nasmyth how it happened, and that it was my fault and the cat's. mrs snow," said she, presenting herself at the window, "did you hear what hannah has been saying? i have broken grandma snow's yeast jug into forty pieces, and i am to go and confess to emily, and get some yeast." "i thought it was the cat that did it; though, doubtless, it was your fault not putting it in its place. however, there is no great harm done, so that you get more yeast to hannah." "and let emily know that it is my fault and not hannah's that more yeast is needed. graeme, will you come and have a walk this bonny day?" "you can go and do hannah's errand, now, and i will stay with mrs snow, and we will walk together later," said graeme. "and you might bring wee rosie home with you, if her mother will spare her, and if she wants to come. but there is no doubt of her wishing to come with you." "is anything the matter with your sister, that you follow her with such troubled e'en?" asked mrs snow, after a moment's silence. "troubled e'en!" repeated graeme. "no, i don't think there is anything the matter with her. do you? why should you think there is anything the matter with her, janet?" "my dear, i was only asking you; and it was because of the look that you sent after her--a look that contradicts your words--a thing that doesna often happen with you, be it said." "did i look troubled? i don't think there is any reason for it on rosie's account--any that can be told. i mean i can only guess at any cause of trouble she may have. just for a minute, now and then, i have felt a little anxious, perhaps; but it is not at all because i think there is anything seriously wrong with rosie, or indeed anything that will not do her good rather than harm. but oh, janet! it is sad that we cannot keep all trouble away from those we love." "i canna agree with you, my dear. it would be ill done to keep anything from her that will do her good and not evil, as you say yourself. but well or ill, you canna do it, and it is foolish and wrong of you to vex yourself more than is needful." "but i do not, indeed. just now it was her restless, aimless walking up and down that vexed me. i am foolish, i suppose, but it always does." "i daresay it may tell of an uneasy mind, whiles," said mrs snow, gravely. "i mind you used to be given to it yourself in the old times, when you werena at ease with yourself. but if you don't like it in your sister, you should encourage her to employ herself in a purpose-like manner." "hannah has done it for me this time--i am not sure, however." for rosie was standing still at the gate looking away down the hill towards the village, "thinking her own thoughts, doubtless," graeme said to herself. "she's waiting for some one, maybe. i daresay sandy has sent some one down to the village for the papers, as this is the day they mostly come." "miss graeme, my dear," continued mrs snow, in a little, "it is time you were thinking of overtaking all the visiting you'll be expected to do, now that i am better. it will be a while, before you'll get over all the places where they will expect to see you, for nobody will like to be overlooked." "oh, i don't know!" said graeme. "it is not just like last time, when we were strangers and new to the people. and we have seen almost everybody already. and i like this quiet time much best." "but, my dear, it is too late to begin to think first of your own likes and dislikes now. and it will be good for rosie, and you mustna tell me that you are losing interest in your merleville friends, dear! that would be ungrateful, when they all have so warm an interest in you." "no, indeed! i have not lost interest in my merleville friends. there will never be any place just like merleville to me. our old life here always comes back to me like a happy, happy dream. i can hardly remember any troubles that came to us all those seven years, janet--till the very end." "my dear, you had your troubles, plenty of them, or you thought you had; but the golden gleam of youth lies on your thoughts of that time, now. there was the going away of the lads, for one thing. i mind well you thought those partings hard to bear." "yes, i remember," said graeme, gravely, "but even then we hoped to meet again, and life lay before us all; and nothing had happened to make us afraid." "my dear, nothing has happened yet that need make you afraid. if you mean for rosie, she must have her share of the small tribulations that fall to the lot of most women, at one time or other of their lives; but she is of a cheerful nature, and not easily daunted; and dear, _you_ have come safely over rougher bits of road than any that are like to lie before her, and she ay will have you to guide her. and looking at you, love, and knowing that the `great peace,' the book speaks about, is in your heart and in your life, i have no fear for your sister, after all that has come and gone to you." graeme leaned back in her chair, silent for a moment, then she said, gently,-- "i am not afraid. i cannot think what i have said, janet, to make you think i am afraid for rosie." "my dear, you have said nothing. it was the wistful look in your e'en that made me speak to you about her. and besides, i have noticed rosie myself. she is not so light of heart as she used to be. it may be the anxious time you have had with me, or it may be the added years, or it may be something that it may be wiser for you and me not to seem to see. but whatever it is, i am not afraid for rose. i am only afraid that you may vex yourself about her, when there is no need. there can be no good in that, you know well." "but i am not vexing myself, janet, indeed. i will tell you what i know about it. do you mind that restless fit that was on me long ago, when you came to see us, and how it seemed to me that i must go away? well, rose has come to the same place in her life, and she would like to have work, real work, to do in the world, and she has got impatient of her useless life, as she calls it. it has come on her sooner than it came on me, but that is because the circumstances are different, i suppose, and i hope it may pass away. for, oh! janet, i shrink from the struggle, and the going away from them all; and i have got to that time when one grows content with just the little things that come to one's hand to do, seeing they are sent by god, as well as nobler work. but it is not so with rose, and even if this wears over, as it did with me, there are weary days before her; and no wonder, janet, that i follow her with anxious eyes." there was no more said for a moment. they were both watching rose, who still stood at the gate, shading her eyes, and looking down the hill. "she doesna look like one that has much the matter with her," said mrs snow. "miss graeme, my dear, do you ken what ails your sister? why has this feverish wish to be away and at work come upon her so suddenly, if it is a question that i ought to ask?" "janet, i cannot tell you. i do not know. i can but guess at it myself, and i may be all wrong. and i think, perhaps, the best help we can give her, is not to seem to see, as you said a little ago. sometimes i have thought it might all be set right, if rose would only speak; but one can never be sure, and i think, janet, we can only wait and see. i don't believe there is much cause for fear, if only rose will have patience." "then, wherefore should you look so troubled? nothing but wrong-doing on your sister's part should make you look like that." for there were tears in graeme's eyes as she watched her sister, and she looked both anxious and afraid. "wrong-doing," repeated she, with a start. then she rose impatiently, but sat down again in a moment. was it "wrong-doing" in a woman to let her heart slip unawares and unasked from her own keeping? if this was indeed the thing that had happened to rose? or was it "wrong-doing" to come to the knowledge of one's heart too late, as harry had once hinted might be the end of rosie's foolish love of admiration? "wrong-doing," she repeated again, with a sudden stir of indignation at her heart. "no, that must never be said of rose. it must be one of the small tribulations that sooner or later fall to the lot of most women, as you said yourself janet, a little ago. and it won't do to discuss it, anyway. see, rose has opened the gate for some one. who is coming in?" "my dear," said mrs snow, gravely, "it was far from my thought to wish to know about anything that i should not. it is sandy she is opening the gate for, and wee rosie. he has been down for the papers, it seems, and he may have gotten letters as well." "but, janet," said graeme, eagerly, "you know i could not mean that i could not tell you if i were ever so willing. i do not know. i can only guess; but as for `wrong-doing'--" "my dear, you needna tell me that. sandy, man, it must seem a strange-like thing to the folk in the village to see you carrying the child that way on your horse before you--you that have wagons of one kind or another, and plenty of them, at your disposal. is it safe for the bairn, think you? do you like that way of riding, my wee rosie?" "yes, gamma, i 'ike it," lisped the two years old rosie, smiling brightly. "it is safe enough, mother, you may be sure of that. and as for what the village folk may think, that's a new thing for you to ask. it is the best and pleasantest way in the world for both rosie and me." and looking at the proud, young father and the happy child sitting before him, it was not to be for a moment doubted. "it must be delightful," said rose, laughing. "i should like a ride myself, wee rosie." "and why not?" said mrs snow. "sandy, man, it is a wonder to me that you havena thought about it before. have you your habit here, my dear? why should you no' bring young major or dandy over, saddled for miss rose? it would do her all the good in the world to get a gallop in a day like this." "there is no reason in the world why i should not, if miss rose, would like it." "i would like it very much. not that i need the good of it especially, but i shall enjoy the pleasure of it. and will you let wee rosie come with me." "if grandma has no objections," said sandy, laughing. "but it must be _old_ major, if you take her." "did ever anybody hear such nonsense?" said mrs snow, impatiently. "but you'll need to haste, sandy, man, or we shall be having visitors, and then she winna get away." "yes, i should not wonder. i saw mr perry coming up the way with a book in his hand. but i could bring young major and dandy too, and miss rose needn't be kept at home then." rose laughed merrily. "who? the minister? oh! fie, sandy man, you shouldna speak such nonsense. wee rosie, are you no' going to stay the day with miss graeme and me?" said mrs snow. graeme held up her arms for the little girl, but she did not offer to move. "will you bide with grannie, wee rosie?" asked her father, pulling back her sun-bonnet, and letting a mass of tangled, yellow curls fall over her rosy face. "tum adain grannie," said the little girl, gravely. she was too well pleased with her place to wish to leave it. her father laughed. "she shall come when i bring over dandy for miss rose. in the meantime, i have something for some one here." "letters," said graeme and rose, in a breath. "one a piece. good news, i hope. i shall soon be back again, miss rose, with dandy." graeme's letter was from will, written after having heard of his sisters being in merleville, before he had heard of mrs snow's recovery. he had thought once of coming home with mr millar, he said, but had changed his plans, partly because he wished to accept an invitation he had received from his uncle in the north, and partly for other reasons. he was staying at present with mrs millar, who was "one of a thousand," wrote will, with enthusiasm, "and, indeed, so is, her son, mr ruthven, but you know allan, of old." and then he went on to other things. graeme read the letter first herself, and then to mrs snow and rose. in the midst of it mr snow came in. rose had read hers, but held it in her hand still, even after they had ceased to discuss will's. "it is from fanny," said she, at last. "you can read it to mrs snow, if you like, graeme. it is all about baby and his perfections; or nearly all. i will go and put on my habit for my ride. uncle sampson come with me, won't you? have you anything particular to do to-day?" "to ride?" said mr snow. "i'd as lieve go as not, and a little rather--if you'll promise to take it moderate. i should like the chaise full better than the saddle, i guess, though." rose laughed. "i will promise to let _you_ take it moderate. i am not afraid to go alone, if you don't want to ride. but i shouldn't fancy the chaise to-day. a good gallop is just what i want, i think." she went to prepare for her ride, and graeme read fanny's letter. it was, as rose had said, a record of her darling's pretty sayings and doings, and gentle regrets that his aunts could not have the happiness of being at home to watch his daily growth in wisdom and beauty. then there were a few words at the end. "harry is properly indignant, as we all are, at your hint that you may see norman and hilda, before you see home again. harry says it is quite absurd to speak of such a thing, but we have seen very little of him of late. i hope we may see more of him now that his friend and partner has returned. he has been quite too much taken up with his little amy, to think of us. however, i promised mr millar i would say nothing of that bit of news. he must tell you about it himself. he has a great deal of scottish news, but i should only spoil it by trying to tell it; and i think it is quite possible that harry may fulfil his threat, and come for you himself. but i suppose he will give you fair warning," and so on. graeme closed the letter, saying nothing. "it is not just very clear, i think," said mrs snow. "is it not?" said graeme. "i did not notice. of course, it is all nonsense about harry coming to take us home." "and who is little miss amy, that she speaks of? is she a friend of your brother harry? or is she mr millar's friend? mrs arthur doesna seem to make it clear?" "miss amy roxbury," said graeme, opening her letter again. "does she not make it plain? oh, well! we shall hear more about it, she says. i suppose harry has got back to his old fancy, that we are to go and live with him if mr millar goes elsewhere. indeed, i don't understand it myself; but we shall hear more soon, i daresay. ah! here is rosie." "and here is dandy," said rose, coming in with her habit on. "and here is wee rosie come to keep you company while i am away. and here is mr snow, on old major. don't expect us home till night. we shall have a day of it, shall we not?" they had a very quiet day at home. wee rosie came and went, and told her little tales to the content of her grandmother and graeme, who made much of the little girl, as may well be supposed. she was a bonny little creature, with her father's blue eyes and fair curls, and showing already some of the quaint, grave ways that graeme remembered in her mother as a child. in the afternoon, emily came with her baby, and they were all happy and busy, and had no time for anxious or troubled thoughts. at least, they never spoke a word that had reference to anything sad. but, when graeme read the letters again to emily, mrs snow noticed that she did not read the part about their going west, or about little amy, or about harry's coming to take them home. but her eye lingered on the words, and her thoughts went back to some old trouble, she saw by her grave look, and by the silence that fell upon her, even in the midst of her pretty child's play with the little ones. but never a word was spoken about anything sad. and, by and by, visitors came, and mrs snow, being tired, went to lie down to rest for a while. but when rose and mr snow came home, they found her standing at the gate, ready to receive them. chapter forty two. "i want to know! now do tell; if there ain't mother standing at the gate, and opening it for us, too," exclaimed mr snow, in astonishment and delight. "that is the farthest she's been yet, and it begins to look a little like getting well, now, don't it?" "i hope nothing has happened," said rose, a little anxiously. "i guess not--nothing to fret over. her face don't look like it. well, mother, you feel pretty smart to-night, don't you? you look first-rate." "i am just as usual," said mrs snow, quietly. "but what has kept you so long? we were beginning to wonder about you." "has anything happened?" said rose, looking over mrs snow's head, at a little crowd of people coming out at the door. "we have visitors, that is all. the minister is here, and a friend of yours--your brother harry's partner. he has brought news--not bad news, at least he doesna seem to think so, nor miss graeme. i have hardly heard it myself, yet, or seen the young man, for i was tired and had to lie down. but you'll hear it yourself in due time." rose reined her horse aside. "take care, dear," said mrs snow, as she sprung to the ground without assistance. "there is no need for such haste. you might have waited for sandy or some one to help you, i think." "what is it, graeme?" said rose, for her sister looked flashed and excited, and there were traces of tears on her cheeks she was sure. but she did not look anxious--certainly not unhappy. "rosie, dear, charlie has come." "oh! charlie has come, has he? that is it, is it?" said rose, with a long breath. yes, there was mr millar, offering his hand and smiling--"exactly like himself," rose thought, but she could not tell very well, for her eyes were dazzled with the red light of the setting sun. but she was very glad to see him, she told him; and she told the minister she was very glad to see _him_, too, in the very same tone, the next minute. there was not much time to say anything, however, for hannah--whose patience had been tried by the delay--announced that tea was on the table, in a tone quite too peremptory to be trifled with. "rose, you are tired, i am sure. never mind taking off your habit till after tea." rose confessed herself tired after her long and rapid ride. "for i left mr snow at major spring's, and went on a long way by myself, and it is just possible, that, after all, you are right, and i have gone too far for the first ride; for see, i am a little shaky," added she, as the teacup she passed to mr snow trembled in her hand. then she asked mr millar about the news he had brought them, and whether all were well, and a question or two besides; and then she gave herself up to the pleasure of listening to the conversation of the minister, and it came into graeme's mind that if harry had been there he would have said she was amusing herself with a little serious flirtation. graeme did not think so, or, if she did, it did not make her angry as it would have made harry; for though she said little, except to the grave wee rosie nasmyth, whom she had taken under her care, she looked very bright and glad. rose looked at her once or twice, a little startled, and after a while, in watching her, evidently lost the thread of the minister's entertaining discourse, and answered him at random. "i have a note from harry," said graeme, as they left the tea-table. "here it is. go and take off your habit. you look hot and tired." in a little while the visitors were gone and mr millar was being put through a course of questions by mr snow. graeme sat and listened to them, and thought of rose, who, all the time, was sitting up-stairs with harry's letter in her hand. it was not a long letter. rose had time to read it a dozen times over, graeme knew, but still she lingered, for a reason she could not have told to any one, which she did not even care to make very plain to herself. mr snow was asking, and mr millar was answering, questions about scotland, and will, and mr ruthven, and every word that was said was intensely interesting to her; and yet, while she listened eagerly, and put in a word now and then that showed how much she cared, she was conscious all the time, that she was listening for the sound of a movement overhead, or for her sister's footstep on the stair. by and by, as charlie went on, in answer to mr snow's questions, to tell about the state of agriculture in his native shire, her attention wandered altogether, and she listened only for the footsteps. "she may perhaps think it strange that i do not go up at once. i daresay it is foolish in me. very likely this news will be no more to her than to me." "where is your sister?" said mrs snow, who, as well as graeme, had been attending to two things at once. "i doubt the foolish lassie has tired herself with riding too far." "i will go and see," said graeme. before she entered her sister's room rose called to her. "is it you, graeme? what do you think of harry's news? he has not lost much time, has he?" "i was surprised," said graeme. rose was busy brushing her hair. "surprised! i should think so. did you ever think such a thing might happen, graeme?" this was harry's letter. "my dear sisters,--i have won my amy! you cannot be more astonished than i am. i know i am not good enough for her, but i love her dearly, and it will go hard with me if i don't make her happy. i only want to be assured that you are both delighted, to make my happiness complete." throwing her hair back a little, rose read it again. this was not quite all. there was a postscript over the page, which rose had at first overlooked, and she was not sure that graeme had seen it. besides, it had nothing to do with the subject matter of the note. "did the thought of such a thing ever come into your mind?" asked she again, as she laid the letter down. "yes," said graeme, slowly. "it did come into my mind more than once. and, on looking back, i rather wonder that i did not see it all. i can remember now a good many things that looked like it, but i never was good at seeing such affairs approaching, you know." "are you glad, graeme?" "yes, i am glad. i believe i shall be very glad when i have had time to think about it." "because harry's happiness won't be complete unless you are, you know," said rose, laughing. "i am sure harry is quite sincere in what he says about it," said graeme. "it is not to be doubted. i daresay she is a nice little thing; and, after all, it won't make the same difference to us that fanny's coming did." "no, if we are to consider it with reference to ourselves. but i think i am very glad for harry's sake." "and that is more than we could have said for arthur. however, there is no good going back to that now. it has all turned out very well." "things mostly do, if people will have patience," said graeme, "and i am sure this will, for harry, i mean. i was always inclined to like little amy, only--only, we saw very little of her you know--and--yes, i am sure i shall love her dearly." "well, you must make haste to tell harry so, to complete his happiness. and he is very much astonished at his good fortune," said rose, taking up the letter again. "`not good enough for her,' he says. that is the humility of true love, i suppose; and, really, if he is pleased, we may be. i daresay she is a nice little thing." "she is more than just a nice little thing. you should hear what mr millar says of her." "he ought to know! `poor charlie,' as harry calls him in the pride of his success. go down-stairs, graeme, and i will follow in a minute; i am nearly ready!" the postscript which rose was not sure whether graeme had seen, said, "poor charlie," and intimated that harry's sisters owed him much kindness for the trouble he was taking in going so far to carry them the news in person. not harry's own particular news, rose supposed, but tidings of will, and of all that was likely to interest them from both sides of the sea. "i would like to know why he calls him `poor charlie,'" said rose, with a shrug. "i suppose, however, we must all seem like objects of compassion to harry, at the moment of his triumph, as none of us have what has fallen to him." graeme went down without a word, smiling to herself as she went. she had seen the postscript, and she thought she knew why harry had written "poor charlie," but she said nothing to rose. the subject of conversation had changed during her absence, it seemed. "i want to know! do tell!" mr snow was saying. "i call that first-rate news, if it is as you say, mr millar. do the girls know it? graeme, do you know that harry is going to be married." "yes, so harry tells me." "and who is the lady? is it anyone we know about? roxbury," repeated mr snow, with a puzzled look. "but it seems to me i thought i heard different. i don't seem to understand." he looked anxiously into the face of his wife as though she could help him. "that's not to be wondered at," said she, smiling. "it seems miss graeme herself has been taken by surprise. but she is well pleased for all that. harry has been in no great hurry, i think." "but that ain't just as i understood it," persisted mr snow. "what does rose say? she told me this afternoon, when we were riding, something or other, but it sartain wa'n't that." "it could hardly be that, since the letter came when you were away, and even miss graeme knew nothing of it till she got the letter," said mrs snow, with some impatience. "rosie told me," went on mr snow. "here she is. what was it you were telling me this afternoon about--about our friend here?" "oh! i told you a great many things that it would not do to repeat," and though rose laughed, she reddened, too, and looked appealingly at graeme. "wasn't roxbury the name of the lady, that you told me was--" "oh! uncle sampson! never mind." "dear me," said mrs snow, "what need you make a mystery out of such plain reading. miss graeme has gotten a letter telling her that her brother harry is going to be married; and what is there so wonderful about that?" "just so," said mr snow. he did not understand it the least in the world, but he understood that, for some reason or other, mrs snow wanted nothing more said about it, so he meant to say no more; and, after a minute, he made rose start and laugh nervously by the energy with which he repeated, "just so;" and still he looked from graeme to mr millar, as though he expected them to tell him something. "harry's letter gives the news, and that is all," said graeme. "but i cannot understand your surprise," said mr millar, not to mr snow, but to graeme. "i thought you must have seen it all along." "did you see it all along?" asked mr snow, looking queer. "i was in harry's confidence; but even if i had not been, i am sure i must have seen it. i almost think i knew what was coming before he knew it himself, at the very first." "the very first?" repeated graeme. "when was that? in the spring? before the time we went to mrs roxbury's, on the evening of the convocation?" "oh! yes! long before that--before miss rose came home from the west. indeed, i think it was love at first sight, as far as harry was concerned," added mr millar, with an embarrassed laugh, coming suddenly to the knowledge of the fact that mr snow was regarding him with curious eyes. but mr snow turned his attention to rose. "what do _you_ say to that?" asked he. "i have nothing to say," said rose, pettishly. "i was not in harry's confidence." "so it seems," said mr snow, meditatively. "i am sure you will like her when you know her better," said mr millar. "oh! if harry likes her that is the chief thing," said rose, with a shrug. "it won't matter much to the rest of us--i mean to graeme and me." "it will matter very much to us," said graeme, "and i know i shall love her dearly, and so will you, rosie, when she is our sister, and i mean to write to harry to-morrow--and to her, too, perhaps." "she wants very much to know you, and i am sure you will like each other," said mr millar looking deprecatingly at rose, who was not easy or comfortable in her mind any one could see. "just tell me one thing, rose," said mr snow. "how came you to suppose that--" but the question was not destined to be answered by rose, at least not then. a matter of greater importance was to be laid before her, for the door opened suddenly, and hannah put in her head. "where on earth did you put the yeast-jug, rose? i have taken as many steps as i want to after it; if you had put it back in its place it would have paid, i guess. it would have suited _me_ better, and i guess it would have suited better all round." her voice betrayed a struggle between offended dignity and decided crossness. rose was a little hysterical, graeme thought, or she never would have laughed about such an important matter in hannah's face. for hannah knew her own value, which was not small in the household, and she was not easily propitiated when a slight was given or imagined, as no one knew better than rose. and before company, too!--company with whom hannah had not been "made acquainted," as hannah, and the sisterhood generally in merleville, as a rule, claimed to be. it was dreadful temerity on rose's part. "oh! hannah, i forgot all about it." but the door was suddenly closed. rose hastened after her in haste and confusion. mr snow had been deeply meditating, and he was evidently not aware that anything particular had been happening, for he turned suddenly to mr millar, and said,-- "i understood that it was you who was--eh--who was--keeping company with miss roxbury?" "did you think so, miss elliott," said charlie, in some astonishment. "mr snow," said his wife, in a voice that brought him to her side in an instant. "you may have read in the book, how there is a time to keep silence, as well as a time to speak, and the bairn had no thought of having her words repeated again, though she might have said that to you." she spoke very softly, so that the others did not hear, and mr snow would have looked penitent, if he had not looked so bewildered. raising her voice a little, she added,-- "you might just go out, and tell hannah to send jabez over to emily's about the yeast, if she has taken too many steps to go herself; for miss rose is tired, and it is growing dark;--and besides, there is no call for her to go hannah's messages--though you may as well no' say that to her, either." but the door opened, and rose came in again. "i can't even find the jug," she said, pretending great consternation. "and this is the second one i have been the death of. oh! here it is. i must have left it here in the morning, and wee rosie's flowers are in it! oh! yes, dear, i must go. hannah is going, and i must go with her. she is just a little bit cross, you know. and, besides, i want to tell her the news," and she went away. mr snow, feeling that he had, in some way, been compromising himself, went and sat down beside his wife, to be out of the temptation to do it again, and mr millar said again, to graeme, very softly this time,-- "did you think so, miss elliott?" graeme hesitated. "yes, charlie. i must confess, there did, more than once, come into my mind the possibility that harry and his friend and partner might find themselves rivals for the favour of the sweet little amy. but you must remember, that--" but charlie interrupted her, eagerly. "and did--did your sister think so, too? no, don't answer me--" added he, suddenly rising, and going first to the window to look out, and then, out at the door. in a little graeme rose, and went out too, and followed him down the path, to the gate, over which he was leaning. there was no time to speak, however, before they heard the voices of rose and hannah, coming toward them. hannah was propitiated, graeme knew by the sound of her voice. mr millar opened the gate for them to pass, and graeme said, "you have not been long, rosie." "are you here, graeme," said rose, for it was quite dark, by this time. "hannah, this is mr millar, my brother harry's friend and partner." and then she added, with great gravity, according to the most approved merleville formula of introduction, "mr millar, i make you acquainted with miss lovejoy." "i am pleased to make your acquaintance, mr millar. i hope i see you wed," said miss lovejoy, with benignity. if mr millar was not quite equal to the occasion, miss lovejoy was, and she said exactly what was proper to be said in the circumstances, and neither graeme nor rose needed to say anything till they got into the house again. "there! that is over," said rose, with a sigh of relief. "the getting of the yeast?" said graeme, laughing. "yes, and the pacification of miss lovejoy." it was not quite over, however, graeme thought in the morning. for rose seemed to think it necessary to give a good deal of her time to household matters, whether it was still with a view to the good humour of hannah or not, was not easy to say. but she could only give a divided attention to their visitor, and to the account of all that he and will had done and enjoyed together. graeme and he walked up and down the garden for a while, and when mrs snow had risen, and was in the sitting-room, they came and sat down beside her, and, after a time, rose came too. but it was graeme who asked questions, and who drew mr millar out, to tell about their adventures, and misadventures, and how will had improved in all respects, and how like his father all the old people thought him. even mrs snow had more to say than rose, especially when he went on to tell about clayton, and the changes that had taken place there. "will fancied, before he went, that he remembered all the places distinctly; and was very loth to confess that he had been mistaken. i suppose, that his imagination had had as much to do with his idea of his native place, as his memory, and when, at last, we went down the glen where your mother used to live, and where he distinctly remembered going to see her with you, not long before you all came away, he acknowledged as much. he stepped across the burn at the widest part, and then he told me, laughing, that he had always thought of the burn at that place, as being about as wide as the merle river, just below the mill bridge, however wide that may be. it was quite a shock to him, i assure you. and then the kirk, and the manse, and all the village, looked old, and small, and queer, when he came to compare them with the pictures of them he had kept in his mind, all these years. the garden he remembered, and the lane beyond it, but i think the only things he found quite as he expected to find them, were the laburnum trees, in that lane," and on charlie went, from one thing to another, drawn on by a question, put now and then by graeme, or mrs snow, whenever he made a pause. but all that was said need not be told here. by and by, he rose and went out, and when he came back, he held an open book on his hand, and on one of its open pages lay a spray of withered ivy, gathered, he said, from the kirkyard wall, from a great branch that hung down over the spot where their mother lay. and when he had laid it down on graeme's lap, he turned and went out again. "i mind the spot well," said mrs snow, softly. "i mind it, too," said graeme. rose did not "mind" it, nor any other spot of her native land, nor the young mother who had lain so many years beneath the drooping ivy. but she stooped to touch with her lips, the faded leaves that spoke of her, and then she laid her cheek down on graeme's knee, and did not speak a word, except to say that she had quite forgotten all. by and by, mr snow came in, and something was said about showing merleville to their visitor, and so arranging matters that time should be made to pass pleasantly to him. "oh! as to that, he seems no' ill to please," said mrs snow. "miss graeme might take him down to the village to mr greenleaf's and young mr merle's, if she likes; but, as to letting him see merleville, i think the thing that is of most importance is, that all merleville should see him." "there is something in that. i don't suppose merleville is any more to him than any other place, except that harry and the rest had their home here, for a spell. but all the merleville folks will want to see _him_, i expect." rose laughingly suggested that a town meeting should be called for the purpose. "well, i calculate that won't be necessary. if he stays over sunday, it will do as well. the folks will have a chance to see him at meeting, though, i suppose it won't be best to tell him so, before he goes. do you suppose he means to stay over sunday, rosie?" "i haven't asked him," said rose. "it will likely depend on how he is entertained, how long he stays," said mrs snow. "i daresay he will be in no hurry to get home, for a day or two. and rosie, my dear, you must help your sister to make it pleasant for your brother's friend." "oh! he's no' ill to please, as you said yourself," answered rose. it was well that he was not, or her failure to do her part in the way of amusing him, might have sooner fallen under general notice. they walked down to the village in the afternoon, first to mr merle's, and then to mr greenleaf's. here, master elliott at once took possession of rose, and they went away together, and nothing more was seen of them, till tea had been waiting for some time. then they came in, and mr perry came with them. he stayed to tea, of course, and made himself agreeable, as he always did, and when they went home, he said he would walk with them part of the way. he had most of the talk to himself, till they came to the foot of the hill, when he bade them, reluctantly, good-night. they were very quiet the rest of the way, and when they reached home, the sisters went up-stairs at once together, and though it was quite dark, neither of them seemed in a great hurry to go down again. "rose," said graeme, in a little, "where ever did you meet mr perry this afternoon? and why did you bring him to mr greenleaf's with you?" "i did not bring him to mr greenleaf's. he came of his own free will. and i did not meet him anywhere. he followed us down past the mill. we were going for oak leaves. elliott had seen some very pretty ones there, and i suppose mr perry had seen them, too. are you coming down, graeme?" "in a little. don't wait for me, if you wish to go." "oh! i am in no haste," said rose, sitting down by the window. "what are you going to say to me, graeme?" but if graeme had anything to say, she decided not to say it then. "i suppose we ought to go down." rose followed her in silence. they found mr and mrs snow alone. "mr millar has just stepped out," said mr snow. "so you had the minister to-night, again, eh, rosie? it seems to me, he is getting pretty fond of visiting, ain't he?" rose laughed. "i am sure that is a good thing. the people will like that, won't they?" "the people he goes to see will, i don't doubt." "well, we have no reason to complain. he has given us our share of his visits, always," said mrs snow, in a tone that her husband knew was meant to put an end to the discussion of the subject. graeme was not so observant, however. "it was hardly a visit he made at mr greenleaf's to-night. he came in just, before tea, and left when we left, immediately after. he walked with us to the foot of the hill." "he was explaining to elliott and me the chemical change that takes place in the leaves, that makes the beautiful autumn colours we were admiring so much," said rose. "he is great in botany and chemistry, elliott says." and then it came out how he had crossed the bridge, and found them under the oak trees behind the mill, and what talk there had been about the sunset and the leaves, and a good deal more. mr snow turned an amused yet doubtful look from her to his wife; but mrs snow's closely shut lips said so plainly, "least said soonest mended," that he shut his lips, too. it would have been as well if graeme had done so, also she thought afterwards; but she had made up her mind to say something to her sister that night, whether she liked it or not, and so standing behind her, as she was brushing out her hair, she said,-- "i think it was rather foolish in mr perry to come to mr greenleaf's to-night, and to come away with us afterwards." "do you think so?" said rose. "yes. and i fancied mr and mrs greenleaf thought so, too. i saw them exchanging glances more than once." "did you? it is to be hoped the minister did not see them." "merleville people are all on the watch--and they are so fond of talking. it is not at all nice, i think." "oh, well, i don't know. it depends a little on what they say," said rose, knotting up her hair. "and i don't suppose mr perry will hear it." "i have commenced wrong," said graeme to herself. "but i must just say a word to her, now i have began. it was of ourselves i was thinking, rose--of you, rather. and it is not nice to be talked, about. rosie, tell me just how much you care about mr perry." "tell me just how much _you_ care about him, dear," said rose. "i care quite enough for him, to hope that he will not be annoyed or made unhappy. do you really care for him, rosie?" "do you, graeme?" "rose, i am quite in earnest. i see--i am afraid the good foolish man wants you to care for him, and if you don't--" "well, dear--if i don't?" "if you don't, you must not act so that he may fancy you do, rose. i think there is some danger in his caring for you." "he cares quite as much for you as he cares for me, graeme, and with better reason." "dear, i have not thought about his caring for either of us till lately. indeed, i never let the thought trouble me till last night, after mr millar came, and again, to-night. rosie, you must not be angry with what i say." "of course not. but i think you must dispose of mr perry, before you bring another name into your accusation; graeme, dear, i don't care a pin for mr perry, nor he for me, if that will please you. but you are not half so clever at this sort of thing as harry. you should have began at once by accusing me of claiming admiration, and flirting, and all that. it is best to come to the point at once." "you said you would not be angry, rose." "did i? well, i am not so sore about it as i was a minute ago. and what is the use of vexing one another. don't say any more to-night." indeed, what could be said to rose in that mood. so graeme shut her lips, too. in the mean time mr snow had opened his, in the privacy of their chamber. "it begins to look a little like it, don't it?" said he. he got no answer. "i'd a little rather it had been graeme, but rosie would be a sight better than neither of them." "i'm by no means sure of that," said mrs snow, sharply. "rosie's no' a good bairn just now, and i'm no' weel pleased with her." "don't be hard on rosie," said mr snow, gently. "hard on her! you ought to have more sense by this time. rosie's no' thinking about the minister, and he hasna been thinking o' her till lately--only men are such fools. forgive me for saying it about the minister." "well, i thought, myself, it was graeme for a spell, and i'd a little rather it would be. she's older, and she's just right in every way. it would be a blessing to more than the minister. it seems as though it was just the right thing. now, don't it?" "i canna say. it is none the more likely to come to pass because of that, as you might ken yourself by this time," said his wife, gravely. "oh, well, i don't know about that. there's aleck and emily." "hoot, fie, man! they cared for one another, and neither miss graeme, nor her sister, care a penny piece for yon man--for the minister, i mean." "you don't think him good enough," said mr snow, discontentedly. "nonsense! i think him good enough for anybody that will take him. he is a very good man--what there is o' him," added she, under her breath. "but it will be time enough to speak about it, when there is a chance of its happening. i'm no weel pleased with rosie. if it werena that, as a rule, i dinna like to meddle with such matters, i would have a word with her myself. the bairn doesna ken her ain mind, i'm thinking." the next day was rainy, but not so rainy as to prevent mr snow from fulfilling his promise to take mr millar to see some wonderful cattle, which bade fair to make mr nasmyth's a celebrated name in the county, and before they came home again, mrs snow took the opportunity to say a word, not to rose, but to graeme, with regard to her. "what ails rosie at your brother's partner, young mr millar?" asked she. "i thought they would have been friends, having known one another so long." "friends!" repeated graeme. "are they not friends? what makes you speak in that way, janet?" "friends they are not," repeated mrs snow, emphatically. "but whether they are less than friends, or more, i canna weel make out. maybe you can help me, dear." "i cannot, indeed," said graeme, laughing a little uneasily. "i am afraid charlie's visit is not to give any of us unmingled pleasure." "it is easy seen what she is to him, poor lad, and i canna but think--my dear, you should speak to your sister." "but, janet, rosie is not an easy person to speak to about some things. and, besides, it is not easy to know whether one may not do harm, rather than good, by speaking. i _did_ speak to her last night about--about mr perry." "about the minister! and what did she answer? she cares little about him, i'm thinking. it's no' pretty in her to amuse herself so openly at his expense, poor man, though there's some excuse, too--when he shows so little discretion." "but, amusing herself, janet! that is rather hard on rosie. it is not that, i think." "is it not? what is it, then? the bairn is not in earnest. i hope it may all come to a good ending." "oh! janet! i hope it may. but i don't like to think of endings. rosie must belong to some one else some day, i suppose. the best thing i can wish for her is that i may lose her--for her sake, but it is not a happy thing to think of for mine." "miss graeme, my dear, that is not like you." "indeed, janet, it is just like me. i can't bear to think about it. as for the minister--" graeme shrugged her shoulders. "you needna trouble yourself about the minister, my dear. it will no' be him. if your friend yonder would but take heart of grace--i have my own thoughts." "oh! i don't know. we need not be in a hurry." "but, dear, think what you were telling me the other day, about your sister going out by herself to seek her fortune. surely, that would be far worse." "but she would not have to go by herself. i should go with her, and janet, i have sometimes the old dread of change upon me, as i used to have long ago." "but, my dear, why should you? all the changes in our lot are in good hands. i dinna need to tell you that, after all these years. and as for the minister, you needna be afraid for him." graeme laughed; and though the entrance of rose prevented any more being said, she laughed again to herself, in a way to excite her sister's astonishment. "i do believe janet is pitying me a little, because of the minister's inconstancy," she said to herself. "why am i laughing at it, rosie? you must ask mrs snow." "my dear, how can i tell your sister's thoughts? it is at them, she is laughing, and i think the minister has something to do with it, though it is not like her, either, to laugh at folk in an unkindly way." "it is more like me, you think," said rose, pouting. "and as for the minister, she is very welcome to him, i am sure." "nonsense, rose! let him rest. i am sure deacon snow would think us very irreverent to speak about the minister in that way. tell me what you are going to do to-day?" rosie had plenty to do, and by and by she became absorbed in the elaborate pattern which she was working on a frock for wee rosie, and was rather more remiss than before, as to doing her part for the entertainment of their guest. she had not done that from the beginning, but her quietness and preoccupation were more apparent, because the rain kept them within doors. graeme saw it, and tried to break through it or cover it as best she might. mrs snow saw it, and sometimes looked grave, and sometimes amused, but she made no remarks about it. as for mr millar, if he noticed her silence and preoccupation, he certainly did not resent them, but gave to the few words she now and then put in, an eager attention that went far beyond their worth; and had she been a princess, and he but a humble vassal, he could not have addressed her with more respectful deference. and so the days passed on, till one morning something was said by mr millar, about its being time to draw his visit to a close. it was only a word, and might have fallen to the ground without remark, as he very possibly intended it should do; but mr snow set himself to combat the idea of his going away so soon, with an energy and determination that brought them all into the discussion in a little while. "unless there is something particular taking you home, you may as well stay for a while longer. at any rate, it ain't worth while to go before sunday. you ought to stay and hear our minister preach, now you've got acquainted with him. oughtn't he, graeme?" graeme smiled. "oh! yes, he ought to stay for so good a reason as that is." "there are worse preachers than mr perry," said mrs snow, gravely. "oh! come now, mother. that ain't saying much. there ain't a great many better preachers in our part of the world, whatever they may be where you live. to be sure, if you leave to-night after tea, you can catch the night cars for boston, and stay there over sunday, and have your pick of some pretty smart men. but you'd better stay.--not but what i could have you over to rixford in time, as well as not, if it is an object to you. but you better stay, hadn't he, girls? what do you say, rose?" "and hear mr perry preach? oh! certainly," said rose, gravely. "oh! he will stay," said graeme, laughing, with a little vexation. "it is my belief he never meant to go, only he likes to be entreated. now confess, charlie." chapter forty three. "eh, bairns! is it no' a bonny day!" said mrs snow, breaking into scotch, as she was rather apt to do when she was speaking to the sisters, or when a little moved. "i ay mind the first look i got o' the hills ower yonder, and the kirk, and the gleam of the grave-stones, through the trees. we all came round the water on a saturday afternoon like this; and norman and harry took turns in carrying wee rosie, and we sat down here and rested ourselves, and looked ower yon bonny water. eh, bairns! if i could have but had a glimpse of all the years that have been since then, of all the `goodness and mercy' that has passed before us, now my thankless murmurs, and my unbelieving fears would have been rebuked!" they were on their way up the hill to spend the afternoon at mr nasmyth's, and mr millar was with them. nothing more had been said about his going away, and if he was not quite content to stay, "his looks belied him," as miss lovejoy remarked to herself, as she watched them, all going up the hill together. they were going very slowly, because of mrs snow's lingering weakness. one of the few of the "scotch prejudices!" that remained with her after all these years, was the prejudice in favour of her own two feet, as a means of locomotion, when the distance was not too great; and rather to the discontent of mr snow, she had insisted on walking up to the other house, this afternoon. "it is but a step, and it will do me no harm, but good, to go with the bairns," said she, and she got her own way. it was a "bonny day," mild, bright, and still. the autumnal beauty of the forests had passed, but the trees were not bare, yet, though october was nearly over; and, now and then, a brown leaf fell noiselessly through the air, and the faint rustle it made as it touched the many which had gone before it, seemed to deepen the quiet of the time. they had stopped to rest a little at the turn of the road, and were gazing over the pond to the hills beyond, as mrs snow spoke. "yes, i mind," said graeme. "and i mind, too," said rose, softly. "it's a bonny place," said mrs snow, in a little, "and it has changed but little in all those years. the woods have gone back a little on some of the hills; and the trees about the village and the kirkyard have grown larger and closer, and that is mostly all the changes." "the old meeting-house has a dreary look, now that it is never used," said rose, regretfully. "ay, it has that. i mind thinking it a grand and stately object, when i first saw it from the side of the water. that was before i had been in it, or very near it. but i learnt to love it for better things than stateliness, before very long. i was ill-pleased when they first spoke of pulling it down, but, as you say, it is a dreary object, now that it is no longer used, and the sooner it goes the better." "yes, a ruin to be an object of interest, should be of grey stone, with wallflowers and ivy growing over it," said graeme. "yes, but this is not a country for ruins, and such like sorrowful things. the old kirk was good enough to worship in, to my thinking, for many a year to come; and the new one will ay lack something that the old one had, to you and me, and many a one besides; but the sooner the forsaken old place is taken quite away, the better, now." "yes, there is nothing venerable in broken sashes, and fluttering shingles. but i wish they had repaired it for a while, or at any rate, built the new one on the same site. we shall never have any pleasant associations with the new red brick affair that the merleville people are so proud of." and so they lingered and talked about many a thing besides the unsightly old meeting-house--things that had happened in the old time, when the bairns were young, and the world was to them a world in which each had a kingdom to conquer, a crown to win. those happy, happy days! "oh! well," said mrs snow, as they rose to go up the hill again, "it's a bonny place, and i have learnt to love it well. but if any one had told me in those days, that the time would come, when this and no other place in the world would seem like home to me, it would have been a foolishness in my ears." "ah! what a sad dreary winter that first one was to you, janet, though it was so merry to the boys and me," said graeme. "it would have comforted you then, if you could have known how it would be with you now, and with sandy." "i am not so sure of that, my dear. we are untoward creatures, at the best, and the brightness of to-day, would not have looked like brightness then. no, love, the changes that seem so good and right to look back upon, would have dismayed me, could i have seen them before me. it is well that we must just live on from one day to another, content with what each one brings." "ah! if we could always do that!" said graeme, sighing. "my bairn, we can. though i mind, even in those old happy days, you had a sorrowful fashion of adding the morrow's burden to the burden of to-day. but that is past with you now, surely, after all that you have seen of the lord's goodness, to you and yours. what would you wish changed of all that has come and gone, since that first time when we looked on the bonny hills and valleys of merleville?" "janet," said graeme, speaking low, "death has come to us since that day." "ay, my bairns! the death of the righteous, and, surely, that is to be grieved for least of all. think of them all these years, among the hills of heaven, with your mother and the baby she got home with her. and think of the wonderful things your father has seen, and of his having speech with david, and paul, and with our lord himself--" janet's voice faltered, and graeme clasped softly the withered hand that lay upon her arm, and neither of them spoke again, till they answered sandy and emily's joyful greeting at the door. rose lingered behind, and walked up and down over the fallen leaves beneath the elms. graeme came down again, there, and mr nasmyth came to speak to them, and so did emily, but they did not stay long; and by and by rose was left alone with mr millar, for the very first time during his visit. not that she was really alone with him, for all the rest were still in the porch enjoying the mild air, and the bright october sunshine. she could join them in a moment, she thought, not that there was the least reason in the world for her wishing to do so, however. all this passed through her mind, as she came over the fallen leaves toward the gate on which mr millar was leaning; and then she saw that she could not so easily join the rest, at least, without asking him to let her pass. but, of course, there could be no occasion for that. "how clearly we can see the shadows in the water," said she, for the sake of saying something. "look over yonder, at the point where the cedar trees grow low. do you see?" "yes, i see," said he, but he was not looking the way of the cedars. "rose, do you know why i came here?" rose gave a startled glance towards the porch where they were all sitting so quietly. "it was to bring us news of will, wasn't it? and to see merleville?" said she. did she say it? or had she only thought of it? she was not sure, a minute after, for mr millar went on as if he had heard nothing. "i came to ask you to be my wife." did this take her by surprise? or had she been expecting it all the time? she did not know. she was not sure; but she stood before him with downcast eyes, without a word. "you know i have loved you always--since the night that harry took me home with him. my fancy has never wandered from you, all these years. rose, you must know i love you, dearly. i have only that to plead. i know i am not worthy of you, except for the love i bear you." he had begun quietly, as one begins a work which needs preparation, and strength, and courage, but his last words came between pauses, broken and hurriedly, and he repeated,-- "i know i am not worthy." "oh! charlie, don't say such foolish words to me." and rose gave him a single glimpse of her face. it was only a glimpse, but his heart gave a great leap in his breast, and the hand that lay on the gate which separated them trembled, though rose did not look up to see it. "rosie," he whispered, "come down to the brook and show me harry's waterfall." rose laughed, a little, uncertain laugh, that had the sound of tears in it; and when charlie took her hand and put it within his arm, she did not withdraw it, and they went over the field together. graeme had been watching them from the porch, and as they passed out of sight, she turned her eyes toward mrs snow, with a long breath. "it has come at last, janet," said she. "i shouldna wonder, dear. but it is no' a thing to grieve over, if it has come." "no. and i am not going to grieve. i am glad, even though i have to seek my fortune, all alone. but i have will, yet," added she, in a little. "there is no word of a stranger guest in his heart as yet. i am sure of will, at least." mrs snow smiled and shook her head. "will's time will come, doubtless. you are not to build a castle for yourself and will, unless you make room for more than just you two in it, dear." emily listened, smiling. "it would be as well to leave the building of will's castle to himself," said she. "ah! yes, i suppose so," said graeme, with a sigh. "one must build for one's self. but, emily, dear, i built rosie's castle. i have wished for just what is happening over yonder among the pine trees, for a long long time. i have been afraid, now and then, of late, that my castle was to tumble down about my ears, but charlie has put his hand to the work, now, in right good earnest, and i think my castle will stand." "see here, emily," said mr snow, coming in an hour or two later, "if mr millar thinks of catching the cars for boston, this evening, you'll have to hurry up your tea." "but he has no thought of doing any such foolish thing," said mrs snow. "dear me, a body would think you were in haste to get quit of the young man, with your hurry for the tea, and the cars for boston." "why no, mother, i ain't. he spoke about it this morning, himself, or i'm pretty sure i shouldn't. i'll be glad to have him stay, and more than glad." "he is going to stay and hear the minister preach," said graeme. "you know you asked him, and i'm sure he will enjoy it." "he is a good preacher," said mr snow, gravely. "and he's a good practiser, which is far better," said his wife. "but i doubt, deacon, you'll need to put him out of your head now. look down yonder, and tell me if you think rosie is likely to bide in merleville." and the deacon, looking, saw mr millar and rose coming slowly up the path together, and a duller man than mr snow could hardly have failed to see how matters stood between them. mr millar was looking down on the blushing face of his companion with an air alike happy and triumphant, and, as for rose, mr snow had never seen her look at all as she was looking at that moment. "well," said his wife, softly. "well it is as pretty a sight as one need wish to see," said mr snow. he nodded his head a great many times, and then, without a word, turned his eyes on graeme. his wife smiled. "no, i am afraid not. every one must build his own castle, as i heard her saying--or was it emily? this very afternoon. but we needna trouble ourselves about what may come to pass, or about what mayna. it is all in good hands." "and, rosie dear, all this might have happened at norman's last year, if only charlie had been bolder, and harry not so wise." the sisters were in their own room together. a good deal had been said before this time that need not be repeated. graeme had made her sister understand how glad she was for her sake, and had spoken kind, sisterly words about charlie, and how she would have chosen him for a brother out of all the world, and more of the same kind; and, of course, rose was as happy, as happy could be. but when graeme said this, she turned round with a very grave face. "i don't know, graeme. perhaps it might; but i am not sure. i did not know my own mind then, and, on the whole, it is better as it is." "harry will be glad," said graeme. indeed, she had said that before. rose laughed. "dear, wise harry! he always said charlie was pure gold." "and so he is," said graeme. "i know it, graeme; and he says he is not good enough for me." and rose laid down her cheek upon her sister's lap, with a little sob. "ah! if he only knew, i am afraid--" "dear, it is the humility of true love, as you said about harry. you love one another, and you need not be afraid." they were silent for a long time after that, and then rose said, flushing a little,-- "and, graeme, dear, charlie says--but i promised not to tell--" "well, you must not, then," said graeme, smiling, with just a little throb of pain at her heart, as it came home to her that now, rose, and her hopes and fears, and little secrets belonged more to another than to her. "not that it is a secret, graeme," said her sister, eagerly. "it is something that charlie has very much at heart, but i am not so sure myself. but it is nothing that can be spoken about yet. graeme, charlie thinks there is nobody in the world quite so good as you." graeme laughed. "except you, rosie." "i am not good, graeme, but very foolish and naughty, often, as you know. but i will try and be good, now, indeed i will." "my darling," murmured graeme, "i am so glad for you--so glad and thankful. we ought to be good. god has been very good to us all." of course all this was not permitted to shorten the visit of the sisters to their old friend. mr millar went away rather reluctantly, alone, but the winter had quite set in before they went home. mrs snow was well by that time, as well as she ever expected to be in this world, and she bade them farewell with a good hope that she might see them again. "but, whether or not," said she, cheerfully, "i shall ay be glad and thankful for the quiet time we have had together. there are few who can say of those they love, that they wish nothing changed in their life or their lot; but i do say that of all your father's bairns. no' but that there may be some crook in the lot of one or other of you, that i canna see, and maybe some that i can see; but when the face is set in the right airt [direction] all winds waft onward, and that, i trust, is true of you all. and, rosie, my dear, it takes a steady hand to carry a full cup, as i have told you, many a time; and mind, my bairn, `except the lord build the house, they labour in vain that build it,' and, `the foundation of god standeth sure.' miss graeme, my dear, `they that wait on the lord shall renew their strength,' as you have learnt yourself long syne. god bless you both, and farewell." they had a very quiet and happy winter. they had to make the acquaintance of their new sister, and a very pleasant duty it proved, harry had at one time indulged some insane hopes of having his little amy safe in his own keeping before the snow came, but it was soon made plain to him by mrs roxbury, that this was not for a single moment to be thought of. her daughter was very young, and she must be permitted at least one season to see something of society before her marriage. she was satisfied with the prospect of having the young merchant for a son-in-law; he had established a reputation of the most desirable kind among the reliable men of the city, and he was, besides, a _gentleman_, and she had other daughters growing up. still it was right that amy should have time and opportunity to be quite sure of herself, before the irrevocable step was taken. if mrs roxbury could have had her way about it, she should have had this opportunity before her engagement had been made, or, at least, before it had been openly acknowledged, but, as that could not be, there must be no haste about the wedding. and so the pretty amy was hurried from one gay scene to another, and was an acknowledged beauty and belle, in both civic and military circles, and seemed to enjoy it all very well. as for harry, he sometimes went with her, and sometimes stayed at home, and fretted and chafed at the state of affairs in a way that even his sisters considered unreasonable, though they by no means approved of the trial to which amy's constancy was exposed. but they were not afraid for her. every visit she made them--and many quiet mornings she passed with them--they became more assured of her sweetness and goodness, and of her affection for their brother, and so they thought harry unreasonable in his impatience, and told him so, sometimes. "a little vexation and suspense will do harry no harm," said arthur. "events were following one another quite too smoothly in his experience. in he walks among us one day, and announces his engagement to miss roxbury, as triumphantly as you please, without a word of warning, and now he frets and fumes because he cannot have his own way in every particular. a little suspense will do him good." which was very hard-hearted on arthur's part, as his wife told him. "and, besides, it is not suspense that is troubling harry," said rose. "he knows quite well how it is to end. it is only a momentary vexation. and i don't say, myself, it will do harry any harm to have his masculine self-complacency disturbed a little, by just the bare possibility of disappointment. one values what it costs one some trouble to have and to hold." "rose, you are as bad as arthur," said fanny. "am i? oh! i do not mean that harry doesn't value little amy enough; but he is unreasonable and foolish, and it looks as if he were afraid to trust her among all those fine people who admire her so much." "it is you who are foolish, now, rose," said her sister. "harry may be unreasonable, but it is not on that account; and amy is a jewel too precious not to be guarded. no wonder that he grudges so much of her time, and so many of her thoughts to indifferent people. but it will soon be over now." "who knows? `there's many a slip 'twixt the cup and the lip,' you know," said arthur. "who knows but harry may be the victim among us? our matrimonial adventures have been monotonously prosperous, hitherto. witness rosie's success. it would make a little variety to have an interruption." but harry was not destined to be a victim. as the winter wore over, mrs roxbury relented, and "listened to reason on the subject," harry said; and by and by there began to be signs of more than usual occupation in the roxbury mansion, and preparations that were likely to throw rosie's modest efforts in the direction of housekeeping altogether in the shade. but rosie was not of an envious disposition, and enjoyed her pretty things none the less, because of the magnificence of harry's bride. as for little amy, she took the matter of the trousseau very coolly. mamma was quite equal to all that, and took trouble enough, and enjoyment enough out of it all for both, and she was sure that all would be done in a right and proper manner, without anxiety or over-exertion on her part, and there was never a happier or more light-hearted little bride than she. at first it was proposed that the two weddings should take place on the same day, but, afterwards, it was decided otherwise. it would be inconvenient for business reasons, should both the partners be away at the same time, and in those circumstances the wedding trip would be shortened. and besides, the magnificence of the roxbury plans, would involve more trouble as to preparations, than would be agreeable or convenient; and rose proposed to go quietly from her own home to the home charlie was making ready for her; and it was decided that harry's marriage should take place in the latter part of april, and the other early in the summer. but before april, bad news came from will. they heard from himself first, that he had not been sometimes as well as usual, and then a letter came from mr ruthven to graeme, telling her that her brother was ill with fever, quite unable to write himself; and though he did not say in so many words, that there was danger for him, this was only too easily inferred from his manner of writing. the next letter and the next, brought no better news. it was a time of great anxiety. to graeme it was worst of all. as the days went on, and nothing more hopeful came from him, she blamed herself that she had not at once gone to him when the tidings of his illness first reached them. it was terrible to think of him, dying alone so far from them all; and she said to herself "she might, at least, have been with him at the last." he would have been at home by this time, if he had been well, and this made their grief and anxiety all the harder to bear. if she could have done anything for him, or if she could have known from day to day how it was with him, even though she could not see him, or care for him, it would not have been so dreadful graeme thought. her heart failed her, and though she tried to interest herself still in the preparations and arrangements that had before given her so much pleasure, it was all that she could do, to go quietly and calmly about her duties, during some of these very anxious days. she did not know how utterly despondent she was becoming, or how greatly in danger she was of forgetting for the time the lessons of hope and trust which her experience in life had taught her, till there came from mrs snow one of her rare, brief letters, written by her own hand, which only times of great trial had ever called forth from her. "my bairn," she said, "are you not among those whom nothing can harm? _absolutely nothing_! whether it be life or death that is before your brother, you hae surely nothing to fear for _him_, and nothing for yourself. i think he will be spared to do god's work for a while yet. but dear, after all that has come and gone, neither you nor i would like to take it upon ourselves to say what would be wise and kind on our father's part; and what is wise and kind will surely come to pass." their suspense did not last very long after this. mr ruthven's weekly letters became more hopeful after the third one, and soon will wrote himself, a few feeble, irregular lines, telling how his friend had watched over him, and cared for him like a brother, during all those weeks in his dreary, city lodging; and how, at the first possible moment, he had taken him home to his own house, where mrs millar, his mother, was caring for him now; and where he was slowly, but surely, coming back to life and health again. there was no hope of his being able to be home to harry's marriage, but unless something should happen to pull him sadly back again, he hoped to see the last of rosie elliott, and the first of his new brother charlie. there were a few words meant for graeme alone, over which she shed happy, thankful tears, and wrote them down for the reading of their old friend, "brought face to face with death, one learns the true meaning and value of life. i am glad to come back again, for your sake graeme, and for the sake of the work that i trust i may be permitted to do." after this they looked forward to the wedding with lightened hearts. it was a very grand and successful affair, altogether. amy and her bridesmaids were worthy of all the admiration which they excited, and that is saying a great deal. there were many invited guests, and somehow, it had got about that this was to be a more than usually pretty wedding, and saint andrew's was crowded with lookers-on, who had only the right of kind and admiring sympathy to plead for being there. the breakfast was all that it ought to be, of course, and the bride's travelling-dress was pronounced by all to be as great a marvel of taste and skill, as the bridal robe itself. harry behaved very well through it all, as arthur amused them not a little by gravely asserting. but harry was, as an object of interest, a very secondary person on the occasion, as it is the usual fate of bridegrooms to be. as for the bride, she was as sweet and gentle, and unaffected, amid the guests, and grandeur, and glittering wedding gifts, as she had always been in the eyes of her new sisters, and when graeme kissed her for good bye, she said to herself, that this dear little sister had come to them without a single drawback, and she thanked god in her heart, for the happiness of her brother harry. yes, and for the happiness of her brother arthur, too, she added in her heart, and she greatly surprised fanny by putting her arms round her and kissing her softly many times. they were in one of the bay windows of the great drawing-room, a little withdrawn from the company generally, so that they were unobserved by all but arthur. "graeme's heart is overflowing with peace and good will to all on this auspicious occasion," said he, laughing, but he was greatly pleased. after this they had a few happy weeks. rosie's preparations were by this time, too far advanced to give any cause for anxiety or care, and they all enjoyed the quiet. letters came weekly from will, or his friend, sometimes from both, which set them quite at rest about the invalid. they were no longer mere reports of his health, but long, merry, rambling letters, filled with accounts of their daily life, bits of gossip, conversation, even jokes at one another's expense, generally given by will, but sometimes, also, by the grave and dignified mr ruthven, whom, till lately, all but charlie had come to consider almost a stranger. still the end of may was come, and nothing was said as to the day when they expected to set sail. but before that time, great news had come from another quarter. norman and his family were coming east. a succession of childish illnesses had visited his little ones, and had left both mother and children in need of more bracing air than their home could boast of in the summer-time, and they were all coming to take up their abode for a month or two, on the gulf, up which health-bearing breezes from the ocean never cease to blow. graeme was to go with them. as many more as could be persuaded were to go, too, but graeme certainly; and then she was to go home with them, to the west, when their summer holiday should be over. this was norman's view of the matter. graeme's plans were not sufficiently arranged as yet for her to say either yes or no, with regard to it. in the meantime, there were many preparations to be made for their coming, and graeme wrote to hasten these arrangements, so that they might be in time for the wedding. "and if only will comes, we shall all be together again once more," said she, with a long breath. "to say nothing of norman's boys, and his wonderful daughter, and fanny's young gentleman, who will compare with any of them now, i think," said rose. "we will have a house full and a merry wedding," said arthur. "though it won't be as grand as the other one, rosie, i'm afraid. if we only could have mrs snow here, graeme?" graeme shook her head. "i am afraid that can hardly be in the present state of her health. not that she is ill, but mr snow thinks the journey would be too much for her. i am afraid it is not to be thought of?" "never mind--charlie and rosie can go round that way and get her blessing. that will be the next best thing to having her here. and by the time you are ready for the altar, graeme, janet will come, you may be sure of that." june had come, warm and beautiful. harry and his bride had returned, and the important but exhausting ceremony of receiving bridal visits was nearly over. graeme, at least, had found them rather exhausting, when she had taken her turn of sitting with the bride; and so, on one occasion, leaving rose and some other gay young people to pass the evening at harry's house, she set out on her way home, with the feeling of relief that all was over in which she was expected to assist, uppermost in her mind. it would all have to be gone over again in rosie's case, she knew, but she put that out of her mind for the present, and turned her thoughts to the pleasant things that were sure to happen before that time--norman's coming, and will's. they might come any day now. she had indulged in a little impatient murmuring that will's last letter had not named the day and the steamer by which he was to sail, but it could not be long now at the longest, and her heart gave a sudden throb as she thought that possibly he might not write as to the day, but might mean to take them by surprise. she quickened her footsteps unconsciously as the thought came into her mind; he might have arrived already. but in a minute she laughed at her foolishness and impatience, and then she sighed. "there will be no more letters after will comes home, at least there will be none for me," she said to herself, but added, impatiently, "what would i have? surely that will be a small matter when i have him safe and well at home again." but she was a little startled at the pain which the thought had given her; and then she denied to herself that the pain had been there. she laughed at the idea, and was a little scornful over it, and then she took herself to task for the scorn, as she had done for the pain. and then, frightened at herself and her discomfort; she turned her thoughts, with an efforts to a pleasanter theme--the coming of norman and hilda and their boys. "i hope they will be in time. it would be quite too bad if they were to lose the wedding by only a day or two. and yet we could hardly blame charlie were he to refuse to wait after will comes. oh, if he were only safe here! i should like a few quiet days with will before the house is full. my boy!--who is really more mine than any of the others--all that i have, for my very own, now that rosie is going from me. how happy we shall be when all the bustle and confusion are over! and as to my going home with norman and hilda--that must be decided later, as will shall make his plans. my boy!--how can i ever wait for his coming?" it was growing dark as she drew near the house. although the lights were not yet in the drawing-room, she knew by the sound of voices coming through the open window that arthur and fanny were not alone. "i hope i am not cross to-night, but i really don't feel as though i could make myself agreeable to visitors for another hour or two. i wish sarah may let me quietly in; and i will go up-stairs at once. i wonder who they are!" sarah's face was illuminated. "you have come at last, miss elliott," said she. "yes; was i expected sooner? who is here? is it you, charlie? _you_ are expected elsewhere." it was not charlie, however. a voice not unlike his spoke in answer, and said,-- "graeme, i have brought your brother home to you;" and her hand was clasped in that of allan ruthven. chapter forty four. the pleasant autumn days had come round again, and mr and mrs snow were sitting, as they often sat now, alone in the south room together. mr snow was hale and strong still, but he was growing old, and needed to rest, and partly because the affairs of the farm were safe in the hands of his "son," as he never failed to designate sandy, and partly because those affairs were less to him than they used to be, he was able to enjoy the rest he took. for that was happening to him which does not always happen, even to good people, as they grow old; his hold was loosening from the things which for more than half a lifetime he had sought so eagerly and held so firmly. with his eyes fixed on "the things which are before," other things were falling behind and out of sight, and from the leisure thus falling to him in these days, came the quiet hours in the south room so pleasant to them both. but the deacon's face did not wear its usual placid look on this particular morning; and the doubt and anxiety showed all the more plainly, contrasting as they did with the brightness on the face of his wife. she was moved, too, but with no painful feeling, her husband could see, as he watched her, though there were tears in the eyes that rested on the scene without. but she was seeing other things, he knew, and not sorrowful things either, he said to himself, with a little surprise, as he fingered uneasily an open letter that lay on the table beside him. "it ain't hard to see how all _that_ will end," said he, in a little. "but," said his wife, turning toward him with a smile, "you say it as if it were an ending not to be desired." "ah, well!--in a general way, i suppose it _is_, or most folks, would say so. what do you think?" "if _they_ are pleased, we needna be otherwise." "well!--no--but ain't it a little sudden? it don't seem but the other day since mr ruthven crossed the ocean." "but that wasna the first time he crossed the ocean. the first time they crossed it together. allan ruthven is an old friend, and miss graeme is no' the one to give her faith lightly to any man." "well! no, she ain't. but, somehow, i had come to think that she never would change her state; and--" "it's no' very long, then," said his wife, laughing. "you'll mind that it's no' long since you thought the minister likely to persuade her to it." "and does it please you that mr ruthven has had better luck?" "the minister never could have persuaded her. he never tried very much, i think. and if allan ruthven has persuaded her, it is because she cares for him as she never cared for any other man. and from all that will says, we may believe that he is a good man, and true, and i am glad for her sake, glad and thankful. god bless her." "why, yes, if she must marry," said mr snow, discontentedly; "but somehow it don't seem as though she could fit in anywhere better than just the spot she is in now. i know it don't sound well to talk about old maids, because of the foolish notions folks have got to have; but graeme did seem one that would `adorn the doctrine' as an old maid, and redeem the name." "that has been done by many a one already, in your sight and mine; and miss graeme will `adorn the doctrine' anywhere. she has ay had a useful life, and this while she has had a happy one. but oh, man!" added mrs snow, growing earnest and scotch, as old memories came over her with a sudden rush, "when i mind the life her father and her mother lived together--a life of very nearly perfect blessedness--i canna but be glad that miss graeme is to have a chance of the higher happiness that comes with a home of one's own, where true love bides and rules. i ay mind her father and her mother. they had their troubles. they were whiles poor enough, and whiles had thraward folk to deal with; but trouble never seemed to trouble them when they bore it together. and god's blessing was upon them through all. but i have told you all this many a time before, only it seems to come fresh and new to me to-day, thinking, as i am, of miss graeme." yes, mr snow had heard it all many a time, and doubtless would hear it many a time again, but he only smiled, and said,-- "and graeme is like her mother?" "yes, she's like her, and she's not like her. she is quieter and no' so cheery, and she is no' near so bonny as her mother was. rose is more like her mother in looks, but she doesna 'mind me of her mother in her ways as her sister does, because, i suppose, of the difference that the age and the country make on all that are brought up in them. there is something wanting in all the young people of the present day, that well brought up bairns used to have in mine. miss graeme has it, and her sister hasna. you'll ken what i mean by the difference between them." mr snow could not. the difference that he saw between the sisters was sufficiently accounted for to him by the ten year's difference in their ages. he never could be persuaded, that, in any undesirable sense, rose was more like the modern young lady than her sister. graeme was perfect, in his wife's eyes, and rose was not quite perfect. that was all. however, he did not wish to discuss the question just now. "well! graeme is about as good as we can hope to see in _this_ world, and if he's good enough for her that is a great deal to say, even if he is not what her father was." "there are few like him. but allan is a good man, will says, and he is not one to be content with a false standard of goodness, or a low one. he was a manly, pleasant lad, in the days when i kenned him. i daresay his long warstle with the world didna leave him altogether scatheless; but he's out of the world's grip now, i believe. god bless my bairn, and the man of her choice." there was a moment's silence. mrs snow turned to the window, and her husband sat watching her, his brow a little clearer, but not quite clear yet. "she _is_ pleased. she ain't making believe a mite. she's like most women folks in _that_," said mr snow, emphasising to himself the word, as though, in a good many things, she differed from "women folk" in general. "they really do think in their hearts, though they don't always say so, that it is the right thing for girls to get married, and she's glad graeme's going to do so well. but, when she comes to think of it, and how few chances there are of her ever seeing much of her again, i am afraid she'll worry about it--though she sartain don't look like it now." certainly she did not. the grave face looked more than peaceful, it looked bright. the news which both rose and will had intimated, rather than announced, had stirred only pleasant thoughts as yet, that was clear. mr snow put on his spectacles and looked at the letters again, then putting them down, said, gravely,-- "she'll have her home a great way off from here. and maybe it's foolish, but it does seem to me as though it was a kind of a come down, to go back to the old country to live after all these years." mrs snow laughed heartily. "but then, it is no' to be supposed that she will think so, or he either, you ken." "no, it ain't. if they did, they'd stay here, i suppose." "well, it's no' beyond the bounds of possibility, but they may bide here or come back again. but, whether they bide here or bide there, god bless them both," said mrs snow, with moistening eyes. "god bless them both!" echoed her husband. "and, which ever way it is, you ain't going to worry the least mite about it. be you?" the question was asked after a pause of several seconds, and mr snow looked so wistfully and entreatingly into his wife's face, that she could not help laughing, though there were tears in her eyes. "no, i am no thinking of worrying, as you call it. it is borne in upon me that this change is to be for the real happiness of my bairn, and it would be pitiful in me to grudge her a day of it. and, to tell you the truth, i have seen it coming, and have been preparing myself for it this while back, and so i have taken it more reasonably than you have done yourself, which is a thing that wasna to be expected, i must confess." "seen it coming! preparing for it!" repeated mr snow; but he inquired no farther, only looked meditatively out of the window, and nodded his head a great many times. by and by he said, heartily,-- "well, if you are pleased, i am. god bless them." "god bless all the bairns," said his wife, softly. "oh, man! when i think of all that has come and gone, i am ready to say that `the lord has given me the desire of my heart.' i sought his guidance about coming with them. i had a sore swither ere i could think of leaving my mother and sandy for their sakes, but he guided me and strengthened me, though whiles i used to doubt afterwards, with my sore heart wearying for my own land, and my own kin." mr snow nodded gravely, but did not speak, and in a little she went on again: "i sought guidance, too, when i left them, and now, looking back, i think i see that i got it; but, for a while, when death came, and they went from me, it seemed as though the lord had removed the desire of my eyes with a stroke, because of my self-seeking and unfaithfulness. oh, man! yon was a rough bit of road for my stumbling, weary feet. but he didna let me fall altogether--praise be to his name!" her voice shook, and there was a moment's silence, and then she added,-- "but, as for grieving, because miss graeme is going farther away, than is perhaps pleasant to think about, when she is going of her own free will, and with a good hope of a measure of happiness, that would be unreasonable indeed." "now, if she were to hold up her hands, and say, `now, lettest thou thy servant depart in peace,' it would seem about the right thing to do," said mr snow, to himself, with a sigh. "when it comes to giving the bairns up, willing never to see them again, it looks a little as if she was done with most things, and ready to go--and i ain't no ways ready to have her, i'm afraid." the next words gave him a little start of surprise and relief. "and we'll need to bethink ourselves, what bonny thing we can give her, to keep her in mind of us when she will be far-away." "sartain!" said mr snow, eagerly. "not that i think she'll be likely to forget us," added his wife, with a catch in her breath. "she's no of that nature. i shouldna wonder if she might have some homesick thoughts, then, even in the midst of her happiness, for she has a tender heart! but, if they love one another, there is little doubt but it will be well with them, seeing they have the fear of god before their eyes. and, she may come back and end her days on this side of the sea, yet, who knows?" "i shouldn't wonder a mite," said mr snow. "but, whether or not, if she be well, and happy, and good, that is the main thing. and whiles i think it suits my weakness and my old age better to sit here and hear about the bairns, and think about them, and speak to you about them and all that concerns them, than it would to be among them with their youth and strength, and their new interests in life. and then, they dinna need me, and you do," added mrs snow, with a smile. "that's so," said he, with an emphasis that made her laugh. "well then, let us hear no more about my worrying about miss graeme and the bairns. that is the last thing i am thinking of. sitting here, and looking over all the road we have travelled, sometimes together, sometimes apart, i can see plainly that we were never left to choose, or to lose our way, but that, at every crook and turn, stood the angel of the covenant, unseen then, and, god forgive us, maybe unthought of, but ever there, watching over us, and having patience with us, and holding us up when we stumbled with weary feet. and knowing that their faces are turned in the right way, as i hope yours is, and mine, it is no' for me to doubt but that he is guiding them still, and us as well, and that we shall all come safe to the same place at last." she paused a moment, because of a little break and quiver in her voice, and then she added,-- "yes. `the lord hath given me the desire of my heart' for the bairns. praise be to his name." none the little russian servant. the little russian servant. by henri greville. _neely's booklet series. no. , june , . issued weekly. $ . a year. entered as second-class matter at new york post office._ [illustration] f. tennyson neely, publisher. london. new york. chicago. the little russian servant. "who's that?" said the countess, stopping in front of a young girl of fifteen or sixteen, bent over an embroidery frame. the young girl rose, prostrated herself thrice before her mistress, then, getting up, remained standing, her hands hanging by her side, her head slightly bent forward under the investigating gaze of the countess, who through her eyeglass closely scrutinized her. "it is the new girl, your highness," answered the head lady's maid, coming forward with the air of importance that thirty years' employment gives to no matter what functionary. "she is the daughter of foma, of the village of ikonine. she is come in her turn to pay her father's _obrok_--he is in moscow." "these peasant girls can do nothing," said the countess, with a wearied air: "what do you expect to get out of this one?" "she doesn't embroider badly, your highness; pray look yourself. she can be put to the embroideries--not to the ground, but to the trimmings. this is for the toilet table of madame la comtesse." the noble lady, who could hardly see, being short-sighted from her birth, examined the embroidery frame so closely that the tip of her nose grazed the cloth. "that's not bad," she said. "come here, little girl." the little girl advanced, and the countess inspected her as minutely as she had done the embroidery. "how pretty she is! what's your name?" "mavra." the word came like a breath from the rosy lips. "you must speak louder if you want us to hear you," said the head lady's maid angrily. mavra turned her large, blue, startled eyes toward her, let them drop, and said nothing. "sit down to your work," said the countess, amused at her new toy. with a quick, graceful movement, the young girl resumed her seat on the wooden chair, and the needle, firmly held between her agile fingers, went in and out of the stuff with that short, sharp noise that stimulates the action of the hand. "that's right, you may go on," said the countess, her nerves irritated by the regularity of the movement. then, turning her back upon the young girl and trailing the heavy, sumptuous folds of her dressing-gown along the carefully-washed pine-wood floor, she disappeared through the door, which was respectfully closed after her by the head lady's maid. the countess, an accomplished house-mistress, made a practice of paying a daily visit to this room, which was reserved for the women of her service. mavra was left alone in the workroom, a large, well-lighted chamber, furnished simply with tables and chairs for the use of the innumerable women and girls invariably attached to the service of those noble ladies who knew so well how to maintain their rank in that blessed time of serfdom. at this hour the workroom was empty. some of the women were washing, others ironing, some cleaning and turning upside down everything in the private apartment the countess had just left. the young peasant girl, with her needle uplifted, rested her ruddy hand upon the edge of the frame and looked around her. what multitudes of embroidered gowns with their rich lace trimmings hung there on the wall, waiting some slight repairs!--what endless petticoats with their ornamented flounces all freshly ironed on cords along the huge room!--what countless lace caps, worn hardly an hour, pinned to a pincushion as large as a pillow, used only for this purpose! and there, in a basket on the corner of the table, what piles of cambric chemises, delicately piped and pleated, trimmed with valenciennes lace and ornamented with bright ribbons! and all this for one person! without counting the silk stockings in that other basket, and the rings by dozens worn by the countess on her thin fingers. in this world of living beings under god's heaven, what importance given to one person, who needed so many other persons to serve her! and how the nothingness of these was made more emphatic by the dominance of that! mavra sat wonder-stricken. the head lady's maid coming into the room found her still in a state of stupefaction, stupefied above all at having made these reflections. "well, you are lucky!" she said to her, with a pleased look. "our countess took a fancy to you at the first glance; you are now on the list of embroiderers! you may thank god for it. it is not often the countess takes a fancy like that at first sight." "is she, then, unkind?" innocently inquired the girl. "unkind! oh, no; capricious, like all mistresses, but the kindest lady in the world, and generous! besides, this is a rich house; nothing is counted--nothing at all. this is better than your village," continued dacka, proud of belonging to such noble masters, and desirous to impress on the mind of the simple peasant girl the importance and dignity of the functions she was promoted to. "it is more beautiful," replied mavra, bending intently over her work. "it was lucky they taught you to embroider, else you would have been sent to the poultry-yard to feed the cocks and hens and look after the calves. how did you learn?" "my mother taught me; she was formerly in service; she was a _dvorovaia_ in the time of the late countess. she married a peasant." "ah!" said dacka, "i thought your manners were not quite those of a peasant girl; if your mother was in service, that's another thing. come, take a cup of coffee with me. prepare the coffee-pot and make haste before the others come; i can't ask every one, you understand." to mavra there was but little difference between the _isba_ of her father and the workroom of the seignorial mansion. here, as there, her life was spent in assiduous work from sunrise to sunset. there, her mother, an austere, somber woman, like most village matrons to whom life had proved no light matter; here, the lady's maid, often grumbling, but at times kind and even condescending. the chief difference between the two modes of life consisted in the daily visits of the countess, who generally said nothing, but passed with a solemn air through this roomful of silent, awe-stricken women. but one thing was lacking to mavra, and this nothing could replace--the evening hour of rest which she used to spend by the fountain when sent to draw water for her mother, or on the threshold of their cabin, watching the spring rain falling soft and warm, melting the snow so quickly that its thickness might be seen visibly diminishing; or, again, in the month of may, standing at the edge of the forest, listening to the nightingales singing on the delicate golden branches of the perfumed birch tree. winter passed fairly well, but when the first breath of warm air set the melted snow streaming down the roofs, which again the night's frost transformed into long stalactites of ice, mavra felt a strange, vague aching in her heart. the house was overheated, and the close, nauseous air made her sick. what would she not give to run as of old over the moors, to see if the moss were beginning to appear under the crystallized, transparent carpet of snow! "what's the matter with this little girl?" asked the countess one day, as she stopped before the frame at which the young peasant girl was diligently working. "she was as fresh as a rose, and now she has grown yellow. do you feel pain anywhere, mavra?" mavra raised her blue eyes to the noble lady who, for the second time in her life, deigned to address her, and replied in her low voice: "nowhere, your highness." "then why are you so yellow?" "i don't know, your highness." the countess dropped her eyeglass and looked kindly at the young girl. "i know," said she after a moment's pause; "the child wants air. she came here from her village, and has passed the whole winter stooping over her frame. henceforth, little girl, you must get out into the fresh air twice a day, and must learn the service of my bedroom; this will give you exercise." thereupon the countess quitted the room, followed by mavra's grateful eyes, now filled with tears. from that day mavra worshipped the countess; to approach her, to touch what she had worn, to serve her, to receive her orders and execute them with the utmost speed and dexterity, was the great joy of this humble girl. her mistress, wrapped in all this gorgeous luxury, the elements of which had been so long under her eyes in the workroom, appeared to her as some august being nearer her creator than any other of her fellow-creatures. not only did mavra pray to god for her, but at times she inwardly prayed to her as to a saint, thinking the pleadings of a being so superior must have equal weight with the powers of heaven as with those of earth. summer was already on the wane when the noble mansion, habitually so tranquil, was suddenly filled with noise and gayety. the young count serge had sent his carriages on before him; saddle-horses and hounds were stamping and neighing in their stalls and barking in their kennels as though the one aim of life was to make all the noise possible. "how handsome he is, our young count!" dacka kept on saying the livelong day, to while away the tedious hours in the silent workroom. "it was i who received him in my arms when he was born." and she repeated again and again, with inexhaustible complacency, the history of serge's birth, and the legend of his boyhood up to the moment when this dear treasure of her heart had gone to join the corps of pages, his trunks laden with cakes, jams, and all that could possibly be eaten under heaven. the workgirls gave listless heed to these hundred times repeated narrations, but mavra was never tired of hearing them; it was like receiving a sort of gospel into her heart. her good and revered protectress made all things dear and venerated that touched her nearly; and this only son, loved, adored, longed for, became a supernatural being, a kind of messiah to her. one morning at the end of august, as mavra, who had risen early, was crossing the courtyard to go waken up the laundress, who had overslept herself, she saw, galloping along the inclosure a _troika_ of black horses, with their heads covered with bells. "it's the young master!" thought the little servant; and without giving herself time for reflection, she ran to the ponderous gate and threw it wide open. at the same moment the brilliant equipage arrived; the coachman pulled together his noble beasts, and without slackening their gallop they shot like an arrow past mavra, and ten steps further on stood stock-still at the foot of the steps. dazed, her heart thrilled by she knew not what impression of fear and joy, she received full in the face the gaze of two large, black, amazed and amused eyes. "how like his mother!" thought mavra, as she closed the huge gate, that shut with a heavy bang. she turned slowly toward the steps as serge, jumping down from the carriage, looked around at her again; he smiled when he met her blue eyes full of simple admiration, and, giving her a friendly nod, entered the house of his fathers. a minute after he was by the countess' bedside, pressed lovingly in her arms. when they had chatted two whole hours, as they finished their tea, serge, recollecting himself, suddenly said to his mother: "what is this new acquisition you have made, mother? a little fair-haired raphael opened the gate for me this morning." the countess thought for a moment. "ah! i know," said she; "it's mavra--a virtue--my dear child. a strange little creature, who adores me." "she is quite right," replied the son respectfully. "what do you do with her?" "she embroiders in the afternoon, and in the morning she attends on me; but, serge, you must be prudent. my house is strictly kept; don't you go and amuse yourself making gallant speeches to my girls." "oh, mother! what do you take me for?" carelessly replied the young man. "i think of a woman only when she is in a casket suited to her style of beauty. now here you may have pearls, but the casket is totally wanting." they burst out laughing together. only those who thoroughly understood these two beings could have guessed beneath this light talk the strict propriety of the mother and the son's respect for the maternal home. but russians of the _grande monde_ are so constituted that when they have no vice, they take all imaginable trouble to affect it. on leaving the dining room the countess and her son directed their steps toward the garden. in front of the house, in the courtyard, they met mavra stooping under the weight of an enormous pile of linen, which she was carrying from the laundry. the sheets held in under her crossed hands reached so high that she had to raise her chin and turn her head sideways in order to see before her. "see, there she is," said the countess in french, stopping to look at her. "it is hard to say whether she is a raphael or a greuze," said serge. "this morning she had more the look of a raphael, with a russian nose; it is a hybrid style of beauty, but it has a certain charm." they continued their walk, while mavra entered the workroom with her pile of linen; when her hands were free, she stood trembling and silent, as though she had been guilty of a crime. "well, what are you waiting for?" said one of the girls, pulling her by the apron. "i don't know," replied mavra. "i feel as if i had received a blow, and my hands keep on trembling." "you carried too heavy a load for your strength. sit down, and you will see it will pass off." and in fact it did pass away in a few minutes, but from that moment mavra was haunted by a pair of black eyes, whose owner little suspected her infatuation. her veneration for the countess was in nowise diminished by this. on the contrary, she loved her more, if possible. but in place of one idol, she had two. by little innocent tactics that surprised herself, she succeeded in having the service of the young count's room assigned to her, and thenceforth her happiness was complete. the care of the wardrobe was in the hands of the valet-de-chamber, who scrupulously avoided doing anything else. serge was the most breakneck rider in the world; not from bravado, since for the most part he was alone when he performed his wild exploits, but from instinctive contempt for danger. one fine morning, clearing a hedge six feet high--there were none lower--the count's horse stumbled and fell on its side. a touch of the spur made it spring up, but when serge tried to spur the other side, that on which it had fallen, he suffered excruciating pain. fortunately it was the last hedge, else he would have had some difficulty in getting home. he pushed on, however, and reached the entrance; but when he endeavored to rest his foot on the stirrup to alight, he found it absolutely impossible, and amid the lamentations of the servants who had gathered around, he had to let himself be taken down from his horse and be dragged, as he said, like a bundle to his bed. when he was duly unbooted and examined, the supreme indifference with which he allowed himself to be handled and moved about, in spite of the paleness of his face, did not lessen the fact, that he had seriously fractured his tibia. the bone-setter was sent for, in conformity with a precept of the countess, who preferred a bone-setter at hand to the first surgeon in the world three hundred miles off. a horribly-complicated dressing, bristling with splints and bandages, was applied to the leg, with very respectful but formal injunctions not to move, and to remain in bed for six weeks. six weeks! and the sporting season good, and flights of partridges started every minute by the count's dogs, hunting now for their own pleasure, the door of the kennel being seldom closed; the horses neighing from sheer weariness, and the grooms giving themselves lumbago brightening up trappings that were now to lie unused. the countess was a good reader, in spite of her eyeglass; she read untiringly, the result of which was to send the patient to sleep--infallible result; simply an affair of time; often in ten minutes, sometimes an hour serge's breathing would become regular, the fever that colored his cheek bones would gradually disappear, and then the good mother, closing the book, would go about her duties as mistress of the house, leaving mavra in charge of her son. gradually the needle of mavra's embroidery work would slacken its motion, and for long hours her eyes remain fixed on the face of the sleeping young count. daylight would decline, and no candles be brought, lest the healing rest should be disturbed. seated near the window in the deepening shadow, the outlines of her figure relieved against the pale blue autumn sky in which her dear stars were fast gathering, mavra would lose herself in a vague infinite ecstasy as she sat gazing at her sleeping young master, whom her heart only could now see. at the first sign of his awaking she was on her feet with her hand upon the bell. on the arrival of the lamp mavra would withdraw to the workroom. at night in her dreams she would continue her spiritual, almost mystical, contemplation of the beautiful fair head asleep on its pillow. when serge got well, she was the prey of an implacable, unconscious, immortal love. henceforth she belonged to her idol. present or absent, he was her adored master; for him alone she breathed. she would have almost hated the convalescence that day by day was taking him from her, had not the young man's weakness obliged him frequently to seek her aid. supporting himself with a stick in one hand, and resting the other on mavra's shoulder, he would walk round his room. she was happy and proud the day when, to give the countess a surprise, she led him thus into the little _salon_, where the countess, thinking he was asleep, was reading a devotional book. the agitated joy of the mother and the nervous gayety of the son brought tears to the eyes of the young peasant girl; but stoical, like all her race, she drove her tears back. serge walked alone with a stick, then without a stick, limping a little: by and by his firm elastic tread was heard again on the waxed oak floor. the northern early winter was come, snow already blocking up from time to time the seignorial mansion, then melting under the breath of a warmer wind, till the great winter blockade finally set in. one day a sledge, lined with fur, drawn by spirited horses, clinking the bells that studded the harness, drew up before the door. serge and his mother stepped into it, waving a friendly farewell to the household that crowded around with noisy benedictions. the countess was to pass the winter at st. petersburg, where her son was to resume his service in the hussars of grodno. when they were gone, when the heavy gate which mavra had opened one beautiful august day was shut, and the snow fell slowly in large flakes, reflecting the colors of the prism, it shut out all the outer world from the inmates of the seignorial mansion. mavra returned to her embroidery frame, no longer under the orders of the good dacka, but under the capricious, fitful superintendence of a housekeeper charged in the interval with the workroom department. life was not so easy, but what mattered it to mavra that there should be more harshness or less kindness? she did not live in the present. her waking hours were passed in an innocent ecstasy that wore her away without suffering. she did not know that this was love. had she known it, no amount of prayers or tears would have been enough to expiate her unpardonable sin. she loved just as flowers blossom; her ideal was exalted, her dream pure, and she lived upon them. one less chaste would have died. as for the young count, he had no idea of all this. the countess came back in the spring, and the house resumed its grand, hospitable ways. mavra was profoundly touched to find that her mistress, far from having forgotten, inquired kindly after her. she returned to her personal attendance upon the countess with more devoted fervor than ever. later on, the young master was to come back. dacka conveyed in a mysterious manner that he had something better to do than to bury himself in the country. in the evening she confided to the laundress, in interminable whispers, secrets that were no doubt interesting, but which mavra made no attempt to overhear, being by nature and taste discreet and reserved. on the eve of st. john, when young girls plait crowns of flowers, which they throw into the river to see if they are to be married within the year, mavra went, like the others, to consult fate after this graceful fashion. she never dreamed of marriage; it was a closed world to her, into which she had no desire to penetrate; but she would plait a crown and watch it through the eddies of the capricious stream. the girls had thrown in their garlands. mavra's got entangled in flowers that a young lad of twenty had just flung in. he was a carpenter. the two crowns whirled round in company, and vanished together from view at the bend of the river. "we are engaged, mavra," said he. "let it be once for all." "no," she replied calmly, without blushing. "why? do you dislike me?" he asked. "no, not more than other people. i don't wish to marry." this was enough to make the carpenter persist in his wish. he tried every means--went the length of begging the countess to intercede for him. mavra, sent for by her mistress, gave the same explanation. "well, if the child does not wish to marry, leave her alone," said the lady philosophically, who would have scrupled to force a fly to drink a drop of milk. and mavra, by her own desire, was devoted to celibacy. in the month of september serge returned, but only for eight days. he brought no dogs nor equipages with him this time. when he saw mavra he gave her a friendly smile, and then thought no more about her. when he went away his mother accompanied him, and the house was again plunged into solitude long before the usual time. six weeks later the news arrived that the young count was married. this announcement was the signal for great rejoicing. according to ancient usage, barrels of sweet beer and hydromel were brewed; white bread and meat were distributed to the whole village. the poor had abundant alms, and the whole retinue of servants had new dresses. mavra had a handsome blue woolen dress and a silk handkerchief. no one was forgotten; debts in arrear were remitted, and the young girl was suddenly told she might return for the winter to her family, till her father could make new arrangements for the payment in kind of what he owed. this was no joyful news for the young peasant girl, but resignation is an inherent russian virtue; she packed up her clothes in a basket, and one fine morning courageously set out on foot for her native village. she was received coolly by her mother. one mouth more to feed! besides which, peasants are sparing of their demonstrations of affection. after a few days mavra relapsed into her old habits; bent all day over her embroidery frame by the narrow window, in the evening standing leaning against the door, gazing, as was her wont, at the stars. more than ever she loved them; behind these marvelous lights, that she likened to tears--for she was often sad now--she saw the black eyes and handsome, indifferent face that had taken possession of her soul. as long as she was staying in the grand seignorial mansion where the image of her idol met her at every step in familiar attitude, where she had only to close her eyes to see serge before her, mavra was happy; she was of those for whom the innocent and daily presence of the beloved makes the whole happiness of life. here, where nothing spoke of him, she felt for the first time the pain of separation. uneasy, she asked herself what it was that was torturing her to this degree, and the truth nearly dawned upon her. but she stopped the thought, not daring to sound it further, saying to herself that there must be at the root of all this suffering some great sin she herself was ignorant of. morning and evening she knelt long before the sacred images, imploring god to deliver her from her pain; and feeling herself soothed by this effusion of mystic tenderness, she kept her sadness to herself, still refusing to fathom it. but she was visibly wasting away: the smoky atmosphere of her home had now the same painful influence upon her that the want of fresh air had formerly when she first left her village. she passed the winter suffering, uncomplaining, unrelaxing in her work. gradually she gave up looking at the stars. not only did they more than ever look like tears, but no sooner did she turn her eyes toward the night sky than they filled with tears, so she hardly knew whether it was the fires of heaven or her own tears sparkling beneath her eyelids. spring came, though more tardily than usual; then summer with its field labors. the countess seemed to have forgotten mavra, who thought with ever more and more resigned sadness of this much-loved mistress. her indulgence concerning the service-dues of her family appeared to the young girl not a favor, but a punishment. at hay-making as at harvest young lads seek out the girls. had mavra wished it, she might have found ten husbands. she was no longer quite young according to the notion of peasants, who marry their daughters at sixteen and their boys at twenty. she was getting on to twenty, and her mother at times reproached her, treating her as a "useless mouth," although mavra's embroidery was readily bought by the traders from the large towns, who came to the village twice a year. in the beginning of september, serge said to his young wife, who was about to make him a father: "if you follow my advice, you will yourself nurse our child." "i should like to do so, but then i must have a trained, devoted servant, one endowed with all the virtues," answered the young wife, "and mamma says this is more difficult to find than a suitable nurse." "it is quite true," said the countess, present at this family council, which had taken place on an average thrice a week for the last four or five months; "but, serge, now that i think of it, we have mavra! the sweetest, quietest, most devoted of nurse-tenders!" "mavra! the very thing. how is it we never thought of her before? she is not trained, for she is unmarried, but she is very active and intelligent!" the manager was written to, ordering him to send on mavra by the convoy which every year about this period brought to st. petersburg fruits, preserves, salt, provisions, linen, and, in short, all the products of the earth. the young girl once more packed her clothes up in her little basket, and took her seat on one of the long file of heavy wagons that slowly rolled along the roads for eight or nine days, sleeping at night under the linen awning drawn over the chests of preserves, while the horses were in the stables, and the wagoners by their sides. sometimes on awaking she saw the stars, but they no longer brought tears to her eyes. when the convoy of provisions arrived, and mavra, still dizzy, had made the necessary change in her dress, she was led into the room of the young countess, where the whole family was assembled, augmented within the last two days by a superb newborn baby, which none of the servants knew how to manage. "here you are, mavra. good-morning!" said the triumphant father, taking up his son in his awkward arms, at the risk of making him roar still louder. "you have a light hand and a gentle voice. i give you my son to take care of." "i humbly thank you," said the young girl, pale with joy. "i shall do my best." she carried the infant into an adjoining room, where she soon learned the special care to be given to a child of noble race, which was as different from its cradle from that of little peasants, his brothers in god's sight, as he would be the rest of his life. toward evening the young mother, surprised at no longer hearing the music her first-born had already had time to accustom her to, sent serge out to find the reason of this unusual silence. the young master entered the large dark room where mavra was slowly pacing up and down, the child's cheek pressed against hers, warming it with her warm breath and the love of a heart henceforth happy. she was singing a peasant lullaby in a low voice, inventing words to the tune. "dear child of my master, sleep on your servant's heart, that loves you; treasure more precious than all things, my joy, my share of happiness in this world--my little star----" serge returned on tiptoe to his wife. "i think our minds may be quite at ease," said he. mavra is now old. she declares that she has always been perfectly happy. the end. * * * * * neely's booklet library. the following titles now ready or in preparation: . the drums of the fore and aft. rudyard kipling. . the sins of a widow. confessed by amelie l'oiseau. . twos and threes. anna olcott commeline. . santiago de cuba before the war. caroline l. wallace. . the barbarian. bedloe mendum. . wrecks and wreckers. s. p. jermain. . master and man. count leo tolstoi. . the greatest thing in the world. henry drummond. . black jack. rudyard kipling. . an idyll of london. beatrice harraden. . the house of a traitor. prosper mérimée. . my sister kate. by the author of dora thorne. . the fatal marriage. charlotte m. braeme. . the nest of nobles. turgeneiff. . a lodging in the night. robert louis stevenson. . a case of identity. a. conan doyle. . nurse eva. the duchess. . a scandal in bohemia. a. conan doyle. . the man from archangel. a. conan doyle. . the captain of the pole star. a. conan doyle. . john barrington cowles. a. conan doyle. . love's ransom shot. wilkie collins. . love finds the way. walter besant and jas. rice. . the little russian servant. henri greville. . the new adam and eve. nathaniel hawthorne. . the spring of a lion. h. rider haggard. for sale everywhere, or sent postpaid on receipt of price. f. tennyson neely, publisher, queen st., london. fifth ave., n. y. * * * * * transcriber's notes page : changed ever to every: (met her at ever step in familiar attitude,). moved neely's booklet library listing to the end of the book. this ebook was formatted and edited by robin eugene escovado mistress and maid. a household story. by miss muloch, author of "john halifax, gentleman," "olive," "the ogilvies," "the head of the family," "nothing new," "agatha's husband," &c,, &c. richmond: west & johnston, publishers. . printed at the lynchburg "virginian" book and job office. mistress and maid. chapter i. she was a rather tall, awkward, and strongly-built girl of about fifteen. this was the first impression the "maid" gave to her "mistresses," the misses leaf, when she entered their kitchen, accompanied by her mother, a widow and washer-woman, by name mrs. hand. i must confess, when they saw the damsel, the ladies felt a certain twinge of doubt as to whether they had not been rash in offering to take her; whether it would not have been wiser to have gone on in their old way--now, alas! grown into a very old way, so as almost to make them forget they had ever had any other--and done without a servant still. many consultations had the three sisters held before such a revolutionary extravagance was determined on. but miss leaf was beginning both to look and to feel "not so young as she had been;" miss selina ditto; though, being still under forty, she would not have acknowledged it for the world. and miss hilary young, bright, and active as she was, could by no possibility do every thing that was to be done in the little establishment: be, for instance, in three places at once--in the school-room, teaching little boys and girls, in the kitchen cooking dinner, and in the rooms up stairs busy at house-maid's work. besides, much of her time was spent in waiting upon "poor selina," who frequently was, or fancied her self, too ill to take any part in either the school or house duties. though, the thing being inevitable, she said little about it, miss leaf's heart was often sore to see hilary's pretty hands smeared with blacking of grates, and roughened with scouring of floors. to herself this sort of thing had become natural--but hilary! all the time of hilary's childhood, the youngest of the family had of course, been spared all house-work; and afterward her studies had left no time for it. for she was a clever girl, with a genuine love of knowledge latin, greek, and even the higher branches of arithmetic and mathematics, were not beyond her range; and this she found much more interesting than washing dishes or sweeping floors. true, she always did whatever domestic duty she was told to do; but her bent was not in the household line. she had only lately learned to "see dust," to make a pudding, to iron a shirt; and, moreover, to reflect, as she woke up to the knowledge of how these things should be done, and how necessary they were, what must have been her eldest sister's lot during all these twenty years! what pains, what weariness, what eternal toil must johanna have silently endured in order to do all those things which till now had seemed to do themselves! therefore, after much cogitation as to the best and most prudent way to amend matters, and perceiving with her clear common sense that, willing as she might be to work in the kitchen, her own time would be much more valuably spent in teaching their growing school. it was hilary who these christmas holidays, first started the bold idea, "we must have a servant;" and therefore, it being necessary to begin with a very small servant on very low wages, (£ per annum was, i fear the maximum), did they take this elizabeth hand. so, hanging behind her parent, an anxious-eyed, and rather sad-voiced woman, did elizabeth enter the kitchen of the misses leaf. the ladies were all there. johanna arranging the table for their early tea: selina lying on the sofa trying to cut bread and butter: hilary on her knees before the fire, making the bit of toast, her eldest sister's one luxury. this was the picture that her three mistresses presented to elizabeth's eyes: which, though they seemed to notice nothing, must, in reality, have noticed every thing. "i've brought my daughter, ma'am, as you sent word you'd take on trial," said mrs. hand, addressing herself to selina, who, as the tallest, the best dressed, and the most imposing, was usually regarded by strangers as the head of the family. "oh. joanna, my dear." miss leaf came forward, rather uncertainly, for she was of a shy nature, and had been so long accustomed to do the servant's work of the household, that she felt quite awkward in the character of mistress. instinctively she hid her poor hands, that would at once have betrayed her to the sharp eyes of the working-woman, and then, ashamed of her momentary false pride, laid them outside her apron and sat down. "will you take a chair, mrs. hand? my sister told you. i believe all our requirements we only want a good, intelligent girl. we are willing to teach her every thing." "thank you, kindly; and i be willing and glad for her to learn, ma'am," replied the mother, her sharp and rather free tone subdued in spite of herself by the gentle voice of miss leaf. of course, living in the same country town, she knew all about the three school-mistresses, and how till now they had kept no servant. "it's her first place, and her'll be awk'ard at first, most like. hold up your head, lizabeth." "is her name elizabeth?" "far too long and too fine," observed selina from the sofa. "call her betty." "any thing you please, miss; but i call her lizabeth. it wor my young missis' name in my first place, and i never had a second." "we will call her elizabeth," said miss leaf, with the gentle decision she could use on occasion. there was a little more discussion between the mother and the future mistress as to holidays, sundays, and so on, during which time the new servant stood silent and impassive in the door-way between the back kitchen and the kitchen, or, as it is called in those regions, the house-place. as before said, elizabeth was by no means, a personable girl, and her clothes did not set her off to advantage. her cotton frock hung in straight lines down to her ankles, displaying her clumsily shod feet and woolen stockings; above it was a pinafore--a regular child's pinafore, of the cheap, strong, blue-speckled print which in those days was generally worn. a little shabby shawl, pinned at the throat, and pinned very carelessly and crookedly, with an old black bonnet, much too small for her large head and her quantities of ill kept hair, completed the costume. it did not impress favorably a lady who, being, or rather having been very handsome herself, was as much alive to appearances as the second miss leaf. she made several rather depreciatory observations, and insisted strongly that the new servant should only be taken "on trial," with no obligation to keep her a day longer than they wished. her feeling on the matter communicated itself to johanna, who closed the negotiation with mrs. hand, by saying. "well, let us hope your daughter will suit us. we will give her a fair chance at all events." "which is all i can ax for, miss leaf. her bean't much to look at, but her's willin' sharp, and her's never told me a lie in her life. courtesy to thy missis, and say thee'lt do thy best, lizabeth." pulled forward elizabeth did courtesy, but she never offered to speak. and miss leaf, feeling that for all parties the interview had better be shortened, rose from her chair. mrs. hand took the hint and departed, saying only, "good-by, lizabeth," with a nod, half-encouraging, half-admonitory, which elizabeth silently returned. that was all the parting between mother and daughter; they neither kissed nor shook hands, which undemonstrative farewell somewhat surprised hilary. now, miss hilary leaf had all this while gone on toasting. luckily for her bread the fire was low and black; meantime, from behind her long drooping curls (which johanna would not let her "turn up," though she was twenty), she was making her observations on the new servant. it might be that, possessing more head than the one and more heart than the other, hilary was gifted with deeper perception of character than either of her sisters, but certainly her expression, as she watched elizabeth, was rather amused and kindly that dissatisfied. "now, girl, take off your bonnet," said selina, to whom johanna had silently appealed in her perplexity as to the next proceeding with regard to the new member of the household. elizabeth obeyed, and then stood, irresolute, awkward, and wretched to the last degree, at the furthest end of the house-place. "shall i show you where to hang up your things?" said hilary, speaking for the first time; and at the new voice, so quick, cheerful, and pleasant, elizabeth visibly started. miss hilary rose from her knees, crossed the kitchen, took from the girl's unresisting hands the old black bonnet and shawl, and hung them up carefully on a nail behind the great eight-day clock. it was a simple action, done quite without intention, and accepted without acknowledgment, except one quick glance of that keen, yet soft grey eye; but years and years after elizabeth reminded hilary of it. and now elizabeth stood forth in her own proper likeness, unconcealed by bonnet or shawl, or maternal protection. the pinafore scarcely covered her gaunt neck and long arms; that tremendous head of rough, dusky hair was evidently for the first time gathered into a comb. thence elf locks escaped in all directions, and were forever being pushed behind her ears, or rubbed (not smoothed; there was nothing smooth about her) back from her forehead, which, hilary noticed, was low, broad, and full. the rest of her face, except the before-mentioned eyes was absolutely and undeniably plain. her figure, so far as the pinafore exhibited it, was undeveloped and ungainly, the chest being contracted and the shoulders rounded, as if with carrying children or other weights while still a growing girl. in fact, nature and circumstances had apparently united in dealing unkindly with elizabeth hand. still here she was; and what was to be done with her? having sent her with the small burden, which was apparently all her luggage, to the little room--formerly a box-closet--where she was to sleep, the misses leaf--or as facetious neighbors called them, the miss leaves--took serious counsel together over their tea. tea itself suggested the first difficulty. they were always in the habit of taking that meal, and indeed every other, in the kitchen. it saved time, trouble, and fire, besides leaving the parlor always tidy for callers, chiefly pupils' parents, and preventing these latter from discovering that the three orphan daughters of henry leaf, esq., solicitor, and sisters of henry leaf, junior, esq., also solicitor, but whose sole mission in life seemed to have been to spend every thing, make every body miserably, marry, and die, that these three ladies did always wait upon themselves at meal-time, and did sometimes breakfast without butter, and dine without meat. now this system would not do any longer. "besides, there is no need for it," said hilary, cheerfully. "i am sure we can well afford both to keep and to feed a servant, and to have a fire in the parlor every day. why not take our meals there, and sit there regularly of evenings?" "we must," added selina, decidedly. "for my part, i couldn't eat, or sew, or do any thing with that great hulking girl sitting starting opposite, or standing; for how could we ask her to sit with us? already, what must she have thought of us--people who take tea in the kitchen?" "i do not think that matters," said the eldest sister, gently, after a moment's silence. "every body in the town knows who and what we are, or might, if they chose to inquire. we cannot conceal our poverty if we tried; and i don't think any body looks down upon us for it. not even since we began to keep school, which you thought was such a terrible thing, selina." "and it was. i have never reconciled myself to teaching the baker's two boys and the grocer's little girl. you were wrong, johanna, you ought to have drawn the line somewhere, and it ought to have excluded trades-people." "beggars can not be choosers," began hilary. "beggars!" echoed selina. "no, my dear, we were never that," said miss leaf, interposing against one of the sudden storms that were often breaking out between these two. "you know well we have never begged or borrowed from any body, and hardly ever been indebted to any body, except for the extra lessons that mr. lyon would insist upon giving to ascott at home." here johanna suddenly stopped, and hilary, with a slight color rising in her face, said-- "i think, sisters, we are forgetting that the staircase is quite open, and though i am sure she has an honest look and not that of a listener, still elizabeth might hear. shall i call her down stairs, and tell her to light a fire in the parlor?" while she is doing it, and in spite of selina's forebodings to the contrary, the small maiden did it quickly and well, especially after a hint or two from hilary--let me take the opportunity of making a little picture of this same hilary. little it should be, for she was a decidedly little woman: small altogether, hands, feet, and figure being in satisfactory proportion. her movements, like those of most little women, were light and quick rather than elegant; yet every thing she did was done with a neatness and delicacy which gave an involuntary sense of grace and harmony. she was, in brief, one of those people who are best described by the word "harmonious;" people who never set your teeth on edge, or rub you up the wrong way, as very excellent people occasionally do. yet she was not over-meek or unpleasantly amiable; there was a liveliness and even briskness about her, as if the every day wine of her life had a spice of champagniness, not frothiness but natural effervescence of spirit, meant to "cheer but not inebriate" a household. and in her own household this gift was most displayed. no centre of a brilliant, admiring circle could be more charming, more witty, more irresistibly amusing than was hilary sitting by the kitchen fire, with the cat on her knee, between her two sisters, and the school-boy ascott leaf, their nephew--which four individuals, the cat being not the least important of them, constituted the family. in the family, hilary shone supreme. all recognized her as the light of the house, and so she had been, ever since she was born, ever since her "dying mother mild, said, with accents undefiled, 'child, be mother to this child.'" it was said to johanna leaf--who was not mrs. leaf's own child. but the good step-mother, who had once taken the little motherless girl to her bosom, and never since made the slightest difference between her and her own children, knew well whom she was trusting. from that solemn hour, in the middle of the night, when she lifted the hour-old baby out of its dead mother's bed into her own, it became johanna's one object in life. through a sickly infancy, for it was a child born amidst trouble, her sole hands washed, dressed, fed it; night and day it "lay in her bosom, and was unto her as a daughter." she was then just thirty: not too old to look forward to woman's natural destiny, a husband and children of her own. but years slipped by, and she was miss leaf still. what matter! hilary was her daughter. johanna's pride in her knew no bounds. not that she showed it much; indeed she deemed it a sacred duty not to show it; but to make believe her "child" was just like other children. but she was not. nobody ever thought she was--even in externals.--fate gave her all those gifts which are sometimes sent to make up for the lack of worldly prosperity. her brown eyes were as soft a doves' eyes, yet could dance with fun and mischief if they chose; her hair, brown also, with a dark-red shade in it, crisped itself in two wavy lines over her forehead, and then turn bled down in two glorious masses, which johanna, ignorant, alas! of art, called very "untidy," and labored in vain to quell under combs, or to arrange in proper, regular curls her features--well, they too, were good; better than those unartistic people had any idea of--better even than selina's, who in her youth had been the belle of the town. but whether artistically correct or not, johanna, though she would on no account have acknowledged it, believed solemnly that there was not such a face in the whole world as little hillary's. possibly a similar idea dawned upon the apparently dull mind of elizabeth hand, for she watched her youngest mistress intently, from kitchen to parlor, and from parlor back to kitchen; and once when miss hilary stood giving information as to the proper abode of broom, bellows, etc., the little maid gazed at her with such admiring observation that the scuttle she carried was titled, and the coals were strewn all over the kitchen floor. at which catastrophe miss leaf looked miserable. miss selina spoke crossly, and ascott, who just then came in to his tea, late as usual, burst into a shut of laughter. it was as much as hilary could do to help laughing herself, she being too near her nephew's own age always to maintain a dignified aunt-like attitude, but nevertheless, when, having disposed of her sisters in the parlor, she coaxed ascott into the school-room, and insisted upon his latin being done--she helping him, aunt hilary scolded him well, and bound him over to keep the peace toward the new servant. "but she is such a queer one. exactly like a south sea islander. when she stood with her grim, stolid countenance, contemplating the coals oh, aunt hilary, how killing she was!" and the regular, rollicking, irresistible boy-laugh broke out again. "she will be great fun. is she really to stay?" "i hope so," said hilary, trying to be grave. "i hope never again to see aunt johanna cleaning the stairs, and getting up to light the kitchen fire of winter mornings, as she will do if we have not a servant to do it for her. don't you see, ascott?" "oh, i see," answered the boy, carelessly, "but don't bother me, please. domestic affairs are for women, not men." ascott was eighteen, and just about to pass out of his caterpillar state as a doctor's apprentice-lad into the chrysalis condition of a medical student in london. "but," with sudden reflection, "i hope she won't be in my way. don't let her meddle with any of my books and things." "no; you need not be afraid. i have put them all into your room. i myself cleared your rubbish out of the box closet." "the box-closet! now, really, i can't stand--" "she is to sleep in the box-closet; where else could she sleep?" said hilary, resolutely, though inly quaking a little; for somehow, the merry, handsome, rather exacting lad bad acquired considerable influence in this household of women. "you must put up with the loss of your 'den.' ascott; it would be a great shame if you did not, for the sake of aunt johanna and the rest of us." "um!" grumbled the boy, who, though he was not a bad fellow at heart, had a boy's dislike to "putting up" with the slightest inconvenience. "well, it won't last long. i shall be off shortly. what a jolly life i'll have in london, aunt hilary! i'll see mr. lyon there too." "yes," said aunt hilary, briefly, returning to dido and Æneas; humble and easy latinity for a student of eighteen; but ascott was not a brilliant boy, and, being apprenticed early, his education had been much neglected, till mr. lyon came as usher to the stowbury grammar-school, and happening to meet and take an interest in him, taught him and his aunt hilary latin, greek, and mathematics together, of evenings. i shall make no mysteries here. human nature is human nature all the world over. a tale without love in it would be unnatural, unreal--in fact, a simple lie; for there are no histories and no lives without love in them: if there could be, heaven pity and pardon them, for they would be mere abortions of humanity. thank heaven, we, most of us, do not philosophize: we only live. we like one another, we hardly know why; we love one another, we still less know why. if on the day she first saw--in church it was--mr. lyon's grave, heavy-browed, somewhat severe face--for he was a scotsman, and his sharp, strong scotch features did look "hard" beside the soft, rosy, well conditioned youth of stowbury--if on that sunday any one had told hilary leaf that the face of this stranger was to be the one face of her life, stamped upon brain and heart, and soul with a vividness that no other impressions were strong enough to efface, and retained there with a tenacity that no vicissitudes of time, or place, or fortunes had power to alter, hilary would--yes, i think she would--have quietly kept looking on. she would have accepted her lot, such as it was, with its shine and shade, its joy and its anguish; it came to her without her seeking, as most of the solemn things in life do; and whatever it brought with it, it could have come from no other source than that from which all high, and holy, and pure loves ever must come--the will and permission of god. mr. lyon himself requires no long description. in his first visit he had told miss leaf all about himself that there was to be known; that he was, as they were, a poor teacher, who had altogether "made himself," as so many scotch students do. his father, whom he scarcely remembered, had been a small ayrshire farmer; his mother was dead, and he had never had either brother or sister. seeing how clever miss hilary was, and how much as a schoolmistress she would need all the education she could get, he had offered to teach her along with her nephew; and she and johanna were only too thankful for the advantage. but during the teaching he had also taught her another thing, which neither had contemplated at the time--to respect him with her whole soul, and to love him with her whole heart. over this simple fact let no more be now said. hilary said nothing. she recognized it herself as soon as he was gone; a plain, sad, solemn truth, which there was no deceiving herself did not exist, even had she wished its non-existence. perhaps johanna also found it out, in her darling's extreme paleness and unusual quietness for a while; but she too said nothing. mr. lyon wrote regularly to ascott, and once or twice to her, miss leaf; but though every one knew that hilary was his particular friend in the whole family, he did not write to hilary. he had departed rather suddenly, on account of some plan which he said, affected his future very considerably; but which, though he was in the habit of telling them his affairs, he did not further explain. still johanna knew he was a good man, and though no man could be quite good enough for her darling, she liked him, she trusted him. what hilary felt none knew. but she was very girlish in some things; and her life was all before her, full of infinite hope. by-and-by her color returned, and her merry voice and laugh were heard about the house just as usual. this being the position of affairs, it was not surprising that after ascott's last speech hilary's mind wandered from dido and Æneas to vague listening, as the lad began talking of his grand future--the future of a medical student, all expenses being paid by his godfather, mr. ascott, the merchant, of russell square, once a shop boy of stowbury. nor was it unnatural that all ascott's anticipations of london resolved themselves, in his aunt's eyes, into the one fact that he would "see mr. lyon." but in telling thus much about her mistresses, i have for the time being lost sight of elizabeth hand. left to herself, the girl stood for a minute or two looking around her in a confused manner, then, rousing her faculties, began mechanically to obey the order with which her mistress had quitted the kitchen, and to wash up the tea-things. she did it in a fashion that, if seen, would have made miss leaf thankful that the ware was only the common set, and not the cherished china belonging to former days: still she did it, noisily it is true, but actively, as if her heart were in her work. then she took a candle and peered about her new domains. these were small enough; at least they would have seemed so to other eyes than elizabeth's; for, until the school-room and box-closet above had been kindly added by the landlord, who would have done any thing to show his respect for the misses leaf, it had been merely a six-roomed cottage--parlor kitchen, back kitchen, and three upper chambers. it was a very cozy house notwithstanding, and it seemed to elizabeth's eyes a perfect palace. for several minutes more she stood and contemplated her kitchen, with the fire shining on the round oaken stand in the centre, and the large wooden-bottomed chairs, and the loud-ticking clock, with its tall case, the inside of which, with its pendulum and weights, had been a perpetual mystery and delight, first to hilary's and then to ascott's childhood. then there was the sofa, large and ugly, but, oh! so comfortable, with its faded, flowered chintz, washed and worn for certainly twenty years. and, overall, elizabeth's keen observation was attracted by a queer machine apparently made of thin rope and bits of wood, which hung up to the hooks on the ceiling--an old-fashioned baby's swing. finally, her eye dwelt with content on the blue and red diamond tiled floor, so easily swept and mopped, and (only elizabeth did not think of that, for her hard childhood had been all work and no play) so beautiful to whip tops upon! hilary and ascott, condoling together over the new servant, congratulated themselves that their delight in this occupation had somewhat failed, though it was really not so many years ago since one of the former's pupils, coming suddenly out of the school-room, had caught her in the act of whipping a meditative top round this same kitchen floor. meantime elizabeth penetrated farther, investigating the back kitchen, with its various conveniences; especially the pantry, every shelf of which was so neatly arranged and beautifully clean. apparently this neatness impressed the girl with a sense of novelty and curiosity; and though she could hardly be said to meditate--her mind was not sufficiently awakened for that--still, as she stood at the kitchen fire, a slight thoughtfulness deepened the expression of her face, and made it less dull and heavy than it had at first appeared. "i wonder which on 'em does it all. they must work pretty hard, i reckon; and two o' them's such little uns." she stood a while longer; for sitting down appeared to be to elizabeth as new a proceeding as thinking; then she went up stairs, still literally obeying orders, to shut windows and pull down blinds at nightfall. the bedrooms were small, and insufficiently, nay, shabbily furnished; but the floors were spotless--ah! poor johanna!--and the sheets, though patched and darned to the last extremity, were white and whole. nothing was dirty, nothing untidy. there was no attempt at picturesque poverty--for whatever novelists may say, poverty can not be picturesque; but all things were decent and in order. the house, poor as it was, gave the impression of belonging to "real ladies;" ladies who thought no manner of work beneath them, and who, whatever they had to do, took the pains to do it as well as possible. mrs. hand's roughly-brought-up daughter had never been in such a house before, and her examination of every new corner of it seemed quite a revelation. her own little sleeping nook was fully as tidy and comfortable as the rest, which fact was not lost upon elizabeth. that bright look of mingled softness and intelligence--the only thing which beautified her rugged face--came into the girl's eyes as she "turned down" the truckle-bed, and felt the warm blankets and sheets, new and rather coarse, but neatly sewed. "her's made 'em hersel', i reckon. la!" which of her mistresses the "her" referred to remained unspecified; but elizabeth, spurred to action by some new idea, went briskly back into the bedrooms, and looked about to see if there was any thing she could find to do. at last, with a sudden inspiration, she peered into a wash-stand, and found there an empty ewer. taking it in one hand and the candle in the other, she ran down stairs. fatal activity! hilary's pet cat, startled from sleep on the kitchen hearth, at the same instant ran wildly up stairs; there was a start--a stumble--and then down came the candle, the ewer, elizabeth, and all. it was an awful crash. it brought every member of the family to see what was the matter. "what has the girl broken?" cried selina. "where has she hurt herself?" anxiously added johanna. hilary said nothing, but ran for a light, and then picked up first the servant, then the candle, and then the fragments of crockery. "why, it's my ewer, my favorite ewer, and it's all smashed to bits, and i never can match it again. you careless, clumsy, good-for-nothing creature!" "please, selma," whispered her eldest sister. "very well, johanna. you are the mistress, i suppose; why don't you speak to your servant?" miss leaf, in an humbled, alarmed way, first satisfied herself that no bodily injury had been sustained by elizabeth, and then asked her how this disaster had happened? for a serious disaster she felt it was. not only was the present loss annoying, but a servant with a talent for crockery breaking would be a far too expensive luxury for them to think of retaining. and she had been listening in the solitude of the parlor to a long lecture from her always dissatisfied younger sister, on the great doubts selina had about elizabeth's "suiting." "come, now," seeing the girl hesitated, "tell me the plain truth. how was it?" "it was the cat," sobbed elizabeth. "what a barefaced falsehood." exclaimed selina. "you wicked girl, how could it possibly be the cat? do you know that you are telling a lie, and that lies are hateful, and that all liars go to--" "nonsense, hush!" interrupted hilary, rather sharply; for selina's "tongue," the terror of her childhood, now merely annoyed her. selina's temper was a long understood household fact--they did not much mind it, knowing that her bark was worse than her bite--but it was provoking that she should exhibit herself so soon before the new servant. the latter first looked up at the lady with simple surprise; then, as in spite of the other two, miss selina worked herself up into a downright passion, and unlimited abuse fell upon the victim's devoted head, elizabeth's manner changed. after one dogged repetition of, "it was the cat!" not another word could be got out of her. she stood, her eyes fixed on the kitchen floor, her brows knitted, and her under lip pushed out--the very picture of sullenness. young as she was, elizabeth evidently had, like her unfortunate mistress, "a temper of her own"--a spiritual deformity that some people are born with, as others with hare-lip or club-foot; only, unlike these, it may be conquered, though the battle is long and sore, sometimes ending only with life. it had plainly never commenced with poor elizabeth hand. her appearance, as she stood under the flood of sharp words poured out upon her, was absolutely repulsive. even miss hilary turned away, and began to think it would have been easier to teach all day and do house work half the night, than have the infliction of a servant--to say nothing of the disgrace of seeing selina's "peculiarities" so exposed before a stranger. she knew of old that to stop the torrent was impracticable. the only chance was to let selina expend her wrath and retire, and then to take some quiet opportunity of explaining to elizabeth that sharp language was only "her way," and must be put up with. humiliating as this was, and fatal to domestic authority that the first thing to be taught a new servant was to "put up" with one of her mistresses, still there was no alternative.--hilary had already foreboded and made up her mind to such a possibility, but she had hoped it would not occur the very first evening. it did, however, and its climax was worse even than she anticipated. whether, irritated by the intense sullenness of the girl. selina's temper was worse than usual, or whether, as is always the case with people like her, something else had vexed her, and she vented it upon the first cause of annoyance that occurred, certain it is that her tongue went on unchecked till it failed from sheer exhaustion. and then, as she flung herself on the sofa--oh, sad mischance!--she caught sight of her nephew standing at the school-room door, grinning with intense delight, and making faces at her behind her back. it was too much. the poor lady had no more words left to scold with; but she rushed up to ascott, and big lad as he was, she soundly boxed his ears. on this terrible climax let the curtain fall. chapter ii. common as were the small fends between ascott and his aunt selina, they seldom reached such a catastrophe as that described in my last chapter. hilary had to fly to the rescue, and literally drag the furious lad back into the school-room; while johanna, pale and trembling, persuaded selina to quit the field and go and lie down. this was not difficult; for the instant she saw what she had done, how she had disgraced herself and insulted her nephew. selina felt sorry. her passion ended in a gush of "nervous" tears under the influence of which she was led up stairs and put to bed, almost like a child--the usual termination of these pitiful outbreaks. for the time nobody thought of elizabeth. the hapless cause of all stood "spectatress of the fray" beside her kitchen fire. what she thought history saith not. whether in her own rough home she was used to see brothers and sisters quarrelling, and mothers boxing their childrens' ears, can not be known; whether she was or was not surprised to see the same proceedings among ladies and gentlemen, she never betrayed, but certain it is that the little servant became uncommonly serious; yes, serious rather than sulky, for her "black" looks vanished gradually, as soon as miss selina left the kitchen. on the reappearance of miss hilary it had quite gone. but hilary took no notice of her; she was in search of johanna, who, shaking and cold with agitation, came slowly down stairs. "is she gone to bed?" "yes, my dear. it was the best thing for her; she is not at all well to-day." hilary's lip curled a little, but she replied not a word. she had not the patience with selina that johanna had. she drew her elder sister into the little parlor, placed her in the arm-chair, shut the door, came and sat beside her, and took her hand. johanna pressed it, shed a quiet tear or two, and wiped them away. then the two sisters remained silent, with hearts sad and sore. every family has its skeleton in the house: this was theirs. whether they acknowledged it or not, they knew quite well that every discomfort they had, every slight jar which disturbed the current of household peace, somehow or other originated with "poor selina." they often called her "poor" with a sort of pity--not unneeded. heaven knows! for if the unhappy are to be pitied, ten times more so are those who make others miserable. this was selina's case, and had been all her life. and, sometimes, she herself knew it. sometimes, after an especially bad outbreak, her compunction and remorse would be almost as terrible as her passion; forcing her sisters to make every excuse for her; she "did not mean it," it was only "ill health," or "nerves," or her "unfortunate way of taking things." but they knew in their hearts that not all their poverty and the toils it entailed, not all the hardships and humiliation of their changed estate, were half so bitter to bear as this something--no moral crime, and yet in its results as fatal as crime--which they called selina's "way." ascott was the only one who did not attempt to mince matters. when a little boy he had openly declared he hated aunt salina; when he grew up he as openly defied her, and it was a most difficult matter to keep even decent peace between them. hilary's wrath had never gone further than wishing selina was married, that appearing the easiest way of getting rid of her. latterly she had ceased this earnest aspiration; it might be, because, learning to think more seriously of marriage, she felt that a woman who is no blessing in her own household, is never likely much to bless a husband's; and that, looking still farther forward, it was, on the whole, a mercy of providence, which made selina not the mother of children. yet her not marrying had been somewhat a surprise; for she had been attractive in her day, handsome and agreeable in society. but perhaps, for all that, the sharp eye of the opposite sex had discovered the cloven foot; since, though she had received various promising attentions, poor selina had never had an offer. nor, fortunately, had she ever been known to care for any body; she was one of those women who would have married as a matter of course, but who never would have been guilty of the weakness of falling in love. there seemed small probability of shipping her off, to carry into a new household the restlessness, the fretfulness, the captious fault-finding with others, the readiness to take offence at what was done and said to herself, which made poor selina leaf the unacknowledged grief and torment of her own. her two sisters sat silent. what was the use of talking? it would be only going ever and over again the old thing; trying to ease and shift a little the long familiar burden which they knew must be borne. nearly every household has, near or remote, some such burden, which heaven only can lift off or help to bear. and sometimes, looking round the world outside, these two congratulated themselves, in a half sort of way, that theirs was as light as it was; that selina was after all, a well-meaning well-principled woman, and, in spite of her little tempers, really fond of her family, as she truly was, at least as fond as a nature which has its centre in self can manage to be. only when hilary looked, as to-night, into her eldest sister's pale face, where year by year the lines were deepening, and saw how every agitation such as the present shook her more and more--she who ought to have a quiet life and a cheerful home, after so many hard years--then hilary, fierce in the resistance of her youth, felt as if what she could have borne for herself she could not bear for johanna, and at the moment, sympathized with ascott in actually "hating" aunt selina. "where is that boy? he ought to be spoken to," johanna said, at length, rising wearily. "i have spoken to him; i gave him a good scolding. he is sorry, and promises never to be so rude again." "oh no; not till the next time," replied miss leaf. hopelessly. "but hilary." with a sudden consternation, "what are we to do about elizabeth?" the younger sister had thought of that. she had turned over in her mind all the pros and cons, the inevitable "worries" that would result from the presence of an additional member of the family, especially one from whom the family skeleton could not be hid, to whom it was already only too fatally revealed. but hilary was a clear headed girl, and she had the rare faculty of seeing things as they really were, undistorted by her own likings or dislikings--in fact, without reference to herself at all. she perceived plainly that johanna ought not to do the housework, that selina would not, and that she could not: ergo, they must keep a servant. better, perhaps, a small servant, over whom they could have the same influence as over a child, than one older and more independent, who would irritate her mistresses at home, and chatter of them abroad. besides, they had promised mrs. hand to give her daughter a fair trial. for a month, then, elizabeth was bound to stay; afterward, time would show. it was best not to meet troubles half way. this explained, in hilary's cheerful voice, seemed greatly to reassure and comfort her sister. "yes, love, you are right; she must remain her month out, unless she does something very wrong. do you think that really was a lie she told?" "about the cat? i don't quite know what to think. let us call her, and put the question once more. do you put it, johanna. i don't think she could look at you and tell you a story." other people, at sight of that sweet, grave face, its bloom faded, and hairs silvered long before their time, yet beautiful, with an almost childlike simplicity and childlike peace--most other people would have been of hilary's opinion. "sit down; i'll call her. dear me, johanna, we shall have to set up a bell as well as a servant, unless we had managed to combine the two." but hilary's harmless little joke failed to make her sister smile; and the entrance of the girl seemed to excite positive apprehension. how was it possible to make excuse to a servant for her mistress's shortcomings? how scold for ill-doing this young girl, to whom, ere she had been a night in the house, so bad an example had been set? johanna half expected elizabeth to take a leaf out of selina's book and begin abusing herself and hilary. no: she stood very sheepish, very uncomfortable, but not in the least bold or sulky--on the whole, looking rather penitent and humble. her mistress took courage. "elizabeth i want you to tell me the truth about that unfortunate breakage. don't be afraid. i had rather you broke every thing in the house than have told me what was not true." "it was true; it was the cat." "how could that be possible? you were coming down stairs with the ewer in your hand." "her got under my feet, and throwed me down, and so i tumbled, and smashed the thing agin the floor." the misses leaf glanced at each other. this version of the momentous event was probable enough, and the girl's eager, honest manner gave internal confirmatory evidence pretty strong. "i am sure she is telling the truth." said hilary. "and remember what her mother said about her word being always reliable." this reference was too much for elizabeth. she burst out, not into actual crying, but into a smothered choke. "if you donnot believe me, missus, i'd rather go home to mother." "i do believe you," said miss leaf, kindly then waited till the pinafore, used as a pocket handkerchief, had dried up grief and restored composure. "i can quite well understand the accident now; and i am sure if you had put it as plainly at first, my sister would have understood it too. she was very much annoyed, and no wonder. she will be equally glad to find she was mistaken." here miss leaf paused, somewhat puzzled how to express what she felt it her duty to say, so as to be comprehended by the servant, and yet not let down the dignity of the family hilary came to her aid. "miss selina is sometimes hasty; but she means kindly always. you must take care not to vex her, elizabeth; and you must never answer her back again, however sharply she speaks. it is not your business; you are only a child, and she is your mistress." "is her? i thought it was this 'un." the subdued clouding of elizabeth's face, and her blunt pointing to miss leaf as "this 'un." were too much for hilary's gravity she was obliged to retreat to the press, and begin an imaginary search for a book. "yes, i am the eldest, and i suppose you may consider me specially as your mistress," said johanna, simply." "remember always to come to me in any difficulty; and above all, to tell me every thing outright, as soon as it happens. i can forgive you almost any fault, if you are truthful and honest; but there is one thing i never could forgive, and that is deception. now go with miss hilary, and she will teach you how to make the porridge for supper." elizabeth obeyed silently; she had apparently a great gift for silence. and she was certainly both obedient and willing; not stupid, either, though a nervousness of temperament which hilary was surprised to find in so big and coarse-looking a girl, made her rather awkward at first. however, she succeeded in pouring out and carrying into the parlor, without accident, three platefuls of that excellent condiment which formed the frugal supper of the family; but which they ate, i grieve to say, in an orthodox southern fashion, with sugar or treacle, until mr. lyon--greatly horrified thereby--had instituted his national custom of "supping" porridge with milk. it may be a very unsentimental thing to confess, but hilary, who even at twenty was rather practical than poetical, never made the porridge without thinking of robert lyon, and the day when he first staid to supper, and ate it, or as he said and was very much laughed at, ate "them" with such infinite relish since then, whenever he came, he always asked for his porridge, saying it carried him back to his childish days. and hilary, with that curious pleasure that women take in waiting upon any one unto whom the heart is ignorantly beginning to own the allegiance, humble yet proud, of miranda to ferdinand: "to be your fellow you may deny me; but i'll be your servant whether you will or no." hilary always contrived to make his supper herself. those pleasant days were now over. mr. lyon was gone. as she stool alone over the kitchen fire, she thought--as now and then she let herself think for a minute or two in her busy prosaic life--of that august night, standing at the front door, of his last "good-by," and last hand-clasp, tight, warm, and firm; and somehow she, like johanna, trusted in him. not exactly in his love; it seemed almost impossible that he should love her, at least till she grew much more worthy of him than now; but in himself, that he would never be less himself, less thoroughly good and true than now. that, some time, he would be sure to come back again, and take up his old relations with them, brightening their dull life with his cheerfulness; infusing in their feminine household the new element of a clear, strong, energetic, manly will, which sometimes made johanna say that instead of twenty-five the young man might be forty; and, above all, bringing into their poverty the silent sympathy of one who had fought his own battle with the world--a hard one, too, as his face sometimes showed--though he never said much about it. of the results of this pleasant relation--whether she being the only truly marriageable person in the house. robert lyon intended to marry her, or was expected to do so, or that society would think it a very odd thing if he did not do so--this unsophisticated hilary never thought at all. if he had said to her that the present state of things was to go on forever; she to remain always hilary leaf, and he robert lyon, the faithful friend of the family, she would have smiled in his face and been perfectly satisfied. true, she had never had any thing to drive away the smile from that innocent face; no vague jealousies aroused; no maddening rumors afloat in the small world that was his and theirs. mr. lyon was grave and sedate in all his ways; he never paid the slightest attention to, or expressed the slightest interest in, any woman whatsoever. and so this hapless girl loved, him--just himself; without the slightest reference to his "connections," for he had none; or his "prospects," which, if he had any, she did not know of. alas! to practical and prudent people i can offer no excuse for her; except, perhaps what shakspeare gives in the creation of the poor miranda. when the small servant re-entered the kitchen, hilary, with a half sigh, shook off her dreams, called ascott out of the school-room, and returned to the work-a-day world and the family supper. this being ended, seasoned with a few quiet words administered to ascott, and which on the whole he took pretty well, it was nearly ten o'clock. "far too late to have kept up such a child as elizabeth; we must not do it again," said miss leaf, taking down the large bible with which she was accustomed to conclude the day--ascott's early hours at school and their own house-work making it difficult of mornings. very brief the reading was, sometimes not more than half a dozen verses, with no comment thereon; she thought the word of god might safely be left to expound itself being a very humble-minded woman, she did not feel qualified to lead long devotional "exercises," and she disliked formal written prayers. so she merely read the bible to the family, and said after it the lord's prayer. but, constitutionally shy as miss leaf was to do even this in presence of a stranger cost her some effort; and it was only a sense of duty that made her say "yes" to hilary's suggestion, "i suppose we ought to call in elizabeth?" elizabeth came. "sit down," said her mistress: and she sat down, staring uneasily round about her, as if wondering what was going to befall her next. very silent was the little parlor; so small, that it was almost filled up by its large square piano, its six cane-bottomed chairs, and one easy chair, in which sat miss leaf with the great book in her lap. "can you read, elizabeth?" "yes, ma'am." "hilary, give her a bible." and so elizabeth followed, guided by her not too clean finger, the words, read in that soft, low voice, somewhere out of the new testament; words simple enough for the comprehension of a child or a heathen. the "south sea islander," as ascott persisted in calling her, then, doing as the family did, turned round to kneel down; but in her confusion she knocked over a chair, causing miss leaf to wait a minute till reverent silence was restored. elizabeth knelt, with her eyes fixed on the wall: it was a green paper, patterned with bunches of nuts. how far she listened, or how much she understood, it was impossible to say; but her manner was decent and decorous. "forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those that trespass against us." unconsciously miss leaf's gentle voice rested on these words, so needed in the daily life of every human being, and especially of every family. was she the only one who thought of "poor selina?" they all rose from their knees, and hilary out the bible away. the little servant "hung about," apparently uncertain what was next to be done, or what was expected of her to do. hilary touched her sister. "yes," said miss leaf. recollecting herself, and assuming the due authority, "it is quite time for all the family to be in bed. take care of your candle, and mind and be up at six tomorrow morning." this was addressed to the new maiden, who dropped a courtesy, and said, almost cheerfully, "yes, ma'am." "very well, good night. elizabeth." and following miss leaf's example, the other two, even ascott, said civilly and kindly, "good night, elizabeth." chapter iii. the christmas holidays ended, and ascott left for london. it was the greatest household change the misses leaf had known for years, and they missed him sorely. ascott was not exactly a lovable boy, and yet, after the fashion of womankind, his aunts were both fond and proud of him; fond, in their childless old maidenhood, of any sort of nephew, and proud, unconsciously, that the said nephew was a big fellow, who could look over all their heads, besides being handsome and pleasant mannered, and though not clever enough to set the thames on fire, still sufficiently bright to make them hope that in his future the family star might again rise. there was something pathetic in these three women's idealization of him--even selina's who though quarrelling with him to his face always praised him behind his back,--that great, good-looking, lazy lad; who, every body else saw clearly enough, thought more of his own noble self than of all his aunts put together. the only person he stood in awe of was mr. lyon--for whom he always protested unbounded respect and admiration. how far robert lyon liked ascott even hilary could never quite find out; but he was always very kind to him. there was one person in the house who, strange to say, did not succumb to the all-dominating youth. from the very first there was a smouldering feud between him and elizabeth. whether she overheard, and slowly began to comprehend his mocking gibes about the "south sea islander," or whether her sullen and dogged spirit resisted the first attempts the lad made to "put upon her"--as he did upon his aunts, in small daily tyrannies--was never found out; but certainly ascott, the general favorite, found little favor with the new servant. she never answered when he "hollo'd" for her; she resisted blacking his boots more than once a day; and she obstinately cleared the kitchen fire-place of his "messes," as she ignominiously termed various pots and pans belonging to what he called his "medical studies." although the war was passive rather than aggressive, and sometimes a source of private amusement to the aunts, still, on the whole, it was a relief when the exciting cause of it departed; his new and most gentlemanly port manteau being carried down stairs by elizabeth herself, of her own accord, with an air of cheerful alacrity, foreign to her mien for some weeks past, and which, even in the midst of the dolorous parting, amused hilary extremely. "i think that girl is a character," she said afterward to johanna. "any how she has curiously strong likes and dislikes." "you may say that, my dear; for she brightens up whenever she looks at you." "does she? oh, that must be because i have most to do with her. it is wonderful how friendly one gets over sauce pans and brooms; and what reverence one inspires in the domestic mind when one really knows how to make a bed or a pudding." "how i wish you had to do neither!" sighed johanna, looking fondly at the bright face and light little figure that was flitting about putting the school-room to rights before the pupils came in. "nonsense--i don't wish any such thing. doing it makes me not a whit less charming and lovely." she often applied these adjectives to herself, with the most perfect conviction that she was uttering a fiction patent to every body. i must be very juvenile also, for i'm certain the fellow-passenger at the station to-day took me for ascott's sweetheart. when we were saying good by an old gentleman who sat next him was particularly sympathetic, and you should have seen how indignantly ascott replied, "it's only my aunt!" miss leaf laughed, and the shadow vanished from her face, as hilary had meant it should. she only said, caressing her, "well, my pet, never mind. i hope you will have a real sweetheart some day." "i'm in no hurry, thank you, johanna." but now was heard the knock after knock of the little boys and girls, and there began that monotonous daily round of school labor, rising from the simplicities of c, a, t, cat, and d, o, g, dog--to the sublime heights of pinnock and lennie, telemaque and latin delectus. no loftier; stowbury being well supplied with first class schools, and having a vague impression that the misses leaf, born ladies and not brought up as governesses, were not competent educators except of very small children. which was true enough until lately. so miss leaf kept contentedly to the c, a, t, cat, and d, o, g, dog, of the little butchers and bakers, as miss selina, who taught only sewing, and came into the school-room but little during the day, scornfully termed them. the higher branches such as they were, she left gradually to hilary, who, of late, possibly out of sympathy with a friend of hers, had begun to show an actual gift for teaching school. it is a gift--all will allow; and chiefly those who have it not, among which was poor johanna leaf. the admiring envy with which she watched hilary, moving briskly about from class to class, with a word of praise to one and rebuke to another, keeping every one's attention alive, spurring on the dull, controlling the unruly, and exercising over every member in this little world that influence, at once the strongest and most intangible and inexplicable--personal influence--was only equaled by the way in which, at pauses in the day's work, when it grew dull and monotonous or when the stupidity of the children ruffled her own quick temper beyond endurance, hilary watched johanna. the time i am telling of now is long ago. the stowbury children, who were then little boys and girls, are now fathers and mothers--doubtless a large proportion being decent tradesfolk in stowbury still; though, in this locomotive quarter, many must have drifted elsewhere--where, heaven knows. but not a few of them may still call to mind miss leaf, who first taught them their letters--sitting in her corner between the fire and the window, while the blind was drawn down to keep out, first the light from her own fading eyes, and, secondly, the distracting view of green fields and trees from the youthful eyes by her side. they may remember still her dark plain dress and her white apron, on which the primers, torn and dirty, looked half ashamed to lie; and above all, her sweet face and sweeter voice, never heard in any thing sharper than that grieved tone which signified their being "naughty children." they may recall her unwearied patience with the very dullest and most wayward of them; her unfailing sympathy with every infantile pleasure and pain. and i think they will acknowledge that whether she taught them much or little--in this advancing age it might be thought little--miss leaf taught them one thing--to love her. which, as ben johnson said of the countess of pembroke, was in itself a "liberal education." hilary, too. often when hilary's younger and more restless spirit chafed against the monotony of her life; when, instead of wasting her days in teaching small children, she would have liked to be learning, learning--every day growing wiser and cleverer, and stretching out into that busy, bright, active world of which robert lyon had told her--then the sight of johanna's meek face bent over those dirty spelling books would at once rebuke and comfort her. she felt, after all, that she would not mind working on forever, so long as johanna still sat there. nevertheless, that winter seemed to her very long--especially after ascott was gone. for johanna, partly for money, and partly for kindness, had added to her day's work four evenings a week when a half educated mother of one of her little pupils came to be taught to write a decent hand, and to keep the accounts of her shop. upon which selina, highly indignant, had taken to spending her evenings in the school room, interrupting hilary's solitary studies there by many a lamentation over the peaceful days when they all sat in the kitchen together and kept no servant. for selina was one of those who never saw the bright side of any thing till it had gone by. "i'm sure i don't know how we are to manage with elizabeth. that greedy--" "and growing," suggested hilary. "i say that greedy girl eats as much as any two of us. and as for her clothes--her mother does not keep her even decent." "she would find it difficult upon three pounds a year." "hilary, how dare you contradict me! i am only stating a plain fact." "and i another. but, indeed, i don't want to talk selina." "you never do except when you are wished to be silent; and then your tongue goes like any race horse." "does it? well, like gilpin's, 'it carries weight: it rides a race, 'tis for a thousand pound?' --and i only wish it were. heigh ho! if i could but earn a thousand pounds!" selina was too vexed to reply and for five quiet minutes hilary bent over her homer which mr. lyon had taken such pleasure in teaching her, because he said, she learned it faster than any of his grammar school boys. she had forgotten all domestic grievances in a vision of thetis and the water nymphs; and was repeating to herself, first in the sonorous greek and then in pope's small but sweet english, that catalogue of oceanic beauties ending with "black janira and janassa fair, and amatheia with her amber hair." "black, did you say? i'm sure she was as black as a chimney sweep all to-day. and her pinafore" "her what? oh, elizabeth, you mean--" "her pinafore had three rents in it, which she never thinks of mending though i gave her needles and thread myself a week ago. but she does not know how to use them any more than a baby." "possibly, nobody ever taught her." "yes; she went for a year to the national school, she says, and learned both marking and sewing." "perhaps she has never practiced them since. she could hardly have had time, with all the little hands to look after, as her mother says she did. all the better for us. it makes her wonderfully patient with our troublesome brats. it was only to day, when that horrid little jacky smith hurt himself so, that i saw elizabeth take him into the kitchen, wash his face and hands, and cuddle him up and comfort him, quite motherly. her forte is certainly children." "you always find something to say for her." "i should be ashamed if i could not find something to say for any body who is always abused." another pause--and then selina returned to the charge. "have you ever observed, my dear, the extraordinary way she has of fastening, or rather, not fastening her gown behind? she just hooks it together at the top and at the waist, while between there is a--" "hiatus valde deflendus. oh dear me! what shall i do? selina, how can i help it if a girl of fifteen years old is not a paragon of perfection? as of course we all are, if we only could find it out." and hilary, in despair, rose to carry her candle and books into the chilly but quiet bedroom, biting her lips the while lest she should be tempted to say something which selina called "impertinent," which perhaps it was, from a younger sister to an elder. i do not set hilary up as a perfect character. through sorrow only do people go on to perfection; and sorrow, in its true meaning, the cherished girl had never known. but that night, talking to johanna before they went to sleep--they had always slept together since the time when the elder sister used to walk the room of nights with that pulling, motherless infant in her arms--hilary anxiously started the question of the little servant. "i am afraid i vexed selina greatly about her to-night, and yet what can one do? selina is so very unjust--always expecting impossibilities. she would like to have elizabeth at once a first rate cook, a finished house-maid, and an attentive lady's maid, and all without being taught! she gives her things to do, neither waiting to see if they are comprehended by her, nor showing her how to do them. of course the girl stands gaping and staring and does not do them, or does them so badly, that she gets a thorough scolding." "is she very stupid, do you think?" asked johanna, in unconscious appeal to her pet's stronger judgment. "no, i don't. far from stupid; only very ignorant, and--you would hardly believe it--very nervous. selina frightens her. she gets on extremely well with me." "any one would, my dear. that is," added the conscientious elder sister, still afraid of making the "child" vain, "any one whom you took pain with. but do you think you can ever make any thing out of elizabeth? her month ends to-morrow. shall we let her go?" "and perhaps get in her place a story-teller--a tale-bearer--even a thief. no, no; let us 'rather bear the ills we have, than fly to others that we know not of;' and a thief would be worse than even a south sea islander." "oh yes, my dear," said johanna, with a shiver. "by-the-by, the first step in the civilization of the polynesians was giving them clothes. and i have heard say that crime and rags often go together; that a man unconsciously feels that he owes something to himself and society in the way of virtue when he has a clean face and clean shirt, and a decent coat on. suppose we try the experiment of dressing elizabeth. how many old gowns have we?" the number was few. nothing in the leaf family was ever cast off till its very last extremity of decay; the talent that "gars auld claes look amaist as gude's the new" being specially possessed by hilary. she counted over her own wardrobe and johanna's but found nothing that could be spared. "yes, my love, there is one thing. you certainly shall never put on that old brown merino again; though you have laid it so carefully by, as if you meant it to come out as fresh as ever next winter. no, hilary, you must have a new gown, and you must give elizabeth your brown merino." hilary laughed, and replied not. now it might be a pathetic indication of a girl who had very few clothes, but hilary had a superstitious weakness concerning hers.--every dress had its own peculiar chronicle of the scenes where it had been, the enjoyments she had shared in it. particular dresses were special memorials of her loves, her pleasures, her little passing pains; as long as a bit remained of the poor old fabric the sight of it recalled them all. this brown merino--in which she had sat two whole winters over her greek and latin by robert lyon's side, which he had once stopped to touch and notice, saying what a pretty color it was, and how he liked soft-feeling dresses for women--to cut up this old brown merino seemed to hurt her so she could almost have cried. yet what would johanna think if the refused? and there was elizabeth absolutely in want of clothes. "i must be growing very wicked," thought poor hilary. she lay a good while silent in the dark, while johanna planned and replanned--calculating how, even with the addition of an old cape of her own, which was out of the same piece, this hapless gown could be made to fit the gaunt frame of elizabeth hand.--her poor kindly brain was in the last extremity of muddle, when hilary, with a desperate effort, dashed in to the rescue, and soon made all clear, contriving body, skirt, sleeves and all. "you have the best head in the world, my love. i don't know whatever i should do without you." "luckily you are never likely to be tried. so give me a kiss; and good night, johanna." i misdoubt many will say i am writing about small, ridiculously small, things. yet is not the whole of life made up of infinitesimally small things? and in its strange and solemn mosaic, the full pattern of which we never see clearly till looking back on it from far away, dare we say of any thing which the hand of eternal wisdom has put together, that it is too common or too small? chapter iv. while her anxious mistresses were thus talking her over the servant lay on her humble bed and slept. they knew she did, for they heard her heavy breathing through the thin partition wall. whether, as hilary suggested, she was too ignorant to notice the days of the week, or month, or, as selina thought, too stupid to care for any thing beyond eating, drinking, and sleeping. elizabeth manifested no anxiety about herself or her destiny. she went about her work just as usual; a little quicker and readier, now she was becoming familiarized to it; but she said nothing. she was undoubtedly a girl of silent and undemonstrative nature. "sometimes still waters run deep," said miss hilary. "nevertheless. there are such things as canals," replied johanna. "when do you mean to have your little talk with her?" hilary did not know. she was sitting, rather more tired than usual, by the school-room fire, the little people having just departed for their saturday half-holiday. before clearing off the debris which they always left behind, she stood a minute at the window, refreshing her eyes with the green field opposite, and the far-away wood, crowned by a dim white monument, visible in fair weather, on which those bright brown eyes had a trick of lingering, even in the middle of school hours. for the wood and the hill beyond belonged to a nobleman's "show" estate, five miles off--the only bit of real landscape beauty that hilary had ever beheld. there, during the last holidays but one, she, her sisters, her nephew, and, by his own special request, mr. lyon, had spent a whole long, merry, midsummer day. she wondered whether such a day would ever come again! but spring was coming again, any how; the field looked smiling and green, specked here and there with white dots which, she opined. might possibly be daisies. she half wished she was not too old and dignified to dart across the road, leap the sunk fence, and run to see. "i think, johanna--hark, what can that be?" for at this instant somebody came tearing down the stairs, opened the front door, and did--exactly what hilary had just been wishing to do. "it's elizabeth, without her bonnet or shawl, with something white flying behind her. how she is dashing across the field! what can she be after? just look." but loud screams from selina's room, the front, one, where she had been lying in bed all morning, quite obliterated the little servant from their minds. the two sisters ran hastily up stairs. selina was sitting up, in undisguised terror and agitation. "stop her! hold her! i'm sure she has gone mad. lock the door, or she'll come back and murder us all." "who? elizabeth! was she here? what has been the matter?" but it was some time before they could make out any thing. at last they gathered that elizabeth had been waiting upon miss selina, putting vinegar cloths on her head, and doing various things about the room. "she is very handy when one is ill." even selina allowed. "and i assure you i was talking most kindly to her; about the duties of her position, and how she ought to dress better, and be more civil behaved, or else she never could except to keep any place. and she stood in her usual sulky way of listening, never answering a word--with her back to me, staring right out of window. and i had just said, elizabeth, my girl'--indeed, hilary, i was talking to her in my very kindest way--" "i've no doubt of it--but do get on." "when she suddenly turned round, snatched a clean towel from a chair back, and another from my head--actually from my very head, johanna--and out she ran. i called after her, but she took no more notice than if i had been a stone. and she left the door wide open--blowing upon me. oh, dear; she has given me my death of cold." and selina broke out into piteous complainings. her elder sister soothed her as well as she could, while hilary ran down to the front door and looked, and enquired every where for elizabeth. she was not to be seen on field or road; and along that quiet terrace not a soul had even perceived her quit the house. "it's a very odd thing." said hilary, returning. "what can have come over the girl? you are sure, selina, that you said nothing which--" "now i know what you are going to say, you are going to blame me. whatever happens in this house you always blame me. and perhaps you're right. perhaps i am a nuisance--a burden--would be far better dead and buried. i wish i were!" when selina took this tack, of course her sisters were silenced. they quited her a little, and then went down and searched the house all over. all was in order; at least in as much order as was to be expected the hour before dinner. the bowl of half-peeled potatoes stood on the back kitchen "sink;" the roast was down before the fire; the knives were ready for cleaning. evidently elizabeth flight had not been premeditated. "it's all nonsense about her going mad. she has as sound a head as i have," said hilary to johanna, who began to look seriously uneasy. "she might have run away in a fit of passion, certainly; and yet that is improbable; her temper is more sullen than furious. and having no lack of common sense she must know that doing a thing like this is enough to make her lose her place at once." "yes," said johanna, mournfully, "i'm afraid after this she must go." "wait and see what she has to say for herself." pleaded hilary. "she will surely be back in two or three minutes." but she was not, nor even in two or three hours. her mistresses' annoyance became displeasure, and that again subsided into serious apprehension. even selina ceased talking over and over the incident which gave the sole information to be arrived at; rose, dressed, and came down to the kitchen. there, after long and anxious consultation, hilary, observing that "somebody had better do something," began to prepare the dinner as in pre-elizabethan days; but the three ladies' appetites were small. about three in the afternoon, hilary, giving utterance to the hidden alarm of all, said-- "i think, sisters, i had better go down as quickly as i can to mrs. hand's." this agreed, she stood consulting with johanna as to what could possibly be said to the mother in case that unfortunate child had not gone home, when the kitchen door opened, and the culprit appeared. not, however, with the least look of a culprit. hot she was, and breathless; and with her hair down about her ears, and her apron rolled up round her waist, presented a most forlorn and untidy aspect; but her eyes were bright, and her countenance glowing. she took a towel from under her arm.--"there's one on 'em--and you'll get back--the other--when it's washed." having blurted out this, she leaned against the wall, trying to recover her breath. "elizabeth! where have you been? how dared you go? your behavior is disgraceful--most disgraceful, i say. johanna, why don't you speak to your servant?" (when, for remissness in reproving others, the elder sister herself fell under reproof, it was always emphatically "your sister--"your nephew"--"your servant.") but, for once, miss selina's sharp voice failed to bring the customary sullen look to elizabeth's face, and when miss leaf, in her milder tones, asked where she had been, she answered unhesitatingly-- "i've been down the town." "down the town!" the three ladies cried, in one chorus of astonishment. "i've been as quick as i could, missis. i runned all the way there and back; but it was a good step, and he was some'at heavy, though he is but a little'un," "he! who on earth is he?" "deary me! i never thought of axing; but his mother lives in hall street. somebody saw me carrying him to the doctor, and went and told her. oh! he was welly killed, miss leaf--the doctor said so; but he'll do now, and you'll get your towel clean washed tomorrow." while elizabeth spoke so incoherently, and with such unwonted energy and excitement, johanna looked as if she thought her sister's fears were true, and the girl had really gone mad; but hilary's quicker perceptions jumped at a different conclusion. "quiet yourself, elizabeth," said she, taking a firm hold of her shoulder, and making her sit down, when the rolled-up apron dropped, and showed itself all covered with blood spots. selina screamed outright. then elizabeth seemed to become half conscious that she had done something blamable, or was at least a suspected character. her warmth of manner faded; the sullen cloud of dogged resistance to authority was rising in her poor dirty face, when hilary, beginning with, "now, we are not going to scold you; but we must hear the reason of this," contrived by adroit questions, and not a few of them, to elicit the whole story. it appeared that, while standing at miss selina's window, elizabeth had watched three little boys, apparently engaged in a very favorite amusement of little boys in that field, going quickly behind a horse, and pulling out the longest and handsomest hairs in his tail to make fishing lines of. she saw the animal give a kick, and two of the boys ran away; the other did not stir. for a minute or so she noticed a black lump lying in the grass; then, with the quick instinct for which nobody had ever given her credit, she guessed what had happened, and did immediately the wisest and only thing possible under the circumstances, namely, to snatch up a towel, run across the field, bind up the child's head as well as she could, and carry it, bleeding and insensible, to the nearest doctor, who lived nearly a mile off. she did not tell--and they only found it out afterward--how she had held the boy while under the doctor's hands, the skull being so badly fractured that the frightened mother fainted at the sight; how she had finally carried him home, and left him comfortably settled in bed, his senses returned, and his life saved. "ay, my arms do ache above a bit," she said, in answer to miss leaf's questions. "he wasn't quite a baby--nigh upon twelve, i reckon; but then he was very small of his age. and he looked just as if he was dead--and he bled so." here, just for a second or two, the color left the big girl's lips, and she trembled a little. miss leaf went to the kitchen cupboard, and took out their only bottle of wine--administered in rare doses, exclusively as medicine. "drink this, elizabeth; and then go and wash your face and eat your dinner. we will talk to you by-and-by." elizabeth looked up with a long, wistfull stare of intense surprise, and then added, "have i done any thing wrong, missis?" "i did not say so. but drink this; and don't talk, child." she was obeyed. by-and-by elizabeth disappeared into the back kitchen, emerged thence with a clean face, hands, and apron; and went about her afternoon business as if nothing had happened. her mistresses' threatened "talk" with her never came about. what, indeed, could they say? no doubt the little servant had broken the strict letter of domestic law by running off in that highly eccentric and inconvenient way; but, as hilary tried to explain by a series of most ingenious ratiocinations, she had fulfilled, in the spirit of it, the very highest law--that of charity. she had also shown prompt courage, decision, practical and prudent forethought, and above all, entire self-forgetfulness. "and i should like to know," said miss hilary, warming with her subject, "if those are not the very qualities that go to constitute a hero." "but we don't want a hero; we want a maid-of-all-work." "i'll tell you what we want, selina. we want a woman; that is, a girl with the making of a good woman in her. if we can find that, all the rest will follow. for my part, i would rather take this child, rough as she is, but with her truthfulness, conscientiousness, kindliness of heart, and evident capability of both self-control and self-devotedness, than the most finished servant we could find. my advice is--keep her." this settled the matter, since it was a curious fact that the "advice" of the youngest miss leaf was, whether they knew it or not, almost equivalent to a family ukase. when elizabeth had brought in the tea-things, which she did with especial care, apparently wishing to blot out the memory of the morning's escapade by astonishingly good behavior for the rest of the day, miss leaf called her, and asked if she knew that her month of trial ended this day? "yes, ma'am," with the strict normal courtesy, something between that of the old-world family domestic--as her mother might have been to the miss elizabeth something she was named after--and the abrupt "dip" of the modern national school girl; which constituted elizabeth hand's sole experience of manners. "if you had not been absent i should have gone to speak with your mother to-day. indeed miss hilary was going when you came in; but it would have been with a very different intention from what we had in the morning. however, that is not likely to happen again." "eh?" said elizabeth, inquiringly. miss leaf hesitated, and looked uneasily at her two sisters. it was always a trial to her shy nature to find herself the mouth-piece of the family; and this same shyness made it still more difficult to break through the stiff barriers which seemed to rise up between her, a gentlewoman well on in years, and this coarse working girl. she felt, as she often complained, that with the-kindest intentions, she did not quite know how to talk to elizabeth. "my sister means," said hilary, "that as we are not likely to have little boys half killed in the field every day, she trusts you will not be running away again as you did this morning. she feels sure that you would not do such a thing, putting us all to so great annoyance and uneasiness, for any less cause than such as happened to-day. you promise that?" "yes, miss hilary." "then we quite forgive you as regards ourselves. nay"--feeling in spite of selina's warning nudge, that she had hardly been kind enough--"we rather praise than blame you, elizabeth. and if you like to stay with us and will do your best to improve, we are willing to keep you as our servant." "thank you ma'am. thank you, miss hilary. yes, i'll stop." she said no more--but sighed a great sigh, as if her mind were relieved--("so," thought hilary, "she was not so indifferent to us as we imagined")--and bustled back into her kitchen. "now for the clothing of her," observed miss leaf, also looking much relieved that the decision was over. "you know what we agreed upon; and there is certainly no time to be lost. hilary, my dear, suppose you bring down your brown merino?" hilary went without a word. people who inhabit the same house, eat, sit, and sleep together--loving one another and sympathizing with one another, ever so deeply and dearly--nevertheless inevitably have momentary seasons when the intense solitude in which we all live, and must expect ever to live, at the depth of our being, forces itself painfully upon the heart. johanna must have had many such seasons when hilary was a child; hilary had one now. she unfolded the old frock, and took out of its pocket, a hiding place at once little likely to be searched, and harmless if discovered, a poor little memento of that happy midsummer day. "dear miss hilary. to-morrow, then, i shall come. yours truly, robert lyon." the only scrap of note she had ever received; he always wrote to johanna; as regularly as ever, or more so, now ascott was gone; but only to johanna. she read over the two lines, wondered where she should keep them now that johanna might not notice them; and then recoiled, as if the secret were a wrong to that dear sister who loved her so well. "but nothing makes me love her less; nothing ever could. she thinks me quite happy, as i am; and yet--oh, if i did not miss him so!" and the aching, aching want which sometimes came over began again. let us not blame her. god made all our human needs. god made love. not merely affection but actual love--the necessity to seek and find out some other being, not another but the complement of one's self--the "other half," who brings rest and strength for weakness, sympathy in aspiration, and tenderness for tenderness, as no other person ever can. perhaps, even in marriage, this love is seldom found, and it is possible in all lives to do without it. johanna had done so. but then she had been young, and was now growing old; and hilary was only twenty, with a long life before her. poor child, let us not blame her! she was not in the least sentimental, her natural disposition inclining her to be more than cheerful, actually gay. she soon recovered herself, and when, a short time after, she stood, scissors in hand, demonstrating how very easy it was to make something out of nothing, her sisters never suspected how very near tears had lately been to those bright eyes, which were always the sunshine of the house. "you are giving yourself a world of trouble," said selina. "if i were you, i would just make over the dress to elizabeth, and let her do what she could with it." "my dear, i always find i give myself twice the trouble by expecting people to do what they can't do. i have to do it myself afterward. prove how a child who can't even handle a needle and thread is competent to make a gown for herself, and i shall be most happy to secede in her favor." "nay," put in the eldest sister, afraid of a collision of words, "selina is right; if you do not teach elizabeth to make her own gowns how can she learn?" "johanna, you are the brilliantest of women! and you know you don't like the parlor littered with rags and cuttings. you wish to get rid of me for the evening? well, i'll go! hand me the work basket and the bundle, and i'll give my first lesson in dress making to our south sea islander." but fate stood in the way of miss hilary's good intentions. she found elizabeth not as was her wont, always busy, over the perpetual toil of those who have not yet learned the mysterious art of arrangement and order, nor, as sometimes, hanging sleepily over the kitchen fire, waiting for bedtime; but actually sitting, sitting down at the table. her candle was flaring on one side of her; on the other was the school room inkstand, a scrap of waste paper, and a pen but she was not writing; she sat with her head on her hands, in an attitude of disconsolate idleness, so absorbed that she seemed not to hear hilary's approach. "i did not know you could write, elizabeth." "no more i can," was the answer, in the most doleful of voices. "it bean't no good. i've forgotten all about it. t' letters wonna join." "let me look at them." and hilary tried to contemplate gravely the scrawled and blotted page, which looked very much as if a large spider had walked into the ink bottle, and then walked out again on a tour of investigation. "what did you want to write?" asked she, suddenly. elizabeth blushed violently. "it was the woman, mrs. cliffe, t' little lad's mother, you know; she wanted somebody to write to her husband as is at work at birmingham, and i said i would. i'd learned at the national, but i've forgotten it all. i'm just as miss selina says--i'm good for nowt." "come, come, never fret;" for there was a sort of choke in the girl's voice. "there's many a good person who never learned to write. but i don't see why you should not learn. shall i teach you?" utter amazement, beaming gratitude, succeeded one another, plain as light, in elizabeth's eyes, but she only said, "thank you, miss hilary." "very well. i have brought you an old gown of mine, and was going to show you how to make it up for yourself, but i'll look over your writing instead. sit down and let me see what you can do." in a state of nervous trepidation, pitiful to behold, elizabeth took the pen. terrible scratches resulted; blots innumerable; and one fatal deluge of ink, which startled from their seats both mistress and maid, and made hilary thankful that she had taken off her better gown for a common one, as, with sad thriftiness, the misses leaf always did of evenings. when elizabeth saw the mischief she had done, her contrition and humility were unbounded. "no, miss hilary, you can't make nothin' of me. i be too stupid, i'll give it up." "nonsense!" and the bright active little lady looked steadily into the heavy face of this undeveloped girl, half child, half woman, until some of her own spirit seemed to be reflected there. whether the excitement of the morning had roused her, or her mistresses' kindness had touched elizabeth's heart, and--as in most women--the heart was the key to the intellect; or whether the gradual daily influence of her changed life during the last month had been taking effect, now for the first time to appear--certain it is that hilary had never perceived before what an extremely intelligent face it was; what good sense was indicated in the well shaped head and forehead; what tenderness and feeling in the deep-set grey eyes. "nonsense," repeated she. "never give up any thing; i never would. we'll try a different plan, and begin from the beginning, as i do with my little scholars. wait, while i fetch a copy book out of the parlor press." she highly amused her sisters with a description of what she called her "newly instituted polynesian academy;" returned, and set to work to guide the rough, coarse hand through the mysteries of calligraphy. to say this was an easy task would not be true. nature's own laws and limits make the using of faculties which have been unused for generations very difficult at first. to suppose that a working man, the son of working men, who applies himself to study, does it with as little trouble as your upper-class children, who have been unconsciously undergoing education ever since the cradle, is a great mistake. all honor, therefore, to those who do attempt, and to ever so small a degree succeed in, the best and wisest culture of all, self-culture. of this honor elizabeth deserved her share. "she is stupid enough," hilary confessed, after the lesson was over; "but there is a dogged perseverance about the girl which i actually admire. she blots her fingers, her nose, her apron, but she never gives in; and she sticks to the grand principle of one thing at a time. i think she did two whole pages of a's, and really performed them satisfactorily, before she asked to go on to b's. yes! i believe she will do." "i hope she will do her work, any how," said selina, breaking into the conversation rather crossly. "i'm sure i don't see the good of wasting time over teaching elizabeth to write, when there's so much to be done in the house by one and all of us, from monday morning till saturday night." "ay, that's it," answered hilary, meditatively. "i don't see how i ever shall get time to teach her, and she is so tired of nights when the work is all done; she'll be dropping asleep with the pen in her hand--i have done it myself before now." ay, in those days when, trying so hard to "improve her mind," and make herself a little more equal and companionable to another mind she knew, she had, after her daily house cares and her six hours of school teaching, attempted at nine p. m. to begin close study on her own account. and though with her strong will she succeeded tolerably, still, as she told johanna, she could well understand how slow was the, "march of intellect" (a phrase which had just then come up) among day laborers and the like; and how difficult it was for these mechanics institutions, which were now talked so much of, to put any new ideas into the poor tired heads, rendered sluggish and stupid with hard bodily labor, "suppose i were to hold my polynesian academy on a sunday?" and she looked inquiringly at her sisters, especially johanna. now the misses leaf were old fashioned country folk, who lived before the words sabbatarian and un-sabbatarian had ever got into the english language. they simply "remembered the sabbath day to keep it holy;" they arranged so as to make it for all the household a day of rest: and they went regularly to church once--sometimes selina and hilary went twice. for the intervening hours, their usual custom was to take an afternoon walk in the fields; begun chiefly for ascott's sake, to keep the lad out of mischief, and put into his mind better thoughts than he was likely to get from his favorite sunday recreation of sitting on the wall throwing stones. after he left for london there was elizabeth to be thought of; and they decided that the best sabbath duty for the little servant was to go and see her mother. so they gave her every sunday afternoon free; only requiring that she should be at home punctually after church time, at eight o'clock. but from thence till bedtime was a blank two hours, which, hilary had noticed, elizabeth not infrequently spent in dozing over the fire. "and i wonder," said she, giving the end of her long meditation out loud, "whether going to sleep is not as much sabbath breaking as learning to write? what do you say, johanna?" johanna, simple, god-fearing woman as she was, to whom faith and love came as natural as the breath she drew, had never perplexed herself with the question. she only smiled acquiescence. but selina was greatly shocked. teaching to write on a sunday! bringing the week day work into the day of rest! doing one's own pleasure on the holy day! she thought it exceedingly wrong. such a thing had never been heard of in their house. whatever else might be said of them, the leafs were always a respectable family as to keeping sunday. nobody could say that even poor henry-- but here selina's torrent of words stopped. when conversation revived, hilary, who had been at first half annoyed and half amused, resumed her point seriously. "i might say that writing isn't elizabeth's week-day work, and that teaching her is not exactly doing my own pleasure; but i won't creep out of the argument by a quibble. the question is, what is keeping the sabbath day 'holy?' i say--and i stick to my opinion--that it is by making it a day of worship, a rest day--a cheerful and happy day--and by doing as much good in it as we can. and therefore i mean to teach elizabeth on a sunday." "she'll never understand it. she'll consider it work." "and if she did, work is a more religious thing than idleness. i am sure i often feel that, of the two, i should be less sinful in digging potatoes in my garden, or sitting mending stockings in my parlor, than in keeping sunday as some people do--going to church genteelly in my best clothes, eating a huge sunday dinner, and then nodding over a good book, or taking a regular sunday nap till bedtime." "hush, child!" said johanna, reprovingly; for hilary's cheeks were red, and her voice angry. she was taking the hot, youthful part which in its hatred of forms and shams, sometimes leads--and not seldom led poor hilary--a little too far on the other side. "i think," miss leaf added, "that our business is with ourselves, and not with our neighbors. let us keep the sabbath according to our conscience. only, i would take care never to do any thing which jarred against my neighbor's feelings. i would, like paul, 'eat no meat while the world standeth' rather than 'make my brother to offend.' " hilary looked in her sister's sweet, calm face, and the anger died out of her own. "shall i give up my academy?" she said, softly. "no, my love. it is lawful to do good on the sabbath day, and teaching a poor ignorant girl to write is an absolute good. make her understand that, and you need not be afraid of any harm ensuing." "you never will make her understand," said selina, sullenly. "she is only a servant." "nevertheless i'll try." hilary could not tell how far she succeeded in simplifying to the young servant's comprehension this great question, involving so many points--such as the following of the spirit and the letter, the law of duty and the compulsion of love, which, as she spoke, seemed opening out so widely and awfully that she herself involuntarily shrank from it, and wondered that poor finite creatures should, ever presume to squabble about it at all. but one thing the girl did understand--her young mistress's kindness. she stood watching the delicate little hand that had so patiently guided hers, and now wrote copy after copy for her future benefit. at last she said-- "you're taking a deal o' trouble wi' a poor wench, and it's very kind in a lady like you." miss hilary was puzzled what answer to make. true enough it was "kind," and she was "a lady;" and between her and mrs. hand's rough daughter was an unmistakable difference and distinction. that elizabeth perceived it was proved by her growing respectfulness of manner--the more respectful, it seemed, the more she herself improved. yet hilary could not bear to make her feel more sharply than was unavoidable the great gulf that lies and ever must lie--not so much between mistress and servant, in their abstract relation--(and yet that is right, for the relation and authority are ordained of god)--but between the educated and the ignorant, the coarse and the refined. "well," she said, after a pause of consideration, "you always have it in your power to repay my 'kindness,' as you call it. the cleverer you become the more useful you will be to me; and the more good you grow the better i shall like you." elizabeth smiled--that wonderfully bright, sudden smile which seemed to cover over all her plainness of feature. "once upon a time," hilary resumed by-and-by, "when england was very different from what it is now, english ladies used to have what they call 'bower-women,' whom they took as girls, and brought up in their service; teaching them all sorts of things--cooking, sewing, spinning, singing, and, probably, except that the ladies of that time were very ill-educated themselves, to read and write also. they used to spend part of every day among their bower-women; and as people can only enjoy the company of those with whom they have some sympathies in common, we must conclude that--" here hilary stopped, recollecting she must be discoursing miles above the head of her little bower-maiden, and that, perhaps, after all, her theory would be best kept to herself, and only demonstrated practically. "so, elizabeth, if i spend a little of my time in teaching you, you must grow up my faithful and attached bower-maiden?" "i'll grow up any thing, miss hilary, if it's to please you," was the answer, given with a smothered intensity that quite startled the young mistress. "i do believe the girl is getting fond of me," said she, half touched, half laughing to johanna. "if so, we shall get on. it is just as with our school children, you know. we have to seize hold of their hearts first, and their heads afterward. now, elizabeth's head may be uncommonly tough, but i do believe she likes me." johanna smiled; but she would not for the world have said--never encouraging the smallest vanity in her child--that she did not think this circumstance so very remarkable. chapter v. a household exclusively composed of women has its advantages and its disadvantages. it is apt to become somewhat narrow in judgment, morbid in feeling, absorbed in petty interests, and bounding its vision of outside things to the small horizon which it sees from its own fireside. but, on the other hand, by this fireside often abides a settled peace and purity, a long-suffering, generous forbearance, and an enduring affectionateness which the other sex can hardly comprehend or credit. men will not believe, what is nevertheless the truth, that we can "stand alone" better than they can; that we can do without them far easier, and with less deterioration of character, than they can do without us; that we are better able to provide for ourselves interests, duties, and pleasures; in short, strange as it may appear, that we have more real self-sustaining independence than they. of course, that the true life, the highest life, is that of man and woman united, no one will be insane enough to deny; i am speaking of the substitute for it, which poor humanity has so often to fall back upon and make the best of--a better best very frequently than what appears best in the eyes of the world. in truth, many a troubled, care ridden, wealthy family, torn with dissensions, or frozen up in splendid formalities, might have envied that quiet, humble, maiden household of the misses leaf, where their only trial was poverty, and their only grief the one which they knew the worst of, and had met patiently for many a year--poor selina's "way." i doubt not it was good for elizabeth hand that her first place--the home in which she received her first impressions--was this feminine establishment, simple and regular, in which was neither waste nor disorder allowed. good, too, that while her mistresses' narrow means restricted her in many things enjoyed by servants in richer families, their interests, equally narrow, caused to be concentrated upon herself a double measure of thought and care. she became absolutely "one of the family," sharing in all its concerns. from its small and few carnal luxuries--such as the cake, fruit, or pot of preserve, votive offerings from pupils' parents--up to the newspaper and the borrowed book, nothing was either literally or metaphorically "locked" up from elizabeth. this grand question of locking up had been discussed in full conclave the day after her month of preparation ended, the sisters taking opposite sides, as might have been expected. selina was for the immediate introduction of a locksmith and a key basket. "while she was only on trial, it did not so much signify; besides, if it did, we had only buttons on the press doors; but now she is our regular servant we ought to institute a regular system of authority. how can she respect a family that never locks up any thing?" "how can we respect a servant from whom we lock up every thing!" "respect a servant! what do you mean, hilary?" "i mean that if i did not respect a servant i would be very sorry to keep her one day in any house of mine." "wait till you've a house of your own to keep, miss," said selina, crossly. "i never heard such nonsense. is that the way you mean to behave to elizabeth? leave every thing open to her--clothes, books, money; trust her with all your secrets; treat her as your most particular friend?" "a girl of fifteen would be rather an inconvenient particular friend! and i have happily few secrets to trust her with. but if i could not trust her with our coffee, tea, sugar, and so on, and bring her up from the very first in the habit of being trusted, i would recommend her being sent away to-morrow." "very fine talking; and what do you say, johanna?--if that is not an unnecessary question after hilary has given her opinion." "i think," replied the elder sister, taking no notice of the long familiar innuendo, "that in this case hilary is right. how people ought to manage in great houses i can not say; but in our small house it will be easier and better not to alter our simple ways. trusting the girl--if she is a good girl--will only make her more trustworthy; if she is bad, we shall the sooner find it out and let her go." but elizabeth did not go. a year passed; two years; her wages were raised, and with them her domestic position. from a "girl" she was converted into a regular servant; her pinafores gave place to grown-up gowns and aprons; and her rough head, at miss selina's incessant instance, was concealed by a cap--caps being considered by that lady as the proper and indispensable badge of servant-hood. to say that during her transition state, or even now that she had reached the cap era, elizabeth gave her mistresses no trouble, would be stating a self-evident improbability. what young lass under seventeen, of any rank, does not cause plenty of trouble to her natural guardians? who can "put an old head on young shoulders?" or expect from girls at the most unformed and unsatisfactory period of life that complete moral and mental discipline, that unfailing self-control, that perfection of temper, and every thing else which, of course, all mistresses always have? i am obliged to confess that elizabeth had a few--nay, not a few--most obstinate faults; that no child tries its parents, no pupil its school teachers, more than she tried her three mistresses at intervals. she was often thoughtless and careless, brusque in her manner, slovenly, in her dress; sometimes she was down-right "bad," filled full--as some of her elders and betters are, at all ages--with absolute naughtiness; when she would sulk for hours and days together, and make the whole family uncomfortable, as many a servant can make many a family small as that of the misses leaf. but still they never lost what hilary termed their "respect" for elizabeth; they never found her out in a lie, a meanness, or an act of deception or dishonesty. they took her faults as we must take the surface faults of all connected with us--patiently rather than resentfully, seeking to correct rather than to punish. and though there were difficult elements in the household, such as their being three mistresses to be obeyed the youngest mistress a thought too lax and the second one undoubtedly too severe, still no girl could live with these high-principled, much-enduring women without being impressed with two things which the serving class are slowest to understand--the dignity of poverty, and the beauty of that which is the only effectual law to bring out good and restrain evil--the law of loving-kindness. two fracas, however, must be chronicled, for after both, the girl's dismissal hung on a thread. the first was when mrs. cliffe, mother of tommy cliffe, who was nearly killed in the field, being discovered to be an ill sort of woman, and in the habit of borrowing from elizabeth stray shillings, which were never returned, was forbidden the house, elizabeth resented it so fiercely that she sulked for a whole week afterward. the other and still more dangerous crisis in elizabeth's destiny was when a volume of scott's novels, having been missing for some days, was found hidden in her bed, and she lying awake reading it was thus ignominiously discovered at eleven p. m. by miss selina, in consequence of the gleam of candle light from under her door. it was true neither of these errors were actual moral crimes. hilary even roused a volley of sharp words upon herself by declaring they had their source in actual virtues; that a girl who would stint herself of shillings, and hold resolutely to any liking she had, even if unworthy, had a creditable amount of both self-denial and fidelity in her disposition. also that a tired out maid-of all-work, who was kept awake of nights by her ardent appreciation of the "heart of mid-lothian," must possess a degree of both intellectual and moral capacity which deserved cultivation rather than blame. and though this surreptitious pursuit of literature under difficulties could not of course be allowed, i grieve to say that miss hilary took every opportunity of not only giving the young servant books to read, but of talking to her about them. and also that a large proportion of these books were--to miss selina's unmitigated horror--absolutely fiction! stories, novels, even poetry--books that hilary liked herself--books that had built up in her own passionate dream of life; wherein all the women were faithful, tender, heroic, self-devoted; and all the men were--something not unlike robert lyon. did she do harm? was it; as selina and even johanna said sometimes, "dangerous" thus to put before elizabeth a standard of ideal perfection, a quixotic notion of life--life in its full purpose power, and beauty--such as otherwise never could have crossed the mind of this working girl, born of parents who, though respectable and worthy, were in no respect higher than the common working class? i will not argue the point: i am not making elizabeth a text for a sermon; i am simply writing her story. one thing was certain, that by degrees the young woman's faults lessened; even that worst of them, the unmistakable bad temper, not aggressive, but obstinately sullen, which made her and miss selina sometimes not on speaking terms for a week together. but she simply "sulked;" she never grumbled or was pert; and she did her work just as usual--with a kind of dogged struggle not only against the superior powers but against something within herself much harder to fight with. "she makes me feel more sorry for her than angry with her," miss leaf would sometimes say, coming out of the kitchen with that grieved face, which was the chief sign of displeasure her sweet nature ever betrayed. "she will have up-hill work through life, like us all, and more than many of us, poor child!" but gradually elizabeth, too, copying involuntarily the rest of the family, learned to put up with miss selina; who, on her part, kept a sort of armed neutrality. and once, when a short but sharp illness of johanna's shook the house from its even tenor, startled every body out of their little tempers, and made them cling together and work together in a sort of fear-stricken union against one common grief, selina allowed that they might have gone farther and fared worse on the day they engaged elizabeth. after this illness of his aunt. ascott came home. it was his first visit since he had gone to london: mr. ascott, he said, objected to holidays. but now, from some unexplained feeling, johanna in her convalescence longed after the boy--no longer a boy, however, but nearly twenty, and looking fully his age. how proud his aunts were to march him up the town, and hear every body's congratulations on his good looks and polished manners! it was the old story--old as the hills! i do not pretend to invent any thing new. women, especially maiden aunts, will repeat the tale till the end of time, so long as they have youths belonging to them on whom to expend their natural tendency to clinging fondness, and ignorant, innocent hero worship. the misses leaf--ay, even selina, whose irritation against the provoking boy was quite mollified by the elegant young man--were no wiser than their neighbors. but there was one person in the household who still obstinately refused to bow the knee to ascott. whether it was, as psychologists might explain, some instinctive polarity in their natures; or whether, having once conceived a prejudice, elizabeth held on to it like grim death; still there was the same unspoken antagonism between them. the young fellow took little notice of her except to observe "that she hadn't grown any handsomer;' but elizabeth watched him with a keen severity that overlooked nothing, and resisted, with a passive pertinacity that was quite irresistible, all his encroachments on the family habits, all the little self-pleasing ways which ascott had been so used to of old, that neither he nor his aunts apparently recognized them as selfish. "i canna bear to see him" ("can not," suggested her mistress, who not seeing any reason why elizabeth should not speak the queen's english as well as herself, had instituted h's, and stopped a few more glaring provincialisms.) "i cannot bear to see him, miss hilary, lolling on the arm-chair, when missis looks so tired and pale, and sitting up o' nights, burning double fires, and going up stairs at last with his boots on, and waking every body. i dunnot like it, i say." "you forget; mr. ascott has his studies. he must work for the next examination." "why doesn't he get up of a morning then instead of lying in bed, and keeping the break-fast about till ten? why can't he do his learning by daylight? daylight's cheaper than mould candles, and a deal better for the eyes." hilary was puzzled. a truth was a truth, and to try and make it out otherwise, even for the dignity of the family, was something from which her honest nature revolted. besides, the sharp-sighted servant would be the first to detect the inconsistency of one law of right for the parlor and another for the kitchen. so she took-refuge in silence and in the apple-pudding she was making. but she resolved to seize the first opportunity of giving ascott, by way of novelty, the severest lecture that tongue of aunt could bestow. and this chance occurred the same afternoon, when the other two aunts had gone out to tea, to a house which ascott voted "slow," and declined going to. she remained to make tea for him, and in the mean time took him for a constitutional up and down the public walks hard by. ascott listened at first very good humoredly; once or twice calling her "a dear little prig," in his patronizing way--he was rather fond of patronizing his aunt hilary. but when she seriously spoke of his duties, as no longer a boy but a man, who ought now to assume the true, manly right of thinking for and taking care of other people, especially his aunts, ascott began to flush up angrily. "now stop that, aunt hilary: i'll not have you coming mr. lyon over me." "what do you mean?" for of late ascott had said very little about mr. lyon--not half so much as mr. lyon, in his steadily persistent letters to miss leaf, told her about her nephew ascott. "i mean that i'll not be preached to like that by a woman. it's bad enough to stand it from a man; but then lyon's a real sharp fellow, who knows the world, which women don't, aunt hilary. besides, he coaches me in my latin and greek; so i let him pitch into me now and then. but i won't let you; so just stop it; will you." something new in ascott's tone--speaking more of the resentful fierceness of the man than the pettishness of the boy--frightened his little aunt, and silenced her. by-and-by she took comfort from the reflection that, as the lad had in his anger betrayed, he had beside him in london a monitor whose preaching would be so much wiser and more effectual than her own that she determined to say no more. the rare hearing of mr. lyon's name--for, time and absence having produced their natural effect, except when his letter came, he was seldom talked about now--set hilary thinking. "do you go to see him often?" she said, at last. "who? mr. lyon?" and ascott, delighted' to escape into a fresh subject, became quite cheerful and communicative. "oh, bless you! he wouldn't care for my going to him. he lives in a two-pair back, only one room, 'which serves him for kitchen and parlor and all:' dines at a cook shop for nine-pence a day, and makes his own porridge night and morning. he told me so once, for he isn't a bit ashamed of it. but he must be precious hard up sometimes. however, as he contrives to keep a decent coat on his back, and pay his classes at the university, and carry off the very first honors going there, nobody asks any questions. that's the good of london life, aunt hilary," said the young fellow, drawing himself up with great wisdom. "only look like a gentleman, behave yourself as such, and nobody asks any questions." "yes," acquiesced vaguely aunt hilary. and then her mind wandered yearningly to the solitary student in the two-pair back. he might labor and suffer; he might be ill; he might die, equally solitary, and "nobody would ask any questions." this phase of london life let a new light in upon her mind. the letters to johanna had been chiefly filled with whatever he thought would interest them. with his characteristic scotch reserve, he had said very little about himself, except in the last, wherein he mentioned that he had "done pretty well" at the college this term, and meant to "go in for more work" immediately. what this work entailed--how much more toil, how much more poverty--hilary knew not. perhaps even his successes, which ascott went on to talk of, had less place in her thoughts than the picture of the face she knew, sharpened with illness, wasted with hard work and solitary care. "and i can not help him--i can not help him!" was her bitter cry; until, passing from the dream-land of fancy, the womanly nature asserted itself. she thought if it had been, or if it were to be, her blessed lot to be chosen by robert lyon, how she would take care of him! what an utter slave she would be to him! how no penury would frighten her, no household care oppress or humble her, if done for him and for his comfort. to her brave heart no battle of life seemed too long or too sore, if only it were fought for him and at his side. and as the early falling leaves were blown in gusts across her path, and the misty autumn night began to close in, nature herself seemed to plead in unison with the craving of her heart, which sighed that youth and summer last not always; and that, "be it ever so humble," as the song says, there is no place so bright and beautiful as the fireside of a loveful home. while the aunt and nephew were strolling thus, thinking of very different things, their own fire newly lit--ascott liked a fire--was blazing away in solitary glory, for the benefit of all passers-by. at length one--a gentleman--stopped at the gate, and looked in, then took a turn to the end of the terrace, and stood gazing in once more. the solitude of the room apparently troubled him; twice his hand was on the latch before he opened it and knocked at the front door. elizabeth appeared, which seemed to surprise him. "is miss leaf at home?" "no, sir." "is she well? are all the family well?" and he stepped right into the passage, with the freedom of a familiar foot. ("i should ha' slammed the door in his face," was elizabeth's comment afterward; "only, you see, miss hilary, he looked a real gentleman.") the stranger and she mutually examined one another. "i think i have heard of you," said he, smiling. "you are miss leaf's servant--elizabeth hand." "yes, sir," still grimly, and with a determined grasp of the door handle. "if your mistresses are likely to be home soon, will you allow me to wait for them? i am an old friend of theirs. my name is lyon." now elizabeth was far too much one of the family not to have heard of such a person. and his knowing her was a tolerable proof of his identity; besides, unconsciously, the girl was influenced by that look and mien of true gentlemanhood, as courteous to the poor maid-of-all-work as he would have been to any duchess born; and by that bright, sudden smile, which came like sunshine over his face, and like sunshine warmed and opened the heart of every one that met it. it opened that of elizabeth. she relaxed her cerberus keeping of the door, and even went so far as to inform him that miss leaf and miss selina were out to tea, but miss hilary and mr. ascott would be at home shortly. he was welcome to wait in the parlor if he liked. afterward, seized with mingled curiosity and misgiving, she made various errands to go in and look at him; but she had not courage to address him, and he never spoke to her. he sat by the window, gazing out into the gloaming. except just turning his head at her entrance; she did not think he had once stirred the whole time. elizabeth went back to her kitchen, and stood listening for her young mistress's familiar knock. mr. lyon seemed to have listened too, for before she could reach it the door was already opened. there was a warm greeting--to her great relief: for she knew she had broken the domestic laws in admitting a stranger unawares--and then elizabeth heard them all three go into the parlor, where they remained talking, without ringing for either tea or candles, a full quarter of an hour. miss hilary at last came out, but much to elizabeth's surprise, went straight up into her bedroom without entering the kitchen at all. it was some minutes more before she descended; and then, after giving her orders for tea, and seeing that all was arranged with special neatness, she stood absently by the kitchen fire. elizabeth noticed how wonderfully bright her eyes were, and what a soft, happy smile she had. she noticed it, because she had never seen miss hilary look exactly like that before; and she never did again. "don't you be troubling yourself with waiting about here," she said; and her mistress seemed to start at being spoken to. "i'll get the tea all right, miss hilary. please go back into the parlor." hilary went in. chapter vi. elizabeth got tea ready with unwonted diligence and considerable excitement. any visitor was a rare occurrence in this very quiet family; but a gentleman visitor--a young gentleman too--was a remarkable fact, arousing both interest and curiosity. for in the latter quality this girl of seventeen could scarcely be expected to be deficient; and as to the former, she had so completely identified herself with the family she served, that all their concerns were her concerns also. her acute comments on their few guests, and on their little scholars, sometimes amused hilary as much as her criticisms on the books she read. but as neither were ever put forward intrusively or impertinently, she let them pass, and only laughed over them with johanna in private. in speaking of these said books, and the questions they led to, it was not likely but that mistress and maid--one aged twenty-two, and the other seventeen--should occasionally light upon a subject rather interesting to women of their ages, though not commonly discussed between mistresses and maids. nevertheless, when it did come in the way, miss hilary never shirked it, but talked it out, frankly and freely, as she would to any other person. "the girl has feelings and notions on the matter, like all other girls, i suppose," reasoned she to herself; "so it is important that her notions should be kept clear, and her feelings right. it may do her some good, and save her from much harm." and so it befell that elizabeth hand, whose blunt ways, unlovely person, and temperament so oddly nervous and reserved, kept her from attracting any "sweetheart" of her own class, had unconsciously imbibed her mistress's theory of love. love, pure and simple, the very deepest and highest, sweetest and most solemn thing in life: to be believed in devoutly until it came, and when it did come, to be held to, firmly, faithfully, with a single-minded, settled constancy, till death. a creed, quite impossible, many will say, in this ordinary world, and most dangerous to be put into the head of a poor servant. yet a woman is but a woman, be she maid-servant or queen; and if, from queens to maid-servants, girls were taught thus to think of love, there might be a few more "broken" hearts perhaps, but there would certainly be fewer wicked hearts; far fewer corrupted lives of men, and degraded lives of women; far fewer unholy marriages, and desolated, dreary, homeless homes. elizabeth, having cleared away her tea-things, stood listening to the voices in the parlor, and pondering. she had sometimes wondered in her own mind that no knight ever came to carry off her charming princess--her admired and beloved miss hilary. miss hilary, on her part, seemed totally indifferent to the youths at stowbury; who indeed were, elizabeth allowed, quite unworthy her regard. the only suitable lover for her young mistress must be somebody exceedingly grand and noble--a compound of the best heroes of shakespeare, scott, fenimore cooper, maria edgeworth, and harriet martineau. when this strange gentleman appeared--in ordinary coat and hat, or rather glengary bonnet, neither particularly handsome nor particularly tall, yet whose coming had evidently given miss hilary so much pleasure, and who, once or twice while waiting at tea, elizabeth fancied she had seen looking at miss hilary as nobody ever looked before--when mr. robert lyon appeared on the horizon, the faithful "bower maiden" was a good deal disappointed. she had expected something better; at all events, something different. her first brilliant castle in the air fell, poor lass! but she quickly built it up again, and, with the vivid imagination of her age, she mapped out the whole future, ending by a vision of miss hilary, all in white, sweeping down the terrace in a carriage and pair--to fortune and happiness; leaving herself, though with a sore want at her heart, and a great longing to follow, to devote the remainder of her natural life to miss johanna. "her couldna do without somebody to see to her--and miss selina do worrit her so." muttered elizabeth, in the excitement of this almaschar vision, relapsing into her old provincialisms. "so, even if miss hilary axes me to come, i'll stop, i reckon. ay, i'll stop wi' miss leaf." this valorous determination taken, the poor maid servant's dream was broken by the opening of the parlor door, and an outcry of ascott's for his coat and gloves, he having to fetch his aunts home at nine o'clock, mr. lyon accompanying him. and as they all stood together at the front door, elizabeth overheard mr. lyon say something about what a beautiful night it was. "it would do you no harm, miss hilary; will you walk with us?" "if you like." hilary went up stairs for her bonnet and shawl; but when, a minute or two after, elizabeth followed her with a candle, she found her standing in the centre of the room, all in the dark, her face white and her hands trembling. "thank you, thank you!" she said mechanically, as elizabeth folded and fastened her shawl for her--and descended immediately. elizabeth watched her take, not ascott's arm, but mr. lyon's, and walk down the terrace in the starlight. "some'at's wrong. i'd like to know who's been a-vexin' of her," thought fiercely the young servant. no, nobody had been "a-vexing" her mistress. there was nobody to blame; only there had happened to hilary one of those things which strike like a sword through a young and happy heart, taking all the life and youth out of it. robert lyon had, half an hour ago, told her--and she had had to hear it as a piece of simple news, to which she had only to say, "indeed!"--that to day and to-morrow were his two last days at stowbury--almost his last in england. within a week he was to sail for india. there had befallen him what most people would have considered a piece of rare good fortune. at the london university, a fellow student, whom he had been gratuitously "coaching" in hindostanee, fell ill, and was "thrown upon his hands." as he briefly defined services which must have been great, since they had resulted in this end. the young man's father--a liverpool and bombay merchant--made him an offer to go out there, to their house, at a rising salary of rupees a month for three years; after the third year to become a junior partner; remaining at bombay in that capacity for two years more. this he told to hilary and ascott in almost as few words as i have here put it--for brevity seemed a refuge to him. it was also to one of them. but ascott asked so many questions that his aunt needed to ask none. she only listened, and tried to take all in, and understand it, that is, in a consecutive, intelligent, business shape, without feeling it. she dared not let herself feel it, not for a second, till they were out, arm-in-arm, under the quiet winter stars. then she heard his voice asking her, "so you think i was right?" "right?" she echoed mechanically. "i mean in accepting that sudden chance, and changing my whole plan of life. i did not do it--believe me--without a motive." "what motive?" she would once unhesitatingly have asked; now she could not. robert lyon continued speaking, distinctly and yet in an undertone, that though ascott was walking a few yards off, hilary felt was meant for her alone to hear. "the change is, you perceive, from the life of a student to that of a man of business. i do not deny that i preferred the first. once upon a time to be a fellow in a college, or a professor, or the like, was my utmost aim and i would have half killed myself to attain it. now, i think differently." he paused, but did not seem to require an answer, and it did not come. "i want, not to be rich but to get a decent competence, and to get it as soon as i can. i want not to ruin my health with incessant study. i have already injured it a good deal." "have you been ill? you never said so." "oh no, it was hardly worth while. and i knew an active life would soon set me right again. no fear! there's life in the old dog yet. he does not wish to die. but," mr. lyon pursued, "i have had a 'sair fecht' the last year or two. i would not go through it again, nor see any one dear to me go through it. it is over, but it has left its scars. strange! i have been poor all my life, yet i never till now felt an actual terror of poverty." hilary shrank within herself; less even at the words than at something in their tone--something hard, nay fierce; something at once despairing and aggressive. "it is strange," she said; "such a terror is not like you. i feel none; i can not even understand it." "no, i knew you could not," he muttered; and was silent. so was hilary. a vague trouble came over her. could it be that he, robert lyon, had been seized with the _auri sacra fames_, which he had so often inveighed against and despised? that his long battle with poverty had caused in him such an overweening desire for riches that, to obtain them, he would sacrifice every thing else, exile himself to a far country for years, selling his very life and soul for gold? such a thought of him was so terrible--that is, would have been were it tenable--that hilary for an instant felt herself shiver all over. the next she spoke out--in justice to him she forced herself to speak out--all her honest soul. "i do believe that this going abroad to make a fortune, which young men so delight in, is often a most fatal mistake. they give up far more than they gain--country, home, health. i think a man has no right to sell his life any more than his soul for so many thousands a year." robert lyon smiled--"no, and i am not selling mine. with my temperate habits i have as good a chance of health at bombay as in london--perhaps better. and the years i must be absent i would have been absent almost as much from you--i mean they would have been spent in work as engrossing and as hard. they will soon pass, and then i shall come home rich--rich. do you think i am growing mercenary?" "no." "tell me what you do think about me?" "i--can not quite understand." "and i cannot make you understand. perhaps i will, some day when i come back again. till then, you must trust me, hilary." it happens occasionally, in moments of all but tolerable pain, that some small thing, a word, a look, a touch of a hand, lets in such a gleam of peace that nothing ever extinguishes the light of it: it burns on for years and years, sometimes clear, sometimes obscured, but as ineffaceable from life and memory as a star from its place in the heavens. such, both then, and through the lonely years to come, were those five words, "you must trust me. hilary." she did; and in the perfection of that trust her own separate identity, with all its consciousness of pain, seemed annihilated; she did not think of herself at all, only of him, and with him, and for him. so, for the time being, she lost all sense of personal suffering, and their walk that night was as cheerful and happy as if they were to walk together for weeks and months and years, in undivided confidence and content, instead of its being the last--the very last. some one has said that all lovers have, soon or late, to learn to be only friends: happiest and safest are those in whom the friendship is the foundation--always firm and ready to fall back upon, long after the fascination of passion dies. it may take a little from the romance of these two if i own that robert lyon talked to hilary not a word about love, and a good deal about pure business, telling her all his affairs and arrangements, and giving her as clear an idea of his future life as it was possible to do within the limits of one brief half hour. then casting a glance round, and seeing that ascott was quite out of ear-shot, he said, with that tender fall of the voice that felt, as some poet hath it, "like a still embrace," "now tell me as much as you can about yourself." at first there seemed nothing to tell; but gradually he drew from hilary a good deal. johanna's feeble health, which caused her continuing to teach to be very unadvisable; and the gradual diminishing of the school--from what cause they could not account--which made it very doubtful whether some change would not soon or late be necessary. what this change should be she and mr. lyon discussed a little--as far as in the utterly indefinite position of affairs was possible. also, from some other questions of his, she spoke to him about another dread which had lurked in her mind, and yet to which she could give no tangible shape, about ascott. he could not remove it, he did not attempt; but he soothed it a little, advising with her as to the best way of managing the willful lad. his strong, clear sense, just judgment, and, above all, a certain unspoken sense of union, as if all that concerned her and hers he took naturally upon himself as his own, gave hilary such comfort that, even on this night, with a full consciousness of all that was to follow, she was happy--nay, she had not been so happy for years. perhaps (let the truth be told), the glorious truth of true love, that its recognition, spoken or silent, constitutes the only perfect joy of life that of two made perhaps she had never been so really happy since she was born. the last thing he did was to make her give him an assurance that in any and all difficulty she would apply to him. "to me, and to no one else, remember. no one but myself must help you. and i will, so, long as i am alive. do you believe this?" she looked up at him by the lamp light, and said, "i do." "and you promise?" "yes." then they loosed arms, and hilary knew that they should never walk together again till--when and how? returning, of course, he walked with miss leaf; and throughout the next day, a terribly wet sunday, spent by them entirely in the little parlor, they had not a minute of special or private talk together. he did not seem to wish it; indeed, almost avoided it. thus slipped away the strange, still day--a sunday never to be forgotten. at night, after prayers were, over, mr. lyon rose suddenly, saying he must leave them now; he was obliged to start from stowbury at daybreak. "shall we not see you again?" asked johanna. "no. this will be my last sunday in england. good-by!" he turned excessively pale, shook hands silently with them all--hilary last--and almost before they recognized the fact, he was gone. with him departed, not all hilary's peace or faith or courage of heart, for to all who love truly, while the best beloved lives, and lives worthily, no parting is hopeless and no grief overwhelming; but all the brightness of her youth, all the sense of joy that young people have in loving, and in being beloved again, in fond meetings and fonder partings, in endless walks and talks, in sweet kisses and clinging arms. such happiness was not for her: when she saw it the lot of others, she said to herself sometimes with a natural sharp sting of pain, but oftener with a solemn acquiescence, "it is the will of god; it is the will of god." johanna, too, who would have given her life almost to bring some color back to the white face of her darling, of whom she asked no questions, and who never complained nor confessed any thing, many and many a night when hilary either lay awake by her side, or tossed and moaned in her sleep, till the elder sister took her in her arms like a baby--johanna, too, said to herself, "this is the will of god." i have told thus much in detail the brief sad story of hilary's youth, to show how impossible it was that elizabeth hand could live in the house with these two women without being strongly influenced by them, as every person--especially every woman--influences for good or for evil every other person connected with her, or dependent upon her. elizabeth was a girl of close observation and keen perception. besides, to most people, whether or not their sympathy be universal, so far as the individual is concerned, any deep affection generally lends eyes, tact, and delicacy. thus when on the monday morning at breakfast miss selina observed, "what a fine day mr. lyon was having for his journey; what a lucky fellow he was; how he would be sure to make a fortune, and if so, she wondered whether they should ever see or hear any thing of him again"--elizabeth, from the glimpse she caught of miss hilary's face, and from the quiet way in which miss leaf merely answered, "time will show;" and began talking to selina about some other subject--elizabeth resolved never in any way to make the smallest allusion to mr. robert lyon. something had happened, she did not know what; and it was not her business to find out; the family affairs, so far as she was trusted with them, were warmly her own, but into the family secrets she had no right to pry. yet, long after miss selina had ceased to "wonder" about him, or even to name him--his presence or absence did not touch her personally, and she was always the centre of her own small world of interest--the little maidservant kept in her mind, and pondered over at odd times every possible solution of the mystery of this gentleman's sudden visit; of the long wet sunday when he sat all day talking with her mistresses in the parlor; of the evening prayer, when miss leaf had twice to stop, her voice faltered so; and of the night when, long after all the others had gone to bed, elizabeth, coming suddenly into the parlor, had found miss hilary sitting alone over the embers of the fire, with the saddest, saddest look! so that the girl had softly shut the door again without ever speaking to "missis." elizabeth did more; which, strange as it may appear, a servant who is supposed to know nothing of any thing that has happened can often do better than a member of the family who knows every thing, and this knowledge is sometimes the most irritating consciousness a sufferer has. she followed her young mistress with a steady watchfulness, so quiet and silent that hilary never found it out; saved her every little household care, gave her every little household treat. not much to do, and less to be chronicled; but the way in which she did it was all. during the long dull winter days, to come in and find the parlor fire always bright, the hearth clean swept, and the room tidy; never to enter the kitchen without the servant's face clearing up into a smile; when her restless irritability made her forget things and grow quite vexed in the search after them, to see that somehow her shoes were never misplaced, and her gloves always came to hand in some mysterious manner--these trifles; in her first heavy days of darkness, soothed hilary more than words could tell. and the sight of miss hilary going about the house and school room as usual, with that poor white face of hers; nay, gradually bringing to the family fireside, as usual, her harmless little joke, and her merry laugh at it and herself--who shall say what lessons may not have been taught by this to the humble servant, dropping deep sown into her heart, to germinate and fructify, as her future life's needs required? it might have been so--god knows! he alone can know, who, through what (to us) seem the infinite littleness of our mortal existence, is educating us into the infinite greatness of his and our immortality. chapter vii. autumn soon lapsed into winter: christmas came and went, bringing, not ascott, as they hoped and he had promised, but a very serious evil in the shape of sundry bills of his, which, he confessed in a most piteous letter to his aunt hilary, were absolutely unpayable out of his godfather's allowance. they were not large--or would not have seemed so to rich people--and they were for no more blamable luxuries than horse hire, and a dinner or two to friends out in the country; but they looked serious to a household which rarely was more than five pounds beforehand with the world. he had begged aunt hilary to keep his secret, but that was evidently impossible; so on the day the school accounts were being written out and sent in, and their amount anxiously reckoned, she laid before her sisters the lad's letter, full of penitence and promises: "i will be careful--i will indeed--if you will help me out this once, dear aunt hilary; and don't think too ill of me. i have done nothing wicked. and you don't know london; you don't know, with a lot of young fellows about one, how very hard it is to say no." at that unlucky postscript the misses leaf sorrowfully exchanged looks. little the lad thought about it; but these few words were the very sharpest pang ascott had ever given to his aunts. "what's bred in the bone will come out in the flesh." "like father like son." "the sins of the parents shall be visited on the children." so runs many a proverb: so confirms the unerring decree of a just god, who would not be a just god did he allow himself to break his own righteous laws for the government of the universe; did he falsify the requirements of his own holy and pure being, by permitting any other wages for sin than death. and though, through his mercy, sin forsaken escapes sin's penalty, and every human being has it in his own power to modify, if not to conquer, any hereditary moral as well as physical disease, thereby avoiding the doom and alleviating the curse, still the original law remains in force, and ought to remain, an example and a warning. as true as that every individual sin that a man commits breeds multitudes more, is it that every individual sin may transmit his own peculiar type of weakness or wickedness to a whole race, disappearing in one generation, re-appearing in another, exactly the same as physical peculiarities do, requiring the utmost caution of education to counteract the terrible tendencies of nature--the "something in the blood" which is so difficult to eradicate: which may even make the third and fourth generation execrate the memory of him or her who was its origin. the long life-curse of henry leaf the elder, and henry leaf the younger, had been--the women of the family well knew--that they were men who "couldn't say no." so keenly were the three sisters alive to this fault--it could hardly be called a crime, and yet in its consequences it was so--so sickening the terror of it which their own wretched experience had implanted in their minds, that during ascott's childhood and youth his very fractiousness and roughness, his little selfishness, and his persistence in his own will against theirs, had been hailed by his aunts as a good omen that he would grow up "so unlike his poor father." if the two unhappy henry leafs--father and son--could have come out of their graves that night and beheld these three women, daughters and sisters, sitting with ascott's letter on the table, planning how the household's small expenses could be contracted, its still smaller luxuries relinquished, in order that the boy might honorably pay for pleasures he might so easily have done without! if they could have seen the weight of apprehension which then sank like a stone on these long-tried hearts, never to be afterward removed: lightened sometimes, but always--however ascott might promise and amend--always there! on such a discovery, surely, these two "poor ghosts" would have fled away moaning, wishing they had died childless, or that during their mortal lives any amount of self restraint and self compulsion had purged from their natures the accursed thing; the sin which had worked itself out in sorrow upon every one belonging to them, years after their own heads were laid in the quiet dust. "we must do it," was the conclusion the misses leaf unanimously came to; even selina; who with all her faults, had a fair share of good feeling and of that close clinging to kindred which is found in fallen households, or households whom the sacred bond of common poverty, has drawn together in a way that large, well-to-do home circles can never quite understand. "we must not let the boy remain in debt; it would be such a disgrace to the family." "it is not the remaining in debt, but the incurring of it, which is the real disgrace to ascott and the family." "hush hilary," said johanna, pointing to the opening door; but it was too late. elizabeth, coming suddenly in--or else the ladies had been so engrossed with their conversation that they had not noticed her--had evidently heard every word of the last sentence. her conscious face showed it; more especially the bright scarlet which covered both her cheeks when miss leaf said "hush!" she stood, apparently irresolute as to whether she should run away again; and then her native honesty got the upper hand, and she advanced into the room. "if you please, missis, i didn't mean to--but i've heard--" "what have you heard; that is, how much?" "just what miss hilary said. don't be afeared. i shan't tell. i never chatter about the family. mother told me not." "you owe a great deal, elizabeth, to your good mother. now go away." "and another time." said miss selina, "knock at the door." this was elizabeth's first initiation into what many a servant has to share--the secret burden of the family. after that day, though they did not actually confide in her, her mistresses used no effort to conceal that they had cares; that the domestic economies must, this winter, be especially studied; there must be no extra fires, no candles left burning to waste; and once a week or so, a few butterless breakfasts or meatless dinners must be partaken of cheerfully, in both parlor and kitchen. the misses leaf never stinted their servant in any thing in which they did not stint themselves. strange to say, in spite of miss selina's prophecies, the girl's respectful conduct did not abate: on the contrary, it seemed to increase. the nearer she was lifted to her mistress's level, the more her mind grew, so that she could better understand her mistresses cares, and the deeper her consciousness of the only thing which gives one human being any real authority over another--personal character. therefore, though the family means were narrowed, and the family luxuries few, elizabeth cheerfully put up with all; she even felt a sort of pride in wasting nothing and in making the best of every thing, as the others did. perhaps, it may be said she was an exceptional servant; and yet i would not do her class the wrong to believe so-i would rather believe that there are many such among it; many good, honest, faithful girls, who only need good mistresses unto whom to be honest and faithful, and they would be no less so than elizabeth hand. the months went by--heavy and anxious months; for the school gradually dwindled away, and ascott's letter--now almost the only connection his aunts had with the outer world, for poverty necessarily diminished even their small stowbury society--became more and more unsatisfactory; and the want of information in them was not supplied by those other letters which had once kept johanna's heart easy concerning the boy. mr. lyon had written once before sailing, nay, after sailing, for he had sent it home by the pilot from the english channel; then there was, of course, silence. october, november, december, january, february, march--how often did hilary count the months, and wonder how soon a letter would come, whether a letter ever would come again. and sometimes--the sharp present stinging her with its small daily pains, the future looking dark before her and them all--she felt so forlorn, so forsaken, that but for a certain tiny well-spring of hope, which rarely dries up till long after three-and twenty, she could have sat down and sighed, "my good days are done." rich people break their hearts much sooner than poor people; that is, they more easily get into that morbid state which is glorified by the term, "a broken heart." poor people can not afford it. their constant labor "physics pain." their few and narrow pleasures seldom pall. holy poverty! black as its dark side is, it has its bright side too, that is, when it is honest, fearless, free from selfishness. wastefulness, and bickerings; above all, free from the terror of debt. "we'll starve, we'll go into the work house rather than we'll go into debt!" cried hilary once, in a passion of tears, when she was in sore want of a shawl, and selina urged her to get it, and wait till she could pay for it. "yes; the work house! it would be less shame to be honorably indebted to the laws of the land than to be meanly indebted, under false pretences, to any individual in it". and when, in payment for some accidental lessons, she got next month enough money to buy a shawl, and a bonnet, too--nay, by great ingenuity, another bonnet for johanna--hilary could have danced and sang--sang, in the gladness and relief of her heart, the glorious euthanasia of poverty. but these things happened only occasionally; the daily life was hard still; ay, very hard, even though at last came the letter from "foreign parts;" and following it, at regular intervals, other letters. they were full of facts rather than feelings--simple, straightforward; worth little as literary compositions; school-master and learned man as he was, there was nothing literary or poetical about mr. lyon; but what he wrote was like what he spoke, the accurate reflection of his own clear, original mind and honest, tender heart. his letters gave none the less comfort because, nominally, they were addressed to johanna. this might have been from some crotchet of over-reserve, delicacy, or honor--the same which made him part from her for years with no other word than 'you must trust me, hilary;' but whatever it was she respected it, and she did trust him. and whether johanna answered his letters or not, month by month they unfailingly came, keeping her completely informed of all his proceedings, and letting out, as epistles written from over the seas often do, much more of himself and his character than he was probably aware that he betrayed. and hilary, whose sole experience of mankind had been the scarcely remembered father, the too well remembered brother, and the anxiously watched nephew, thanked god that there seemed to be one man in the world whom a woman could lean her heart upon, and not feel the support break like a reed beneath her--one man whom she could entirely believe in, and safely and sacredly trust. chapter viii. time slipped by. robert lyon had been away more than three years. but in the monotonous life of the three sisters at stowbury, nothing was changed. except, perhaps, elizabeth, who had grown quite a woman; might have passed almost for thirty; so solidly old fashioned were her figure and her manners. ascott leaf had finished his walking the hospitals and his examinations, and was now fitted to commence practice for himself. his godfather had still continued his allowance, though once or twice, when he came down to stowbury, he had asked his aunts to help him in small debts the last time in one a little more serious; when, after some sad and sore consultation, it had been resolved to tell him he must contrive to live within his own allowance. for they were poorer than they used to be; many more schools had arisen in the town, and theirs had dwindled away. it was becoming a source of serious anxiety whether they could possibly make ends meet; and when, the next christmas, ascott sent them a five pound note--an actual five pound note, together with a fond, grateful letter that was worth it all--the aunts were deeply thankful, and very happy. but still the school declined. one night they were speculating upon the causes of this, and hilary was declaring, in a half jocular, half earnest way, that it must be because a prophet is never a prophet in his own country. "the stowbury people will never believe how clever i am. only, it is a useless sort of cleverness, i fear. greek, latin, and mathematics are no good to infants under seven, such as stowbury persists in sending to us." "they think i am only fit to teach little children--and perhaps it is true," said miss leaf. "i wish you had not to teach at all. i wish i was a daily governess--i might be, and earn enough to keep the whole family; only, not here." "i wonder," said johanna, thoughtfully, "if we shall have to make a change." "a change!" it almost pained the elder sister to see how the younger brightened up at the word. "where to--london? oh, i have so longed to go and live in london! but i thought you would not like it, johanna." that was true. miss leaf, whom feeble health had made prematurely old, would willingly have ended her days in the familiar town; but hilary was young and strong. johanna called to mind the days when she too had felt that rest was only another name for dullness; and when the most difficult thing possible to her was what seemed now so easy--to sit down and endure. besides, unlike herself, hilary had her life all before her. it might be a happy life, safe in a good man's tender keeping; those unfailing letters from india seemed to prophecy that it would. but no one could say. miss leaf's own experience had not led her to place much faith in either men or happiness. still, whatever hilary's future might be, it would likely be a very different one from that quiet, colorless life of hers. and as she looked at her younger sister, with the twilight glow on her face--they were taking an evening stroll up and down the terrace--johanna hoped and prayed it might be so. her own lot seemed easy enough for herself; but for hilary--she would like to see hilary something better than a poor schoolmistress at stowbury. no more was said at that time, but johanna had the deep, still, mary-like nature, which "kept" things, and "pondered them in her heart." so that when the subject came up again she was able to meet it with that sweet calmness which was her especial characteristic--the unruffled peace of a soul which no worldly storms could disturb overmuch, for it had long since cast anchor in the world unseen. the chance which revived the question of the great metropolitan hegira, as hilary called it, was a letter from mr. ascott, as follows: "miss leaf. madam,--i shall be obliged by your informing me if it is your wish, as it seems to be your nephew's, that instead of returning to stowbury, he should settle in london as a surgeon and general practitioner? his education complete, i consider that i have done my duty by him; but i may assist him occasionally still, unless he turns out--as his father did before him--a young man who prefers being helped to helping himself, in which case i shall have nothing more to do with him. i remain, madam, your obedient servant, peter ascott." the sisters read this letter, passing it round the table, none of them apparently liking to be the first to comment upon it. at length hilary said: "i think that reference to poor henry is perfectly brutal." "and yet he was very kind to henry. and if it had not been for his common sense in sending poor little ascott and the nurse down to stowbury the baby might have died. but you don't remember any thing of that time, my dear," said johanna, sighing. "he has been kind enough, though he has done it in such a patronizing way," observed selina. "i suppose that's the real reason of his doing it. he thinks it fine to patronize us, and show kindness to our family; he, the stout, bullet-headed grocer's boy, who used to sit and stare at us all church time." "at you--you mean. wasn't he called your beau?" said hilary mischievously, upon which selina drew herself up in great indignation. and then they fell to talking of that anxious question--ascott's future. a little they reproached themselves that they had left the lad so long in london--so long out of the influence that might have counteracted the evil, sharply hinted in his godfather's letter. but once away--to lure him back to their poor home was impossible. "suppose we were to go to him," suggested hilary. the poor and friendless possess one great advantage--they have nobody to ask advice of; nobody to whom it matters much what they do or where they go. the family mind has but to make itself up, and act accordingly. thus within an hour or two of the receipt of mr. ascott's letter hilary went into the kitchen, and told elizabeth that as soon as her work was done miss leaf wished to have a little talk with her. "eh! what's wrong? has miss selina been a-grumbling at me?" elizabeth was in one of her bad humors, which, though of course they never ought to have, servants do have as well as their superiors. hilary perceived this by the way she threw the coals on and tossed the chairs about. but to-day her heart was full of far more serious cares than elizabeth's ill temper. she replied, composedly-- "i have not heard that either of my sisters is displeased with you. what they want to talk to you about is for your own good. we are thinking of making a great change. we intend to leave stowbury and going to live in london." "going to live in london!" now, quick as her tact and observation were--her heart taught her these things--elizabeth's head was a thorough saxon one, slow to receive impressions. it was a family saying, that nothing was so hard as to put a new idea into elizabeth except to get it out again. for this reason hilary preferred paving the way quietly, before startling her with the sudden intelligence of their contemplated change. "well, what do you say to the plan?" asked she, good-humoredly. "i dunnot like it at all," was the brief gruff answer of elizabeth hand. now it was one of miss hilary's doctrines that no human being is good for much unless he or she has what is called "a will of one's own." perhaps this, like many another creed, was with her the result of circumstances. but she held it firmly, and with that exaggerated one-sidedness of feeling which any bitter family or personal experience is sure to leave behind--a strong will was her first attraction to every body. it had been so in the case of robert lyon, and not less in elizabeth's. but this quality has its inconveniences. when the maid began sweeping up her hearth with a noisy, angry gesture, the mistress did the wisest and most dignified thing a mistress could do under the circumstances and which she knew was the sharpest rebuke she could administer to the sensitive elizabeth--she immediately quitted the kitchen. for an hour after the parlor bell did not ring; and though it was washing day, no miss hilary appeared to help in folding up the clothes. elizabeth, subdued and wretched, waited till she could wait no longer; then knocked at the door, and asked humbly if she should bring in supper? the extreme kindness of the answer, to the effect that she must come in, as they wanted to speak to her, crushed the lingering fragments of ill humor out of the girl. "miss hilary has told you our future plans, elizabeth; now we wish to have a little talk with you about yours." "eh?" "we conclude you will not wish to go with us to london; and it would be hardly advisable you should. you can get higher wages now than any we can afford to give you; indeed, we have more than once thought of telling you so, and offering you your choice of trying for a better place." "you're very kind," was the answer, stolid rather than grateful. "no; i think we are merely honest. we should never think of keeping a girl upon lower wages than she was worth. hitherto, however, the arrangement has been quite fair you know, elizabeth, you have given us a deal of trouble in the teaching of you." and miss leaf smiled, half sadly, as if this, the first of the coming changes, hurt her more than she liked to express. "come, my girl," she added, "you needn't look so serious. we are not in the least vexed with you; we shall be very sorry to lose you, and we will give you the best of characters when you leave." "i dunnot--mean--to leave." elizabeth threw out the words like pellets, in a choked fashion, and disappeared suddenly from the parlor. "who would have thought it!" exclaimed selina; "i declare the girl was crying." no mistake about that; though when, a few minutes after, miss hilary entered the kitchen, elizabeth tried in a hurried, shamefaced way to hide her tears by being very busy over something. her mistress took no notice, but began, as usual on washing days, to assist in various domestic matters, in the midst of which she said, quietly, "and so, elizabeth, you would really like to go to london?" "no! i shouldn't like it at all; never said i should. but if you go, i shall go too; though missis is so ready to get shut o' me." "it was for your own good, you know." "you always said it was for a girl's good to stop in one place; and if you think i'm going to another. i aren't that's all." rude as the form of the speech was--almost the first rude speech that elizabeth had ever made to miss hilary, and which, under other circumstances she would have felt bound severely to reprove--the mistress passed it over. that which lay beneath it, the sharpness of wounded love, touched her heart. she felt that, for all the girl's rough manner, it would have been hard to go into her london kitchen and meet a strange london face, instead of that fond homely one of elizabeth hand's. still, she thought it right to explain to her that london life might have many difficulties, that; for the present at least, her wages could not be raised, and the family might at first be in even more straitened circumstances than they were at stowbury. "only at first, though, for i hope to find plenty of pupils, and by-and-by our nephew will get into practice." "is it on account of him you're going, miss hilary?" "chiefly." elizabeth gave a grunt which said as plainly as words could say, "i thought so;" and relapsed into what she, no doubt, believed to be virtuous indignation, but which, as it was testified against the wrong parties, was open to the less favorable interpretation of ill humor--a small injustice not uncommon with us all. i do not pretend to paint this young woman as a perfect character. she had her fierce dislikes as well as her strong fidelities; her faults within and without, which had to be struggled with, as all of us have to struggle to the very end of our days. oftentimes not till the battle is high over--sometimes not till it is quite over--does god give us the victory. without more discussion on either side, it was agreed that elizabeth should accompany her mistresses. even mrs. hand seemed to be pleased thereat, her only doubt being lest her daughter should meet and be led astray by that bad woman, mrs. cliffe, tommy cliffe's mother, who was reported to have gone to london. but miss hilary explained that this meeting was about as probable as the rencontre of two needles in a hay-rick; and besides, elizabeth was not the sort of girl to be easily "led astray" by any body. "no, no; her's a good wench, though i says it," replied the mother, who was too hard worked to have much sentiment to spare. "i wish the little 'uns may take pattern by our elizabeth. you'll send her home, may be, in two or three years' time, to let us have a look at her?" miss hilary promised, and then took her way back through the familiar old town--so soon to be familiar no more--thinking anxiously, in spite of herself, upon those two or three years, and what they might bring. it happened to be a notable day--that sunshiny th of june--when the little, round-cheeked damsel, who is a grandmother now, had the crown of three kingdoms first set upon her youthful head; and stowbury, like every other town in the land, was a perfect bower of green arches, garlands, banners; white covered tables were spread in the open air down almost every street, where poor men dined, or poor women drank tea; and every body was out and abroad, looking at or sharing in the holiday' making, wild with merriment, and brimming over with passionate loyalty to the maiden queen. that day is now twenty-four years ago; but all those who remember it must own there never has been a day like it, when, all over the country, every man's heart throbbed with chivalrous devotion, every woman's with womanly tenderness, toward this one royal girl, who, god bless her! has lived to retain and deserve it all. hilary called for, and protected through the crowd, the little, timid, widow lady who had taken off the misses leaf's hands their house and furniture, and whom they had made very happy--as the poor often can make those still poorer than themselves--by refusing to accept any thing for the "good will" of the school. then she was fetched by elizabeth, who had been given a whole afternoon's holiday; and mistress and maid went together home, watching the last of the festivities, the chattering groups that still lingered in the twilight streets, and listening to the merry notes of the "triumph" which came down through the lighted windows of the town hall, where the open-air tea drinkers had adjourned to dance country dances, by civic permission, and in perfectly respectable jollity. "i wonder," said hilary--while, despite some natural regret, her spirit stretched itself out eagerly from the narrowness of the place where she was born into the great wide world; the world where so many grand things were thought and written and done; the world robert lyon had so long fought with, and was fighting bravely still--"i wonder, elizabeth, what sort of place london is, and what our life will be in it?" elizabeth said nothing. for the moment her face seemed to catch the reflected glow of her mistress's, and then it settled down into that look of mingled resistance and resolution which was habitual to her. for the life that was to be, which neither knew--oh, if they had known!--she also was prepared. chapter ix. the day of the grand hegira came. "i remember," said miss leaf, as they rumbled for the last time through the empty morning streets of poor old stowbury: "i remember my grandmother telling me that when my grandfather was courting her, and she out of coquetry refused him, he set off on horseback to london, and she was so wretched to think of all the dangers he ran on the journey, and in london itself, that she never rested till she got him back, and then immediately married him." "no such catastrophe is likely to happen to any of us, except, perhaps, to elizabeth," said miss hilary, trying to get up, a little feeble mirth, any thing to pass away the time and lessen the pain of parting, which was almost too much for johanna. "what do you say? do you mean to get married in london, elizabeth?" but elizabeth could make no answer, even to kind miss hilary. they had not imagined she felt the leaving her native place so much. she had watched intently the last glimpse of stowbury church tower, and now sat with reddened eyes, staring blankly out of the carriage window, "silent as a stone." once or twice a large slow tear gathered on each of her eyes, but it was shaken off angrily from the high check bones, and never settled into absolute crying. they thought it best to take no notice of her. only, when reaching the new small station, where the "resonant steam eagles" were, for the first time, beheld by the innocent stowbury ladies, there arose a discussion as to the manner of traveling. miss leaf said, decidedly "second class; and then we can keep elizabeth with us." upon which elizabeth's mouth melted into something between a quiver and a smile. soon it was all over, and the little house-hold was compressed into the humble second class carriage, cheerless and cushionless, whirling through indefinite england in a way that confounded all their geography and topography. gradually as the day darkened into heavy, chilly july rain, the scarcely kept up spirits of the four passengers began to sink. johanna grew very white and worn, selina became, to use ascott's phrase, "as cross as two sticks," and even hilary, turning her eyes from the gray sodden looking landscape without, could find no spot of comfort to rest on within the carriage, except that round rosy face of elizabeth hand's. whether it was from the spirit of contradiction existing in most such natures, which, especially in youth, are more strong than sweet, or from a better feeling, the fact was noticeable, that when every one else's spirits went down elizabeth's went up. nothing could bring her out of a "grumpy" fit so satisfactorily as her mistresses falling into one. when miss selina now began to fidget hither and thither, each tone of her fretful voice seeming to go through her eldest sister's every nerve, till even hilary said, impatiently, "oh, selina, can't you be quiet?" then elizabeth rose from the depth of her gloomy discontent up to the surface immediately. she was only a servant; but nature bestows that strange vague thing that we term "force of character" independently of position. hilary often remembered afterward, how much more comfortable the end of the journey was than she had expected--how johanna lay at ease, with her feet in elizabeth's lap, wrapped in elizabeth's best woolen shawl; and how, when selina's whole attention was turned to an ingenious contrivance with a towel and fork and elizabeth's basket, for stopping the rain out of the carriage roof--she became far less disagreeable, and even a little proud of her own cleverness. and so there was a temporary lull in hilary's cares, and she could sit quiet, with her eyes fixed on the rainy landscape, which she did not see, and her thoughts wandering toward that unknown place and unknown life into which they were sweeping, as we all sweep, ignorantly, unresistingly, almost unconsciously, into new destinies. hilary, for the first time, began to doubt of theirs. anxious as she had been to go to london, and wise as the proceeding appeared, now that the die was cast and the cable cut, the old simple, peaceful life at stowbury grew strangely dear. "i wonder if we shall ever go back again, or what is to happen to us before we do go back," she thought, and turned, with a half defined fear, toward her eldest sister, who looked so old and fragile beside that sturdy, healthful servant girl. "elizabeth!" elizabeth, rubbing miss leaf's feet, started at the unwonted sharpness of miss hilary's tone. "there; i'll do that for my sister. go and look out of the window at london." for the great smoky cloud which began to rise in the rainy horizon was indeed london. soon through the thickening nebula of houses they converged to what was then the nucleus of all railway traveling, the euston terminus, and were hustled on to the platform, and jostled helplessly to and fro these poor country ladies! anxiously they scanned the crowd of strange faces for the one only face they knew in the great metropolis--which did not appear. "it is very strange; very wrong of ascott. hilary, you surely told him the hour correctly. for once, at least, he might have been in time" so chafed miss selina, while elizabeth, who by some miraculous effort of intuitive genius, had succeeded in collecting the luggage, was now engaged in defending it from all comers, especially porters, and making of it a comfort able seat for miss leaf. "nay, have patience, selina. we will give him just five minutes more, hilary." and johanna sat down, with her sweet, calm, long suffering face turned upward to that younger one, which was, as youth is apt to be, hot, and worried, and angry. and so they waited till the terminus was almost deserted, and the last cab had driven off, when, suddenly, dashing up the station yard out of another, came ascott. he was so sorry, so very sorry, downright grieved, at having kept his aunts waiting. but his watch was wrong--some fellows at dinner detained him--the train was before its time surely. in fact, his aunts never quite made out what the excuse was; but they looked into his bright handsome face, and their wrath melted like clouds before the sun. he was so gentlemanly, so well dressed--much better dressed than even at stowbury--and he seemed so unfeignedly glad to see them. he handed them all into the cab--even elizabeth. though whispering meanwhile to his aunt hilary, "what on earth did you bring her for?" and their was just going to leap on to the box himself, when he stopped to ask "where he should tell cabby to drive to?" "where to?" repeated his aunts in undisguised astonishment. they had never thought of any thing but of being taken home at once by their boy. "you see," ascott said, in a little confusion, "you wouldn't be comfortable with me. a young fellow's lodgings are not like a house of one's own, and, besides--" "besides, when a young fellow is ashamed of his old aunts, he can easily find reasons." "hush, selina!" interposed miss leaf. "my dear boy, your old aunts would never let you inconvenience yourself for them. take us to an inn for the night, and to morrow we will find lodgings for ourselves." ascott looked greatly relieved. "and you are not vexed with me, aunt johanna?" said he, with something of his old childish tone of compunction, as he saw--he could not help seeing--the utter weariness which johanna tried so hard to hide. "no, my dear, not vexed. only i wish we had known this a little sooner that we might have made arrangements. now, where shall we go?" ascott mentioned a dozen hotels, but they found he only knew them by name. at last miss leaf remembered one, which her father used to go to, on his frequent journeys to london, and whence, indeed, he had been brought home to die. and though all the recollections about it were sad enough, still it felt less strange than the rest, in this dreariness of london. so she proposed going to the "old bell," holborn. "a capital place!" exclaimed ascott, eagerly. "and i'll take and settle you there: and we'll order supper, and make a jolly night of it. all right. drive on, cabby." he jumped on the box, and then looked in mischievously, flourishing his lit cigar and shaking his long hair--his aunt selina's two great abominations--right in her indignant face: but withal looking so merry and good tempered that she shortly softened into a smile. "how handsome the boy is growing!" "yes," said johanna, with a slight sigh; "and did you notice? how exceedingly like his--" the sentence was left unfinished. alas! if every young man, who believes his faults and follies injure himself alone, could feel what it must be, years afterward, to have his nearest kindred shrink from saying as the saddest, most ominous thing they could say of his son, that the lad is growing "so like his father!" it might have been--they assured each other that it was--only the incessant roll, roll of the street sounds below their windows, which kept the misses leaf awake half the night of this their first night in london. and when they sat down to breakfast--having waited an hour vainly for their nephew--it might have been only the gloom of the little parlor which cast a slight shadow over them all. still the shadow was there. it deepened despite the sunshiny morning into which the last night's rain had brightened till holborn bars looked cheerful, and holborn pavement actually clean, so that, as elizabeth said, "you might eat your dinner off it;" which was the one only thing she condescended to approve in london. she had sat all evening mute in her corner, for miss leaf would not send her away into the terra incognita of a london hotel. ascott, at first considerably annoyed at the presence of what he called a "skeleton at the feast," had afterward got over it; and run on with a mixture of childish glee and mannish pomposity about his plans and intentions--how he meant to take a house, he thought, in one of the squares, or a street leading out of them: how he would put up the biggest of brass plates, with "mr. leaf, surgeon." and soon get an extensive practice, and have all his aunts to live with him. and his aunts had smiled and listened, forgetting all about the silent figure in the corner, who perhaps had gone to sleep, or had also listened. "elizabeth, come and look out at london." so she and miss hilary whiled away another heavy three quarters of an hour in watching and commenting on the incessantly shifting crowd which swept past holborn bars. miss selina sometimes looked out too, but more often sat fidgeting and wondering why ascott did not come; while miss leaf, who never fidgeted, became gradually more and more silent. her eyes were fixed on the door, with an expression which, if hilary could have remembered so far back, would have been to her something not painfully new, but still more painfully old--a look branded into her face by many an anxious hour's listening for the footstep that never came, or only came to bring distress. it was the ineffaceable token of that long, long struggle between affection and conscience, pity and scarcely repressible contempt, which, for more than one generation, had been the appointed burden of this family--at least the women of it--till sometimes it seemed to hang over them almost like a fate. about noon miss leaf proposed calling for the hotel bill. its length so alarmed the country ladies that hilary suggested not staying to dine, but going immediately in search of lodgings. "what, without a gentleman! impossible! i always understood ladies could go nowhere in london without a gentleman!" "we shall come very ill off then, selina. but any how i mean to try. you know the region where, we have heard, lodgings are cheapest and best--that is, best for us. it can not be far from here. suppose i start at once?" "what, alone?" cried johanna, anxiously. "no, dear, i'll take the map with me, and elizabeth. she is not afraid." elizabeth smiled, and rose, with that air of dogged devotedness with which she would have prepared to follow miss hilary to the north pole, if necessary. so, after a few minutes of arguing with selina, who did not press her point overmuch, since she herself had not to commit the impropriety of the expedition. after a few minutes more of hopeless lingering about--till even miss leaf said they had better wait no longer--mistress and maid took a farewell nearly as pathetic as if they had been really arctic voyagers, and plunged right into the dusty glare and hurrying crowd of the "sunny side" of holborn in july. a strange sensation, and yet there was something exhilarating in it. the intense solitude that there is in a london crowd these country girls--for miss hilary herself was no more than a girl--could not as yet realize. they only felt the life of it; stirring, active, incessantly moving life; even though it was of a kind that they knew as little of it as the crowd did of them. nothing struck hilary more than the self-absorbed look of passers-by: each so busy on his own affairs, that, in spite of selina's alarm, for all notice taken of them, they might as well be walking among the cows and horses in stowbury field. poor old stowbury! they felt how far away they were from it when a ragged, dirty, vicious looking girl offered them a moss rose bud for "one penny, only one penny;" which elizabeth, lagging behind, bought, and found it only a broken off bud stuck on to a bit of wire. "that's london ways, i suppose," said she, severely, and became so misanthropic that she would hardly vouchsafe a glance to the hand some square they turned into, and merely observed of the tall houses, taller than any hilary had ever seen, that she "wouldn't fancy running up and down them stairs." but hilary was cheerful in spite of all. she was glad to be in this region, which, theoretically, she knew by heart--glad to find herself in the body, where in the spirit she had come so many a time. the mere consciousness of this seemed to refresh her. she thought she would be much happier in london; that in the long years to come that must be borne, it would be good for her to have something to do as well as to hope for; something to fight with as well as to endure. now more than ever came pulsing in and out of her memory a line once repeated in her hearing, with an observation of how "true" it was. and though originally it was applied by a man to a woman, and she smiled sometimes to think how "unfeminine" some people--selina for instance--would consider her turning it the other way, still she did so. she believed that, for woman as for man, that is the purest and noblest love which is the most self-existent, most independent of love returned; and which can say, each to the other equally on both sides, that the whole solemn purpose of life is, under god's service, "if not to win, to feel more worthy thee." such thoughts made her step firmer and her heart lighter; so that she hardly noticed the distance they must have walked till the close london air began to oppress her, and the smooth glaring london pavements made her stowbury feet ache sorely. "are you tired, elizabeth? well, we'll rest soon. there must be lodgings near here. only i can't quite make out--" as miss hilary looked up to the name of the street the maid noticed what a glow came into her mistress's face, pale and tired as it was. just then a church clock struck the quarter hour. "that must be st. pancras. and this--yes, this is burton street, burton crescent." "i'm sure missis wouldn't like to live there;" observed elizabeth, eyeing uneasily the gloomy rez de-chaussee, familiar to many a generation of struggling respectability, where, in the decadence of the season, every second house bore the announcement "apartments furnished." "no," miss hilary replied, absently. yet she continued to walk up and down the whole length of the street; then passed out into the dreary, deserted looking crescent, where the trees were already beginning to fade; not, however, into the bright autumn tint of country woods, but into a premature withering, ugly and sad to behold. "i am glad he is not here--glad, glad!" thought hilary, as she realized the unutterable dreariness of those years when robert lyon lived and studied in his garret from month's end to month's end--these few dusty trees being the sole memento of the green country life in which he had been brought up, and which she knew he so passionately loved. now she could understand, that "calenture" which he had sometimes jestingly alluded to, as coming upon him at times, when he felt literally sick for the sight of a green field or a hedge full of birds. she wondered whether the same feeling would ever come upon her in this strange desert of london, the vastness of which grew upon her every hour. she was glad he was away; yes, heart glad! and yet, if this minute she could only have seen him coming round the crescent, have met his smile, and the firm, warm clasp of his hand-- for an instant there rose up in her one of those wild, rebellious outcries against fate, when to have to waste years of this brief life of ours, in the sort of semi-existence that living is, apart from the treasure of the heart and delight of the eyes, seems so cruelly, cruelly hard! "miss hilary." she started, and "put herself under lock and key" immediately. "miss hilary; you do look so tired!" "do i? then we will go and sit down in this baker's shop, and get rested and fed. we cannot afford to wear ourselves out, you know. we have a great deal to do to-day." more indeed, than she calculated, for they walked up one street and down another, investigating at least twenty lodgings before any appeared which seemed fit for them. yet some place must be found where johanna's poor, tired head could rest that night. at last, completely exhausted, with that oppressive exhaustion which seems to crush mind as well as body after a day's wandering in london. hilary's courage began to ebb. oh for an arm to lean on, a voice to listen for, a brave heart to come to her side, saying, "do not be afraid, there are two of us!" and she yearned, with an absolutely sick yearning such as only a woman who now and then feels the utter helplessness of her womanhood can know, for the only arm she cared to lean on, the only voice dear enough to bring her comfort, the only heart that she felt she could trust. poor hilary! and yet why pity her? to her three alternatives could but happen: were robert lyon true to her she would be his entirely and devotedly, to the end of her days; did he forsake her, she would forgive him should he die, she would be faithful to him eternally. love of this kind may know anguish, but not the sort of anguish that lesser and weaker loves do. if it is certain of nothing else, it can always be certain of itself. "its will is strong; 'it suffers; but it can not suffer long." and even in its utmost pangs is an underlying peace which often approaches to absolute joy. hilary roused herself, and bent her mind steadily on lodgings till she discovered one from the parlor of which you could see the trees of burton crescent and hear the sound of saint pancras's clock. "i think we may do here--at least for a while," said she cheerfully; and then elizabeth heard her inquiring if an extra bedroom could be had if necessary. there was only one small attic. "ascott never could put up with that," said hilary, half to herself. then suddenly--"i think i will see ascott before i decide. elizabeth, will you go with me, or remain here?" "i'll go with you, if you please, miss hilary." "if you please," sounded not unlike, "if i please," and elizabeth had gloomed over a little. "is mr. ascott to live with us?" "i suppose so." no more words were interchanged till they reached gower street, when miss hilary observed, with evident surprise, what a handsome street it was. "i must have made some mistake. still we will find out mr. ascott's number, and inquire." no, there was no mistake. mr. ascott leaf had lodged there for three months, but had given up his rooms that very morning. "where had he gone to?" the servant--a london lodging house servant all over--didn't know; but she fetched the landlady, who was after the same pattern of the dozen london landladies with whom hilary had that day made acquaintance, only a little more cockney, smirking, dirty, and tawdrily fine. "yes, mr. leaf had gone, and he hadn't left no address. young college gentlemen often found it convenient to leave no address. p'raps he would if he'd known there would be a young lady a calling to see him." "i am mr. leaf's aunt," said hilary, turning as hot as fire. "oh, in-deed," was the answer, with civil incredulousness. but the woman was sharp of perception--as often-cheated london landladies learn to be. after looking keenly at mistress and maid, she changed her tone; nay, even launched out into praises of her late lodger: what a pleasant gentleman he was; what good company he kept, and how he had promised to recommend her apartments to his friends. "and as for the little some'at of rent, miss--tell him it makes no matter, he can pay me when he likes. if he don't call soon p'raps i might make bold to send his trunk and his books over to mr. ascott's of--dear me, i forget the number and the square." hilary unsuspiciously supplied both. "yes, that's it--the old gen'leman as mr. leaf went to dine with every other sunday, a very rich old gentleman, who, he says, is to leave him all his money. maybe a relation of yours, miss?" "no," said hilary; and adding something about the landlady's hearing from mr. leaf very soon, she hurried out of the house, elizabeth following. "won't you be tired if you walk so fast, miss hilary?" hilary stopped, choking. helplessly she looked up and down the forlorn, wide, glaring, dusty street; now sinking into the dull shadow of a london afternoon. "let us go home!" and at the word a sob burst out--just one passionate pent up sob. no more. she could not afford to waste strength in crying. "as you say, elizabeth, i am getting tired, and that will not do. let me see; something must be decided." and she stood still, passing her hand over her hot brow and eyes. "i will go back and take the lodgings, leave you there to make all comfortable, and then fetch my sisters from the hotel. but stay first, i have forgotten something." she returned to the house in gower street, and wrote on one of her cards an address--the only permanent address she could think of--that of the city broker who was in the habit of paying them their yearly income of £ . "if any creditors inquire for mr. leaf, give them this. his friends may always hear of him at the london university." "thank you, ma'am," replied the now civil landlady. "indeed, i wasn't afraid of the young gentleman giving us the slip. for though he was careless in his bills he was every inch the gentleman. and i wouldn't object to take him in again. or p'raps you yourself, ma'am, might be a-wanting rooms." "no, i thank you. good morning." and hilary hurried away. not a word did she say to elizabeth, or elizabeth to her, till they got into the dull, dingy parlor--henceforth, to be their sole apology for "home:" and then she only talked about domestic arrangements--talked fast and eagerly, and tried to escape the affectionate eyes which she knew were so sharp and keen. only to escape them--not to blind them; she had long ago found out that elizabeth was too quick-witted for that, especially in any thing that concerned "the family." she felt convinced the girl had heard every syllable that passed at ascott's lodgings: that she knew all that was to be known, and guessed what was to be feared as well as hilary herself. "elizabeth"--she hesitated long, and doubted whether she should say the thing before she did say it--"remember we are all strangers in london, and family matters are best kept within the family. do not mention either in writing home, or to any body here, about--about--" she could not name ascott; she felt so horribly ashamed. chapter x. living in lodgings, not temporarily, but permanently, sitting down to make one's only "home" in mrs. jones's parlor or mrs. smith's first floor, of which not a stick or a stone that one looks at is one's own, and whence one may be evicted or evade, with a week's notice or a week's rent, any day--this sort of life is natural and even delightful to some people. there are those who, like strawberry plants, are of such an errant disposition, that grow them where you will, they will soon absorb all the pleasantness of their habitat, and begin casting out runners elsewhere; may, if not frequently transplanted, would actually wither and die. of such are the pioneers of society--the emigrants, the tourists, the travelers round the world; and great is the advantage the world derives from them, active, energetic, and impulsive as they are. unless, indeed, their talent for incessant locomotion degenerates into rootless restlessness, and they remain forever rolling stones, gathering no moss, and acquiring gradually a smooth, hard surface, which adheres to nothing, and to which nobody dare venture to adhere. but there are others possessing in a painful degree this said quality of adhesiveness, to whom the smallest change is obnoxious; who like drinking out of a particular cup, and sitting in a particular chair; to whom even a variation in the position of furniture is unpleasant. of course, this peculiarity has its bad side, and yet it is not in itself mean or ignoble. for is not adhesiveness, faithfulness, constancy--call it what you will--at the root of all citizenship, clanship, and family love? is it not the same feeling which, granting they remain at all, makes old friendships dearer than any new? nay, to go to the very sacredest and closest bond, is it not that which makes an old man see to the last in his old wife's faded face the beauty which perhaps nobody ever saw except himself, but which he sees and delights in still, simply because it is familiar and his own. to people who possess a large share of this rare--shall i say fatal?--characteristic of adhesiveness, living in lodgings is about the saddest life under the sun. whether some dim foreboding of this fact crossed elizabeth's mind as she stood at the window watching for her mistresses' first arrival at "home," it is impossible to say. she could feel, though she was not accustomed to analyze her feelings. but she looked dull and sad. not cross, even ascott could not have accused her of "savageness." and yet she had been somewhat tried. first, in going out what she termed "marketing," she had traversed a waste of streets, got lost several times, and returned with light weight in her butter, and sand in her moist sugar; also with the conviction that london tradesmen were the greatest rogues alive. secondly, a pottle of strawberries, which she had bought with her own money to grace the tea-table with the only fruit miss leaf cared for, had turned out a large delusion, big and beautiful at top, and all below small, crushed, and stale. she had thrown it indignantly, pottle and all, into the kitchen fire. thirdly, she had a war with the landlady, partly on the subject of their fire--which, with her stowbury notions on the subject of coals, seemed wretchedly mean and small--and partly on the question of table cloths at tea, which mrs. jones had "never heard of," especially when the use of plate and lines was included in the rent. and the dinginess of the article produced at last out of an omnium-gatherum sort of kitchen cupboard, made an ominous impression upon the country girl, accustomed to clean, tidy, country ways--where the kitchen was kept as neat as the parlor, and the bedrooms were not a whit behind the sitting rooms in comfort and orderliness. here it seemed as if, supposing people could show a few respectable living rooms, they were content to sleep any where, and cook any how, out of anything, in the midst of any quantity of confusion and dirt. elizabeth set all this down as "london," and hated it accordingly. she had tried to ease her mind by arranging and rearranging the furniture--regular lodging house furniture--table, six chairs, horse-hair sofa, a what not, and the chiffonnier, with a tea-caddy upon it, of which the respective keys had been solemnly presented to miss hilary. but still the parlor looked homeless and bare; and the yellowish paper on the walls, the large patterned, many colored kidderminster on the floor, gave an involuntary sense of discomfort and dreariness. besides, no. was on the shady side of the street--cheap lodgings always are; and no one who has not lived in the like lodgings--not a house--can imagine what it is to inhabit perpetually one room where the sunshine just peeps in for an hour a day, and vanishes by eleven a. m.; leaving behind in winter a chill dampness, and in summer a heavy, dusty atmosphere, that weighs like lead on the spirits in spite of one's self. no wonder that, as is statistically known and proved, cholera stalks, fever rages, and the registrar's list is always swelled along the shady side of a london street. elizabeth felt this, though she had not the dimmest idea why. she stood watching the sunset light fade out of the topmost windows of the opposite house--ghostly reflection of some sunset over fields and trees far away; and she listened to the long monotonous cry melting away round the crescent, and beginning again at the other end of the street--"straw-berries--straw-ber-ries!" also, with an eye to tomorrow's sunday dinner, she investigated the cart of the tired costermonger, who crawled along beside his equally tired donkey, reiterating at times, in tones hoarse with a day's bawling, his dreary "cauli-flower! cauli-flower!--fine new pease, sixpence peck!" but, alas! the pease were neither fine nor new; and the cauliflowers were regular saturday night's cauliflowers. besides, elizabeth suddenly doubted whether she had any right, unordered, to buy these things which, from being common garden necessaries, had become luxuries. this thought, with some others that it occasioned, her unwonted state of idleness and the dullness of every thing about her--what is so dull as a "quiet" london street on a summer evening?--actually made elizabeth stand, motionless and meditative, for a quarter of an hour. then she started to hear two cabs drive up to the door; the "family" had at length arrived. ascott was there too. two new portmanteaus and a splendid hat-box east either ignominy or glory upon the poor stowbury luggage; and--elizabeth's sharp eye noticed--there was also his trunk which she had seen lying detained for rent in his gower street lodgings. but he looked quite easy and comfortable: handed out his aunt johanna, commanded the luggage about, and paid the cabmen with such a magnificent air, that they touched their bats to him, and winked at one another as much as to say. "that's a real gentleman!" in which statement the landlady evidently coincided, and courtesied low when miss leaf introducing him as "my nephew," hoped that a room could be found for him. which at last there was, by his appropriating miss leaf's, while she and hilary took that at the top of the house. but they agreed, ascott must have a good airy room to study in. "you know, my dear boy," said his aunt johanna to him--and at her tender tone he looked a little downcast, as when he was a small fellow and had been forgiven something -- "you know you will have to work very hard." "all right, aunt! i'm your man for that! this will be a jolly room; and i can smoke up the chimney capitally!" so they came down stairs quite cheerfully, and ascott applied himself with the best of appetites to what he called a "hungry" tea. true, the ham, which elizabeth had to fetch from an eating house some streets off, cost two shillings a pound, and the eggs, which caused her another war below over the relighting of a fire to boil them, were dismissed by the young gentleman as "horrid stale." still, woman-like, when there is a man in the question, his aunts let him, have his why. it seemed as if they had resolved to try their utmost to make the new home to which he came, or rather was driven, a pleasant home, and to bind him to it with cords of love, the only cords worth any thing, though sometimes--heaved knows why--even they fail, and are snapped and thrown aside like straws. whenever elizabeth went in and out of the parlor she always heard lively talk going on among the family; ascott making his jokes, telling about his college life, and planning his life to come as a surgeon in full practice, on the most extensive scale. and when she brought in the chamber candles, she saw him kiss his aunts affectionately, and even help his aunt johanna--who looked frightfully pale and tired, but smiling still--to her bed-room door. "you'll not sit up long, my dear? no reading to night?" said she, anxiously. "not a bit of it. and i'll be up with the lark to-morrow morning. i really will auntie. i'm going to turn over a new leaf, you know." she smiled again at the immemorial joke, kissed and blessed him, and the door shut up on her and hilary. ascott descended to the parlor, threw himself on the sofa with an air of great relief, and an exclamation of satisfaction that "the women" were all gone. he did not perceive elizabeth, who, hidden behind, was kneeling to arrange something in the chiffonnier, till she rose up and proceeded to fasten the parlor shutters. "hollo! are you there? come, i'll do that when i go to bed. you may 'slope' if you like." "eh, sir." "slope, mizzle, cut your stick; don't you understand. any how, don't stop here, bothering me." "i don't mean to," replied elizabeth; gravely, rather than gruffly, as if she had made up her mind to things as they were, and was determined to be a belligerent party no longer. besides, she was older now; too old to have things forgiven to her that might be overlooked in a child; and she had received a long lecture from miss hilary on the necessity of showing respect to mr. ascott, or mr. leaf, as it was now decided he was to be called, in his dignity and responsibility as the only masculine head of the family. as he lay and lounged there, with his eyes lazily shut, elizabeth stood a minute gazing at him. then, steadfast in her new good behavior, she inquired "if he wanted any thing more to-night?" "confound you! no! yes; stop." and the young man took a furtive investigation of the plain, honest face, and not over-graceful, ultra-provincial figure, which still characterized his aunt's "south sea islander." "i say, elizabeth, i want you to do something for me." he spoke so civilly, almost coaxingly, that elizabeth turned round surprised. "would you just go and ask the landlady if she has got such thing as a latch key?" "a what, sir?" "a latch-key--a--oh, she knows. every london house has it. tell her i'll take care of it, and lock the front door all right. she needn't be afraid of thieves." "very well, sir." elizabeth went, but shortly reappeared with the information that mrs. jones had gone to bed: in the kitchen, she supposed, as she could not get in. but she laid on the table the large street door key. "perhaps that's what you wanted, mr. leaf. though i think you needn't be the least afraid of robbers, for there's three bolts, and a chain besides." "all right!" cried ascott, smothering down a laugh. "thank you! that's for you," throwing a half-crown across the table. elizabeth took it up demurely, and put it down again. perhaps she did not like him enough to receive presents from him; perhaps she thought, being an honest minded girl, that a young man who could not pay his rent had no business to be giving away half-crowns; or else she herself had not been so much as many servants are, in the habit of taking them. for miss hilary had put into elizabeth some of her own feeling as to this habit of paying an inferior with money for any little civility or kindness which, from an equal, would be accepted simply as kindness, and only requited with thanks. any how, the coin remained on the table, and the door was just shutting upon elizabeth, when the young gentleman turned round again. "i say, since my aunts are so horridly timid of robbers and such like, you'd better not tell them any thing about the latch-key." elizabeth stood a minute perplexed, and then replied briefly: "miss hilary isn't a bit timid; and i always tells miss hilary every thing." nevertheless, though she was so ignorant as never to have heard of a latch-key, she had the wit to see that all was not right. she even lay awake, in her closet off miss leaf's room, whence she could hear the murmur of her two mistresses talking together, long after they retired--lay broad awake for an hour or more, trying to put things together--the sad things that she felt certain must have happened that day, and wondering what mr. ascott could possibly want with the key. also, why he had asked her about it, instead of telling his aunts at once; and why he had treated her in the matter with such astonishing civility. it may be said a servant had no business to think about these things, to criticize her young master's proceedings, or wonder why her mistresses were sad: that she had only to go about her work like an automaton, and take no interest in any thing. i can only answer to those who like such service, let them have it: and as they sow they will assuredly reap. but long after elizabeth, young and hearty, was soundly snoring on her hard, cramped bed, johanna and hilary leaf, after a brief mutual pretence of sleep, soon discovered by both, lay consulting together over ways and means. how could the family expenses, beginning with twenty-five shillings per week as rent, possibly be met by the only actual certain family income, their £ per annum from a mortgage? for the misses leaf were or that old-fashioned stamp which believed that to reckon an income by mere probabilities is either insanity or dishonesty. common arithmetic soon proved that this £ a year could not maintain them; in fact they must soon draw on the little sum--already dipped into to-day, for ascott--which had been produced by the sale of the stowbury furniture. that sale, they now found had been a mistake; and they half feared whether the whole change from stowbury to london had not been a mistake--one of those sad errors in judgment which we all commit sometimes, and have to abide by, and make the best of, and learn from if we can. happy those who "dinna greet ower spilt milk"--a proverb wise as cheerful, which hilary, knowing well who it came from, repeated to johanna to comfort her--teaches a second brave lesson, how to avoid spilling the milk a second time. and then they consulted anxiously about what was to be done to earn money. teaching presented itself as the only resource. in those days women's work and women's rights had not been discussed so freely as at present. there was a strong feeling that the principal thing required was our duties--owed to ourselves, our home, our family and friends. there was a deep conviction--now, alas! slowly disappearing--that a woman, single or married, should never throw herself out of the safe circle of domestic life till the last extremity of necessity; that it is wiser to keep or help to keep a home, by learning how to expend its income, cook its dinners, make and mend its clothes, and, by the law that "prevention is better than cure," studying all those preservative means of holding a family together--as women, and women alone, can--than to dash into men's sphere of trades and professions, thereby, in most instances, fighting an unequal battle, and coming out of it maimed, broken, unsexed; turned into beings that are neither men nor women, with the faults and corresponding sufferings of both, and the compensations of neither. "i don't see," said poor hilary, "what i can do but teach. and oh, if i could only get daily pupils, so that i might come home or nights, and creep into the fireside; and have time to mend the stockings and look after ascott's linen, that he need not be so awfully extravagant." chapter xi. aunt hilary fixed her honest eyes on the lad's face--the lad, so little younger than herself, and yet who at tunes, when he let out sayings such as this, seemed so awfully, so pitifully old; and she felt thankful that, at all risks and costs, they had come to london to be beside him, to help him, to save him, if he needed saving, as women only can. for, after all, he was but a boy. and though as he walked by her side, stalwart and manly, the thought smote her painfully that many a young fellow of his age was the stay and bread winner of some widowed mother or sister, nay even of wife and child, still she repeated cheerfully. "what can one expect from him? he is only a boy." god help the women who, for those belonging to them--husbands, fathers, brothers, lovers, sons--have ever so tenderly to apologize. when they came in sight of st. pancras's church, ascott said, suddenly, "i think you'll knew your way now, aunt hilary." "certainly. why?" "because--you wouldn't be vexed if i left you? i have an engagement; some fellows that i dine with, out at hampstead, or richmond, or blackwell, every sunday. nothing wicked, i assure you. and you know it's capital for one's health to get a sunday in fresh air." "yes; but aunt johanna will be sorry to miss you." "will she? oh, you'll smooth her down. stay! tell her i shall be back to tea." "we shall be having tea directly." "i declare i had quite forgotten. aunt hilary, you must change your hours. they don't suit me at all. no men can ever stand early dinners. by, by! you are the very prettiest auntie. be sure you get home safe. hollo, there! that's my omnibus." he jumped on the top of it, and was off. aunt hilary stood quite confounded, and with one of those strange sinkings of the heart which had come over her several times this day. it was not that ascott showed any unkindness--that there was any actual badness in his bright and handsome young face. still there was a want there--want of earnestness, steadfastness, truthfulness, a something more discoverable as the lack of something else than as aught in itself tangibly and perceptibly wrong. it made her sad; it caused her to look forward to his future with an anxious heart. it was so different from the kind of anxiety, and yet settled repose, with which she thought of the only other man in whose future she felt the smallest interest. of robert lyon, she was certain that whatever misfortune visited him he would bear it in the best way it could be borne; whatever temptation assailed him he would fight against it as a brave and good christian should fight. but ascott? ascott's life was as yet an unanswered query. she could but leave it in omnipotent hands. so she found her way home, asking it once or twice of civil policemen, and going a little distance round--dare i make this romantic confession about so sensible and practical a little woman?--that she might walk once up burton street and down again. but nobody knew the fact, and it did nobody any harm. meantime at no the afternoon had passed heavily enough. miss selina had gone to lie down; she always did of sundays, and elizabeth, after making her comfortable, by the little attentions the lady always required, had descended to the dreary wash house, which had been appropriated to herself, under the name of a "private kitchen," in the which, after all the cleanings and improvements she could achieve, sat like marius among the rains of carthage, and sighed for the tidy bright house place at stowbury. already, from her brief experience, she had decided that london people were horrid shams, because they did not in the least care to have their kitchens comfortable. she wondered how she should ever exist in this one, and might have carried her sad and sullen face up stairs, if miss leaf had not come down stairs, and glancing about with that ever gentle smile of hers, said kindly, "well, it is not very pleasant, but you have made the best of it, elizabeth. we must all put up with something, you know. now, as my eyes are not very good to-day, suppose you come up and read me a chapter." so, in the quiet parlor, the maid sat down opposite her mistress, and read aloud out of that book which says distinctly: "servants, be obedient to them that are your masters according to the flesh, with fear and trembling, in singleness of heart, as unto christ: knowing, that whatsoever good thing a man doeth, the same shall he receive of the lord, whether he be bond or free." and yet says immediately after: "ye masters, to the same things unto them, forbearing threatening: knowing that your master also is in heaven; neither is there respect of persons with him." and i think that master whom paul served, not in preaching only, but also in practice, when he sent back the slave onesimus to philemon, praying that he might be received, "no' now as a servant, but above a servant, a brother beloved," that divine master must have looked tenderly upon these two women--both women, though of such different age and position, and taught them through his spirit in his word, as only he can teach. the reading was disturbed by a carriage driving up to the door, and a knock, a tremendously grand and forcible footman's knock, which made miss leaf start in her easy chair. "but it can't be visitors to us. we know nobody. sit still, elizabeth." it was a visitor, however, though by what ingenuity he found them out remained, when they came to think of it, a great puzzle. a card was sent in by the dirty servant of mrs. jones, speedily followed by a stout, bald headed, round faced man--i suppose i ought to write "gentleman"--in whom, though she had not seen him for years, miss leaf found no difficulty in recognizing the grocer's prentice boy, now mr. peter ascott, of russell square. she rose to receive him: there was always a stateliness in miss leaf's reception of strangers; a slight formality belonging to her own past generation, and to the time when the leafs were a "county family." perhaps this extra dignity, graceful as it was, overpowered the little man; or else, being a bachelor, he was unaccustomed to ladies' society: but he grew red in the face, twiddled his hat, and then cast a sharp inquisitive glance toward her. "miss leaf, i presume, ma'am. the eldest?" "i am the eldest miss leaf, and very glad to have an opportunity of thanking you for your long kindness to my nephew. elizabeth, give mr. ascott a chair." while doing so, and before her disappearance, elizabeth took a rapid observation of the visitor, whose name and history were perfectly familiar to her. most small towns have their hero, and stowbury's was peter ascott, the grocer's boy, the little fellow who had gone up to london to seek his fortune, and had, strange to say, found it. whether by industry or luck--except that industry is luck, and luck is only another word for industry--he had gradually risen to be a large city merchant, a dry-salter i conclude it would be called, with a handsome house, carriage, etc. he had never revisited his native place, which indeed could not be expected of him, as he had no relations, but, when asked, as was not seldom of course, he subscribed liberally to its charities. altogether he was a decided hero in the place, and though people really knew very little about him, the less they knew the more they gossiped, holding him up to the rising generation as a modern dick whittington, and reverencing him extremely as one who had shed glory on his native town. even elizabeth had conceived a great idea of mr. ascott. when she saw this little fat man, coarse and common looking in spite of his good clothes and diamond ring, and in manner a curious mixture of pomposity and awkwardness, she laughed to herself, thinking what a very uninteresting individual it was about whom stowbury had told so many interesting stories. however, she went up to inform miss selina, and prevent her making her appearance before him in the usual sunday dishabille in which she indulged when no visitors were expected. after his first awkwardness, mr. peter ascott became quite at his ease with miss leaf. he began to talk--not of stowbury, that was tacitly ignored by both--but of london, and then of "my house in russell square," "my carriage," "my servants"--the inconvenience of keeping coachmen who would drink, and footmen who would not clean the plate properly; ending by what was a favorite moral axiom of his, that "wealth and position are heavy responsibilities." he himself seemed, however, not to have been quite overwhelmed by them; he was fat and flourishing--with an acuteness and power in the upper half of his face which accounted for his having attained his present position. the lower half, somehow miss leaf did not like it, she hardly knew why, though a physiognomist might have known. for peter ascott had the underhanging, obstinate, sensual lip, the large throat--bull-necked, as it has been called--indications of that essentially animal nature which may be born with the nobleman as with the clown; which no education can refine, and no talent, though it may co-exist with it, can ever entirely remove. he reminded one, perforce, of the rough old proverb; "you can't make a silk purse out of a sow's ear." still, mr. ascott was not a bad man, though something deeper than his glorious indifference to grammar, and his dropped h's--which, to steal some one's joke, might have been swept up in bushels from miss leaf's parlor--made it impossible for him ever to be, by any culture whatever, a gentleman. they talked of ascott, as being the most convenient mutual subject; and miss leaf expressed the gratitude which her nephew felt, and she earnestly hoped would ever show, toward his kind godfather. mr. ascott looked pleased. "um--yes, ascott's not a bad fellow--believe he means well: but weak, ma'am, i'm afraid he's weak. knows nothing of business--has no business habits whatever. however, we must make the best of him; i don't repent any thing i've done for him." "i hope not," said miss leaf, gravely. and then there ensued an uncomfortable pause, which was happily broken by the opening of the door, and the sweeping in of a large, goodly figure. "my sister, mr. ascott; my sister selina." the little stout man actually started, and, as he bowed, blushed up to the eyes. miss selina was, as i have stated, the beauty of the family, and had once been an acknowledged stowbury belle. even now, though nigh upon forty, when carefully and becomingly dressed, her tall figure, and her well featured, fair complexioned, unwrinkled face, made her still appear a very personable woman. at any rate, she was not faded enough, nor the city magnate's heart cold enough to prevent a sudden revival of the vision which--in what now seemed an almost antediluvian stage of existence--had dazzled, sunday after sunday, the eyes of the grocer's lad. if there is one pure spot in a man's heart--oven the very worldliest of men--it is usually his boyish first love. so peter ascott looked hard at miss selina, then into his hat, then, as good luck would have it, out of the window, where he caught sight of his carriage and horses. these revived his spirits, and made him recognize what he was--mr. ascott, of russell square, addressing himself in the character of a benevolent patron to the leaf family. "glad to see you, miss. long time since we met--neither of us so young as we have been--but you do wear well, i must say." miss selina drew back; she was within an inch of being highly offended, when she too happened to catch a glimpse of the carriage and horses. so she sat down and entered into conversation with him; and when she liked, nobody could be more polite and agreeable than miss selina. so it happened that the handsome equipage crawled round and round the crescent, or stood pawing the silent sunday street before no. , for very nearly an hour, even till hilary came home. it was vexatious to have to make excuses for ascott: particularly as his godfather said with a laugh, that "young fellows would be young fellows," they needn't expect to see the lad till midnight, or till to-morrow morning. but though in this, and other things, he somewhat annoyed the ladies from stowbury, no one could say he was not civil to them--exceedingly civil. he offered them botanical garden tickets--zoological garden tickets; he even, after some meditation and knitting of his shaggy grey eyebrows, bolted out with an invitation for the whole family to dinner at russell square the following sunday. "i always give my dinners on sunday. i've no time any other day," said he, when miss leaf gently hesitated. "come or not, just as you like." miss selina, to whom the remark was chiefly addressed, bowed the most gracious acceptance. the visitor took very little notice of miss hilary. probably, if asked, he would have described her as a small, shabbily-dressed person, looking very like a governess. indeed, the fact of her governess-ship seemed suddenly to recur to him; he asked her if she meant to set up another school, and being informed that she rather wished private pupils, promised largely that she should have the full benefit of his "patronage" among his friends. then he departed, leaving a message for ascott to call next day, as he wished to speak to him. "for you must be aware, miss leaf, that though your nephew's allowance is nothing--a mere drop in the bucket out of my large income--still, when it comes year after year, and no chance of his shifting for himself, the most benevolent man in the world feels inclined to stop the supplies. not that i shall do that--at least not immediately: he is a fine young fellow, whom i'm rather proud to have helped a step up the ladder, and i've a great respect"--here he bowed to miss selina--"a great respect for your family. still there must come a time when i shall be obliged to shut up my purse-strings. you understand, ma'am." "i do," miss leaf answered, trying to speak with dignity, and yet with patience, for she saw hilary's face beginning to flame. "and i trust, mr. ascott, my nephew will soon cease to be an expense to you. it was your own voluntary kindness that brought it upon yourself, and i hope you have not found, never will find, either him or us ungrateful." "oh, as to that, ma'am, i don't look for gratitude. still, if ascott does work his way into a good position--and he'll be the first of his family that ever did, i reckon--but i beg your pardon, miss leaf. ladies, i'll bid you good day. will your servant call my carriage?" the instant he was gone hilary burst forth-- "if i were ascott, i'd rather starve in a garret, break stones in the high road, or buy a broom and sweep a crossing, than i'd be dependent on this man, this pompous, purse-proud, illiterate fool!" "no, not a fool," reproved johanna. "an acute, clear-headed, nor, i think, bad-hearted man. coarse and common, certainly; but if we were to hate every thing coarse or common, we should find plenty to hate. besides, though he does his kindness in an unpleasant way, think how very, very kind he has been to ascott." "johanna, i think you would find a good word for the de'il himself, as we used to say," cried hilary, laughing. "well, selina; and what is your opinion of our stout friend?" miss selina, bridling a little, declared that she did not see so much to complain of in mr. ascott. he was not educated, certainly, but he was a most respectable person. and his calling upon them so soon was most civil and attentive. she thought, considering his present position, they should forget--indeed, as christians they were bound to forget--that he was once their grocer's boy, and go to dine with him next sunday. "for my part, i shall go, though it is sunday. i consider it quite a religious duty--my duty towards my neighbor." "which is to love him as yourself. i am sure, selina, i have no objection. it would be a grand romantic wind-up to the story which stowbury used to tell--of how the 'prentice boy stared his eyes out at the beautiful young lady; and you would get the advantage of 'my house in russell square,' 'my carriage and servants,' and be able to elevate your whole family. do, now! set your cap at peter ascott." here hilary, breaking out into one of her childish fits of irrepressible laughter, was startled to see selina's face in one blaze of indignation. "hold your tongue, you silly chit, and don't chatter about things you don't understand." and she swept majestically out of the room. "what have i done? why she is really vexed. if i had thought she would have taken it in earnest i would never have said a word. who would have thought it!" but miss selina's fits of annoyance were so common that the sisters rarely troubled themselves long on the matter. and when at tea-time she came down in the best of spirits, they met her half-way, as they always did, thankful for these brief calms in the family atmosphere, which never lasted too long. it was a somewhat heavy evening. they waited supper till after ten; and yet ascott did not appear. miss leaf read the chapter as usual; and elizabeth was sent to bed, but still no sign of the absentee. "i will sit up for him. he cannot be many minutes new," said his aunt hilary, and settled herself in the solitary parlor, which one candle and no fire made as cheerless as could possibly be. there she waited till midnight before the young man came in. perhaps he was struck with compunction by her weary white face--by her silent lighting of his candle, for he made her a thousand apologies. "'pon my honor, aunt hilary, i'll never keep you up so late again. poor dear auntie, how tired she looks!" and he kissed her affectionately. "but if you were a young fellow, and got among other young fellows, and they over-persuaded you." "you should learn to say, no." "ah"--with a sigh--"so i ought, if i were as good as my aunt hilary." chapter xii. months slipped by; the trees in burton crescent had long been all bare; the summer cries of itinerant vegetable dealers and flower sellers had vanished out of the quiet street.--the three sisters almost missed them, sitting in that one dull parlor from morning till night, in the intense solitude of people who, having neither heart nor money to spend in gayeties, live forlorn in london lodgings, and knowing nobody, have nobody to visit, nobody to visit them. except mr. ascott, who still called, and occasionally stayed to tea. the hospitalities, however, were all on their side. the first entertainment--to which selina insisted upon going, and johanna thought hilary and ascott had better go too--was splendid enough, but they were the only ladies present; and though mr. ascott did the honors with great magnificence, putting miss selina at the head of his table, where she looked exceedingly well, still the sisters agreed it was better that all further invitations to russell square should be declined. miss selina herself said it would be more dignified and decorous. other visitors they had none. ascott never offered to bring any of his friends; and gradually they saw very little of him. he was frequently out, especially at meal times, so that his aunts gave up the struggle to make the humble dinners better and more to his liking, and would even have hesitated to take the money which he was understood to pay for his board, had he ever offered it, which he did not. yet still whenever he did happen to remain with them a day, or an evening, he was good and affectionate, and always entertained them with descriptions of all he would do as soon as he got into practice. meantime they kept house as economically as possible upon the little ready money they had, hoping that more would come in--that hilary would get pupils. but hilary never did. to any body who knows london this will not be surprising.--the wonder was in the misses leaf being so simple as to imagine that a young country lady, settling herself in lodgings in an obscure metropolitan street, without friends or introduction, could ever expect such a thing. no thing but her own daring, and the irrepressible well-spring of hope that was in her healthy youth, could have sustained her in what, ten years after, would have appeared to her, as it certainty was, downright insanity. but heaven takes care of the mad, the righteously and unselfishly mad, and heaven took care of poor hilary. the hundred labors she went through--weariness of body and travail of soul, the risks she ran, the pitfalls she escaped--what need to record here? many have recorded the like, many more have known them, and acknowledged that when such histories are reproduced in books how utterly imagination fades before reality. hilary never looked back-upon that time herself without a shuddering wonder how she could have dared all and gone through all. possibly she never could, but for the sweet old face, growing older yet sweeter every day, which smiled upon her the minute she opened the door of that dull parlor, and made even no. look like home. when she told, sometimes gayly, sometimes with burning, bursting tears, the tale of her day's efforts and day's failures, it was always comfort to feel johanna's hand on her hair johanna's voice whispering over her, "never mind, my child, all will come right in time all happens for good." and the face, withered and worn, yet calm as a summer sea, full of the "peace which passeth all understanding," was a living comment on the truth of these words. another comfort hilary had--elizabeth.--during her long days of absence, wandering from one end of london to the other, after advertisements that she had answered, or governess institutions that she had applied to the domestic affairs fell almost entirely into the hands of elizabeth. it was she who bought in, and kept a jealous eye, not unneeded, over provisions; she who cooked and waited, and sometimes even put a helping hand, coarse, but willing, into the family sewing and mending. this had now become so vital a necessity that it was fortunate miss leaf had no other occupation, and miss selina no other entertainment, than stitch, stitch, stitch, at the ever-beginning, never-ending wardrobe wants which assail decent poverty every where, especially in london. "clothes seem to wear out frightfully fast," said hilary one day, when she was putting on her oldest gown, to suit a damp, foggy day, when the streets were slippery with the mud of settled rain. "i saw such beautiful merino dresses in a shop in southampton row," insinuated elizabeth; but her mistress shook her head. "no, no; my old black silk will do capitally, and i can easily put on two shawls. nobody knows me; and people may wear what they like in london. don't look so grave, elizabeth. what does it signify if i can but keep myself warm? now, run away." elizabeth obeyed, but shortly reappeared with a bundle--a large, old fashioned thick shawl. "mother gave it me; her mistress gave it her; but we've never worn it, and never shall. if only you didn't mind putting it on, just this once--this terrible soaking day!" the scarlet face, the entreating tones--there was no resisting them. one natural pang hilary felt--that in her sharp poverty she had fallen so low as to be indebted to her servant, and then she too blushed, less for shame at accepting the kindness than for her own pride that could not at once receive it as such. "thank you, elizabeth," she said, gravely and gently, and let herself be wrapped in the thick shawl. its gorgeous reds and yellows would, she knew, make her noticeable, even though "people might wear any thing in london." still, she put it on with a good grace, and all through her peregrinations that day it warmed not only her shoulders, but her heart. coming home, she paused wistfully before a glittering shoe shop; her poor little feet were so soaked and cold. could she possibly afford a new pair of boots? it was not a matter of vanity--she had passed that. she did not care now how ugly and shabby looked the "wee feet" that had once been praised; but she felt it might be a matter of health and prudence. suppose she caught cold--fell ill--died: died, leaving johanna to struggle alone; died before robert lyon came home. both thoughts struck sharp. she was too young still, or had not suffered enough, calmly to think of death and dying. "it will do no harm to inquire the price. i might stop it out in omnibuses." for this was the way that every new article of dress had to be procured--"stopping it cut" of something else. after trying several pairs-with a fierce, bitter blush at a small hole which the day's walking had worn in her well darned stockings, and which she was sure the shopman saw, as well as an old lady who sat opposite--hilary bought the plainest and stoutest of boots. the bill overstepped her purse by six pence, but she promised that sum on delivery, and paid the rest. she had got into a nervous horror of letting any account stand over for a single day. look tenderly, reader, on this picture of struggles so small, of sufferings so uninteresting and mean. i paint it not because it is original, but because it is so awfully true. thousands of women, well born, well reared, know it to be true--burned into them by the cruel conflict of their youth; happy they if it ended in their youth, while mind and body had still enough vitality and elasticity to endure! i paint it, because it accounts for the accusation sometimes made--especially by men--that women are naturally stingy. possibly so: but in many instances may it not have been this petty struggle with petty wants this pitiful calculating of penny against penny, how best to save here and spend there, which narrows a woman's nature in spite of herself? it sometimes takes years of comparative ease and freedom from pecuniary cares to counteract the grinding, lowering effects of a youth of poverty. and i paint this picture, too, literally, and not on its picturesque side--it, indeed, poverty has a picturesque side--in order to show another side which it really has--high, heroic, made up of dauntless endurance, self sacrifice, and self control also, to indicate that blessing which narrow circumstances alone bestow, the habit of looking more to the realities than to the shows of things, and of finding pleasure in enjoyments mental rather than sensuous, inward rather than external. when people can truly recognize this they cease either to be afraid or ashamed of poverty. hilary was not ashamed:--not even now, when hers smote sharper and harder than it had ever done at stowbury. she felt it a sore thing enough; but it never humiliated nor angered her. either she was too proud or not proud enough; but her low estate always seemed to her too simply external a thing to affect her relations with the world outside. she never thought of being annoyed with the shopkeeper, who, though he trusted her with the sixpence, carefully took down her name and address: still less to suspecting the old lady opposite, who sat and listened to the transaction--apparently a well-to-do customer, clad in a rich black silk and handsome sable furs--of looking down upon her and despising her. she herself never despised any body, except for wickedness. so she waited contentedly, neither thinking of herself, nor of what others thought of her; but with her mind quietly occupied by the two thoughts, which in any brief space of rest always recurred, calming down all annoyances, and raising her above the level of petty pains--johanna and robert lyon. under the influence of these her tired face grew composed, and there was a wishful, far away, fond look in her eyes, which made it not wonderful that the said old lady--apparently an acute old soul in her way--should watch her, as we do occasionally watch strangers in whom we have become suddenly interested. there is no accounting for these interests, or to the events to which they give rise. sometimes they are pooh-pooh-ed as "romantic," "unnatural," "like a bit in a novel;" and yet they are facts continually occurring, especially to people of quick intuition, observation, and sympathy. nay, even the most ordinary people have known or heard of such, resulting in mysterious, life-long loves; firm friendships; strange yet often wonderful happy marriages; sudden revolutions of fortune and destiny: things utterly unaccountable for, except by the belief in the inscrutable providence which "shapes our ends, rough-how them as we will." when hilary left the shop she was startled by a voice at her elbow. "i beg your pardon, but if your way lies up southampton row, would you object to give an old woman a share of that capital umbrella of yours?" "with pleasure," hilary answered, though the oddness of the request amused her. and it was granted really with pleasure; for the old lady spoke with those "accents of the mountain tongue" which this foolish hilary never recognized without a thrill at the heart. "may be you think an old woman ought to take a cab, and not be intruding upon strangers; but i am hale and hearty, and being only a streets length from my own door, i dislike to waste unnecessary shillings." "certainly," acquiesced hilary, with a half sigh: shillings were only too precious to her. "i saw you in the boot shop, and you seemed the sort of young lady who would do a kindness to an old body like me; so i said to myself, 'ill ask her.'" "i am glad you did." poor girl! she felt unconsciously pleased at finding herself still able to show a kindness to any body. they walked on and on--it was certainly a long street's length--to the stranger's door, and it took hilary a good way round from hers; but she said nothing of this, concluding, of course, that her companion was unaware of where she lived; in which she was mistaken. they stopped at last before a respectable house near brunswick square, bearing a brass plate, with the words "miss balquidder." "that is my name, and very much obliged to you, my dear. how it rains! ye're just drenched." hilary smiled and shook her damp shawl. "i shall take no harm. i am used to go out in all weathers." "are you a governess?" the question was so direct and kindly, that it hardly seemed an impertinence. "yes; but i have no pupils, and i fear i shall never get any." "why not?" "i suppose, because i know nobody here. it seems so very hard to get teaching in london. but i beg your pardon." "i beg yours," said miss balquidder--not without a certain dignity--"for asking questions of a stranger. but i was once a stranger here myself, and had a 'sair fecht,' as we say in scotland, before i could earn even my daily bread. though i wasn't a governess, still i know pretty well what the sort of life is, and if i had daughters who must work for their bread, the one thing i would urge upon them should be--'never become a governess.' " "indeed. for what reason?" "i'll not tell you now, my dear, standing with all your wet clothes on; but as i said, if you will do me the favor to call." "thank you!" said hilary, not sufficiently initiated in london caution to dread making a new acquaintance. besides, she liked the rough hewn, good natured face; and the scotch accent was sweet to her ear. yet when she reached home she was half shy of telling her sisters the engagement she had made. selina was extremely shocked, and considered it quite necessary that the london directory, the nearest clergyman, or, perhaps, mr. ascott, who living in the parish, must know--should be consulted as to miss balquidder's respectability. "she has much more reason to question ours," recollected hilary, with some amusement; for i never told her my name or address. she does not know a single thing about me. which fact, arguing the matter energetic ally two days after, the young lady might not have been so sure of, could she have penetrated the ceiling overhead. in truth, miss balquidder, a prudent person, who never did things by halves, and, like most truly generous people, was cautious even in her extremist fits of generosity, at that very moment was sitting in mrs. jones's first floor, deliberately discovering every single thing possible to be learned about the leaf family. nevertheless, owing to selina's indignant pertinacity, hilary's own hesitation, and a dim hope of a pupil which rose up and faded like the rest, the possible acquaintance lay dormant for two or three weeks; till, alas! the fabulous wolf actually came to the door; and the sisters, after paying their week's rent, looked aghast at one another, not knowing where in the wide world the next week's rent was to come from. "thank god, we don't owe any thing: not a penny!" gasped hilary. "no; there is comfort in that," said johanna. and the expression of her folded hands and upward face was not despairing, even though that of the poor widow, when her barrel of meal was gone, and her cruse of oil spent, would hardly have been sadder. "i am sure we have wasted nothing, and cheated nobody;--surely god will help us." "i know he will, my child." and the two sisters, elder and younger, kissed one another, cried a little, and then sat down to consider what was to be done. ascott must be told how things were with them. hitherto they had not troubled him much with their affairs: indeed, he was so little at home. and after some private consultation, both johanna and hilary decided that it was wisest to let the lad come and go as he liked; not attempting--as he once indignantly expressed it--"to tie him to their apron strings." for instinctively these maiden ladies felt that with men, and, above all, young men, the only way to bind the wandering heart was to leave it free, except by trying their utmost that home should be always a pleasant home. it was touching to see their efforts, when ascott came in of evenings, to enliven for his sake the dull parlor at no. . how johanna put away her mending, and selina ceased to grumble, and hilary began her lively chat, that never failed to brighten and amuse the household. her nephew even sometimes acknowledged that wherever he went, he met nobody so "clever" as aunt hilary. so, presuming upon her influence with him, on this night, after the rest were gone to bed, she, being always the boldest to do any unpleasant thing, said to him. "ascott, how are your business affairs progressing? when do you think you will be able to get into practice?" "oh, presently. there's no hurry." "i am not so sure of that. do you know, my dear boy"--and she opened her purse, which contained a few shillings--"this is all the money we have in the world." "nonsense," said ascott, laughing. "i beg your pardon," he added, seeing it was with her no laughing matter; "but i am so accustomed to be hard up that i don't seem to care. it always comes right somehow--at least with me." "how?" "oh, i don't exactly know; but it does. don't fret, aunt hilary. i'll lend you a pound or two." she drew back. these poor, proud, fond women, who, if their boy, instead of a fine gentleman, had been a helpless invalid, would have tended him, worked for him, nay, begged for him--cheerfully, oh, how cheerfully! wanting nothing in the whole world but his love--they could not ask him for his money. even now, offered thus, hilary felt as if to take it would be intolerable. still the thing must be done. "i wish, ascott"--and she nerved herself to say what somebody ought to say to him--"i would you would not lend but pay us the pound a week you said you could so easily spare." "to be sure i will. what a thoughtless fellow i have been! but--but--i fancied you would have asked me if you wanted it. never mind, you'll get it all in a lump. let me see--how much will it come to? you are the best head going for arithmetic, aunt hilary. do reckon it all up?" she did so; and the sum total made ascott open his eyes wide. "upon my soul i had no idea it was so much. i'm very sorry, but i seem fairly cleaned out this quarter--only a few sovereigns left to keep the mill going. you shall have them, or half of them, and i'll owe you the rest. here!" he emptied on the table, without counting, four or five pounds. hilary took two, asking him gravely "if he was sure he could spare so much? she did not wish to inconvenience him." "oh, not at all; and i wouldn't mind if it did; you have been good aunts to me." he kissed her, with a sudden fit of compunction, and bade her good-night, looking as if he did not care to be "bothered" any more. hilary retired, more sad, more hopeless about him than if he had slammed the door in her face, or scolded her like a trooper. had he met her seriousness in the same spirit, even though it had been a sullen or angry spirit--and little as she said he must have felt she wished him to feel--that his aunts were displeased with him; but that utterly unrepressible light-heartedness of his--there was no doing any thing with it. there was so to speak, "no catching hold" of ascott. he meant no harm. she repeated over and over again that the lad meant no harm. he had no evil ways; was always pleasant, good-natured, and affectionate, in his own careless fashion; but was no more to be relied on than a straw that every wind blows hither and thither; or, to use a common simile, a butterfly that never sees any thing farther than the nearest flower. his was, in short, the pleasure-loving temperament, not positively sinful or sensual, but still holding pleasure as the greatest good; and regarding what deeper natures call "duty," and find therein their strong-hold and consolation, as a mere bugbear or a sentimental theory, or an impossible folly. poor lad! and he had the world to fight with; how would it use him? even if no heavy sorrows for himself or others smote him, his handsome face would have to grow old, his strong frame to meet sickness--death.--how would he do it? that is the thought which always recurs. what is the end of such men as these? alas! the answer would come from hospital wards, alms-houses and work-houses, debtors' prisons and lunatic asylums. to apprehensions like this--except the last, happily it was as yet too far off--hilary had been slowly and sadly arriving about ascott for weeks past; and her conversation with him to-night seemed to make them darken down upon her with added gloom. as she went up stairs she set her lips together hard. "i see there is nobody to do any thing except me. but i must not tell johanna." she lay long awake, planning every conceivable scheme for saving money; till at length, her wits sharpened by the desperation of the circumstances, there flashed upon her an idea that came out of a talk she had had with elizabeth that morning. true, it was a perfectly new and untried chance--and a mere chance; still it was right to overlook nothing. she would not have ventured to tell selina of it for the world, and even to johanna, she only said--finding her as wakeful as herself--said it in a careless manner, as if it had relation to nothing, and she expected nothing from it-- "i think, as i have nothing else to do, i will go and see miss balquidder to-morrow morning." chapter xiii. miss balquidder's house was a handsome one, handsomely furnished, and a neat little to aid-servant showed hilary at once into the dining-parlor, where the mistress sat before a business-like writing-table, covered with letters, papers, etc., all arranged with that careful order in disorder which indicates, even in the smallest things, the possession of an accurate, methodical mind, than which there are few greater possessions, either to its owner or to the world at large. miss balquidder was not a personable woman; she had never been so even in youth; and age had told its tale upon those large, strong features--"thoroughly scotch features," they would have been called by those who think all scotchwomen are necessarily big, raw-boned, and ugly; and have never seen that wonderfully noble beauty--not prettiness, but actual beauty in its highest physical as well as spiritual development--which is not seldom found across the tweed. but while there was nothing lovely, there was nothing unpleasant or uncomely in miss balquidder. her large figure, in its plain black silk dress; her neat white cap, from under which peeped the little round curls of flaxen hair, neither gray nor snowy, but real "lint-white locks" still; and her good-humored, motherly look--motherly rather than old-maidish--gave an impression which may be best described by the word "comfortable."--she was a "comfortable" woman. she had that quality--too rarely, alas! in all people, and rarest in women going solitary down the hill of life--of being able, out of the deep content of her own nature, to make other people the same. hilary was cheered in spite of herself: it always conveys hope to the young, when in sore trouble, if they see the old looking happy. "welcome, my dear! i was afraid you had forgotten your promise." "oh no," said hilary, responding heartily to the hearty clasp of a hand large as a man's, but soft as a woman's. "why did you not come sooner?" more than one possible excuse flashed thro' hilary's mind, but she was too honest to give it. she gave none at all. nor did she like to leave the impression that this was merely a visit, when she knew she had only come from secondary and personal motives. "may i tell you why i came to-day?--because i want advice and help, and i think you can give it, from something i heard about you yesterday." "indeed! from whom?" "in rather a roundabout way; from mrs. jones, who told our maid-servant." "the same girl i met on the staircase at your bones? i beg your pardon, but i know where you live, miss leaf; your landlady happens to be an acquaintance of mine." "so she said: and she told our elizabeth that you were a rich and benevolent woman, who took a great interest in helping other women; not in money"--blushing scarlet at be idea--"i don't mean that, but in procuring them work. i want work--oh! so terribly. if you only knew--" "sit down, my dear;" for hilary was rambling much, her voice breaking, and her eyes filling, in spite of all her self-command. miss balquidder--who seemed accustomed to wait upon herself--went out of the room, and returned with cake and glasses; then she took the wine from the side-board, poured some oat for herself and hilary, and began to talk. "it is nearly my luncheon-time, and i am a great friend to regular eating and drinking. i never let any thing interfere with my own meals, or other folks' either, if i can help it. i would as soon expect that fire to keep itself up without coals, as my mind to go on working if i don't look after my body. you understand? you seem to have good health, miss leaf. i hope you are a prudent girl, and take care of it." "i think i do;" and hilary smiled. "at any rate my sister does for me, and also elizabeth." "ah, i liked the look of that girl. if families did but know that the most useful patent of respectability they can carry about with them is their maid-servant! that is how i always judge my new acquaintances." "there's reason in it, too," said hilary, amused and drawn out of herself by the frank manner and the cordial voice--i use the adjective advisedly; none the less sweet because its good terse english had a decided scotch accent, with here and there a scotch word. also there was about miss balquidder a certain dry humor essentially scotch--neither irish "wit" nor english "fun," but scotch humor; a little ponderous perhaps, yet sparkling: like the sparkles from a large lump of coal, red-warm at the heart, and capable of warming a whole household. as many a time it had warmed the little household at stowbury--for robert lyon had it in perfection. like a waft as from old times, it made hilary at once feel at home with miss balquidder. equally, miss balquidder might have seen something in this girl's patient, heroic, forlorn youth which reminded her of her own. unreasoning as these sudden attractions appear, there is often a hidden something beneath which in reality makes them both natural and probable, as was the case here. in half an hour these two women were sitting talking like old friends; and hilary had explained her present position, needs and desires. they ended in the one cry--familiar to how many thousands more of helpless young women!--"i want work!" miss balquidder listened thoughtfully. not that it was a new story--alas! she heard it every day; but there was something new in the telling of it; such extreme directness and simplicity, such utter want of either false pride or false shame, no asking of favors, and yet no shrinking from well-means kindness; the poor woman speaking freely to the rich one, recognizing the common womanhood of both, and never supposing for an instant that mere money or position could make any difference between them. the story ended, both turned, as was the character of both, to the practical application of it--what it was exactly that hilary needed, and what miss balquidder could supply. the latter said, after a turn or two up and down the room, with her hands behind her--the only masculine trick she had-- "my dear, before going further, i ought to tell you one thing--i am not a lady." hilary looked at her in no little bewilderment. "that is," explained miss balquidder, laughing, "not an educated gentlewoman like you. i made my money myself--in trade. i kept an outfitter's shop." "you must have kept it uncommonly well," was the involuntary reply, which, in its extreme honesty and naivete, was perhaps the best thing that hilary could have said. "well, perhaps i did," and miss balquidder laughed her hearty laugh, betraying one of her few weaknesses--a consciousness of her own capabilities as a woman of business, and a pleasure at her own deserved success. "therefore, you see. i can not help you as a governess. perhaps i would not if i could, for, so far as i see, a good clearance of one half the governesses into honest trades would be for their own benefit, and greatly to the benefit of the other half. but that's not my affair. i only meddle with things i understand. miss leaf, would you be ashamed of keeping a shop?" it is no reflection upon hilary to confess that this point-blank question startled her.--her bringing up had been strictly among the professional class; and in the provinces sharper than even in london is drawn the line between the richest tradesman who "keeps a shop," and the poorest lawyer, doctor, or clergyman who ever starved in decent gentility. it had been often a struggle for hilary leaf's girlish pride to have to teach a b c to little boys and girls whose parents stood behind counters; but as she grew older she grew wiser, and intercourse with robert lyon had taught her much. she never forgot, one day, when selina asked him something about his grandfather or great-grandfather, and he answered quickly, smiling, "well, i suppose i had one, but i really never heard." nevertheless it takes long to conquer entirely the class prejudices of years, nay, more, of generations. in spite of her will hilary felt herself wince, and the color rush all over her face, at miss balquidder's question. "take time to answer, and speak out, my dear. don't be afraid. you'll not offend me." the kindly cheerful tone made hilary recover her balance immediately. "i never thought of it before; the possibility of such a thing did not occur to me; but i hope i should not be ashamed of any honest work for which i was competent. only--to serve in a shop--to want upon strangers--i am so horribly shy of strangers." and again the sensitive color rushed in a perfect tide over checks and forehead. miss balquidder looked, half amused, compassionately at her. "no, my dear, you would not make a good shop-woman, at least there are many who are better fitted for it than you; and it is my maxim that people should try to find out, and to do, only that which they are best fitted for. if they did we might not have so many cases of proud despair and ambitious failure in the world. it looks very grand and interesting sometimes to try and do what you can't de, and then tear your hair, and think the world has ill-used you--very grand, but very silly: when all the while, perhaps, there is something else you can do thoroughly well; and the world will be exceedingly obliged to you for doing it, and not doing the other thing.--as doubtless the world was to me, when, instead of being a mediocre musician, as i once wished to be--it's true, my dear--i took to keeping one of the best ladies' outfitting warehouses in london." while she talked her companion had quite recovered herself, and miss balquidder then went on to explain, what i will tell more briefly, if less graphically, than the good scotchwoman, who, like all who have had a hard struggle in their youth, liked a little to dilate upon it in easy old age. hard as it was, however, it had ended early, for at fifty she found herself a woman of independent property, without kith or kin, still active, energetic, and capable of enjoying life. she applied her mind to find out what she could best do with herself and her money. "i might have bought a landed estate to be inherited by--nobody; or a house in belgravia, and an opera-box, to be shared by--nobody. we all have our pet luxuries; none of these were exactly mine." "no," assented hilary, somewhat abstractedly. she was thinking--if she could make a fortune, and--and give it away!--if, by any means, any honorable, upright heart could be made to understand that it did not signify, in reality, which side the money came from; that it sometimes showed deeper, the very deepest attachment, when a proud, poor man had self-respect and courage enough to say to a woman, "i love you, and i will marry you; i am not such a coward as to be afraid of your gold." but, oh! what a ridiculous dream!--and she sat there, the penniless hilary leaf, listening to miss balquidder, the rich lady, whose life seemed so easy. for the moment, perhaps, her own appeared hard. but she had hope, and she was young. she knew nothing of the years and years that had had to be lived through before those kind eyes looked as clear and cloudless as now; before the voice had gained the sweet evenness of tone which she liked to listen to, and felt that it made her quiet and "good," almost like johanna's. "you see, my dear," said miss balquidder, "when one has no duties, one must just make them; when we have nobody to care for us, we must take to caring for every body. i suppose"--here a slight pause indicated that this life, like all women's lives, had had its tale, now long, long told--"i suppose i was not meant to be a wife; but i am quite certain i was meant to be a mother. and"--with her peculiar, bright, humorous look--"you'd be astonished, miss leaf, if you knew what lots of 'children' i have in all parts of the world." miss balquidder then went on to explain, that finding, from her own experience, how great was the number, and how sore the trial of young women who nowadays are obliged to work--obliged to forget that there is such a thing as the blessed privilege of being worked for--she had set herself, in her small way, to try and help them. her pet project was to induce educated women to quit the genteel starvation of governesships for some good trade thereby bringing higher intelligence into a class which needed, not the elevation of the work itself, which was comparatively easy and refined, but of the workers. she had therefore invested sum after sum of her capital in setting up various small shops in the environs of london, in her own former line, and others--stationers, lace-shops, etc.--trades which could be well carried on by women.--into the management of these she put as many young girls as she could find really fitted for it, or willing to learn, paying them regular salaries, large or small, according to their deserts. "fair work, fair pay; not one penny more or less; i never do it; it would not be honest. i overlook each business myself, and it is carried on in my name. sometimes it brings me in a little profit; sometimes not. of course," she added, smiling. "i would rather have profits than losses; still, i balance one against the other, and it leaves me generally a small interest for my money--two or three per cent., which is all i care about. thus, you see. i and my young people make a fair bargain on both sides; it's no charity. i don't believe in charity." "no," said hilary, feeling her spirit rise. she was yet young enough, yet enough unworn by the fight to feel the deliciousness of work--honest work for honest pay. "i think i could do it," she added. "i think, with a little practice, i really could keep a shop." "at all events, perhaps you could do what i find more difficult to get done, and well done, for it requires a far higher class of women than generally apply: you could keep the accounts of a shop; you should be the head, and it would be easy to find the hands, let me see; there is a young lady, she has managed my stationer's business at kensington these two years, and now she is going to be married. are you good at figures; do you understand book-keeping?" and suddenly changing into the woman of business, and one who was evidently quite accustomed both to arrange and command, miss balquidder put hilary through a sort of extempore arithmetical catechism, from which she came off with flying colors. "i only wish there were more like you. i wish there were more young ladies brought up like--" "like boys!" said hilary, laughing, "for i always used to say that was my case." "no, i never desire to see young women made into men." and miss balquidder seemed a little scandalized. "but i do wish girls were taught fewer accomplishments, and more reading, writing, and arithmetic; were made as accurate, orderly, and able to help themselves as boys are. but to business. will you take the management of my stationer's shop?" hilary's breath came hard and fast. much as she had longed for work, to get this sort of work--to keep a stationer's shop? what would her sisters say? what would he say! but she dared not think of that just now. "how much should i be able to earn, do you think?" miss balquidder considered a moment, and then said, rather shortly, for it was not exactly acting on her own principles; she knew the pay was above the work. "i will give you a hundred a year." a hundred a year! actually certain, and over and above any other income. it seemed a fortune to poor hilary. "will you give me a day or two to think about it and consult my sisters?" she spoke quietly, but miss balquidder could see how agitated she was; how she evidently struggled with many feelings that would be best struggled with alone. the good old lady rose. "take your own time, my dear; i will keep the situation open for you for one week from this date. and now i must send you away, for i have a great deal to do." they parted quite like friends; and hilary went out, walking quickly, feeling neither the wind nor the rain. yet when she reached no. she could not bring herself to enter, but took another turn or two round the crescent, trying to be quite sure of her own mind before she opened the matter to her sisters.-- and there was one little battle to be fought which the sisters did know. it was perhaps foolish, seeing she did not belong to him in any open way, and he had no external right over her life or her actions, that she should go back and back to the question, "what would robert lyon say?" he knew she earned her daily bread; sometimes this had seemed to vex and annoy him, but it must be done; and when a thing was inevitable, it was not mr. lyon's way to say much about it. but being a governess was an accredited and customary mode of a young lady's earning her livelihood. this was different. if he should think it too public, too unfeminine: he had such a horror of a woman's being any thing but a woman, as strong and brave as she could, but in a womanly way; doing any thing, however painful, that she was obliged to do, but never out of choice or bravado, or the excitement of stepping out of her own sphere into man's. would robert lyon think less of her, hilary, because she had to earn to take care of herself, to protect herself, and to act in so many ways for herself, contrary to the natural and right order of things? that old order--god forbid it should ever change!--which ordained that the women should be "keepers at home;" happy rulers of that happy little world, which seemed as far off as the next world from this poor hilary. "what if he should look down upon me? what if he should return and find me different from what he expected?" and bitter tears burned in her eyes, as she walked rapidly and passionately along the deserted street. then a revulsion came. "no; love is worth nothing that is not worth every thing, and to be trusted through every thing. if he could forget me--could love any one better than me--me myself, no matter what i was--ugly or pretty, old or young, rich or poor--i would not care for his love. it would not be worth my having; i'd let it go. robert, though it broke my heart, i'd let you go." her eyes flashed; her poor little hand clenched itself under her shawl; and then, as a half reproach, she heard in fancy the steady loving voice--which could have calmed her wildest paroxysm of passion and pain--"you must trust me, hilary." yes, he was a man to be trusted. no doubt very much like other men, and by no means such a hero to the world at large as this fond girl made him out to be; but robert lyon had, with all people, and under all circumstances, the character of reliableness. he had also--you might read it in his face--a quality equally rare, faithfulness. not merely sincerity, but faithfulness; the power of conceiving one clear purpose, or one strong love--in unity of strength--and of not only keeping true to it at the time, but of holding fast to it with a single-minded persistency that never even takes in the idea of voluntary change, as long as persistency is right or possible. "robert, robert!" sobbed this forlorn girl, as if slowly waking up to a sense of her forlorness, and of the almost universal fickleness, not actual falseness, but fickleness, which prevails in the world and among mankind. "o robert, be faithful! faithful to yourself--faithful to me!" chapter xiv. when miss hilary reached home elizabeth opened the door to her; the parlor was deserted. miss leaf had gone to lie down, and miss selina was away to see the lord mayor's show with mr. peter ascott. "with mr. peter ascott!" hilary was a little surprised; but on second thoughts she found it natural; selina was glad of any amusement--to her, not only the narrowness but the dullness of their poverty was inexpressibly galling. "she will be back to dinner, i suppose?" "i don't know," said elizabeth briefly. had miss hilary been less preoccupied, she would have noticed something not quite right about the girl--something that at any other time would have aroused the direct question, "what is the matter, elizabeth?" for miss hilary did not consider it beneath her dignity to observe that things might occasionally go wrong with this solitary young woman, away from her friends, and exposed to all the annoyances of london lodgings; that many trifles might happen to worry and perplex her. if the mistress could not set them right, she could at least give the word of kindly sympathy, as precious to "a poor servant" as to the queen on her throne. this time, however, it came not, and elizabeth disappeared below stairs immediately. the girl was revolving in her own mind a difficult ethical question. to-day, for the first time in her life, she had not "told miss hilary every thing." two things had happened, and she could not make up her mind as to whether she ought to communicate them. now elizabeth had a conscience, by nature a very tender one, and which, from circumstances, had been cultivated into a much higher sensitiveness than, alas! is common among her class, or, indeed, in any class. this, if an error, was miss hilary's doing; it probably caused elizabeth a few more miseries, and vexations, and painful shocks in the world than she would have had had she imbibed only the ordinary tone of morality, especially the morality of ordinary domestic servants; but it was an error upon which, in summing up her life, the recording angel would gravely smile. the first trial had happened at breakfast time. ascott, descending earlier than his wont, had asked her. did any gentleman, short and dirty, with a hooked nose, inquire for him yesterday? elizabeth thought a minute, and recollected that some person answering the above not too flattering description had called, but refused to leave his name, saying he did not know the ladies, but was a particular friend of mr. leaf's. ascott laughed. "so he is--a very particular friend; but my aunts would not fancy him, and i don't want him to come here. say, if he calls, that i'm gone out of town." "very well, sir. shall you start before dinner?" said elizabeth, whose practical mind immediately recurred to that meal, and to the joint, always contrived to be hot on the days that ascott dined at home. he seemed excessively tickled. "bless you, you are the greatest innocent! just say what i tell you, and never mind--hush! here's aunt hilary." and miss hilary's anxious face, white with long wakefulness, had put out of elizabeth's head the answer that was coming; indeed the matter slipped from her mind altogether, in consequence of another circumstance which gave her much more perplexity. during her young mistress's absence, supposing miss selina out too, and miss leaf up stairs, she had come suddenly into the parlor without knocking. there, to her amazement, she saw miss selina and mr. ascott standing, in close conversation, over the fire. they were so engrossed that they did not notice her, and she shut door again immediately. but what confounded her was, that she was certain, absolutely certain, mr. ascott had his arm round miss selina's waist! now that was no business of hers, and yet the faithful domestic was a good deal troubled; still more so, when, by miss leaf's excessive surprise at hearing of the visitor who had come and gone, carrying miss selina away to the city, she was certain the elder sister was completely in the dark as to any thing going to happen in the family. could it be a wedding? could miss selina really love, and be intending to marry, that horrid little man? for strange to say, this young servant had, what many a young beauty of rank and fashion has not, or has lost forever--the true, pure, womanly creed, that loving and marrying are synonymous terms; that to let a man put his arm round your waist when you do not intend to marry him, or to intend to marry him for money or any thing else when you do not really love him, are things quite impossible and incredible to any womanly mind. a creed somewhat out of date, and perhaps existing only in stray nooks of the world; but thank god! it does exist. hilary had it, and she had taught it to elizabeth. "i wonder whether miss hilary knows of this? i wonder what she would say to it?" and now arose the perplexing ethical question aforesaid, as to whether elizabeth ought to tell her. it was one of miss hilary's doctrines--the same for the kitchen as for the parlor, nay, preached strongest in the kitchen, where the mysteries of the parlor are often so cruelly exposed--that a secret accidentally found out should be kept as sacred as if actually confided; also, that the secret of an enemy should no more be betrayed than that of a beloved and trusting friend. "miss selina isn't my enemy," smiled elizabeth: "but i'm not overfond of her, and so i'd rather not tell of her, or vex her if i can help it. any how, i'll keep it to myself for a bit." but the secret weighed heavily upon her, and besides, her honest heart felt a certain diminution of respect for miss selina. what could she see to like in that common looking, commonplace man, whom she could not have met a dozen times, of whose domestic life she knew nothing, and whose personality elizabeth, with the sharp observation often found in her class, probably because coarse people do not care to hide their coarseness from servants, had speedily set down at her own valuation-- "neither carriage nor horses, nor nothing, will ever make him a gentleman?" he, however, sent miss selina home magnificently in the said carriage; ascott with her, who had been picked up somewhere in the city and who came in to his dinner, without the slightest reference to going "out of town." but in spite of her lord mayor's show, and the great attention which she said she had received from "various members of the common council of the city of london," miss selina was, for her, meditative, and did not talk quite so much as usual. there was in the little parlor an uncomfortable atmosphere, as if all of them had something on their minds. hilary felt the ice must be broken, and if she did not do it nobody else would. so she said, stealing her hand into johanna's under shelter of the dim fire-light, "selina, i wanted to have a little family consultation. i have just received an offer." "an offer!" repeated miss selina, with a visible start. "oh, i forgot; you went to see your friend, miss balquidder, this morning. did you get any thing out of her? has she any nephews and nieces wanting a governess?" "she has no relations at all. but i will just tell you the story of my visit." "i hope it's interesting," said ascott, who was lying on the sofa, half asleep, his general habit after dinner. he woke, however, during his aunt hilary's relation, and when she reached its climax, that the offer was for her to manage a stationer's shop, he burst out heartily laughing: "well, that is a rich idea. i'll come and buy of you. you'll look so pretty standing behind a counter." but selina said, angrily, "you cannot even think of such a thing. it would be a disgrace to the family." "no," said hilary, clasping tightly her eldest sister's hand--they two had already talked the matter over: "i can not see any disgrace. if our family is so poor that the women must earn their living as well as the men, all we have to see is that it should be honestly earned. what do you say, ascott?" she looked earnestly at him; she wanted sorely to find out what he really thought. but ascott took it, as he did every thing, very easily. "i don't see why aunt selina should make such a fuss. why need you do anything, aunt hilary? can't we hold out a little longer, and live upon tick till i get into practice? of course, i shall then take care of you all; i'm the head of the family. how horribly dark this room is!" he started up, and gave the fire a fierce poke, which consumed in five minutes a large lump of coal that hilary had hoped--oh, cruel, sordid economy--would have lasted half the evening. she broke the uneasy silence which followed by asking johanna to give her opinion. johanna roused herself and spoke: "ascott says right; he is the head of the family, and, by-and-by. i trust will take care of us all. but he is not able to do it now, and meantime we must live." "to be sure, we must auntie." "i mean, my boy, we must live honestly; we must not run into debt:" and her voice sharpened as with the reflected horror of her young days--if, alas! there ever had been any youth for henry leaf's eldest daughter. "no, ascott, out of debt out of danger. for myself"--she laid her thin old fingers on his arm, and looked up at him with a pitiful mixture of reliance and hopelessness--"i would rather see you breaking stones in the road than living like a gentleman, as you call it, and a swindler, as i call it, upon other people's money." ascott sprang up, coloring violently. "you use strong language, aunt johanna. never mind. i dare say you are right. however, it's no business of mine. good-night, for i have an engagement." hilary said, gravely, she wished he would stay and join in the family consultation. "oh no; i bate talking over things. settle it among yourselves. as i said, it isn't my business." "you don't care, then, what becomes of us all? i sometimes begin to think so." struck by the tone, ascott stopped in the act of putting on his lilac kid gloves. "what have i done? i may be a very bad fellow, but i'm not quite so bad as that. aunt hilary." "she didn't mean it, my boy," said aunt johanna, tenderly. he was moved, more by the tenderness than the reproach. he came and kissed his eldest aunt in that warm-hearted, impulsive way, which had won him forgiveness for many a boyish fault. it did so now. "i know i'm not half good enough to you, auntie, but i mean to be. i mean to work hard, and be a rich man some day; and then you may be sure i shall not let my aunt hilary keep a shop. now, good-night, for i must meet a fellow on business--really business--that may turn out good for us all, i assure you." he went away whistling, with that air of untroubled, good-natured liveliness peculiar to ascott leaf, which made them say continually that he was "only a boy," living a boy's life, as thoughtless and as free. when his handsome face disappeared the three women sat down again round the fire. they made no comments on him whatever; they were women, and he was their own. but--passing him over as if he had never existed--hilary began to explain to her sisters all particulars of her new scheme for maintaining the family. she told these details in a matter of-fact way, as already arranged; and finally hoped selina would make no more objections. "it is a thing quite impossible," said selina, with dignity. "why impossible? i can certainly do the work; and it can not make me less of a lady. besides, we had better not be ladies if we can not be honest ones. and, selina, where is the money to come from? we have none in the house; we can not get any till christmas." "opportunities might occur. we have friends." "not one in london; except, perhaps, mr. ascott, and i would not ask him for a farthing. you don't see, selina, how horrible it would be to be helped, unless by some one dearly loved. i couldn't bear it! i'd rather beg, starve: almost steal!" "don't be violent, child." "oh, but it's hard!" and the cry of long-smothered pain burst out. "hard enough to have to earn one's bread in a way one doesn't like; harder still to have to be parted from johanna from monday morning till saturday night. but it must be, i'll go. it's a case between hunger, debt, and work: the first is unpleasant, the second impossible, the third is my only alternative. you must consent, selina, for i will do it." "don't!" selina spoke more gently, and not without some natural emotion. "don't disgrace me, child; for i may as well tell you--i meant to do so to-night--mr. ascott has made me an offer of marriage, and i--i have accepted it." had a thunder-bolt fallen in the middle of the parlor at no. , its inmates--that is, two of them--could not have been more astounded. no doubt this surprise was a great instance of simplicity on their part. many women would have prognosticated, planned the thing from the first; thought it a most excellent match; seen glorious visions of the house in russell square, of the wealth and luxury that would be the portion of "dear selina," and the general benefit that the marriage would be to the whole leaf family. but these two were different from others. they only saw their sister selina, a woman no longer young, and not without her peculiarities, going to be married to a man she knew little or nothing about--a man whom they themselves had endured rather than liked, and for the sake of gratitude. he was trying enough merely as a chance visitor; but to look upon mr. ascott as a brother-in-law, as a husband-- "oh, selina! you can not be in earnest?" "why not? why should i not be married as well as my neighbors?" said she, sharply. nobody arguing that point, both being indeed too bewildered to argue at all, she continued, majestically, "i assure you, sisters, there could not be a more unexceptionable offer. it is true, mr. ascott's origin was rather humble; but i can overlook that. in his present wealth, and with his position and character, he will make the best of husbands." not a word was answered; what could be answered? selina was free to marry if she liked, and whom she liked. perhaps, from her nature, it was idle to expect her to marry in any other way than this; one of the thousand and one unions where the man desires a handsome, lady-like wife for the head of his establishment, and the woman wishes an elegant establishment to be mistress of; so they strike a bargain--possibly as good as most other bargains. still, with one faint lingering of hope, hilary asked if she had quite decided. "quite. he wrote to me last night, and i gave him his answer this morning." selina certainly had not troubled any body with her "love affairs." it was entirely a matter of business. the sisters saw at once that she had made up her mind. henceforward there could be no criticism of mr. peter ascott. now all was told, she talked freely of her excellent prospects. "he had behaved handsomely--very much so. he makes a good settlement on me, and says how happy he will be to help my family, so as to enable you always to make a respectable appearance." "we are exceedingly obliged to him." "don't be sharp, hilary. he means well. and he must feel that this marriage is a sort of--ahem! condescension on my part, which i never should have dreamed of twenty years ago." selina sighed; could it be at the thought of that twenty years ago? perhaps, shallow as she seemed, this woman might once have had some fancy, some ideal man whom she expected to meet and marry; possibly a very different sort of man from mr. peter ascott. however, the sigh was but momentary; she plunged back again into all the arrangements of her wedding, every one of which, down to the wedding-dress, she had evidently decided. "and therefore you see," she added, as it the unimportant, almost forgotten item of discussion had suddenly occurred to her, "it's quite impossible that my sister should keep a shop. i shall tell mr. ascott, and you will see what he says to it." but when mr. ascott appeared next day in solemn state as an accepted lover he seemed to care very little about the matter. he thought it was a good thing for every body to be independent; did not see why young women--he begged pardon, young ladies--should not earn their own bread if they liked. he only wished that the shop were a little further off than kensington, and hoped the name of leaf would not be put over the door. but the bride-elect, indignant and annoyed, begged her lover to interfere, and prevent the scheme from being carried out. "don't vex yourself, my dear selina," said he, dryly--how hilary started to hear the stranger use the household name--"but i can't see that it's my business to interfere. i marry you, i don't marry your whole family." "mr. ascott is quite right; we will end the subject," said johanna, with grave dignity while hilary sat with burning cheeks, thinking that, miserable as the family had been, it had never till now known real degradation. but her heart was very sore that day. it the morning had come the letter from india never omitted, never delayed; robert lyon was punctual as clock-work in every thing he did. it came, but this month it was a short and somewhat sad letter--hinting of failing health, uncertain prospects; full of a bitter longing to come home, and a dread that it would be years before that longing was realized. "my only consolation is," he wrote, for once betraying himself a little, "that however hard my life out here may be, i bear it alone." but that consolation was not so easy to hilary. that they two should be wasting their youth apart, when just a little heap of yellow coins--of which men like mr. ascott had such profusion--would bring them together; and, let trials be many or poverty hard, give them the unutterable joy of being once more face to face and heart to heart--oh, it was sore, sore! yet when she went up from the parlor, where the newly-affianced couple sat together, "making-believe" a passion that did not exist, and acting out the sham courtship, proper for the gentleman to pay and the lady to receive--when she shut her bedroom door, and there, sitting in the cold, read again and again robert lyon's letter to johanna, so good, so honest; so sad, yet so bravely enduring--hilary was comforted. she felt that true love, in its most unsatisfied longings, its most cruel delays, nay, even its sharpest agonies of hopeless separation, is sweeter ten thousand times than the most "respectable" of loveless marriages such as this. so, at the week's end, hilary went patiently to her work at kensington, and selina began the preparations for her wedding. chapter xv. in relating so much about her mistresses, i have lately seemed to overlook elizabeth hand. she was a person easy enough to be overlooked. she never put herself forward, not even now, when miss hilary's absence caused the weight of housekeeping and domestic management to fall chiefly upon her. she went about her duties as soberly and silently as she had done in her girlhood; even miss leaf could not draw her into much demonstrativeness: she was one of those people who never "come out" till they are strongly needed, and then-- but it remained to be proved what this girl would be. years afterward hilary remembered with what a curious reticence elizabeth used to go about in those days: how she remained as old-fashioned as ever; acquired no london ways, no fripperies of dress or flippancies of manner. also, that she never complained of anything; though the discomforts of her lodging-house life must have been great--greater than her mistresses had any idea of at the time. slowly, out of her rough, unpliant girlhood, was forming that character of self-reliance and self-control, which, in all ranks, makes of some women the helpers rather than the helped, the laborers rather than the pleasure-seekers; women whose constant lot it seems to be to walk on the shadowed side of life, to endure rather than to enjoy. elizabeth had very little actual enjoyment. she made no acquaintances, and never asked for holidays. indeed she did not seem to care for any. her great treat was when, on a sunday afternoon, miss hilary sometimes took her to westminster abbey or st. paul's; when her pleasure and gratitude always struck her mistress--may, even soothed her, and won her from her own many anxieties. it is such a blessing to be able to make any other human being, even for an hour or two, entirely happy. except these bright sundays, elizabeth's whole time was spent in waiting upon miss leaf, who had seemed to grow suddenly frail and old. it might be that living without her child six days out of the seven was a greater trial than had at first appeared to the elder sister, who until now had never parted with her since she was born; or it was perhaps a more commonplace and yet natural cause, the living in london lodgings, without even a change of air from room to room; and the want of little comforts and luxuries, which, with all hilary's care, were as impossible as ever to their limited means. for selina's engagement, which, as a matter of decorum, she had insisted should last six months, did not lessen expenses. old gowns were shabby, and omnibuses impossible to the future mrs. ascott of russell square; and though, to do her justice, she spent as little as to her self-pleasing nature was possible, still she spent something. "it's the last; i shall never cost you any more," she would say, complacently; and revert to that question of absorbing interest, her trousseau, an extremely handsome one, provided liberally by mr. ascott. sorely had this arrangement jarred upon the pride of the leaf family; yet it was inevitable. but no personal favors would the other two sisters have accepted from mr. ascott, even had he offered them--which he did not--save a dress each for the marriage, and a card for the marriage breakfast, which, he also arranged, was to take place at a hotel. so, in spite of the expected wedding, there was little change in the dull life that went on at no. . its only brightness was when miss hilary came home from saturday to monday. and in those brief glimpses, when, as was natural, she on her side, and they on theirs, put on their best face, so to speak, each trying to hide from the other any special care, it so fell out that miss hilary never discovered a thing which, week by week, elizabeth resolved to speak to her about, and yet never could. for it was not her own affair; it seemed like presumptuously middling in the affairs of the family. above all, it involved the necessity of something which looked like tale-bearing and backbiting of a person she disliked, and there was in elizabeth--servant as she was--an instinctive chivalrous honor which made her especially anxious to be just to her enemies. enemy, however, is a large word to use; and yet day by day her feelings grew more bitter toward the person concerned--namely. mr. ascott leaf. it was not from any badness in him: he was the sort of young man always likely to be a favorite with what would be termed his "inferiors;" easy, good-tempered, and gentlemanly, giving a good deal of trouble certainly, but giving it so agreeably that few servants would have grumbled, and paying for it--as he apparently thought every thing could be paid for--with a pleasant word and a handful of silver. but elizabeth's distaste for him had deeper roots. the principal one was his exceeding indifference to his aunts' affairs, great and small, from the marriage, which he briefly designated as a "jolly lark," to the sharp economies which, even with the addition of miss hilary's salary, were still requisite.--none of these latter did he ever seem to notice, except when they pressed upon himself; when he neither scolded nor argued, but simply went out and avoided them. he was now absent from home more than ever, and apparently tried as much as possible to keep the household in the dark as to his movements--leaving at uncertain times, never saying what hour he would be back, or if he said so, never keeping to his word. this was the more annoying as there were a number of people continually inquiring for him, hanging about the house, and waiting to see him "on business;" and some of these occasionally commented on the young gentleman in such unflattering terms that elizabeth was afraid they would reach the ear of mrs. jones, and henceforward tried always to attend to the door herself. but mrs. jones was a wide awake woman. she had not let lodgings for thirty years for nothing. ere long she discovered, and took good care to inform elizabeth of her discovery, that mr. ascott leaf was what is euphuistically termed "in difficulties." and here one word, lest in telling this poor lad's story i may be supposed to tell it harshly or uncharitably, as if there was no crime greater than that which a large portion of society seems to count as none; as if, at the merest mention of the ugly word debt, this rabid author flew out, and made all the ultra virtuous persons whose history is here told fly out, like turkeys, after a bit of red cloth which is a very harmless scrap of red cloth after all. most true, some kind of debt deserves only compassion. the merchant suddenly failing; the tenderly reared family who by some strange blunder or unkind kindness have been kept in ignorance of their real circumstances, and been spending pounds for which there was only pence to pay; the individuals, men or women, who, without any laxity of principle, are such utter children in practice, that they have to learn the value and use of money by hard experience, much as a child does, and are little better than children in all that concerns l. s. d. to the end of their days. but these are debtors by accident, not error. the deliberate debtor, who orders what he knows he has no means of paying for; the pleasure loving debtor, who can not renounce one single luxury for conscience' sake; the well-meaning, lazy debtor, who might make "ends meet," but does not, simply because he will not take the trouble; upon such as these it is right to have no mercy--they deserve none. to which of these classes young ascott leaf belonged his story will show. i tell it, or rather let it tell itself, and point its own moral; it is the story of hundreds and thousands. that a young fellow should not enjoy his youth would be hard; that it should not be pleasant to him to dress well, live well, and spend with open hand upon himself as well as others, no one will question. no one would ever wish it otherwise. many a kindly spendthrift of twenty-one makes a prudent paterfamilias at forty, while a man who in his twenties showed a purposeless niggardliness, would at sixty grow into the most contemptible miser alive. there is something even in the thoughtless liberality of youth to which one's heart warms, even while one's wisdom reproves.--but what struck elizabeth was that ascott's liberalities were always toward himself, and himself only. sometimes when she took in a parcel of new clothes, while others yet unpaid for were tossing in wasteful disorder about his room, or when she cleaned indefinite pairs of handsome boots, and washed dozens of the finest cambric pocket-handkerchiefs, her spirit grew hot within her to remember miss hilary's countless wants and contrivances in the matter of dress, and all the little domestic comforts which miss leaf's frail health required--things which never once seemed to cross the nephew's imagination. of course not, it will be said; how could a young man be expected to trouble himself about these things? but they do though. answer, many a widow's son; many a heedful brother of orphan sisters; many a solitary clerk living and paying his way upon the merest pittance; is it not better to think of others than one's self? can a man, even a young man, find his highest happiness in mere personal enjoyment? however, let me cease throwing these pebbles of preaching under the wheels of my story; as it moves on it will preach enough for itself. elizabeth's annoyances, suspicions, and conscience-pricks as to whether she ought or ought not to communicate both, came to an end at last. gradually she made up her mind that, even if it did look like tale bearing, on the following saturday night miss hilary must know all. it was an anxious week; for miss leaf had fallen ill. not seriously; and she never complained until her sister had left, when she returned to her bed and did not again rise. she would not have miss hilary sent for, nor miss selina, who was away paying a ceremonious prenuptial visit to mr. ascott's partner's wife at dulwich. "i don't want any thing that you can not do for me. you are becoming a first rate nurse. elizabeth," she said, with that passive, peaceful smile which almost frightened the girl; it seemed as if she were slipping away from this world and all its cares into another existence. elizabeth felt that to tell her any thing about her nephew's affairs was perfectly impossible. how thankful she was that in the quiet of the sick-room her mistress was kept in ignorance of the knocks and inquiries at the door, and especially of a certain ominous paper which had fallen into mrs. jones's hands, and informed her, as she took good care to inform elizabeth, that any day "the bailiffs" might be after her young master. "and the sooner the whole set of you clear out of my house the better; i am a decent respectable woman," said mrs. jones, that very morning; and elizabeth had had to beg her as a favor not to disturb her sick mistress, but to wait one day, till miss hilary came home. also, when ascott, ending with a cheerful and careless countenance his ten minutes' after breakfast chat in his aunt's room, had met elizabeth on the staircase, he had stopped to bid her say if any body wanted him he was gone to birmingham, and would not be home till monday. and on elizabeth's hesitating, she having determined to tell no more of these involuntary lies, he had been very angry, and then stooped to entreaties, begging her to do as he asked, or it would be the ruin of him. which she understood well enough when, all the day, she--grown painfully wise, poor girl!--watched a jewish-looking man hanging about the house, and noticing every body that went in or out of it. now, sitting at miss leaf's window, she fancied she saw this man disappear into the gin-palace opposite, and at the same moment a figure darted hurriedly round the street corner, and into the door of no. . elizabeth looked to see if her mistress were asleep, and then crept quietly out of the room, shutting the door after her. listening, she heard the sound of the latch-key, and of some one coming stealthily up stairs. "hollo!--oh, it's only you, elizabeth." "shall i light your candle, sir?" but when she did the sight was not pleasant. drenched with rain, his collar pulled up, and his hat slouched, so as in some measure to act as a disguise, breathless and trembling--hardly any body would have recognized in this discreditable object that gentlemanly young man, mr. ascott leaf. he staggered into his room and threw himself across the bed. "do you want anything, sir?" said elizabeth, from the door. "no--yes--stay a minute. elizabeth, are you to be trusted?" "i hope i am, sir." "the bailiffs are after me. i've just dodged them. if they know i'm here the game's all up--and it will kill my aunt." shocked as she was, elizabeth was glad to hear him say that--glad to see the burst of real emotion with which he flung himself down on the pillow, muttering all sorts of hopeless self-accusations. "come, sir, 'tis no use taking on so," said she, much as she would have spoken to a child, for there was something childish rather than man like in ascott's distress. nevertheless, she pitied him, with the unreasoning pity a kind heart gives to any creature, who, blameworthy or not, has fallen into trouble. "what do you mean to do?" "nothing. i'm cleaned out. and i haven't a friend in the world." he turned his face to the wall in perfect despair. elizabeth tried hard not to sit in judgment upon what the catechism would call her "betters;" and yet her own strong instinct of almost indefinite endurance turned with something approaching contempt from this weak, lightsome nature, broken by the first touch of calamity. "come, it's no use making things worse than they are. if no body knows that you are here, lock your door and keep quiet. i'll bring you some dinner when i bring up missis' tea, and not even mrs. jones will be any the wiser." "you're a brick, elizabeth--a regular brick!" cried the young fellow, brightening up at the least relief. "that will be capital.--get me a good slice of beef, or ham, or something. and mind you, don't forget!--a regular stunning bottle of pale ale." "very well, sir." the acquiescence was somewhat sullen, and had he watched elizabeth's face he might have seen there an expression not too flattering. but she faithfully brought him his dinner, and kept his secret, even though, hearing from over the staircase mrs. jones resolutely deny that mr. leaf had been at home since morning, she felt very much as if she were conniving at a lie. with a painful, half-guilty consciousness she waited for her mistress's usual question. "is my nephew come home?" but fortunately it was not asked.-- miss leaf lay quiet and passive, and her faithful nurse settled her for the night with a strangely solemn feeling, as if she were leaving her to her last rest, safe and at peace before the overhanging storm broke upon the family. but all shadow of this storm seemed to have passed away from him who was its cause. as soon as the house was still ascott crept down and fell to his supper with as good an appetite as possible. he even became free and conversational. "don't look so glum, elizabeth. i shall soon weather through. old ascott will fork out; he couldn't help it. i'm to be his nephew you know. oh, that was a clever catch of aunt selina's. if only aunt hilary would try another like it." "if you please, sir, i'm going to bed." "off with you, then, and i'll not forget the gown at christmas. you're a sharp young woman, and i'm much obliged to you." and for a moment he looked as if he were about to make the usual unmannerly acknowledgment of civility from a young gentleman to a servant maid, viz., kissing her, but he pulled a face and drew back. he really couldn't; she was so very plain. at this moment there came a violent ring, and "fire!" was shouted through the key-hole of the door. terrified, elizabeth opened it, when, with a burst of laughter, a man rushed in and laid hands upon ascott. it was the sheriff's officer. when his trouble came upon him ascott's manliness returned. he turned very white, but he made no opposition; had even enough of his wits about him--or something better than wits--to stop mrs. jones from rushing up in alarm and indignation to arouse miss leaf. "no; she'll know it quite soon enough.--let her sleep till morning. elizabeth, look here." he wrote upon a card the address of the place he was to be taken to. "give aunt hilary this. say if she can think of a way to get me out of this horrid mess; but i don't deserve--never mind. come on, you fellows." he pulled his hat over his eyes, jumped into the cab, and was gone. the whole thing had not occupied five minutes. stupefied, elizabeth stood and considered what was best to be done. miss hilary must be told; but how to get at her in the middle of the night, thereby leaving her mistress to the mercy of mrs. jones. it would never do. suddenly she thought of miss balquidder.--she might send a message. no, not a message--for the family misery and disgrace must not be betrayed to a stranger--but a letter to kensington. with an effort elizabeth composed herself sufficiently to write one--her first--to her dear miss hilary. "honored madam,--mr. leaf has got himself into trouble, and is taken away somewhere; and i dare not tell missis; and i wish you was at home, as she is not well, but better than she has been, and she shall know nothing about it till you come.--your obedient and affectionate servant, elizabeth hand." taking ascott's latch-key she quitted the house and slipped out into the dark night, almost losing her way among the gloomy squares, where she met not a creature except the solitary policeman, plashing steadily along the wet pavement. when he turned the glimmer of his bull's eye upon her she started like a guilty creature, till she remembered that she really was doing nothing wrong, and so need not be afraid of any thing. this was her simple creed, which miss hilary had taught her, and it upheld her, even till she knocked at miss balquidder's door. there, poor girl, her heart sank, especially when miss balquidder, in an anomalous costume and a severe voice, opened the door herself, and asked who was there, disturbing a respectable family at this late hour? elizabeth answered, what she had before determined to say, as sufficiently explaining her errand, and yet betraying nothing that her mistress might wish concealed. "please, ma'am, i'm miss leaf's servant. my missis is ill, and i want a letter sent at once to miss hilary." "oh! come in, then. elizabeth, i think, your name is?" "yes, ma'am." "what made you leave home at this hour of the night? did your mistress send you?" "no." "is she so very ill? it seems sudden. i saw miss hilary to-day, and she knew nothing at all about it." elizabeth shrank a little before the keen eye that seemed to read her through. "there's more amiss than you have told me, young woman. is it because your mistress is in serious danger that you want to send for her sister?" "no." "what is it then? you had better tell me at once. i hate concealment." it was a trial; but elizabeth held her ground. "i beg your pardon, ma'am; but i don't think missis would like any body to know, and therefore i'd rather not tell you." now the honest scotswoman, as she said, hated any thing underhand, but she respected the right of every human being to maintain silence if necessary. she looked sharply in elizabeth's face, which apparently re-assured her, for she said, not unkindly, "very well, child, keep your mistress's secrets by all means. only tell me what you want. shall i take a cab and fetch miss hilary at once?" elizabeth thanked her, but said she thought that would not do; it would be better just to send the note the first thing to-morrow morning, and then miss hilary would come home just as if nothing had happened, and miss leaf would not be frighted by her sudden appearance. "you are a good, mindful girl," said miss balquidder. "how did you learn to be so sensible?" at the kindly word and manner, elizabeth, bewildered and exhausted with the excitement she had gone through, and agitated by the feeling of having, for the first time in her life, to act on her own responsibility, gave way a little. she did not exactly cry, but she was very near it. miss balquidder called over the stair-head, in her quick, imperative voice-- "david, is your wife away to her bed yet?" "no, ma'am." "then tell her to fetch this young woman to the kitchen and give her some supper. and afterward, will you see her safe home, poor lassie? she's awfully tired, you see." "yes, ma'am." and following david's gray head, elizabeth, for the first time since she came to london, took a comfortable meal in a comfortable kitchen, seasoned with such stories of miss balquidder's goodness and generosity, that when, an hour after, she went home and to sleep, it was with a quieter and more hopeful than she could have believed possible under the circumstances. chapter xvi. next morning, while with that cheerful, unanxious countenance which those about an invalid must learn continually to wear, elizabeth was trying to persuade her mistress not to rise, she heard a knock, and made some excuse for escaping. she well knew what it was and who had come. there, in the parlor, sat miss hilary, mrs. jones talking at her rather than to her, for she hardly seemed to hear. but that she had heard every thing was clear enough. her drawn white face, the tight clasp of her hands, showed that the ill tidings had struck her hard. "go away, mrs. jones," cried elizabeth, fiercely. "miss hilary will call when she wants you." and with an ingenious movement that just fell short of a push, somehow the woman was got on the other side of the parlor door, which elizabeth immediately shut. then miss hilary stretched her hands across the table and looked up piteously in her servant's face. only a servant; only that poor servant to whom she could look for any comfort in this sore trouble, this bitter humiliation. there was no attempt at disguise or concealment between mistress and maid. "mrs. jones has told me every thing, elizabeth. how is my sister? she does not know?" "no; and i think she is a good deal better this morning. she has been very bad all week; only she would not let me send for you. she is really getting well now; i'm sure of that!" "thank god!" and then miss hilary began to weep. elizabeth also was thankful, even for those tears, for she had been perplexed by the hard, dry-eyed look of misery, deeper than anything she could comprehend, or than the circumstances seemed to warrant. it was deeper. the misery was not only ascott's arrest; many a lad has got into debt and got out again--the first taste of the law proving a warning to him for life; but it was this ominous "beginning of the end." the fatal end--which seemed to overhang like a hereditary cloud, to taint as with hereditary disease, the leaf family. another bitterness (and who shall blame it, for when love is really love, have not the lovers a right to be one another's first thought?)--what would robert lyon say? to his honest scotch nature poverty was nothing; honor every thing. she knew his horror of debt was even equal to her own. this, and her belief in his freedom from all false pride, had sustained her against many doubts lest he might think the less of her because of her present position--might feel ashamed could he see her sitting at her ledger in that high desk, or even occasionally serving in the shop. many a time things she would have passed over lightly on her own account she had felt on his; felt how they would annoy and vex him. the exquisitely natural thought which tennyson has put into poetry-- "if i am dear to some one else, then i should be to myself more dear"-- had often come, prosaically enough perhaps, into her head, and prevented her from spoiling her little hands with unnecessarily rough work, or carelessly passing down ill streets and by-ways, where she knew robert lyon, had he been in london, would never have allowed her to go. now what did such things signify? what need of taking care of herself? these were all superficial, external disgraces, the real disgrace was within. the plague-spot had burst out anew; it seemed as if this day were the recommencement of that bitter life of penury, misery, and humiliation, familiar through three generations to the women of the leaf family. it appeared like a fate. no use to try and struggle out of it, stretching her arms up to robert lyon's tender, honest, steadfast heart, there to be sheltered, taken care of, and made happy. no happiness for her! nothing but to go on enduring and enduring to the end. such was hilary's first emotion; morbid perhaps, yet excusable. it might have lasted longer--though in her healthy nature it could not have lasted very long--had not the reaction come, suddenly and completely, by the opening of the parlor door, and the appearance of miss leaf. miss leaf--pale, indeed; but neither alarmed nor agitated, who hearing somehow that her child had arrived, had hastily dressed herself, and come down stairs, in order not to frighten hilary. and as she took her in her arms, and kissed her with those mother-like kisses, which were the sweetest hilary had as yet ever known--the sharp anguish went out of the poor girl's heart. "oh, johanna! i can bear any thing as long as i have you" and so in this simple and natural way the miserable secret about ascott came out. being once out, it did not seem half so dreadful; nor was its effect nearly so serious as miss hilary and elizabeth had feared.--miss leaf bore it wonderfully; she might almost have known it beforehand; they would have thought she had, but that she said decidedly she had not. "still you need not have minded telling me; though it was very good and thoughtful of you elizabeth. you have gone through a great deal for our sakes, my poor girl." elizabeth burst into one smothered sob the first and the last. "nay," said miss leaf, very kindly; for this unwonted emotion in their servant moved them both. "you shall tell me the rest another time. go down now, and get miss hilary some breakfast." when elizabeth had departed the sisters turned to one another. they did not talk much; where was the use of it? they both knew the worst, both as to facts and fears. "what must be done. johanna?" johanna, after a long pause, said, "i see but one thing--to get him home." hilary started up, and walked to and fro along the room. "no, not that. i will never agree to it.--we can not help him. he does not deserve helping. if the debts were for food now, or any necessaries; but for mere luxuries, mere fine clothes; it is his tailor who has arrested him, you know. i would rather have gone in rags! i would rather see us all in rags!--it's mean, selfish, cowardly, and i despise him for it. though he is my own flesh and blood, i despise him." "hilary!" "no." and the tears burst from her angry eyes, "i don't mean that i despise him. i'm sorry for him: there is good in him, poor dear lad; but i despise his weakness; i feel fierce to think how much it will cost us all, and especially you, johanna. only think what comforts of all sorts that thirty pounds would have brought to you!" "god will provide," said johanna, earnestly. "but i know, my dear, this is sharper to you than to me. besides, i have been more used to it." she closed her eyes, with a half shudder, as if living over again the old days--when henry leaf's wife and eldest daughter used to have to give dinner parties upon food that stuck in their throats, as if every morsel had been stolen; which in truth it was, and yet they were helpless, innocent thieves; when they and the children had to wear clothes that seemed to poison them like the shirt of dejanira; when they durst not walk along special streets, nor pass particular shops, for the feeling that the shop people must be staring, and pointing, and jibing at them, "pay me what thou owest!" "but things can not again be so bad as those days, hilary. ascott is young; he may mend. people can mend, my child; and he had such a different bringing up from what his father had, and his grandfather, too. we must not be hopeless yet. you see," and making hilary kneel down before her, she took her by both hands, as if to impart something of her own quietness to this poor heart, struggling as young, honest, upright hearts do struggle with something which their whole nature revolts against, and loathes, and scorns--"you see, the boy is our boy; our own flesh and blood. we were very foolish to let him away from us for so long. we might have made him better if we had kept him at stowbury. but he is young; that is my hope of him; and he was always fond of his aunts, and is still, i think." hilary smiled sadly. "deeds, not words i don't believe in words." "well, let us put aside believing, and only act. let us give him another chance." hilary shook her head. "another, and another, and another--it will be always the same. i know it will. i can't tell how it is, johanna; but whenever i look at you, i feel so stern and hard to ascott. it seems as if there were circumstances when pity to some, to one, was wicked injustice to others: as if there were times when it is right and needful to lop off, at once and forever, a rotten branch rather than let the whole tree go to rack and ruin. i would do it! i should think myself justified in doing it." "but not just yet. he is only a boy--our own boy." and the two women, in both of whom the maternal passion existed strong and deep, yet in the one never had found, and in the other never might find, its natural channel, wept together over this lad, almost as mothers weep. "but what can we do?" said hilary at last. "thirty pounds, and not a halfpenny to pay it with; must we borrow?" "oh no--no," was the answer, with a shrinking gesture; "no borrowing. there is the diamond ring." this was a sort of heir-loom from eldest daughter to eldest daughter of the leaf family which had been kept even as a sort of superstition, through all temptations of poverty.--the last time miss leaf looked at it she had remarked, jestingly, it should be given some day to that important personage talked of for many a year among the three aunts--mrs. ascott leaf. "who must do without it now," said johanna, looking regretfully at the ring; "that is, if he ever takes to himself a wife, poor boy." hilary answered, beneath her breath, "unless he alters, i earnestly hope he never may." and there came over her involuntarily a wild, despairing thought, would it not be better that neither ascott nor herself should ever be married, that the family might die out, and trouble the world no more? nevertheless she rose up to do what she knew had to be done, and what there was nobody to do but herself. "don't mind it, johanna; for indeed i do not. i shall go to a first rate, respectable jeweler, and he will not cheat me; and then i shall find my way to the sponging-house--isn't that what they call it? i dare say many a poor woman has been there before me. i am not the first, and shall not be the last, and no body will harm me. i think i look honest, though my name is leaf." she laughed--a bitter laugh; but johanna silenced it in a close embrace; and when hilary rose up again she was quite her natural self. she summoned elizabeth, and began giving her all domestic directions, just as usual; finally, bade her sister good by in a tone as like her usual tone as possible, and left her settled on the sofa in content and peace. elizabeth followed to the door. miss hilary had asked her for the card on which ascott had written the address of the place where he had been taken to; and though the girl said not a word, her anxious eyes made piteous inquiry. her mistress patted her on the shoulder. "never mind about me; i shall come to no harm, elizabeth." "it's a bad place; such a dreadful place, mrs. jones says." "is it?" elizabeth guessed part, not the whole of the feelings that made hilary hesitate, shrink even, from the duty before her, turning first so hot, and then so pale. only as a duty could she have done it at all. "no matter, i must go. take care of my sister." she ran down the door steps, and walked quickly through the crescent. it was a clear, sunshiny, frosty day--such a day as always both cheered and calmed her. she had, despite all her cares, youth, health, energy; and a holy and constant love lay like a sleeping angel in her heart. must i tell the truth, and own that before she had gone two streets' length hilary ceased to feel so very, very miserable? love--this kind of love of which i speak--is a wonderful thing, the most wonderful thing in all the world. the strength it gives, the brightness, the actual happiness, even in hardest times, is often quite miraculous. when hilary sat waiting in the jeweler's shop, she watched a little episode of high life--two wealthy people choosing their marriage plate; the bride, so careless and haughty; the bridegroom, so unutterably mean to look at, stamped with that innate smallness and coarseness of soul which his fine clothes only made more apparent. and she thought--oh, how fondly she thought!--of that honest, manly mein; of that true, untainted heart, which she felt sure, had never loved any woman but herself; of the warm, firm hand, carving its way thro' the world for her sake, and waiting patiently till it could openly clasp hers, and give her every thing it had won. she would not have exchanged him. robert lyon, with his penniless love, his half-hopeless fortunes, or maybe his lot of never ending care, for the "brawest bridegroom" under the sun. under this sun--the common, everyday winter sun of regent and oxford streets--she walked now as brightly and bravely as if there were no trouble before her, no painful meeting with ascott, no horrid humiliation from which every womanly feeling in her nature shrunk with acute pain. "robert, my robert!" she whispered in her heart, and felt him so near to her that she was at rest, she hardly knew why. possibly grand, or clever, or happy people who condescend to read this story may despise it, think it unideal, uninteresting; treating of small things and common people--"poor persons," in short. i can not help it. i write for the poor; not to excite the compassion of the rich toward them, but to show them their own dignity and the bright side of their poverty. for it has its bright side; and its very darkest, when no sin is mixed up therewith, is brighter than many an outwardly prosperous life. "better is a dinner of herbs, where love is, than a stalled ox and hatred therewith. better is a dry morsel, and quietness therewith, than a house full of sacrifices and strife." with these two sage proverbs--which all acknowledge and scarcely any really believe, or surely they would act a little more as if they did--i leave johanna leaf sitting silently in her solitary parlor, knitting stockings for her child; weaving many a mingled web of thought withal, yet never letting a stitch go down; and hilary leaf walking cheerily and fearlessly up one strange street and down another to find out the "bad" place, where she once had no idea it would ever have been her lot to go.--one thing she knew, and gloried in the knowledge, that if robert lyon had known she was going, or known half the cares she had to meet, he would have recrossed the indian seas--have risked fortune, competence, hope of the future, which was the only cheer of his hard present--in order to save her from them all. the minute history of this painful day i do not mean to tell. hilary never told it till, years after, she wept it out upon a bosom that could understand the whole, and would take good care that while the life beat in his she never should go through the like again. ascott came home--that is, was brought home--very humbled, contrite, and grateful. there was no one to meet him but his aunt johanna, and she just kissed him quietly, and bade him come over to the fire; he was shivering, and somewhat pale. he had even two tears in his handsome eyes, the first ascott had been known to shed since he was a boy. that he felt a good deal, perhaps as much as was in his nature to feel, there could be no doubt. so his two aunts were glad and comforted; gave him his tea and the warmest seat at the hearth; said not a harsh word to him, but talked to him about indifferent things.--tea being over, hilary was anxious to get every thing painful ended before selina came home--selina, who, they felt by instinct, had now a separate interest from themselves, and had better not be told this sad story if possible; so she asked her nephew "if he remembered what they had to do this evening?" "had to do? oh, aunt hilary, i'm so tired! can't you let me be quiet? only this one night. i promise to bring you everything on monday." "monday will be too late. i shall be away. and you know you can't do without my excellent arithmetic," she added with a faint smile. "now, ascott, be a good boy--fetch down all those bills and let us go over them together." "his debts came to more than the thirty pounds then?" said his aunt johanna, when he was gone. "yes. but the ring sold for fifty." and hilary drew to the table, got writing materials, and sat waiting, with a dull, silent patience in her look, at which johanna sighed and said no more. the aunt and nephew spent some time in going over that handful of papers, and approximating to the sum total, in that kind of awful arithmetic when figures cease to be mere figures, but grow into avenging monsters, bearing with them life or death. "is that all! you are quite sure it is all?" said hilary at last, pointing to the whole amount, and looking steadily into ascott's eyes. he flushed up, and asked what she meant by doubting his word? "not that, but you might easily have made a mistake; you are so careless about money matters." "ah, that's it. i'm just careless, and so i come to grief. but i never mean to be careless any more. i'll be as precise as you. i'll balance my books every week--every day if you like--exactly as you do at that horrid shop, aunt hilary." so he was rattling on, but hilary stopped him by pointing to the figures. "you see, this sum is more than we expected. how is it to be met? think for yourself. you are a man now." "i know that," said ascott, sullenly; "but what's the use of it?--money only makes the man, and i have none. if the ancient peter would but die now and leave me his heir, though to be sure aunt selina might be putting her oar in. perhaps--considering i'm aunt selina's nephew--if i were to walk into the old chap now he might be induced to fork out! hurrah! that's a splendid idea." "what idea?" "i'll borrow the money from old ascott." "that means, because he has already given, you would have him keep on giving--and you would take and take and take--ascott, i'm ashamed of you." but ascott only burst out laughing. "nonsence!--he has money and i have none; why shouldn't he give it me?" "why?"--she repeated, her eyes flashing and her little feminine figure seeming to grow taller as she spoke--"i'll tell you, since you don't seem yourself to understand it. because a young man, with health and strength in him, should blush to eat any bread but what he himself earns. because he should work at any thing and every thing, stint himself of every luxury and pleasure, rather than ask or borrow, or, except under rare circumstances, rather than be indebted to any living soul for a single half-penny. i would not, if i were a young man." "what a nice young man you would make, aunt hilary!" there was something in the lad's imperturbable good humor at once irritating and disarming. whatever his faults, they were more negative than positive; there was no malice prepense about him, no absolute personal wickedness. and he had the strange charm of manner and speech which keeps up one's outer surface of habitual affection toward a person long after all its foundations of trust and respect have hopelessly crumbled away. "come now, my pretty aunt must go with me. she will manage the old ogre much better than i. and he must be managed somehow. it's all very fine talking of independence, but isn't it hard that a poor fellow should be living in constant dread of being carried off to that horrid, uncleanly, beastly den--bah! i don't like thinking of it--and all for the want of twenty pounds? you must go to him, aunt hilary." she saw they must--there was no help for it. even johanna said so. it was after all only asking for ascott's quarterly allowance three days in advance, for it was due on tuesday. but what jarred against her proud, honest spirit was the implication that such a request gave of taking as a right that which had been so long bestowed as a favor. nothing but the great strait they were in could ever have driven her to consent that mr. ascott should be applied to at all; but since it must be done, she felt that she had better do it herself. was it from some lurking doubt or dread that ascott might not speak the entire truth, as she had insisted upon its being spoken, before mr. ascott was asked for any thing? since whatever he gave must be given with a full knowledge on his part of the whole pitiable state of affairs. it was with a strange, sad feeling--the sadder because he never seemed to suspect it, but talked and laughed with her as usual--that she took her nephew's arm and walked silently through the dark squares, perfectly well aware that he only asked her to go with him in order to do an unpleasant thing which he did not like to do himself, and that she only went with him in the character of watch, or supervisor, to try and save him from doing something which she herself would be ashamed should be done. yet he was ostensibly the head, hope, and stay of the family. alas! many a family has to submit to, and smile under an equally melancholy and fatal sham. chapter xvii. mr. ascott was sitting half asleep in his solitary dining room, his face rosy with wine, his heart warmed also, probably from the same cause. not that he was in the least "tipsy"--that low-word applicable only to low people, and not men of property, who have a right to enjoy all the good things of this life. he was scarcely even "merry," merely "comfortable," in that cozy, benevolent state which middle aged or elderly gentlemen are apt to fall into after a good dinner and good wine, when they have no mental resources, and the said good dinner and good wine constitutes their best notion of felicity. yet wealth and comfort are not things to be despised. hilary herself was not insensible to the pleasantness of this warm, well-lit, crimson-atmosphered apartment. she as well as her neighbors liked pretty things about her, soft, harmonious colors to look at and wear, well-cooked food to eat, cheerful rooms to live in. if she could have had all these luxuries with those she loved to share them, no doubt she would have been much happier. but yet she felt to the full that solemn truth that "a man's life consisteth not in the abundance of things that he possesses;" and though hers was outwardly so dark, so full of poverty, anxiety, and pain, still she knew that inwardly it owned many things, one thing especially, which no money could buy, and without which fine houses, fine furniture, and fine clothes--indeed, all the comforts and splendors of existence, would be worse that valueless, actual torment. so as she looked around her she felt not the slightest envy of her sister selina. nor of honest peter, who rose up from his arm-chair, pulling the yellow silk handkerchief from his sleepy face, and, it must be confessed, receiving his future connections very willingly, and even kindly. now how was he to be told? how when she and ascott sat over the wine and desert he had ordered for them, listening to the rich man's complaisant pomposities, were they to explain that they had come a begging, asking him, as the climax to his liberalities, to advance a few pounds in order to keep the young man whom he had for years generously and sufficiently maintained out of prison? this, smooth it over as one might, was, hilary felt, the plain english of the matter, and as minute after minute lengthened, and nothing was said of their errand, she sat upon thorns. but ascott drank his wine and ate his walnuts quite composedly. at last hilary said, in a sort of desperation, "mr. ascott, i want to speak to you." "with pleasure, my dear young lady. will you come to my study?--i have a most elegantly furnished study, i assure you. and any affair of yours--" "thank you, but it is not mine; it concerns my nephew here." and then she braced up all her courage, and while ascott busied himself over his walnuts--he had the grace to look excessively uncomfortable--she told, as briefly as possible, the bitter truth. mr. ascott listened, apparently without surprise, and any how, without comment. his self-important loquacity ceased, and his condescending smile passed into a sharp, reticent, business look. he knitted his shaggy brows, contracted that coarsely-hung, but resolute mouth, in which lay the secret of his success in life, buttoned up his coat, and stuck his hands behind him over his coat-tails. as he stood there on his own hearth, with all his comfortable splendors about him--a man who had made his own money, hardly and honestly, who from the days when he was a poor errand-lad had had no one to trust to but himself, yet had managed always to help himself, ay, and others too--hilary's stern sense of justice contrasted him with the graceful young man who sat opposite to him, so much his inferior, and so much his debtor. she owned that peter ascott had a right to look both contemptuously and displeased. "a very pretty story, but i almost expected it," said he. and there he stopped. in his business capacity he was too acute a man to be a man of many words, and his feelings, if they existed, were kept to himself. "it all comes to this, young man," he continued, after an uncomfortable pause, in which hilary could have counted every beat of her heart, and even ascott played with his wine glass in a nervous kind of way--"you want money, and you think i'm sure to give it, because it wouldn't be pleasant just now to have discreditable stories going about concerning the future mrs. ascott's relatives. you're quite right, it wouldn't. but i'm too old a bird to be caught with chaff for all that. you must rise very early in the morning to take me in." hilary started up in an agony of shame. "that's not fair, mr. ascott. we do not take you in. have we not told you the whole truth? i was determined you should know it before we asked you for one farthing of your money. if there were the smallest shadow of a chance for ascott in any other way, we never would have come to you at all. it is a horrible, horrible humiliation!" it might be that peter ascott had a soft place in his heart, or that this time, just before his marriage, was the one crisis which sometimes occurs in a hard man's life, when, if the right touch comes, he becomes malleable ever after; but he looked kindly at the poor girl, and said, in quite a gentle way, "don't vex yourself, my dear. i shall give the young fellow what he wants: nobody ever called peter ascott stingy. but he has cost me enough already: he must shift for himself now. hand me over that check-book, ascott; but remember this is the last you'll ever see of my money." he wrote the memorandum of the check inside the page, then tore off the check itself, and proceeded to write the words "twenty pounds," date it, and sign it, lingering over the signature, as if he had a certain pride in the honest name "peter ascott," and was well aware of its monetary value on change and elsewhere. "there, miss halary, i flatter myself that's not a bad signature, nor would be easily forged. one can not be too careful over-- what's that? a letter, john?" by his extreme eagerness, almost snatching it from his footman's hands, it was one of importance. he made some sort of rough apology, drew the writing materials to him, wrote one or two business-looking letters, and made out one or two more checks. "here's yours ascott; take it, and let me have done with it," said he, throwing it across the table folded up. "can't waste time on such small transactions. ma'am, excuse me, but five thousand pounds depends on my getting these letters written and sent off within a quarter of an hour." hilary bent her head, and sat watching the pen scratch, and the clock tick on the mantle-piece; thinking if this really was to be the last of his godfather's allowance, what on earth would become of ascott? for ascott himself, he said not a word. not even when, the letters dispatched, mr. ascott rose, and administering a short, sharp homily, tacitly dismissed his visitors: whether this silence was sullenness, cowardice, or shame, hilary could not guess. she quitted the house with a sense of grinding humiliation almost intolerable. but still the worst was over; the money had been begged and given--there was no fear of a prison. and spite of every thing, hilary felt a certain relief that this was the last time ascott would be indebted to his godfather. perhaps this total cessation of extraneous help might force the young man upon his own resources, compel his easy temperament into active energy, and bring out in him those dormant qualities that his aunts still fondly hoped existed in him. "don't be down-hearted, ascott," she said: "we will manage to get on somehow till you bear of a practice, and then you must work--work like a 'brick,' as you call it. you will, i know." he answered nothing. "i won't let you give in, my boy," she went on, kindly. "who would ever dream of giving in at your age, with health and strength, a good education, and no encumbrances whatever--not even aunts! for we will not stand in your way, be sure of that. if you can not settle here, you shall try to get out abroad, as you have sometimes wished, as an army surgeon or a ship's doctor; you say these appointments are easy enough to be had. why not try? any thing; we will consent to any thing, if only we can see your life busy and useful and happy." thus she talked, feeling far more tenderly to him in his forlorn despondency than when they had quitted the house two hours before. but ascott took not the slightest notice. a strange fit of sullenness or depression seemed to have come over him, which, when they reached home and met aunt johanna's silently-questioning face, changed into devil-may-care indifference. "oh yes, aunt, we've done it; we've got the money, and now i may go to the dogs as soon as i like." "no," said aunt hilary, "it is nothing of the sort: it is only that ascott must now depend upon himself, and not upon his godfather. take courage," she added, and went up to him and kissed him on the forehead; "we'll never let our boy go to the dogs! and as for this disappointment, or any disappointment, why it's just like a cold bath, it takes away your breath for the time, and then you rise up out of it brisker and fresher than ever." but ascott shook his head with a fierce denial. "why should that old fellow be as rich as croesus and i as poor as a rat? why should i be put into the world to enjoy myself, and can't? why was i made like what i am, and then punished for it? whose fault is it?" ay, whose? the eternal, unsolvable problem rose up before hilary's imagination. the ghastly spectre of that everlasting doubt, which haunts even the firmest faith sometimes--and which all the nonsense written about that mystery which, "binding nature fate to fate, leaves free the human will," only makes darker than before--oppressed her for the time being with an inexpressible dread. ay, why was it that the boy was what he was? from his inherited nature, his temperament, or his circumstances? what, or more awful question still, who was to blame? but as hilary's thoughts went deeper down the question answered itself--at least as far as it ever can be answered in this narrow, finite stage of being. whose will--we dare not say whose blame--is it that evil must inevitably generate evil? that the smallest wrong-doing in any human being rouses a chain of results which may fatally involve other human beings in an almost incalculable circle of misery? the wages of sin is death. were it not so sin would cease to be sin, and holiness, holiness. if he, the all-holy, who for some inscrutable purpose saw fit to allow the existence of evil, allowed any other law than this, in either the spiritual or material world, would he not be denying himself, counteracting the necessities of his own righteous essence, to which evil is so antagonistic, that we can not doubt it must be in the end cast into total annihilation--into the allegorical lake of fire and brimstone, which is the "second death?" nay, do they not in reality deny him and his holiness almost as much as atheists do, who preach that the one great salvation which he has sent into the world is a salvation from punishment--a keeping out of hell and getting into heaven--instead of a salvation from sin, from the power and love of sin, through the love of god in christ? i tell these thoughts, because like lighting they passed through hilary's mind, as sometimes a whole chain of thoughts do, link after link, and because they helped her to answer her nephew quietly and briefly, for she saw he was in no state of mind to be argued with. "i can not explain, ascott, why it is that any of us are what we are, and why things happen to us as they do; it is a question we none of us understand, and in this world never shall. but if we know what we ought to be, and how we may make the best of every thing, good or bad, that happens to us, surely that is enough without perplexing ourselves about any thing more." ascott smiled, half contemptuously, half carelessly: he was not a young fellow likely to perplex himself long or deeply about these sort of things. "any how, i've got £ in my pocket, so i can't starve for a day or two. let's see; where is it to be cashed? hillo! who would have thought the old fellow would have been so stupid? look there, aunt hilary!" she was so unfamiliar with checks for £ , poor little woman! that she did not at first recognize the omission of the figures "£ " at the left-hand corner. otherwise the check was correct. "ho, ho!" laughed ascott, exceedingly amused, so easily was the current of his mind changed. "it must have been the £ pending that muddled the 'cute old fellow's brains. i wonder whether he will remember it afterward, and come posting up to see that i've taken no ill-advantage of his blunder; changed this 'twenty' into 'seventy.' i easily could, and put the figures £ here. what a good joke!" "had ye not better go to him at once, and have the matter put right?" "rubbish! i can put it right myself. it makes no difference who fills up a check, so that it is signed all correct. a deal you women know of business!" but still hilary, with a certain womanish uneasiness about money matters, and an anxiety to have the thing settled beyond doubt, urged him to go. "very well; just as you like. i do believe you are afraid of my turning forger." he buttoned his coat with a half sulky, half defiant air, left his supper untasted, and disappeared. it was midnight before he returned. his aunts were still sitting up, imagining all sorts of horrors, in an anxiety too great for words; but when hilary ran to the door, with the natural "oh, ascott, where have you been?" he pushed her aside with a gesture that was almost fierce in its repulsion. "where have i been? taking a walk round the park; that's all. can't i come and go as i like, without being pestered by women? i'm horribly tired. let me alone--do!" they did let him alone. deeply wounded, aunt johanna took no further notice of him than to set his chair a little closer to the fire, and aunt hilary slipped down stairs for more coals. there she found elizabeth, who they thought had long since gone to bed, sitting on the stairs, very sleepy, but watching still. "is he come in?" she asked; "because there are more bailiffs after him. i'm sure of it; i saw them." this, then, might account for his keeping out of the way till after twelve o'clock, and also for his wild, haggard look. hilary put aside her vague dread of some new misfortune; assured elizabeth that all was right; he had got wherewithal to pay every body on monday morning, and would be safe till then. all debtors were safe on sunday. "go to bed now--there's a good girl; it is hard that you should be troubled with our troubles." elizabeth looked up with those fond gray eyes of hers. she was but a servant, and yet looks like these engraved themselves ineffaceably on her mistress's heart, imparting the comfort that all pure love gives from any one human being to another. and love has its wonderful rights and rewards. perhaps elizabeth, who thought herself nothing at all to her mistress, would have marveled to know how much closer her mistress felt to this poor, honest, loving girl, whose truth she believed in, and on whose faithfulness she implicitly depended, than toward her own flesh and blood, who sat there moodily over the hearth; deeply pitied, sedulously cared for, but as for being confided in relied on, in great matters or small, his own concerns or theirs--the thing was impossible. they could not even ask him--they dared not, in such a strange mood was he--the simple question, had he seen mr. ascott, and had mr. ascott been annoyed about the check? it would not have been referred to at all had not hilary, in holding his coat to dry, taken his pocket book out of the breast pocket, when he snatched at it angrily. "what are you meddling with my things for? do you want to get at the check, and be peering at it to see if it's all right? but you can't; i've paid it away. perhaps you'd like to know who to? then you shan't. i'll not be accountable to you for all my proceedings. i'll not be treated like a baby. you'd better mind what you are about, aunt hilary." never, in all his childish naughtiness, or boyish impertinence, had ascott spoken to her in such a tone. she regarded him at first with simple astonishment, then hot indignation, which spurred her on to stand up for her dignity, and not submit to be insulted by her own nephew. but then came back upon her her own doctrine, taught by her own experience, that character and conduct alone constitutes real dignity or authority. she had, in point of fact, no authority over him; no one can have, not even parents, over a young man of his age, except that personal influence which is the strongest sway of all. she said only, with a quietness that surprised herself--"you mistake, ascott; i have no wish to interfere with you whatever; you are your own master, and must take your own course. i only expect from you the ordinary respect that a gentleman shows to a lady. you must be very tired and ill, or you would not have forgotten that." "i didn't; or, if i did, i beg your pardon," said he, half subdued. "when are you going to bed?" "directly. shall i light your candle also?" "oh no; not for the world; i couldn't sleep a wink. i'd go mad if i went to bed. i think i'll turn out and have a cigar." his whole manner was so strange that his aunt johanna, who had sat aloof, terribly grieved, but afraid to interfere, was moved to rise up and go over to him. "ascott, my dear, you are looking quite ill. be advised by your old auntie. go to bed at once, and forget every thing till morning." "i wish i could; i wish i could. oh, auntie, auntie!" he caught hold of her hand, which she had laid upon his head, looked up a minute into her kind, fond face, and burst into a flood of boyish tears. evidently his troubles had been too much for him; he was in a state of great excitement. for some minutes his sobs were almost hysterical: then by a struggle he recovered him-self, seemed exceedingly annoyed and ashamed, took up his candle, bade them a hurried goodnight, and went to bed. that is, he went to his room; but they heard him moving about overhead for a long while after: nor were they surprised that he refused to rise next morning, but lay most of the time with his door locked, until late in the afternoon, when he went out for a long walk, and did not return till supper, which he ate almost in silence. then, after going up to his room, and coming down again, complaining bitterly how very cold it was, he crept in to the fireside with a book in his hand, of which hilary noticed he scarcely read a line. his aunts said nothing to him; they had determined not: they felt that further interference would be not only useless but dangerous. "he will come to himself by-and by; his moods, good or bad, never last long, you know," said hilary, somewhat bitterly. "but, in the mean time, i think we had better just do as he says--let him alone." and in that sad, hopeless state they passed the last hours of that dreary sunday--afraid either to comfort him or reason with him; afraid, above all, to blame him lest it might drive him altogether astray. that he was in a state of great misery, halt sullen, half defiant, they saw, and were scarcely surprised at it; it was very hard not to be able to open their loving hearts to him, as those of one family should always do, making every trouble a common care, and every joy a universal blessing. but in his present state of mind--the sudden obstinacy of a weak nature conscious of its weakness, and dreading control--it seemed impossible either to break upon his silence or to force his confidence. they might have been right in this, or wrong; afterward hilary thought the latter. many a time she wished and wished, with a bitter regret, that instead of the quiet "good night, ascott!" and the one rather cold kiss on his forehead, she had flung her arms round his neck, and insisted on his telling out his whole mind to her, his nearest kinswoman, who had been half aunt and half sister to him all his life. but it was not done: she parted from him, as she did sunday after sunday, with a sore sick feeling of how much he might be to her, to them all, and how little he really was. if this silence of hers was a mistake--one of those mistakes which sensitive people sometimes make--it was, like all similar errors, only too sorrowfully remembered and atoned for. chapter xviii. the week passed by, and hilary received no ill tidings from home. incessant occupation kept her from dwelling too much on anxious subjects: besides, she would not have thought it exactly right, while her time and her mental powers were for so many hours per diem legally miss balquidder's, to waste the one and weaken the other by what is commonly called "fretting." nor, carrying this conscientious duty to a higher degree, and toward a higher master, would she have dared to sit grieving overmuch over their dark future. and yet it was very dark. she pondered over what was to be done with ascott, or whether he was still to be left to the hopeless hope of doing something for himself: how long the little establishment at no. could be kept together, or if, after selina's marriage, it would not be advisable to make some change that should contract expenses, and prevent this hard separation, from monday to saturday, between johanna and herself. these, with equally anxious thoughts, attacked her in crowds every day and every hour; but she had generally sufficient will to put them aside: at least till after work was done, and they could neither stupefy nor paralyze her. trouble had to her been long enough familiar to have taught her its own best lesson--that the mind can, in degree, rule itself, even as it rules the body. thus, in her business duties, which were principally keeping accounts; in her management of the two young people under her, and of the small domestic establishment connected with the shop, hilary went steadily on, day after day; made no blunders in her arithmetic, no mistakes in her housekeeping. being new to all her responsibilities, she had to give her whole mind to them; and she did it: and it was a blessing to her--the sanctified blessing which rests upon labor, almost seeming to neutralize its primeval curse. but night after night, when work was over, she sat alone at her sewing--the only time she had for it--and her thoughts went faster than her needle. she turned over plan after plan, and went back upon hope after hope, that had risen and broken like waves of the sea--nothing happening that she had expected; the only thing which had happened, or which seemed to have any permanence or reality, being two things which she had never expected at all--selina's marriage, and her own engagement with miss balquidder. it often happens so, in most people's lives, until at last they learn to live on from day to day, doing each day's duty within the day, and believing that it is a righteous as well as a tender hand which keeps the next day's page safely folded down. so hilary sat, glad to have a quiet hour, not to grieve in, but to lay out the details of a plan which had been maturing in her mind all week, and which she meant definitely to propose to johanna when she went home next day. it would cost her something to do so, and she had had some hesitations as to the scheme itself, until at last she threw them all to the winds, as an honest-hearted, faithful and faithfully-trusting woman would. her plan was, that they should write to the only real friend the family had--the only good man she believed in--stating plainly their troubles and difficulties about their nephew; asking his advice, & possibly his help. he might know of something--some opening for a young surgeon in india, or some temporary appointment for the voyage out and home, which might catch ascott's erratic and easily attracted fancy: give him occupation for the time being, and at least detach him from his present life, with all its temptations and dangers. also, it might result in bringing the boy again under that influence which had been so beneficial to him while it lasted, and which hilary devoutly believed was the best influence in the world. was it unnatural, if, mingled with an earnest desire for ascott's good, was an under-lying delight that that good should be done to him by robert lyon? so when her plan was made, even to the very words in which she meant to unfold it to johanna, and the very form in which johanna should write the letter, she allowed herself a few brief minutes to think of him--robert lyon--to call up his eyes, his voice, his smile; to count, for the hundreth time, how many months--one less than twenty-four, so she could not say years now--it would be before he returned to england. also, to speculate when and where they would first meet, and how he would speak the one word--all that was needful to change "liking" into "love," and "friend" into "wife." they had so grown together during so many years not the less so during these years of absence, that it seemed as if such a change would hardly make any difference. and yet--and yet--as she sat and sewed, wearied with her day's labors, sad and perplexed, she thought--if only, by some strange magic, robert lyon were standing opposite, holding open his arms, ready and glad to take her and all her cares to his heart, how she would cling there! how closely she would creep to him, weeping with joy and content, neither afraid nor ashamed to let him see how dearly she loved him! only a dream! ah, only a dream! and she started from it at the sharp sound of the doorbell--started, blushing and trembling, as if it had been robert lyon himself, when she knew it was only her two young assistants whom she had allowed to go out to tea in the neighborhood. so she settled herself to her work again; put all her own thoughts by in their little private corners, and waited for the entrance and the harmless gossip of these two orphan girls, who were already beginning to love her, and make a friend of her, and toward whom she felt herself quite an elderly and responsible person. poor little hilary! it seemed to be her lot always to take care of somebody or other. would it ever be that any body should take care of her? so she cleared away some of her needlework, stirred the fire, which was dropping hollow and dull, and looked up pleasantly to the opening door. but it was not the girls: it was a man's foot and a man's voice. "any person of the name of leaf living here? i wish to see her, on business." at another time she would have laughed at the manner and words, as if it were impossible so great a gentleman as mr. ascott could want to see so small a person as the "person of the name of leaf," except on business. but now she was startled by his appearance at all. she sprang up only able to articulate "my sister--" "don't be frightened; your sisters are quite well. i called at no. an hour ago." "you saw them?" "no; i thought it unadvisable, under the circumstances." "what circumstances?" "i will explain, if you will allow me to sit down; bah! i've brought in sticking to me a straw out of that confounded shaky old cab. one ought never to be so stupid as to go any where except in one's own carriage. this is rather a small room, miss hilary." he eyed it curiously round; and, lastly, with his most acute look he eyed herself, as if he wished to find out something from her manner, before going into further explanations. but she stood before him a little uneasy, and yet not very much so. the utmost she expected was some quarrel with her sister selina; perhaps the breaking off of the match, which would not have broken hilary's heart at all events. "so you have really no idea what i'm come about!" "not the slightest." "well!" said peter ascott. "i hardly thought it; but when one has been taken in as i have been, and this isn't the first time by your family--" "mr. ascott! will you explain yourself?" "i will, ma'am. it's a very unpleasant business i come about; any other gentleman but me would have come with a police officer at his back. look here, miss hilary leaf--did you ever set eyes on this before?" he took out his check book, turned deliberately over the small memorandum halves of the page, till he came to one in particular, then hunted in his pocket book for something. "my banker sent in to-day my canceled checks, which i don't usually go over oftener than three months; he knew that, the scamp." hilary looked up. "your nephew, to be sure. see!" he spread before her a check, the very one she had watched him write seven days before, made payable to "ascott leaf, or bearer," and signed with the bold, peculiar signature. "peter ascott." only instead of being a check for twenty pounds it was for seventy. instantly the whole truth flashed upon hilary: ascott's remark about how easily the t could be made into an s, and what a "good joke" it would be; his long absence that night; his strange manner: his refusal to let her see the check again; all was clear as daylight. unfortunate boy! the temptation had been too strong for him. under what sudden, insane impulse he had acted--under what delusion of being able to repay in time; or of mr. ascott's not detecting the fraud; or if discovered, of its being discovered after the marriage, when to prosecute his wife's nephew would be a disgrace to himself, could never be known. but there unmistakable was the altered check, which had been presented and paid, the banker of course not having the slightest suspicion of any thing amiss. "well, isn't this a nice return for all my kindness? so cleverly done, too. but for the merest chance i might not have found it out for three months. oh, he's a precious young rascal, this nephew of yours. his father was only a fool, but he-- do you know that this is a matter of forgery--forgery, ma'am," added mr. ascott, waxing hot in his indignation. hilary uttered a bitter groan. yes, it was quite true. their ascott, their own boy, was no longer merely idle, extravagant, thoughtless--faults bad enough, but capable of being mended as he grew older: he had done that which to the end of his days he could never blot out. he was a swindler and a forger. she clasped her hands tightly together, as one struggling with sharp physical pain, trying to read the expression of mr. ascott's face. at last she put her question into words. "what do you mean to do? shall you prosecute him?" mr. ascott crossed his legs, and settled his neckcloth with a self-satisfied air. he evidently rather enjoyed the importance of his position. to be dictator, almost of life and death, to this unfortunate family was worth certainly fifty pounds. "well, i haven't exactly determined. the money, you see, is of no moment to me, and i couldn't get it back any how. he'll never be worth a half-penny, that rascal. i might prosecute, and nobody would blame me; indeed, if i were to decline marrying your sister, and cut the whole set of you, i don't see," and he drew himself up, "that any thing could be said against me. but--" perhaps, hard man as he was, he was touched by the agony of suspense in hilary's face, for he added. "come, come, i won't disgrace your family; i won't do any thing to harm the fellow." "thank you!" said hilary, in a mechanical, unnatural voice. "as for my money, he's welcome to it, and much good may it do him. 'set a beggar on horseback, and he'll ride to the devil,' and in double quick time too. i won't hinder him. i wash my hands of the young scape-grace. but he'd better not come near me again." "no," acquiesced hilary, absently. "in fact," said mr. ascott, with a twinkle of his sharp eye, "i have already taken measures to frighten him away, so that he may make himself scarce, and give neither you nor me any farther trouble. i drove up to your door with a policeman, asked to see mr. leaf, and when i heard that he was out--a lie, of course i left word i'd be back in half an hour. depend upon it," and he winked confidentially, "he will smell a rat, and make a moonlight flitting of it, and we shall never hear of him any more." "never hear of ascott any more?" repeated hilary; and for an instant she ceased to think of him as what he was--swindler, forger, ungrateful to his benefactors, a disgrace to his home and family. she saw only the boy ascott, with his bright looks and pleasant ways, whom his aunts had brought up from his cradle, and loved with all his faults--perhaps loved still. "oh, i must go home. this will break johanna's heart!" mr. peter ascott possibly never had a heart, or it had been so stunted in its growth that it had never reached its fair development. yet he felt sorry in his way for the "young person," who looked so deadly white, yet tried so hard not to make a scene, nay, when her two assistants came into the one little parlor, deported herself with steady composure; told them that she was obliged suddenly to go home, but would be back, if possible, the next morning. then, in that orderly, accurate way which peter ascott could both understand and appreciate, she proceeded to arrange with them about the shop and the house in case she might be detained till monday. "you're not a bad woman of business," said he, with a patronizing air. "this seems a tidy little shop; i dare say you'll get on in it." she looked at him with a bewildered air, and went on speaking to the young woman at the door. "how much might your weekly receipts be in a place like this? and what salary does miss--miss what's-her-name give to each of you? you're the head shop-woman, i suppose?" hilary made no answer: she scarcely heard. all her mind was full of but one thing: "never see ascott any more!" there came back upon her all the dreadful stories she had ever heard of lads who had committed forgery or some similar offense, and, in dread of punishment, had run away in despair, and never been heard of for years--come to every kind of misery, perhaps even destroyed themselves. the impression was so horribly vivid, that when, pausing an instant in putting her books in their places, she heard the door bell ring hilary with difficulty repressed a scream. but it was no messenger of dreadful tidings, it was only elizabeth hand; and the quiet fashion in which she entered showed hilary at once that nothing dreadful had happened at home. "oh no, nothing has happened," confirmed the girl. "only miss leaf sent me to see if you could come home to night instead of tomorrow. she is quite well, that is, pretty well; but mr. leaf--" here, catching sight of miss hilary's visitor, elizabeth stopped short. peter ascott was one of her prejudices. she determined in his presence to let out no more of the family affairs. on his part, mr. ascott had always treated elizabeth as people like him usually do treat servants, afraid to lose an inch of their dignity, lest it should be an acknowledgment of equal birth and breeding with the class from which they are so terribly ashamed to have sprung. he regarded her now with a lordly air. "young woman--i believe you are the young woman who this afternoon told me that mr. leaf was out. it was a fib, of course." elizabeth turned round indignantly. "no, sir; i don't tell fibs. he was out." "did you give him my message when he came in?" "yes, sir." "and what did he say, oh?" "nothing." this was the literal fact; but there was something behind which elizabeth had not the slightest intention of communicating. in fact, she set herself, physically and mentally, in an attitude of dogged resistance to any pumping of mr. ascott: for though, as she had truly said, nothing special had happened, she felt sure that he was at the bottom of something which had gone wrong in the household that afternoon. it was this. when ascott returned, and she told him of his godfather's visit, the young man had suddenly turned so ghastly pale that she had to fetch him a glass of water; and his aunt johanna--miss selina was out--had to tend him and soothe him for several minutes before he was right again. when at last he seemed returning to his natural self, he looked wildly up at his aunt, and clung to her in such an outburst of feeling, that elizabeth had thought it best to slip out of the room. it was tea time, but still she waited outside for a half hour or longer, when she gently knocked, and after a minute or two miss leaf came out. there seemed nothing wrong, at least not much--not more than elizabeth had noticed many and many a time after talks between ascott and his aunts. "i'll take the tea in myself," she said; "for i want you to start at once for kensington to fetch miss hilary. don't frighten her--mind that elizabeth. say i am much as usual myself; but that mr. leaf is not quite well, and i think she might do him good. remember the exact words." elizabeth did, and would have delivered them accurately, it mr. ascott had not been present, and addressed her in that authoritative manner. now, she resolutely held her tongue. mr. ascott might in his time have been accustomed to cringing, frightened, or impertinent servants, but this was a phase of the species with which he was totally unfamiliar. the girl was neither sullen nor rude, yet evidently quite independent; afraid neither of her mistress, nor of himself. he was sharp enough to see that whatever he wanted to get out of elizabeth must be got in another way. "come, my wench, you'd better tell; it'll be none the worse for you, and it shan't harm the young fellow, though i dare say he has paid you well for holding your tongue." "about what, sir?" "oh! you know what happened when you told him i had called, eh? servants get to know all about their master's affairs." "mr. leaf isn't my master, and his affairs are nothing to me; i don't pry into 'em," replied elizabeth. "if you want to know any thing, sir, hadn't you better ask himself! he's at home to-night. i left him and my missus going to their tea." "left them at home, and at tea?" "yes, miss hilary." it was an inexpressible relief. for the discovery must have come. ascott must have known or guessed that mr. ascott had found him out; he must have confessed all to his aunt, or johanna would never have done two things which her sister knew she strongly disliked--sending elizabeth wandering through london at night, and fetching hilary home before the time. yet they had been left sitting quietly at their tea! perhaps, after all, the blow had not been so dreadful. johanna saw comfort through it all. vague hopes arose in hilary also; visions of the poor sinner sitting "clothed and in his right mind," contrite and humbled; comforted by them all, with the inexpressible tenderness with which we yearn over one who "was dead and is alive again, was lost, and is found;" helped by them all in the way that women--some women especially, and these were of them--seem formed to help the erring and unfortunate; for, erring as he was, he had also been unfortunate. many an excuse for him suggested itself. how foolish of them, ignorant women that they were, to suppose that seventeen years of the most careful bringing up could, with his temperament, stand against the countless dangers of london life; of any life where a young man is left to himself in a great town, with his temptations so many, and his power of resistance so small. and this might not, could not be a deliberate act. it must have been committed under a sudden impulse, to be repented of for the rest of his days. nay, in the strange way in which our sins and mistakes are made not only the whips to scourge us, but the sicknesses out of which we often come--suffering and weak indeed, but yet relieved, and fresh, and sound--who could tell but that this grave fault, this actual guilt, the climax of so many lesser errors, might not work out in the end ascott's complete reformation? so in the strange way in which, after a great shock, we begin to revive a little, to hope against hope, to see a slender ray breaking through the darkness, hilary composed herself, at least so far as to enable her to bid elizabeth go down stairs, and she would be ready directly. "i think it is the best thing i can do--to go home at once," said she. "certainly, my dear." replied mr. ascott, rather flattered by her involuntary appeal, and by an inward consciousness of his own exceeding generosity. "and pray don't disturb yourselves. tell your sister from me--your sister selina, i mean--that i overlook every thing, on condition that you keep him out of my sight, that young blackguard!" "don't, don't!" cried hilary, piteously. "well, i won't, though it's his right name--a fellow who could-- look you, miss hilary, when his father sent to me to beg ten pounds to bury his mother with. i did bury her, and him also, a month after, very respectably too, though he had no claim upon me, except that he came from stowbury. and i stood godfather to the child, and i've done my duty by him. but mark my words, what's bred in the bone will come in the flesh. he was born in a prison, and he'll die in a prison." "god forbid!" said hilary, solemnly. and again she felt the strong conviction, that whatever his father had been, or his mother, of whom they had heard nothing till she was dead, ascott could not have lived all these years of his childhood and early boyhood with his three aunts at stowbury without gaining at least some good, which might counteract the hereditary evil; as such evil can be counteracted, even as hereditary disease can be gradually removed by wholesome and careful rearing in a new generation. "well, i'll not say any more," continued peter ascott: "only the sooner the young fellow takes himself off the better. he'll only plague you all. now, can you send out for a cab for me?" hilary mechanically rang the bell, and gave the order. "i'll take you to town with me if you like. it'll save you the expense of the omnibus. i suppose you always travel by omnibus?" hilary answered something, she hardly knew what, except that it was a declining of all these benevolent attentions. at last she got mr. ascott outside the street door, and returning, put her hand to her head with a moan. "oh, miss hilary, don't look like that." "elizabeth, do you know what has happened?" "no." "then i don't want you to know. and you must never try to find it out; for it is a secret that ought to be kept strictly within the family. are you to be trusted?" "yes, miss hilary." "now, get me my bonnet, and let us make haste and go home." they walked down the gas-lit kensington high street, hilary taking her servant's arm; for she felt strangely weak. as she sat in the dark corner of the omnibus she tried to look things in the face, and form some definite plan; but the noisy rumble at once dulled and confused her faculties. she felt capable of no consecutive thought, but found herself stupidly watching the two lines of faces, wondering, absently, what sort of people they were; what were their lives and histories; and whether they all had, like herself, their own personal burden of woe. which was, alas! the one fact that never need be doubted in this world. it was nigh upon eleven o'clock when hilary knocked at the door of no. . miss leaf opened it; but for the first time in her life she had no welcome for her child. "is it ascott? i thought it was ascott," she cried, peering eagerly up and down the street. "he is gone out, then? when did he go?" asked hilary, feeling her heart turn stone-cold. "just after selina came in. she--she vexed him. but he can not be long? is not that man he?" and just as she was, without shawl or bonnet, johanna stepped out into the cold, damp night, and strained her eyes into the darkness; but in vain. "i'll walk round the crescent once, and may be i shall find him. only go in, johanna." and hilary was away again into the dark, walking rapidly, less with the hope of finding ascott than to get time to calm herself, so as to meet, and help her sisters to meet, this worst depth of their calamity. for something warned her that this last desperation of a weak nature is more to be dreaded than any overt obstinacy of a strong one. she had a conviction that ascott never would come home. after a while they gave up waiting and watching at the front door, and shut themselves up in the parlor. the first explanation past, even selina ceased talking; and they sat together, the three women, doing nothing, attempting to do nothing, only listening; thinking every sound was a step on the pavement or a knock at the door. alas! what would they not have given for the fiercest knock, the most impatient, angry footstep, if only it had been their boy's? about one o'clock, selina had to be put to bed in strong hysterics. she had lashed her nephew with her bitter tongue till he had rushed out of the house, declaring that none of them should ever see his face again. now she reproached herself as being the cause of all, and fell into an agony of remorse, which engrossed her sisters' whole care; until her violent emotion having worn itself out, she went to sleep, the only one who did sleep in that miserable family. for elizabeth also, having been sent to bed hours before, was found by miss hilary sitting on the kitchen stairs, about four in the morning. her mistress made no attempt at reproach, but brought her into the parlor to share the silent watch, never broken except to make up the fire or light a fresh candle; till candles burned up, and shutters were opened, and upon their great calamity stared the broad unwelcome day. chapter xix. "missing"--"lost"--"to--"--all the initials of the alphabet--we read these sort of advertisements in the newspapers; and unless there happens to be in them something intensely pathetic, comical, or horrible, we think very little about them. only those who have undergone all that such an advertisement implies can understand its depth of misery: the sudden missing of the person out of the home circle, whether going away in anger or driven away by terror or disgrace; the hour after hour and day after day of agonized suspense; the self-reproach, real or imaginary, lest any thing might have been said or done that was not said or done--any thing prevented that was not prevented; the gnawing remorse for some cruel, or careless, or bitter word, that could so easily have been avoided. alas! if people could only be made to feel that every word, every action carries with it the weight of an eternity; that the merest chance may make something said or done quite unpremeditatedly, in vexation, sullenness, or spite, the last action, the last word; which may grow into an awful remembrance, rising up between them and the irredeemable past, and blackening the future for years! selina was quite sure her unhappy nephew had committed suicide, and that she had been the cause of it. this conviction she impressed incessantly on her two sisters as they waited upon her, or sat talking by her bedside during that long saturday, when there was nothing else to be done. that was the misery of it. there was nothing to be done. they had not the slightest clew to ascott's haunts or associates. with the last fingering of honest shame, or honest respect for his aunts, he had kept all these things to himself. to search for him in wide london was altogether impossible. two courses suggested themselves to hilary--one, to go and consult miss balquidder; the other--which came into her mind from some similar case she had heard of--to set on foot inquiries at all police stations. but the first idea was soon rejected: only at the last extremity could she make patent the family misery--the family disgrace. to the second, similar and even stronger reasons applied. there was something about the cool, matter-of-fact, business-like act of setting a detective officer to hunt out their nephew, from which these poor women recoiled. besides, impressed as he was--he had told his aunt johanna so--with the relentlessness of mr. ascott, might not the chance of his discovering that he was hunted drive him to desperation? hardly to suicide. hilary steadfastly disbelieved in that. when selina painted horrible pictures of his throwing himself off waterloo bridge: or being found hanging to a tree in one of the parks; or locking himself in a hotel bed chamber and blowing out his brains, her younger sister only laughed--laughed as much as she could--if only to keep johanna quiet. yet she herself had few fears. for she knew that ascott was, in a sense, too cowardly to kill himself. he so disliked physical pain, physical unpleasantness of all kinds. she felt sure he would stop short, even with the razor or the pistol in his hand, rather than do a thing so very disagreeable. nevertheless, in spite of herself, while she and her sisters sat together, hour after hour, in a stillness almost like that when there is a death in the house, these morbid terrors took a double size. hilary ceased to treat them as ridiculous impossibilities, but began to argue them out rationally. the mere act of doing so made her recoil; for it seemed an acknowledgment that she was fighting not with chimeras but realities. "it is twenty-four hours since he went," she reasoned. "if he had done anything desperate he would have done it at once, and we should have heard of it long before now; ill news always travels fast. besides, his name was marked on all his clothes in full. i did it myself. and his coat pockets were always stuffed with letters; he used to cram them in as soon as he got them, you know." and at this small remembrance of one of his "ways," even though it was an unkind way, and had caused them many a pain, from the want of confidence it showed, his poor, fond aunts turned aside to hide their starting tears. the very phrase "he used to," seemed such an unconscious admission that his life with them was over and done; that he never would either please them or vex them any more. yet they took care that during the whole day every thing should be done as if he were expected minute by minute; that elizabeth should lay the fourth knife and fork at dinner, the fourth cup and saucer at tea. elizabeth, who throughout had faithfully kept her pledge; who went about silently and unobservantly, and by every means in her power put aside the curiosity of mrs. jones as to what could be the reason that her lodgers had sat up all night, and what on earth had become of young mr. leaf. after tea, johanna, quite worn out, consented to go to bed; and then hilary, left to her own responsibility, set herself to consider how long this dreadful quietness was to last, whether nothing could be done. she could endure whatever was inevitable, but it was against her nature as well as her conscience to sit down tamely to endure any thing whatsoever till it did become inevitable. in the first place, she determined on that which a certain sense of honor, as well as the fear of vexing him should he come home, had hitherto prevented the examining of ascott's room, drawers, clothes, and papers. it was a very dreary business--almost like doing the like to a person who was dead, only without the sad sanctity that belongs to the dead, whose very errors are forgotten and forgiven, who can neither suffer nor make others suffer any more. many things she found, and more she guessed at--things which stabbed her to the heart, things that she never told, not even to johanna; but she found no clew whatever to ascott's whereabouts, intentions, or connections. one thing, however, struck her--that most of his clothes, and all his somewhat extensive stock of jewelry were gone; every thing, in short, that could be convertible into money. it was evident that his flight, sudden as it was, had been premeditated as at least a possibility. this so far was satisfactory. it took away the one haunting fear of his committing suicide; and made it likely that he was still lingering about, hiding from justice and mr. ascott, or perhaps waiting for an opportunity to escape from england--from the fear that his godfather, even if not prosecuting him, had the power and doubtless the will completely to crush his future, wherever he was known. where could he go? his aunt tried to think over every word he had ever let fall about america, australia, or any other place to which the hopeless outlaws of this country fly; but she could recollect nothing to enable her to form any conclusion. one thing only she was sure of--that if once he went away, his own words would come true; they would never see his face again. the last tie, the last constraint that bound him to home and a steady, righteous life would be broken; he would go all adrift, be tossed hither and thither on every wave of circumstance--what he called circumstance--till heaven only knew what a total wreck he might speedily become, or in what forlorn and far off seas his ruined life might go down. he, ascott leaf, the last of the name and family. "it can not be; it shall not be!" cried hilary. a sharp, bitter cry of resistance to the death; and her heart seemed to go out to the wretched boy and her hands to clutch at him, as if he were drowning, and she were the only one to save him. how could she do it? if she could only get at him, by word or letter! but that seemed impossible, until, turning over scheme after scheme, she suddenly thought of the one which so many people had tried in similar circumstances, and which she remembered they had talked over and laughed over, they and ascott, one sunday evening not so very long ago. this was--a times advertisement. the difficulty how to word it, so as to catch his attention and yet escape publicity, was very great, especially as his initials were so common. hundreds of "a. l.'s" might be wandering away from home, to whom all that she dared say to call ascott back would equally apply. at last a bright thought struck her. "a. leaf" (will a small l) "will be quite safe wherever found. come. saturday. ." as she wrote it--this wretched double-entendre--she was seized with that sudden sense of the ludicrous which sometimes intrudes in such a ghastly fashion in the very midst of great misery. she burst into uncontrollable laughter, fit after fit; so violent that elizabeth, who came in by chance, was terrified out of her wits, and kneeling beside her mistress, implored her to be quiet. at last the paroxysm ended in complete exhaustion. the tension of the last twenty-four hours had given way, and hilary knew her strength was gone. yet the advertisement ought to be taken to the times office that very night, in order to be inserted without fail on monday morning. there was but one person whom she could trust--elizabeth. she looked at the girl, who was kneeling beside the sofa, rubbing her feet, and sometimes casting a glance round, in the quiet way of one well used to nursing, who can find out how the sufferer is without "fussing" with questions. she noticed, probably because she had seen little of her of late, a curious change in elizabeth. it must have been gradual, but yet its result had never been so apparent before. her brusqueness had softened down, and there had come into her and shone out of her, spite of all her natural uncomeliness of person, that beautiful, intangible something, common alike to peasant and queen, as clear to see and as sad to miss in both--womanliness. added thereto was the gentle composure of mein which almost invariably accompanied it, which instinctively makes you fell that in great things or small, whatever the woman has to do, she will do it in the womanliest, wisest, and best way. so thought miss hilary as she lay watching her servant, and then explained to her the errand upon which she wished to send her. not much explanation, for she merely gave her the advertisement to read, and told her what she wished done with it. and elizabeth, on her part, asked no questions, but simply listened and obeyed. after she was gone hilary lay on the sofa, passive and motionless. her strength and activity seemed to have collapsed at once into that heavy quietness which comes when one has endured to the utmost limit of endurance when one feels as if to speak a word or to lift a finger would be as much as life was worth. "oh, if i could only go to sleep!" was all she thought. by-and-by sleep did come, and she was taken far away out of these miseries. by the strange peculiarity of dreams that we so seldom dream about any grief that oppresses us at the time but generally of something quite different, she thought she was in some known unknown land, lovely and beautiful, with blue hills rising in the distance, and blue seas creeping and curling on to the shore. on this shore she was walking with robert lyon, just as he used to be, with his true face and honest voice. he did not talk to her much; but she felt him there, and knew they had but "one heart between them." a heart which had never once swerved, either from the other; a heart whole and sound, into which the least unfaith had never come--that had never known, or recognized even as a possibility, the one first doubt, the ominous -- "little rift within the lute, that by-and-by will make the music mute, and ever widening slowly silence all." is it ever so in this world? does god ever bring the faithful man to the faithful woman, and make them love one another with a righteous, holy, persistent tenderness, which dare look in his face, nor be ashamed; which sees in this life only the beginning of the life to come; and in the closest, most passionate human love something to be held with a loose hand, something frail as glass and brittle as straw, unless it is perfected and sanctified by the love divine? hilary at least believed so. and when at elizabeth's knock she woke with a start, and saw--not the sweet sea-shore and robert lyon, but the dull parlor, and the last flicker of the fire, she thanked god that her dream was not all a dream--that, sharp as her misery was, it did not touch this--the love of her heart: she believed in robert lyon still. and so she rose and spoke quite cheerfully, asking elizabeth how she had managed, and whether the advertisement would be sure to be in on monday morning. "yes, miss hilary; it is sure to be all right." and then the girl hung about the room in an uneasy way, as if she had something to tell, which was the fact. elizabeth had had an adventure. it was a new thing in her monotonous life; it brightened her eyes, and flushed her cheeks, and made her old nervousness of manner return. more especially as she was somewhat perplexed, being divided in her mind between the wish she had to tell her mistress every thing, and the fear to trouble her, at this troublous time, with any small matter that merely concerned herself. the matter was this. when she had given in her advertisement at the times office, and was standing behind the counter waiting for her change and receipt, there stood beside her a young man, also waiting. she had hardly noticed him, till on his talking to the clerk about some misprint in his advertisement, apparently one of the great column of "want places," her ear was caught by the unmistakable stowbury accent. it was the first time she had heard it since she left home, and to elizabeth's tenacious nature home in absence had gained an additional charm, had grown to be the one place in the world about which her affections clung. in these dreary wilds of london, to hear a stowbury tongue, to catch sight of a stowbury person, or even one who might know stowbury, made her heart leap up with a bound of joy. she turned suddenly, and looked intently at the young man, or rather the lad, for he seemed a mere lad, small, slight, and whiskerless. "well, miss. i hope you'll know me again next time." said the young fellow. at which remark elizabeth saw that he was neither so young nor so simple as she had at first thought. she drew back, very much ashamed, and coloring deeply. now, if elizabeth ever looked any thing like comely, it was when she blushed; for she had the delicate skin peculiar to the young women of her district; and when the blood rushed through it, no cheek of lady fair ever assumed a brighter rose. that, or the natural vanity of man in being noticed by woman, caught the youth's attention. "come now, miss, don't be shy or offended. perhaps i'm going your way? would you like company home?" "no, thank you," said elizabeth, with great dignity. "well, won't you even tell a fellow your name? mine's tom cliffe, and i live--" "cliffe! are you little tommy cliffe, and do you come from stowbury?" and all elizabeth's heart was in her eyes. as has been said, she was of a specially tenacious nature. she liked few people, but those she did like she held very fast. almost the only strong interest of her life, except miss hilary, had been the little boy whom she had snatched from under the horse's heels; and though he was rather a scape-grace, and cared little for her, and his mother was a decidedly objectionable woman, she had clung to them both firmly till she lost sight of them. now it was not to be expected that she should recognize in this london stranger the little lad whose life she had saved--a lad, too, from her beloved stowbury--without a certain amount of emotion, at which the individual in question broadly stared. "bless your heart, i am tommy cliffe from stowbury, sure enough. who are you?" "elizabeth hand." whereupon ensued a most friendly greeting. tom declared he should have known her any where, and had never forgotten her--never! how far that was true or not, he certainly looked as if it were; and two great tears of pleasure dimmed elizabeth's kind eyes. "you've grown a man now, tommy," said she, looking at him with a sort of half-maternal pride, and noticing his remarkably hand some and intelligent face, so intelligent that it would have attracted notice, though it was set upon broad, stooping shoulders, and a small, slight body. "let me see; how old are you?" "i'm nineteen, i think." "and i'm two-and-twenty. how aged we are growing!" said elizabeth, with a smile. then she asked after mrs. cliffe, but got only the brief answer, "mother's dead," given in a tone as if no more inquiries would be welcome. his two sisters, also, had died of typhus in one week, and tom had been "on his own hook," as he expressed it, for the last three years. he was extremely frank and confidential; told how he had begun life as a printer's "devil," afterward become a compositor, and his health failing, had left the trade, and gone as servant to a literary gentleman. "an uncommon clever fellow is master; keeps his carriage, and has dukes to dinner, all out of his books. maybe you've heard of them, elizabeth?" and he named a few, in a patronizing way; at which elizabeth smiled, for she knew them well. but she nevertheless regarded with a certain awe the servant of so great a man, and "little tommy cliffe" took a new importance in her eyes. also, as he walked with her along the street to find an omnibus, she could not help perceiving what a sharp little fellow he had grown into; how, like many another printer's boy, he had caught the influence of the atmosphere of letters, and was educated, self-educated, of course, to a degree far beyond his position. when she looked at him, and listened to him, elizabeth involuntarily thought of benjamin franklin, and of many more who had raised themselves from the ink-pot and the compositor's desk to fame and eminence, and she fancied that such might be the lot of "little tommy cliffe." why not? if so, how excessively proud she should be! for the moment she had forgotten her errand; forgotten even miss hilary. it was not till tom cliffe asked her where she lived, that she suddenly recollected her mistress might not like, under present circumstances, that their abode or any thing concerning them should be known to a stowbury person. it was a struggle. she would have liked to see the lad again; have liked to talk over with him stowbury things and stowbury people; but she felt she ought not, and she would not. "tell me where you live, tom, and that will do just as well; at least till i speak to my mistress. i never had a visitor before, and my mistress might not like it." "no followers allowed, eh?" elizabeth laughed. the idea of little tommy clifie as her "follower," seemed so very funny. so she bade him good-by; having, thanks to his gay frankness, been made acquainted with all about him, but leaving him in perfect ignorance concerning herself and her mistress. she only smiled when he declared contemptuously, and with rather a romantic emphasis, that he would hunt her out, though it were half over london. this was all her adventure. when she came to tell it, it seemed very little to tell, and miss hilary listened to it rather indifferently, trying hard to remember who tommy cliffe was, and to take an interest in him because he came from stowbury. but stowbury days were so far off now--with such a gulf or pain between. suddenly the same fear occurred to her that had occurred to elizabeth. "the lad did not see the advertisement, i hope? you did not tell him about us?" "i told him nothing." said elizabeth. speaking softly, and looking down. "i did not even mention any body's name." "that was right; thank you." but oh, the bitterness of knowing, and feeling sure elizabeth knew too, the thing for which she thanked her; and that not to mention ascott's name was the greatest kindness the faithful servant could show toward the family. chapter xx. ascott leaf never came home. day after day appeared the advertisement, sometimes slightly altered, as hope or fear suggested; but no word, no letter, no answer of any kind reached the anxious women. by-and-by, moved by their distress, or perhaps feeling that the scape-grace would be safer got rid of if found and dispatched abroad in some decent manner, mr. ascott himself took measures for privately continuing the search. every outward-bound ship was examined; every hospital visited; every case of suicide investigated: but in vain. the unhappy young man had disappeared, suddenly and completely, as many another has disappeared, out of the home circle, and been never heard of more. it is difficult to understand how a family can possibly hear such a sorrow, did we not know that many have had to bear it, and have borne it, with all its load of agonizing suspense, slowly dying hope, "the hope that keeps alive despair," settling down into a permanent grief, compared to which the grief for loss by death is light and endurable. the leaf family went through all this. was it better or worse for them that their anguish had to be secret? that there were no friends to pity, inquire, or console? that johanna had to sit hour by hour and day by day in the solitary parlor, selina having soon gone back to her old ways of "gadding about," and her marriage preparations; and that, hardest of all, hilary had on the monday morning to return to kensington and work, work, work, as nothing were amiss? but it was natural that all this should tell upon her; and one day miss balquidder said, after a long covert observation of her face, "my dear, you look ill. is there any thing troubling you? my young people always tell me their troubles, bodily or mental. i doctor both." "i am sure of it," said hilary, with a sad smile, but entered into no explanation, and miss balquidder had the wise kindliness to inquire no further. nevertheless, on some errand or other she came to kensington nearly every evening and took hilary back with her to sleep at no. . "your sister selina must wish to have you with her as much as possible till she is married." she said, as a reason for doing this. and hilary acquiesced, but silently, as we often do acquiesce in what ought to be a truth, but which we know to be the saddest, most painful falsehood. for selina, it became plain to see, was one of the family no more. after her first burst of self-reproachful grief she took mr. ascott's view of her nephew's loss--that it was a good riddance; went on calmly with her bridal preparations, and seemed only afraid lest any thing should interfere to prevent her marriage. but the danger was apparently tided over. no news of ascott came. even the daily inquiries for him by his creditors had ceased. his aunt selina was beginning to breathe freely, when, the morning before the wedding day, as they were all sitting in the midst of white finery, but as sadly and silently as if it were a funeral, a person was suddenly shown in "on business." it was a detective officer sent to find out from ascott leaf's aunts whether a certain description of him, in a printed hand-bill, was correct. for his principal creditor, exasperated, had determined on thus advertising him in the public papers as having "absconded." had a thunder-bolt fallen in the little parlor the three aunts could not have been more utterly overwhelmed. they made no "scene"--a certain sense of pride kept these poor gentlewomen from betraying their misery to a strange man; though he was a very civil man, and having delivered himself of his errand, like an automaton, sat looking into his hat, and taking no notice of aught around him. he was accustomed to this sort of thing. hilary was the first to recover herself. she glanced round at her sisters, but they had not a word to say. in any crisis of family difficulty they always left her to take the helm. rapidly she ran over in her mind all the consequences that would arise from this new trouble--the public disgrace; mr. ascott's anger and annoyance, not that she cared much for this, except so far as it would affect selina; lastly, the death-blow it was to any possible hope of reclaiming the poor prodigal. who she did not believe was dead, but still, fondly trusted he would return one day from his wanderings and his swine's husks, to have the fatted calf killed for him and glad tears shed over him. but after being advertised as "absconded," ascott never would, never could, come home any home. taking as cool and business-like a tone as she could, she returned the paper to the detective. "this is a summary proceeding. is there no way of avoiding it?" "one, miss," replied the man, very respectfully. "if the family would pay the debt." "do you know how much it is?" "eighty pounds." "ah!" that hopeless sigh of johanna's was sufficient answer, though no one spoke. but in desperate cases some women acquire a desperate courage, or rather it is less courage than faith--the faith which is said to "remove mountains"--the belief that to the very last there must be something to be done, and, if it can be done, they will have strength to do it. true, the mountain may not be removed, but the mere act of faith, or courage sometimes teaches how to climb over it. "very well. take this paper back to your employer. he must be aware that his only chance of payment is by suppressing it. if he will do that, in two days he shall hear from us, and we will make arrangements about paying the debt." hilary said this, to her sisters' utter astonishment; so utter that they let her say it, and let the detective go away with a civil "good morning," before they could interfere or contradict by a word. "paying the debt! hilary, what have you promised? it is an impossibility." "like the frenchman's answer to his mistress--'madame, if it had been possible it would have been done already; if it is impossible, it shall be done.' it shall, i say." "i wonder you can jest about our misfortunes," said selina, in her most querulous voice. "i'm not jesting. but where is the use of sitting down to moan! i mean what i say. the thing must be done." her eyes glittered--her small, red lips were set tightly together. "if it is not done, sisters--if his public disgrace is not prevented, don't you see the result? not as regards your marriage, selina--the man must be a coward who would refuse to marry a woman he cared for, even though her nearest kinsman had been hanged at the old bailey--but ascott himself. the boy is not a bad boy, though he has done wickedly; but there is a difference between a wicked act and a wicked nature. i mean to save him if i can." "how?" "by saving his good name; by paying the debt." "and where on earth shall you get the money?" "i will go to miss balquidder and--" "borrow it?" "no, never! i would as soon think of stealing it." then controlling herself, hilary explained that she meant to ask miss balquidder to arrange for her with the creditor to pay the eighty pounds by certain weekly or monthly installments, to be deducted from her salary at kensington. "it is not a very great favor to ask of her: merely that she should say, 'this young woman is employed by me: i believe her to be honest, respectable, and so forth; also, that when she makes a promise to pay, she will to the best of her power perform it.' a character which is at present rather a novelty in the leaf family." "hilary!" "i am growing bitter, johanna; i know i am. why should we suffer so much! why should we be always dragged down--down--in this way? why should we never have had any one to cherish and take care of us, like other women! why--" miss leaf laid her finger on her child's lips-- "because it is the will of god." hilary flung herself on her dear old sister's neck and burst into tears. selina too cried a little, and said that she should like to help in paying the debt, if mr. ascott had no objection. and then she turned back to her white splendors, and became absorbed in the annoyance of there being far too much clematis and far too little orange blossom in the bridal bonnet--which it was now too late to change. a little, also, she vexed herself about the risk of confiding in miss balquidder, lest by any chance the story might get round to russell square; and was urgent that at least nothing should be said or done until after to-morrow. she was determined to be married, and dreaded any slip between the cup and lip. but hilary was resolute. "i said that in two days the matter should be arranged, and so it must be, or the man will think we too break our promises." "you can assure him to the contrary," said selina, with dignity. "in fact, why can't you arrange with him without going at all to miss balquidder?" again the fierce, bitter expression returned to hilary's face. "you forget, miss balquidder's honest name is his only guarantee against the dishonesty of ours." "hilary, you disgrace us--disgrace me--speaking in such a way. are we not gentle women?" "i don't know, selina. i don't seem to know or to feel any thing, except that i would live on bread and water in order to live peaceably and honestly. oh, will it ever, ever be?" she walked up and down the parlor, disarranging the white draperies which lay about, feeling unutterable contempt for them and for her sister. angry and miserable, with every nerve quivering, she was at war with the whole world. this feeling lasted even when, after some discussion, she gained her point and was on her way to call on miss balquidder. she went round and round the square many times, trying to fix in her mind word for word what she meant to say; revealing no more of the family history than was absolutely necessary, and stating her business in the briefest, hardest, most matter-of-fact way--putting it as a transaction between employer and employed, in which there was no more favor asked or bestowed than could possibly be avoided. and as the sharp east wind blew across her at every corner, minute by minute she felt herself growing more fierce, and hard, and cold. "this will never do. i shall be wicked by-and-by. i must go in and get it over." perhaps it was as well. well for her, morally as physically, that there should have been that sudden change from the blighting weather outside to the warm, well-lighted room where the good rich woman sat at her early and solitary tea. very solitary it looked--the little table in the centre of that large handsome parlor, with the one cup and saucer, the one easy-chair. and as hilary entered she noticed, amidst all this comfort and luxury, the still, grave, almost sad expression which solitary people always get to wear. but the next minute miss balquidder had turned round, and risen, smiling. "miss leaf, how very kind of you to come and see me! just the day before the wedding, too, when you must be so busy! sit down and tell me all about it. but first, my dear, how wet your boots are! let me take them off at once." which she did, sending for her own big slippers, and putting them on the tiny feet with her own hands. hilary submitted--in truth she was too much surprised to resist. miss balquidder had, like most folk, her opinions or "crotchets"--as they might be--and one of them was, to keep her business and friendly relations entirely distinct and apart. whenever she went to kensington or her other establishments she was always emphatically "the mistress"--a kindly and even motherly mistress, certainly, but still authoritative, decided. moreover, it was her invariable rule to treat all her employees alike--"making no step-bairns" among them. thus for some time it had happened that hilary had been, and felt herself to be, just miss leaf, the book keeper, doing her duty to miss balquidder, her employer, and neither expecting nor attaining any closer relation. but in her own house, or it might be from the sudden apparition of that young face at her lonely fireside, miss balquidder appeared quite different. a small thing touches a heart that is sore with trouble. when the good woman rose up--after patting the little feet, and approving loudly of the woolen stockings--she saw that hilary's whole face was quivering with the effort to keep back her tears. there are some woman of whom one feels by instinct that they were, as miss balquidder had once jokingly said of herself, specially meant to be mothers. and though, in its strange providence, heaven often denies the maternity, it can not and does not mean to shut up the well-spring of that maternal passion--truly a passion to such women as these, almost as strong as the passion of love--but lets the stream, which might otherwise have blessed one child or one family, flow out wide and far, blessing wherever it goes. in a tone that somehow touched every fibre of hilary's heart, miss balquidder said, placing her on a low chair beside her own. "my dear, you are in trouble. i saw it a week or two ago, but did not like to speak. couldn't you say it out, and let me help you? you need not be afraid. i never tell any thing, and every body tells every thing to me." that was true. added to this said mother-liness of hers, miss balquidder, possessed that faculty, which some people have in a remarkable degree, and some--very good people too--are totally deficient in, of attracting confidence. the secrets she had been trusted with, the romances she had been mixed up in, the quixotic acts she had been called upon to perform during her long life, would have made a novel--or several novels--such as no novelist could dare to write, for the public would condemn them as impossible and unnatural. but all this experience--though happily it could never be put into a book--had given to the woman herself a view of human nature at once so large, lenient, and just, that she was the best person possible to hear the strange and pitiful story of young ascott leaf. how it came out hilary hardly knew; she seemed to have told very little, and yet miss balquidder guessed it all. it did not appear to surprise or shock her. she neither began to question nor preach; she only laid her hand, her large, motherly, protecting hand, on the bowed head, saying. "how much you must have suffered, my poor bairn!" the soft scotch tone and word--the grave, quiet scotch manner, implying more than it even expressed--was it wonderful if underlying as well as outside influences made hilary completely give way? robert lyon had had a mother, who died when he was seventeen, but of whom he kept the tenderest remembrance, often saying that of all the ladies he had met with in the world there was none equal to her--the strong, tender, womanly peasant woman--refined in mind and word and ways--though to the last day of her life she spoke broad scotch, and did the work of her cottage with her own hands. it seems as if that mother--toward whom hilary's fancy had clung, lovingly as a woman ought to cling, above all others, to the mother of the man she loves--were speaking to her now, comforting her and helping her--comfort and help that it would have been sweeter to receive from her than from any woman living. a mere fancy; but in her state of long uncontrolled excitement it took such possession of her that hilary fell on her knees and hid her face in miss balquidder's lap, sobbing aloud. the other was a little surprised; it was not her scotch way to yield to emotion before folk; but she was a wise woman she asked no questions, merely held the quivering hands and smoothed the throbbing head, till composure returned. some people have a magical, mesmeric power of soothing and controlling; it was hers. when she took the poor face between her hands, and looked straight into the eyes, with, "there, you are better now," hilary returned the gaze as steadily, nay, smilingly, and rose. "now, may i tell you my business?" "certainly, my dear. when one's friends are in trouble, the last thing one ought to do is to sit down beside them and moan. did you come to ask my advice, or had you any definite plan of your own?" "i had." and hilary told it. "a very good plan, and very generous in you to think of it. but i see two strong objections: first, whether it can be carried out; secondly, whether it ought." hilary shrank, sensitively. "not on my account, my dear, but your own. i often see people making martyrs of themselves for some worthless character on whom the sacrifice is utterly wasted. i object to this, as i would object to throwing myself or my friend into a blazing house, unless i were morally certain there was a life to be saved. is there in this case?" "i think there is! i trust in heaven there is!" said hilary, earnestly. there was both pleasure and pity expressed in miss balquidder's countenance as she replied, "be it so: that is a matter on which no one can judge except yourself. but on the other matter you ask my advice, and i must give it. to maintain two ladies and pay a debt of eighty pounds out of one hundred a year is simply impossible." "with johanna's income and mine it will be a hundred and twenty pounds and some odd shillings a year." "you accurate girl! but even with this it can not be done, unless you were to live in a manner so restricted in the commonest comforts that at your sister's age she would be sure to suffer. you must look on the question from all sides, my dear. you must be just to others as well as to that young man, who seems never to-- but i will leave him unjudged." they were both silent for a minute, and then miss balquidder said: "i feel certain there is but one rational way of accomplishing the thing if you are bent upon doing it, if your own judgment and conscience tell you it ought to be done. is it so?" "yes," said hilary, firmly. the old scotswoman took her hand with a warm pressure. "very well. i don't blame you. i might have done the same myself. now to my plan. miss leaf, have you known me long enough to confer on me the benediction--one of the few that we rich folk possess 'it is more blessed to give than to receive?' " "i don't quite understand." "then allow me to explain. i happen to know this creditor of your nephew's. he being a tailor and outfitter, we have had dealings together in former times, and i know him to be a hard man, an unprincipled man, such a one as no young woman should have to do with, even in business relations. to be in his power, as you would be for some years if your scheme of gradual payment were carried out, is the last thing i should desire for you. let me suggest another way. take me for your creditor instead of him. pay him at once, and i will write you a check for the amount." the thing was put so delicately, in such an ordinary manner, as if it were a mere business arrangement, that at first hilary hardly perceived all it implied. when she did--when she found that it was in plain terms a gift or loan of eighty pounds offered by a person almost a stranger, she was at first quite bewildered. then (ah! let us not blame her if she carried to a morbid excess that noble independence which is the foundation of all true dignity in man or woman) she shrunk back into herself, overcome with annoyance and shame. at last she forced herself to say, though the words came out rather coldly. "you are very good, and i am exceedingly obliged to you; but i never borrowed money in my life. it is quite impossible." "very well; i can understand your feelings. i beg your pardon," replied miss balquidder, also somewhat coldly. they sat silent and awkward, and then the elderly lady took out a pencil and began to make calculations in her memorandum book. "i am reckoning what is the largest sum per month that you could reasonably be expected to spare, and how you may make the most of what remains. are you aware that london lodgings are very expensive? i am thinking that if you were to exchange out of the kensington shop into another i have at richmond, i could offer you the first floor above it for much less rent than you pay mrs. jones; and you could have your sister living with you." "ah! that would make us both so much happier! how good you are!" "you will see i only wish to help you to help yourself; not to put you under any obligation. though i can not see any thing so very terrible in your being slightly indebted to an old woman, who has neither chick nor child, and is at perfect liberty to do what she likes with her own." there was a pathos in the tone which smote hilary into quick contrition. "forgive me! but i have such a horror of borrowing money--you must know why after what i have told you of our family. you must surely understand--" "i do fully; but there are limits even to independence. a person who, for his own pleasure, is ready to take money from any body and every body, without the slightest prospect or intention of returning it, is quite different from a friend who in a case of emergency accepts help from another friend, being ready and willing to take every means of repayment, as i knew you were, and meant you to be. i meant, as you suggested, to stop out of your salary so much per month, till i had my eighty pounds sate back again." "but suppose you never had it back? i am young and strong; still i might fall ill--i might die, and you never be repaid." "yes, i should," said miss balquidder, with a serious smile. "you forget, my dear bairn, 'inasmuch as ye have done it to one of these little ones, ye have done it unto me.' 'he that giveth to the poor lendeth to the lord.' i have lent him a good deal at different times, and he has always paid me back with usury." there was something at once solemn and a little sad in the way the old lady spoke. hilary forgot her own side of the subject; her pride, her humiliation. "but do you not think, miss balquidder, that one ought to work on, struggle on, to the last extremity, before one accepts an obligation, most of all a money obligation?" "i do, as a general principle. yet money is not the greatest thing in this world, that a pecuniary debt should be the worst to bear. and sometimes one of the kindest acts you can do to a fellow-creature--one that touches and softens his heart, nay, perhaps wins it to you for life, is to accept a favor from him." hilary made no reply. "i speak a little from experience. i have not had a very happy life myself; at least most people would say so if they knew it; but the lord has made it up to me by giving me the means of bringing happiness, in money as well as other ways, to other people. most of us have our favorite luxuries; this is mine. i like to do people good; i like, also--though maybe that is a mean weakness--to feel that i do it. if all whom i have been made instrumental in helping had said to me, as you have done, 'i will not be helped, i will not be made happy,' it would have been rather hard for me." and a smile, half humorous, half sad, came over the hard-featured face, spiritualizing its whole expression. hilary wavered. she compared her own life, happy still, and hopeful, for all its cares, with that of this lonely woman, whose only blessing was her riches, except the generous heart which sanctified them, and made them such. humbled, nay, ashamed, she took and kissed the kindly hand which has succored so many, yet which, in the inscrutable mystery of providence, had been left to go down to the grave alone; missing all that is personal, dear, and precious to a woman's heart, and getting instead only what hilary now gave her--the half-sweet, half-bitter payment of gratitude. "well, my bairn, what is to be done?" "i will do whatever you think right," murmured hilary. chapter xxi. it was not a cheerful morning on which to be married. a dense, yellow, london fog, the like of which the misses leaf had never yet seen, penetrated into every corner of the parlor at no. , where they were breakfasting drearily by candle-light, all in their wedding attire. they had been up since six in morning, and elizabeth had dressed her three mistresses one after the other, taking exceeding pleasure in the performance. for she was still little more than a girl, to whom a wedding was a wedding, and this was the first she had ever had to do with in her life. true, it disappointed her in some things. she was a little surprised that last evening had passed off just like all other evenings. the interest and bustle of packing soon subsided--the packing consisting only of the traveling trunk, for the rest of the trousseau went straight to russell square, every means having been taken to ignore the very existence of no. ; and then the three ladies had supper as usual, and went to bed at their customary hour without any special demonstrations of emotion of affection. to elizabeth this was strange. she had not yet learned the unspeakable bitterness of a parting where no body has any grief to restrain. on a wedding morning, of course, there is no time to be spared for sentiment. the principal business appeared to be--dressing. mr. ascott had insisted on doing his part in making his new connections appear "respectable" at his marriage, and for selina's sake they had consented. indeed, it was inevitable: they had no money whatever to clothe themselves withal. they must either have accepted mr. ascott's gifts--in which, to do him justice, he was both thoughtful and liberal--or they must have staid away from the wedding altogether, which they did not like to do "for the sake of the family." so, with a sense of doing their last duty by the sister, who would be, they felt, henceforward a sister no more, miss leaf attired herself in her violet silk and white china shawl, and miss hilary put on her silver-grey poplin, with a cardinal cape, as was then in fashion, trimmed with white swan's-down. it was rather an elderly costume for a bridemaid; but she was determined to dress warmly, and not risk, in muslins and laces, the health which to her now was money, life--nay, honor. for ascott's creditor had been already paid: miss balquidder never let grass grow under her feet. when hilary returned to her sisters that day there was no longer any fear of public exposure; she had the receipted bill in her hand, and she was miss balquidder's debtor to the extent of eighty pounds. but it was no debt of disgrace or humiliation, nor did she feel it as such. she had learned the lesson which the large hearted rich can always teach the poor, that, while there is sometimes, to some people, no more galling chain, there is to others--and these are the highest natures, too--no more firm and sacred bond than gratitude. but still the debt was there; and hilary would never feel quite easy till it was paid--in money, at least. the generosity she never wished to repay. she would rather feel it wrapping her round, like an arm that was heavy only through its exceeding tenderness, to the end of her days. nevertheless she had arranged that there was to be a regular monthly deduction from her salary; and how, by retrenchment, to make this monthly payment as large as she could, was a question which had occupied herself and johanna for a good while after they had retired to rest. for there was no time to be lost. mrs. jones must be given notice to; and there was another notice to be given, if the richmond plan were carried out; another sad retrenchment, foreboding which, when elizabeth brought up supper, miss hilary could hardly look the girl in the face, and, when she bade her good night, had felt almost like a secret conspirator. for she knew that, if the money to clear this debt was to be saved, they must part with elizabeth. no doubt the personal sacrifice would be considerable, for hilary would have to do the work of their two rooms with her own hands, and give up a hundred little comforts in which elizabeth, now become a most clever and efficient servant, had made herself necessary to them both. but the two ladies did not think of that at the moment; they only thought of the pain of parting with her. they thought of it sorely, even though she was but a servant, and there was a family parting close at hand. alas! people must take what they earn. it was a melancholy fact that, of the two impending losses, the person they should miss most would be, not their sister, but elizabeth. both regrets combined made them sit at the breakfast table--the last meal they should ever take together as a family--sad and sorry, speaking about little else than the subject which presented itself as easiest and uppermost, namely, clothes. finally, they stood all completely arrayed, even to bonnets; hilary looking wonderfully bewitching in hers, which was the very pattern of one that may still be seen in a youthful portrait of our gracious queen--a large round brim, with a wreath of roses inside; while miss leaf's was somewhat like it, only with little bunches of white ribbon: "for," she said, "my time of roses has gone by." but her sweet faded face had a peace that was not in the other two--not even in hilary's. but the time arrived; the carriage drew up at the door. then nature and sisterly feeling asserted themselves for a minute. miss selina "gave way," not to any loud or indecorous extent, to nothing that could in the least harm her white satin, or crumple her laces and ribbons; but she did shed a tear or two--real honest tears--kissed her sisters affectionately, hoped they would be very happy at richmond, and that they would often come to see her at russell square. "you know," said she, half apologetically, "it is a great deal better for one of us at least to be married and settled. indeed i assure you. i have done it all for the good of my family." and for the time being she devoutly believed she had. so it was all over. elizabeth herself, from the aisle of st. pancras church, watched the beginning and ending of the show; a very fine show, with a number of handsomely dressed people, wedding guests, who seemed to stare about them a good deal and take little interest in either bride or bridegroom. the only persons elizabeth recognized were her mistresses--miss leaf, who kept her veil down and never stirred; and miss hilary, who stood close behind the bride, listening with downcast eyes to the beautiful marriage service. it must have touched her more than on her sister's account, for a tear, gathered under each eyelash, silently rolled down the soft cheek and fell." "miss hilary's an angel, and he'll be a lucky man that gets her," meditated her faithful "bower-maiden" of old; as, a little excited by the event of the morning, she stood by the mantle-piece and contemplated a letter which had come after the ladies departed; one of these regular monthly indian letters, after which, elizabeth was sharp enough to notice, miss hilary's step always grew lighter and her eye brighter for many days. "it must be a nice thing to have somebody fond of one, and somebody to be fond of," meditated she. and "old fashioned piece of goods" as she was--according to mrs. jones (who now, from the use she was in the jones's menage, patronized and confided in her extremely) some little bit of womanly craving after the woman's one hope and crown of bliss crept into the poor maid-servant's heart. but it was not for the maid-servant's usual necessity--a "sweet heart"--somebody to "keep company with;" it was rather for somebody to love, and perhaps take care of a little. people love according to their natures; and elizabeth's was a strong nature; its principal element being a capacity for passionate devotedness, almost unlimited in extent. such women, who love most, are not always, indeed very rarely, loved best. and so it was perhaps as well that poor elizabeth should make up her mind, as she did very composedly, that she herself should never be married; but after that glorious wedding of miss hilary's to mr. lyon, should settle down to take care of miss leaf all her days. "and if i turn out only half as good and contented as my mistress, it can't be such a dreadful thing to be an old maid after all," stoically said elizabeth hand. the words were scarcely out of her mouth when her attention was caught by some one in the passage inquiring for her; yes, actually for her. she could hardly believe her eyes when she perceived it was her new-found old acquaintance, tom cliffe. he was dressed very well, out of livery; indeed, he looked so extremely like a gentleman that mrs. jones's little girl took him for one, called him "sir," and showed him into the parlor. "all right. i thought this was the house. uncommon sharp of me to hunt you out; wasn't it elizabeth?" but elizabeth was a little stiff, flurried, and perplexed. her mistresses were out; she did not know whether she ought to ask tom in, especially as it must be into the parlor; there was no other place to take him to. however, tom settled the matter with a conclusive, "oh, gammon!"--sat himself down, and made himself quite comfortable. and elizabeth was so glad to see him--glad to have another chance of talking about dear old stowbury. it could not be wrong; she would not say a word about, the family, not even tell him she lived with the misses leaf if she could help it. and tom did not seem in the least curious. "now, i call this quite a coincidence. i was stopping at st. pancras church to look at a wedding--some old city fogy who lives in russell square, and is making a great splash; and there i see you, elizabeth, standing in the crowd, and looking so nice and spicy--as fresh as an apple and as brisk as a bee. i hummed and hawed and whistled, but i couldn't catch your eye; then i missed you, and was vexed above a bit, till i saw one like you going in at this door, so i just knocked and asked; and here you are! 'pon my life, i am very glad to see you." "thank you, tom," said elizabeth, pleased, even grateful for the trouble he had taken about her: she had so few friends; in truth, actually none. they began to talk, and tom cliffe talked exceedingly well. he had added to his natural cleverness a degree of london sharpness, the result of much "knocking about" ever since childhood. besides, his master, the literary gentleman, who had picked him out of the printing office, had taken a deal of pains with him. tom was, for his station, a very intelligent and superior young man. not a boy, though he was still under twenty, but a young man: that precocity of development which often accompanies a delicate constitution, making him appear, as he was indeed, in mind and character, fully six or seven years older than his real age. he was a handsome fellow, too, though small; dark haired, dark eyed, with regular and yet sensitive and mobile features. altogether tom cliffe was decidedly interesting, and elizabeth took great pleasure in looking at him, and in thinking, with a certain half motherly, half romantic satisfaction, that but for her, and her carrying him home from under the horse's heels, he might, humanly speaking, have been long ago buried in stowbury church yard. "i have a 'church yard cough' at times still," said he, when speaking of this little episode of early life. "i don't think i shall ever live to be a middle-aged man." and he shook his head, and looked melancholy and poetical; nay, even showed elizabeth some poetry that he himself had written on the subject, which was clever enough in its way. elizabeth's interest grew. an ordinary baker or butcher boy would not have attracted her in the least; but here was something in the shape of a hero, somebody who at once touched her sympathies and roused her admiration. for tom was quite as well informed as she was herself; more so, indeed. he was one of the many shrewd and clever working men who were then beginning to rise up and think for themselves, and educate themselves. he attended classes at mechanics' institutions, and young men's debating societies; where every topic of the day, religion, politics, political economy, was handled freely, as the young do handle these serious things. he threw himself, heart and soul, into the new movement, which, like all revolutions, had at first its great and fatal dangers, but yet resulted in much good; clearing the political sky, and bringing all sorts of hidden abuses under the sharp eyes of that great scourge of evil-doers--public opinion. yet elizabeth, reared under the wing of the conservative misses leaf, was a little startled when tom cliffe, who apparently liked talking and being listened to, gave her a long dissertation on the true principles of the charter, and how frost, williams, and jones--names all but forgotten now--were very ill-used men, actual martyrs. she was more than startled--shocked indeed--until there came a reaction of the deepest pity--when he confessed that he never went to church. he saw no use in going, he said; the parsons were all shams, paid largely to chatter about what they did not understand; the only real religion was that which a man thought out for himself, and acted out for himself. which was true enough, though only a half truth; and innocent elizabeth did not see the other half. but she was touched and carried away by the earnestness and enthusiasm of the lad, wild, fierce iconoclast as he was, ready to cast down the whole fabric of church and state; though without any personal hankering after lawless rights and low pleasures. his sole idol was, as he said, intellect, and that was his preservation. also, the fragile health which was betrayed in every flash of his eye, every flush of his sallow cheek, made tom cliffe, even in the two hours he staid with her, come very close to elizabeth's heart. it was such a warm heart, such a liberal heart, thinking so little of itself or of its own value. so here began to be told the old story, familiar in kitchens as parlors; but, from the higher bringing up of the two parties concerned, conducted in this case more after the fashion of the latter than the former. elizabeth hand was an exceptional person, and tom had the sense to see that at once. he paid her no coarse attentions, did not attempt to make love to her; but he liked her, and he let her see that he did. true, she was not pretty, and she was older than he; but that to a boy of nineteen is rather flattering than otherwise. also, for there is a law even under the blind mystery of likings and fallings in love--a certain weakness in him, that weakness which generally accompanies the poetical nature, clung to the quiet, solid, practical strength of hers. he liked to talk and be listened to by those silent, admiring, gentle gray eyes; and he thought it very pleasant when, with a motherly prudence, she warned him to be careful over his cough, and gave him a flannel breast-plate to protect his chest against the cold. when he went away tom was so far in love that, following the free and easy ways of his class, he attempted to give elizabeth a kiss; but she drew back so hotly that he begged her pardon, and slipped away rather confounded. "that's an odd sort of young woman; there's something in her," said he to himself. "i'll get a kiss, though, by-and-by." meanwhile elizabeth, having forgotten all about her dinner, sat thinking, actually doing nothing but thinking, until within half an hour of the time when her mistresses might be expected back. they were to go direct to the hotel, breakfast, wait till the newly-married couple had departed, and then come home. they would be sure to be weary, and want their tea. so elizabeth made every thing ready for them, steadily putting tom cliffe out of her mind. one thing she was glad of, that talking so much about his own affairs, he had forgotten to inquire concerning hers, and was still quite ignorant even of her mistresses' name. he therefore could tell no tales of the leaf family at stowbury. still she determined at once to inform miss hilary that he had been here, but that, if she wished it, he should never come again. and it spoke well for her resolve, that while resolving she was startled to find how very sorry she should feel if tom cliffe never came again. i know i am painting this young woman with a strangely tender conscience, a refinement of feeling, and a general moral sensitiveness which people say is seldom or never to be found in her rank of life. and why not? because mistresses treat servants as servants, and not as women; because in the sharp, hard line they draw, at the outset, between themselves and their domestics, they give no chance for any womanliness to be developed. and therefore since human nature is weak, and without help from without, a long degraded class can never rise, sweet-hearts will still come crawling through back entries and down at area doors; mistresses will still have to dismiss helpless and fallen, or brazen in iniquity, many a wretched girl who once was innocent; or, if nothing actually vicious results, may have many a good, respectable servant, who left to get married, return, complaining that her "young man," whom she knew so little about, has turned out a drunken scoundrel of a husband, who drives her back to her old comfortable "place" to beg for herself and her starving babies a morsel of bread. when, with a vivid blush that she could not repress, elizabeth told her mistress that tom cliffe had been to see her, the latter replied at first carelessly, for her mind was preoccupied. then, her attention caught by the aforesaid blush, miss hilary asked. "how old is the lad?" "nineteen." "that's a bad age, elizabeth. too old to be a pet, and rather too young for a husband." "i never thought of such a thing," said elizabeth, warmly--and honestly, at the time. "did he want to come and see you again?" "he said so." "oh, well, if he is a steady, respectable lad there can be no objection. i should like to see him myself next time." and then a sudden sharp recollection that there would likely be no next time, in their service at least, made miss hilary feel quite a hypocrite. "elizabeth," said she, "we will speak about tom cliffe--is not that his name?--by-and-by. now, as soon as tea is over, my sister wants to talk to you. when you are ready, will you come up stairs?" she spoke in an especially gentle tone, so that by no possibility could elizabeth fancy they were displeased with her. now, knowing the circumstances of the family, elizabeth's conscience had often smitten her that she must eat a great deal, that her wages, paid regularly month by month, must make a great hole in her mistress's income. she was, alack! a sad expense, and she tried to lighten her cost in every possible way. but it never struck her that they could do without her, or that any need would arise for their doing so. so she went into the parlor quite unsuspiciously, and found miss leaf lying on the sofa, and miss hilary reading aloud the letter from india. but it was laid quietly aside as she said, "johanna, elizabeth is here." then johanna, rousing herself to say what must be said, but putting it as gently and kindly as she could, told elizabeth, what mistresses often think it below their dignity to tell to servants, the plain truth--namely, that circumstances obliged herself and miss hilary to retrench their expenses as much as they possibly could. that they were going to live in two little rooms at richmond, where they would board with the inmates of the house. "and so, and so--" miss leaf faltered. it was very hard to say it with those eager eyes fixed upon her. hilary took up the word-- "and so, elizabeth, much as it grieves us, we shall be obliged to part with you. we cannot any longer afford to keep a servant." no answer. "it is not even as it was once before, when we thought you might do better for yourself. we know, if it were possible, you would rather stay with us, and we would rather keep you. it is like parting with one of our own family." and miss hilary's voice too failed. "however, there is no help for it; we must part." elizabeth, recovered from her first bewildered grief, was on the point of bursting out into entreaties that she might do like many another faithful servant, live without wages, put up with any hardships, rather than be sent away. but something in miss hilary's manner told her it would be useless--worse than useless, painful: and she would do any thing rather than give her mistress pain. when, utterly unable to control it, she gave vent to one loud sob, the expression of acute suffering on miss hilary's countenance was such that she determined to sob no more. she felt that, for some reason or other, the thing was inevitable; that she must take up her burden, as her mistress had done, even though it were the last grief of all--leaving that beloved mistress. "that's right, elizabeth," said miss hilary, softly. "all these changes are very bitter to us also, but we bear them. there is nothing lasting in this world, except doing right, and being good and faithful and helpful to one another." she sighed. possibly there had been sad tidings in the letter which she still held in her hand, clinging to it as we do to something which, however sorely it hurts us, we would not part with for the whole world. but there was no hopelessness or despair in her tone, and elizabeth caught the influence of that true courageous heart. "perhaps you may be able to take me back again soon, ma'am," said she, looking toward miss leaf. "and meantime i might get a place; mrs. jones has told me of several;" and she stopped, afraid lest it might be found out how often mrs. jones had urged her to "better herself," and she had indignantly refused. "or," (a bright idea occurred) "i wonder if miss selina, that is, mrs. ascott, would take me in at russell square?" hilary looked hard at her. "would you really like that?" "yes, i should; for i should see and hear of you. miss hilary, if you please, i wish you would ask mrs. ascott to take me." and hilary, much surprised--for she was well acquainted with elizabeth's sentiments toward both mr. ascott and the late miss selina---promised. chapter xxii. and now i leave miss hilary for a time; leave her in, if not happiness, great peace. peace which, after these stormy months, was an actual paradise of calm to both herself and johanna. their grief for ascott had softened down. its very hopelessness gave it resignation. there was nothing more to be done; they had done all they could, both to find him out and to save him from the public disgrace which might blight any hope of reformation. now the result must be left in higher hands. only at times fits of restless trouble would come; times when a sudden knock at the door would make johanna shake nervously for minutes afterward; when hilary walked about every where with her mind preoccupied, and her eyes open to notice every chance passerby; nay, she had sometimes secretly followed down a whole street some figure which, in its light jaunty step and long fashionably-cut hair, reminded her of ascott. otherwise they were not unhappy, she and her dearest sister. poor as they were, they were together, and their poverty had no sting. they knew exactly how much they would receive monthly, and how much they ought to spend. though obliged to calculate every penny, still their income and expenses were alike certain; there was no anxiety about money matters, which of itself was an indescribable relief. also there was that best blessing--peace at home. never in all her days had johanna known such an easy life; sitting quietly in her parlor while hilary was engaged in the shop below; descending to dinner, where she took the head of the table, and the young people soon learned to treat her with great respect and even affection; then waiting for the happy tea in their own room, and the walk afterward, in richmond park or along the thames banks toward twickenham. perhaps it was partly from the contrast to that weary year in london, but never, in any spring, had the air seemed so balmy, or the trees so green. they brought back to hilary's face the youthful bloom which she had begun to lose; and, in degree, her youthful brightness, which had also become slightly overclouded. again she laughed and made her little domestic jokes, and regained her pretty ways of putting things, so that every thing always appeared to have a cheerful, and comical, side. also--for while we are made as we are, with capacity for happiness, and especially the happiness of love, it is sure to be thus--she had a little private sunbeam in her own heart, which brightened outside things. after that sad letter from india which came on selina's wedding day, every succeeding one grew more cheerful, more demonstrative, nay, even affectionate; though still with that queer scotch pride of his, that would ask for nothing till it could ask and have every thing, and give every thing in return--the letters were all addressed to johanna. "what an advantage it is to be an old woman!" miss leaf would sometimes say, mischievously, when she received them. but more often she said nothing, waiting in peace for events to develop themselves. she did not think much about herself, and had no mean jealousy over her child; she knew that a righteous and holy love only makes all natural affections more sacred and more dear. and hilary? she held her head higher and prouder; and the spring trees looked greener, and the river ran brighter in the sunshine. ah, heaven pity us all! it is a good thing to have love in one's life; it is a good thing, if only for a time, to be actually happy. not merely contented, but happy! and so i will leave her, this little woman; and nobody need mourn over her because she is working too hard, or pity her because she is obliged to work; has to wear common clothes, and live in narrow rooms, and pass on her poor weary feet the grand carriages of the richmond gentry, who are not a bit more well-born or well-educated than she; who never take the least notice of her, except sometimes to peer curious at the desk where she sits in the shop-corner, and wonder who "that young person with the rather pretty curls" can be. no matter, she is happy. how much happiness was there in the large house at russell square? the misses leaf could not tell; their sister never gave them an opportunity of judging. "my son's my son till he gets him a wife, but my daughter's my daughter all her life." and so, most frequently, is "my sister." but not in this case. it could not be; they never expected it would. when on here rare visits to town hilary called at russell square she always found mrs. ascott handsomely dressed, dignified, and gracious. not in the slightest degree uncivil or unsisterly, but gracious--perhaps a thought too gracious. most condescendingly anxious that she should stay to luncheon, and eat and drink the best the house afforded, but never by any chance inviting her to stay to dinner. consequently, as mr. ascott was always absent in the city until dinner, hilary did not see him for months together, and her brother-in-law was, she declared, no more to her than any other man upon 'change, or the man in the moon, or the great mogul. his wife spoke little about him. after a few faint, formal questions concerning richmond affairs, somehow her conversation always recurred to her own: the dinners she had been at, those she was going to give; her carriages, clothes, jewelry, and so on. she was altogether a very great lady, and hilary, as she avouched laughingly--it was, in this case, better to laugh than to grieve--felt an exceedingly small person beside her. nevertheless mrs. ascott showed no unkindness--nay, among the various changes that matrimony had produced in her, her temper appeared rather to have improved than otherwise; there was now seldom any trace of that touchy sharpness which used to be called "poor selina's way." and yet hilary never quitted the house without saying to herself, with a sigh, the old phrase, "poor selina!" thus, in the inevitable consequences of things, her visits to russell square became fewer and fewer; she kept them up as a duty, not exacting any return, for she felt that was impossible, though still keeping up the ghostly shadow of sisterly intimacy. nevertheless she knew well it was but a shadow; that the only face that looked honest, glad welcome, or that she was honestly glad to see in her brother-in-law's house was the under house-maid, elizabeth hand. contrary to all expectations, mrs. ascott had consented to take elizabeth into her service. with many stipulations and warnings never to presume on past relations, never even to mention stowbury, on pain of instant dismissal--still, she did take her, and elizabeth staid. at every one of miss hilary's visits, lying in wait in the bed chamber, or on the staircase, or creeping up at the last minute to open the hall door, was sure to appear the familiar face, beaming all over. little conversation passed between them--mrs. ascott evidently disliked it; still elizabeth looked well and happy, and when miss hilary told her so she always silently smiled. but this story must tell the whole truth which lay beneath that fond acquiescing smile. elizabeth was certainly in good health, being well fed, well housed, and leading on the whole an easy life; happy, too, when she looked at miss hilary. but her migration from mrs. jones's lodgings to this grand mansion had not been altogether the translation from purgatory to paradise that some would have supposed. the author of this simple story having--unfortunately for it--never been in domestic service, especially in the great houses of london, does not pretend to describe the ins and outs of their "high life below stairs;" to repeat kitchen conversations, to paint the humors of the servants' hall--the butler and housekeeper getting tipsy together, the cook courting the policeman, and the footman making love successively to every house-maid and ladys'-maid. some writers have depicted all this, whether faithfully or not they know best; but the present writer declines to attempt any thing of the kind. her business is solely with one domestic, the country girl who came unexpectedly into this new world of london servant-life--a world essentially its own, and a life of which the upper classes are as ignorant as they are of what goes on in madagascar and otabeite. this fact was the first which struck the unsophisticated elizabeth. she, who had been brought up in a sort of feudal relationship to her dear mistresses, was astonished to find the domestics of russell square banded together into a community which, in spite of their personal bickerings and jealousies, ended in alliance offensive and defensive against the superior powers, whom they looked upon as their natural enemies. invisible enemies, certainly; for "master" they hardly ever saw; and, excepting the ladys' maid, were mostly as ignorant of "missis." the housekeeper was the middle link between the two estates--the person with whom all business was transacted, and to whom all complaints had to be made. beyond being sometimes talked over, generally in a quizzical, depreciatory, or condemnatory way, the heads of the establishment were no more to their domestics than the people who paid wages, and exacted in return certain duties, which most of them made as small as possible, and escaped whenever they could. if this be an exaggerated picture of a state of things perhaps in degree inevitable--and yet it should not be, for it is the source of incalculable evil, this dividing of a house against itself--if i have in any way said what is not true, i would that some intelligent "voice from the kitchen" would rise up and tell us what is true, and whether it be possible on either side to find means of amending what so sorely needs reformation. elizabeth sometimes wanted tom cliffe to do this--to "write a book," which he, eager young malcontent, was always threatening to do, upon the evils of society, and especially the tyranny of the upper classes. tom cliffe was the only person to whom she imparted her troubles and perplexities: how different her life was from that she had been used to; how among her fellow-servants there was not one who did not seem to think and act in a manner totally opposed to every thing she had learned from miss hilary. how consequently she herself was teased, bullied, threatened, or at best "sent to coventry," from morning till night. "i am quite alone, tom--i am, indeed," said she, almost crying, the first sunday night when she met him accidentally in going to church, and, in her dreary state of mind, was exceedingly glad to see him. he consoled her, and even went to church with her, half promising to do the same next sunday, and calling her "a good little christian, who almost inclined him to be a christian too." and so, with the vague feeling that she was doing him good and keeping him out of harm--that lad who had so much that was kindly and nice about him--elizabeth consented, not exactly to an appointment, but she told him what were her "sundays out," and the church she usually attended, if he liked to take the chance of her being there. alack! she had so few pleasures; she so seldom got even a breath of outside air--it was not thought necessary for servants. the only hour she was allowed out was the church-going on alternate sunday evenings. how pleasant it was to creep out then, and see tom waiting for her under the opposite trees, dressed so smart and gentlemanlike, looking so handsome and so glad to see her--her, the poor countrified elizabeth, who was quizzed incessantly by her fellow-servants on her oddness, plainness, and stupidity. tom did not seem to think her stupid, for he talked to her of all his doings and plannings, vague and wild as those of the young tailor in "alton locke," yet with a romantic energy about them that strongly interested his companion; and he read her his poetry, and addressed a few lines to herself, beginning, "dearest and best, my long familiar friend;" which was rather a poetical exaggeration, since he had altogether forgotten her in the interval of their separation. but she never guessed this; and so they both clung to the early tie, making it out to be ten times stronger than it really was, as people do who are glad of any excuse for being fond of one another. tom really was getting fond of elizabeth. she touched the higher half of his nature--the spiritual and imaginative half. that he had it, though only a working-man, and she too, though only a domestic servant, was most true: probably many more of their class have it than we are at all aware of. therefore, these two being special individuals, were attracted by each other; she by him, because he was clever, and he by her, because she was so good. for he had an ideal, poor tom cliffe! and though it had been smothered and laid to sleep by a not too regular life, it woke up again under the kind, sincere eyes of this plain, simple-minded, honest elizabeth hand. he knew she was plain, and so old-fashioned in her dress, that tom, who was particular about such things, did not always like walking with her: but she was so interesting and true; she sympathized with him so warmly; he found her so unfailingly and unvaryingly good to him through all the little humors and pettishnesses that almost always accompany a large brain, a nervous temperament, and delicate health. her quietness soothed him, her strength of character supported him; he at once leaned on her, and ruled over her. as to elizabeth's feelings toward tom, they will hardly bear analyzing; probably hardly any strong emotion will, especially one that is not sudden but progressive. she admired him extremely, and yet she was half sorry for him. some things in him she did not at all like, and tried heartily to amend. his nervous fancies, irritations, and vagaries she was exceedingly tender over; she looked up to him, and yet took care of him; this thought of him, and anxiety over him, became by degrees the habit of her life. people love in so many different ways; and perhaps that was the natural way in which a woman like elizabeth would love, or creep into love without knowing it, which is either the safest or the saddest form which the passion can assume. thus things went on, till one dark, rainy sunday night, walking round and round the inner circle of the square, tom expressed his feelings. at first, in somewhat high flown and poetical phrases, then melting into the one, eternally old and eternally new, "do you love me?" followed by a long, long kiss, given under shelter of the umbrella, and in mortal fear of the approaching policeman; who, however, never saw them, or saw them only as "pair of sweet-hearts"--too common an occurrence on his beat to excite any attention. but to elizabeth the whole thing was new, wonderful; a bliss so far beyond any thing that had ever befallen her simple life, and so utterly unexpected therein, that when she went to her bed that night she cried like a child over the happiness of tom's loving her, and her exceeding unworthiness of the same. then difficulties arose in her mind. "no followers allowed," was one of the strict laws of the russell square dynasty. like many another law of that and of much higher dynasties it was only made to be broken; for stray sweet-hearts were continually climbing down area railings, or over garden walls, or hiding themselves behind kitchen doors. nay, to such an extent was the system carried out, each servant being, from self-interest, a safe co-conspirator, that very often when mr. and mrs. ascott went out to dinner, and the old housekeeper retired to bed, there were regular symposia held below stairs--nice little supper-parties, where all the viands in the pantry and the wines in the cellar were freely used; where every domestic had his or her "young man" or "young woman," and the goings-on, though not actually discreditable, were of the most lively kind. to be cognizant of these, and yet to feel that, as there was no actual wickedness going on, she was not justified in "blabbing," was a severe and perpetual trial to elizabeth. to join them, or bring tom among them as her "young man," was impossible. "no, tom," she said, when he begged hard to come in one evening--for it was raining fast, and he had a bad cough-- "no, tom, i can't let you. if other folks break the laws of the house, i won't--you must go. i can only meet you out of doors." and yet to do this surreptitiously, just as if she were ashamed of him, or as if there were something wrong in their being fond of one another, jarred upon elizabeth's honest nature. she did not want to make a show of him, especially to her fellow-servants: she had the true woman's instinct of liking to keep her treasures all to herself; but she had also her sex's natural yearning for sympathy in the great event of a woman's life. she would have liked to have somebody unto whom she could say, "tom has asked me to marry him," and who would have answered cordially, "it's all right: he is a good fellow: you are sure to be happy." not that she doubted this: but it would have been an additional comfort to have a mother's blessing, or a sister's, or even a friend's, upon this strange and sweet emotion which had come into her life. so long as it was thus kept secret there seemed a certain incompleteness and unsanctity about even their happy love. tom did not comprehend this at all. he only laughed at her for feeling so "nesh" (that means tender, sensitive--but the word is almost unexplainable to other than stowbury ears) on the subject. he liked the romance and excitement of secret courtship--men often do; rarely women, unless there is something in them not quite right, not entirely womanly. but tom was very considerate, and though he called it "silly," and took a little fit of crossness on the occasion, he allowed elizabeth to write to mother about him, and consented that on her next holiday she should go to richmond, in order to speak to miss hilary on the same subject, and ask her also to write to mrs. hand, stating how good and clever tom was, and how exceedingly happy was tom's elizabeth. "and won't you come and fetch me, tom?" asked she, shyly. "i am sure miss hilary would not object, nor miss leaf neither." tom, protested he did not care two straws whether they objected or not; he was a man of twenty, in a good trade--he had lately gone back to the printing, and being a clever workman, earned capital wages. he had a right to choose whom he liked, and marry when he pleased. if elizabeth didn't care for him, she might leave him alone. "oh, tom!" was all she answered, with a strange gentleness that no one could have believed would ever have come into the manner of south sea islander. and quitting the subject then, she afterward persuaded him, and not for the first time, into consenting to what she thought right. there is something rather touching in a servant's holiday. it comes so seldom. she must count on it for so long beforehand, and remember it for so long afterward. this present writer owns to a strong sympathy with the holiday-makers on the grand gala-days of the english calendar. it is a pleasure to watch the innumerable groups of family folk, little, children, and prentice lands. --"dressed in all their best, to walk abroad with sally." and the various "sallys" and their corresponding swains can hardly feel more regret than she when it happens to be wet weather on easter week or at whitsuntide. whit-monday, the day when tom escaped from the printing-office, and elizabeth got leave of absence for six hours, was as glorious a june day as well could be. as the two young people perched themselves on the top of the richmond omnibus and drove through kensington, hammersmith, turnham green, and over kew bridge--tom pointing out all the places, and giving much curious information about them--elizabeth thought there never was a more beautiful country, or a more lovely summer day: she was, she truly said, "as happy as a queen." neverthless, when the omnibus stopped, she, with great self-denial, insisted on getting rid of tom for anytime. she thought miss hilary might not quite like tom's knowing where she lived, or what her occupation was, lest he might gossip about it to stowbury people; so she determined to pay her visit by herself, and appointed to meet him at a certain hour on richmond bridge, over which bridge she watched him march sulkily, not without a natural pleasure that he should be so much vexed at losing her company for an hour or two. but she knew he would soon come to himself--as he did, before he had been half a mile on the road to hampton court, meeting a young fellow he knew, and going with him over that grand old palace, which furnished them with a subject at their next debating society, where they both came out very strong on the question of hypocritical priests and obnoxious kings, with especial reference to henry viii, and cardinal wolsey. meanwhile elizabeth went in search of the little shop--which nobody need expect to find at richmond now--bearing the well-known name "janet balquidder." entering it, for there was no private door, she saw, in the far corner above the curtained desk, the pretty curls of her dear miss hilary. elizabeth had long known that her mistress "kept a shop," and with the notions of gentility which are just as rife in her class as in any other, had mourned bitterly over this fact. but when she saw how fresh and well the young lady looked, how busily and cheerfully she seemed to work with her great books before her, and with what a composed grace and dignity she came forward when asked for, elizabeth secretly confessed that not even keeping a shop had made or could make the smallest difference in miss hilary. she herself was much more changed. "why, elizabeth, i should hardly have known you!" was the involuntary exclamation of her late mistress. she certainly did look very nice; not smart--for her sober taste preferred quiet colors--but excessively neat and well-dressed. in her new gown of gray "coburg," her one handsome shawl, which had been honored several times by miss hilary's wearing, her white straw bonnet and white ribbons, underneath which the smooth black hair and soft eyes showed to great advantage, she appeared, not "like a lady"--a servant can seldom do that let her dress be ever so fine--but like a thoroughly respectable, intelligent, and pleasant-faced young woman. and her blushes came and went so fast, she was so nervous and yet so beamingly happy, that miss hilary soon suspected there was more in this visit than at first appeared. knowing that with elizabeth's great shyness the mystery would never come out in public, she took an opportunity of asking her to help her in the bedroom, and there, with the folding-doors safely shut, discovered the whole secret. miss hilary was a good deal surprised at first. she had never thought of elizabeth as likely to get married at all--and to tom cliffe. "why, isn't he a mere boy; ever so much younger than you are?" "three years." "that is a pity--a great pity: women grow old so much faster than men." "i know that," said elizabeth, somewhat sorrowfully. "besides, did you not tell me he was very handsome and clever?" "yes: and i'm neither the one nor the other. i have thought all that over too, many a time; indeed i have, miss hilary. but tom likes me--or fancies he does. do you think"--and the intense humility which true love always has, struck into miss hilary's own conscious heart a conviction of how very true this poor girl's love must be. "do you think he is mistaken? that his liking me--i mean in that sort of way--is quite impossible?" "no, indeed, and i never said it; never thought it," was the earnest reply. "but consider; three years younger than yourself; handsomer and cleverer than you are--". miss hilary stopped; it seemed so cruel to say such things, and yet she felt bound to say them. she knew her former "bower-maiden" well enough to be convinced that if elizabeth were not happy in marriage she would be worse than unhappy--might grow actually bad. "he loves you now; you are sure of that; but are you sure that he is a thoroughly stable and reliable character? do you believe he will love you always?" "i can't tell. perhaps--if i deserved it," said poor elizabeth. and, looking at the downcast eyes, at the thorough womanly sweetness and tenderness which suffused the whole face, hilary's doubts began to melt away. she thought how sometimes men, captivated by inward rather than outward graces, have fallen in love with plain women, or women older than themselves, and actually kept to their attachment through life, with a fidelity rare as beautiful. perhaps this young fellow, who seemed by all accounts superior to his class--having had the sense to choose that pearl in an oyster-shell, elizabeth hand--might also have the sense so appreciate her, and go on loving her to the end of his days, anyhow, he loved her now, and she loved him; and it was useless reasoning any more about it. "come, elizabeth," cried her mistress, cheerfully, "i have said all my say, and now i have only to give my good wishes. if tom cliffe deserves you, i am sure you deserve him, and i should like to tell him so." "should you, miss hilary?" and with a visible brightening up elizabeth betrayed tom's whereabouts, and her little conspiracy to bring him here, and her hesitation lest it might be "intruding." "not at all. tell him to come at once. i am not like my sister; we always allow 'followers.' i think a mistress stands in the relation of a parent, for the time being; and that can not be a right or good love which is concealed from her, as if it were a thing to be ashamed of." "i think so too. and i'm not a bit ashamed of tom, nor he of me," said elizabeth, so energetically that miss hilary smiled. "very well; take him to have his tea in the kitchen, and then bring him up stairs to speak to my sister and me." at that interview, which of course was rather trying, tom acquitted himself to every body's satisfaction. he was manly, modest, self-possessed; did not say much--his usual talkativeness being restrained by the circumstances of the case, and the great impression made upon him by miss hilary, who, he afterward admitted to elizabeth, "was a real angel, and he should write a poem upon her." but the little he did say gave the ladies a very good impression of the intelligence and even refinement of elizabeth's sweet-heart. and though they were sorry to see him look so delicate, still there was a something better than handsomeness in his handsome face, which made them not altogether surprised at elizabeth's being so fond of him. as she watched the young couple down richmond street, in the soft summer twilight--elizabeth taking tom's arm, and tom drawing up his stooping figure to its utmost extent, both a little ill-matched in height as they were in some other things, but walking with that air of perfect confidence and perfect contentedness in each other which always betrays, to a quick eye, those who have agreed to walk through the world together--miss hilary turned from the window and sighed. chapter xxiii. following miss hilary's earnest advice that every thing should be fair and open, elizabeth, on the very next day after that happy whit-monday, mustered up her courage, asked permission to speak to her mistress, and told her she was going to be married to tom cliffe: not immediately, but in a year's time or so, if all went well. mrs. ascott replied sharply that it was no affair of hers, and she could not be troubled about it. for her part she thought, if servants knew their own advantages, they would keep a good place when they had it, and never get married at all. and then, saying she had heard a good character of her from the housekeeper, she offered elizabeth the place of upper house-maid, a young girl, a protegee of the housekeeper's, being substituted in hers. "and when you have sixteen pounds a year, and somebody to do all your hard work for you, i dare say you'll think better of it, and not be so foolish as to go and get married." but elizabeth had her own private opinion on that matter. she was but a woman, poor thing! and two tiny rooms of her own, with tom to care for and look after, seemed a far happier home than that great house, where she had not only her own work to do, but the responsibility of teaching and taking charge of that careless, stupid, pretty esther, who had all the forwardness, untidiness, and unconscientiousness of a regular london maid-servant, and was a sore trial to the staid, steady elizabeth. tom consoled her, in his careless but affectionate way; and another silent consolation was the "little bits of things," bought out of her additional wages, which she began to put by in her box--sticks and straws for the new sweet nest that was a-building: a metal teapot, two neat glass salt-cellars, and, awful extravagance!--two real second-hand silver spoons--tom did so like having things nice about him! these purchases, picked up at stray times, were solid, substantial and useful; domestic rather than personal; and all with a view to tom rather than herself. she hid them with a magpie-like closeness, for esther and she shared the same room; but sometimes when esther was asleep she would peep at them with an anxious, lingering tenderness, as if they made more of an assured reality what even now seemed so very like a dream. --except, indeed, on those sunday nights when tom and she went to church together and afterward took a walk, but always parted at the corner of the square. she never brought him in to the house, nor spoke of him to her fellow servants. how much they guessed of her engagement she neither knew nor cared. mrs. ascott, too, had apparently quite forgotten it. she seemed to take as little interest in her servants' affairs as they in hers. nevertheless, ignorant as the lower regions were in general of what was passing in the upper, occasionally rumors began to reach the kitchen that "master had been a-blowing up missis, rather!" and once, after the solemn dinner, with three footmen to wait on two people, was over, elizabeth, passing through the hall, caught the said domestics laughing together, and saying it was "as good as a play; cat and dog was nothing to it." after which "the rows up stairs" became a favorite joke in the servants' hall. but still mr. ascott went out daily after breakfast, and came home to dinner; and mrs. ascott spent the morning in her private sitting room, or "boudoir," as she called it; lunched, and drove out in her handsome carriage, with her footman behind; dressed elegantly for dinner, and presided at her own table with an air of magnificent satisfaction in all things. she had perfectly accommodated herself to her new position; and if under her satins and laces beat a solitary, dissatisfied, or aching heart, it was nobody's business but her own. at least, she kept up the splendid sham with a most creditable persistency. but all shams are dangerous things. be the surface ever so smooth and green, it will crack sometimes, and a faint wreath of smoke betray the inward volcano. the like had happened once or twice, as on the day when the men-servants were so intensely amused. also elizabeth, when putting in order her mistress's bedroom, which was about the hour mr. ascott left for the city, had several times seen mrs. ascott come in there suddenly, white and trembling. once, so agitated was she, that elizabeth had brought her a glass of water; and instead of being angry or treating her with the distant dignity which she had always kept up her mistress had said, almost in the old stowbury tone, "thank you, elizabeth." however, elizabeth had the wisdom to take no notice, but to slip from the room, and keep her own counsel. at last one day the smouldering domestic earthquake broke out. there was "a precious good row," the footman suspected, at the breakfast-table; and after breakfast, master, without waiting for the usual attendance of that functionary, with his hat and gloves and a hansom cab had flung himself out at the hall door, slamming it after him with a noise that startled the whole house. shortly afterward "missis's" bell had rung violently, and she had been found lying on the floor of her bedroom in a dead faint, her maid, a foolish little frenchwoman, screaming over her. the frightened servants gathered round in a cluster, but nobody attempted to touch the poor lady, who lay rigid and helpless, hearing none of the comments that were freely made upon her, or the conjectures as to what master had done or said that produced this state of things. mistress she was, and these four or five woman, her servants, had lived in her house for months, but nobody loved her; nobody knew any thing about her; nobody thought of doing aught for her, till a kitchen-maid, probably out of former experience in some domestic emergency, suggested, "fetch elizabeth." the advice was eagerly caught at, every body being so thankful to have the responsibility shifted to some other body's shoulders; so in five minutes elizabeth had the room cleared, and her mistress laid upon the bed, with nobody near except herself and the french maid. by-and-by mrs. ascott opened her eyes. "who's that? what are you doing to me?" "nothing, ma'am. it's only me--elizabeth." at the familiar soothing voice the poor woman--a poor, wretched, forlorn woman she looked, lying there, in spite of all her grandeur--turned feebly round. "oh, elizabeth, i'm so ill! take care of me." and she fainted away once more. it was some time before she came quite to herself, and then the first thing she said was to bid elizabeth bolt the door and keep every body out. "the doctor, ma'am if he comes?" "i'll not see him. i don't want him. i know what it is. i--" she pulled elizabeth closer to her, whispered something in her ear, and then burst into a violent fit of hysterical weeping. amazed, shocked, elizabeth at first did not know what to do; then she took her mistress's head on her shoulder, and quieted her by degrees almost as she would a child. the sobbing ceased, and mrs. ascott lay still a minute, till suddenly she clutched elizabeth's arm. "mind you don't tell. he doesn't know, and he shall not; it would please him so. it does not please me. sometimes i almost think i shall hate it because it is his child." she spoke with a fierceness that was hardly credible either in the dignified mrs. peter ascott or the languid miss selina. to think of miss selina expecting a baby! the idea perfectly confounded poor elizabeth. "i don't know very much about such matters," said she, deprecatingly; "but i'm sure, ma'am, you ought to keep yourself quiet, and i wouldn't hate the poor little baby if i were you. it may be a very nice little thing, and turn out a great comfort to you." mrs. ascott lifted her heavy eyes to the kindly, sympathetic, womanly face--thorough woman, for, as elizabeth went on, her heart warmed with the strong instinct which comes almost of itself. "think, to have a tiny little creature lying here beside you; something your very own, with its pretty face looking so innocent and sweet at you, and its pretty fingers touching you." here elizabeth's voice quite faltered over the picture she had drawn. "oh, ma'am, i'm sure you would be so fond of it." human nature is strong. this cold, selfish woman, living her forty years without any strong emotion, marrying without love, and reaping, not in contrition, but angry bitterness, the certain punishment of such a marriage, even this woman was not proof against the glorious mystery of maternity, which should make every daughter of eve feel the first sure hope of her first born child to be a sort of divine annunciation. mrs. ascott lay listening to elizabeth. gradually through her shut eyelids a few quiet tears began to flow. "do you mind me talking to you this way, ma'am?" "no, no! say what you like. i'm glad to have any body to speak to. oh, i am a very miserable woman!" strange that selina ascott should come to betray, and to elizabeth hand, of all people, that she was a "miserable woman." but circumstances bring about unforeseen confidences; and the confidence once given is not easily recalled. apparently the lady did not wish to recall it. in the solitude of her splendid house, in her total want of all female companionship--for she refused to have her sisters sent for--"he would only insult them, and i'll not have my family insulted"--poor selina clung to her old servant as the only comfort she had. during the dreary months that followed, when, during the long, close summer days, the sick lady scarcely stirred from her bedroom, and, fretful, peevish, made the very most of what to women in general are such patiently borne and sacred sufferings, elizabeth was her constant attendant. she humored all her whims, endured all her ill-tempers, cheered her in her low spirits, and was, in fact, her mistress's sole companion and friend. this position no one disputed with her. it is not every woman who has, as miss leaf used to say of elizabeth, "a genius for nursing;" and very few patients make nursing a labor of love. the whole household were considerably relieved by her taking a responsibility for which she was so well fitted and so little envied. even mr. ascott, who, when his approaching honors could no longer be concealed from him, became for the nonce a most attentive husband, and succumbed dutifully to every fancy his wife entertained, openly expressed his satisfaction in elizabeth, and gave her one or two bright golden guineas in earnest of his gratitude. how far she herself appreciated her new and important position; whether her duties were done from duty, or pity, or that determined self-devotedness which some women are always ready to carry out toward any helpless thing that needs them, i can not say, for she never told. not even to miss hilary, who at last was permitted to come and pay a formal visit; nor to tom cliffe, whom she now saw very rarely, for her mistress, with characteristic selfishness, would hardly let her out of her sight for half an hour. tom at first was exceedingly savage at this: by degrees he got more reconciled, and met his sweet-heart now and then for a few minutes at the area gate or wrote her long poetical letters, which he confided to some of her fellow-servants, who thereby got acquainted with their secret. but it mattered little, as elizabeth had faithfully promised that, when her mistress's trial was over, and every thing smooth and happy, she would marry tom at once. so she took the jokes below stairs with great composure; feeling, indeed, too proud and content to perplex herself much about any thing. nevertheless, her life was not easy, for mrs. ascott was very difficult to manage. she resisted angrily all the personal sacrifices entailed by impending motherhood, and its terrors and forebodings used to come over her--poor weak woman that she was!--in a way that required all elizabeth's reasonings to counteract, and all her self-control to hide the presentiment of evil, not unnatural under the circumstances. yet sometimes poor mrs. ascott would take fits of pathetic happiness; when she busied herself eagerly over the preparations for the new-comer; would make elizabeth take out, over and over again, the little clothes, and examine them with childish delight. sometimes she would gossip for hours over the blessing that was sent to her so late in life--half-regretting that it had come so late; that she should be almost an old woman before her little son or daughter was grown up. "still, i may live to see it, you know: to have a pretty girl to take on my arm into a ball-room, or a big fellow to send to college: the leafs always went to college in old times. he shall be henry leaf ascott, that i am determined on; and if it's a girl, perhaps i may call her johanna. my sister would like it; wouldn't she?" for more and more, in the strange softening of her nature, did selina go back to the old ties. "i am not older than my mother was when hilary was born. she died, but that was because of trouble. women do not necessarily die in childbirth even at forty; and in twenty years more i shall only be sixty--not such a very old woman. besides, mothers never are old; at least not to their children. don't you think so, elizabeth?" and elizabeth answered as she best could. she too, out of sympathy or instinct, was becoming wondrous wise. but i am aware all this will be thought very uninteresting, except by women and mothers. let me hasten on. by degrees, as mrs. ascott's hour approached, a curious tranquility and even gentleness came over her. her fretful dislike of seeing any face about her but elizabeth's became less. she even endured her husband's company for an hour of an evening; and at last humbled her pride enough to beg him to invite her sisters to russell square from saturday to monday, the only time when hilary could be spared. "for we don't know what may happen," said she to him, rather seriously. and though he answered, "oh, nonsense!" and desired her to get such ridiculous fancies out, of her head, still he consented, and himself wrote to miss leaf, giving the formal invitation. the three sisters spent a happy time together, and hilary made some highly appreciated family jokes about the handsome christmas box that selina was going to be so kind as to give them, and the small probability that she would have much enjoyment of the christmas dinner to which mr. ascott, in the superabundance of his good feeling, had invited his sisters-in-law. the baby, blessed innocent! seemed to have softened down all things--as babies often do. altogether, it was with great cheerfulness, affectionateness, and hope that they took leave of selina: she, with unwonted consideration, insisting that the carriage should convey them all the way to richmond. "and," she said, "perhaps some of these days my son, if he is a son, may have the pleasure of escorting his aunts home. i shall certainly call him 'henry leaf,' and bring him up to be in every way a credit to our family." when the ladies were away, and mrs. ascott had retired to bed, it was still only nine o'clock, and a bright moonlight night. elizabeth thought she could steal down stairs and try to get a breath of fresh air round the square. her long confinement made her almost sick sometimes for a sight of the outer world, a sight of--let me tell the entire truth--her own faithful tom. she had not seen him now for fourteen days, and though his letters were very nice and exceedingly clever, still she craved for a look at his face, a grasp of his hand, perhaps even a kiss, long and close and tender, such as he would sometimes insist upon giving her, in spite of all policemen. his love for her, demonstrative as was his nature, had become to this still, quiet girl inexpressibly sweet, far sweeter than she knew. it was a clear winter night, and the moon went climbing over the fleecy white clouds in a way that made beauty even in russell square. elizabeth looked up at the sky, and thought how tom would have enjoyed it, and wished he were beside her, and was so glad to think he would soon be beside her always, with all his humors and weaknesses, all his little cross-selfishness, and complainings; she could put up with all, and be happy through all, if only she had him with her and loving her. his love for her, though fitful and fanciful, was yet so warm and real that it had become a necessity of her life. as he always told her--especially after he had had one of his little quarrels with her--hers was to him. "poor tom, i wonder how he gets on without me! well, it won't be for long." and she wished she could have let him know she was out here, that they might have had a chat for just ten minutes. unconsciously she walked toward their usual trysting place, a large overhanging plane-tree on the keppel street corner of the square. surely, surely, that could not be tom! quite impossible, for he was not alone. two people, a young man and a young woman, stood at the tryst, absorbed in conversation: evidently sweethearts, for he had one arm round her, and he kissed her unresisted several times. elizabeth gazed, fascinated, almost doubting the evidence of her own senses. for the young men's figure was so excessively like tom's. at length, with the sort of feeling that makes one go steadily up to a shadow by the roadside, some ugly spectre that we feel sure, if we stare it out, will prove to be a mere imagination, she walked deliberately up to and past these "sweethearts." they did not see her; they were far too much occupied with one another; but she saw them, and saw at once that it was tom, tom's own self, and with him her fellow-servant, esther. people may write volumes on jealousy, and volumes will still remain to be written. it is next to remorse for guilt, the sharpest, sorest, most maddening torment that human nature can endure. we may sit and gaze from the boxes at our othellos and biancas; we may laugh at the silly heart-burnings between cousin kate and cousin lucy in the ball-room, or the squabbles of mary and sally in the kitchen over the gardener's lad; but there the thing remains. a man can not make love to two women, a woman can not coquet with two men, without causing in degree that horrible agony, cruel as death, which is at the root of half the tragedies, and the cause of half the crimes of this world. the complaint comes in different forms: sometimes it is a case of slow poisoning or of ordeal by red-hot irons, which though not fatal, undermines the whole character, and burns ineffaceable scars into the soul. and people take it in various ways--some fiercely, stung by a sense of wounded self-love; others haughtily: "pride's a safe robe, i'll wear it; but no rags." others, again, humble, self-distrustful natures, whose only pride came through love, have nothing left them except rags. in a moment all their thin robes of happiness are torn off; they stand shivering, naked and helpless before the blasts of the bitter world. this was elizabeth's case. after the first instant of stunned bewilderment and despair she took it all quite naturally, as if it were a thing which she ought all along to have known was sure to happen, and which was no more than she expected and deserved. she passed the couple, still unobserved by them, and then walked round the other side of the square, deliberately home. i am not going to make a tragic heroine of this poor servant girl. perhaps, people may say, there is nothing tragic about the incident. merely a plain, quiet, old-fashioned woman, who is so foolish as to like a handsome young swain, and to believe in him, and to be surprised when he deserts her for a pretty girl of eighteen. all quite after the way things go on in the world, especially in the servant-world; and the best she can do is to get over it, or take another sweetheart as quickly as possible. a very common story after all, and more of a farce than a tragedy. but there are some farces which, if you look underneath the surface, have a good many of the elements of tragedy. i shall neither paint elizabeth tearing her own hair nor esther's, nor going raging about the square in moonlight in an insane fit of jealousy. she was not given to "fits" under any circumstances, or about any thing. all she felt went deep down into her heart, rooted itself, and either blossomed or cankered there. on this night she, as i said, walked round the square to her home: then quietly went up stairs to her garret, locked the door, and sat down upon her bed. she might have sat there for an hour or more, her bonnet and shawl still on, without stirring, without crying, altogether cold and hard like a stone, when she fancied she heard her mistress's bell ring, and mechanically rose up and went down stairs to listen. nothing was wanted, so she returned to her garret and crept to bed in the dark. when soon afterward esther likewise came up to bed, elizabeth pretended to be asleep. only once, taking a stealthy glance at the pretty girl who stood combing her hair at the looking-glass, she was conscious of a sick sense of repulsion, a pain like a knife running thro' her, at sight of the red young lips which tom had just been kissing, of the light figure which he had clasped as he used to clasp her. but she never spoke, not one word. half an hour after she was roused by the nurse coming to her bedside. mrs. ascott was very ill, and was calling for elizabeth. soon the whole establishment was in confusion, and in the sharp struggle between birth and death elizabeth had no time to think of any thing but her mistress. contrary to every expectation, all ended speedily and happily; and before he went off to the city next day the master of the house, who, in the midst of his anxiety and felicity, had managed to secure a good night's sleep and a good breakfast, had the pleasure of sending off a special messenger to the times office with the notification, "the lady of peter ascott, esq., of a son and heir." chapter xxiv. a fortnight's time rather increased than diminished the excitement incident on the event at russell square. never was there such a wonderful baby, and never was there such a fuss made over it. unprejudiced persons might have called it an ugly, weakly little thing; indeed, at first there were such apprehensions of its dying that it had been baptized in a great hurry, "henry leaf ascott," according to the mother's desire, which in her critical position nobody dared to thwart. even at the end of fourteen days the "son and heir" was still a puling, sickly, yellow-faced baby. but to the mother it was every thing. from the moment she heard its first cry mrs. ascott's whole nature seemed to undergo a change. her very eyes--those cold blue eyes of miss selina's--took a depth and tenderness whenever she turned to look at the little bundle that lay beside her. she never wearied of touching the tiny hands and feet, and wondering at them, and showing--to every one of the household who was favored with a sight of it--"my baby," as if it had been a miracle of the universe. she was so unutterably happy and proud. elizabeth, too, seemed not a little proud of the baby. to her arms it had first been committed; she had stood by at its first washing and dressing, and had scarcely left it or her mistress since. nurse, a very grand personage, had been a little jealous of her at first, but soon grew condescending, and made great use of her in the sick room, alleging that such an exceedingly sensible young person, so quiet and steady, was almost as good as a middle-aged married woman. indeed, she once asked elizabeth if she was a widow, since she looked as if she had "seen trouble:" and was very much surprised to learn she was single and only twenty-three years old. nobody else took any notice of her. even miss hilary was so engrossed by her excitement and delight over the baby that she only observed, "elizabeth, you look rather worn-out; this has been a trying time for you." and elizabeth had just answered, "yes"-no more. during the fortnight she had seen nothing of tom. he had written her a short note or two, and the cook told her he had been to the kitchen door several times asking for her, but being answered that she was with her mistress up stairs, had gone away. "in the sulks, most like, though he didn't look it. he's a pleasant spoken young man and i'm sure i wish you luck with him," said cookie, who, like all the other servants, was now exceedingly civil to elizabeth. her star had risen; she was considered in the household a most fortunate woman. it was shortly understood that nurse--majestic nurse, had spoken so highly of her, that at the month's end the baby was to be given entirely into her charge, with, of course, an almost fabulous amount of wages. "unless," said mrs. ascott, when this proposition was made, suddenly recurring to the fact which seemed hitherto to have quite slipped from her mind--"unless you are still willing to get married, and think you would be happier married. in that case i won't hinder you. but it would be such a comfort to me to keep you a little longer." "thank you, ma'am," answered elizabeth, softly, and busied herself with walking baby up and down the room, hushing it on her shoulder. if in the dim light tears fell on its puny face, god help her, poor elizabeth! mrs. ascott made such an excellent recovery that in three weeks' time nobody was the least anxious about her, and mr. ascott arranged to start on a business journey to edinburgh; promising, however, to be back in three days for the christmas dinner, which was to be a grand celebration. miss leaf and miss hilary were to appear thereat in their wedding dresses; and mrs. ascott herself took the most vital interest in johanna's having a new cap for the occasion. nay, she insisted upon ordering it from her own milliner, and having it made of the most beautiful lace--the "sweetest" old lady's cap that could possibly be invented. evidently this wonderful baby had opened all hearts, and drawn every natural tie closer. selina, lying on the sofa, in her graceful white wrapper, and her neat close cap, looked so young, so pretty, and, above all, so exceedingly gentle and motherly, that her sisters' hearts were full to overflowing. they acknowledged that happiness, like misery, was often brought about in a fashion totally unforeseen and incredible. who would have thought, for instance, on that wretched night when mr. ascott came to hilary at kensington, or on that dreary heartless wedding-day, that they should ever have been sitting in selina's room so merry and comfortable, admiring the baby, and on the friendliest terms with baby's papa? "papa" is a magical word, and let married people have fallen ever so wide asunder, the thought, "my child's mother," "my baby's father," must in some degree bridge the gulf between them. when peter ascott was seen stooping, awkwardly enough, over his son's cradle, poking his dumpy fingers into each tiny cheek in a half-alarmed, half-investigating manner, as if he wondered how it had all come about, but, on the whole, was rather pleased than otherwise--the good angel of the household might have stood by and smiled, trusting that the ghastly skeleton therein might in time crumble away into harmless dust, under the sacred touch of infant fingers. the husband and wife took a kindly, even affectionate leave of one another. mrs. ascott called him "peter," and begged him to take care of himself, and wrap up well that cold night. and when he was gone, and her sisters also, she lay on her sofa with her eyes open, thinking. what sort of thoughts they were, whether repentant or hopeful, solemn or tender, whether they might have passed away and been forgotten, or how far they might have influenced her life to come, none knew, and none ever did know. when there came a knock at the door, and a message for elizabeth, mrs. ascott suddenly overheard it and turned round. "who is wanting you? tom cliffe? isn't that the young man you are to be married to? go down to him at once. and stay, elizabeth, as it's such a bitter night, take him for half an hour into the housekeeper's room. send her up stairs, and tell her i wished it, though i don't allow 'followers.' " "thank you, ma'am," said elizabeth once more, and obeyed. she must speak to tom some time, it might as well be done to-night as not. without pausing to think, she went down with dull heavy steps to the housekeeper's room. tom stood there alone. he looked so exactly his own old self, he came forward to meet her so completely in his old familiar way, that for the instant she thought she must be under some dreadful delusion; that the moonlight night in the square must have been all a dream; esther, still the silly little esther, whom tom had often heard of and laughed at; and tom, her own tom, who loved nobody but her. "elizabeth, what an age it is since i've had a sight of you!" but though the manner was warm as ever, "in his tone a something smote her, as if duty tried to mock the voice of love, how long since flown," and quiet as she stood, elizabeth shivered in his arms. "why, what's the matter? aren't you glad to see me? give me another kiss, my girl, do!" he took it; and she crept away from him and sat down. "tom, i've got something to say to you, and i'd better say it at once." "to be sure. 'tisn't any bad news from home, is it? or"--looking uneasily at her--"i haven't vexed you, have i?" "vexed me," she repeated, thinking what a small foolish word it was to express what had happened, and what she had been suffering. "no, tom, not vexed me exactly. but i want to ask you a question. who was it that you stood talking with, under our tree in the square, between nine and ten o'clock, this night three weeks ago?" though there was no anger in the voice it was so serious and deliberate that it made tom start. "three weeks ago; how can i possibly tell?" "yes, you can; for it was a fine moonlight night, and you stood there a long time." "under the tree, talking to somebody? what nonsense! perhaps it wasn't me at all." "it was, for i saw you." "the devil you did!" muttered tom. "don't be angry, only tell me the plain truth. the young woman that was with you was our esther here, wasn't she?" for a moment tom looked altogether confounded. then he tried to recover himself, and said crossly, "well, and if it was, where's the harm? can't a man be civil to a pretty girl without being called over the coals in this way?" elizabeth made no answer, at least not immediately. at last she said, in a very gentle, subdued voice, "tom, are you fond of esther? you would not kiss her if you were not fond of her. do you like her as--as you used to like me?" and she looked right up into his eyes. hers had no reproach in them, only a piteous entreaty, the last clinging to a hope which she knew to be false. "like esther? of course i do? she's a nice sort of girl, and we're very good friends." "tom, a man can't be 'friends,' in that sort of way, with a pretty girl of eighteen, when he is going to be married to somebody else. at least, in my mind, he ought not." tom laughed in a confused manner. "i say, you're jealous, and you'd better get over it." was she jealous? was it all fancy, folly? did tom stand there, true as steel, without a feeling in his heart that she did not share, without a hope in which she was not united, holding her, and preferring her, with that individuality and unity of love which true love ever gives and exacts, as it has a right to exact? not that poor elizabeth reasoned in this way, but she felt the thing by instinct without reasoning. "tom," she said, "tell me outright, just as if i was somebody else, and had never belonged to you at all, do you love esther martin." truthful people enforce truth. tom might be fickle, but he was not deceitful; he could not look into elizabeth's eyes and tell her a deliberate lie; somehow he dared not. "well, then--since you will have it out of me--i think i do." so elizabeth's "ship went down." it might have been a very frail vessel, that nobody in their right senses would have trusted any treasure with, still she did; and it was all she had, and it went down to the bottom like a stone. it is astonishing how soon the sea closes over this sort of wreck; and how quietly people take--when they must take, and there is no more disbelieving it--the truth which they would have given their lives to prove was an impossible lie. for some minutes tom stood facing the fire, and elizabeth sat on her chair opposite without speaking. then she took off her brooch, the only love-token he had given her, and put it into his hand. "what's this for?" asked he, suddenly. "you know. you'd better give it to esther. it's esther, not me, you must marry now." and the thought of esther, giddy, flirting, useless esther, as tom's wife, was almost more than she could bear. the sting of it put even into her crushed humility a certain honest self-assertion. "i'm not going to blame you, tom; but i think i'm as good as she. i'm not pretty, i know, nor lively, nor young, at least i'm old for my age; but i was worth something. you should not have served me so." tom said, the usual excuse, that he "couldn't help it." and suddenly turning round, he begged her to forgive him, and not forsake him. she forsake tom! elizabeth almost smiled. "i do forgive you: i'm not a bit angry with you. if i ever was i have got over it." "that's right. you're a dear soul. do you think that i don't like you, elizabeth?" "oh yes," she said, sadly, "i dare say you do, a little, in spite of esther martin. but that's not my way of liking, and i couldn't stand it." "what couldn't you stand?" "your kissing me to-day, and another girl to-morrow: your telling me i was every thing to you one week, and saying exactly the same thing to another girl the next. it would be hard enough to bear if we were only friends, but as sweet-hearts, as husband and wife, it would be impossible. no tom, i tell you the truth, i could not stand it." she spoke strongly, unhesitatingly, and for an instant there flowed out of her soft eyes that wild fierce spark, latent even in these quiet humble natures, which is dangerous to meddle with. tom did not attempt it. he felt all was over. whether he had lost or gained: whether he was glad or sorry, he hardly knew. "i'm not going to take this back, any how," he said, "fiddling" with the brooch; and then going up to her, he attempted, with trembling hands, to refasten it in her collar. the familiar action, his contrite look, were too much. people who have once loved one another, though the love is dead (for love can die), are not able to bury it all at once, or if they do, its pale ghost will still come knocking at the door of their hearts, "let me in, let me in!" elizabeth ought, i know, in proper feminine dignity, to have bade tom farewell without a glance or a touch. but she did not. when he had fastened her brooch she looked up in his familiar face a sorrowful, wistful, hungering look, and then clung about his neck: "o tom, tom, i was so fond of you!" and tom mingled his tears with hers, and kissed her many times, and even felt his old affection returning, making him half oblivious of esther; but mercifully--for love rebuilt upon lost faith is like a house founded upon sands--the door opened, and esther herself came in. laughing, smirking, pretty esther, who, thoughtless as she was, had yet the sense to draw back when she saw them. "come here, esther!" elizabeth called, imperatively; and she came. "esther, i've given up tom; you may take him if he wants you. make him a good wife, and i'll forgive you. if not--" she could not say another word. she shut the door upon them, and crept up stairs, conscious only of one thought--if she only could get away from them, and never see either of their faces any more! and in this fate was kind to her, though in that awful way in which fate--say rather providence--often works; cutting, with one sharp blow, some knot that our poor, feeble, mortal fingers have been long laboring at in vain, or making that which seemed impossible to do the most natural, easy, and only thing to be done. how strangely often in human life "one woe doth tread upon the other's heel!" how continually, while one of those small private tragedies that i have spoken of is being enacted within, the actors are called upon to meet some other tragedy from without, so that external energy counteracts inward emotion, and holy sympathy with another's sufferings stifles all personal pain. that truth about sorrows coming "in battalions" may have a divine meaning in it--may be one of those mysterious laws which guide the universe--laws that we can only trace in fragments, and guess at the rest, believing, in deep humility, that one day we shall "know even as we are known." therefore i ask no pity for elizabeth, because ere she had time to collect herself, and realize in her poor confused mind that she had indeed said good by to tom, given him up and parted from him forever, she was summoned to her mistress's room, there to hold a colloquy outside the door with the seriously-perplexed nurse. one of those sudden changes had come which sometimes, after all seems safe, strike terror into a rejoicing household, and end by carrying away, remorseless, the young wife from her scarcely tasted bliss, the mother of many children from her close circle of happy duties and yearning loves. mrs. ascott was ill. either she had taken cold or been too much excited, or, in the overconfidence of her recovery, some slight neglect had occurred--some trifle which nobody thinks of till afterward, and which yet proves the fatal cause, "the little pin" that "bores through the castle wall" of mortal hope, and king death enters in all his awful state. nobody knew it or dreaded it; for though mrs. ascott was certainly ill, she was not at first very ill; and there being no telegraphs in those days no one thought of sending for either her husband or her sisters. but that very hour, when elizabeth went up to her mistress, and saw the flush on her cheek and the rest-less expression of her eye, king death had secretly crept in at the door of the mansion in russell square. the patient was carefully removed back into her bed. she said little, except once, looking up uneasily-- "i don't feel quite myself, elizabeth." and when her servant soothed her in the long-familiar way, telling her she would be better in the morning, she smiled contentedly, and turned to go to sleep. nevertheless, elizabeth did not go to her bed, but sat behind the curtain, motionless, for an hour or more. toward the middle of the night, when her baby was brought to her, and the child instinctively refused its natural food, and began screaming violently, mrs. ascott's troubled look returned. "what is the matter? what are you doing, nurse? i won't be parted from my baby--i won't, i say!" and when, to sooth her, the little thing was again put into her arms, and again turned from her, a frightened expression came into the mother's face. "am i going to be ill?--is baby--" she stopped; and as nurse determinately carried it away, she attempted no resistance, only followed it across the room with eager eyes. it was the last glimmer of reason there. from that time her, mind began to wander, and before morning she was slightly delirious. still nobody apprehended danger. nobody really knew any thing about the matter except nurse, and she, with a selfish fear of being blamed for carelessness, resisted sending for the doctor till his usual hour of calling. in that large house, as in many other large houses, every body's business was nobody's business, and a member of the family, even the mistress, might easily be sick or dying in some room therein, while all things else went on just as usual, and no one was any the wiser. about noon even elizabeth's ignorance was roused up to the conviction that something was very wrong with mrs. ascott, and that nurse's skill could not counteract it. on her own responsibility she sent, or rather she went to fetch the doctor. he came; and his fiat threw the whole household into consternation. now they knew that the poor lady whose happiness had touched the very stoniest hearts in the establishment hovered upon the brink of the grave. now all the women-servants, down to the little kitchen-maid with her dirty apron at her eyes, crept up stairs, one after the other, to the door of what had been such a silent, mysterious room, and listened, unhindered, to the ravings that issued thence. "poor missis," and the "poor little baby," were spoken of softly at the kitchen dinner table, and confidentially sympathized over with inquiring tradespeople at the area gate. a sense of awe and suspense stole over the whole house, gathering thicker hour by hour of that dark december day. when her mistress was first pronounced "in danger," elizabeth, aware that there was no one to act but herself, had taken a brief opportunity to slip from the room and write two letters, one to her master in edinburgh, and the other to miss hilary. the first she gave to the footman to post; the second she charged him to send by special messenger to richmond. but he, being lazily inclined, or else thinking that, as the order was only given by elizabeth, it was of comparatively little moment, posted them both. so vainly did the poor girl watch and wait; neither miss leaf nor miss hilary came. by night mrs. ascott's delirium began to subside, but her strength was ebbing fast. two physicians--three--stood by the unconscious woman, and pronounced that all hope was gone, if, indeed, the case had not been hopeless from the beginning. "where is her husband? has she no relations--no mother or sisters?" asked the fashionable physician, sir ---- ----, touched by the slight or this poor lady dying alone, with only a nurse and a servant about her. "if she has, they ought to be sent for immediately." elizabeth ran down stairs, and rousing the old butler from his bed, prevailed on him to start immediately in the carriage to bring back miss leaf and miss hilary. it would be midnight before he reached richmond; still it must be done. "i'll do it, my girl," said he, kindly; "and i'll tell them as gently as i can. never fear." when elizabeth returned to her mistress's room the doctors were all gone, and nurse, standing at the foot of mrs. ascott's bed, was watching her with the serious look which even a hireling or a stranger wears in the presence of that sight which, however familiar, never grows less awful--a fellow creature slowly passing from this life into the life unknown. elizabeth crept up to the other side. the change, indescribable yet unmistakable, which comes over a human face when the warrant for its dissolution has gone forth, struck her at once. never yet had elizabeth seen death. her father's she did not remember, and among her few friends and connections none other had occurred. at twenty-three years of age she was still ignorant of that solemn experience which every woman must go through some time, often many times during her life. for it is to women that all look in their extreme hour. very few men, even the tenderest hearted, are able to watch by the last struggle and close the eyes of the dying. for the moment, as she glanced round the darkened room, and then at the still figure on the bed, elizabeth's courage failed. strong love might have overcome this fear--the natural recoil of youth and life from coming into contact with death and mortality; but love was not exactly the bond between her and mrs. ascott. it was rather duty, pity, the tenderness that would have sprung up in her heart toward any body she had watched and tended so long. "if she should die, die in the night, before miss hilary comes!" thought the poor girl, and glanced once more around the shadowy room, where she was now left quite alone. for nurse, thinking with true worldly wisdom of the preservation of the "son and heir," which was decidedly the most important question now, had stolen away, and was busy in the next room, seeing various young women whom the doctors had sent, one of whom was to supply to the infant the place of the poor mother whom it would never know. there was nobody left but herself to watch this dying mother, so elizabeth took her lot upon her, smothered down her fears, and sat by the bedside waiting for the least expression of returning reason in the sunken face, which was very quiet now. consciousness did return at last, as the doctors had said it would. mrs. ascott opened her eyes; they wandered from side to side, and then she said, feebly, "elizabeth, where's my baby?" what elizabeth answered she never could remember; perhaps nothing, or her agitation betrayed her, for mrs. ascott said again, "elizabeth, am i going to--to leave my baby?" some people might have considered it best to reply with a lie--the frightened, cowardly lie that is so often told at death-beds to the soul passing direct to its god. but this girl could not and dared not. leaning over her mistress, she whispered as softly as she could, choking down the tears that might have disturbed the peace which, mercifully, seemed to have come with dying, "yes, you are going very soon--to god. he will watch over baby, and give him back to you again some day quite safe." "will he?" the tone was submissive, half-inquiring; like that of a child learning something it had never learned before--as selina was now learning. perhaps even those three short weeks of motherhood had power so to raise her whole nature that she now gained the composure with which even the weakest soul can sometimes meet death, and had grown not unworthy of the dignity of a christian's dying. suddenly she shivered. "i am afraid; i never thought of--this. will nobody come and speak to me?" oh, how elizabeth longed for miss hilary, for any body, who would have known what to say to the dying woman; who perhaps, as her look and words implied, till this hour had never thought of dying. once it crossed the servant's mind to send for some clergyman; but she knew none, and was aware that mrs. ascott did not either. she had no superstitious feeling that any clergyman would do; just to give a sort of spiritual extreme unction to the departing soul. her own religious faith was of such an intensely personal silent kind, that she did not believe in any good to be derived from a strange gentleman coming and praying by the bedside of a stranger, repeating set sayings with a set countenance, and going away again. and yet with that instinct which comes to almost every human soul, fast departing, mrs. ascott's white lips whispered, "pray." elizabeth had no words, except those which miss leaf used to say night after night in the little parlor at stowbury. she knelt down, and in a trembling voice repeated in her mistress's ear--"our father which art in heaven"--to the end. after it mrs. ascott lay very quiet. at length she said, "please--bring--my--baby." it had been from the first, and was to the last, "my" baby. the small face was laid close to hers that she might kiss it. "he looks well; he does not miss me much yet, poor little fellow!" and the strong natural agony came upon her, conquering even the weakness of her last hour. "oh, it's hard, hard! will nobody teach my baby to remember me?" and then lifting herself up on her elbow she caught hold of nurse. "tell mr. ascott that elizabeth is to take care of baby. promise, elizabeth. johanna is old--hilary may be married; you will take care of my baby?" "i will--as long as i live," said elizabeth hand. she took the child in her arms, and for almost another hour stood beside the bed thus, until nurse whispered, "carry it away; its mother doesn't know it now." but she did; for she feebly moved her fingers as if in search of something. baby was still asleep, but elizabeth contrived, by kneeling down close to the bed, to put the tiny hand under those cold fingers; they closed immediately upon it, and so remained till the last. when miss leaf and miss hilary came in, elizabeth was still kneeling there, trying softly to take the little hand away; for the baby had wakened and began its piteous wail. but it did not disturb the mother now. "poor selina" was no more. nothing of her was left to her child except the name of a mother. it may have been better so. chapter xxv. "in memory of selina, the beloved wife of peter ascott, esq., of russell square, london, and daughter of the late henry leaf, esq., of this town. died december , . aged years." such was the inscription which now, for six months, had met the eyes of the inhabitants of stowbury, on a large, dazzlingly white marble monument, the first that was placed in the church-yard of the new church. what motive induced mr. ascott to inter his wife here--whether it was a natural wish to lay her, and some day lay beside her, in their native earth; or the less creditable desire of showing how rich he had become, and of joining his once humble name, even on a tombstone, with one of the oldest names in the annals of stowbury--nobody could find out. probably nobody cared. the misses leaf were content that he should do as he pleased in the matter: he had shown strong but not exaggerated grief at his loss; if any remorse mingled therewith, selina's sisters happily did not know it. nobody ever did know the full history of things except elizabeth, and she kept it to herself. so the family skeleton was buried quietly in mrs. ascott's grave. peter ascott showed, in his coarse fashion, much sympathy and consideration for his wife's sisters. he had them staying in the house till a week after the funeral was over, and provided them with the deepest and handsomest mourning. he even, in a formal way took counsel with them as to the carrying out of mrs. ascott's wishes, and the retaining of elizabeth in charge of the son and heir, which was accordingly settled. and then they went back to their old life at richmond, and the widower returned to his solitary bachelor ways. he looked as usual; went to and from the city as usual; and his brief married life seemed to have passed away from him like a dream. not altogether a dream. gradually he began to awake to the consciousness of an occasional child's cry in the house--that large, silent, dreary house, where he was once more the sole, solitary master. sometimes, when he came in from church of sundays, he would mount another flight of stairs, walk into the nursery at the top of the house, and stare with distant curiosity at the little creature in elizabeth's arms, pronounce it a "fine child, and did her great credit!" and then walk down again. he never seemed to consider it as his child, this poor old bachelor of so many years' standing; he had outgrown apparently all sense of the affections or the duties of a father. whether they ever would come into him; whether, after babyhood was passed, he would begin to take an interest in the little creature who throve and blossomed into beauty--which, as if watched by guardian angles, dead mothers' children often seem to do--was a source of earnest speculation to elizabeth. in the mean time he treated both her and the baby with extreme consideration, allowed her to do just as she liked, and gave her indefinite sums of money to expend upon the nursery. when summer came, and the doctor ordered change of air, mr. ascott consented to her suggestion of taking a lodging for herself and baby near baby's aunts at richmond; only desiring that the lodging should be as handsome as could be secured, and that every other sunday she should bring up his son to spend the day at russell square. and so, during the long summer months, the motherless child, in its deep mourning--which looks so pathetic on a very young baby--might be seen carried about in elizabeth's arms every where. when, after the first six weeks, the wet nurse left--in fact, two or three nurses successively were abolished--she took little henry solely under her own charge. she had comparatively small experience, but she had common sense, and the strong motherly instinct which comes by nature to some women. besides, her whole soul was wrapped up in this little child. from the hour when, even with her mistress dying before her eyes, elizabeth had felt a strange thrill of comfort in the new duty which had come into her blank life, she took to this duty as women only can whose life has become a blank. she received the child as a blessing sent direct from god; by unconscious hands--for mrs. ascott knew nothing of what happened; something that would heal her wounded heart, and make her forget tom. and so it did. women and mothers well know how engrossing is the care of an infant; how each minute of the day is filled up with something to be done or thought of; so that "fretting" about extraneous things becomes quite impossible. how gradually the fresh life growing up and expanding puts the worn out or blighted life into the back ground, and all the hopes and fancies cling around the small, beautiful present, the ever developing, the ever marvelous mystery of a young child's existence! why it should be so, we can only guess; but that it is so, many a wretched wife, many a widowed mother, many a broken hearted, forlorn aunt, has thankfully proved. elizabeth proved it likewise. she did not exactly lose all memory of her trouble, but it seemed lighter; it was swallowed up in this second passion of adopted motherhood. and so she sank, quietly and at once, into the condition of a middle aged woman, whose life's story--and her sort of women have but one--was a mere episode, told and ended. for esther had left and been married to tom cliffe within a few week's of mrs. ascott's funeral. of course, the household knew every thing; but nobody condoled with elizabeth. there was a certain stand-off-ishness about her which made them hold their tongues. they treated her with much respect, as her new position demanded. she took this, as she took every thing, with the grave quietness which was her fashion from her youth up; assumed her place as a confidential upper servant; dressed well but soberly, like a woman of forty, and was called "mrs. hand." the only trace her "disappointment" left upon her was a slightly bitter way of speaking about men in general, and a dislike to any chatter about love affairs and matrimony. her own story she was never known to refer to in the most distant way, except once. miss hilary--who, of course, had heard all, but delicately kept silence--one night, when little henry was not well, remained in the lodgings on richmond hill, and slept in the nursery, elizabeth making up for herself a bed on the floor close beside baby and cradle. in the dead of night, the two women, mistress and maid, by some chance, said a few things to one another which never might have been said in the daylight, and which, by tacit consent, were never afterward referred to by either, any more than if they had been spoken in a dream. elizabeth told briefly, though not without emotion, all that had happened between herself and tom, and how he was married to esther martin. and then both women went back, in a moralizing way, to the days when they had both been "young" at stowbury, and how different life was from what they then thought and looked forward to--miss hilary and her "bower maiden." "yes," answered the former with a sigh, "things are indeed not as people fancy when they are girls. we dream, and dream, and think we see very far into the future, which nobody sees but god. i often wonder how my life will end." elizabeth said, after a pause, "i always felt sure you would be married, miss hilary. there was one person--is he alive still? is he ever coming home?" "i don't know." "i am sure he was very fond of you. and he looked like a good man." "he was the best man i ever knew." this was all miss hilary said, and she said it softly and mournfully. she might never have said it at all; but it dropped from her unawares in the deep feeling of the moment, when her heart was tender over elizabeth's own sad, simply told story. also because of a sudden and great darkness which had come over her own. literally, she did not now know whether robert lyon were alive or dead. two months ago his letters had suddenly ceased, without any explanation, his last being exactly the same as the others--as frank, as warmly affectionate, as cheerful and brave. one solution to this was his possible coming home. but she did not, after careful reasoning on the subject, believe that likely. she knew exactly his business relations with his employers; that there was a fixed time for his return to england, which nothing except the very strongest necessity could alter. even in the chance of his health breaking, so as to incapacitate him for work, he should, he always said, have to go to the hills, rather than take the voyage home prematurely. and in that case he certainly would have informed his friends of his movements. there was nothing erratic, or careless, or eccentric about robert lyon; he was a practical, business-like scotchman--far too cautious and too regular in all his habits to be guilty of those accidental negligences by which wanderers abroad sometimes cause such cruel anxieties to friends at home. for the same reason, the other terrible possibility--his death--was not likely to have happened without their hearing of it. hilary felt sure, with the strong confidence of love, that he would have taken every means to leave her some last word--some farewell token--which would reach hereafter he was gone, and comfort her with the assurance of what, living, he had never plainly told. sometimes, when a wild terror of his death seized her, this settled conviction drove it back again. he must be living, or she would have heard. there was another interpretation of the silence, which many would have considered the most probable of all--he might be married. not deliberately, but suddenly; drawn into it by some of those impelling trains of circumstance which are the cause of so many marriages, especially with men; or, impelled by one of those violent passions which occasionally seize on an exceedingly good man, fascinating him against his conscience, reason, and will, until he wakes up to find himself fettered and ruined for life. such things do happen, strangely, pitifully often. the like might have happened to robert lyon. hilary did not actually believe it, but still her common sense told her that it was possible. she was not an inexperienced girl now; she looked on the world with the eyes of a woman of thirty; and though, thank heaven! the romance had never gone out of her--the faith, and trust, and tender love--still it had sobered down a little. she knew it was quite within the bounds of possibility that a young man, separated from her for seven years, thrown into all kinds of circumstances and among all sorts of people, should have changed very much in himself, and, consequently, toward her. that, without absolute faithlessness, he might suddenly have seen some other woman he liked better, and have married at once. or, if he came back unmarried--she had taught herself to look this probability also steadily in the face--he might find the reality of her--hilary leaf--different from his remembrance of her; and so, without actual falseness to the old true love, might not love her any more. these fears made her resolutely oppose johanna's wish to write to the house of business at liverpool, and ask what had become of mr. lyon. it seemed like seeking after him, trying to hold him by the slender chain which he had never attempted to make any stronger, and which, already, he might have broken, or desired to break. she could not do it. something forbade her; that something in the inmost depths of a woman's nature which makes her feel her own value, and exact that she shall be sought; that, if her love be worth having, it is worth seeking; that, however dear a man may be to her, she refuses to drop into his mouth like an overripe peach from a garden wall. in her sharpest agony of anxiety concerning him, hilary felt that she could not, on her part, take any step that seemed to compel love--or even friendship--from robert lyon. it was not pride, she could hardly be called a proud woman; it was an innate sense of the dignity of that love which, as a free gift, is precious as "much fine gold." yet becomes the merest dross, utterly and insulting poor--when paid as a debt of honor, or offered as a benevolent largess. and so, though oftentimes her heart felt breaking, hilary labored on; sat the long day patiently at her desk; interested herself in the young people over whom she ruled; became miss balquidder's right hand in all sorts of schemes which that good woman was forever carrying out for the benefit of her fellow-creatures; and at leisure times occupied herself with johanna, or with elizabeth and the baby, trying to think it was a very beautiful and happy world, with love still in it, and a god of love ruling over it--only, only-- women are very humble in their cruelest pride. many a day she felt as if she could have crawled a hundred miles in the dust--like some catholic pilgrim--just to get one sight of robert lyon. autumn came--lovely and lingering late. it was november, and yet the air felt mild as may, and the sunshine had that peculiar genial brightness which autumnal sunshine alone possesses; even as, perhaps, late happiness has in it a holy calm and sweetness which no youthful ecstasy can ever boast. the day happened to be hilary's birthday. she had taken a holiday, which she, johanna, elizabeth, and the baby, had spent in richmond park, watching the rabbits darting about under the brown fern, and the deer grazing contentedly hard by. they had sat a long time under one of the oak trees with which the park abounds, listening for the sudden drop, drop of an occasional acorn among the fallen leaves; or making merry with the child, as a healthy, innocent, playful child always can make good women merry. still, master henry was not a remarkable specimen of infanthood, and had never occupied more than his proper nepotal corner in hilary's heart. she left him chiefly to elizabeth, and to his aunt johanna, in whom the grandmotherly character had blossomed out in full perfection. and when these two became engrossed in his infant majesty. hilary sat a little apart, unconsciously folding her hands and fixing her eyes on vacancy; becoming fearfully alive to the sharp truth, that of all griefs, a strong love unreturned or unfulfilled is the grief which most blights a woman's life. say, rather, any human life; but it is worst to a woman, because she must necessarily endure passively. so enduring, it is very difficult to recognize the good hand of god therein. why should he ordain longings, neither selfish nor unholy, which yet are never granted; tenderness which expends itself in vain; sacrifices which are wholly unheeded; and sufferings which seem quite thrown away? that is, if we dared allege of any thing in the moral or in the material world, where so much loveliness, so much love, appear continually wasted, that it is really "thrown away." we never know through what divine mysteries of compensation the great father of the universe may be carrying out his sublime plan; and those three words, "god is love," ought to contain, to every doubting soul, the solution of all things. as hilary rose from under the tree there was a shadow on her sweet face, a listless weariness in her movements, which caught johanna's attention. johanna had been very good to her child. when, do what she would, hilary could not keep down fits of occasional dullness or impatience, it was touching to see how this woman of over sixty years slipped from her due pedestal of honor and dignity, to be patient with her younger sister's unspoken bitterness and incommunicable care. she now, seeing how restless hilary was, rose when she rose, put her arm in hers, and accompanied her, speaking or silent, with quick steps or slow, as she chose, across the beautiful park, than which, perhaps, all england can not furnish a scene more thoroughly sylvan, thoroughly english. they rested on that high ground near the gate of pembroke lodge, where the valley of the thames lies spread out like a map, stretching miles and miles away in luxuriant greenery. "how beautiful! i wonder what a foreigner would think of this view? or any one who had been long abroad? how inexpressibly sweet and home-like it would seem to him!" hilary turned sharply away, and johanna saw at once what her words had implied. she felt so sorry, so vexed with herself; but it was best to leave it alone. so they made their way homeward, speaking of something else; and then that happened which johanna had been almost daily expecting would happen, though she dared not communicate her hopes to hilary, lest they might prove fallacious. the two figures, both in deep mourning, might have attracted any one's attention: they caught that of a gentleman, who was walking quickly and looking about him, as if in search of something. he passed them at a little distance, then repassed, then turned, holding out both his hands. "miss leaf; i was sure it was you." only the voice; every thing else about him was so changed that hilary herself would certainly have passed him in the street, that brown, foreign looking, middle aged man, nor recognized him as robert lyon. but for all that it was himself; it was robert lyon. nobody screamed, nobody fainted. people seldom do that in real life, even when a friend turns up suddenly from the other end of the world. they only hold out a warm hand, and look silently in one another's faces, and try to believe that all is real, as these did. robert lyon shook hands with both ladies, one after the other, hilary last, then placed himself between them. "miss leaf, will you take my arm?" the tone, the manner, were so exactly like himself, that in a moment all these intervening years seemed crushed into an atom of time. hilary felt certain, morally and absolutely certain, that, in spite of all outward change, he was the same robert lyon who had bade them all good-by that sunday night in the parlor at stowbury. the same, even in his love for herself, though he had simply drawn her little hand under his arm, and never spoken a single word. hilary leaf, down, secretly, on your heart's lowest knees, and thank god! repent of all your bitterness, doubts, and pains; be joyful, be joyful! but, oh, remember to be so humble withal. she was. as she walked silently along by robert lyon's side, she pulled down her veil to hide the sweetest, most contrite, most child-like tears. what did she deserve, more than her neighbors, that she should be so very, very happy? and when, a good distance across the park, she saw the dark, solitary figure of elizabeth carrying baby, she quietly guided her companions into a different path, so as to avoid meeting, lest the sight of her happiness might in any way, hurt poor elizabeth. "i only landed last night at southampton," mr. lyon explained to miss leaf, after the fashion people have, at such meetings, of falling upon the most practical and uninteresting details. "i came by the overland mail. it was a sudden journey, i had scarcely more than a few hours' notice. the cause of it was some very unpleasant defalcations in our firm." under any other circumstances hilary might have smiled; maybe she did smile, and tease him many a time afterward, because the first thing he could find to talk about, after seven years' absence, was "defalcations in our firm. but now she listened gravely, and by-and-by took her part in the unimportant conversation which always occurs after such a meeting as this. "were you going home, miss leaf? they told me at your house you were expected to dinner. may i come with you? for i have only a few hours to stay. to-night i must go on to liverpool." "but we shall hope soon to see you again?" "i hope so. and i trust, miss leaf, that i do not intrude to-day." he said this with his scotch shyness, or pride, or whatever it was; so like his old self, that it made somebody smile! but somebody loved it. somebody lifted up to his face eyes of silent welcome; sweet, soft, brown eyes, where never, since he knew them, had he seen one cloud of anger darken, one shadow of unkindness rise. "this is something worth coming home to," he said in a low voice, and not over lucidly. ay, it was. "i am by no means disinterested in the matter of dinner, miss leaf; for i have no doubt of finding good english roast beef and plum pudding on your sister's birth day.--happy returns of the day, miss hilary." she was so touched by his remembering this, that, to hide it, she put on a spice of her old mischievousness, and asked him if he was aware how old she was? "yes; you are thirty; i have known you for fifteen years." "it is a long time," said johanna, thoughtfully. johanna would not have been human had she not been a little thoughtful and silent on the way home, and had she not many times, out of the corners of her eyes, sharply investigated mr. robert lyon. he was much altered; there was no doubt of that. seven years of indian life would change any body; take the youthfulness out of any body. it was so with robert lyon. when coming into the parlor he removed his hat, many a white thread was visible in his hair, and besides the spare, dried-up look which is always noticeable in people who have lived long in hot climates, there was an "old" expression in his face, indicating many a worldly battle fought and won, but not without leaving scars behind. even hilary, as she sat opposite to him, at table, could not but feel that he was no longer a young man either in appearance or reality. we ourselves grow old, or older, without knowing it, but when we suddenly come upon the same fact in another it startles us. hilary had scarcely recognized how far she herself had left her girlish days behind till she saw robert lyon. "you think me very much changed?" said he, guessing by his curiously swift intuition of old what she was thinking of. "yes, a good deal changed," she answered truthfully; at which he was silent. he could not read--perhaps no man's heart could--all the emotion that swelled in hers as she looked at him, the love of her youth, no longer young. how the ghostly likeness of the former face gleamed out under the hard worn lines of the face that now was touching her with ineffable tenderness. also, with solemn content came a sense of the entire indestructibleness of that love which through all decay or alteration traces the ideal image still, clings to it, and cherishes it with a tenacity that laughs to scorn the grim dread of "growing old." in his premature and not specially comely middle age, in his gray hairs, in the painful, anxious, half melancholy expression which occasionally flitted across his features, as if life had gone hard with him, robert lyon was a thousand times dearer to her than when the world was all before them both in the early days at stowbury. there is a great deal of a sentimental nonsense talked about people having been "young together." not necessarily is that a bond. many a tie formed in youth dwindles away and breaks off naturally in maturer years. characters alter, circumstances divide. no one will dare to allege that there may not be loves and friendships formed in middle life as dear, as close, as firm as any of those of youth; perhaps, with some temperaments, infinitely more so. but when the two go together, when the calm election of maturity confirms the early instinct, and the lives have been parallel, as it were, for many years, there can be no bond like that of those who say as these two did, "we were young together." he said so when, after dinner, he came and stood by the window where hilary was sitting sewing. johanna had just gone out of the room; whether intentionally or not, this history can not avouch. let us give her the benefit of the doubt; she was a generous woman. during the three hours that mr. lyon had been with her, hilary's first agitation had subsided. that exceeding sense of rest which she had always felt beside him--the sure index of people who, besides loving, are meant to guide and help and bless one another--returned as strong as ever. that deep affection which should underlie all love revived and clung to him with a chidlike confidence strengthening at every word he said, every familiar look and way. he was by no means so composed as she was, especially now when coming up to her side and watching her hands moving for a minute or so, he asked her to tell him, a little more explicitly, of what had happened to her since they parted. "things are rather different from what i thought;" and he glanced with a troubled air round the neat but very humbly furnished parlor. "and about the shop?" "johanna told you." "yes; but her letters have been so few, so short--not that i could expect more. still--now, if you will trust me--tell me all." hilary turned to him, her friend for fifteen years. he was that if he was nothing more. and he had been very true; he deserved to be trusted. she told him, in brief, the history of the last year or two, and then added: "but after all it is hardly worth the telling, because, you see, we are very comfortable now. poor ascott, we suppose, must be in australia. i earn enough to keep johanna and myself, and miss balquidder is a good friend to us. we have repaid her, and owe nobody any thing. still, we have suffered a great deal. two years ago; oh! it was a dreadful time." she was hardly aware of it, but her candid tell-tale face betrayed more even than her words. it cut robert lyon to the heart. "you suffered, and i never knew it." "i never meant you to know." "why not?" he walked the room in great excitement. "i ought to have been told; it was cruel not to tell me. suppose you had sunk under it; suppose you had died, or been driven to do what many a woman does for the sake of mere bread and a home--what your poor sister did--married. but i beg your pardon." for hilary had started up with her face all aglow. "no," she cried; "no poverty would have sunk me as low as that. i might have starved, but i should never have married." robert lyon looked at her, evidently uncomprehending, then said humbly, though rather formally, "i beg your pardon once more. i had no right to allude to any thing of the kind." hilary replied not. it seemed as if now, close together, they were further apart than when the indian seas rolled between them. mr. lyon's brown cheek turned paler and paler; he pressed his lips hard together; they moved once or twice, but still he did not utter a word. at last, with a sort of desperate courage, and in a tone that hilary had never heard from him in her life before, he said: "yes, i believe i have a right, the right that every man has when his whole happiness depends upon it, to ask you one question. you know every thing concerning me; you always have known; i meant that you should--i have taken the utmost care that you should. there is not a bit of my life that has not been as open to you as if--as if--. but i know nothing whatever concerning you." "what do you wish to know?" she faltered. "seven years is a long time. are you free? i mean, are you engaged to be married?" "no." "thank god!" he dropped his head down between his hands and did not speak for a long time. and then with difficulty--for it was always hard to him to speak out--he told her, at least he somehow made her understand, how he had loved her. no light fancy of sentimental youth, captivated by every fresh face it sees, putting upon each one the coloring of his own imagination, and adorning not what is, but what itself creates; no sudden, selfish, sensuous passion, caring only to attain its object, irrespective of reason, right, or conscience; but the strong deep love of a just man, deliberately choosing one woman as the best woman out of all the world, and setting himself resolutely to win her. battling for her sake with all hard fortune; keeping, for her sake, his heart pure from all the temptations of the world; never losing sight of her; watching over her so far as he could, consistently with the sense of honor (or masculine pride--which was it? but hilary forgave it, any how) which made him resolutely compel himself to silence; holding her perfectly free, while he held himself bound. bound by a faithfulness perfect as that of the knights of old--asking nothing, and yet giving all. such was his love--this brave, plain spoken, single hearted scotsman. would that there were more such men and more such love in the world! few women could have resisted it, certainly not hilary, especially with a little secret of her own lying perdu at the bottom of her heart; that "sleeping angel" whence half her strength and courage had come; the noble, faithful, generous love of a good woman for a good man. but this secret robert lyon had evidently never guessed, or deemed himself wholly unworthy of such a possession. he took her hand at last, and held it firmly. "and now that you know all, do you think in time--i'll not hurry you--but in time, do you think i could make you love me?" she looked up in his face with her honest eyes. smiling as they were, there was pathos in them; the sadness left by those long years of hidden suffering, now forever ended. "i have loved you all my life," said hilary. chapter xxvi. let us linger a little over this chapter of happy love: so sweet, so rare a thing. aye, most rare: though hundreds continually meet, love, or fancy they do, engage themselves, and marry; and hundreds more go through the same proceeding, with the slight difference of the love omitted--hamlet, with the part of hamlet left out. but the real love, steady and true: tried in the balance, and not found wanting: tested by time, silence, separation; by good and ill fortune; by the natural and inevitable change which years make in every character--this is the rarest thing to be found on earth, and the most precious. i do not say that all love is worthless which is not exactly this sort of love. there have been people who have succumbed instantly and permanently to some mysterious attraction, higher than all reasoning; the same which made hilary "take an interest" in robert lyon's face at church, and made him, he afterward confessed, the very first time he gave ascott a lesson in the parlor at stowbury, say to himself, "if i did marry, i think i should like such a wife as that brown-eyed bit lassie." and there have been other people, who choosing their partners from accidental circumstances, or from mean worldly motives, have found providence kinder to them than they deserved, and settled down into happy, affectionate husbands and wives. but none of these loves can possibly have the sweetness, the completeness of such a love as that between hilary leaf and robert lyon. there was nothing very romantic about it. from the moment when johanna entered the parlor, found them standing hand-in-hand at the fireside, and hilary came forward and kissed her, and after a slight hesitation robert did the same, the affair proceeded in most millpond fashion: "unruffled by those cataracts and breaks, that humor interposed too often makes.': there were no lovers' quarrels; robert lyon had chosen that best blessing next to a good woman, a sweet tempered woman; and there was no reason why they should quarrel more as lovers than they had done as friends. and, let it be said to the eternal honor of both, now, no more than in their friendship days, was there any of that hungry engrossment of each other's society, which is only another form of selfishness, and by which lovers so often make their own happy courting time a season of never-to-be-forgotten bitterness to every body connected with them. johanna suffered a little: all people do when the new rights clash with the old ones; but she rarely betrayed it. she was exceedingly good: she saw her child happy, and she loved robert lyon dearly. he was very mindful of her, very tender; and as hilary still persisted in doing her daily duty in the shop, he spent more of his time with the elder sister than he did with the younger, and sometimes declared solemnly that if hilary did not treat him well he intended to make an offer to johanna! oh, the innumerable little jokes of those happy days! oh, the long, quiet walks by the river side, through the park, across ham common--any where--it did not matter; the whole world looked lovely, even on the dullest winter day! oh, the endless talks; the renewed mingling of two lives, which, though divided, had never been really apart, for neither had any thing to conceal; neither had ever loved any but the other. robert lyon was, as i have said, a good deal changed, outwardly and inwardly. he had mixed much in society, taken an excellent position therein, and this had given him not only a more polished manner, but an air of decision and command, as of one used to be obeyed. there could not be the slightest doubt, as johanna once laughingly told him, that he would always be "master in his own house." but he was very gentle with his "little woman" as he called her. he would sit for hours at the "ingle-neuk"--how he did luxuriate in the english fires!--with hilary on a footstool beside him, her arm resting on his knee, or her hand fast clasped in his. and sometimes, when johanna went out of the room, he would stoop and gather her close to his heart. but i shall tell no tales; the world has no business with these sort of things. hilary was very shy of parading her happiness; she disliked any demonstrations thereof, even before johanna. and when miss balquidder, who had, of course, been told of the engagement, came down one day expressly to see her "fortunate fellow countryman," this machiavellian little woman actually persuaded her lover to have an important engagement in london! she could not bear him to be "looked at." "ah, well, you must leave me, and i will miss you terribly, my deal," said the old scotch woman. but it's an ill wind that blows nobody good, and i have another young lady quite ready to step into your shoes. when shall you be married?" "i don't know--hush: we'll talk another time," said hilary, glancing at johanna. miss balquidder took the hint and was silent. that important question was indeed beginning to weigh heavily on hilary's mind. she was fully aware of what mr. lyon wished, and indeed, expected; that when, the business of the firm being settled, in six months hence he returned to india, he should not return alone. when he said this, she had never dared to answer, hardly even to think. she let the peaceful present float on, day by day, without recognizing such a thing as the future. but this could not be always. it came to an end one january afternoon, when he had returned from a second absence in liverpool. they were walking up richmond hill. the sun had set frostily and red over the silver curve of the thames, and venus, large and bright, was shining like a great eye in the western sky. hilary long remembered exactly how every thing looked, even to the very tree they stood under, when robert lyon asked her to fix definitely the day that she would marry him. would she consent--there seemed no special reason to the contrary--that it should be immediately? or would she like to remain with johanna as she was, till just before they sailed? he wished to be as good as possible to johanna--still. and something in his manner impressed hilary more than ever before with the conviction of all she was to him; likewise, all he was to her. more, much more than even a few short weeks since. then, intense as it was, the love had a dream like unreality; now it was close, home-like, familiar. instinctively she clung to his arm; she had become so used to being robert's darling now. she shivered as she thought of the wide seas rolling between them; of the time when she should look for him at the daily meal and daily fireside, and find him no more. "robert, i want to talk to you about johanna." "i guess what it is," said he, smiling; "you would like her to go out to india with us. certainly, if she chooses. i hope you did not suppose i should object." "no; but it is not that. she would not live six months in a hot climate; the doctor tells me so." "you consulted him?" "yes, confidentially, without her knowing it. but i thought it right. i wanted to make quite sure before--before-- oh, robert--." the grief of her tone caused him to suspect what was coming, he started. "you don't mean that? oh no, you can not! my little woman, my own little woman--she could not be so unkind." hilary turned sick at heart. the dim landscape, the bright sky, seemed to mingle and dance before her, and venus to stare at her with a piercing, threatening, baleful lustre. "robert, let me sit down on the bench, and sit you beside me. it is too dark for people to notice us, and we shall not be very cold." "no, my darling;" and he slipped his plaid round her shoulders, and his arm with it. she looked up pitifully. "don't be vexed with me, robert, dear; i have thought it all over; weighed it on every side; nights and nights i have been awake pondering what was right to do. and it always comes to the same thing." "what?" "it's the old story," she answered with a feeble smile. "'i canna leave my minnie.' there is nobody in the world to take care of johanna but me, not even elizabeth, who is engrossed in little henry. if i left her, i am sure it would kill her. and she can not come with me. dear!" (the only fond name she ever called him) "for these three years--you say it need only be three years--you will have to go back to india alone." robert lyon was a very good man; but he was only a man, not an angle; and though he made comparatively little show of it, he was a man very deeply in love. with that jealous tenacity over his treasure, hardly blamable, since the love is worth little which does not wish to have its object "all to itself," he had, i am afraid, contemplated not without pleasure the carrying off of hilary to his indian home; and it had cost him something to propose that johanna should go too. he was very fond of johanna; still-- if i tell what followed will it forever lower robert lyon in the estimation of all readers? he said, coldly, "as you please, hilary;" rose up, and never spoke another word till they reached home. it was the first dull tea table they had ever known; the first time hilary had ever looked at that dear face, and seen an expression there which made her look away again. he did not sulk; he was too gentlemanly for that; he even exerted himself to make the meal pass pleasantly as usual; but he was evidently deeply wounded; nay, more, displeased. the strong, stern man's nature within him had rebelled; the sweetness had gone out of his face, and something had come into it which the very best of men have sometimes: alas for the woman who cannot understand and put up with it! i am not going to preach the doctrine of tyrants and slaves; but when two walk together they must be agreed, or if by any chance they are not agreed, one must yield. it may not always be the weaker, or in weakness may lie the chiefest strength; but it must be one or other of the two who has to be the first to give way; and, save in very exceptional cases, it is, and it ought to be, the woman. god's law and nature's which is also god's, ordains this; instinct teaches it; christianity enforces it. will it inflict a death blow upon any admiration she may have excited, this brave little hilary, who fought through the world by herself; who did not shrink from traversing london streets alone at seemly and unseemly hours; from going into sponging houses and debtor's prisons; from earning her own livelihood, even in a shop--if i confess that robert lyon, being angry with her, justly or unjustly, and she, looking upon him as her future husband, her "lord and master" if you will, whom she would one day promise, and intended, literally "to obey"--she thought it her duty, not only her pleasure but her duty, to be the first to make reconciliation between them? ay, and at every sacrifice, except that of principle. and i am afraid, in spite of all that "strong-minded" women may preach to the contrary, that all good women will have to do this to all men who stand in any close relation toward them, whether fathers, husbands, brothers, or lovers, if they wish to preserve peace, and love, and holy domestic influence; and that so it must be to the end of time. miss leaf might have discovered that something was amiss; but she was too wise to take any notice, and being more than usually feeble that day, immediately after tea she went to lie down. when hilary followed her, arranged her pillows, and covered her up, johanna drew her child's face close to her and whispered, "that will do, love. don't stay with me. i would not keep you from robert on any account." hilary all but broke down; and yet the words made her stronger firmer; set more clearly before her the solemn duty which young folks in love are so apt to forget, that there can be no blessing on the new tie, if for any thing short of inevitable necessity they let go one link of the old. yet, robert-- it was such a new and dreadful feeling to be standing outside the door and shrink from going in to him; to see him rise up formally, saying, "perhaps he had better leave;" and have to answer with equal formality, "not unless you are obliged;" and for him then, with a shallow pretence of being at ease, to take up a book and offer to read aloud to her while she worked. he--who used always to set his face strongly against all sewing of evenings--because it deprived him temporarily of the sweet eyes, and the little soft hand. oh, it was hard, hard! nevertheless, she sat still and tried to listen; but the words went in at one ear and out at the other; she retained nothing. by-and-by her throat began to swell, and she could not see her needle and thread. yet still he went on reading. it was only when, by some blessed chance, turning to reach a paper cutter, he caught sight of her, that he closed the book and looked discomposed; not softened, only discomposed. who shall be first to speak? who shall catch the passing angel's wing? one minute, and it may have passed over. i am not apologizing for hilary the least in the world. i do not know even if she considered whether it was her place or robert's to make the first advance. indeed, i fear she did not consider it at all, but just acted upon impulse, because it was so cruel, so heart breaking, to be at variance with him. but if she had considered it i doubt not she would have done from duty exactly what she did by instinct--crept up to him as he sat at the fireside, and laid her little hand on his. "robert, what makes you so angry with me still?" "not angry; i have no right to be." "yes, you would have if i had really done wrong. have i?" "you must judge for yourself. for me--i thought you loved me better than i find you do, and i made a mistake; that is all." ay, he had made a mistake, but it was not that one. it was the other mistake that men continually make about women; they can not understand that love is not worth having, that it is not love at all, but merely a selfish carrying out of selfish desires, if it blinds us to any other duty, or blunts in us any other sacred tenderness. they can not see how she who is false in one relation may be false in another; and that, true as human nature's truth, ay, and often fulfilling itself, is brabantio's ominous warning to othello-- "look to her, moor! have a good eye to see; she has deceived her father, and may thee." perhaps as soon as he had said the bitter word mr. lyon was sorry, any how, the soft answer which followed it thrilled through every nerve of the strong willed man--a man not easily made angry, but when he was, very hard to move. "robert, will you listen to me for two minutes?" "for as long as you like, only you must not expect me to agree with you. you can not suppose i shall say it is right for you to forsake me." "i forsake you? oh, robert!" words are not always the wisest arguments. his "little woman" crept closer, and laid her head on his breast: he clasped convulsively. "oh, hilary, how could you wound me so?" and in lieu of the discussion, a long silence brooded over the fireside--the silence of exceeding love. "now, robert, may i talk to you?" "yes. preach away, my little conscience." "it shall not be preaching, and it is not altogether for conscience," said she smiling. "you would not like me to tell you i did not love johanna?" "certainly not. i love her very much myself, only i prefer you, as is natural. apparently you do not prefer me, which may also be natural." "robert!" there are times when a laugh is better than a reproach; and something else, which need not be more particularly explained, is safer than either. it is possible hilary tried the experiment, and then resumed her "say." "now, robert put yourself in my place, and try to think for me. i have been johanna's child for thirty years; she is entirely dependent upon me. her health is feeble; every year of her life is at least doubtful. if she lost me i think she would never live out the next three years. you would not like that?" "no." "in all divided duties like this somebody must suffer; the question is, which can suffer best? she is old and frail, we are young; she is alone, we are two; she never had any happiness in her life, except, perhaps me; and we--oh how happy we are! i think, robert, it would be better for us to suffer than poor johanna." "you little jesuit," he said: but the higher nature of the man was roused; he was no longer angry. "it is only for a short time, remember--only three years." "and how can i do without you for three years?" "yes, robert, you can." and she put her arms round his neck, and looked at him, eye to eye. "you know i am your very own, a piece of yourself, as it were; that when i let you go it is like tearing myself from myself; yet i can bear it, rather than do, or let you do, in the smallest degree, a thing which is not right." robert lyon was not a man of many words; but he had the rare faculty of seeing a case clearly, without reference to himself, and of putting it clearly also, when necessary. "it seems to me, hilary, that this is hardly a matter of abstract right or wrong, or a good deal might be argued on my side of the subject. it is more a case of personal conscience. the two are not always identical, though they look so at first; but they both come to the same result." "and that is--" "if my little woman thinks it right to act as she does, i also think it right to let her. and let this be the law of our married life, if we ever are married," and he sighed, "that when we differ each should respect the other's conscience, and do right in the truest sense, by allowing the other to do the same." "oh, robert! how good you are." so these two, an hour after, met johanna with cheerful faces; and she never knew how much both had sacrificed for her sake. once only, when she was for a few minutes absent from the parlor, did robert lyon renew the subject, to suggest a medium course. but hilary resolutely refused. not that she doubted him--she doubted herself. she knew quite well by the pang that darted through her like a shaft of ice, as she felt his warm arm round her, and thought of the time when she would feel it no more, that, after she had been robert lyon's happy wife for three months, to let him go to india without her would be simply and utterly impossible. fast fled the months; they dwindled into weeks, and then into days. i shall not enlarge upon this time. now, when the ends of the world have been drawn together, and every family has one or more relatives abroad, a grief like hilary's has become so common that nearly every one can, in degree, understand it. how bitter such partings are, how much they take out of the brief span of mortal life, and, therefore, how far they are justifiable, for any thing short of absolute necessity, heaven knows. in this case it was an absolutely necessity. robert lyon's position in "our firm," with which he identified himself with the natural pride of a man who has diligently worked his way up to fortune, was such that he could not, without sacrificing his future prospects, and likewise what he felt to be a point of honor, refuse to go back to bombay until such time as his senior partner's son, the young fellow whom he had "coached" in hindostanee, and nursed through a fever years ago, could conveniently take his place abroad. "of course," he said, explaining this to hilary and her sister, "accidental circumstances might occur to cause my return home before the three years were out, but the act must be none of mine; i must do my duty." "yes, you must," answered hilary, with a gleam lighting up her eyes. she loved so in him this one great principle of his life--the back-bone of it, as it were--duty before all things. johanna asked no questions. once she had inquired, with a tremulous, hardly concealed alarm, whether robert wished to take hilary back with him, and hilary had kissed her, smilingly, saying, "no, that was impossible." afterward the subject was never revived. and so these two lovers, both stern in what they thought their duty, went on silently together to the last day of parting. it was almost as quiet a day as that never-to-be-forgotten sunday at stowbury. they went a long walk together, in the course of which mr. lyon forced her to agree to what hitherto she had steadfastly resisted, that she and johanna should accept from him enough, in addition to their own fifty pounds a year, to enable them to live comfortably without her working any more. "are you ashamed of my working?" she asked, with something between a tear and a smile. "sometimes i used to be afraid you would think the less of me because circumstances made me an independent woman, earning my own bread. do you?" "my darling, no. i am proud of her. but she must never work any more. johanna says right; it is a man's place, and not a woman's. i will not allow it." when he spoke in that tone hilary always submitted. he told her another thing while arranging with her all the business part of their concerns, and to reconcile her to this partial dependence upon him, which, he urged, was only forestalling his rights; that before he first quitted england, seven years ago, he had made his will, leaving her, if still unmarried, his sole heir and legatee, indeed in exactly the position that she would have been had she been his wife. "this will exists still; so that in any case you are safe. no further poverty can ever befall my hilary." his--his own--robert lyon's own. her sense of this was so strong that it took away the sharpness of the parting, made her feel, up to the very last minute, when she clung to him--was pressed close to him--heart to heart and lip to lip--for a space that seemed half a life-time of mixed anguish and joy--that he was not really going; that somehow or other, next day or next week he would be back again, as in his frequent re-appearances, exactly as before. when he was really gone--when, as she sat with her tearless eyes fixed on the closed door--johanna softly touched her, saying, "my child" then hilary learned it all. the next twenty-four hours will hardly bear being written about. most people know what it is to miss the face out of the house--the life out of the heart. to come and go, to eat and drink, to lie down and rise, and find all thing the same, and gradually to recognize that it must be the same, indefinitely, perhaps always. to be met continually by small trifles--a dropped glove, a book, a scrap of handwriting that yesterday would have been thrown into the fire, but to-day is picked up and kept as a relic; and at times, bursting through the quietness which must be gained, or at least assumed, the cruel craving for one word more--one kiss more--for only one five minutes of the eternally ended yesterday! all this hundreds have gone through; so did hilary. she said afterward it was good for her that she did; it would make her feel for others in a way she had never felt before. also, because it taught her that such a heart-break can be borne and lived through when help is sought where only real help can be found; and where, when reason fails, and those who, striving to do right irrespective of the consequences, cry out against their torments and wonder why they should be made so to suffer, childlike faith comes to their rescue. for, let us have all the philosophy at our fingers' ends, what are we but children? we know not what a day may bring forth. all wisdom resolves itself into the simple hymn which we learned when we were young: "deep in unfathomable mines of never-failing skill. he treasures up his vast designs, and works his sovereign will. "blind unbelief is sure to err. and scan his work in vain: god is his own interpreter. and he will make it plain." the night after robert lyon left, hilary and johanna were sitting together in their parlor. hilary had been writing a long letter to miss balquidder, explaining that she would now give up in favor of the other young lady, or any other of the many to whom it would be a blessing, her position in the shop; but that she hoped still to help her--miss balquidder--in any way she could point out that would be useful to others. she wished, in her humble way, as a sort of thank offering from one who had passed through the waves and been landed safe ashore, to help those who were still struggling, as she herself had struggled once. she desired, as far as in her lay, to be miss balquidder's "right hand" till mr. lyon came home. this letter she read aloud to johanna, whose failing eye sight refused all candle light occupation, and then came and sat beside her in silence. she felt terribly worn and weary, but she was very quiet now. "we must go to bed early," was all she said. "yes, my child." and johanna smoothed her hair in the old, fond way, making no attempt to console her, but only to love her--always the safest consolation. and hilary was thankful that never, even in her sharpest agonies of grief, had she betrayed that secret which would have made her sister's life miserable, have blotted out the thirty years of motherly love, and caused the other love to rise up like a cloud between her and it, never to be lifted until johanna sank into the possibly not far-off grave. "no, no," she thought to herself, as she looked on that frail, old face, which even the secondary, grief of this last week seemed to have made frailer and older. "no, it is better as it is; i believe i did right. the end will show." the end was nearer than she thought. so, sometimes--not often, lest self-sacrifice should become a less holy thing than it is--providence accepts the will for the act, and makes the latter needless. there was a sudden knock at the hall door. "it is the young people coming in to supper." "it's not," said hilary, starting up--"it's not their knock. it is--" she never finished the sentence, for she was sobbing in robert lyon's arms. "what does it all mean?" cried the bewildered johanna, of whom, i must confess, for once nobody took the least notice. it meant that, by one of these strange accidents, as we call them, which in a moment alter the whole current of things, the senior partner had suddenly died, and his son, not being qualified to take his place in the liverpool house, had to go out to india instead of robert lyon, who would now remain permanently, as the third senior partner, in england. this news had met him at southampton. he had gone thence direct to liverpool, arranged affairs so far as was possible, and returned, traveling without an hour's intermission, to tell his own tidings, as was best--or as he thought it was. perhaps at the core of his heart lurked the desire to come suddenly back, as, it is said, if the absent or the dead should come, they would find all things changed; the place filled up in home and hearth--no face of welcome--no heart leaping to heart in the ecstasy of reunion. well, if robert lyon had any misgivings--and being a man, and in love, perhaps he had--they were ended now. "is she glad to see me?" was all he could find to say when, johanna having considerately vanished, he might have talked as much as he pleased. hilary's only answer was a little, low laugh of inexpressible content. he lifted up between his bands the sweet face, neither so young nor so pretty as it had been, but oh! so sweet, with the sweetness that long outlives beauty--a face that a man might look on all his life time and never tire of--so infinitely loving, so infinitely true! and he knew it was his wife's face, to shine upon him day by day, and year by year, till it faded into old age--beautiful and beloved even then. all the strong nature of the man gave way; he wept almost like a child in his "little woman's" arms. let us leave them there, by that peaceful fireside--these two, who are to sit by one fire-side as long as they live. of their further fortune we know nothing--nor do they themselves--except the one fact, in itself joy enough for any mortal cup to hold, that it will be shared together. two at the hearth, two abroad; two to labor, two to rejoice; or, if so it must be, two to weep, and two to comfort one another; the man to be the head of the woman, and the woman the heart of the man. this is the ordination of god; this is the perfect life; none the less perfect that so many fall short of it. so let us bid them good-by: robert lyon and hilary leaf, "good-by; god be with ye!" for we shall see them no more. chapter xxvii. elizabeth stood at the nursery window, pointing out to little henry how the lilacs and laburnums were coming into flower in the square below, and speculating with him whether the tribe of sparrows which they had fed all the winter from the mignonette boxes on the window sill would be building nests in the tall trees of russell square; for she wished, with her great aversion to london, to make her nursling as far as possible "a country child." master henry leaf ascott was by no means little now. he would run about on his tottering fat legs, and he could say, "mammy lizzie," also, "pa-pa," as had been carefully taught him by his conscientious nurse. at which papa had been at first excessively surprised, then gratified, and had at last taken kindly to the appellation as a matter of course. it inaugurated a new era in peter ascott's life. at first twice a week, and then every day, he sent up for "master ascott" to keep him company at dessert; he then changed his dinner hour from half past six to five, because elizabeth, with her stern sacrifice of every thing to the child's good, had suggested to him, humbly but firmly, that late hours kept little henry too long out of his bed. he gave up his bottle of port and his after-dinner sleep, and took to making water-lilies and caterpillars out of oranges and boats out of walnut shells, for his boy's special edification. sometimes when, at half past six, elizabeth, punctual as clock-work, knocked at the dining room door, she heard father and son laughing together in a most jovial manner, though the decanters were in their places and the wine glasses untouched. and even after the child disappeared, the butler declared that master usually took quietly to his newspaper, or rang for his tea, or perhaps dozed harmlessly in his chair till bedtime. i do not allege that peter ascott was miraculously changed; people do not change, especially at his age; externally he was still the same pompous, overbearing, coarse man, with whom, no doubt, his son would have a tolerably sore bargain in years to come. but still the child had touched a soft corner in his heart, the one soft corner which in his youth had yielded to the beauty of miss selina leaf; and the old fellow was a better fellow than he had once been. probably, with care, he might be for the rest of his life at least manageable. elizabeth hoped so for his boy's sake, and little as she liked him, she tried to conquer her antipathy as much as she could. she always ways took care to treat him with extreme respect, and to bring up little henry to do the same. and, as often happens, mr. ascott began gradually to comport himself in a manner deserving of respect. he ceased his oaths and his coarse language; seldom flew into a passion; and last, not least, the butler avouched that master hardly ever went to bed "muzzy" now. toward all his domestics, and especially his son's nurse, he behaved himself more like a master and less like a tyrant; so that the establishment at russell square went on in a way more peaceful than had ever been known before. there was no talk of his giving it a new mistress; he seemed to have had enough of matrimony. of his late wife he never spoke; whether he loved her or not, whether he had regretted her or not, the love and regret were now alike ended. poor selina! it was elizabeth only, who, with a sacred sense of duty, occasionally talked to little henry about "mamma up there"--pointing to the blank bit of blue sky over the trees of russell square, and hoped in time to make him understand something about her, and how she had loved him, her "baby." this love, the only beautiful emotion her life had known, was the one fragment that remained of it after her death; the one remembrance she left to her child. little henry was not in the least like her, nor yet like his father. he took after some forgotten type, some past generation of either family, which reappeared in this as something new. to elizabeth he was a perfect revelation of beauty and infantile fascination. he filled up every corner of her heart. she grew fat and flourishing, even cheerful; so cheerful that she bore with equanimity the parting with her dear miss hilary, who went away in glory and happiness as mrs. robert lyon, to live in liverpool, and miss leaf with her. thus both elizabeth's youthful dreams ended in nothing, and it was more than probable that for the future their lives and hers being so widely apart, she would see very little of her beloved mistresses any more. but they had done their work in her and for her; and it had borne fruit a hundred fold, and would still. "i know you will take care of this child--he is the hope of the family," said miss leaf, when she was giving her last kiss to little henry. "i could not bear to leave him, if i were not leaving him with you." and elizabeth had taken her charge proudly in her arms, knowing she was trusted, and in vowing to be worthy of that trust. another dream was likewise ended; so completely that she sometimes wondered if it was ever real, whether she had ever been a happy girl, looking forward as girls do to wifehood and motherhood; or whether she had not been always the staid middle aged person she was now, whom nobody ever suspected of any such things. she had been once back to her old home, to settle her mother comfortably upon a weekly allowance, to 'prentice her little brother, to see one sister married, and the other sent off to liverpool, to be servant to mrs. lyon. while at stowbury, she had heard by chance of tom cliffe's passing through the town as a chartist lecturer, or something of the sort, with his pretty, showy london wife, who, when he brought her there, had looked down rather contemptuously upon the street where tom was born. this was all elizabeth knew about them. they, too, had passed from her life as phases of keen joy and keener sorrow do pass, like a dream and the shadows of a dream. it may be, life itself will seem at the end to be nothing more. but elizabeth hand's love story was not so to end. one morning, the same morning when she had been pointing out the lilacs to little henry, and now came in from the square with a branch of them in her hand, the postman gave her a letter; the handwriting of which made her start as if it had been a visitation from the dead. "mammy lizzie, mammy lizzie!" cried little henry, plucking at her gown, but for once his nurse did not notice him. she stood on the door-step, trembling violently; at length she put the letter into her pocket, lifted the child, and got up stairs somehow. when she had settled her charge to his mid-day sleep, then, and not till then, did she take out and read the few lines, which, though written on shabby paper, and with more than one blot, were so like--yet so terribly unlike--tom's calligraphy of old: "dear elizabeth,--i have no right to ask any kindness of you; but if you would like to see an old friend alive, i wish you would come and see me. i have been long of asking you, lest you might fancy i wanted to get something out of you; for i'm as poor as a rat; and once lately i saw you, looking so well and well-to-do. but it was the same kind old face, and i should like to get one kind look from it before i go where i sha'n't want any kindness from any body. however, do just as you choose. "yours affectionately, t. cliffe. "underneath is my address." it was in one of those wretched nooks in westminster, now swept away by victoria street and other improvements. elizabeth happened to have read about it in one of the many charitable pamphlets, reports, etc., which were sent continually to the wealthy mr. ascott, and which he sent down stairs to light fires with. what must not poor tom have sunk to before he had come to live there? his letter was like a cry out of the depths, and the voice was that of her youth, her first love. is any woman ever deaf to that? the love may have died a natural death; many first loves do: a riper, completer, happier love may have come in its place; but there must be something unnatural about the woman and man likewise, who can ever quite forget it--the dew of their youth--the beauty of their dawn. "poor tom, poor tom!" sighed elizabeth, "my own poor tom!" she forgot esther; either from tom's not mentioning her, or in the strong return to old times which his letter produced; forgot her for the time being as completely as if she had never existed. even when the recollection came it made little difference. the sharp jealousy, the dislike and contempt had all calmed down: she thought she could now see tom's wife as any other woman. especially if, as the letter indicated, they were so very poor and miserable. possibly esther had suggested writing it? perhaps, though tom did not, esther did "want to get something out of her"--elizabeth hand, who was known to have large wages, and to be altogether a thriving person? well, it mattered little. the one fact remained: tom was in distress; tom needed her; she must go. her only leisure time was of an evening, after henry was in bed. the intervening hours, especially the last one, when the child was down stairs with his father, calmed her; subdued the tumult of old remembrances that came surging up and beating at the long shut door of her heart. when her boy returned, leaping and laughing, and playing all sorts of tricks as she put him to bed, she could smile too. and when kneeling beside her in his pretty white night gown, he stammered through the prayer she had thought it right to begin to teach him, though of course he was too young to understand it--the words "thy will be done;" "forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us;" and lastly, "lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil," struck home to his nurse's in most soul. "mammy, mammy lizzie's 'tying." yes, she was crying, but it did her good. she was able to kiss her little boy, who slept like a top in five minutes: then she took off her good silk gown, and dressed herself; soberly and decently, but so that people should not suspect, in that low and dangerous neighborhood, the sovereigns that she carried in an under pocket, ready to use as occasion required. thus equipped, without a minute's delay, she started for tom's lodging. it was poorer than even she expected. one attic room, bate almost as when it was built. no chimney or grate, no furniture except a box which served as both table and chair; and a heap of straw, with a blanket thrown over it. the only comfort about it was that it was clean; tom's innate sense of refinement had abided with him to the last. elizabeth had time to make all these observations, for tom was out--gone, the landlady said, to the druggist's shop, round the corner. "he's very bad, ma'am," added the woman, civilly, probably led thereto by elizabeth's respectable appearance, and the cab in which she had come--lest she should lose a minute's time. "can't last long, and lord knows who's to bury him." with that sentence knelling in her ears, elizabeth waited till she heard the short cough and the hard breathing of some one toiling heavily up the stair. tom, tom himself. but oh, so altered! with every bit of youth gone out of him; with death written on every line of his haggard face, the death he had once prognosticated with a sentimental pleasure, but which now had come upon him in all its ghastly reality. he was in the last stage of consumption. the disease was latent in his family, elizabeth knew: she had known it when she belonged to him, and fondly thought that, as his wife, her incessant care might save him from it; but nothing could save him now. "who's that?" said he, in his own sharp, fretful voice. "me, tom. but don't speak. sit down till your cough's over." tom grasped her hand as she stood by him, but he made no further demonstration, nor used any expression of gratitude. he seemed far too ill. sick people are always absorbed in the sad present; they seldom trouble themselves much about the past. only there was something in the way tom clung to her hand, helplessly, imploringly, that moved the inmost heart of elizabeth. "i'm very bad, you see. this cough; oh, it shakes me dreadfully; especially of nights." "have you any doctor?" "the druggist close by, or rather, the druggist's shopman. he's a very kind young fellow, from our county, i fancy, for he asked me once if i wasn't a stowbury man; and ever since he has doctored me for nothing, and given me a shilling too, now and then, when i've been a'most clemmed to death in the winter." "oh, tom, why didn't you write to me before. have you actually wanted food?" "yes, many a time. i've been out of work this twelvemonth." "but esther?" "who?" screamed tom. "your wife?" "my wife? i've got none? she spent every thing till i fell ill, and then she met a fellow with lots of money. curse her!" the fury with which he spoke shook him all over, and sent him into another violent fit of coughing, out of which he revived by degrees, but in a state of such complete exhaustion that elizabeth hazarded no more questions. he must evidently be dealt with exactly like a child. she made up her mind in her own silent way, as indeed she had done ever since she came into the room. "lie down, tom, and keep yourself quiet for a little. i'll be back as soon as i can--back with something to do you good. you won't object." "no, no; you can do any thing you like with me. you always could." elizabeth groped her way down stairs strangely calm and self-possessed. there was need. tom, dying, had come to her as his sole support and consolation--throwing himself helplessly upon her, never doubting either her will or her power to help him. neither must fail. the inexplicable woman's strength, sometimes found in the very gentlest, quietest, and apparently the weakest character, nerved her now. she went up and down, street after street, looking for lodgings, till the evening darkened, and the abbey towers rose grimly against the summer sky. then she crossed over westminster bridge, and in a little street on the surrey side she found what she wanted--a decent room, half sitting, half bedroom, with what looked like a decent landlady. there was no time to make many inquiries; any thing was better than to leave tom an other night where he was. she paid a week's rent in advance; bought firing and provisions; every thing she could think of to make him comfortable; and then she went to fetch him in a cab. the sick man offered no resistance; indeed, he hardly seemed to know what she was doing with him. she discovered the cause of this half insensibility when, in making a bundle of his few clothes, she found a package labeled "opium." "don't take it from me," he said pitifully, "it's the only comfort i have." but when he found himself in the cheerful room, with the fire blazing and the tea laid out, he woke up like a person out of a bad dream. "oh, elizabeth, i'm so comfortable!" elizabeth could have wept. whether the wholesome food and drink revived him, or whether it was one of the sudden flashes of life that often occur in consumptive patients, but he seemed really better, and began to talk, telling elizabeth about his long illness, and saying over again how very kind the druggist's young man had been to him. "i'm sure he's a gentleman, though he has come down in the world; for, as he says, 'misery makes a man acquainted with strange bedfellows, and takes the nonsense out of him.' i think so too, and if ever i get better, i don't mean to go about the country speaking against born gentlefolks any more. they're much of a muchness with ourselves--bad and good; a little of all sorts; the same flesh and blood as we are. aren't they, elizabeth?" "i suppose so." "and there's another thing i mean to do. i mean to try and be good like you. many a night, when i've lain on that straw, and thought i was dying, i've remembered you and all the things you used to say to me. you are a good woman; there never was a better." elizabeth smiled, a faint rather sad smile. for, as she was washing up the tea things, she had noticed tom's voice grow feebler, and his features sharper and more wan. "i'm very tired," he said. "i'm afraid to go to bed, i get such wretched nights; but i think, if i lay down in my clothes, i could go to sleep." elizabeth helped him to the small pallet, shook his pillow, and covered him up as if he had been a child. "you're very good to me," he said, and looked up at her--tom's bright, fond look of years ago. but it passed away in a moment, and he closed his eyes, saying he was so terribly tired. "then i'll bid you good-by, for i ought to have been at home by now. you'll take care of yourself, tom, and i'll come and see you again the very first hour i can be spared. and if you want me you'll send to me at once? you know where?" "i will," said tom. "its the same house, isn't it, in russell square?" "yes." and they were both silent. after a minute, tom asked, in a troubled voice. "have you forgiven me?" "yes, tom, quite." "won't you give me one kiss, elizabeth?" she turned away. she did not mean to be hard, but somehow she could not kiss esther's husband. "ah, well; it's all the same! good-by!" "good-by, tom." but as she stood at the door, and looked back at him lying with his eyes shut, and as white as if he were dead, elizabeth's heart melted. he was her tom, her own tom, of whom she had been so fond, so proud; whose future she had joyfully anticipated long before she thought of herself as mixed up with it; and he was dying, dying at four-and-twenty; passing away to the other world, where, perhaps, she might meet him yet, with no cruel esther between. "tom," she said, and knelt beside him, "tom, i didn't mean to vex you. i'll try to be as good as a sister to you. i'll never forsake you as long as you live." "i know you never will." "good-by, then for to-night." and she did kiss him, mouth to mouth, quietly and tenderly. she was so glad of it afterward. it was late enough when she reached russell square; but nobody ever questioned the proceedings of mrs. hand, who was a privileged person. she crept in beside her little henry, and as the child turned in his sleep and put his arms about her neck, she clasped him tight, and thought there was still something to live for in this weary world. all night she thought over what best could be done for tom. though she never deceived herself for a moment as to his state, still she thought, with care and proper nursing, he might live a few months. especially if she could get him into the consumption hospital, newly started in chelsea, of which she was aware mr. ascott--who dearly loved to see his name in a charity list--was one of the governors. there was no time to be lost; she determined to speak to her master at once. the time she chose was when she brought down little henry, who was now always expected to appear, and say, "dood morning, papa," before mr. ascott went into the city. as they stood, the boy laughing in his father's face, and the father beaming all over with delight, the bitter, almost fierce thought, smote elizabeth, why should peter ascott be standing there fat and flourishing, and poor tom dying? it made her bold to ask the only favor she ever had asked of the master whom she did not care for, and to whom she had done her duty simply as duty, without, until lately, one fragment of respect. "sir, if you please, might i speak with you a minute before you go out?" "certainly, mrs. hand. any thing about master henry? or perhaps yourself? you want more wages? very well. i shall be glad, in any reasonable way, to show my satisfaction at the manner in which you bring up my son." "thank you, sir," said elizabeth, curtseying. "but it is not that." and in the briefest language she could find she explained what it was. mr. ascott knitted his brows and looked important. he never scattered his benefits with a silent hand, and he dearly liked to create difficulties, if only to show how he could smooth them down. "to get a patient admitted at the consumption hospital, is, you should be aware, no easy matter, until the building at queen's elm is complete. but i flatter myself i have influence. i have subscribed a deal of money. possibly the person may be got in in time. who did you say he was?" "thomas cliffe. he married one of the servants here, esther--" "oh, don't trouble yourself about the name; i shouldn't recollect it. the housekeeper might. why didn't his wife apply to the housekeeper?" the careless question seemed hardly to expect an answer, and elizabeth gave none. she could not bear to make public tom's misery and esther's shame. "and you say he is a stowbury man? that is certainly a claim. i always feel bound, somewhat as a member of parliament might be, to do my best for any one belonging to my native town. so be satisfied, mrs. hand; consider the thing settled." and he was going away; but time being of such great moment, elizabeth ventured to detain him till he had written the letter of recommendation, and found out what days the application for admission could be received. he did it very patiently, and even took out his purse and laid a sovereign on the top of the letter. "i suppose the man is poor; you can use this for his benefit." "there is no need, thank you, sir," said elizabeth, putting it gently aside. she could not bear that tom should accept any body's money but her own. at her first spare moment she wrote him a long letter explaining what she had done, and appointing the next day but one, the earliest possible, for taking him out to chelsea herself. if he objected to the plan, he was to write and say so; but she urged him as strongly as she could not to let slip this opportunity of obtaining good nursing and first rate medical care. many times during the day the thought of tom alone in his one room--comfortable though it was, and though she had begged the landlady to see that he wanted nothing--came across her with a sudden pang. his face, feebly lifted up from the pillow, with its last affectionate smile, the sound of his cough as she stood listening outside on the stair head, haunted her all through that sunshiny june day; and, mingled with it, came ghostly visions of that other day in june--her happy whitsun holiday--her first and her last. no letter coming from tom on the appointed morning, she left master henry in the charge of the house-maid, who was very fond of him--as indeed he bade fair to be spoiled by the whole establishment at russell square--and went down to westminster. there was a long day before her, so she took a minute's breathing space on westminster bridge, and watched the great current of london life ebbing and flowing--life on the river and life on the shore; every body so busy and active and bright. "poor tom, poor tom!" she sighed, and wondered whether his ruined life would ever come to any happy ending, except death. she hurried on, and soon found the street where she had taken his lodging. at the corner of it was, as is too usual in london streets, a public house, about which more than the usual number of disreputable idlers were hanging. there were also one or two policemen, who were ordering the little crowd to give way to a group of twelve men, coming out. "what is that?" asked elizabeth. "coroner's inquest; jury proceeding to view the body." elizabeth, who had never come into contact with any thing of the sort, stood aside with a sense of awe, to let the little procession pass, and then followed up the street. it stopped; oh no! not at that door! but it was; there was no mistaking the number, nor the drawn-down blind in the upper room--tom's room. "who is dead?" she asked, in a whisper that made the policeman stare. "oh! nobody particular; a young man, found dead in his bed; supposed to be a case of consumption; verdict will probably be, 'died by the visitation of god!' " ay, that familiar phrase, our english law's solemn recognition of our national religious feeling, was true. god had "visited" poor tom; he suffered no more. elizabeth leaned against the door-way, and saw the twelve jurymen go up stairs with a clatter of feet, and come down again, one after the other, less noisily, and some of them looking grave. nobody took any notice of her, until the lodging house mistress appeared. "oh, here she is, gentlemen. this is the young woman as saw him last alive. she'll give her evidence. she'll tell you i'm not a bit to blame." and pulling elizabeth after her, the landlady burst into a torrent of explanation; how she had done her very best for the poor fellow; how she listened at his door several times during the first day, and heard him cough, that is, she thought she had, but toward night all was so very quiet; and there having come a letter by post, she thought she would take it up to him. "and i went in, gentlemen, and i declare, upon my oath, i found him lying just as he is now, and as cold as a stone." "let me pass; i'm a doctor," said somebody behind; a young man, very shabbily dressed, with a large beard. he pushed aside the landlady and elizabeth, till he saw the latter's face. "give that young woman a chair and a glass of water, will you?" he called out; and his authoritative manner impressed the jurymen, who gathered around him, ready and eager to hear any thing he could say. he gave his name as john smith, druggist's assistant; said that the young man who lodged up stairs, whose death he had only just heard of, had been his patient for some months, and was in the last stage of consumption. he had no doubt the death had ensued from perfectly natural causes, as he explained in such technical language as completely to overpower the jury, and satisfy them accordingly. they quitted the parlor, and proceeded to the public house, where, after a brief consultation, they delivered their verdict, as the astute policeman had foretold, "died by the visitation of god;" took pipes and brandy all round at the bar, and then adjourned to their several homes, gratified at having done their duty to their country. meantime, elizabeth crept up stairs. nobody hindered or followed her; nobody cared any thing for the solitary dead. there he lay--poor tom! almost as she had left him; the counterpane was hardly disturbed, the candle she had placed on the chair had burned down to a bit of wick, which still lay in the socket. nobody had touched him, or any thing about him, as, in all cases of "found dead," english law exacts. whether he had died soon after she quitted him that night, or whether he had lingered through the long hours of darkness, or of day-light following, alive and conscious perhaps, yet too weak to call any one, even had there been any one he cared to call--when, or how, the spirit had passed away unto him who gave it, were mysteries that could never be known. but it was all over now; he lay at rest with the death smile on his face. elizabeth, as she stood and looked at him, could not, dared not weep. "my poor tom, my own dear tom," was all she thought, and knew that he was all her own now; that she had loved him through every thing, and loved him to the end. chapter xxviii. elizabeth spent the greatest part of her holiday in that house, in that room. nobody interfered with her; nobody asked in what relation she stood to the deceased, or what right she had to take upon herself the arrangements for his funeral. every body was only too glad to let her assume a responsibility which would otherwise have fallen on the parish. the only person who appeared to remember either her or the dead man was the druggist's assistant, who sent in the necessary medical certificate as to the cause of death. elizabeth took it to the registrar, and thence proceeded to an undertaker hard by, with whom she arranged all about the funeral, and that it should took place in the new cemetery at kensal green. she thought she should like that better than a close, noisy london church yard. before she left the house she saw poor tom laid in his coffin, and covered up forever from mortal eyes. then, and not till then, she sat herself down beside him and wept. nobody contested with her the possession of the few things that had belonged to him, which were scarcely more than the clothes he had on when he died; so she made them up into a parcel and took them away with her. in his waistcoat pocket she found one book, a little testament, which she had given him herself. it looked as if it had been a good deal read. if all his studies, all his worship of "pure intellect," as the one supreme good, had ended in that, it was a blessed ending. when she reached home elizabeth went at once to her master, returned him his letter of recommendation, and explained to him that his kindness was not needed now. mr. ascott seemed a good deal shocked, inquired from her a few particulars, and again took out his purse, his one panacea for all mortal woes. but elizabeth declined; she said she would only ask him for an advance of her next half-year's wages. she preferred burying her old friend herself. she buried him, herself the only mourner, on a bright summer's day, with the sun shining dazzlingly on the white grave stones in kensal green. the clergyman appeared, read the service, and went away again. a few minutes ended it all. when the undertaker and his men had also departed, she sat down on a bench near to watch the sexton filling up the grave--tom's grave. she was very quiet, and none but a closely observant person watching her face could have penetrated into the truth of what your impulsive characters, always in the extremes of mirth or misery, never understand about quiet people, that "still waters run deep." while she sat there some one came past her, and turned round. it was the shabby-looking chemist's assistant, who had a appeared at the inquest, and given the satisfactory evidence which had prevented the necessity of her giving-hers. elizabeth rose and acknowledged him with a respectable courtesy; for under his threadbare clothes was the bearing of a gentleman, and he had been so kind to tom. "i am too late," he said; "the funeral is over. i meant to have attended it, and seen the last of the poor fellow." "thank you, sir," replied elizabeth, gratefully. the young man stood before her, looking at her earnestly for a minute or two, and then exclaimed, with a complete change of voice and manner. "elizabeth, don't you know me? what has become of my aunt johanna?" it was ascott leaf. but no wonder elizabeth had not recognized him. his close cropped hair, his large beard hiding half his face, and a pair of spectacles which he had assumed, were a sufficient disguise. besides, the great change from his former "dandy" appearance to the extreme of shabbiness; his clothes being evidently worn as long as they could possibly hold together, and his generally depressed air, giving the effect of one who had gone down in the world, made him, even without the misleading "john smith," most unlikely to be identified with the ascott leaf of old. "i never should have known you, sir!" said elizabeth truthfully, when her astonishment had a little subsided; "but i am very glad to see you. oh how thankful your aunts will be!" "do you think so? i thought it was quite the contrary. but it does not matter; they will never hear of me unless you tell them--and i believe i may trust you. you would not betray me, if only for the sake of that poor fellow yonder?" "no, sir." "now, tell me something about my aunts, especially my aunt johanna." and sitting down in the sunshine, with his arms upon the back of the bench, and his hand hiding his eyes, the poor prodigal listened in silence to every thing elizabeth told him; of his aunt selina's marriage and death, and of mr. lyon's return, and of the happy home at liverpool. "they are all quite happy, then?" said he, at length; "they seem to have begun to prosper ever since they got rid of me. well, i'm glad of it. i only wanted to hear of them from you. i shall never trouble them any more. you'll keep my secret, i know. and now i must go, for i have not a minute more to spare. good-by, elizabeth." with a humility and friendliness, strange enough in ascott leaf, he held out his hand--empty, for he had nothing to give now--to his aunt's old servant. but elizabeth detained him. "don't go, sir, please, don't; not just yet." and then she added, with an earnest respectfulness that touched the heart of the poor, shabby man, "i hope you'll pardon the liberty i take. i'm only a servant, but i knew you when you were a boy, mr. leaf: and if you would trust me, if you would let me be of use to you in any way--if only because you were so good to him there." "poor tom cliffe; he was not a bad fellow; he liked me rather, i think; and i was able to doctor him and help him a little. heigh-ho; it's a comfort to think i ever did any good to any body." ascott sighed, drew his rusty coat sleeves across his eyes, and sat contemplating his boots, which were any thing but dandy boots now. "elizabeth, what relation was tom to you? if i had known you were acquainted with him i should have been afraid to go near him; but i felt sure, though he came from stowbury, he did not guess who i was; he only knew me as mr. smith; and he never once mentioned you. was he your cousin, or what?" elizabeth considered a moment, and then told the simple fact; it could not matter now. "i was once going to be married to him, but he saw somebody he liked better, and married her." "poor girl; poor elizabeth?" perhaps nothing could have shown the great change in ascott more than the tone in which he uttered these words; a tone of entire respect and kindly pity, from which he never once departed during that conversation, and many, many others, so long as their confidential relations lasted. "now, sir, would you be so kind as to tell me something about yourself? i'll not repeat any thing to your aunts, if you don't wish it." ascott yielded. he had been so long, so utterly forlorn. he sat down beside elizabeth, and then, with eyes often averted, and with many breaks between, which she had to fill up as best as she could, he told her all his story, even to the sad secret of all, which had caused him to run away from home, and hide himself in the last place where they would have thought he was, the safe wilderness of london. there, carefully disguised, he had lived decently while his money lasted, and then, driven step by step to the brink of destitution, he had offered himself for employment in the lowest grade of his own profession, and been taken as assistant by the not over scrupulous chemist and druggist in that not too respectable neighborhood of westminster, with a salary of twenty pounds a year. "and i actually live upon it!" added he, with a bitter smile. "i can't run into debt; for who would trust me? and i dress in rags almost, as you see. and i get my meals how and where i can; and i sleep under the shop counter. a pretty life for mr. ascott leaf, isn't it now? what would my aunts say if they knew it?" "they would say that it was an honest life, and that they were not a bit ashamed of you." ascott drew himself up a little, and his chest heaved visibly under the close buttoned, thread bare coat. "well, at least, it is a life that makes nobody else miserable." ay, that wonderful teacher, adversity, "which, like the toad, ugly and venomous, wears yet a precious jewel in its head," had left behind this jewel in the young man's heart. a disguised, beggared outcast, he had found out the value of an honest name; forsaken, unfriended, he had learned the preciousness of home and love; made a servant of, tyrannized over, and held in low esteem, he had been taught by hard experience the secret of true humility and charity--the esteeming of others better than himself. not with all natures does misfortune so work, but it did with his. he had sinned; he had paid the cost of his sin in bitter suffering; but the result was cheaply bought, and he already began to feel that it was so. "yes," said he, in answer to a question of elizabeth's, "i really am, for some things, happier than i used to be. i feel more like what i was in the old days, when i was a little chap at stowbury. poor old stowbury! i often think of the place in a way that's perfectly ridiculous. still, if any thing happened to me, i should like my aunts to know it, and that i didn't forget them." "but, sir," asked elizabeth earnestly, "do you never mean to go near your aunts again?" "i can't say; it all depends upon circumstances. i suppose," he added, "if, as is said, one's sin is sure to find one out, the same rule goes by contraries. it seems poor cliffe once spoke of me to a district visitor, the only visitor he ever had; and this gentleman, hearing of the inquest, came yesterday to inquire about him of me; and the end was that he offered me a situation with a person he knew, a very respectable chemist in tottenham court road." "and shall you go?" "to be sure. i've learned to be thankful for small mercies. nobody will find me out or recognize me. you didn't. who knows? i may even have the honor of dispensing drugs to uncle ascott of russell square." "but," said elizabeth, after a pause, "you will not always remain as john smith, druggist's shopman, throwing away all your good education, position, and name?" "elizabeth," said he, in a humbled tone, "how dare i ever resume my own name and get back my rightful position while peter ascott lives? can you or any body point out a way?" she thought the question over in her clear head; clear still, even at this hour, when she had to think for others, though all personal feeling and interest were buried in that grave over which the sexton was now laying the turf that would soon grow smoothly green. "if i might advise, mr. leaf, i should say, save up all your money, and then go, just as you are, with an honest, bold front, right into my master's house, with the fifty pounds in your hand--" "by jove, you've hit it!" cried ascott, starting up. "what a thing a woman's head is! i've turned over scheme after scheme, but i never once thought of any thing so simple as that. bravo, elizabeth! you're a remarkable woman." she smiled--a very sad smile--but still she felt glad. any thing that she could possibly do for any creature belonging to her dear mistresses seemed to this faithful servant the natural and bounden duty of her life. long after the young man, whose mercurial temperament no trouble could repress, had gone away in excellent spirits, leaving her an address where she could always find him, and give him regular news of his aunts, though he made her promise to give them, as yet, no tidings in return, elizabeth sat still, watching the sun decline and the shadows lengthen over the field of graves. in the calmness and beauty of this solitary place an equal calm seemed to come over her; a sense of how wonderfully events had linked themselves together and worked themselves out; how even poor tom's mournful death had brought about this meeting, which might end in restoring to her beloved mistresses their lost sheep, their outcast, miserable boy. she did not reason the matter out, but she felt it, and felt that in making her in some degree his instrument god had been very good to her in the midst of her desolation. it seemed elizabeth's lot always to have to put aside her own troubles for the trouble of somebody else. almost immediately after tom cliffe's death her little henry fell ill with scarlatina and remained for many months in a state of health so fragile as to engross all her thought and care. it was with difficulty that she contrived a few times to go for henry's medicines to the shop where "john smith" served. she noticed that every time he looked healthier, brighter, freer from that aspect of broken-down respectability which had touched her so much. he did not dress any better, but still "the gentleman" in him could never be hidden or lost, and he said his master treated him "like a gentleman," which was apparently a pleasant novelty. "i have some time to myself also. shop shuts at nine, and i get up at a. m.--bless us! what would my aunt hilary say? and it's not for nothing. there are more ways than one of turning an honest penny, when a young fellow really sets about it. elizabeth, you used to be a literary character yourself; look into the ---- and the ----," (naming two popular magazines), "and if you find a series of especially clever papers on sanitary reform, and so on, i did 'em:" he slapped his chest with ascott's merry laugh of old. it cheered elizabeth for a long while afterward. by-and-by she had to take little henry to brighton, and lost sight of "john smith" for some time longer. it was on a snowy february day, when, having brought the child home quite strong, and received unlimited gratitude and guineas from the delighted father, master henry's faithful nurse stood in her usual place at the dining-room door, waiting for the interminable grace of "only five minutes more" to be over, and her boy carried ignominiously but contentedly to bed. the footman knocked at the door. "a young man wanting to speak to master on particular business. "let him send in his name." "he says you wouldn't know it, sir." "show him in, then. probably a case of charity, as usual. oh!" and mr. ascott's opinion was confirmed by the appearance of the shabby young man with the long beard, whom elizabeth did not wonder he never recognized in the least. she ought to have retired, and yet she could not. she hid herself partly behind the door, afraid of passing ascott; dreading alike to wound him by recognition or non-recognition. but he took no notice. he seemed excessively agitated. "come a-begging, young man, i suppose? wants a situation, as hundreds do, and think that i have half the clerkships in the city at my disposal, and that i am made of money besides. but it's no good, i tell you, sir; i never give nothing to strangers, except--here, henry, my son, take that person there this half crown." and the little boy, in his pretty purple velvet frock and his prettier face, trotted across the room and put the money into poor ascott's hand. he took it; and then to the astonishment of master henry, and the still greater astonishment of his father, lifted up the child and kissed him. "young man, young fellow--" "i see you don't know me, mr. ascott, and it's not surprising. but i have come to repay you this--" he laid a fifty pound note down on the table. "also, to thank you earnestly for not prosecuting me, and to say--" "good god!"--the sole expletive peter ascott had been heard to use for long. "ascott leaf, is that you? i thought you were in australia, or dead, or something." "no, i'm alive and here, more's the pity perhaps. except that i have lived to pay you back what i cheated you out of. what you generously gave me i can't pay, though i may sometime. meantime, i have brought you this. it's honestly earned. yes." observing the keen doubtful look, "though i have hardly a coat to my back, i assure you it's honestly earned." mr. ascott made no reply. he stooped over the bank-note, examined it, folded it, and put it into his pocket-book; then, after another puzzled investigation of ascott, cleared his throat. "mrs. hand, you had better take master henry up stairs." an hour after, when little henry had long been sound asleep, and she was sitting at her usual evening sewing in her solitary nursery, elizabeth learned that the "shabby young man" was still in the dining-room with mr. ascott, who had rung for tea, and some cold meat with it. and the footman stated, with undisguised amazement, that the shabby young man was actually sitting at the same table with master! elizabeth smiled to herself and held her tongue. now, as ever, she always kept the secrets of the family. about ten o'clock she was summoned to the dining-room. there stood peter ascott, pompous as ever, but with a certain kindly good-humor lightening up his heavy face, looking condescendingly around him, and occasionally rubbing his hands slowly together, as if he were exceedingly well pleased with himself. there stood ascott leaf, looking bright and handsome, in spite of his shabbiness, and quite at his ease--which small peculiarity was never likely to be knocked out of him under the most depressing circumstances. he shook hands with elizabeth warmly. "i wanted to ask you if you have any message for liverpool. i go there to-morrow on business for mr. ascott, and afterward i shall probably go and see my aunts." he faltered a moment, but quickly shook the emotion off. "of course, i shall tell them all about you, elizabeth. any special message, eh?" "only my duty, sir, and master henry is quite well again," said elizabeth, formally, and dropping her old-fashioned courtesy; after which, as quickly as she could, she slipped out of the dining-room. but, long, long after, when all the house was gone to bed, she stood at the nurser window, looking down upon the trees of the square, that stretched their motionless arms up into the moonlight sky--just such a moonlight as it was once, more than three years ago, the night little henry was born. and she recalled all the past, from the day when miss hilary hung up her bonnet for her in the house-place at stowbury; the dreary life at no. ; the sunday nights when she and tom cliffe used to go wandering round and round the square. "poor tom," said she to herself, thinking of ascott leaf, and how happy he had looked, and how happy his aunts would be to-morrow. "well, tom would be glad too, if he knew all." but, happy as every body was, there was nothing so close to elizabeth's heart as the one grave over which the snow was now lying, white and peaceful, out at kensal green. elizabeth is still living--which is a great blessing, for nobody could well do without her. she will probably attain a good old age; being healthy and strong, very equable in temper now, and very cheerful too, in her quiet way. doubtless, she will yet have master henry's children climbing her knees, and calling her "mammy lizzie." but she will never marry--she never loved any body but tom. the end. transcribed from the harper and brothers edition by david price, email ccx @coventry.ac.uk a house-boat on the styx by john kendrick bangs chapter i: charon makes a discovery charon, the ferryman of renown, was cruising slowly along the styx one pleasant friday morning not long ago, and as he paddled idly on he chuckled mildly to himself as he thought of the monopoly in ferriage which in the course of years he had managed to build up. "it's a great thing," he said, with a smirk of satisfaction--"it's a great thing to be the go-between between two states of being; to have the exclusive franchise to export and import shades from one state to the other, and withal to have had as clean a record as mine has been. valuable as is my franchise, i never corrupted a public official in my life, and--" here charon stopped his soliloquy and his boat simultaneously. as he rounded one of the many turns in the river a singular object met his gaze, and one, too, that filled him with misgiving. it was another craft, and that was a thing not to be tolerated. had he, charon, owned the exclusive right of way on the styx all these years to have it disputed here in the closing decade of the nineteenth century? had not he dealt satisfactorily with all, whether it was in the line of ferriage or in the providing of boats for pleasure-trips up the river? had he not received expressions of satisfaction, indeed, from the most exclusive families of hades with the very select series of picnics he had given at charon's glen island? no wonder, then, that the queer-looking boat that met his gaze, moored in a shady nook on the dark side of the river, filled him with dismay. "blow me for a landlubber if i like that!" he said, in a hardly audible whisper. "and shiver my timbers if i don't find out what she's there for. if anybody thinks he can run an opposition line to mine on this river he's mightily mistaken. if it comes to competition, i can carry shades for nothing and still quaff the b. & g. yellow-label benzine three times a day without experiencing a financial panic. i'll show 'em a thing or two if they attempt to rival me. and what a boat! it looks for all the world like a florentine barn on a canal-boat." charon paddled up to the side of the craft, and, standing up in the middle of his boat, cried out, "ship ahoy!" there was no answer, and the ferryman hailed her again. receiving no response to his second call, he resolved to investigate for himself; so, fastening his own boat to the stern-post of the stranger, he clambered on board. if he was astonished as he sat in his ferry-boat, he was paralyzed when he cast his eye over the unwelcome vessel he had boarded. he stood for at least two minutes rooted to the spot. his eye swept over a long, broad deck, the polish of which resembled that of a ball-room floor. amidships, running from three-quarters aft to three-quarters forward, stood a structure that in its lines resembled, as charon had intimated, a barn, designed by an architect enamoured of florentine simplicity; but in its construction the richest of woods had been used, and in its interior arrangement and adornment nothing more palatial could be conceived. "what's the blooming thing for?" said charon, more dismayed than ever. "if they start another line with a craft like this, i'm very much afraid i'm done for after all. i wouldn't take a boat like mine myself if there was a floating palace like this going the same way. i'll have to see the commissioners about this, and find out what it all means. i suppose it'll cost me a pretty penny, too, confound them!" a prey to these unhappy reflections, charon investigated further, and the more he saw the less he liked it. he was about to encounter opposition, and an opposition which was apparently backed by persons of great wealth--perhaps the commissioners themselves. it was a consoling thought that he had saved enough money in the course of his career to enable him to live in comfort all his days, but this was not really what charon was after. he wished to acquire enough to retire and become one of the smart set. it had been done in that section of the universe which lay on the bright side of the styx, why not, therefore, on the other, he asked. "i'm pretty well connected even if i am a boatman," he had been known to say. "with chaos for a grandfather, and erebus and nox for parents, i've just as good blood in my veins as anybody in hades. the noxes are a mighty fine family, not as bright as the days, but older; and we're poor--that's it, poor--and it's money makes caste these days. if i had millions, and owned a railroad, they'd call me a yacht-owner. as i haven't, i'm only a boatman. bah! wait and see! i'll be giving swell functions myself some day, and these upstarts will be on their knees before me begging to be asked. then i'll get up a little aristocracy of my own, and i won't let a soul into it whose name isn't mentioned in the grecian mythologies. mention in burke's peerage and the elite directories of america won't admit anybody to commodore charon's house unless there's some other mighty good reason for it." foreseeing an unhappy ending to all his hopes, the old man clambered sadly back into his ancient vessel and paddled off into the darkness. some hours later, returning with a large company of new arrivals, while counting up the profits of the day charon again caught sight of the new craft, and saw that it was brilliantly lighted and thronged with the most famous citizens of the erebean country. up in the bow was a spirit band discoursing music of the sweetest sort. merry peals of laughter rang out over the dark waters of the styx. the clink of glasses and the popping of corks punctuated the music with a frequency which would have delighted the soul of the most ardent lover of commas, all of which so overpowered the grand master boatman of the stygian ferry company that he dropped three oboli and an american dime, which he carried as a pocket-piece, overboard. this, of course, added to his woe; but it was forgotten in an instant, for some one on the new boat had turned a search-light directly upon charon himself, and simultaneously hailed the master of the ferry- boat. "charon!" cried the shade in charge of the light. "charon, ahoy!" "ahoy yourself!" returned the old man, paddling his craft close up to the stranger. "what do you want?" "you," said the shade. "the house committee want to see you right away." "what for?" asked charon, cautiously. "i'm sure i don't know. i'm only a member of the club, and house committees never let mere members know anything about their plans. all i know is that you are wanted," said the other. "who are the house committee?" queried the ferryman. "sir walter raleigh, cassius, demosthenes, blackstone, doctor johnson, and confucius," replied the shade. "tell 'em i'll be back in an hour," said charon, pushing off. "i've got a cargo of shades on board consigned to various places up the river. i've promised to get 'em all through to-night, but i'll put on a couple of extra paddles--two of the new arrivals are working their passage this trip--and it won't take as long as usual. what boat is this, anyhow?" "the _nancy nox_, of erebus." "thunder!" cried charon, as he pushed off and proceeded on his way up the river. "named after my mother! perhaps it'll come out all right yet." more hopeful of mood, charon, aided by the two dead-head passengers, soon got through with his evening's work, and in less than an hour was back seeking admittance, as requested, to the company of sir walter raleigh and his fellow-members on the house committee. he was received by these worthies with considerable effusiveness, considering his position in society, and it warmed the cockles of his aged heart to note that sir walter, who had always been rather distant to him since he had carelessly upset that worthy and queen elizabeth in the middle of the styx far back in the last century, permitted him to shake three fingers of his left hand when he entered the committee-room. "how do you do, charon?" said sir walter, affably. "we are very glad to see you." "thank you, kindly, sir walter," said the boatman. "i'm glad to hear those words, your honor, for i've been feeling very bad since i had the misfortune to drop your excellency and her majesty overboard. i never knew how it happened, sir, but happen it did, and but for her majesty's kind assistance it might have been the worse for us. eh, sir walter?" the knight shook his head menacingly at charon. hitherto he had managed to keep it a secret that the queen had rescued him from drowning upon that occasion by swimming ashore herself first and throwing sir walter her ruff as soon as she landed, which he had used as a life-preserver. "'sh!" he said, _sotto voce_. "don't say anything about that, my man." "very well, sir walter, i won't," said the boatman; but he made a mental note of the knight's agitation, and perceived a means by which that illustrious courtier could be made useful to him in his scheming for social advancement. "i understood you had something to say to me," said charon, after he had greeted the others. "we have," said sir walter. "we want you to assume command of this boat." the old fellow's eyes lighted up with pleasure. "you want a captain, eh?" he said. "no," said confucius, tapping the table with a diamond-studded chop-stick. "no. we want a--er--what the deuce is it they call the functionary, cassius?" "senator, i think," said cassius. demosthenes gave a loud laugh. "your mind is still running on senatorships, my dear cassius. that is quite evident," he said. "this is not one of them, however. the title we wish charon to assume is neither captain nor senator; it is janitor." "what's that?" asked charon, a little disappointed. "what does a janitor have to do?" "he has to look after things in the house," explained sir walter. "he's a sort of proprietor by proxy. we want you to take charge of the house, and see to it that the boat is kept shipshape." "where is the house?" queried the astonished boatman. "this is it," said sir walter. "this is the house, and the boat too. in fact, it is a house-boat." "then it isn't a new-fangled scheme to drive me out of business?" said charon, warily. "not at all," returned sir walter. "it's a new-fangled scheme to set you up in business. we'll pay you a large salary, and there won't be much to do. you are the best man for the place, because, while you don't know much about houses, you do know a great deal about boats, and the boat part is the most important part of a house-boat. if the boat sinks, you can't save the house; but if the house burns, you may be able to save the boat. see?" "i think i do, sir," said charon. "another reason why we want to employ you for janitor," said confucius, "is that our club wants to be in direct communication with both sides of the styx; and we think you as janitor would be able to make better arrangements for transportation with yourself as boatman, than some other man as janitor could make with you." "spoken like a sage," said demosthenes. "furthermore," said cassius, "occasionally we shall want to have this boat towed up or down the river, according to the house committee's pleasure, and we think it would be well to have a janitor who has some influence with the towing company which you represent." "can't this boat be moved without towing?" asked charon. "no," said cassius. "and i'm the only man who can tow it, eh?" "you are," said blackstone. "worse luck." "and you want me to be janitor on a salary of what?" "a hundred oboli a month," said sir walter, uneasily. "very well, gentlemen," said charon. "i'll accept the office on a salary of two hundred oboli a month, with saturdays off." the committee went into executive session for five minutes, and on their return informed charon that in behalf of the associated shades they accepted his offer. "in behalf of what?" the old man asked. "the associated shades," said sir walter. "the swellest organization in hades, whose new house-boat you are now on board of. when shall you be ready to begin work?" "right away," said charon, noting by the clock that it was the hour of midnight. "i'll start in right away, and as it is now saturday morning, i'll begin by taking my day off." chapter ii: a disputed authorship "how are you, charon?" said shakespeare, as the janitor assisted him on board. "any one here to-night?" "yes, sir," said charon. "lord bacon is up in the library, and doctor johnson is down in the billiard-room, playing pool with nero." "ha-ha!" laughed shakespeare. "pool, eh? does nero play pool?" "not as well as he does the fiddle, sir," said the janitor, with a twinkle in his eye. shakespeare entered the house and tossed up an obolus. "heads--bacon; tails--pool with nero and johnson," he said. the coin came down with heads up, and shakespeare went into the pool-room, just to show the fates that he didn't care a tuppence for their verdict as registered through the obolus. it was a peculiar custom of shakespeare's to toss up a coin to decide questions of little consequence, and then do the thing the coin decided he should not do. it showed, in shakespeare's estimation, his entire independence of those dull persons who supposed that in them was centred the destiny of all mankind. the fates, however, only smiled at these little acts of rebellion, and it was common gossip in erebus that one of the trio had told the furies that they had observed shakespeare's tendency to kick over the traces, and always acted accordingly. they never let the coin fall so as to decide a question the way they wanted it, so that unwittingly the great dramatist did their will after all. it was a part of their plan that upon this occasion shakespeare should play pool with doctor johnson and the emperor nero, and hence it was that the coin bade him repair to the library and chat with lord bacon. "hullo, william," said the doctor, pocketing three balls on the break. "how's our little swanlet of avon this afternoon?" "worn out," shakespeare replied. "i've been hard at work on a play this morning, and i'm tired." "all work and no play makes jack a dull boy," said nero, grinning broadly. "you are a bright spirit," said shakespeare, with a sigh. "i wish i had thought to work you up into a tragedy." "i've often wondered why you didn't," said doctor johnson. "he'd have made a superb tragedy, nero would. i don't believe there was any kind of a crime he left uncommitted. was there, emperor?" "yes. i never wrote an english dictionary," returned the emperor, dryly. "i've murdered everything but english, though." "i could have made a fine tragedy out of you," said shakespeare. "just think what a dreadful climax for a tragedy it would be, johnson, to have nero, as the curtain fell, playing a violin solo." "pretty good," returned the doctor. "but what's the use of killing off your audience that way? it's better business to let 'em live, i say. suppose nero gave a london audience that little musicale he provided at queen elizabeth's wednesday night. how many purely mortal beings, do you think, would have come out alive?" "not one," said shakespeare. "i was mighty glad that night that we were an immortal band. if it had been possible to kill us we'd have died then and there." "that's all right," said nero, with a significant shake of his head. "as my friend bacon makes ingo say, 'beware, my lord, of jealousy.' you never could play a garden hose, much less a fiddle." "what do you mean my attributing those words to bacon?" demanded shakespeare, getting red in the face. "oh, come now, william," remonstrated nero. "it's all right to pull the wool over the eyes of the mortals. that's what they're there for; but as for us--we're all in the secret here. what's the use of putting on nonsense with us?" "we'll see in a minute what the use is," retorted the avonian. "we'll have bacon down here." here he touched an electric button, and charon came in answer. "charon, bring doctor johnson the usual glass of ale. get some ice for the emperor, and ask lord bacon to step down here a minute." "i don't want any ice," said nero. "not now," retorted shakespeare, "but you will in a few minutes. when we have finished with you, you'll want an iceberg. i'm getting tired of this idiotic talk about not having written my own works. there's one thing about nero's music that i've never said, because i haven't wanted to hurt his feelings, but since he has chosen to cast aspersions upon my honesty i haven't any hesitation in saying it now. i believe it was one of his fiddlings that sent nature into convulsions and caused the destruction of pompeii--so there! put that on your music rack and fiddle it, my little emperor." nero's face grew purple with anger, and if shakespeare had been anything but a shade he would have fared ill, for the enraged roman, poising his cue on high as though it were a lance, hurled it at the impertinent dramatist with all his strength, and with such accuracy of aim withal that it pierced the spot beneath which in life the heart of shakespeare used to beat. "good shot," said doctor johnson, nonchalantly. "if you had been a mortal, william, it would have been the end of you." "you can't kill me," said shakespeare, shrugging his shoulders. "i know seven dozen actors in the united states who are trying to do it, but they can't. i wish they'd try to kill a critic once in a while instead of me, though," he added. "i went over to boston one night last week, and, unknown to anybody, i waylaid a fellow who was to play hamlet that night. i drugged him, and went to the theatre and played the part myself. it was the coldest house you ever saw in your life. when the audience did applaud, it sounded like an ice-man chopping up ice with a small pick. several times i looked up at the galleries to see if there were not icicles growing on them, it was so cold. well, i did the best could with the part, and next morning watched curiously for the criticisms." "favorable?" asked the doctor. "they all dismissed me with a line," said the dramatist. "said my conception of the part was not shakespearian. and that's criticism!" "no," said the shade of emerson, which had strolled in while shakespeare was talking, "that isn't criticism; that's boston." "who discovered boston, anyhow?" asked doctor johnson. "it wasn't columbus, was it?" "oh no," said emerson. "old governor winthrop is to blame for that. when he settled at charlestown he saw the old indian town of shawmut across the charles." "and shawmut was the boston microbe, was it?" asked johnson. "yes," said emerson. "spelt with a p, i suppose?" said shakespeare. "p-s-h-a-w, pshaw, m-u-t, mut, pshawmut, so called because the inhabitants are always muttering pshaw. eh?" "pretty good," said johnson. "i wish i'd said that." "well, tell boswell," said shakespeare. "he'll make you say it, and it'll be all the same in a hundred years." lord bacon, accompanied by charon and the ice for nero and the ale for doctor johnson, appeared as shakespeare spoke. the philosopher bowed stiffly at doctor johnson, as though he hardly approved of him, extended his left hand to shakespeare, and stared coldly at nero. "did you send for me, william?" he asked, languidly. "i did," said shakespeare. "i sent for you because this imperial violinist here says that you wrote _othello_." "what nonsense," said bacon. "the only plays of yours i wrote were _ham_--" "sh!" said shakespeare, shaking his head madly. "hush. nobody's said anything about that. this is purely a discussion of _othello_." "the fiddling ex-emperor nero," said bacon, loudly enough to be heard all about the room, "is mistaken when he attributes _othello_ to me." "aha, master nero!" cried shakespeare triumphantly. "what did i tell you?" "then i erred, that is all," said nero. "and i apologize. but really, my lord," he added, addressing bacon, "i fancied i detected your fine italian hand in that." "no. i had nothing to do with the _othello_," said bacon. "i never really knew who wrote it." "never mind about that," whispered shakespeare. "you've said enough." "that's good too," said nero, with a chuckle. "shakespeare here claims it as his own." bacon smiled and nodded approvingly at the blushing avonian. "will always was having his little joke," he said. "eh, will? how we fooled 'em on _hamlet_, eh, my boy? ha-ha-ha! it was the greatest joke of the century." "well, the laugh is on you," said doctor johnson. "if you wrote _hamlet_ and didn't have the sense to acknowledge it, you present to my mind a closer resemblance to simple simon than to socrates. for my part, i don't believe you did write it, and i do believe that shakespeare did. i can tell that by the spelling in the original edition." "shakespeare was my stenographer, gentlemen," said lord bacon. "if you want to know the whole truth, he did write _hamlet_, literally. but it was at my dictation." "i deny it," said shakespeare. "i admit you gave me a suggestion now and then so as to keep it dull and heavy in spots, so that it would seem more like a real tragedy than a comedy punctuated with deaths, but beyond that you had nothing to do with it." "i side with shakespeare," put in emerson. "i've seen his autographs, and no sane person would employ a man who wrote such a villanously bad hand as an amanuensis. it's no use, bacon, we know a thing or two. i'm a new-englander, i am." "well," said bacon, shrugging his shoulders as though the results of the controversy were immaterial to him, "have it so if you please. there isn't any money in shakespeare these days, so what's the use of quarrelling? i wrote _hamlet_, and shakespeare knows it. others know it. ah, here comes sir walter raleigh. we'll leave it to him. he was cognizant of the whole affair." "i leave it to nobody," said shakespeare, sulkily. "what's the trouble?" asked raleigh, sauntering up and taking a chair under the cue-rack. "talking politics?" "not we," said bacon. "it's the old question about the authorship of _hamlet_. will, as usual, claims it for himself. he'll be saying he wrote genesis next." "well, what if he does?" laughed raleigh. "we all know will and his droll ways." "no doubt," put in nero. "but the question of _hamlet_ always excites him so that we'd like to have it settled once and for all as to who wrote it. bacon says you know." "i do," said raleigh. "then settle it once and for all," said bacon. "i'm rather tired of the discussion myself." "shall i tell 'em, shakespeare?" asked raleigh. "it's immaterial to me," said shakespeare, airily. "if you wish--only tell the truth." "very well," said raleigh, lighting a cigar. "i'm not ashamed of it. i wrote the thing myself." there was a roar of laughter which, when it subsided, found shakespeare rapidly disappearing through the door, while all the others in the room ordered various beverages at the expense of lord bacon. chapter iii: washington gives a dinner it was washington's birthday, and the gentleman who had the pleasure of being father of his country decided to celebrate it at the associated shades' floating palace on the styx, as the elysium _weekly gossip_, "a journal of society," called it, by giving a dinner to a select number of friends. among the invited guests were baron munchausen, doctor johnson, confucius, napoleon bonaparte, diogenes, and ptolemy. boswell was also present, but not as a guest. he had a table off to one side all to himself, and upon it there were no china plates, silver spoons, knives, forks, and dishes of fruit, but pads, pens, and ink in great quantity. it was evident that boswell's reportorial duties did not end with his labors in the mundane sphere. the dinner was set down to begin at seven o'clock, so that the guests, as was proper, sauntered slowly in between that hour and eight. the menu was particularly choice, the shades of countless canvas-back ducks, terrapin, and sheep having been called into requisition, and cooked by no less a person than brillat-savarin, in the hottest oven he could find in the famous cooking establishment superintended by the government. washington was on hand early, sampling the olives and the celery and the wines, and giving to charon final instructions as to the manner in which he wished things served. the first guest to arrive was confucius, and after him came diogenes, the latter in great excitement over having discovered a comparatively honest man, whose name, however, he had not been able to ascertain, though he was under the impression that it was something like burpin, or turpin, he said. at eight the brilliant company was arranged comfortably about the board. an orchestra of five, under the leadership of mozart, discoursed sweet music behind a screen, and the feast of reason and flow of soul began. "this is a great day," said doctor johnson, assisting himself copiously to the olives. "yes," said columbus, who was also a guest--"yes, it is a great day, but it isn't a marker to a little day in october i wot of." "still sore on that point?" queried confucius, trying the edge of his knife on the shade of a salted almond. "oh no," said columbus, calmly. "i don't feel jealous of washington. he is the father of his country and i am not. i only discovered the orphan. i knew the country before it had a father or a mother. there wasn't anybody who was willing to be even a sister to it when i knew it. but g. w. here took it in hand, groomed it down, spanked it when it needed it, and started it off on the career which has made it worth while for me to let my name be known in connection with it. why should i be jealous of him?" "i am sure i don't know why anybody anywhere should be jealous of anybody else anyhow," said diogenes. "i never was and i never expect to be. jealousy is a quality that is utterly foreign to the nature of an honest man. take my own case, for instance. when i was what they call alive, how did i live?" "i don't know," said doctor johnson, turning his head as he spoke so that boswell could not fail to hear. "i wasn't there." boswell nodded approvingly, chuckled slightly, and put the doctor's remark down for publication in _the gossip_. "you're doubtless right, there," retorted diogenes. "what you don't know would fill a circulating library. well--i lived in a tub. now, if i believed in envy, i suppose you think i'd be envious of people who live in brownstone fronts with back yards and mortgages, eh?" "i'd rather live under a mortgage than in a tub," said bonaparte, contemptuously. "i know you would," said diogenes. "mortgages never bothered you--but i wouldn't. in the first place, my tub was warm. i never saw a house with a brownstone front that was, except in summer, and then the owner cursed it because it was so. my tub had no plumbing in it to get out of order. it hadn't any flights of stairs in it that had to be climbed after dinner, or late at night when i came home from the club. it had no front door with a wandering key-hole calculated to elude the key ninety-nine times out of every hundred efforts to bring the two together and reconcile their differences, in order that their owner may get into his own house late at night. it wasn't chained down to any particular neighborhood, as are most brownstone fronts. if the neighborhood ran down, i could move my tub off into a better neighborhood, and it never lost value through the deterioration of its location. i never had to pay taxes on it, and no burglar was ever so hard up that he thought of breaking into my habitation to rob me. so why should i be jealous of the brownstone-house dwellers? i am a philosopher, gentlemen. i tell you, philosophy is the thief of jealousy, and i had the good-luck to find it out early in life." "there is much in what you say," said confucius. "but there's another side to the matter. if a man is an aristocrat by nature, as i was, his neighborhood never could run down. wherever he lived would be the swell section, so that really your last argument isn't worth a stewed icicle." "stewed icicles are pretty good, though," said baron munchausen, with an ecstatic smack of his lips. "i've eaten them many a time in the polar regions." "i have no doubt of it," put in doctor johnson. "you've eaten fried pyramids in africa, too, haven't you?" "only once," said the baron, calmly. "and i can't say i enjoyed them. they are rather heavy for the digestion." "that's so," said ptolemy. "i've had experience with pyramids myself." "you never ate one, did you, ptolemy?" queried bonaparte. "not raw," said ptolemy, with a chuckle. "though i've been tempted many a time to call for a second joint of the sphinx." there was a laugh at this, in which all but baron munchausen joined. "i think it is too bad," said the baron, as the laughter subsided--"i think it is very much too bad that you shades have brought mundane prejudice with you into this sphere. just because some people with finite minds profess to disbelieve my stories, you think it well to be sceptical yourselves. i don't care, however, whether you believe me or not. the fact remains that i have eaten one fried pyramid and countless stewed icicles, and the stewed icicles were finer than any diamond-back rat confucius ever had served at a state banquet." "where's shakespeare to-night?" asked confucius, seeing that the baron was beginning to lose his temper, and wishing to avoid trouble by changing the subject. "wasn't he invited, general?" "yes," said washington, "he was invited, but he couldn't come. he had to go over the river to consult with an autograph syndicate they've formed in new york. you know, his autographs sell for about one thousand dollars apiece, and they're trying to get up a scheme whereby he shall contribute an autograph a week to the syndicate, to be sold to the public. it seems like a rich scheme, but there's one thing in the way. posthumous autographs haven't very much of a market, because the mortals can't be made to believe that they are genuine; but the syndicate has got a man at work trying to get over that. these yankees are a mighty inventive lot, and they think perhaps the scheme can be worked. the yankee _is_ an inventive genius." "it was a yankee invented that tale about your not being able to prevaricate, wasn't it, george?" asked diogenes. washington smiled acquiescence, and doctor johnson returned to shakespeare. "i'd rather have a morning-glory vine than one of shakespeare's autographs," said he. "they are far prettier, and quite as legible." "mortals wouldn't," said bonaparte. "what fools they be!" chuckled johnson. at this point the canvas-back ducks were served, one whole shade of a bird for each guest. "fall to, gentlemen," said washington, gazing hungrily at his bird. "when canvas-back ducks are on the table conversation is not required of any one." "it is fortunate for us that we have so considerate a host," said confucius, unfastening his robe and preparing to do justice to the fare set before him. "i have dined often, but never before with one who was willing to let me eat a bird like this in silence. washington, here's to you. may your life be chequered with birthdays, and may ours be equally well supplied with feasts like this at your expense!" the toast was drained, and the diners fell to as requested. "they're great, aren't they?" whispered bonaparte to munchausen. "well, rather," returned the baron. "i don't see why the mortals don't erect a statue to the canvas-back." "did anybody at this board ever have as much canvas-back duck as he could eat?" asked doctor johnson. "yes," said the baron. "i did. once." "oh, you!" sneered ptolemy. "you've had everything." "except the mumps," retorted munchausen. "but, honestly, i did once have as much canvas-back duck as i could eat." "it must have cost you a million," said bonaparte. "but even then they'd be cheap, especially to a man like yourself who could perform miracles. if i could have performed miracles with the ease which was so characteristic of all your efforts, i'd never have died at st. helena." "what's the odds where you died?" said doctor johnson. "if it hadn't been at st. helena it would have been somewhere else, and you'd have found death as stuffy in one place as in another." "don't let's talk of death," said washington. "i am sure the baron's tale of how he came to have enough canvas-back is more diverting." "i've no doubt it is more perverting," said johnson. "it happened this way," said munchausen. "i was out for sport, and i got it. i was alone, my servant having fallen ill, which was unfortunate, since i had always left the filling of my cartridge-box to him, and underestimated its capacity. i started at six in the morning, and, not having hunted for several months, was not in very good form, so, no game appearing for a time, i took a few practice shots, trying to snip off the slender tops of the pine-trees that i encountered with my bullets, succeeding tolerably well for one who was a little rusty, bringing down ninety-nine out of the first one hundred and one, and missing the remaining two by such a close margin that they swayed to and fro as though fanned by a slight breeze. as i fired my one hundred and first shot what should i see before me but a flock of these delicate birds floating upon the placid waters of the bay!" "was this the bay of biscay, baron?" queried columbus, with a covert smile at ptolemy. "i counted them," said the baron, ignoring the question, "and there were just sixty-eight. 'here's a chance for the record, baron,' said i to myself, and then i made ready to shoot them. imagine my dismay, gentlemen, when i discovered that while i had plenty of powder left i had used up all my bullets. now, as you may imagine, to a man with no bullets at hand, the sight of sixty-eight fat canvas-backs is hardly encouraging, but i was resolved to have every one of those birds; the question was, how shall i do it? i never can think on water, so i paddled quietly ashore and began to reflect. as i lay there deep in thought, i saw lying upon the beach before me a superb oyster, and as reflection makes me hungry i seized upon the bivalve and swallowed him. as he went down something stuck in my throat, and, extricating it, what should it prove to be but a pearl of surpassing beauty. my first thought was to be content with my day's find. a pearl worth thousands surely was enough to satisfy the most ardent lover of sport; but on looking up i saw those ducks still paddling contentedly about, and i could not bring myself to give them up. suddenly the idea came, the pearl is as large as a bullet, and fully as round. why not use it? then, as thoughts come to me in shoals, i next reflected, 'ah--but this is only one bullet as against sixty-eight birds:' immediately a third thought came, 'why not shoot them all with a single bullet? it is possible, though not probable.' i snatched out a pad of paper and a pencil, made a rapid calculation based on the doctrine of chances, and proved to my own satisfaction that at some time or another within the following two weeks those birds would doubtless be sitting in a straight line and paddling about, indian file, for an instant. i resolved to await that instant. i loaded my gun with the pearl and a sufficient quantity of powder to send the charge through every one of the ducks if, perchance, the first duck were properly hit. to pass over wearisome details, let me say that it happened just as i expected. i had one week and six days to wait, but finally the critical moment came. it was at midnight, but fortunately the moon was at the full, and i could see as plainly as though it had been day. the moment the ducks were in line i aimed and fired. they every one squawked, turned over, and died. my pearl had pierced the whole sixty-eight." boswell blushed. "ahem!" said doctor johnson. "it was a pity to lose the pearl." "that," said munchausen, "was the most interesting part of the story. i had made a second calculation in order to save the pearl. i deduced the amount of powder necessary to send the gem through sixty-seven and a half birds, and my deduction was strictly accurate. it fulfilled its mission of death on sixty-seven and was found buried in the heart of the sixty- eighth, a trifle discolored, but still a pearl, and worth a king's ransom." napoleon gave a derisive laugh, and the other guests sat with incredulity depicted upon every line of their faces. "do you believe that story yourself, baron?" asked confucius. "why not?" asked the baron. "is there anything improbable in it? why should you disbelieve it? look at our friend washington here. is there any one here who knows more about truth than he does? he doesn't disbelieve it. he's the only man at this table who treats me like a man of honor." "he's host and has to," said johnson, shrugging his shoulders. "well, washington, let me put the direct question to you," said the baron. "say you aren't host and are under no obligation to be courteous. do you believe i haven't been telling the truth?" "my dear munchausen," said the general, "don't ask me. i'm not an authority. i can't tell a lie--not even when i hear one. if you say your story is true, i must believe it, of course; but--ah--really, if i were you, i wouldn't tell it again unless i could produce the pearl and the wish-bone of one of the ducks at least." whereupon, as the discussion was beginning to grow acrimonious, washington hailed charon, and, ordering a boat, invited his guests to accompany him over into the world of realities, where they passed the balance of the evening haunting a vaudeville performance at one of the london music-halls. chapter iv: hamlet makes a suggestion it was a beautiful night on the styx, and the silvery surface of that picturesque stream was dotted with gondolas, canoes, and other craft to an extent that made charon feel like a highly prosperous savings-bank. within the house-boat were gathered a merry party, some of whom were on mere pleasure bent, others of whom had come to listen to a debate, for which the entertainment committee had provided, between the venerable patriarch noah and the late eminent showman p. t. barnum. the question to be debated was upon the resolution passed by the committee, that "the animals of the antediluvian period were far more attractive for show purposes than those of modern make," and, singular to relate, the affirmative was placed in the hands of mr. barnum, while to noah had fallen the task of upholding the virtues of the modern freak. it is with the party on mere pleasure bent that we have to do upon this occasion. the proceedings of the debating-party are as yet in the hands of the official stenographer, but will be made public as soon as they are ready. the pleasure-seeking group were gathered in the smoking-room of the club, which was, indeed, a smoking-room of a novel sort, the invention of an unknown shade, who had sold all the rights to the club through a third party, anonymously, preferring, it seemed, to remain in the elysian world, as he had been in the mundane sphere, a mute inglorious edison. it was a simple enough scheme, and, for a wonder, no one in the world of substantialities has thought to take it up. the smoke was stored in reservoirs, just as if it were so much gas or water, and was supplied on the hot-air furnace principle from a huge furnace in the hold of the house-boat, into which tobacco was shovelled by the hired man of the club night and day. the smoke from the furnace, carried through flues to the smoking-room, was there received and stored in the reservoirs, with each of which was connected one dozen rubber tubes, having at their ends amber mouth-pieces. upon each of these mouth-pieces was arranged a small meter registering the amount of smoke consumed through it, and for this the consumer paid so much a foot. the value of the plan was threefold. it did away entirely with ashes, it saved to the consumers the value of the unconsumed tobacco that is represented by the unsmoked cigar ends, and it averted the possibility of cigarettes. enjoying the benefits of this arrangement upon the evening in question were shakespeare, cicero, henry viii., doctor johnson, and others. of course boswell was present too, for a moment, with his note-book, and this fact evoked some criticism from several of the smokers. "you ought to be up-stairs in the lecture-room, boswell," said shakespeare, as the great biographer took his seat behind his friend the doctor. "doesn't the _gossip_ want a report of the debate?" "it does," said boswell; "but the _gossip_ endeavors always to get the most interesting items of the day, and doctor johnson has informed me that he expects to be unusually witty this evening, so i have come here." "excuse me for saying it, boswell," said the doctor, getting red in the face over this unexpected confession, "but, really, you talk too much." "that's good," said cicero. "stick that down, boz, and print it. it's the best thing johnson has said this week." boswell smiled weakly, and said: "but, doctor, you did say that, you know. i can prove it, too, for you told me some of the things you were going to say. don't you remember, you were going to lead shakespeare up to making the remark that he thought the english language was the greatest language in creation, whereupon you were going to ask him why he didn't learn it?" "get out of here, you idiot!" roared the doctor. "you're enough to give a man apoplexy." "you're not going back on the ladder by which you have climbed, are you, samuel?" queried boswell, earnestly. "the wha-a-t?" cried the doctor, angrily. "the ladder--on which i climbed? you? great heavens! that it should come to this! . . . leave the room--instantly! ladder! by all that is beautiful--the ladder upon which i, samuel johnson, the tallest person in letters, have climbed! go! do you hear?" boswell rose meekly, and, with tears coursing down his cheeks, left the room. "that's one on you, doctor," said cicero, wrapping his toga about him. "i think you ought to order up three baskets of champagne on that." "i'll order up three baskets full of boswell's remains if he ever dares speak like that again!" retorted the doctor, shaking with anger. "he--my ladder--why, it's ridiculous." "yes," said shakespeare, dryly. "that's why we laugh." "you were a little hard on him, doctor," said henry viii. "he was a valuable man to you. he had a great eye for your greatness." "yes. if there's any feature of boswell that's greater than his nose and ears, it's his great i," said the doctor. "you'd rather have him change his i to a u, i presume," said napoleon, quietly. the doctor waved his hand impatiently. "let's drop him," he said. "dropping one's biographer isn't without precedent. as soon as any man ever got to know napoleon well enough to write him up he sent him to the front, where he could get a little lead in his system." "i wish i had had a boswell all the same," said shakespeare. "then the world would have known the truth about me." "it wouldn't if he'd relied on your word for it," retorted the doctor. "hullo! here's hamlet." as the doctor spoke, in very truth the melancholy dane appeared in the doorway, more melancholy of aspect than ever. "what's the matter with you?" asked cicero, addressing the new-comer. "haven't you got that poison out of your system yet?" "not entirely," said hamlet, with a sigh; "but it isn't that that's bothering me. it's fate." "we'll get out an injunction against fate if you like," said blackstone. "is it persecution, or have you deserved it?" "i think it's persecution," said hamlet. "i never wronged fate in my life, and why she should pursue me like a demon through all eternity is a thing i can't understand." "maybe ophelia is back of it," suggested doctor johnson. "these women have a great deal of sympathy for each other, and, candidly, i think you behaved pretty rudely to ophelia. it's a poor way to show your love for a young woman, running a sword through her father every night for pay, and driving the girl to suicide with equal frequency, just to show theatre-goers what a smart little dane you can be if you try." "'tisn't me does all that," returned hamlet. "i only did it once, and even then it wasn't as bad as shakespeare made it out to be." "i put it down just as it was," said shakespeare, hotly, "and you can't dispute it." "yes, he can," said yorick. "you made him tell horatio he knew me well, and he never met me in his life." "i never told horatio anything of the sort," said hamlet. "i never entered the graveyard even, and i can prove an alibi." "and, what's more, he couldn't have made the remark the way shakespeare has it, anyhow," said yorick, "and for a very good reason. i wasn't buried in that graveyard, and hamlet and i can prove an alibi for the skull, too." "it was a good play, just the same," said cicero. "very," put in doctor johnson. "it cured me of insomnia." "well, if you don't talk in your sleep, the play did a christian service to the world," retorted shakespeare. "but, really, hamlet, i thought i did the square thing by you in that play. i meant to, anyhow; and if it has made you unhappy, i'm honestly sorry." "spoken like a man," said yorick. "i don't mind the play so much," said hamlet, "but the way i'm represented by these fellows who play it is the thing that rubs me the wrong way. why, i even hear that there's a troupe out in the western part of the united states that puts the thing on with three hamlets, two ghosts, and a pair of blood-hounds. it's called the uncle-tom-hamlet combination, and instead of my falling in love with one crazy ophelia, i am made to woo three dusky maniacs named topsy on a canvas ice-floe, while the blood-hounds bark behind the scenes. what sort of treatment is that for a man of royal lineage?" "it's pretty rough," said napoleon. "as the poet ought to have said, 'oh, hamlet, hamlet, what crimes are committed in thy name!'" "i feel as badly about the play as hamlet does," said shakespeare, after a moment of silent thought. "i don't bother much about this wild western business, though, because i think the introduction of the bloodhounds and the topsies makes us both more popular in that region than we should be otherwise. what i object to is the way we are treated by these so-called first-class intellectual actors in london and other great cities. i've seen hamlet done before a highly cultivated audience, and, by jove, it made me blush." "me too," sighed hamlet. "i have seen a man who had a walk on him that suggested spring-halt and locomotor ataxia combined impersonating my graceful self in a manner that drove me almost crazy. i've heard my 'to be or not to be' soliloquy uttered by a famous tragedian in tones that would make a graveyard yawn at mid-day, and if there was any way in which i could get even with that man i'd do it." "it seems to me," said blackstone, assuming for the moment a highly judicial manner--"it seems to me that shakespeare, having got you into this trouble, ought to get you out of it." "but how?" said shakespeare, earnestly. "that's the point. heaven knows i'm willing enough." hamlet's face suddenly brightened as though illuminated with an idea. then he began to dance about the room with an expression of glee that annoyed doctor johnson exceedingly. "i wish darwin could see you now," the doctor growled. "a kodak picture of you would prove his arguments conclusively." "rail on, o philosopher!" retorted hamlet. "rail on! i mind your railings not, for i the germ of an idea have got." "well, go quarantine yourself," said the doctor. "i'd hate to have one of your idea microbes get hold of me." "what's the scheme?" asked shakespeare. "you can write a play for _me_!" cried hamlet. "make it a farce-tragedy. take the modern player for your hero, and let _me_ play _him_. i'll bait him through four acts. i'll imitate his walk. i'll cultivate his voice. we'll have the first act a tank act, and drop the hero into the tank. the second act can be in a saw-mill, and we can cut his hair off on a buzz- saw. the third act can introduce a spile-driver with which to drive his hat over his eyes and knock his brains down into his lungs. the fourth act can be at niagara falls, and we'll send him over the falls; and for a grand climax we can have him guillotined just after he has swallowed a quart of prussic acid and a spoonful of powdered glass. do that for me, william, and you are forgiven. i'll play it for six hundred nights in london, for two years in new york, and round up with a one-night stand in boston." "it sounds like a good scheme," said shakespeare, meditatively. "what shall we call it?" "call it _irving_," said eugene aram, who had entered. "i too have suffered." "and let me be hamlet's understudy," said charles the first, earnestly. "done!" said shakespeare, calling for a pad and pencil. and as the sun rose upon the styx the next morning the bard of avon was to be seen writing a comic chorus to be sung over the moribund tragedian by the shades of charles, aram, and other eminent deceased heroes of the stage, with which his new play of _irving_ was to be brought to an appropriate close. this play has not as yet found its way upon the boards, but any enterprising manager who desires to consider it may address _hamlet_, _the house-boat_, _hades-on-the-styx_. he is sure to get a reply by return mail, unless mephistopheles interferes, which is not unlikely, since mephistopheles is said to have been much pleased with the manner in which the eminent tragedian has put him before the british and american public. chapter v: the house committee discuss the poets "there's one thing this house-boat needs," wrote homer in the complaint- book that adorned the centre-table in the reading-room, "and that is a poets' corner. there are smoking-rooms for those who smoke, billiard- rooms for those who play billiards, and a card-room for those who play cards. i do not smoke, i can't play billiards, and i do not know a trey of diamonds from a silver salver. all i can do is write poetry. why discriminate against me? by all means let us have a poets' corner, where a man can be inspired in peace." for four days this entry lay in the book apparently unnoticed. on the fifth day the following lines, signed by samson, appeared: "i approve of homer's suggestion. there should be a poets' corner here. then the rest of us could have some comfort. while playing _vingt-et-un_ with diogenes in the card-room on friday evening a poetic member of this club was taken with a most violent fancy, and it required the combined efforts of diogenes and myself, assisted by the janitor, to remove the frenzied and objectionable member from the room. the habit some of our poets have acquired of giving way to their inspirations all over the club- house should be stopped, and i know of no better way to accomplish this desirable end than by the adoption of homer's suggestion. therefore i second the motion." of course the suggestion of two members so prominent as homer and samson could not well he ignored by the house committee, and it reluctantly took the subject in hand at an early meeting. "i find here," said demosthenes to the chairman, as the committee gathered, "a suggestion from homer and samson that this house-boat be provided with a poets' corner. i do not know that i approve of the suggestion myself, but in order to bring it before the committee for debate i am willing to make a motion that the request be granted." "excuse me," put in doctor johnson, "but where do you find that suggestion? 'here' is not very definite. where _is_ 'here'?" "in the complaint-book, which i hold in my hand," returned demosthenes, putting a pebble in his mouth so that he might enunciate more clearly. a frown ruffled the serenity of doctor johnson's brow. "in the complaint-book, eh?" he said, slowly. "i thought house committees were not expected to pay any attention to complaints in complaint-books. i never heard of its being done before." "well, i can't say that i have either," replied demosthenes, chewing thoughtfully on the pebble, "but i suppose complaint-books are the places for complaints. you don't expect people to write serial stories or dialect poems in them, do you?" "that isn't the point, as the man said to the assassin who tried to stab him with the hilt of his dagger," retorted doctor johnson, with some asperity. "of course, complaint-books are for the reception of complaints--nobody disputes that. what i want to have determined is whether it is necessary or proper for the complaints to go further." "i fancy we have a legal right to take the matter up," said blackstone, wearily; "though i don't know of any precedent for such action. in all the clubs i have known the house committees have invariably taken the ground that the complaint-book was established to guard them against the annoyance of hearing complaints. this one, however, has been forced upon us by our secretary, and in view of the age of the complainants i think we cannot well decline to give them a specific answer. respect for age is _de rigueur_ at all times, like clean hands. i'll second the motion." "i think the poets' corner entirely unnecessary," said confucius. "this isn't a class organization, and we should resist any effort to make it or any portion of it so. in fact, i will go further and state that it is my opinion that if we do any legislating in the matter at all, we ought to discourage rather than encourage these poets. they are always littering the club up with themselves. only last wednesday i came here with a guest--no less a person than a recently deceased emperor of china--and what was the first sight that greeted our eyes?" "i give it up," said doctor johnson. "it must have been a catacornered sight, whatever it was, if the emperor's eyes slanted like yours." "no personalities, please, doctor," said sir walter raleigh, the chairman, rapping the table vigorously with the shade of a handsome gavel that had once adorned the roman senate-chamber. "he's only a chinaman!" muttered johnson. "what was the sight that greeted your eyes, confucius?" asked cassius. "omar khayyam stretched over five of the most comfortable chairs in the library," returned confucius; "and when i ventured to remonstrate with him he lost his temper, and said i'd spoiled the whole second volume of the rubaiyat. i told him he ought to do his rubaiyatting at home, and he made a scene, to avoid which i hastened with my guest over to the billiard-room; and there, stretched at full length on the pool-table, was robert burns trying to write a sonnet on the cloth with chalk in less time than villon could turn out another, with two lines start, on the billiard-table with the same writing materials. now i ask you, gentlemen, if these things are to be tolerated? are they not rather to be reprehended, whether i am a chinaman or not?" "what would you have us do, then?" asked sir walter raleigh, a little nettled. "exclude poets altogether? i was one, remember." "oh, but not much of one, sir walter," put in doctor johnson, deprecatingly. "no," said confucius. "i don't want them excluded, but they should be controlled. you don't let a shoemaker who has become a member of this club turn the library sofas into benches and go pegging away at boot-making, so why should you let the poets turn the place into a verse factory? that's what i'd like to know." "i don't know but what your point is well taken," said blackstone, "though i can't say i think your parallels are very parallel. a shoemaker, my dear confucius, is somewhat different from a poet." "certainly," said doctor johnson. "very different--in fact, different enough to make a conundrum of the question--what is the difference between a shoemaker and a poet? one makes the shoes and the other shakes the muse--all the difference in the world. still, i don't see how we can exclude the poets. it is the very democracy of this club that gives it life. we take in everybody--peer, poet, or what not. to say that this man shall not enter because he is this or that or the other thing would result in our ultimately becoming a class organization, which, as confucius himself says, we are not and must not be. if we put out the poet to please the sage, we'll soon have to put out the sage to please the fool, and so on. we'll keep it up, once the precedent is established, until finally it will become a class club entirely--a plumbers' club, for instance--and how absurd that would be in hades! no, gentlemen, it can't be done. the poets must and shall be preserved." "what's the objection to class clubs, anyhow?" asked cassius. "i don't object to them. if we could have had political organizations in my day i might not have had to fall on my sword to get out of keeping an engagement i had no fancy for. class clubs have their uses." "no doubt," said demosthenes. "have all the class clubs you want, but do not make one of this. an authors' club, where none but authors are admitted, is a good thing. the members learn there that there are other authors than themselves. poets' clubs are a good thing; they bring poets into contact with each other, and they learn what a bore it is to have to listen to a poet reading his own poem. pugilists' clubs are good; so are all other class clubs; but so also are clubs like our own, which takes in all who are worthy. here a poet can talk poetry as much as he wants, but at the same time he hears something besides poetry. we must stick to our original idea." "then let us do something to abate the nuisance of which i complain," said confucius. "can't we adopt a house rule that poets must not be inspired between the hours of a.m. and p.m., or in the evening after eight; that any poet discovered using more than five arm-chairs in the composition of a quatrain will be charged two oboli an hour for each chair in excess of that number; and that the billiard-marker shall be required to charge a premium of three times the ordinary fee for tables used by versifiers in lieu of writing-pads?" "that wouldn't be a bad idea," said sir walter raleigh. "i, as a poet would not object to that. i do all my work at home, anyhow." "there's another phase of this business that we haven't considered yet, and it's rather important," said demosthenes, taking a fresh pebble out of his bonbonniere. "that's in the matter of stationery. this club, like all other well-regulated clubs, provides its members with a suitable supply of writing materials. charon informs me that the waste-baskets last week turned out forty-two reams of our best correspondence paper on which these poets had scribbled the first draft of their verses. now i don't think the club should furnish the poets with the raw material for their poems any more than, to go back to confucius's shoemaker, it should supply leather for our cobblers." "what do you mean by raw material for poems?" asked sir walter, with a frown. "pen, ink, and paper. what else?" said demosthenes. "doesn't it take brains to write a poem?" said raleigh. "doesn't it take brains to make a pair of shoes?" retorted demosthenes, swallowing a pebble in his haste. "they've got a right to the stationery, though," put in blackstone. "a clear legal right to it. if they choose to write poems on the paper instead of boring people to death with letters, as most of us do, that's their own affair." "well, they're very wasteful," said demosthenes. "we can meet that easily enough," observed cassius. "furnish each writing-table with a slate. i should think they'd be pleased with that. it's so much easier to rub out the wrong word." "most poets prefer to rub out the right word," growled confucius. "besides, i shall never consent to slates in this house-boat. the squeaking of the pencils would be worse than the poems themselves." "that's true," said cassius. "i never thought of that. if a dozen poets got to work on those slates at once, a fife corps wouldn't be a circumstance to them." "well, it all goes to prove what i have thought all along," said doctor johnson. "homer's idea is a good one, and samson was wise in backing it up. the poets need to be concentrated somewhere where they will not be a nuisance to other people, and where other people will not be a nuisance to them. homer ought to have a place to compose in where the _vingt-et- un_ players will not interrupt his frenzies, and, on the other hand, the _vingt-et-un_ and other players should be protected from the wooers of the muse. i'll vote to have the poets' corner, and in it i move that cassius's slate idea be carried out. it will be a great saving, and if the corner we select be far enough away from the other corners of the club, the squeaking of the slate-pencils need bother no one." "i agree to that," said blackstone. "only i think it should be understood that, in granting the petition of the poets, we do not bind ourselves to yield to doctors and lawyers and shoemakers and plumbers in case they should each want a corner to themselves." "a very wise idea," said sir walter. whereupon the resolution was suitably worded, and passed unanimously. just where the poets' corner is to be located the members of the committee have not as yet decided, although confucius is strongly in favor of having it placed in a dingy situated a quarter of a mile astern of the house-boat, and connected therewith by a slight cord, which can be easily cut in case the squeaking of the poets' slate-pencils becomes too much for the nervous system of the members who have no corner of their own. chapter vi: some theories, darwinian and otherwise "i observe," said doctor darwin, looking up from a perusal of an asbestos copy of the _london times_--"i observe that an american professor has discovered that monkeys talk. i consider that a very interesting fact." "it undoubtedly is," observed doctor livingstone, "though hardly new. i never said anything about it over in the other world, but i discovered years ago in africa that monkeys were quite as well able to hold a sustained conversation with each other as most men are." "and i, too," put in baron munchausen, "have frequently conversed with monkeys. i made myself a master of their idioms during my brief sojourn in--ah--in--well, never mind where. i never could remember the names of places. the interesting point is that at one period of my life i was a master of the monkey language. i have even gone so far as to write a sonnet in simian, which was quite as intelligible to the uneducated as nine-tenths of the sonnets written in english or american." "do you mean to say that you could acquire the monkey accent?" asked doctor darwin, immediately interested. "in most instances," returned the baron, suavely, "though of course not in all. i found the same difficulty in some cases that the german or the chinaman finds when he tries to speak french. a chinaman can no more say trocadero, for instance, as the frenchman says it, than he can fly. that peculiar throaty aspirate the frenchman gives to the first syllable, as though it were spelled trhoque, is utterly beyond the chinese--and beyond the american, too, whose idea of the tonsillar aspirate leads him to speak of the trochedeero, naturally falling back upon troches to help him out of his laryngeal difficulties." "you ought to have been on the staff of _punch_, baron," said thackeray, quietly. "that joke would have made you immortal." "i _am_ immortal," said the baron. "but to return to our discussion of the simian tongue: as i was saying, there were some little points about the accent that i could never get, and, as in the case of the german and chinaman with the french language, the trouble was purely physical. when you consider that in polite simian society most of the talkers converse while swinging by their tails from the limb of a tree, with a sort of droning accent, which results from their swaying to and fro, you will see at once why it was that i, deprived by nature of the necessary apparatus with which to suspend myself in mid-air, was unable to quite catch the quality which gives its chief charm to monkey-talk." "i should hardly think that a man of your fertile resources would have let so small a thing as that stand in his way," said doctor livingstone. "when a man is able to make a reputation for himself like yours, in which material facts are never allowed to interfere with his doing what he sets out to do, he ought not to be daunted by the need of a tail. if you could make a cherry-tree grow out of a deer's head, i fail to see why you could not personally grow a tail, or anything else you might happen to need for the attainment of your ends." "i was not so anxious to get the accent as all that," returned the baron. "i don't think it is necessary for a man to make a monkey of himself just for the pleasure of mastering a language. reasoning similarly, a man to master the art of braying in a fashion comprehensible to the jackass of average intellect should make a jackass of himself, cultivate his ears, and learn to kick, so as properly to punctuate his sentences after the manner of most conversational beasts of that kind." "then you believe that jackasses talk, too, do you?" asked doctor darwin. "why not?" said the baron. "if monkeys, why not donkeys? certainly they do. all creatures have some means of communicating their thoughts to each other. why man in his conceit should think otherwise i don't know, unless it be that the birds and beasts in their conceit probably think that they alone of all the creatures in the world can talk." "i haven't a doubt," said doctor livingstone, "that monkeys listening to men and women talking think they are only jabbering." "they're not far from wrong in most cases if they do," said doctor johnson, who up to this time had been merely an interested listener. "i've thought that many a time myself." "which is perhaps, in a slight degree, a confirmation of my theory," put in darwin. "if doctor johnson's mind runs in the same channels that the monkey's mind runs in, why may we not say that doctor johnson, being a man, has certain qualities of the monkey, and is therefore, in a sense, of the same strain?" "you may say what you please," retorted johnson, wrathfully, "but i'll make you prove what you say about me." "i wouldn't if i were you," said doctor livingstone, in a peace-making spirit. "it would not be a pleasant task for you, compelling our friend to prove you descended from the ape. i should think you'd prefer to make him leave it unproved." "have monkeys boswells?" queried thackeray. "i don't know anything about 'em," said johnson, petulantly. "no more do i," said darwin, "and i didn't mean to be offensive, my dear johnson. if i claim simian ancestry for you, i claim it equally for myself." "well, i'm no snob," said johnson, unmollified. "if you want to brag about your ancestors, do it. leave mine alone. stick to your own genealogical orchard." "well, i believe fully that we are all descended from the ape," said munchausen. "there isn't any doubt in my mind that before the flood all men had tails. noah had a tail. shem, ham, and japheth had tails. it's perfectly reasonable to believe it. the ark in a sense proved it. it would have been almost impossible for noah and his sons to construct the ark in the time they did with the assistance of only two hands apiece. think, however, of how fast they could work with the assistance of that third arm. noah could hammer a clapboard on to the ark with two hands while grasping a saw and cutting a new board or planing it off with his tail. so with the others. we all know how much a third hand would help us at times." "but how do you account for its disappearance?" put in doctor livingstone. "is it likely they would dispense with such a useful adjunct?" "no, it isn't; but there are various ways of accounting for its loss," said munchausen. "they may have overworked it building the ark; shem, ham, or japheth may have had his caught in the door of the ark and cut off in the hurry of the departure; plenty of things may have happened to eliminate it. men lose their hair and their teeth; why might not a man lose a tail? scientists say that coming generations far in the future will be toothless and bald. why may it not be that through causes unknown to us we are similarly deprived of something our forefathers had?" "the only reason for man's losing his hair is that he wears a hat all the time," said livingstone. "the derby hat is the enemy of hair. it is hot, and dries up the scalp. you might as well try to raise watermelons in the desert of sahara as to try to raise hair under the modern hat. in fact, the modern hat is a furnace." "well, it's a mighty good furnace," observed munchausen. "you don't have to put coal on the modern hat." "perhaps," interposed thackeray, "the ancients wore their hats on their tails." "well, i have a totally different theory," said johnson. "you always did have," observed munchausen. "very likely," said johnson. "to be commonplace never was my ambition." "what is your theory?" queried livingstone. "well--i don't know," said johnson, "if it be worth expressing." "it may be worth sending by freight," interrupted thackeray. "let us have it." "well, i believe," said johnson--"i believe that adam was a monkey." "he behaved like one," ejaculated thackeray. "i believe that the forbidden tree was a tender one, and therefore the only one upon which adam was forbidden to swing by his tail," said johnson. "clear enough--so far," said munchausen. "but that the possession of tails by adam and eve entailed a love of swinging thereby, and that they could not resist the temptation to swing from every limb in eden, and that therefore, while adam was off swinging on other trees, eve took a swing on the forbidden tree; that adam, returning, caught her in the act, and immediately gave way himself and swung," said johnson. "then you eliminate the serpent?" queried darwin. "not a bit of it," johnson answered. "the serpent was the tail. look at most snakes to-day. what are they but unattached tails?" "they do look it," said darwin, thoughtfully. "why, it's clear as day," said johnson. "as punishment adam and eve lost their tails, and the tail itself was compelled to work for a living and do its own walking." "i never thought of that," said darwin. "it seems reasonable." "it is reasonable," said johnson. "and the snakes of the present day?" queried thackeray. "i believe to be the missing tails of men," said johnson. "somewhere in the world is a tail for every man and woman and child. where one's tail is no one can ever say, but that it exists simultaneously with its owner i believe. the abhorrence man has for snakes is directly attributable to his abhorrence for all things which have deprived him of something that is good. if adam's tail had not tempted him to swing on the forbidden tree, we should all of us have been able through life to relax from business cares after the manner of the monkey, who is happy from morning until night." "well, i can't see that it does us any good to sit here and discuss this matter," said doctor livingstone. "we can't reach any conclusion. the only way to settle the matter, it seems to me, is to go directly to adam, who is a member of this club, and ask him how it was." "that's a great idea," said thackeray, scornfully. "you'd look well going up to a man and saying, 'excuse me, sir, but--ah--were you ever a monkey?'" "to say nothing of catechising a man on the subject of an old and dreadful scandal," put in munchausen. "i'm surprised at you, livingstone. african etiquette seems to have ruined your sense of propriety." "i'd just as lief ask him," said doctor johnson. "etiquette? bah! what business has etiquette to stand in the way of human knowledge? conventionality is the last thing men of brains should strive after, and i, for one, am not going to be bound by it." here doctor johnson touched the electric bell, and in an instant the shade of a buttons appeared. "boy, is adam in the club-house to-day?" asked the sage. "i'll go and see, sir," said the boy, and he immediately departed. "good boy that," said thackeray. "yes; but the service in this club is dreadful, considering what we might have," said darwin. "with aladdin a member of this club, i don't see why we can't have his lamp with genii galore to respond. it certainly would be more economical." "true; but i, for one, don't care to fool with genii," said munchausen. "when one member can summon a servant who is strong enough to take another member and do him up in a bottle and cast him into the sea, i have no use for the system. plain ordinary mortal shades are good enough for me." as munchausen spoke, the boy returned. "mr. adam isn't here to-day, sir," he said, addressing doctor johnson. "and charon says he's not likely to be here, sir, seeing as how his account is closed, not having been settled for three months." "good," said thackeray. "i was afraid he was here. i don't want to have him asked about his eden experiences in my behalf. that's personality." "well, then, there's only one other thing to do," said darwin. "munchausen claims to be able to speak simian. he might seek out some of the prehistoric monkeys and put the question to them." "no, thank you," said munchausen. "i'm a little rusty in the language, and, besides, you talk like an idiot. you might as well speak of the human language as the simian language. there are french monkeys who speak monkey french, african monkeys who talk the most barbarous kind of zulu monkey patois, and congo monkey slang, and so on. let johnson send his little boswell out to drum up information. if there is anything to be found out he'll get it, and then he can tell it to us. of course he may get it all wrong, but it will be entertaining, and we'll never know any difference." which seemed to the others a good idea, but whatever came of it i have not been informed. chapter vii: a discussion as to ladies' day "i met queen elizabeth just now on the row," said raleigh, as he entered the house-boat and checked his cloak. "indeed?" said confucius. "what if you did? other people have met queen elizabeth. there's nothing original about that." "true; but she made a suggestion to me about this house-boat which i think is a good one. she says the women are all crazy to see the inside of it," said raleigh. "thus proving that immortal woman is no different from mortal woman," retorted confucius. "they want to see the inside of everything. curiosity, thy name is woman." "well, i am sure i don't see why men should arrogate to themselves the sole right to an investigating turn of mind," said raleigh, impatiently. "why shouldn't the ladies want to see the inside of this club-house? it is a compliment to us that they should, and i for one am in favor of letting them, and i am going to propose that in the ides of march we give a ladies' day here." "then i shall go south for my health in the ides of march," said confucius, angrily. "what on earth is a club for if it isn't to enable men to get away from their wives once in a while? when do people go to clubs? when they are on their way home--that's when; and the more a man's at home in his club, the less he's at home when he's at home. i suppose you'll be suggesting a children's day next, and after that a parrot's or a canary-bird's day." "i had no idea you were such a woman-hater," said raleigh, in astonishment. "what's the matter? were you ever disappointed in love?" "i? how absurd!" retorted confucius, reddening. "the idea of _my_ ever being disappointed in love! i never met the woman who could bring me to my knees, although i was married in the other world. what became of mrs. c. i never inquired. she may be in china yet, for aught i know. i regard death as a divorce." "your wife must be glad of it," said raleigh, somewhat ungallantly; for, to tell the truth, he was nettled by confucius's demeanor. "i didn't know, however, but that since you escaped from china and came here to hades you might have fallen in love with some spirit of an age subsequent to your own--mary queen of scots, or joan of arc, or some other spook--who rejected you. i can't account for your dislike of women otherwise." "not i," said confucius. "hades would have a less classic name than it has for me if i were hampered with a family. but go along and have your ladies' day here, and never mind my reasons for preferring my own society to that of the fair sex. i can at least stay at home that day. what do you propose to do--throw open the house to the wives of members, or to all ladies, irrespective of their husbands' membership here?" "i think the latter plan would be the better," said raleigh. "otherwise queen elizabeth, to whom i am indebted for the suggestion, would be excluded. she never married, you know." "didn't she?" said confucius. "no, i didn't know it; but that doesn't prove anything. when i went to school we didn't study the history of the elizabethan period. she didn't have absolute sway over england, then?" "she had; but what of that?" queried raleigh. "do you mean to say that she lived and died an old maid from choice?" demanded confucius. "certainly i do," said raleigh. "and why should i not tell you that?" "for a very good and sufficient reason," retorted confucius, "which is, in brief, that i am not a marine. i may dislike women, my dear raleigh, but i know them better than you do, gallant as you are; and when you tell me in one and the same moment that a woman holding absolute sway over men yet lived and died an old maid, you must not be indignant if i smile and bite the end of my thumb, which is the chinese way of saying that's all in your eye, betty martin." "believe it or not, you poor old back number," retorted raleigh, hotly. "it alters nothing. queen elizabeth could have married a hundred times over if she had wished. i know i lost my head there completely." "that shows, sir walter," said dryden, with a grin, "how wrong you are. you lost your head to king james. hi! shakespeare, here's a man doesn't know who chopped his head off." raleigh's face flushed scarlet. "'tis better to have had a head and lost it," he cried, "than never to have had a head at all! mark you, dryden, my boy, it ill befits you to scoff at me for my misfortune, for dust thou art, and to dust thou hast returned, if word from t'other side about thy books and that which in and on them lies be true." "whate'er be said about my books," said dryden, angrily, "be they read or be they not, 'tis mine they are, and none there be who dare dispute their authorship." "thus proving that men, thank heaven, are still sane," ejaculated doctor johnson. "to assume the authorship of dryden would be not so much a claim, my friend, as a confession." "shades of the mighty chow!" cried confucius. "an' will ye hear the poets squabble! egad! a ladies' day could hardly introduce into our midst a more diverting disputation." "we're all getting a little high-flown in our phraseology," put in shakespeare at this point. "let's quit talking in blank-verse and come down to business. _i_ think a ladies' day would be great sport. i'll write a poem to read on the occasion." "then i oppose it with all my heart," said doctor johnson. "why do you always want to make our entertainments commonplace? leave occasional poems to mortals. i never knew an occasional poem yet that was worthy of an immortal." "that's precisely why i want to write one occasional poem. i'd make it worthy," shakespeare answered. "like this, for instance: _most fair, most sweet, most beauteous of ladies_, _the greatest charm in all ye realm of hades_. why, my dear doctor, such an opportunity for rhyming hades with ladies should not be lost." "that just proves what i said," said johnson. "any idiot can make ladies rhyme with hades. it requires absolute genius to avoid the temptation. you are great enough to make hades rhyme with bicycle if you choose to do it--but no, you succumb to the temptation to be commonplace. bah! one of these modern drawing-room poets with three sections to his name couldn't do worse." "on general principles," said raleigh, "johnson is right. we invite these people here to see our club-house, not to give them an exhibition of our metrical powers, and i think all exercises of a formal nature should be frowned upon." "very well," said shakespeare. "go ahead. have your own way about it. get out your brow and frown. i'm perfectly willing to save myself the trouble of writing a poem. writing real poetry isn't easy, as you fellows would have discovered for yourselves if you'd ever tried it." "to pass over the arrogant assumption of the gentleman who has just spoken, with the silence due to a proper expression of our contempt therefor," said dryden, slowly, "i think in case we do have a ladies' day here we should exercise a most careful supervision over the invitation list. for instance, wouldn't it be awkward for our good friend henry the eighth to encounter the various mrs. henrys here? would it not likewise be awkward for them to meet each other?" "your point is well taken," said doctor johnson. "i don't know whether the king's matrimonial ventures are on speaking terms with each other or not, but under any circumstances it would hardly be a pleasing spectacle for katharine of arragon to see henry running his legs off getting cream and cakes for anne boleyn; nor would anne like it much if, on the other hand, henry chose to behave like a gentleman and a husband to jane seymour or katharine parr. i think, if the members themselves are to send out the invitations, they should each be limited to two cards, with the express understanding that no member shall be permitted to invite more than one wife." "that's going to be awkward," said raleigh, scratching his head thoughtfully. "henry is such a hot-headed fellow that he might resent the stipulation." "i think he would," said confucius. "i think he'd be as mad as a hatter at your insinuation that he would invite any of his wives, if all i hear of him is true; and what i've heard, wolsey has told me." "he knew a thing or two about henry," said shakespeare. "if you don't believe it, just read that play of mine that beaumont and fletcher--er--ah--thought so much of." "you came near giving your secret away that time, william," said johnson, with a sly smile, and giving the avonian a dig between the ribs. "secret! i haven't any secret," said shakespeare, a little acridly. "it's the truth i'm telling you. beaumont and fletcher _did_ admire _henry the eighth_." "thereby showing their conceit, eh?" said johnson. "oh, of course, i didn't write anything, did i?" cried shakespeare. "everybody wrote my plays but me. i'm the only person that had no hand in shakespeare. it seems to me that joke is about worn out, doctor. i'm getting a little tired of it myself; but if it amuses you, why, keep it up. _i_ know who wrote my plays, and whatever you may say cannot affect the facts. next thing you fellows will be saying that i didn't write my own autographs?" "i didn't say that," said johnson, quietly. "only there is no internal evidence in your autographs that you knew how to spell your name if you did. a man who signs his name shixpur one day and shikespeare the next needn't complain if the bank of posterity refuses to honor his check." "they'd honor my check quick enough these days," retorted shakespeare. "when a man's autograph brings five thousand dollars, or one thousand pounds, in the auction-room, there isn't a bank in the world fool enough to decline to honor any check he'll sign under a thousand dollars, or two hundred pounds." "i fancy you're right," put in raleigh. "but your checks or your plays have nothing to do with ladies' day. let's get to some conclusion in this matter." "yes," said confucius. "let's. ladies' day is becoming a dreadful bore, and if we don't hurry up the billiard-room will be full." "well, i move we get up a petition to the council to have it," said dryden. "i agree," said confucius, "and i'll sign it. if there's one way to avoid having ladies' day in the future, it's to have one now and be done with it." "all right," said shakespeare. "i'll sign too." "as--er--shixpur or shikespeare?" queried johnson. "let him alone," said raleigh. "he's getting sensitive about that; and what you need to learn more than anything else is that it isn't manners to twit a man on facts. what's bothering you, dryden? you look like a man with an idea." "it has just occurred to me," said dryden, "that while we can safely leave the question of henry the eighth and his wives to the wisdom of the council, we ought to pay some attention to the advisability of inviting lucretia borgia. i'd hate to eat any supper if she came within a mile of the banqueting-hall. if she comes you'll have to appoint a tasting committee before i'll touch a drop of punch or eat a speck of salad." "we might recommend the appointment of raleigh to look after the fair lucretia and see that she has no poison with her, or if she has, to keep her from dropping it into the salads," said confucius, with a sidelong glance at raleigh. "he's the especial champion of woman in this club, and no doubt would be proud of the distinction." "i would with most women," said raleigh. "but i draw the line at lucretia borgia." and so a petition was drawn up, signed, and sent to the council, and they, after mature deliberation, decided to have the ladies' day, to which all the ladies in hades, excepting lucretia borgia and delilah, were to be duly invited, only the date was not specified. delilah was excluded at the request of samson, whose convincing muscles, rather than his arguments, completely won over all opposition to his proposition. chapter viii: a discontented shade "it seems to me," said shakespeare, wearily, one afternoon at the club--"that this business of being immortal is pretty dull. didn't somebody once say he'd rather ride fifty years on a trolley in europe than on a bicycle in cathay?" "i never heard any such remark by any self-respecting person," said johnson. "i said something like it," observed tennyson. doctor johnson looked around to see who it was that spoke. "you?" he cried. "and who, pray, may you be?" "my name is tennyson," replied the poet. "and a very good name it is," said shakespeare. "i am not aware that i ever heard the name before," said doctor johnson. "did you make it yourself?" "i did," said the late laureate, proudly. "in what pursuit?" asked doctor johnson. "poetry," said tennyson. "i wrote 'locksley hall' and 'come into the garden, maude.'" "humph!" said doctor johnson. "i never read 'em." "well, why should you have read them?" snarled carlyle. "they were written after you moved over here, and they were good stuff. you needn't think because you quit, the whole world put up its shutters and went out of business. i did a few things myself which i fancy you never heard of." "oh, as for that," retorted doctor johnson, with a smile, "i've heard of you; you are the man who wrote the life of frederick the great in nine hundred and two volumes--" "seven!" snapped carlyle. "well, seven then," returned johnson. "i never saw the work, but i heard frederick speaking of it the other day. bonaparte asked him if he had read it, and frederick said no, he hadn't time. bonaparte cried, 'haven't time? why, my dear king, you've got all eternity.' 'i know it,' replied frederick, 'but that isn't enough. read a page or two, my dear napoleon, and you'll see why.'" "frederick will have his joke," said shakespeare, with a wink at tennyson and a smile for the two philosophers, intended, no doubt, to put them in a more agreeable frame of mind. "why, he even asked me the other day why i never wrote a tragedy about him, completely ignoring the fact that he came along many years after i had departed. i spoke of that, and he said, 'oh, i was only joking.' i apologized. 'i didn't know that,' said i. 'and why should you?' said he. 'you're english.'" "a very rude remark," said johnson. "as if we english were incapable of seeing a joke!" "exactly," put in carlyle. "it strikes me as the absurdest notion that the englishman can't see a joke. to the mind that is accustomed to snap judgments i have no doubt the englishman appears to be dull of apprehension, but the philosophy of the whole matter is apparent to the mind that takes the trouble to investigate. the briton weighs everything carefully before he commits himself, and even though a certain point may strike him as funny, he isn't going to laugh until he has fully made up his mind that it is funny. i remember once riding down piccadilly with froude in a hansom cab. froude had a copy of _punch_ in his hand, and he began to laugh immoderately over something. i leaned over his shoulder to see what he was laughing at. 'that isn't so funny,' said i, as i read the paragraph on which his eye was resting. 'no,' said froude. 'i wasn't laughing at that. i was enjoying the joke that appeared in the same relative position in last week's issue.' now that's the point--the whole point. the englishman always laughs over last week's _punch_, not this week's, and that is why you will find a file of that interesting journal in the home of all well-to-do britons. it is the back number that amuses him--which merely proves that he is a deliberative person who weighs even his humor carefully before giving way to his emotions." "what is the average weight of a copy of _punch_?" drawled artemas ward, who had strolled in during the latter part of the conversation. shakespeare snickered quietly, but carlyle and johnson looked upon the intruder severely. "we will take that question into consideration," said carlyle. "perhaps to-morrow we shall have a definite answer ready for you." "never mind," returned the humorist. "you've proved your point. tennyson tells me you find life here dull, shakespeare." "somewhat," said shakespeare. "i don't know about the rest of you fellows, but i was not cut out for an eternity of ease. i must have occupation, and the stage isn't popular here. the trouble about putting on a play here is that our managers are afraid of libel suits. the chances are that if i should write a play with cassius as the hero, cassius would go to the first night's performance with a dagger concealed in his toga, with which to punctuate his objections to the lines put in his mouth. there is nothing i'd like better than to manage a theatre in this place, but think of the riots we'd have! suppose, for an instant, that i wrote a play about bonaparte! he'd have a box, and when the rest of you spooks called for the author at the end of the third act, if he didn't happen to like the play he'd greet me with a salvo of artillery instead of applause." "he wouldn't if you made him out a great conqueror from start to finish," said tennyson. "no doubt," returned shakespeare, sadly; "but in that event wellington would be in the other stage-box, and i'd get the greeting from him." "why come out at all?" asked johnson. "why come out at all?" echoed shakespeare. "what fun is there in writing a play if you can't come out and show yourself at the first night? that's the author's reward. if it wasn't for the first-night business, though, all would be plain sailing." "then why don't you begin it the second night?" drawled ward. "how the deuce could you?" put in carlyle. "a most extraordinary proposition," sneered johnson. "yes," said ward; "but wait a week--you'll see the point then." "there isn't any doubt in my mind," said shakespeare, reverting to his original proposition, "that the only perfectly satisfactory life is under a system not yet adopted in either world--the one we have quitted or this. there we had hard work in which our mortal limitations hampered us grievously; here we have the freedom of the immortal with no hard work; in other words, now that we feel like fighting-cocks, there isn't any fighting to be done. the great life in my estimation, would be to return to earth and battle with mortal problems, but equipped mentally and physically with immortal weapons." "some people don't know when they are well off," said beau brummel. "this strikes me as being an ideal life. there are no tailors bills to pay--we are ourselves nothing but memories, and a memory can clothe himself in the shadow of his former grandeur--i clothe myself in the remembrance of my departed clothes, and as my memory is good i flatter myself i'm the best-dressed man here. the fact that there are ghosts of departed unpaid bills haunting my bedside at night doesn't bother me in the least, because the bailiffs that in the old life lent terror to an overdue account, thanks to our beneficent system here, are kept in the less agreeable sections of hades. i used to regret that bailiffs were such low people, but now i rejoice at it. if they had been of a different order they might have proven unpleasant here." "you are right, my dear brummel," interposed munchausen. "this life is far preferable to that in the other sphere. any of you gentlemen who happen to have had the pleasure of reading my memoirs must have been struck with the tremendous difficulties that encumbered my progress. if i wished for a rare liqueur for my luncheon, a liqueur served only at the table of an oriental potentate, more jealous of it than of his one thousand queens, i had to raise armies, charter ships, and wage warfare in which feats of incredible valor had to be performed by myself alone and unaided to secure the desired thimbleful. i have destroyed empires for a bon-bon at great expense of nervous energy." "that's very likely true," said carlyle. "i should think your feats of strength would have wrecked your imagination in time." "not so," said munchausen. "on the contrary, continuous exercise served only to make it stronger. but, as i was going to say, in this life we have none of these fearful obstacles--it is a life of leisure; and if i want a bird and a cold bottle at any time, instead of placing my life in peril and jeopardizing the peace of all mankind to get it, i have only to summon before me the memory of some previous bird and cold bottle, dine thereon like a well-ordered citizen, and smoke the spirit of the best cigar my imagination can conjure up." "you miss my point," said shakespeare. "i don't say this life is worse or better than the other we used to live. what i do say is that a combination of both would suit me. in short, i'd like to live here and go to the other world every day to business, like a suburban resident who sleeps in the country and makes his living in the city. for instance, why shouldn't i dwell here and go to london every day, hire an office there, and put out a sign something like this: william shakespeare dramatist plays written while you wait i guess i'd find plenty to do." "guess again," said tennyson. "my dear boy, you forget one thing. _you are out of date_. people don't go to the theatres to hear _you_, they go to see the people who _do_ you." "that is true," said ward. "and they do do you, my beloved william. it's a wonder to me you are not dizzy turning over in your grave the way they do you." "can it be that i can ever be out of date?" asked shakespeare. "i know, of course, that i have to be adapted at times; but to be wholly out of date strikes me as a hard fate." "you're not out of date," interposed carlyle; "the date is out of you. there is a great demand for shakespeare in these days, but there isn't any stuff." "then i should succeed," said shakespeare. "no, i don't think so," returned carlyle. "you couldn't stand the pace. the world revolves faster to-day than it did in your time--men write three or four plays at once. this is what you might call a type-writer age, and to keep up with the procession you'd have to work as you never worked before." "that is true," observed tennyson. "you'd have to learn to be ambidextrous, so that you could keep two type-writing machines going at once; and, to be perfectly frank with you, i cannot even conjure up in my fancy a picture of you knocking out a tragedy with the right hand on one machine, while your left hand is fashioning a farce-comedy on another." "he might do as a great many modern writers do," said ward; "go in for the paper-doll drama. cut the whole thing out with a pair of scissors. as the poet might have said if he'd been clever enough: _oh, bring me the scissors_, _and bring me the glue_, _and a couple of dozen old plays_. _i'll cut out and paste_ _a drama for you_ _that'll run for quite sixty-two days_. _oh, bring me a dress_ _made of satin and lace_, _and a book--say joe miller's--of wit_; _and i'll make the old dramatists_ _blue in the face_ _with the play that i'll turn out for it_. _so bring me the scissors_, _and bring me the paste_, _and a dozen fine old comedies_; _a fine line of dresses_, _and popular taste_ _i'll make a strong effort to please_. "you draw a very blue picture, it seems to me," said shakespeare, sadly. "well, it's true," said carlyle. "the world isn't at all what it used to be in any one respect, and you fellows who made great reputations centuries ago wouldn't have even the ghost of a show now. i don't believe homer could get a poem accepted by a modern magazine, and while the comic papers are still printing diogenes' jokes the old gentleman couldn't make enough out of them in these days to pay taxes on his tub, let alone earning his bread." "that is exactly so," said tennyson. "i'd be willing to wager too that, in the line of personal prowess, even d'artagnan and athos and porthos and aramis couldn't stand london for one day." "or new york either," said mr. barnum, who had been an interested listener. "a new york policeman could have managed that quartet with one hand." "then," said shakespeare, "in the opinion of you gentlemen, we old-time lions would appear to modern eyes to be more or less stuffed?" "that's about the size of it," said carlyle. "but you'd draw," said barnum, his face lighting up with pleasure. "you'd drive a five-legged calf to suicide from envy. if i could take you and caesar, and napoleon bonaparte and nero over for one circus season we'd drive the mint out of business." "there's your chance, william," said ward. "you write a play for bonaparte and caesar, and let nero take his fiddle and be the orchestra. under barnum's management you'd get enough activity in one season to last you through all eternity." "you can count on me," said barnum, rising. "let me know when you've got your plan laid out. i'd stay and make a contract with you now, but adam has promised to give me points on the management of wild animals without cages, so i can't wait. by-by." "humph!" said shakespeare, as the eminent showman passed out. "that's a gay proposition. when monkeys move in polite society william shakespeare will make a side-show of himself for a circus." "they do now," said thackeray, quietly. which merely proved that shakespeare did not mean what he said; for in spite of thackeray's insinuation as to the monkeys and polite society, he has not yet accepted the barnum proposition, though there can be no doubt of its value from the point of view of a circus manager. chapter ix: as to cookery and sculpture robert burns and homer were seated at a small table in the dining-room of the house-boat, discussing everything in general and the shade of a very excellent luncheon in particular. "we are in great luck to-day," said burns, as he cut a ruddy duck in twain. "this bird is done just right." "i agree with you," returned homer, drawing his chair a trifle closer to the table. "compared to the one we had here last thursday, this is a feast for the gods. i wonder who it was that cooked this fowl originally?" "i give it up; but i suspect it was done by some man who knew his business," said burns, with a smack of his lips. "it's a pity, i think, my dear homer, that there is no means by which a cook may become immortal. cooking is as much of an art as is the writing of poetry, and just as there are immortal poets so there should be immortal cooks. see what an advantage the poet has--he writes something, it goes out and reaches the inmost soul of the man who reads it, and it is signed. his work is known because he puts his name to it; but this poor devil of a cook--where is he? he has done his work as well as the poet ever did his, it has reached the inmost soul of the mortal who originally ate it, but he cannot get the glory of it because he cannot put his name to it. if the cook could sign his work it would be different." "you have hit upon a great truth," said homer, nodding, as he sometimes was wont to do. "and yet i fear that, ingenious as we are, we cannot devise a plan to remedy the matter. i do not know about you, but i should myself much object if my birds and my flapjacks, and other things, digestible and otherwise, that i eat here were served with the cook's name written upon them. an omelette is sometimes a picture--" "i've seen omelettes that looked like one of turner's sunsets," acquiesced burns. "precisely; and when turner puts down in one corner of his canvas, 'turner, fecit,' you do not object, but if the cook did that with the omelette you wouldn't like it." "no," said burns; "but he might fasten a tag to it, with his name written upon that." "that is so," said homer; "but the result in the end would be the same. the tags would get lost, or perhaps a careless waiter, dropping a tray full of dainties, would get the tags of a good and bad cook mixed in trying to restore the contents of the tray to their previous condition. the tag system would fail." "there is but one other way that i can think of," said burns, "and that would do no good now unless we can convey our ideas into the other world; that is, for a great poet to lend his genius to the great cook, and make the latter's name immortal by putting it into a poem. say, for instance, that you had eaten a fine bit of terrapin, done to the most exquisite point--you could have asked the cook's name, and written an apostrophe to her. something like this, for instance: _oh, dinah rudd! oh, dinah rudd_! _thou art a cook of bluest blood_! _nowhere within_ _this world of sin_ _have i e'er tasted better terrapin_. _do you see_?" "i do; but even then, my dear fellow, the cook would fall short of true fame. her excellence would be a mere matter of hearsay evidence," said homer. "not if you went on to describe, in a keenly analytical manner, the virtues of that particular bit of terrapin," said burns. "draw so vivid a picture of the dish that the reader himself would taste that terrapin even as you tasted it." "you have hit it!" cried homer, enthusiastically. "it is a grand plan; but how to introduce it--that is the question." "we can haunt some modern poet, and give him the idea in that way," suggested burns. "he will see the novelty of it, and will possibly disseminate the idea as we wish it to be disseminated." "done!" said homer. "i'll begin right away. i feel like haunting to- night. i'm getting to be a pretty old ghost, but i'll never lose my love of haunting." at this point, as homer spoke, a fine-looking spirit entered the room, and took a seat at the head of the long table at which the regular club dinner was nightly served. "why, bless me!" said homer, his face lighting up with pleasure. "why, phidias, is that you?" "i think so," said the new-comer, wearily; "at any rate, it's all that's left of me." "come over here and lunch with us," said homer. "you know burns, don't you?" "haven't the pleasure," said phidias. the poet and the sculptor were introduced, after which phidias seated himself at homer's side. "are you any relation to burns the poet?" the former asked, addressing the scotchman. "i _am_ burns the poet," replied the other. "you don't look much like your statues," said phidias, scanning his face critically. "no, thank the fates!" said burns, warmly. "if i did, i'd commit suicide." "why don't you sue the sculptors for libel?" asked phidias. "you speak with a great deal of feeling, phidias," said homer, gravely. "have they done anything to hurt you?" "they have," said phidias. "i have just returned from a tour of the world. i have seen the things they call sculpture in these degenerate days, and i must confess--who shouldn't, perhaps--that i could have done better work with a baseball-bat for a chisel and putty for the raw material." "i think i could do good work with a baseball-bat too," said burns; "but as for the raw material, give me the heads of the men who have sculped me to work on. i'd leave them so that they'd look like some of your parthenon frieze figures with the noses gone." "you are a vindictive creature," said homer. "these men you criticise, and whose heads you wish to sculp with a baseball-bat, have done more for you than you ever did for them. every statue of you these men have made is a standing advertisement of your books, and it hasn't cost you a penny. there isn't a doubt in my mind that if it were not for those statues countless people would go to their graves supposing that the great scottish burns were little rivulets, and not a poet. what difference does it make to you if they haven't made an adonis of you? you never set them an example by making one of yourself. if there's deception anywhere, it isn't you that is deceived; it is the mortals. and who cares about them or their opinions?" "i never thought of it in that way," said burns. "i hate caricatures--that is, caricatures of myself. i enjoy caricatures of other people, but--" "you have a great deal of the mortal left in you, considering that you pose as an immortal," said homer, interrupting the speaker. "well, so have i," said phidias, resolved to stand by burns in the argument, "and i'm sorry for the man who hasn't. i was a mortal once, and i'm glad of it. i had a good time, and i don't care who knows it. when i look about me and see jupiter, the arch-snob of creation, and mars, a little tin warrior who couldn't have fought a soldier like napoleon, with all his alleged divinity, i thank the fates that they enabled me to achieve immortality through mortal effort. hang hereditary greatness, i say. these men were born immortals. you and i worked for it and got it. we know what it cost. it was ours because we earned it, and not because we were born to it. eh, burns?" the scotchman nodded assent, and the greek sculptor went on. "i am not vindictive myself, homer," he said. "nobody has hurt me, and, on the whole, i don't think sculpture is in such a bad way, after all. there's a shoemaker i wot of in the mortal realms who can turn the prettiest last you ever saw; and i encountered a carver in a london eating-house last month who turned out a slice of beef that was cut as artistically as i could have done it myself. what i object to chiefly is the tendency of the times. this is an electrical age, and men in my old profession aren't content to turn out one _chef-d'oeuvre_ in a lifetime. they take orders by the gross. i waited upon inspiration. to-day the sculptor waits upon custom, and an artist will make a bust of anybody in any material desired as long as he is sure of getting his pay afterwards. i saw a life-size statue of the inventor of a new kind of lard the other day, and what do you suppose the material was? gold? not by a great deal. ivory? marble, even? not a bit of it. he was done in lard, sir. i have seen a woman's head done in butter, too, and it makes me distinctly weary to think that my art should be brought so low." "you did your best work in greece," chuckled homer. "a bad joke, my dear homer," retorted phidias. "i thought sculpture was getting down to a pretty low ebb when i had to fashion friezes out of marble; but marble is more precious than rubies alongside of butter and lard." "each has its uses," said homer. "i'd rather have butter on my bread than marble, but i must confess that for sculpture it is very poor stuff, as you say." "it is indeed," said phidias. "for practice it's all right to use butter, but for exhibition purposes--bah!" here phidias, to show his contempt for butter as raw material in sculpture, seized a wooden toothpick, and with it modelled a beautiful head of minerva out of the pat that stood upon the small plate at his side, and before burns could interfere had spread the chaste figure as thinly as he could upon a piece of bread, which he tossed to the shade of a hungry dog that stood yelping on the river-bank. "heavens!" cried burns. "imperious caesar dead and turned to bricks is as nothing to a minerva carved by phidias used to stay the hunger of a ravening cur." "well, it's the way i feel," said phidias, savagely. "i think you are a trifle foolish to be so eternally vexed about it," said homer, soothingly. "of course you feel badly, but, after all, what's the use? you must know that the mortals would pay more for one of your statues than they would for a specimen of any modern sculptor's art; yes, even if yours were modelled in wine-jelly and the other fellow's in pure gold. so why repine?" "you'd feel the same way if poets did a similarly vulgar thing," retorted phidias; "you know you would. if you should hear of a poet to-day writing a poem on a thin layer of lard or butter, you would yourself be the first to call a halt." "no, i shouldn't," said homer, quietly; "in fact, i wish the poets would do that. we'd have fewer bad poems to read; and that's the way you should look at it. i venture to say that if this modern plan of making busts and friezes in butter had been adopted at an earlier period, the public places in our great cities and our national walhallas would seem less like repositories of comic art, since the first critical rays of a warm sun would have reduced the carven atrocities therein to a spot on the pavement. the butter school of sculpture has its advantages, my boy, and you should be crowning the inventor of the system with laurel, and not heaping coals of fire upon his brow." "that," said burns, "is, after all, the solid truth, phidias. take the brass caricatures of me, for instance. where would they be now if they had been cast in lard instead of in bronze?" phidias was silent a moment. "well," he said, finally, as the value of the plan dawned upon his mind, "from that point of view i don't know but what you are right, after all; and, to show that i have spoken in no vindictive spirit, let me propose a toast. here's to the butter sculptors. may their butter never give out." the toast was drained to the dregs, and phidias went home feeling a little better. chapter x: story-tellers' night it was story-tellers' night at the house-boat, and the best talkers of hades were impressed into the service. doctor johnson was made chairman of the evening. "put him in the chair," said raleigh. "that's the only way to keep him from telling a story himself. if he starts in on a tale he'll make it a serial sure as fate, but if you make him the medium through which other story-tellers are introduced to the club he'll be finely epigrammatic. he can be very short and sharp when he's talking about somebody else. personality is his forte." "great scheme," said diogenes, who was chairman of the entertainment committee. "the nights over here are long, but if johnson started on a story they'd have to reach twice around eternity and halfway back to give him time to finish all he had to say." "he's not very witty, in my judgment," said carlyle, who since his arrival in the other world has manifested some jealousy of solomon and doctor johnson. "that's true enough," said raleigh; "but he's strong, and he's bound to say something that will put the audience in sympathy with the man that he introduces, and that's half the success of a story-tellers' night. i've told stories myself. if your audience doesn't sympathize with you you'd be better off at home putting the baby to bed." and so it happened. doctor johnson was made chairman, and the evening came. the doctor was in great form. a list of the story-tellers had been sent him in advance, and he was prepared. the audience was about as select a one as can be found in hades. the doors were thrown open to the friends of the members, and the smoke-furnace had been filled with a very superior quality of arcadian mixture which scott had brought back from a haunting-trip to the home of "the little minister," at thrums. "friends and fellow-spooks," the doctor began, when all were seated on the visionary camp-stools--which, by the way, are far superior to those in use in a world of realities, because they do not creak in the midst of a fine point demanding absolute silence for appreciation--"i do not know why i have been chosen to preside over this gathering of phantoms; it is the province of the presiding officer on occasions of this sort to say pleasant things, which he does not necessarily endorse, about the sundry persons who are to do the story-telling. now, i suppose you all know me pretty well by this time. if there is anybody who doesn't, i'll be glad to have him presented after the formal work of the evening is over, and if i don't like him i'll tell him so. you know that if i can be counted upon for any one thing it is candor, and if i hurt the feelings of any of these individuals whom i introduce to-night, i want them distinctly to understand that it is not because i love them less, but that i love truth more. with this--ah--blanket apology, as it were, to cover all possible emergencies that may arise during the evening, i will begin. the first speaker on the programme, i regret to observe, is my friend goldsmith. affairs of this kind ought to begin with a snap, and while oliver is a most excellent writer, as a speaker he is a pebbleless demosthenes. if i had had the arrangement of the programme i should have had goldsmith tell his story while the rest of us were down-stairs at supper. however, we must abide by our programme, which is unconscionably long, for otherwise we will never get through it. those of you who agree with me as to the pleasure of listening to my friend goldsmith will do well to join me in the grill-room while he is speaking, where, i understand, there is a very fine line of punches ready to be served. modest noll, will you kindly inflict yourself upon the gathering, and send me word when you get through, if you ever do, so that i may return and present number two to the assembly, whoever or whatever he may be?" with these words the doctor retired, and poor goldsmith, pale with fear, rose up to speak. it was evident that he was quite as doubtful of his ability as a talker as was johnson. "i'm not much of a talker, or, as some say, speaker," he said. "talking is not my forte, as doctor johnson has told you, and i am therefore not much at it. speaking is not in my line. i cannot speak or talk, as it were, because i am not particularly ready at the making of a speech, due partly to the fact that i am not much of a talker anyhow, and seldom if ever speak. i will therefore not bore you by attempting to speak, since a speech by one who like myself is, as you are possibly aware, not a fluent nor indeed in any sense an eloquent speaker, is apt to be a bore to those who will be kind enough to listen to my remarks, but will read instead the first five chapters of the _vicar of wakefield_." "who suggested any such night as this, anyhow?" growled carlyle. "five chapters of the _vicar of wakefield_ for a starter! lord save us, we'll need a vicar of sleepfield if he's allowed to do this!" "i move we adjourn," said darwin. "can't something be done to keep these younger members quiet?" asked solomon, frowning upon carlyle and darwin. "yes," said douglas jerrold. "let goldsmith go on. he'll have them asleep in ten minutes." meanwhile, goldsmith was plodding earnestly through his stint, utterly and happily oblivious of the effect he was having upon his audience. "this is awful," whispered wellington to bonaparte. "worse than waterloo," replied the ex-emperor, with a grin; "but we can stop it in a minute. artemas ward told me once how a camp-meeting he attended in the west broke up to go outside and see a dog-fight. can't you and i pretend to quarrel? a personal assault by you on me will wake these people up and discombobulate goldsmith. say the word--only don't hit too hard." "i'm with you," said wellington. whereupon, with a great show of heat, he roared out, "you? never! i'm more afraid of a boy with a bean-snapper that i ever was of you!" and followed up his remark by pulling bonaparte's camp-chair from under him, and letting the conqueror of austerlitz fall to the floor with a thud which i have since heard described as dull and sickening. the effect was instantaneous. compared to a personal encounter between the two great figures of waterloo, a reading from his own works by goldsmith seemed lacking in the elements essential to the holding of an audience. consequently, attention was centred in the belligerent warriors, and, by some odd mistake, when a peace-loving member of the assemblage, realizing the indecorousness of the incident, cried out, "put him out! put him out!" the attendants rushed in, and, taking poor goldsmith by his collar, hustled him out through the door, across the deck, and tossed him ashore without reference to the gang-plank. this accomplished, a personal explanation of their course was made by the quarrelling generals, and, peace having been restored, a committee was sent in search of goldsmith with suitable apologies. the good and kindly soul returned, but having lost his book in the melee, much to his own gratification, as well as to that of the audience, he was permitted to rest in quiet the balance of the evening. "is he through?" said johnson, poking his head in at the door when order was restored. "yes, sir," said boswell; "that is to say, he has retired permanently from the field. he didn't finish, though." "fellow-spooks," began johnson once more, "now that you have been delighted with the honeyed eloquence of the last speaker, it is my privilege to present to you that eminent fabulist baron munchausen, the greatest unrealist of all time, who will give you an exhibition of his paradoxical power of lying while standing." the applause which greeted the baron was deafening. he was, beyond all doubt, one of the most popular members of the club. "speaking of whales," said he, leaning gracefully against the table. "nobody has mentioned 'em," said johnson. "true," retorted the baron; "but you always suggest them by your apparently unquenchable thirst for spouting--speaking of whales, my friend jonah, as well as the rest of you, may be interested to know that i once had an experience similar to his own, and, strange to say, with the identical whale." jonah arose from his seat in the back of the room. "i do not wish to be unpleasant," he said, with a strong effort to be calm, "but i wish to ask if judge blackstone is in the room." "i am," said the judge, rising. "what can i do for you?" "i desire to apply for an injunction restraining the baron from using my whale in his story. that whale, your honor, is copyrighted," said jonah. "if i had any other claim to the affection of mankind than the one which is based on my experience with that leviathan, i would willingly permit the baron to introduce him into his story; but that whale, your honor, is my stock in trade--he is my all." "i think jonah's point is well taken," said blackstone, turning to the baron. "it would be a distinct hardship, i think, if the plaintiff in this action were to be deprived of the exclusive use of his sole accessory. the injunction prayed for is therefore granted. the court would suggest, however, that the baron continue with his story, using another whale for the purpose." "it is impossible," said munchausen, gloomily. "the whole point of the story depends upon its having been jonah's whale. under the circumstances, the only thing i can do is to sit down. i regret the narrowness of mind exhibited by my friend jonah, but i must respect the decision of the court." "i must take exception to the baron's allusion to my narrowness of mind," said jonah, with some show of heat. "i am simply defending my rights, and i intend to continue to do so if the whole world unites in considering my mind a mere slot scarcely wide enough for the insertion of a nickel. that whale was my discovery, and the personal discomfort i endured in perfecting my experience was such that i resolved to rest my reputation upon his broad proportions only--to sink or swim with him--and i cannot at this late day permit another to crowd me out of his exclusive use." jonah sat down and fanned himself, and the baron, with a look of disgust on his face, left the room. "up to his old tricks," he growled as he went. "he queers everything he goes into. if i'd known he was a member of this club i'd never have joined." "we do not appear to be progressing very rapidly," said doctor johnson, rising. "so far we have made two efforts to have stories told, and have met with disaster each time. i don't know but what you are to be congratulated, however, on your escape. very few of you, i observe, have as yet fallen asleep. the next number on the programme, i see, is boswell, who was to have entertained you with a few reminiscences; i say was to have done so, because he is not to do so." "i'm ready," said boswell, rising. "no doubt," retorted johnson, severely, "but i am not. you are a man with one subject--myself. i admit it's a good subject, but you are not the man to treat of it--here. you may suffice for mortals, but here it is different. i can speak for myself. you can go out and sit on the banks of the vitriol reservoir and lecture to the imps if you want to, but when it comes to reminiscences of me i'm on deck myself, and i flatter myself i remember what i said and did more accurately than you do. therefore, gentlemen, instead of listening to boswell at this point, you will kindly excuse him and listen to me. ahem! when i was a boy--" "excuse me," said solomon, rising; "about how long is this--ah--this entertaining discourse of yours to continue?" "until i get through," returned johnson, wrathfully. "are you aware, sir, that i am on the programme?" asked solomon. "i am," said the doctor. "with that in mind, for the sake of our fellow- spooks who are present, i am very much inclined to keep on forever. when i was a boy--" carlyle rose up at this point. "i should like to ask," he said, mildly, "if this is supposed to be an audience of children? i, for one, have no wish to listen to the juvenile stories of doctor johnson. furthermore, i have come here particularly to- night to hear boswell. i want to compare him with froude. i therefore protest against--" "there is a roof to this house-boat," said doctor johnson. "if mr. carlyle will retire to the roof with boswell i have no doubt he can be accommodated. as for solomon's interruption, i can afford to pass that over with the silent contempt it deserves, though i may add with propriety that i consider his most famous proverbs the most absurd bits of hack-work i ever encountered; and as for that story about dividing a baby between two mothers by splitting it in two, it was grossly inhuman unless the baby was twins. when i was a boy--" as the doctor proceeded, carlyle and solomon, accompanied by the now angry boswell, left the room, and my account of the story-tellers' night must perforce stop; because, though i have never heretofore confessed it, all my information concerning the house-boat on the styx has been derived from the memoranda of boswell. it may be interesting to the reader to learn, however, that, according to boswell's account, the story-tellers' night was never finished; but whether this means that it broke up immediately afterwards in a riot, or that doctor johnson is still at work detailing his reminiscences, i am not aware, and i cannot at the moment of writing ascertain, for boswell, when i have the pleasure of meeting him, invariably avoids the subject. chapter xi: as to saurians and others it was noah who spoke. "i'm glad," he said, "that when i embarked at the time of the heavy rains that did so much damage in the old days, there weren't any dogs like that fellow cerberus about. if i'd had to feed a lot of three-headed beasts like him the ark would have run short of provisions inside of ten days." "that's very likely true," observed mr. barnum; "but i must confess, my dear noah, that you showed a lamentable lack of the showman's instinct when you selected the animals you did. a more commonplace lot of beasts were never gathered together, and while adam is held responsible for the introduction of sin into the world, i attribute most of my offences to none other than yourself." the members of the club drew their chairs a little closer. the conversation had opened a trifle spicily, and, furthermore, they had retained enough of their mortality to be interested in animal stories. adam, who had managed to settle his back dues and delinquent house-charges, and once more acquired the privileges of the club, nodded his head gratefully at mr. barnum. "i'm glad to find some one," said he, "who places the responsibility for trouble where it belongs. i'm round-shouldered with the blame i've had to bear. i didn't invent sin any more than i invented the telephone, and i think it's rather rough on a fellow who lived a quiet, retiring, pastoral life, minding his own business and staying home nights, to be held up to public reprobation for as long a time as i have." "it'll be all right in time," said raleigh; "just wait--be patient, and your vindication will come. nobody thought much of the plays bacon and i wrote for shakespeare until shakespeare 'd been dead a century." "humph!" said adam, gloomily. "wait! what have i been doing all this time? i've waited all the time there's been so far, and until mr. barnum spoke as he did i haven't observed the slightest inclination on the part of anybody to rehabilitate my lost reputation. nor do i see exactly how it's to come about even if i do wait." "you might apply for an investigating committee to look into the charges," suggested an american politician, just over. "get your friends on it, and you'll be all right." "better let sleeping dogs lie," said blackstone. "i intend to," said adam. "the fact is, i hate to give any further publicity to the matter. even if i did bring the case into court and sue for libel, i've only got one witness to prove my innocence, and that's my wife. i'm not going to drag her into it. she's got nervous prostration over her position as it is, and this would make it worse. queen elizabeth and the rest of these snobs in society won't invite her to any of their functions because they say she hadn't any grandfather; and even if she were received by them, she'd be uncomfortable going about. it isn't pleasant for a woman to feel that every one knows she's the oldest woman in the room." "well, take my word for it," said raleigh, kindly. "it'll all come out all right. you know the old saying, 'history repeats itself.' some day you will be living back in eden again, and if you are only careful to make an exact record of all you do, and have a notary present, before whom you can make an affidavit as to the facts, you will be able to demonstrate your innocence." "i was only condemned on hearsay evidence, anyhow," said adam, ruefully. "nonsense; you were caught red-handed," said noah; "my grandfather told me so. and now that i've got a chance to slip in a word edgewise, i'd like mightily to have you explain your statement, mr. barnum, that i am responsible for your errors. that is a serious charge to bring against a man of my reputation." "i mean simply this: that to make a show interesting," said mr. barnum, "a man has got to provide interesting materials, that's all. i do not mean to say a word that is in any way derogatory to your morality. you were a surprisingly good man for a sea-captain, and with the exception of that one occasion when you--ah--you allowed yourself to be stranded on the bar, if i may so put it, i know of nothing to be said against you as a moral, temperate person." "that was only an accident," said noah, reddening. "you can't expect a man six hundred odd years of age--" "certainly not," said raleigh, soothingly, "and nobody thinks less of you for it. considering how you must have hated the sight of water, the wonder of it is that it didn't become a fixed habit. let us hear what it is that mr. barnum does criticise in you." "his taste, that's all," said mr. barnum. "i contend that, compared to the animals he might have had, the ones he did have were as ant-hills to alps. there were more magnificent zoos allowed to die out through noah's lack of judgment than one likes to think of. take the proterosaurus, for instance. where on earth do we find his equal to-day?" "you ought to be mighty glad you can't find one like him," put in adam. "if you'd spent a week in the garden of eden with me, with lizards eight feet long dropping out of the trees on to your lap while you were trying to take a sunday-afternoon nap, you'd be willing to dispense with things of that sort for the balance of your natural life. if you want to get an idea of that experience let somebody drop a calf on you some afternoon." "i am not saying anything about that," returned barnum. "it would be unpleasant to have an elephant drop on one after the fashion of which you speak, but i am glad the elephant was saved just the same. i haven't advocated the proterosaurus as a sunday-afternoon surprise, but as an attraction for a show. i still maintain that a lizard as big as a cow would prove a lodestone, the drawing powers of which the pocket-money of the small boy would be utterly unable to resist. then there was the iguanadon. he'd have brought a fortune to the box-office--" "which you'd have immediately lost," retorted noah, "paying rent. when you get a reptile of his size, that reaches thirty feet up into the air when he stands on his hind-legs, the ordinary circus wagon of commerce can't be made to hold him, and your menagerie-room has to have ceilings so high that every penny he brought to the box-office would be spent storing him." "mischievous, too," said adam, "that iguanadon. you couldn't keep anything out of his reach. we used to forbid animals of his kind to enter the garden, but that didn't bother him; he'd stand up on his hind- legs and reach over and steal anything he'd happen to want." "i could have used him for a fire-escape," said mr. barnum; "and as for my inability to provide him with quarters, i'd have met that problem after a short while. i've always lamented the absence, too, of the megalosaurus--" "which simply shows how ignorant you are," retorted noah. "why, my dear fellow, it would have taken the whole of an ordinary zoo such as yours to give the megalosaurus a lunch. those fellows would eat a rhinoceros as easily as you'd crack a peanut. i did have a couple of megalosaurians on my boat for just twenty-four hours, and then i chucked them both overboard. if i'd kept them ten days longer they'd have eaten every blessed beast i had with me, and your zoo wouldn't have had anything else but megalosaurians." "papa is right about that, mr. barnum," said shem. "the whole saurian tribe was a fearful nuisance. about four hundred years before the flood i had a pet creosaurus that i kept in our barn. he was a cunning little devil--full of tricks, and all that; but we never could keep a cow or a horse on the place while he was about. they'd mysteriously disappear, and we never knew what became of 'em until one morning we surprised fido in--" "surprised who?" asked doctor johnson, scornfully. "fido," returned shem. "'that was my creosaurus's name." "lord save us! fido!" cried johnson. "what a name for a creosaurus!" "well, what of it?" asked shem, angrily. "you wouldn't have us call a mastodon like that fanny, would you, or tatters?" "go on," said johnson; "i've nothing to say." "shall i send for a physician?" put in boswell, looking anxiously at his chief, the situation was so extraordinary. solomon and carlyle giggled; and the doctor having politely requested boswell to go to a warmer section of the country, shem resumed. "i caught him in the act of swallowing five cows and ham's favorite trotter, sulky and all." baron munchausen rose up and left the room. "if they're going to lie i'm going to get out," he said, as he passed through the room. "what became of fido?" asked boswell. "the sulky killed him," returned shem, innocently. "he couldn't digest the wheels." noah looked approvingly at his son, and, turning to barnum, observed, quietly: "what he says is true, and i will go further and say that it is my belief that you would have found the show business impossible if i had taken that sort of creature aboard. you'd have got mightily discouraged after your antediluvians had chewed up a few dozen steam calliopes, and eaten every other able-bodied exhibit you had managed to secure. i'd have tried to save a couple of discosaurians if i hadn't supposed they were able to take care of themselves. a combination of sea-serpent and dragon, with a neck twenty-two feet long, it seemed to me, ought to have been able to ride out any storm or fall of rain; but there i was wrong, and i am free to admit my error. it never occurred to me that the sea- serpents were in any danger, so i let them alone, with the result that i never saw but one other, and he was only an illusion due to that unhappy use of stimulants to which, with shocking bad taste, you have chosen to refer." "i didn't mean to call up unpleasant memories," said barnum. "i never believed you got half-seas over, anyhow; but, to return to our muttons, why didn't you hand down a few varieties of the therium family to posterity? there were the dinotherium and the megatherium, either one of which would have knocked spots out of any leopard that ever was made, and along side of which even my woolly horse would have paled into insignificance. that's what i can't understand in your selections; with megatheriums to burn, why save leopards and panthers and other such every- day creatures?" "what kind of a boat do you suppose i had?" cried noah. "do you imagine for a moment that she was four miles on the water-line, with a mile and three-quarters beam? if i'd had a pair of dinotheriums in the stern of that ark, she'd have tipped up fore and aft, until she'd have looked like a telegraph-pole in the water, and if i'd put 'em amidships they'd have had to be wedged in so tightly they couldn't move to keep the vessel trim. i didn't go to sea, my friend, for the purpose of being tipped over in mid-ocean every time one of my cargo wanted to shift his weight from one leg to the other." "it was bad enough with the elephants, wasn't it, papa?" said shem. "yes, indeed, my son," returned the patriarch. "it was bad enough with the elephants. we had to shift our ballast half a dozen times a day to keep the boat from travelling on her beam ends, the elephants moved about so much; and when we came to the question of provender, it took up about nine-tenths of our hold to store hay and peanuts enough to keep them alive and good-tempered. on the whole, i think it's rather late in the day, considering the trouble i took to save anything but myself and my family, to be criticised as i now am. you ought to be much obliged to me for saving any animals at all. most people in my position would have built a yacht for themselves and family, and let everything else slide." "that is quite true," observed raleigh, with a pacificatory nod at noah. "you were eminently unselfish, and while, with mr. barnum, i exceedingly regret that the saurians and therii and other tribes were left on the pier when you sailed, i nevertheless think that you showed most excellent judgment at the time." "he was the only man who had any at all, for that matter," suggested shem, "and it required all his courage to show it. everybody was guying him. sinners stood around the yard all day and every day, criticising the model; one scoffer pretended he thought her a canal-boat, and asked how deep the flood was likely to be on the tow-path, and whether we intended to use mules in shallow water and giraffes in deep; another asked what time allowance we expected to get in a fifteen-mile run, and hinted that a year and two months per mile struck him as being the proper thing--" "it was far from pleasant," said noah, tapping his fingers together reflectively. "i don't want to go through it again, and if, as raleigh suggests, history is likely to repeat herself, i'll sublet the contract to barnum here, and let him get the chaff." "it was all right in the end, though, dad," said shem. "we had the great laugh on 'hoi polloi' the second day out." "we did, indeed," said noah. "when we told 'em we only carried first- class passengers and had no room for emigrants, they began to see that the ark wasn't such an old tub, after all; and a good ninety per cent. of them would have given ten dollars for a little of that time allowance they'd been talking to us about for several centuries." noah lapsed into a musing silence, and barnum rose to leave. "i still wish you'd saved a discosaurus," he said. "a creature with a neck twenty-two feet long would have been a gold mine to me. he could have been trained to stand in the ring, and by stretching out his neck bite the little boys who sneak in under the tent and occupy seats on the top row." "well, for your sake," said noah, with a smile, "i'm very sorry; but for my own, i'm quite satisfied with the general results." and they all agreed that the patriarch had every reason to be pleased with himself. chapter xii: the house-boat disappears queen elizabeth, attended by ophelia and xanthippe, was walking along the river-bank. it was a beautiful autumn day, although, owing to certain climatic peculiarities of hades, it seemed more like midsummer. the mercury in the club thermometer was nervously clicking against the top of the crystal tube, and poor cerberus was having all he could do with his three mouths snapping up the pestiferous little shades of by-gone gnats that seemed to take an almost unholy pleasure in alighting upon his various noses and ears. ophelia was doing most of the talking. "i am sure i have never wished to ride one of them," she said, positively. "in the first place, i do not see where the pleasure of it comes in, and, in the second, it seems to me as if skirts must be dangerous. if they should catch in one of the pedals, where would i be?" "in the hospital shortly, methinks," said queen elizabeth. "well, i shouldn't wear skirts," snapped xanthippe. "if a man's wife can't borrow some of her husband's clothing to reduce her peril to a minimum, what is the use of having a husband? when i take to the bicycle, which, in spite of all socrates can say, i fully intend to do, i shall have a man's wheel, and i shall wear socrates' old dress-clothes. if hades doesn't like it, hades may suffer." "i don't see how socrates' clothes will help you," observed ophelia. "he wore skirts himself, just like all the other old greeks. his toga would be quite as apt to catch in the gear as your skirts." xanthippe looked puzzled for a moment. it was evident that she had not thought of the point which ophelia had brought up--strong-minded ladies of her kind are apt sometimes to overlook important links in such chains of evidence as they feel called upon to use in binding themselves to their rights. "the women of your day were relieved of that dress problem, at any rate," laughed queen elizabeth. "the women of my day," retorted xanthippe, "in matters of dress were the equals of their husbands--in my family particularly; now they have lost their rights, and are made to confine themselves still to garments like those of yore, while man has arrogated to himself the sole and exclusive use of sane habiliments. however, that is apart from the question. i was saying that i shall have a man's wheel, and shall wear socrates' old dress-clothes to ride it in, if socrates has to go out and buy an old dress-suit for the purpose." the queen arched her brows and looked inquiringly at xanthippe for a moment. "a magnificent old maid was lost to the world when you married," she said. "feeling as you do about men, my dear xanthippe, i don't see why you ever took a husband." "humph!" retorted xanthippe. "of course you don't. you didn't need a husband. you were born with something to govern. i wasn't." "how about your temper?" suggested ophelia, meekly. xanthippe sniffed frigidly at this remark. "i never should have gone crazy over a man if i'd remained unmarried forty thousand years," she retorted, severely. "i married socrates because i loved him and admired his sculpture; but when he gave up sculpture and became a thinker he simply tried me beyond all endurance, he was so thoughtless, with the result that, having ventured once or twice to show my natural resentment, i have been handed down to posterity as a shrew. i've never complained, and i don't complain now; but when a woman is married to a philosopher who is so taken up with his studies that when he rises in the morning he doesn't look what he is doing, and goes off to his business in his wife's clothes, i think she is entitled to a certain amount of sympathy." "and yet you wish to wear his," persisted ophelia. "turn about is fair-play," said xanthippe. "i've suffered so much on his account that on the principle of averages he deserves to have a little drop of bitters in his nectar." "you are simply the victim of man's deceit," said elizabeth, wishing to mollify the now angry xanthippe, who was on the verge of tears. "i understood men, fortunately, and so never married. i knew my father, and even if i hadn't been a wise enough child to know him, i should not have wed, because he married enough to last one family for several years." "you must have had a hard time refusing all those lovely men, though," sighed ophelia. "of course, sir walter wasn't as handsome as my dear hamlet, but he was very fetching." "i cannot deny that," said elizabeth, "and i didn't really have the heart to say no when he asked me; but i did tell him that if he married me i should not become mrs. raleigh, but that he should become king elizabeth. he fled to virginia on the next steamer. my diplomacy rid me of a very unpleasant duty." chatting thus, the three famous spirits passed slowly along the path until they came to the sheltered nook in which the house-boat lay at anchor. "there's a case in point," said xanthippe, as the house-boat loomed up before them. "all that luxury is for men; we women are not permitted to cross the gangplank. our husbands and brothers and friends go there; the door closes on them, and they are as completely lost to us as though they never existed. we don't know what goes on in there. socrates tells me that their amusements are of a most innocent nature, but how do i know what he means by that? furthermore, it keeps him from home, while i have to stay at home and be entertained by my sons, whom the encyclopaedia britannica rightly calls dull and fatuous. in other words, club life for him, and dulness and fatuity for me." "i think myself they're rather queer about letting women into that boat," said queen elizabeth. "but it isn't sir walter's fault. he told me he tried to have them establish a ladies' day, and that they agreed to do so, but have since resisted all his efforts to have a date set for the function." "it would be great fun to steal in there now, wouldn't it," giggled ophelia. "there doesn't seem to be anybody about to prevent our doing so." "that's true," said xanthippe. "all the windows are closed, as if there wasn't a soul there. i've half a mind to take a peep in at the house." "i am with you," said elizabeth, her face lighting up with pleasure. it was a great novelty, and an unpleasant one to her, to find some place where she could not go. "let's do it," she added. so the three women tiptoed softly up the gang-plank, and, silently boarding the house-boat, peeped in at the windows. what they saw merely whetted their curiosity. "i must see more," cried elizabeth, rushing around to the door, which opened at her touch. xanthippe and ophelia followed close on her heels, and shortly they found themselves, open-mouthed in wondering admiration, in the billiard-room of the floating palace, and richard, the ghost of the best billiard-room attendant in or out of hades, stood before them. "excuse me," he said, very much upset by the sudden apparition of the ladies. "i'm very sorry, but ladies are not admitted here." "we are equally sorry," retorted elizabeth, assuming her most imperious manner, "that your masters have seen fit to prohibit our being here; but, now that we are here, we intend to make the most of the opportunity, particularly as there seem to be no members about. what has become of them all?" richard smiled broadly. "i don't know where they are," he replied; but it was evident that he was not telling the exact truth. "oh, come, my boy," said the queen, kindly, "you do know. sir walter told me you knew everything. where are they?" "well, if you must know, ma'am," returned richard, captivated by the queen's manner, "they've all gone down the river to see a prize-fight between goliath and samson." "see there!" cried xanthippe. "that's what this club makes possible. socrates told me he was coming here to take luncheon with carlyle, and they've both of 'em gone off to a disgusting prize-fight!" "yes, ma'am, they have," said richard; "and if goliath wins, i don't think mr. socrates will get home this evening." "betting, eh?" said xanthippe, scornfully. "yes, ma'am," returned richard. "more club!" cried xanthippe. "oh no, ma'am," said richard. "betting is not allowed in the club; they're very strict about that. but the shore is only ten feet off, ma'am, and the gentlemen always go ashore and make their bets." during this little colloquy elizabeth and ophelia were wandering about, admiring everything they saw. "i do wish lucretia borgia and calpurnia could see this. i wonder if the caesars are on the telephone," elizabeth said. investigation showed that both the borgias and the caesars were on the wire, and in short order the two ladies had been made acquainted with the state of affairs at the house-boat; and as they were both quite as anxious to see the interior of the much-talked-of club-house as the others, they were not long in arriving. furthermore, they brought with them half a dozen more ladies, among whom were desdemona and cleopatra, and then began the most extraordinary session the house-boat ever knew. a meeting was called, with elizabeth in the chair, and all the best ladies of the stygian realms were elected members. xanthippe, amid the greatest applause, moved that every male member of the organization be expelled for conduct unworthy of a gentleman in attending a prize-fight, and encouraging two such horrible creatures as goliath and samson in their nefarious pursuits. desdemona seconded the motion, and it was carried without a dissenting voice, although mrs. caesar, with becoming dignity, merely smiled approval, not caring to take part too actively in the proceedings. the men having thus been disposed of in a summary fashion, richard was elected janitor in charon's place, and the club was entirely reorganized, with cleopatra as permanent president. the meeting then adjourned, and the invaders set about enjoying their newly acquired privileges. the smoking-room was thronged for a few moments, but owing to the extraordinary strength of the tobacco which the faithful richard shovelled into the furnace, it developed no enduring popularity, xanthippe, with a suddenly acquired pallor, being the first to renounce the pastime as revolting. so fast and furious was the enjoyment of these thirsty souls, so long deprived of their rights, that night came on without their observing it, and with the night was brought the great peril into which they were thrown, and from which at the moment of writing they had not been extricated, and which, to my regret, has cut me off for the present from any further information connected with the associated shades and their beautiful lounging-place. had they not been so intent upon the inner beauties of the house-boat on the styx they might have observed approaching, under the shadow of the westerly shore, a long, rakish craft propelled by oars, which dipped softly and silently and with trained precision in the now jet-black waters of the styx. manning the oars were a dozen evil-visaged ruffians, while in the stern of the approaching vessel there sat a grim-faced, weather-beaten spirit, armed to the teeth, his coat sleeves bearing the skull and cross-bones, the insignia of piracy. this boat, stealing up the river like a thief in the night, contained captain kidd and his pirate crew, and their mission was a mission of vengeance. to put the matter briefly and plainly, captain kidd was smarting under the indignity which the club had recently put upon him. he had been unanimously blackballed, even his proposer and seconder, who had been browbeaten into nominating him for membership, voting against him. "i may be a pirate," he cried, when he heard what the club had done, "but i have feelings, and the associated shades will repent their action. the time will come when they'll find that i have their club-house, and they have--its debts." it was for this purpose that the great terror of the seas had come upon this, the first favorable opportunity. kidd knew that the house-boat was unguarded; his spies had told him that the members had every one gone to the fight, and he resolved that the time had come to act. he did not know that the fates had helped to make his vengeance all the more terrible and withering by putting the most attractive and fashionable ladies of the stygian country likewise in his power; but so it was, and they, poor souls, while this fiend, relentless and cruel, was slowly approaching, sang on and danced on in blissful unconsciousness of their peril. in less than five minutes from the time when his sinister-craft rounded the bend kidd and his crew had boarded the house-boat, cut her loose from her moorings, and in ten minutes she had sailed away into the great unknown, and with her went some of the most precious gems in the social diadem of hades. the rest of my story is soon told. the whole country was aroused when the crime was discovered, but up to the date of this narrative no word has been received of the missing craft and her precious cargo. raleigh and caesar have had the seas scoured in search of her, hamlet has offered his kingdom for her return, but unavailingly; and the men of hades were cast into a gloom from which there seems to be no relief. socrates alone was unaffected. "they'll come back some day, my dear raleigh," he said, as the knight buried his face, weeping, in his hands. "so why repine? i'll never lose my xanthippe--permanently, that is. i know that, for i am a philosopher, and i know there is no such thing as luck. and we can start another club." "very likely," sighed raleigh, wiping his eyes. "i don't mind the club so much, but to think of those poor women--" "oh, they're all right," returned socrates, with a laugh. "caesar's wife is along, and you can't dispute the fact that she's a good chaperon. give the ladies a chance. they've been after our club for years; now let 'em have it, and let us hope that they like it. order me up a hemlock sour, and let's drink to their enjoyment of club life." which was done, and i, in spirit, drank with them, for i sincerely hope that the "new women" of hades are having a good time. the lost princess of oz by l. frank baum this book is dedicated to my granddaughter ozma baum to my readers some of my youthful readers are developing wonderful imaginations. this pleases me. imagination has brought mankind through the dark ages to its present state of civilization. imagination led columbus to discover america. imagination led franklin to discover electricity. imagination has given us the steam engine, the telephone, the talking-machine and the automobile, for these things had to be dreamed of before they became realities. so i believe that dreams--day dreams, you know, with your eyes wide open and your brain-machinery whizzing--are likely to lead to the betterment of the world. the imaginative child will become the imaginative man or woman most apt to create, to invent, and therefore to foster civilization. a prominent educator tells me that fairy tales are of untold value in developing imagination in the young. i believe it. among the letters i receive from children are many containing suggestions of "what to write about in the next oz book." some of the ideas advanced are mighty interesting, while others are too extravagant to be seriously considered--even in a fairy tale. yet i like them all, and i must admit that the main idea in "the lost princess of oz" was suggested to me by a sweet little girl of eleven who called to see me and to talk about the land of oz. said she: "i s'pose if ozma ever got lost, or stolen, ev'rybody in oz would be dreadful sorry." that was all, but quite enough foundation to build this present story on. if you happen to like the story, give credit to my little friend's clever hint. l. frank baum royal historian of oz list of chapters a terrible loss the troubles of glinda the good the robbery of cayke the cookie cook among the winkies ozma's friends are perplexed the search party the merry-go-round mountains the mysterious city the high coco-lorum of thi toto loses something button-bright loses himself the czarover of herku the truth pond the unhappy ferryman the big lavender bear the little pink bear the meeting the conference ugu the shoemaker more surprises magic against magic in the wicker castle the defiance of ugu the shoemaker the little pink bear speaks truly ozma of oz dorothy forgives the lost princess by l. frank baum chapter a terrible loss there could be no doubt of the fact: princess ozma, the lovely girl ruler of the fairyland of oz, was lost. she had completely disappeared. not one of her subjects--not even her closest friends--knew what had become of her. it was dorothy who first discovered it. dorothy was a little kansas girl who had come to the land of oz to live and had been given a delightful suite of rooms in ozma's royal palace just because ozma loved dorothy and wanted her to live as near her as possible so the two girls might be much together. dorothy was not the only girl from the outside world who had been welcomed to oz and lived in the royal palace. there was another named betsy bobbin, whose adventures had led her to seek refuge with ozma, and still another named trot, who had been invited, together with her faithful companion cap'n bill, to make her home in this wonderful fairyland. the three girls all had rooms in the palace and were great chums; but dorothy was the dearest friend of their gracious ruler and only she at any hour dared to seek ozma in her royal apartments. for dorothy had lived in oz much longer than the other girls and had been made a princess of the realm. betsy was a year older than dorothy and trot was a year younger, yet the three were near enough of an age to become great playmates and to have nice times together. it was while the three were talking together one morning in dorothy's room that betsy proposed they make a journey into the munchkin country, which was one of the four great countries of the land of oz ruled by ozma. "i've never been there yet," said betsy bobbin, "but the scarecrow once told me it is the prettiest country in all oz." "i'd like to go, too," added trot. "all right," said dorothy. "i'll go and ask ozma. perhaps she will let us take the sawhorse and the red wagon, which would be much nicer for us than having to walk all the way. this land of oz is a pretty big place when you get to all the edges of it." so she jumped up and went along the halls of the splendid palace until she came to the royal suite, which filled all the front of the second floor. in a little waiting room sat ozma's maid, jellia jamb, who was busily sewing. "is ozma up yet?" inquired dorothy. "i don't know, my dear," replied jellia. "i haven't heard a word from her this morning. she hasn't even called for her bath or her breakfast, and it is far past her usual time for them." "that's strange!" exclaimed the little girl. "yes," agreed the maid, "but of course no harm could have happened to her. no one can die or be killed in the land of oz, and ozma is herself a powerful fairy, and she has no enemies so far as we know. therefore i am not at all worried about her, though i must admit her silence is unusual." "perhaps," said dorothy thoughtfully, "she has overslept. or she may be reading or working out some new sort of magic to do good to her people." "any of these things may be true," replied jellia jamb, "so i haven't dared disturb our royal mistress. you, however, are a privileged character, princess, and i am sure that ozma wouldn't mind at all if you went in to see her." "of course not," said dorothy, and opening the door of the outer chamber, she went in. all was still here. she walked into another room, which was ozma's boudoir, and then, pushing back a heavy drapery richly broidered with threads of pure gold, the girl entered the sleeping-room of the fairy ruler of oz. the bed of ivory and gold was vacant; the room was vacant; not a trace of ozma was to be found. very much surprised, yet still with no fear that anything had happened to her friend, dorothy returned through the boudoir to the other rooms of the suite. she went into the music room, the library, the laboratory, the bath, the wardrobe, and even into the great throne room, which adjoined the royal suite, but in none of these places could she find ozma. so she returned to the anteroom where she had left the maid, jellia jamb, and said: "she isn't in her rooms now, so she must have gone out." "i don't understand how she could do that without my seeing her," replied jellia, "unless she made herself invisible." "she isn't there, anyhow," declared dorothy. "then let us go find her," suggested the maid, who appeared to be a little uneasy. so they went into the corridors, and there dorothy almost stumbled over a queer girl who was dancing lightly along the passage. "stop a minute, scraps!" she called, "have you seen ozma this morning?" "not i!" replied the queer girl, dancing nearer. "i lost both my eyes in a tussle with the woozy last night, for the creature scraped 'em both off my face with his square paws. so i put the eyes in my pocket, and this morning button-bright led me to aunt em, who sewed 'em on again. so i've seen nothing at all today, except during the last five minutes. so of course i haven't seen ozma." "very well, scraps," said dorothy, looking curiously at the eyes, which were merely two round, black buttons sewed upon the girl's face. there were other things about scraps that would have seemed curious to one seeing her for the first time. she was commonly called "the patchwork girl" because her body and limbs were made from a gay-colored patchwork quilt which had been cut into shape and stuffed with cotton. her head was a round ball stuffed in the same manner and fastened to her shoulders. for hair, she had a mass of brown yarn, and to make a nose for her a part of the cloth had been pulled out into the shape of a knob and tied with a string to hold it in place. her mouth had been carefully made by cutting a slit in the proper place and lining it with red silk, adding two rows of pearls for teeth and a bit of red flannel for a tongue. in spite of this queer make-up, the patchwork girl was magically alive and had proved herself not the least jolly and agreeable of the many quaint characters who inhabit the astonishing fairyland of oz. indeed, scraps was a general favorite, although she was rather flighty and erratic and did and said many things that surprised her friends. she was seldom still, but loved to dance, to turn handsprings and somersaults, to climb trees and to indulge in many other active sports. "i'm going to search for ozma," remarked dorothy, "for she isn't in her rooms, and i want to ask her a question." "i'll go with you," said scraps, "for my eyes are brighter than yours, and they can see farther." "i'm not sure of that," returned dorothy. "but come along, if you like." together they searched all through the great palace and even to the farthest limits of the palace grounds, which were quite extensive, but nowhere could they find a trace of ozma. when dorothy returned to where betsy and trot awaited her, the little girl's face was rather solemn and troubled, for never before had ozma gone away without telling her friends where she was going, or without an escort that befitted her royal state. she was gone, however, and none had seen her go. dorothy had met and questioned the scarecrow, tik-tok, the shaggy man, button-bright, cap'n bill, and even the wise and powerful wizard of oz, but not one of them had seen ozma since she parted with her friends the evening before and had gone to her own rooms. "she didn't say anything las' night about going anywhere," observed little trot. "no, and that's the strange part of it," replied dorothy. "usually ozma lets us know of everything she does." "why not look in the magic picture?" suggested betsy bobbin. "that will tell us where she is in just one second." "of course!" cried dorothy. "why didn't i think of that before?" and at once the three girls hurried away to ozma's boudoir, where the magic picture always hung. this wonderful magic picture was one of the royal ozma's greatest treasures. there was a large gold frame in the center of which was a bluish-gray canvas on which various scenes constantly appeared and disappeared. if one who stood before it wished to see what any person anywhere in the world was doing, it was only necessary to make the wish and the scene in the magic picture would shift to the scene where that person was and show exactly what he or she was then engaged in doing. so the girls knew it would be easy for them to wish to see ozma, and from the picture they could quickly learn where she was. dorothy advanced to the place where the picture was usually protected by thick satin curtains and pulled the draperies aside. then she stared in amazement, while her two friends uttered exclamations of disappointment. the magic picture was gone. only a blank space on the wall behind the curtains showed where it had formerly hung. chapter the troubles of glinda the good that same morning there was great excitement in the castle of the powerful sorceress of oz, glinda the good. this castle, situated in the quadling country, far south of the emerald city where ozma ruled, was a splendid structure of exquisite marbles and silver grilles. here the sorceress lived, surrounded by a bevy of the most beautiful maidens of oz, gathered from all the four countries of that fairyland as well as from the magnificent emerald city itself, which stood in the place where the four countries cornered. it was considered a great honor to be allowed to serve the good sorceress, whose arts of magic were used only to benefit the oz people. glinda was ozma's most valued servant, for her knowledge of sorcery was wonderful, and she could accomplish almost anything that her mistress, the lovely girl ruler of oz, wished her to. of all the magical things which surrounded glinda in her castle, there was none more marvelous than her great book of records. on the pages of this record book were constantly being inscribed, day by day and hour by hour, all the important events that happened anywhere in the known world, and they were inscribed in the book at exactly the moment the events happened. every adventure in the land of oz and in the big outside world, and even in places that you and i have never heard of, were recorded accurately in the great book, which never made a mistake and stated only the exact truth. for that reason, nothing could be concealed from glinda the good, who had only to look at the pages of the great book of records to know everything that had taken place. that was one reason she was such a great sorceress, for the records made her wiser than any other living person. this wonderful book was placed upon a big gold table that stood in the middle of glinda's drawing room. the legs of the table, which were incrusted with precious gems, were firmly fastened to the tiled floor, and the book itself was chained to the table and locked with six stout golden padlocks, the keys to which glinda carried on a chain that was secured around her own neck. the pages of the great book were larger in size than those of an american newspaper, and although they were exceedingly thin, there were so many of them that they made an enormous, bulky volume. with its gold cover and gold clasps, the book was so heavy that three men could scarcely have lifted it. yet this morning when glinda entered her drawing room after breakfast, the good sorceress was amazed to discover that her great book of records had mysteriously disappeared. advancing to the table, she found the chains had been cut with some sharp instrument, and this must have been done while all in the castle slept. glinda was shocked and grieved. who could have done this wicked, bold thing? and who could wish to deprive her of her great book of records? the sorceress was thoughtful for a time, considering the consequences of her loss. then she went to her room of magic to prepare a charm that would tell her who had stolen the record book. but when she unlocked her cupboard and threw open the doors, all of her magical instruments and rare chemical compounds had been removed from the shelves. the sorceress has now both angry and alarmed. she sat down in a chair and tried to think how this extraordinary robbery could have taken place. it was evident that the thief was some person of very great power, or the theft could not have been accomplished without her knowledge. but who, in all the land of oz, was powerful and skillful enough to do this awful thing? and who, having the power, could also have an object in defying the wisest and most talented sorceress the world has ever known? glinda thought over the perplexing matter for a full hour, at the end of which time she was still puzzled how to explain it. but although her instruments and chemicals were gone, her knowledge of magic had not been stolen, by any means, since no thief, however skillful, can rob one of knowledge, and that is why knowledge is the best and safest treasure to acquire. glinda believed that when she had time to gather more magical herbs and elixirs and to manufacture more magical instruments, she would be able to discover who the robber was and what had become of her precious book of records. "whoever has done this," she said to her maidens, "is a very foolish person, for in time he is sure to be found out and will then be severely punished." she now made a list of the things she needed and dispatched messengers to every part of oz with instructions to obtain them and bring them to her as soon as possible. and one of her messengers met the little wizard of oz, who was seated on the back of the famous live sawhorse and was clinging to its neck with both his arms, for the sawhorse was speeding to glinda's castle with the velocity of the wind, bearing the news that royal ozma, ruler of all the great land of oz, had suddenly disappeared and no one in the emerald city knew what had become of her. "also," said the wizard as he stood before the astonished sorceress, "ozma's magic picture is gone, so we cannot consult it to discover where she is. so i came to you for assistance as soon as we realized our loss. let us look in the great book of records." "alas," returned the sorceress sorrowfully, "we cannot do that, for the great book of records has also disappeared!" chapter the robbery of cayke the cookie cook one more important theft was reported in the land of oz that eventful morning, but it took place so far from either the emerald city or the castle of glinda the good that none of those persons we have mentioned learned of the robbery until long afterward. in the far southwestern corner of the winkie country is a broad tableland that can be reached only by climbing a steep hill, whichever side one approaches it. on the hillside surrounding this tableland are no paths at all, but there are quantities of bramble bushes with sharp prickers on them, which prevent any of the oz people who live down below from climbing up to see what is on top. but on top live the yips, and although the space they occupy is not great in extent, the wee country is all their own. the yips had never--up to the time this story begins--left their broad tableland to go down into the land of oz, nor had the oz people ever climbed up to the country of the yips. living all alone as they did, the yips had queer ways and notions of their own and did not resemble any other people of the land of oz. their houses were scattered all over the flat surface; not like a city, grouped together, but set wherever their owners' fancy dictated, with fields here, trees there, and odd little paths connecting the houses one with another. it was here, on the morning when ozma so strangely disappeared from the emerald city, that cayke the cookie cook discovered that her diamond-studded gold dishpan had been stolen, and she raised such a hue and cry over her loss and wailed and shrieked so loudly that many of the yips gathered around her house to inquire what was the matter. it was a serious thing in any part of the land of oz to accuse one of stealing, so when the yips heard cayke the cookie cook declare that her jeweled dishpan had been stolen, they were both humiliated and disturbed and forced cayke to go with them to the frogman to see what could be done about it. i do not suppose you have ever before heard of the frogman, for like all other dwellers on that tableland, he had never been away from it, nor had anyone come up there to see him. the frogman was in truth descended from the common frogs of oz, and when he was first born he lived in a pool in the winkie country and was much like any other frog. being of an adventurous nature, however, he soon hopped out of his pool and began to travel, when a big bird came along and seized him in its beak and started to fly away with him to its nest. when high in the air, the frog wriggled so frantically that he got loose and fell down, down, down into a small hidden pool on the tableland of the yips. now that pool, it seems, was unknown to the yips because it was surrounded by thick bushes and was not near to any dwelling, and it proved to be an enchanted pool, for the frog grew very fast and very big, feeding on the magic skosh which is found nowhere else on earth except in that one pool. and the skosh not only made the frog very big so that when he stood on his hind legs he was as tall as any yip in the country, but it made him unusually intelligent, so that he soon knew more than the yips did and was able to reason and to argue very well indeed. no one could expect a frog with these talents to remain in a hidden pool, so he finally got out of it and mingled with the people of the tableland, who were amazed at his appearance and greatly impressed by his learning. they had never seen a frog before, and the frog had never seen a yip before, but as there were plenty of yips and only one frog, the frog became the most important. he did not hop any more, but stood upright on his hind legs and dressed himself in fine clothes and sat in chairs and did all the things that people do, so he soon came to be called the frogman, and that is the only name he has ever had. after some years had passed, the people came to regard the frogman as their adviser in all matters that puzzled them. they brought all their difficulties to him, and when he did not know anything, he pretended to know it, which seemed to answer just as well. indeed, the yips thought the frogman was much wiser than he really was, and he allowed them to think so, being very proud of his position of authority. there was another pool on the tableland which was not enchanted but contained good, clear water and was located close to the dwellings. here the people built the frogman a house of his own, close to the edge of the pool so that he could take a bath or a swim whenever he wished. he usually swam in the pool in the early morning before anyone else was up, and during the day he dressed himself in his beautiful clothes and sat in his house and received the visits of all the yips who came to him to ask his advice. the frogman's usual costume consisted of knee-breeches made of yellow satin plush, with trimmings of gold braid and jeweled knee-buckles; a white satin vest with silver buttons in which were set solitaire rubies; a swallow-tailed coat of bright yellow; green stockings and red leather shoes turned up at the toes and having diamond buckles. he wore, when he walked out, a purple silk hat and carried a gold-headed cane. over his eyes he wore great spectacles with gold rims, not because his eyes were bad, but because the spectacles made him look wise, and so distinguished and gorgeous was his appearance that all the yips were very proud of him. there was no king or queen in the yip country, so the simple inhabitants naturally came to look upon the frogman as their leader as well as their counselor in all times of emergency. in his heart the big frog knew he was no wiser than the yips, but for a frog to know as much as a person was quite remarkable, and the frogman was shrewd enough to make the people believe he was far more wise than he really was. they never suspected he was a humbug, but listened to his words with great respect and did just what he advised them to do. now when cayke the cookie cook raised such an outcry over the theft of her diamond-studded dishpan, the first thought of the people was to take her to the frogman and inform him of the loss, thinking that of course he would tell her where to find it. he listened to the story with his big eyes wide open behind his spectacles, and said in his deep, croaking voice, "if the dishpan is stolen, somebody must have taken it." "but who?" asked cayke anxiously. "who is the thief?" "the one who took the dishpan, of course," replied the frogman, and hearing this all the yips nodded their heads gravely and said to one another, "it is absolutely true!" "but i want my dishpan!" cried cayke. "no one can blame you for that wish," remarked the frogman. "then tell me where i may find it," she urged. the look the frogman gave her was a very wise look, and he rose from his chair and strutted up and down the room with his hands under his coattails in a very pompous and imposing manner. this was the first time so difficult a matter had been brought to him, and he wanted time to think. it would never do to let them suspect his ignorance, and so he thought very, very hard how best to answer the woman without betraying himself. "i beg to inform you," said he, "that nothing in the yip country has ever been stolen before." "we know that already," answered cayke the cookie cook impatiently. "therefore," continued the frogman, "this theft becomes a very important matter." "well, where is my dishpan?" demanded the woman. "it is lost, but it must be found. unfortunately, we have no policemen or detectives to unravel the mystery, so we must employ other means to regain the lost article. cayke must first write a proclamation and tack it to the door of her house, and the proclamation must read that whoever stole the jeweled dishpan must return it at once." "but suppose no one returns it," suggested cayke. "then," said the frogman, "that very fact will be proof that no one has stolen it." cayke was not satisfied, but the other yips seemed to approve the plan highly. they all advised her to do as the frogman had told her to, so she posted the sign on her door and waited patiently for someone to return the dishpan--which no one ever did. again she went, accompanied by a group of her neighbors, to the frogman, who by this time had given the matter considerable thought. said he to cayke, "i am now convinced that no yip has taken your dishpan, and since it is gone from the yip country, i suspect that some stranger came from the world down below us in the darkness of night when all of us were asleep and took away your treasure. there can be no other explanation of its disappearance. so if you wish to recover that golden, diamond-studded dishpan, you must go into the lower world after it." this was indeed a startling proposition. cayke and her friends went to the edge of the flat tableland and looked down the steep hillside to the plains below. it was so far to the bottom of the hill that nothing there could be seen very distinctly, and it seemed to the yips very venturesome, if not dangerous, to go so far from home into an unknown land. however, cayke wanted her dishpan very badly, so she turned to her friends and asked, "who will go with me?" no one answered the question, but after a period of silence one of the yips said, "we know what is here on the top of this flat hill, and it seems to us a very pleasant place, but what is down below we do not know. the chances are it is not so pleasant, so we had best stay where we are." "it may be a far better country than this is," suggested the cookie cook. "maybe, maybe," responded another yip, "but why take chances? contentment with one's lot is true wisdom. perhaps in some other country there are better cookies than you cook, but as we have always eaten your cookies and liked them--except when they are burned on the bottom--we do not long for any better ones." cayke might have agreed to this argument had she not been so anxious to find her precious dishpan, but now she exclaimed impatiently, "you are cowards, all of you! if none of you are willing to explore with me the great world beyond this small hill, i will surely go alone." "that is a wise resolve," declared the yips, much relieved. "it is your dishpan that is lost, not ours. and if you are willing to risk your life and liberty to regain it, no one can deny you the privilege." while they were thus conversing, the frogman joined them and looked down at the plain with his big eyes and seemed unusually thoughtful. in fact, the frogman was thinking that he'd like to see more of the world. here in the yip country he had become the most important creature of them all, and his importance was getting to be a little tame. it would be nice to have other people defer to him and ask his advice, and there seemed no reason so far as he could see why his fame should not spread throughout all oz. he knew nothing of the rest of the world, but it was reasonable to believe that there were more people beyond the mountain where he now lived than there were yips, and if he went among them he could surprise them with his display of wisdom and make them bow down to him as the yips did. in other words, the frogman was ambitious to become still greater than he was, which was impossible if he always remained upon this mountain. he wanted others to see his gorgeous clothes and listen to his solemn sayings, and here was an excuse for him to get away from the yip country. so he said to cayke the cookie cook, "i will go with you, my good woman," which greatly pleased cayke because she felt the frogman could be of much assistance to her in her search. but now, since the mighty frogman had decided to undertake the journey, several of the yips who were young and daring at once made up their minds to go along, so the next morning after breakfast the frogman and cayke the cookie cook and nine of the yips started to slide down the side of the mountain. the bramble bushes and cactus plants were very prickly and uncomfortable to the touch, so the frogman quickly commanded the yips to go first and break a path, so that when he followed them he would not tear his splendid clothes. cayke, too, was wearing her best dress and was likewise afraid of the thorns and prickers, so she kept behind the frogman. they made rather slow progress and night overtook them before they were halfway down the mountainside, so they found a cave in which they sought shelter until morning. cayke had brought along a basket full of her famous cookies, so they all had plenty to eat. on the second day the yips began to wish they had not embarked on this adventure. they grumbled a good deal at having to cut away the thorns to make the path for the frogman and the cookie cook, for their own clothing suffered many tears, while cayke and the frogman traveled safely and in comfort. "if it is true that anyone came to our country to steal your diamond dishpan," said one of the yips to cayke, "it must have been a bird, for no person in the form of a man, woman or child could have climbed through these bushes and back again." "and, allowing he could have done so," said another yip, "the diamond-studded gold dishpan would not have repaid him for his troubles and his tribulations." "for my part," remarked a third yip, "i would rather go back home and dig and polish some more diamonds and mine some more gold and make you another dishpan than be scratched from head to heel by these dreadful bushes. even now, if my mother saw me, she would not know i am her son." cayke paid no heed to these mutterings, nor did the frogman. although their journey was slow, it was being made easy for them by the yips, so they had nothing to complain of and no desire to turn back. quite near to the bottom of the great hill they came upon a great gulf, the sides of which were as smooth as glass. the gulf extended a long distance--as far as they could see in either direction--and although it was not very wide, it was far too wide for the yips to leap across it. and should they fall into it, it was likely they might never get out again. "here our journey ends," said the yips. "we must go back again." cayke the cookie cook began to weep. "i shall never find my pretty dishpan again, and my heart will be broken!" she sobbed. the frogman went to the edge of the gulf and with his eye carefully measured the distance to the other side. "being a frog," said he, "i can leap, as all frogs do, and being so big and strong, i am sure i can leap across this gulf with ease. but the rest of you, not being frogs, must return the way you came." "we will do that with pleasure," cried the yips, and at once they turned and began to climb up the steep mountain, feeling they had had quite enough of this unsatisfactory adventure. cayke the cookie cook did not go with them, however. she sat on a rock and wept and wailed and was very miserable. "well," said the frogman to her, "i will now bid you goodbye. if i find your diamond-decorated gold dishpan, i will promise to see that it is safely returned to you." "but i prefer to find it myself!" she said. "see here, frogman, why can't you carry me across the gulf when you leap it? you are big and strong, while i am small and thin." the frogman gravely thought over this suggestion. it was a fact that cayke the cookie cook was not a heavy person. perhaps he could leap the gulf with her on his back. "if you are willing to risk a fall," said he, "i will make the attempt." at once she sprang up and grabbed him around his neck with both her arms. that is, she grabbed him where his neck ought to be, for the frogman had no neck at all. then he squatted down, as frogs do when they leap, and with his powerful rear legs he made a tremendous jump. over the gulf they sailed, with the cookie cook on his back, and he had leaped so hard--to make sure of not falling in--that he sailed over a lot of bramble bushes that grew on the other side and landed in a clear space which was so far beyond the gulf that when they looked back they could not see it at all. cayke now got off the frogman's back and he stood erect again and carefully brushed the dust from his velvet coat and rearranged his white satin necktie. "i had no idea i could leap so far," he said wonderingly. "leaping is one more accomplishment i can now add to the long list of deeds i am able to perform." "you are certainly fine at leap-frog," said the cookie cook admiringly, "but, as you say, you are wonderful in many ways. if we meet with any people down here, i am sure they will consider you the greatest and grandest of all living creatures." "yes," he replied, "i shall probably astonish strangers, because they have never before had the pleasure of seeing me. also, they will marvel at my great learning. every time i open my mouth, cayke, i am liable to say something important." "that is true," she agreed, "and it is fortunate your mouth is so very wide and opens so far, for otherwise all the wisdom might not be able to get out of it." "perhaps nature made it wide for that very reason," said the frogman. "but come, let us now go on, for it is getting late and we must find some sort of shelter before night overtakes us." chapter among the winkies the settled parts of the winkie country are full of happy and contented people who are ruled by a tin emperor named nick chopper, who in turn is a subject of the beautiful girl ruler, ozma of oz. but not all of the winkie country is fully settled. at the east, which part lies nearest the emerald city, there are beautiful farmhouses and roads, but as you travel west, you first come to a branch of the winkie river, beyond which there is a rough country where few people live, and some of these are quite unknown to the rest of the world. after passing through this rude section of territory, which no one ever visits, you would come to still another branch of the winkie river, after crossing which you would find another well-settled part of the winkie country extending westward quite to the deadly desert that surrounds all the land of oz and separates that favored fairyland from the more common outside world. the winkies who live in this west section have many tin mines, from which metal they make a great deal of rich jewelry and other articles, all of which are highly esteemed in the land of oz because tin is so bright and pretty and there is not so much of it as there is of gold and silver. not all the winkies are miners, however, for some till the fields and grow grains for food, and it was at one of these far-west winkie farms that the frogman and cayke the cookie cook first arrived after they had descended from the mountain of the yips. "goodness me!" cried nellary the winkie wife when she saw the strange couple approaching her house. "i have seen many queer creatures in the land of oz, but none more queer than this giant frog who dresses like a man and walks on his hind legs. come here, wiljon," she called to her husband, who was eating his breakfast, "and take a look at this astonishing freak." wiljon the winkie came to the door and looked out. he was still standing in the doorway when the frogman approached and said with a haughty croak, "tell me, my good man, have you seen a diamond-studded gold dishpan?" "no, nor have i seen a copper-plated lobster," replied wiljon in an equally haughty tone. the frogman stared at him and said, "do not be insolent, fellow!" "no," added cayke the cookie cook hastily, "you must be very polite to the great frogman, for he is the wisest creature in all the world." "who says that?" inquired wiljon. "he says so himself," replied cayke, and the frogman nodded and strutted up and down, twirling his gold-headed cane very gracefully. "does the scarecrow admit that this overgrown frog is the wisest creature in the world?" asked wiljon. "i do not know who the scarecrow is," answered cayke the cookie cook. "well, he lives at the emerald city, and he is supposed to have the finest brains in all oz. the wizard gave them to him, you know." "mine grew in my head," said the frogman pompously, "so i think they must be better than any wizard brains. i am so wise that sometimes my wisdom makes my head ache. i know so much that often i have to forget part of it, since no one creature, however great, is able to contain so much knowledge." "it must be dreadful to be stuffed full of wisdom," remarked wiljon reflectively and eyeing the frogman with a doubtful look. "it is my good fortune to know very little." "i hope, however, you know where my jeweled dishpan is," said the cookie cook anxiously. "i do not know even that," returned the winkie. "we have trouble enough in keeping track of our own dishpans without meddling with the dishpans of strangers." finding him so ignorant, the frogman proposed that they walk on and seek cayke's dishpan elsewhere. wiljon the winkie did not seem greatly impressed by the great frogman, which seemed to that personage as strange as it was disappointing. but others in this unknown land might prove more respectful. "i'd like to meet that wizard of oz," remarked cayke as they walked along a path. "if he could give a scarecrow brains, he might be able to find my dishpan." "poof!" grunted the frogman scornfully. "i am greater than any wizard. depend on me. if your dishpan is anywhere in the world, i am sure to find it." "if you do not, my heart will be broken," declared the cookie cook in a sorrowful voice. for a while the frogman walked on in silence. then he asked, "why do you attach so much importance to a dishpan?" "it is the greatest treasure i possess," replied the woman. "it belonged to my mother and to all my grandmothers since the beginning of time. it is, i believe, the very oldest thing in all the yip country--or was while it was there--and," she added, dropping her voice to an awed whisper, "it has magic powers!" "in what way?" inquired the frogman, seeming to be surprised at this statement. "whoever has owned that dishpan has been a good cook, for one thing. no one else is able to make such good cookies as i have cooked, as you and all the yips know. yet the very morning after my dishpan was stolen, i tried to make a batch of cookies and they burned up in the oven! i made another batch that proved too tough to eat, and i was so ashamed of them that i buried them in the ground. even the third batch of cookies, which i brought with me in my basket, were pretty poor stuff and no better than any woman could make who does not own my diamond-studded gold dishpan. in fact, my good frogman, cayke the cookie cook will never be able to cook good cookies again until her magic dishpan is restored to her." "in that case," said the frogman with a sigh, "i suppose we must manage to find it." chapter ozma's friends are perplexed "really," said dorothy, looking solemn, "this is very s'prising. we can't even find a shadow of ozma anywhere in the em'rald city, and wherever she's gone, she's taken her magic picture with her." she was standing in the courtyard of the palace with betsy and trot, while scraps, the patchwork girl, danced around the group, her hair flying in the wind. "p'raps," said scraps, still dancing, "someone has stolen ozma." "oh, they'd never dare do that!" exclaimed tiny trot. "and stolen the magic picture, too, so the thing can't tell where she is," added the patchwork girl. "that's nonsense," said dorothy. "why, ev'ryone loves ozma. there isn't a person in the land of oz who would steal a single thing she owns." "huh!" replied the patchwork girl. "you don't know ev'ry person in the land of oz." "why don't i?" "it's a big country," said scraps. "there are cracks and corners in it that even ozma doesn't know of." "the patchwork girl's just daffy," declared betsy. "no, she's right about that," replied dorothy thoughtfully. "there are lots of queer people in this fairyland who never come near ozma or the em'rald city. i've seen some of 'em myself, girls. but i haven't seen all, of course, and there might be some wicked persons left in oz yet, though i think the wicked witches have all been destroyed." just then the wooden sawhorse dashed into the courtyard with the wizard of oz on his back. "have you found ozma?" cried the wizard when the sawhorse stopped beside them. "not yet," said dorothy. "doesn't glinda the good know where she is?" "no. glinda's book of records and all her magic instruments are gone. someone must have stolen them." "goodness me!" exclaimed dorothy in alarm. "this is the biggest steal i ever heard of. who do you think did it, wizard?" "i've no idea," he answered. "but i have come to get my own bag of magic tools and carry them to glinda. she is so much more powerful than i that she may be able to discover the truth by means of my magic quicker and better than i could myself." "hurry, then," said dorothy, "for we've all gotten terr'bly worried." the wizard rushed away to his rooms but presently came back with a long, sad face. "it's gone!" he said. "what's gone?" asked scraps. "my black bag of magic tools. someone must have stolen it!" they looked at one another in amazement. "this thing is getting desperate," continued the wizard. "all the magic that belongs to ozma or to glinda or to me has been stolen." "do you suppose ozma could have taken them, herself, for some purpose?" asked betsy. "no indeed," declared the wizard. "i suspect some enemy has stolen ozma and for fear we would follow and recapture her has taken all our magic away from us." "how dreadful!" cried dorothy. "the idea of anyone wanting to injure our dear ozma! can't we do anything to find her, wizard?" "i'll ask glinda. i must go straight back to her and tell her that my magic tools have also disappeared. the good sorceress will be greatly shocked, i know." with this, he jumped upon the back of the sawhorse again, and the quaint steed, which never tired, dashed away at full speed. the three girls were very much disturbed in mind. even the patchwork girl seemed to realize that a great calamity had overtaken them all. ozma was a fairy of considerable power, and all the creatures in oz as well as the three mortal girls from the outside world looked upon her as their protector and friend. the idea of their beautiful girl ruler's being overpowered by an enemy and dragged from her splendid palace a captive was too astonishing for them to comprehend at first. yet what other explanation of the mystery could there be? "ozma wouldn't go away willingly, without letting us know about it," asserted dorothy, "and she wouldn't steal glinda's great book of records or the wizard's magic, 'cause she could get them any time just by asking for 'em. i'm sure some wicked person has done all this." "someone in the land of oz?" asked trot. "of course. no one could get across the deadly desert, you know, and no one but an oz person could know about the magic picture and the book of records and the wizard's magic or where they were kept, and so be able to steal the whole outfit before we could stop 'em. it must be someone who lives in the land of oz." "but who--who--who?" asked scraps. "that's the question. who?" "if we knew," replied dorothy severely, "we wouldn't be standing here doing nothing." just then two boys entered the courtyard and approached the group of girls. one boy was dressed in the fantastic munchkin costume--a blue jacket and knickerbockers, blue leather shoes and a blue hat with a high peak and tiny silver bells dangling from its rim--and this was ojo the lucky, who had once come from the munchkin country of oz and now lived in the emerald city. the other boy was an american from philadelphia and had lately found his way to oz in the company of trot and cap'n bill. his name was button-bright; that is, everyone called him by that name and knew no other. button-bright was not quite as big as the munchkin boy, but he wore the same kind of clothes, only they were of different colors. as the two came up to the girls, arm in arm, button-bright remarked, "hello, dorothy. they say ozma is lost." "who says so?" she asked. "ev'rybody's talking about it in the city," he replied. "i wonder how the people found it out," dorothy asked. "i know," said ojo. "jellia jamb told them. she has been asking everywhere if anyone has seen ozma." "that's too bad," observed dorothy, frowning. "why?" asked button-bright. "there wasn't any use making all our people unhappy till we were dead certain that ozma can't be found." "pshaw," said button-bright, "it's nothing to get lost. i've been lost lots of times." "that's true," admitted trot, who knew that the boy had a habit of getting lost and then finding himself again, "but it's diff'rent with ozma. she's the ruler of all this big fairyland, and we're 'fraid that the reason she's lost is because somebody has stolen her away." "only wicked people steal," said ojo. "do you know of any wicked people in oz, dorothy?" "no," she replied. "they're here, though," cried scraps, dancing up to them and then circling around the group. "ozma's stolen; someone in oz stole her; only wicked people steal; so someone in oz is wicked!" there was no denying the truth of this statement. the faces of all of them were now solemn and sorrowful. "one thing is sure," said button-bright after a time, "if ozma has been stolen, someone ought to find her and punish the thief." "there may be a lot of thieves," suggested trot gravely, "and in this fairy country they don't seem to have any soldiers or policemen." "there is one soldier," claimed dorothy. "he has green whiskers and a gun and is a major-general, but no one is afraid of either his gun or his whiskers, 'cause he's so tender-hearted that he wouldn't hurt a fly." "well, a soldier is a soldier," said betsy, "and perhaps he'd hurt a wicked thief if he wouldn't hurt a fly. where is he?" "he went fishing about two months ago and hasn't come back yet," explained button-bright. "then i can't see that he will be of much use to us in this trouble," sighed little trot. "but p'raps ozma, who is a fairy, can get away from the thieves without any help from anyone." "she might be able to," answered dorothy reflectively, "but if she had the power to do that, it isn't likely she'd have let herself be stolen. so the thieves must have been even more powerful in magic than our ozma." there was no denying this argument, and although they talked the matter over all the rest of that day, they were unable to decide how ozma had been stolen against her will or who had committed the dreadful deed. toward evening the wizard came back, riding slowly upon the sawhorse because he felt discouraged and perplexed. glinda came later in her aerial chariot drawn by twenty milk-white swans, and she also seemed worried and unhappy. more of ozma's friends joined them, and that evening they all had a big talk together. "i think," said dorothy, "we ought to start out right away in search of our dear ozma. it seems cruel for us to live comf'tably in her palace while she is a pris'ner in the power of some wicked enemy." "yes," agreed glinda the sorceress, "someone ought to search for her. i cannot go myself, because i must work hard in order to create some new instruments of sorcery by means of which i may rescue our fair ruler. but if you can find her in the meantime and let me know who has stolen her, it will enable me to rescue her much more quickly." "then we'll start tomorrow morning," decided dorothy. "betsy and trot and i won't waste another minute." "i'm not sure you girls will make good detectives," remarked the wizard, "but i'll go with you to protect you from harm and to give you my advice. all my wizardry, alas, is stolen, so i am now really no more a wizard than any of you, but i will try to protect you from any enemies you may meet." "what harm could happen to us in oz?" inquired trot. "what harm happened to ozma?" returned the wizard. "if there is an evil power abroad in our fairyland, which is able to steal not only ozma and her magic picture, but glinda's book of records and all her magic, and my black bag containing all my tricks of wizardry, then that evil power may yet cause us considerable injury. ozma is a fairy, and so is glinda, so no power can kill or destroy them, but you girls are all mortals and so are button-bright and i, so we must watch out for ourselves." "nothing can kill me," said ojo the munchkin boy. "that is true," replied the sorceress, "and i think it may be well to divide the searchers into several parties, that they may cover all the land of oz more quickly. so i will send ojo and unc nunkie and dr. pipt into the munchkin country, which they are well acquainted with; and i will send the scarecrow and the tin woodman into the quadling country, for they are fearless and brave and never tire; and to the gillikin country, where many dangers lurk, i will send the shaggy man and his brother, with tik-tok and jack pumpkinhead. dorothy may make up her own party and travel into the winkie country. all of you must inquire everywhere for ozma and try to discover where she is hidden." they thought this a very wise plan and adopted it without question. in ozma's absence, glinda the good was the most important person in oz, and all were glad to serve under her direction. chapter the search party next morning as soon as the sun was up, glinda flew back to her castle, stopping on the way to instruct the scarecrow and the tin woodman, who were at that time staying at the college of professor h. m. wogglebug, t.e., and taking a course of his patent educational pills. on hearing of ozma's loss, they started at once for the quadling country to search for her. as soon as glinda had left the emerald city, tik-tok and the shaggy man and jack pumpkinhead, who had been present at the conference, began their journey into the gillikin country, and an hour later ojo and unc nunkie joined dr. pipt and together they traveled toward the munchkin country. when all these searchers were gone, dorothy and the wizard completed their own preparations. the wizard hitched the sawhorse to the red wagon, which would seat four very comfortably. he wanted dorothy, betsy, trot and the patchwork girl to ride in the wagon, but scraps came up to them mounted upon the woozy, and the woozy said he would like to join the party. now this woozy was a most peculiar animal, having a square head, square body, square legs and square tail. his skin was very tough and hard, resembling leather, and while his movements were somewhat clumsy, the beast could travel with remarkable swiftness. his square eyes were mild and gentle in expression, and he was not especially foolish. the woozy and the patchwork girl were great friends, and so the wizard agreed to let the woozy go with them. another great beast now appeared and asked to go along. this was none other than the famous cowardly lion, one of the most interesting creatures in all oz. no lion that roamed the jungles or plains could compare in size or intelligence with this cowardly lion, who--like all animals living in oz--could talk and who talked with more shrewdness and wisdom than many of the people did. he said he was cowardly because he always trembled when he faced danger, but he had faced danger many times and never refused to fight when it was necessary. this lion was a great favorite with ozma and always guarded her throne on state occasions. he was also an old companion and friend of the princess dorothy, so the girl was delighted to have him join the party. "i'm so nervous over our dear ozma," said the cowardly lion in his deep, rumbling voice, "that it would make me unhappy to remain behind while you are trying to find her. but do not get into any danger, i beg of you, for danger frightens me terribly." "we'll not get into danger if we can poss'bly help it," promised dorothy, "but we shall do anything to find ozma, danger or no danger." the addition of the woozy and the cowardly lion to the party gave betsy bobbin an idea, and she ran to the marble stables at the rear of the palace and brought out her mule, hank by name. perhaps no mule you ever saw was so lean and bony and altogether plain looking as this hank, but betsy loved him dearly because he was faithful and steady and not nearly so stupid as most mules are considered to be. betsy had a saddle for hank, and he declared she would ride on his back, an arrangement approved by the wizard because it left only four of the party to ride on the seats of the red wagon--dorothy and button-bright and trot and himself. an old sailor man who had one wooden leg came to see them off and suggested that they put a supply of food and blankets in the red wagon inasmuch as they were uncertain how long they would be gone. this sailor man was called cap'n bill. he was a former friend and comrade of trot and had encountered many adventures in company with the little girl. i think he was sorry he could not go with her on this trip, but glinda the sorceress had asked cap'n bill to remain in the emerald city and take charge of the royal palace while everyone else was away, and the one-legged sailor had agreed to do so. they loaded the back end of the red wagon with everything they thought they might need, and then they formed a procession and marched from the palace through the emerald city to the great gates of the wall that surrounded this beautiful capital of the land of oz. crowds of citizens lined the streets to see them pass and to cheer them and wish them success, for all were grieved over ozma's loss and anxious that she be found again. first came the cowardly lion, then the patchwork girl riding upon the woozy, then betsy bobbin on her mule hank, and finally the sawhorse drawing the red wagon, in which were seated the wizard and dorothy and button-bright and trot. no one was obliged to drive the sawhorse, so there were no reins to his harness; one had only to tell him which way to go, fast or slow, and he understood perfectly. it was about this time that a shaggy little black dog who had been lying asleep in dorothy's room in the palace woke up and discovered he was lonesome. everything seemed very still throughout the great building, and toto--that was the little dog's name--missed the customary chatter of the three girls. he never paid much attention to what was going on around him, and although he could speak, he seldom said anything, so the little dog did not know about ozma's loss or that everyone had gone in search of her. but he liked to be with people, and especially with his own mistress, dorothy, and having yawned and stretched himself and found the door of the room ajar, he trotted out into the corridor and went down the stately marble stairs to the hall of the palace, where he met jellia jamb. "where's dorothy?" asked toto. "she's gone to the winkie country," answered the maid. "when?" "a little while ago," replied jellia. toto turned and trotted out into the palace garden and down the long driveway until he came to the streets of the emerald city. here he paused to listen, and hearing sounds of cheering, he ran swiftly along until he came in sight of the red wagon and the woozy and the lion and the mule and all the others. being a wise little dog, he decided not to show himself to dorothy just then, lest he be sent back home, but he never lost sight of the party of travelers, all of whom were so eager to get ahead that they never thought to look behind them. when they came to the gates in the city wall, the guardian of the gates came out to throw wide the golden portals and let them pass through. "did any strange person come in or out of the city on the night before last when ozma was stolen?" asked dorothy. "no indeed, princess," answered the guardian of the gates. "of course not," said the wizard. "anyone clever enough to steal all the things we have lost would not mind the barrier of a wall like this in the least. i think the thief must have flown through the air, for otherwise he could not have stolen from ozma's royal palace and glinda's faraway castle in the same night. moreover, as there are no airships in oz and no way for airships from the outside world to get into this country, i believe the thief must have flown from place to place by means of magic arts which neither glinda nor i understand." on they went, and before the gates closed behind them, toto managed to dodge through them. the country surrounding the emerald city was thickly settled, and for a while our friends rode over nicely paved roads which wound through a fertile country dotted with beautiful houses, all built in the quaint oz fashion. in the course of a few hours, however, they had left the tilled fields and entered the country of the winkies, which occupies a quarter of all the territory in the land of oz but is not so well known as many other parts of ozma's fairyland. long before night the travelers had crossed the winkie river near to the scarecrow's tower (which was now vacant) and had entered the rolling prairie where few people live. they asked everyone they met for news of ozma, but none in this district had seen her or even knew that she had been stolen. and by nightfall they had passed all the farmhouses and were obliged to stop and ask for shelter at the hut of a lonely shepherd. when they halted, toto was not far behind. the little dog halted, too, and stealing softly around the party, he hid himself behind the hut. the shepherd was a kindly old man and treated the travelers with much courtesy. he slept out of doors that night, giving up his hut to the three girls, who made their beds on the floor with the blankets they had brought in the red wagon. the wizard and button-bright also slept out of doors, and so did the cowardly lion and hank the mule. but scraps and the sawhorse did not sleep at all, and the woozy could stay awake for a month at a time if he wished to, so these three sat in a little group by themselves and talked together all through the night. in the darkness, the cowardly lion felt a shaggy little form nestling beside his own, and he said sleepily, "where did you come from, toto?" "from home," said the dog. "if you roll over, roll the other way so you won't smash me." "does dorothy know you are here?" asked the lion. "i believe not," admitted toto, and he added a little anxiously, "do you think, friend lion, we are now far enough from the emerald city for me to risk showing myself, or will dorothy send me back because i wasn't invited?" "only dorothy can answer that question," said the lion. "for my part, toto, i consider this affair none of my business, so you must act as you think best." then the huge beast went to sleep again, and toto snuggled closer to the warm, hairy body and also slept. he was a wise little dog in his way, and didn't intend to worry when there was something much better to do. in the morning the wizard built a fire, over which the girls cooked a very good breakfast. suddenly dorothy discovered toto sitting quietly before the fire, and the little girl exclaimed, "goodness me, toto! where did you come from?" "from the place you cruelly left me," replied the dog in a reproachful tone. "i forgot all about you," admitted dorothy, "and if i hadn't, i'd prob'ly left you with jellia jamb, seeing this isn't a pleasure trip but stric'ly business. but now that you're here, toto, i s'pose you'll have to stay with us, unless you'd rather go back again. we may get ourselves into trouble before we're done, toto." "never mind that," said toto, wagging his tail. "i'm hungry, dorothy." "breakfas'll soon be ready, and then you shall have your share," promised his little mistress, who was really glad to have her dog with her. she and toto had traveled together before, and she knew he was a good and faithful comrade. when the food was cooked and served, the girls invited the old shepherd to join them in the morning meal. he willingly consented, and while they ate he said to them, "you are now about to pass through a very dangerous country, unless you turn to the north or to the south to escape its perils." "in that case," said the cowardly lion, "let us turn, by all means, for i dread to face dangers of any sort." "what's the matter with the country ahead of us?" inquired dorothy. "beyond this rolling prairie," explained the shepherd, "are the merry-go-round mountains, set close together and surrounded by deep gulfs so that no one is able to get past them. beyond the merry-go-round mountains it is said the thistle-eaters and the herkus live." "what are they like?" demanded dorothy. "no one knows, for no one has ever passed the merry-go-round mountains," was the reply, "but it is said that the thistle-eaters hitch dragons to their chariots and that the herkus are waited upon by giants whom they have conquered and made their slaves." "who says all that?" asked betsy. "it is common report," declared the shepherd. "everyone believes it." "i don't see how they know," remarked little trot, "if no one has been there." "perhaps the birds who fly over that country brought the news," suggested betsy. "if you escaped those dangers," continued the shepherd, "you might encounter others still more serious before you came to the next branch of the winkie river. it is true that beyond that river there lies a fine country inhabited by good people, and if you reached there, you would have no further trouble. it is between here and the west branch of the winkie river that all dangers lie, for that is the unknown territory that is inhabited by terrible, lawless people." "it may be, and it may not be," said the wizard. "we shall know when we get there." "well," persisted the shepherd, "in a fairy country such as ours, every undiscovered place is likely to harbor wicked creatures. if they were not wicked, they would discover themselves and by coming among us submit to ozma's rule and be good and considerate, as are all the oz people whom we know." "that argument," stated the little wizard, "convinces me that it is our duty to go straight to those unknown places, however dangerous they may be, for it is surely some cruel and wicked person who has stolen our ozma, and we know it would be folly to search among good people for the culprit. ozma may not be hidden in the secret places of the winkie country, it is true, but it is our duty to travel to every spot, however dangerous, where our beloved ruler is likely to be imprisoned." "you're right about that," said button-bright approvingly. "dangers don't hurt us. only things that happen ever hurt anyone, and a danger is a thing that might happen and might not happen, and sometimes don't amount to shucks. i vote we go ahead and take our chances." they were all of the same opinion, so they packed up and said goodbye to the friendly shepherd and proceeded on their way. chapter the merry-go-round mountains the rolling prairie was not difficult to travel over, although it was all uphill and downhill, so for a while they made good progress. not even a shepherd was to be met with now, and the farther they advanced the more dreary the landscape became. at noon they stopped for a "picnic luncheon," as betsy called it, and then they again resumed their journey. all the animals were swift and tireless, and even the cowardly lion and the mule found they could keep up with the pace of the woozy and the sawhorse. it was the middle of the afternoon when first they came in sight of a cluster of low mountains. these were cone-shaped, rising from broad bases to sharp peaks at the tops. from a distance the mountains appeared indistinct and seemed rather small--more like hills than mountains--but as the travelers drew nearer, they noted a most unusual circumstance: the hills were all whirling around, some in one direction and some the opposite way. "i guess these are the merry-go-round mountains, all right," said dorothy. "they must be," said the wizard. "they go 'round, sure enough," agreed trot, "but they don't seem very merry." there were several rows of these mountains, extending both to the right and to the left for miles and miles. how many rows there might be none could tell, but between the first row of peaks could be seen other peaks, all steadily whirling around one way or another. continuing to ride nearer, our friends watched these hills attentively, until at last, coming close up, they discovered there was a deep but narrow gulf around the edge of each mountain, and that the mountains were set so close together that the outer gulf was continuous and barred farther advance. at the edge of the gulf they all dismounted and peered over into its depths. there was no telling where the bottom was, if indeed there was any bottom at all. from where they stood it seemed as if the mountains had been set in one great hole in the ground, just close enough together so they would not touch, and that each mountain was supported by a rocky column beneath its base which extended far down in the black pit below. from the land side it seemed impossible to get across the gulf or, succeeding in that, to gain a foothold on any of the whirling mountains. "this ditch is too wide to jump across," remarked button-bright. "p'raps the lion could do it," suggested dorothy. "what, jump from here to that whirling hill?" cried the lion indignantly. "i should say not! even if i landed there and could hold on, what good would it do? there's another spinning mountain beyond it, and perhaps still another beyond that. i don't believe any living creature could jump from one mountain to another when both are whirling like tops and in different directions." "i propose we turn back," said the wooden sawhorse with a yawn of his chopped-out mouth as he stared with his knot eyes at the merry-go-round mountains. "i agree with you," said the woozy, wagging his square head. "we should have taken the shepherd's advice," added hank the mule. the others of the party, however they might be puzzled by the serious problem that confronted them, would not allow themselves to despair. "if we once get over these mountains," said button-bright, "we could probably get along all right." "true enough," agreed dorothy. "so we must find some way, of course, to get past these whirligig hills. but how?" "i wish the ork was with us," sighed trot. "but the ork isn't here," said the wizard, "and we must depend upon ourselves to conquer this difficulty. unfortunately, all my magic has been stolen, otherwise i am sure i could easily get over the mountains." "unfortunately," observed the woozy, "none of us has wings. and we're in a magic country without any magic." "what is that around your waist, dorothy?" asked the wizard. "that? oh, that's just the magic belt i once captured from the nome king," she replied. "a magic belt! why, that's fine. i'm sure a magic belt would take you over these hills." "it might if i knew how to work it," said the little girl. "ozma knows a lot of its magic, but i've never found out about it. all i know is that while i am wearing it, nothing can hurt me." "try wishing yourself across and see if it will obey you," suggested the wizard. "but what good would that do?" asked dorothy. "if i got across, it wouldn't help the rest of you, and i couldn't go alone among all those giants and dragons while you stayed here." "true enough," agreed the wizard sadly. and then, after looking around the group, he inquired, "what is that on your finger, trot?" "a ring. the mermaids gave it to me," she explained, "and if ever i'm in trouble when i'm on the water, i can call the mermaids and they'll come and help me. but the mermaids can't help me on the land, you know, 'cause they swim, and--and--they haven't any legs." "true enough," repeated the wizard, more sadly. there was a big, broad, spreading tree near the edge of the gulf, and as the sun was hot above them, they all gathered under the shade of the tree to study the problem of what to do next. "if we had a long rope," said betsy, "we could fasten it to this tree and let the other end of it down into the gulf and all slide down it." "well, what then?" asked the wizard. "then, if we could manage to throw the rope up the other side," explained the girl, "we could all climb it and be on the other side of the gulf." "there are too many 'if's' in that suggestion," remarked the little wizard. "and you must remember that the other side is nothing but spinning mountains, so we couldn't possibly fasten a rope to them, even if we had one." "that rope idea isn't half bad, though," said the patchwork girl, who had been dancing dangerously near to the edge of the gulf. "what do you mean?" asked dorothy. the patchwork girl suddenly stood still and cast her button eyes around the group. "ha, i have it!" she exclaimed. "unharness the sawhorse, somebody. my fingers are too clumsy." "shall we?" asked button-bright doubtfully, turning to the others. "well, scraps has a lot of brains, even if she is stuffed with cotton," asserted the wizard. "if her brains can help us out of this trouble, we ought to use them." so he began unharnessing the sawhorse, and button-bright and dorothy helped him. when they had removed the harness, the patchwork girl told them to take it all apart and buckle the straps together, end to end. and after they had done this, they found they had one very long strap that was stronger than any rope. "it would reach across the gulf easily," said the lion, who with the other animals had sat on his haunches and watched this proceeding. "but i don't see how it could be fastened to one of those dizzy mountains." scraps had no such notion as that in her baggy head. she told them to fasten one end of the strap to a stout limb of the tree, pointing to one which extended quite to the edge of the gulf. button-bright did that, climbing the tree and then crawling out upon the limb until he was nearly over the gulf. there he managed to fasten the strap, which reached to the ground below, and then he slid down it and was caught by the wizard, who feared he might fall into the chasm. scraps was delighted. she seized the lower end of the strap, and telling them all to get out of her way, she went back as far as the strap would reach and then made a sudden run toward the gulf. over the edge she swung, clinging to the strap until it had gone as far as its length permitted, when she let go and sailed gracefully through the air until she alighted upon the mountain just in front of them. almost instantly, as the great cone continued to whirl, she was sent flying against the next mountain in the rear, and that one had only turned halfway around when scraps was sent flying to the next mountain behind it. then her patchwork form disappeared from view entirely, and the amazed watchers under the tree wondered what had become of her. "she's gone, and she can't get back," said the woozy. "my, how she bounded from one mountain to another!" exclaimed the lion. "that was because they whirl so fast," the wizard explained. "scraps had nothing to hold on to, and so of course she was tossed from one hill to another. i'm afraid we shall never see the poor patchwork girl again." "i shall see her," declared the woozy. "scraps is an old friend of mine, and if there are really thistle-eaters and giants on the other side of those tops, she will need someone to protect her. so here i go!" he seized the dangling strap firmly in his square mouth, and in the same way that scraps had done swung himself over the gulf. he let go the strap at the right moment and fell upon the first whirling mountain. then he bounded to the next one back of it--not on his feet, but "all mixed up," as trot said--and then he shot across to another mountain, disappearing from view just as the patchwork girl had done. "it seems to work, all right," remarked button-bright. "i guess i'll try it." "wait a minute," urged the wizard. "before any more of us make this desperate leap into the beyond, we must decide whether all will go or if some of us will remain behind." "do you s'pose it hurt them much to bump against those mountains?" asked trot. "i don't s'pose anything could hurt scraps or the woozy," said dorothy, "and nothing can hurt me, because i wear the magic belt. so as i'm anxious to find ozma, i mean to swing myself across too." "i'll take my chances," decided button-bright. "i'm sure it will hurt dreadfully, and i'm afraid to do it," said the lion, who was already trembling, "but i shall do it if dorothy does." "well, that will leave betsy and the mule and trot," said the wizard, "for of course i shall go that i may look after dorothy. do you two girls think you can find your way back home again?" he asked, addressing trot and betsy. "i'm not afraid. not much, that is," said trot. "it looks risky, i know, but i'm sure i can stand it if the others can." "if it wasn't for leaving hank," began betsy in a hesitating voice. but the mule interrupted her by saying, "go ahead if you want to, and i'll come after you. a mule is as brave as a lion any day." "braver," said the lion, "for i'm a coward, friend hank, and you are not. but of course the sawhorse--" "oh, nothing ever hurts me," asserted the sawhorse calmly. "there's never been any question about my going. i can't take the red wagon, though." "no, we must leave the wagon," said the wizard, "and also we must leave our food and blankets, i fear. but if we can defy these merry-go-round mountains to stop us, we won't mind the sacrifice of some of our comforts." "no one knows where we're going to land!" remarked the lion in a voice that sounded as if he were going to cry. "we may not land at all," replied hank, "but the best way to find out what will happen to us is to swing across as scraps and the woozy have done." "i think i shall go last," said the wizard, "so who wants to go first?" "i'll go," decided dorothy. "no, it's my turn first," said button-bright. "watch me!" even as he spoke, the boy seized the strap, and after making a run swung himself across the gulf. away he went, bumping from hill to hill until he disappeared. they listened intently, but the boy uttered no cry until he had been gone some moments, when they heard a faint "hullo-a!" as if called from a great distance. the sound gave them courage, however, and dorothy picked up toto and held him fast under one arm while with the other hand she seized the strap and bravely followed after button-bright. when she struck the first whirling mountain, she fell upon it quite softly, but before she had time to think, she flew through the air and lit with a jar on the side of the next mountain. again she flew and alighted, and again and still again, until after five successive bumps she fell sprawling upon a green meadow and was so dazed and bewildered by her bumpy journey across the merry-go-round mountains that she lay quite still for a time to collect her thoughts. toto had escaped from her arms just as she fell, and he now sat beside her panting with excitement. then dorothy realized that someone was helping her to her feet, and here was button-bright on one side of her and scraps on the other, both seeming to be unhurt. the next object her eyes fell upon was the woozy, squatting upon his square back end and looking at her reflectively, while toto barked joyously to find his mistress unhurt after her whirlwind trip. "good!" said the woozy. "here's another and a dog, both safe and sound. but my word, dorothy, you flew some! if you could have seen yourself, you'd have been absolutely astonished." "they say 'time flies,'" laughed button-bright, "but time never made a quicker journey than that." just then, as dorothy turned around to look at the whirling mountains, she was in time to see tiny trot come flying from the nearest hill to fall upon the soft grass not a yard away from where she stood. trot was so dizzy she couldn't stand at first, but she wasn't at all hurt, and presently betsy came flying to them and would have bumped into the others had they not retreated in time to avoid her. then, in quick succession, came the lion, hank and the sawhorse, bounding from mountain to mountain to fall safely upon the greensward. only the wizard was now left behind, and they waited so long for him that dorothy began to be worried. but suddenly he came flying from the nearest mountain and tumbled heels over head beside them. then they saw that he had wound two of their blankets around his body to keep the bumps from hurting him and had fastened the blankets with some of the spare straps from the harness of the sawhorse. chapter the mysterious city there they sat upon the grass, their heads still swimming from their dizzy flights, and looked at one another in silent bewilderment. but presently, when assured that no one was injured, they grew more calm and collected, and the lion said with a sigh of relief, "who would have thought those merry-go-round mountains were made of rubber?" "are they really rubber?" asked trot. "they must be," replied the lion, "for otherwise we would not have bounded so swiftly from one to another without getting hurt." "that is all guesswork," declared the wizard, unwinding the blankets from his body, "for none of us stayed long enough on the mountains to discover what they are made of. but where are we?" "that's guesswork," said scraps. "the shepherd said the thistle-eaters live this side of the mountains and are waited on by giants." "oh no," said dorothy, "it's the herkus who have giant slaves, and the thistle-eaters hitch dragons to their chariots." "how could they do that?" asked the woozy. "dragons have long tails, which would get in the way of the chariot wheels." "and if the herkus have conquered the giants," said trot, "they must be at least twice the size of giants. p'raps the herkus are the biggest people in all the world!" "perhaps they are," assented the wizard in a thoughtful tone of voice. "and perhaps the shepherd didn't know what he was talking about. let us travel on toward the west and discover for ourselves what the people of this country are like." it seemed a pleasant enough country, and it was quite still and peaceful when they turned their eyes away from the silently whirling mountains. there were trees here and there and green bushes, while throughout the thick grass were scattered brilliantly colored flowers. about a mile away was a low hill that hid from them all the country beyond it, so they realized they could not tell much about the country until they had crossed the hill. the red wagon having been left behind, it was now necessary to make other arrangements for traveling. the lion told dorothy she could ride upon his back as she had often done before, and the woozy said he could easily carry both trot and the patchwork girl. betsy still had her mule, hank, and button-bright and the wizard could sit together upon the long, thin back of the sawhorse, but they took care to soften their seat with a pad of blankets before they started. thus mounted, the adventurers started for the hill, which was reached after a brief journey. as they mounted the crest and gazed beyond the hill, they discovered not far away a walled city, from the towers and spires of which gay banners were flying. it was not a very big city, indeed, but its walls were very high and thick, and it appeared that the people who lived there must have feared attack by a powerful enemy, else they would not have surrounded their dwellings with so strong a barrier. there was no path leading from the mountains to the city, and this proved that the people seldom or never visited the whirling hills, but our friends found the grass soft and agreeable to travel over, and with the city before them they could not well lose their way. when they drew nearer to the walls, the breeze carried to their ears the sound of music--dim at first, but growing louder as they advanced. "that doesn't seem like a very terr'ble place," remarked dorothy. "well, it looks all right," replied trot from her seat on the woozy, "but looks can't always be trusted." "my looks can," said scraps. "i look patchwork, and i am patchwork, and no one but a blind owl could ever doubt that i'm the patchwork girl." saying which, she turned a somersault off the woozy and, alighting on her feet, began wildly dancing about. "are owls ever blind?" asked trot. "always, in the daytime," said button-bright. "but scraps can see with her button eyes both day and night. isn't it queer?" "it's queer that buttons can see at all," answered trot. "but good gracious! what's become of the city?" "i was going to ask that myself," said dorothy. "it's gone!" "it's gone!" the animals came to a sudden halt, for the city had really disappeared, walls and all, and before them lay the clear, unbroken sweep of the country. "dear me!" exclaimed the wizard. "this is rather disagreeable. it is annoying to travel almost to a place and then find it is not there." "where can it be, then?" asked dorothy. "it cert'nly was there a minute ago." "i can hear the music yet," declared button-bright, and when they all listened, the strains of music could plainly be heard. "oh! there's the city over at the left," called scraps, and turning their eyes, they saw the walls and towers and fluttering banners far to the left of them. "we must have lost our way," suggested dorothy. "nonsense," said the lion. "i, and all the other animals, have been tramping straight toward the city ever since we first saw it." "then how does it happen--" "never mind," interrupted the wizard, "we are no farther from it than we were before. it is in a different direction, that's all, so let us hurry and get there before it again escapes us." so on they went directly toward the city, which seemed only a couple of miles distant. but when they had traveled less than a mile, it suddenly disappeared again. once more they paused, somewhat discouraged, but in a moment the button eyes of scraps again discovered the city, only this time it was just behind them in the direction from which they had come. "goodness gracious!" cried dorothy. "there's surely something wrong with that city. do you s'pose it's on wheels, wizard?" "it may not be a city at all," he replied, looking toward it with a speculative glance. "what could it be, then?" "just an illusion." "what's that?" asked trot. "something you think you see and don't see." "i can't believe that," said button-bright. "if we only saw it, we might be mistaken, but if we can see it and hear it, too, it must be there." "where?" asked the patchwork girl. "somewhere near us," he insisted. "we will have to go back, i suppose," said the woozy with a sigh. so back they turned and headed for the walled city until it disappeared again, only to reappear at the right of them. they were constantly getting nearer to it, however, so they kept their faces turned toward it as it flitted here and there to all points of the compass. presently the lion, who was leading the procession, halted abruptly and cried out, "ouch!" "what's the matter?" asked dorothy. "ouch--ouch!" repeated the lion, and leaped backward so suddenly that dorothy nearly tumbled from his back. at the same time hank the mule yelled "ouch!" "ouch! ouch!" repeated the lion and leaped backward so suddenly that dorothy nearly tumbled from his back. at the same time, hank the mule yelled "ouch!" almost as loudly as the lion had done, and he also pranced backward a few paces. "it's the thistles," said betsy. "they prick their legs." hearing this, all looked down, and sure enough the ground was thick with thistles, which covered the plain from the point where they stood way up to the walls of the mysterious city. no pathways through them could be seen at all; here the soft grass ended and the growth of thistles began. "they're the prickliest thistles i ever felt," grumbled the lion. "my legs smart yet from their stings, though i jumped out of them as quickly as i could." "here is a new difficulty," remarked the wizard in a grieved tone. "the city has stopped hopping around, it is true, but how are we to get to it over this mass of prickers?" "they can't hurt me," said the thick-skinned woozy, advancing fearlessly and trampling among the thistles. "nor me," said the wooden sawhorse. "but the lion and the mule cannot stand the prickers," asserted dorothy, "and we can't leave them behind." "must we all go back?" asked trot. "course not!" replied button-bright scornfully. "always when there's trouble, there's a way out of it if you can find it." "i wish the scarecrow was here," said scraps, standing on her head on the woozy's square back. "his splendid brains would soon show us how to conquer this field of thistles." "what's the matter with your brains?" asked the boy. "nothing," she said, making a flip-flop into the thistles and dancing among them without feeling their sharp points. "i could tell you in half a minute how to get over the thistles if i wanted to." "tell us, scraps!" begged dorothy. "i don't want to wear my brains out with overwork," replied the patchwork girl. "don't you love ozma? and don't you want to find her?" asked betsy reproachfully. "yes indeed," said scraps, walking on her hands as an acrobat does at the circus. "well, we can't find ozma unless we get past these thistles," declared dorothy. scraps danced around them two or three times without reply. then she said, "don't look at me, you stupid folks. look at those blankets." the wizard's face brightened at once. "why didn't we think of those blankets before?" "because you haven't magic brains," laughed scraps. "such brains as you have are of the common sort that grow in your heads, like weeds in a garden. i'm sorry for you people who have to be born in order to be alive." but the wizard was not listening to her. he quickly removed the blankets from the back of the sawhorse and spread one of them upon the thistles, just next the grass. the thick cloth rendered the prickers harmless, so the wizard walked over this first blanket and spread the second one farther on, in the direction of the phantom city. "these blankets," said he, "are for the lion and the mule to walk upon. the sawhorse and the woozy can walk on the thistles." so the lion and the mule walked over the first blanket and stood upon the second one until the wizard had picked up the one they had passed over and spread it in front of them, when they advanced to that one and waited while the one behind them was again spread in front. "this is slow work," said the wizard, "but it will get us to the city after a while." "the city is a good half mile away yet," announced button-bright. "and this is awful hard work for the wizard," added trot. "why couldn't the lion ride on the woozy's back?" asked dorothy. "it's a big, flat back, and the woozy's mighty strong. perhaps the lion wouldn't fall off." "you may try it if you like," said the woozy to the lion. "i can take you to the city in a jiffy and then come back for hank." "i'm--i'm afraid," said the cowardly lion. he was twice as big as the woozy. "try it," pleaded dorothy. "and take a tumble among the thistles?" asked the lion reproachfully. but when the woozy came close to him, the big beast suddenly bounded upon its back and managed to balance himself there, although forced to hold his four legs so close together that he was in danger of toppling over. the great weight of the monster lion did not seem to affect the woozy, who called to his rider, "hold on tight!" and ran swiftly over the thistles toward the city. the others stood on the blanket and watched the strange sight anxiously. of course, the lion couldn't "hold on tight" because there was nothing to hold to, and he swayed from side to side as if likely to fall off any moment. still, he managed to stick to the woozy's back until they were close to the walls of the city, when he leaped to the ground. next moment the woozy came dashing back at full speed. "there's a little strip of ground next the wall where there are no thistles," he told them when he had reached the adventurers once more. "now then, friend hank, see if you can ride as well as the lion did." "take the others first," proposed the mule. so the sawhorse and the woozy made a couple of trips over the thistles to the city walls and carried all the people in safety, dorothy holding little toto in her arms. the travelers then sat in a group on a little hillock just outside the wall and looked at the great blocks of gray stone and waited for the woozy to bring hank to them. the mule was very awkward, and his legs trembled so badly that more than once they thought he would tumble off, but finally he reached them in safety, and the entire party was now reunited. more than that, they had reached the city that had eluded them for so long and in so strange a manner. "the gates must be around the other side," said the wizard. "let us follow the curve of the wall until we reach an opening in it." "which way?" asked dorothy. "we must guess that," he replied. "suppose we go to the left. one direction is as good as another." they formed in marching order and went around the city wall to the left. it wasn't a big city, as i have said, but to go way around it outside the high wall was quite a walk, as they became aware. but around it our adventurers went without finding any sign of a gateway or other opening. when they had returned to the little mound from which they had started, they dismounted from the animals and again seated themselves on the grassy mound. "it's mighty queer, isn't it?" asked button-bright. "there must be some way for the people to get out and in," declared dorothy. "do you s'pose they have flying machines, wizard?" "no," he replied, "for in that case they would be flying all over the land of oz, and we know they have not done that. flying machines are unknown here. i think it more likely that the people use ladders to get over the walls." "it would be an awful climb over that high stone wall," said betsy. "stone, is it?" scraps, who was again dancing wildly around, for she never tired and could never keep still for long. "course it's stone," answered betsy scornfully. "can't you see?" "yes," said scraps, going closer. "i can see the wall, but i can't feel it." and then, with her arms outstretched, she did a very queer thing. she walked right into the wall and disappeared. "for goodness sake!" dorothy, amazed, as indeed they all were. chapter the high coco-lorum of thi and now the patchwork girl came dancing out of the wall again. "come on!" she called. "it isn't there. there isn't any wall at all." "what? no wall?" exclaimed the wizard. "nothing like it," said scraps. "it's a make-believe. you see it, but it isn't. come on into the city; we've been wasting our time." with this, she danced into the wall again and once more disappeared. button-bright, who was rather venture-some, dashed away after her and also became invisible to them. the others followed more cautiously, stretching out their hands to feel the wall and finding, to their astonishment, that they could feel nothing because nothing opposed them. they walked on a few steps and found themselves in the streets of a very beautiful city. behind them they again saw the wall, grim and forbidding as ever, but now they knew it was merely an illusion prepared to keep strangers from entering the city. but the wall was soon forgotten, for in front of them were a number of quaint people who stared at them in amazement as if wondering where they had come from. our friends forgot their good manners for a time and returned the stares with interest, for so remarkable a people had never before been discovered in all the remarkable land of oz. their heads were shaped like diamonds, and their bodies like hearts. all the hair they had was a little bunch at the tip top of their diamond-shaped heads, and their eyes were very large and round, and their noses and mouths very small. their clothing was tight fitting and of brilliant colors, being handsomely embroidered in quaint designs with gold or silver threads; but on their feet they wore sandals with no stockings whatever. the expression of their faces was pleasant enough, although they now showed surprise at the appearance of strangers so unlike themselves, and our friends thought they seemed quite harmless. "i beg your pardon," said the wizard, speaking for his party, "for intruding upon you uninvited, but we are traveling on important business and find it necessary to visit your city. will you kindly tell us by what name your city is called?" they looked at one another uncertainly, each expecting some other to answer. finally, a short one whose heart-shaped body was very broad replied, "we have no occasion to call our city anything. it is where we live, that is all." "but by what name do others call your city?" asked the wizard. "we know of no others except yourselves," said the man. and then he inquired, "were you born with those queer forms you have, or has some cruel magician transformed you to them from your natural shapes?" "these are our natural shapes," declared the wizard, "and we consider them very good shapes, too." the group of inhabitants was constantly being enlarged by others who joined it. all were evidently startled and uneasy at the arrival of strangers. "have you a king?" asked dorothy, who knew it was better to speak with someone in authority. but the man shook his diamond-like head. "what is a king?" he asked. "isn't there anyone who rules over you?" inquired the wizard. "no," was the reply, "each of us rules himself, or at least tries to do so. it is not an easy thing to do, as you probably know." the wizard reflected. "if you have disputes among you," said he after a little thought, "who settles them?" "the high coco-lorum," they answered in a chorus. "and who is he?" "the judge who enforces the laws," said the man who had first spoken. "then he is the principal person here?" continued the wizard. "well, i would not say that," returned the man in a puzzled way. "the high coco-lorum is a public servant. however, he represents the laws, which we must all obey." "i think," said the wizard, "we ought to see your high coco-lorum and talk with him. our mission here requires us to consult one high in authority, and the high coco-lorum ought to be high, whatever else he is." the inhabitants seemed to consider this proposition reasonable, for they nodded their diamond-shaped heads in approval. so the broad one who had been their spokesman said, "follow me," and turning led the way along one of the streets. the entire party followed him, the natives falling in behind. the dwellings they passed were quite nicely planned and seemed comfortable and convenient. after leading them a few blocks, their conductor stopped before a house which was neither better nor worse than the others. the doorway was shaped to admit the strangely formed bodies of these people, being narrow at the top, broad in the middle and tapering at the bottom. the windows were made in much the same way, giving the house a most peculiar appearance. when their guide opened the gate, a music box concealed in the gatepost began to play, and the sound attracted the attention of the high coco-lorum, who appeared at an open window and inquired, "what has happened now?" but in the same moment his eyes fell upon the strangers and he hastened to open the door and admit them--all but the animals, which were left outside with the throng of natives that had now gathered. for a small city there seemed to be a large number of inhabitants, but they did not try to enter the house and contented themselves with staring curiously at the strange animals. toto followed dorothy. our friends entered a large room at the front of the house, where the high coco-lorum asked them to be seated. "i hope your mission here is a peaceful one," he said, looking a little worried, "for the thists are not very good fighters and object to being conquered." "are your people called thists?" asked dorothy. "yes. i thought you knew that. and we call our city thi." "oh!" "we are thists because we eat thistles, you know," continued the high coco-lorum. "do you really eat those prickly things?" inquired button-bright wonderingly. "why not?" replied the other. "the sharp points of the thistles cannot hurt us, because all our insides are gold-lined." "gold-lined!" "to be sure. our throats and stomachs are lined with solid gold, and we find the thistles nourishing and good to eat. as a matter of fact, there is nothing else in our country that is fit for food. all around the city of thi grow countless thistles, and all we need do is to go and gather them. if we wanted anything else to eat, we would have to plant it, and grow it, and harvest it, and that would be a lot of trouble and make us work, which is an occupation we detest." "but tell me, please," said the wizard, "how does it happen that your city jumps around so, from one part of the country to another?" "the city doesn't jump. it doesn't move at all," declared the high coco-lorum. "however, i will admit that the land that surrounds it has a trick of turning this way or that, and so if one is standing upon the plain and facing north, he is likely to find himself suddenly facing west or east or south. but once you reach the thistle fields, you are on solid ground." "ah, i begin to understand," said the wizard, nodding his head. "but i have another question to ask: how does it happen that the thists have no king to rule over them?" "hush!" whispered the high coco-lorum, looking uneasily around to make sure they were not overheard. "in reality, i am the king, but the people don't know it. they think they rule themselves, but the fact is i have everything my own way. no one else knows anything about our laws, and so i make the laws to suit myself. if any oppose me or question my acts, i tell them it's the law and that settles it. if i called myself king, however, and wore a crown and lived in royal style, the people would not like me and might do me harm. as the high coco-lorum of thi, i am considered a very agreeable person." "it seems a very clever arrangement," said the wizard. "and now, as you are the principal person in thi, i beg you to tell us if the royal ozma is a captive in your city." "no," answered the diamond-headed man. "we have no captives. no strangers but yourselves are here, and we have never before heard of the royal ozma." "she rules over all of oz," said dorothy, "and so she rules your city and you, because you are in the winkie country, which is a part of the land of oz." "it may be," returned the high coco-lorum, "for we do not study geography and have never inquired whether we live in the land of oz or not. and any ruler who rules us from a distance and unknown to us is welcome to the job. but what has happened to your royal ozma?" "someone has stolen her," said the wizard. "do you happen to have any talented magician among your people, one who is especially clever, you know?" "no, none especially clever. we do some magic, of course, but it is all of the ordinary kind. i do not think any of us has yet aspired to stealing rulers, either by magic or otherwise." "then we've come a long way for nothing!" exclaimed trot regretfully. "but we are going farther than this," asserted the patchwork girl, bending her stuffed body backward until her yarn hair touched the floor and then walking around on her hands with her feet in the air. the high coco-lorum watched scraps admiringly. "you may go farther on, of course," said he, "but i advise you not to. the herkus live back of us, beyond the thistles and the twisting lands, and they are not very nice people to meet, i assure you." "are they giants?" asked betsy. "they are worse than that," was the reply. "they have giants for their slaves and they are so much stronger than giants that the poor slaves dare not rebel for fear of being torn to pieces." "how do you know?" asked scraps. "everyone says so," answered the high coco-lorum. "have you seen the herkus yourself?" inquired dorothy. "no, but what everyone says must be true, otherwise what would be the use of their saying it?" "we were told before we got here that you people hitch dragons to your chariots," said the little girl. "so we do," declared the high coco-lorum. "and that reminds me that i ought to entertain you as strangers and my guests by taking you for a ride around our splendid city of thi." he touched a button, and a band began to play. at least, they heard the music of a band, but couldn't tell where it came from. "that tune is the order to my charioteer to bring around my dragon-chariot," said the high coco-lorum. "every time i give an order, it is in music, which is a much more pleasant way to address servants than in cold, stern words." "does this dragon of yours bite?" asked button-bright. "mercy no! do you think i'd risk the safety of my innocent people by using a biting dragon to draw my chariot? i'm proud to say that my dragon is harmless, unless his steering gear breaks, and he was manufactured at the famous dragon factory in this city of thi. here he comes, and you may examine him for yourselves." they heard a low rumble and a shrill squeaking sound, and going out to the front of the house, they saw coming around the corner a car drawn by a gorgeous jeweled dragon, which moved its head to right and left and flashed its eyes like headlights of an automobile and uttered a growling noise as it slowly moved toward them. when it stopped before the high coco-lorum's house, toto barked sharply at the sprawling beast, but even tiny trot could see that the dragon was not alive. its scales were of gold, and each one was set with sparkling jewels, while it walked in such a stiff, regular manner that it could be nothing else than a machine. the chariot that trailed behind it was likewise of gold and jewels, and when they entered it, they found there were no seats. everyone was supposed to stand up while riding. the charioteer was a little, diamond-headed fellow who straddled the neck of the dragon and moved the levers that made it go. "this," said the high coco-lorum pompously, "is a wonderful invention. we are all very proud of our auto-dragons, many of which are in use by our wealthy inhabitants. start the thing going, charioteer!" the charioteer did not move. "you forgot to order him in music," suggested dorothy. "ah, so i did." he touched a button and a music box in the dragon's head began to play a tune. at once the little charioteer pulled over a lever, and the dragon began to move, very slowly and groaning dismally as it drew the clumsy chariot after it. toto trotted between the wheels. the sawhorse, the mule, the lion and the woozy followed after and had no trouble in keeping up with the machine. indeed, they had to go slow to keep from running into it. when the wheels turned, another music box concealed somewhere under the chariot played a lively march tune which was in striking contrast with the dragging movement of the strange vehicle, and button-bright decided that the music he had heard when they first sighted this city was nothing else than a chariot plodding its weary way through the streets. all the travelers from the emerald city thought this ride the most uninteresting and dreary they had ever experienced, but the high coco-lorum seemed to think it was grand. he pointed out the different buildings and parks and fountains in much the same way that the conductor does on an american "sightseeing wagon" does, and being guests they were obliged to submit to the ordeal. but they became a little worried when their host told them he had ordered a banquet prepared for them in the city hall. "what are we going to eat?" asked button-bright suspiciously. "thistles," was the reply. "fine, fresh thistles, gathered this very day." scraps laughed, for she never ate anything, but dorothy said in a protesting voice, "our insides are not lined with gold, you know." "how sad!" exclaimed the high coco-lorum, and then he added as an afterthought, "but we can have the thistles boiled, if you prefer." "i'm 'fraid they wouldn't taste good even then," said little trot. "haven't you anything else to eat?" the high coco-lorum shook his diamond-shaped head. "nothing that i know of," said he. "but why should we have anything else when we have so many thistles? however, if you can't eat what we eat, don't eat anything. we shall not be offended, and the banquet will be just as merry and delightful." knowing his companions were all hungry, the wizard said, "i trust you will excuse us from the banquet, sir, which will be merry enough without us, although it is given in our honor. for, as ozma is not in your city, we must leave here at once and seek her elsewhere." "sure we must!" dorothy, and she whispered to betsy and trot, "i'd rather starve somewhere else than in this city, and who knows, we may run across somebody who eats reg'lar food and will give us some." so when the ride was finished, in spite of the protests of the high coco-lorum, they insisted on continuing their journey. "it will soon be dark," he objected. "we don't mind the darkness," replied the wizard. "some wandering herku may get you." "do you think the herkus would hurt us?" asked dorothy. "i cannot say, not having had the honor of their acquaintance. but they are said to be so strong that if they had any other place to stand upon they could lift the world." "all of them together?" asked button-bright wonderingly. "any one of them could do it," said the high coco-lorum. "have you heard of any magicians being among them?" asked the wizard, knowing that only a magician could have stolen ozma in the way she had been stolen. "i am told it is quite a magical country," declared the high coco-lorum, "and magic is usually performed by magicians. but i have never heard that they have any invention or sorcery to equal our wonderful auto-dragons." they thanked him for his courtesy, and mounting their own animals rode to the farther side of the city and right through the wall of illusion out into the open country. "i'm glad we got away so easily," said betsy. "i didn't like those queer-shaped people." "nor did i," agreed dorothy. "it seems dreadful to be lined with sheets of pure gold and have nothing to eat but thistles." "they seemed happy and contented, though," remarked the wizard, "and those who are contented have nothing to regret and nothing more to wish for." chapter toto loses something for a while the travelers were constantly losing their direction, for beyond the thistle fields they again found themselves upon the turning-lands, which swung them around one way and then another. but by keeping the city of thi constantly behind them, the adventurers finally passed the treacherous turning-lands and came upon a stony country where no grass grew at all. there were plenty of bushes, however, and although it was now almost dark, the girls discovered some delicious yellow berries growing upon the bushes, one taste of which set them all to picking as many as they could find. the berries relieved their pangs of hunger for a time, and as it now became too dark to see anything, they camped where they were. the three girls lay down upon one of the blankets--all in a row--and the wizard covered them with the other blanket and tucked them in. button-bright crawled under the shelter of some bushes and was asleep in half a minute. the wizard sat down with his back to a big stone and looked at the stars in the sky and thought gravely upon the dangerous adventure they had undertaken, wondering if they would ever be able to find their beloved ozma again. the animals lay in a group by themselves, a little distance from the others. "i've lost my growl!" said toto, who had been very silent and sober all that day. "what do you suppose has become of it?" "if you had asked me to keep track of your growl, i might be able to tell you," remarked the lion sleepily. "but frankly, toto, i supposed you were taking care of it yourself." "it's an awful thing to lose one's growl," said toto, wagging his tail disconsolately. "what if you lost your roar, lion? wouldn't you feel terrible?" "my roar," replied the lion, "is the fiercest thing about me. i depend on it to frighten my enemies so badly that they won't dare to fight me." "once," said the mule, "i lost my bray so that i couldn't call to betsy to let her know i was hungry. that was before i could talk, you know, for i had not yet come into the land of oz, and i found it was certainly very uncomfortable not to be able to make a noise." "you make enough noise now," declared toto. "but none of you have answered my question: where is my growl?" "you may search me," said the woozy. "i don't care for such things, myself." "you snore terribly," asserted toto. "it may be," said the woozy. "what one does when asleep one is not accountable for. i wish you would wake me up sometime when i'm snoring and let me hear the sound. then i can judge whether it is terrible or delightful." "it isn't pleasant, i assure you," said the lion, yawning. "to me it seems wholly unnecessary," declared hank the mule. "you ought to break yourself of the habit," said the sawhorse. "you never hear me snore, because i never sleep. i don't even whinny as those puffy meat horses do. i wish that whoever stole toto's growl had taken the mule's bray and the lion's roar and the woozy's snore at the same time." "do you think, then, that my growl was stolen?" "you have never lost it before, have you?" inquired inquired the sawhorse. "only once, when i had a sore throat from barking too long at the moon." "is your throat sore now?" asked the woozy. "no," replied the dog. "i can't understand," said hank, "why dogs bark at the moon. they can't scare the moon, and the moon doesn't pay any attention to the bark. so why do dogs do it?" "were you ever a dog?" asked toto. "no indeed," replied hank. "i am thankful to say i was created a mule--the most beautiful of all beasts--and have always remained one." the woozy sat upon his square haunches to examine hank with care. "beauty," he said, "must be a matter of taste. i don't say your judgment is bad, friend hank, or that you are so vulgar as to be conceited. but if you admire big, waggy ears and a tail like a paintbrush and hoofs big enough for an elephant and a long neck and a body so skinny that one can count the ribs with one eye shut--if that's your idea of beauty, hank, then either you or i must be much mistaken." "you're full of edges," sneered the mule. "if i were square as you are, i suppose you'd think me lovely." "outwardly, dear hank, i would," replied the woozy. "but to be really lovely, one must be beautiful without and within." the mule couldn't deny this statement, so he gave a disgusted grunt and rolled over so that his back was toward the woozy. but the lion, regarding the two calmly with his great, yellow eyes, said to the dog, "my dear toto, our friends have taught us a lesson in humility. if the woozy and the mule are indeed beautiful creatures as they seem to think, you and i must be decidedly ugly." "not to ourselves," protested toto, who was a shrewd little dog. "you and i, lion, are fine specimens of our own races. i am a fine dog, and you are a fine lion. only in point of comparison, one with another, can we be properly judged, so i will leave it to the poor old sawhorse to decide which is the most beautiful animal among us all. the sawhorse is wood, so he won't be prejudiced and will speak the truth." "i surely will," responded the sawhorse, wagging his ears, which were chips set in his wooden head. "are you all agreed to accept my judgment?" "we are!" they declared, each one hopeful. "then," said the sawhorse, "i must point out to you the fact that you are all meat creatures, who tire unless they sleep and starve unless they eat and suffer from thirst unless they drink. such animals must be very imperfect, and imperfect creatures cannot be beautiful. now, i am made of wood." "you surely have a wooden head," said the mule. "yes, and a wooden body and wooden legs, which are as swift as the wind and as tireless. i've heard dorothy say that 'handsome is as handsome does,' and i surely perform my duties in a handsome manner. therefore, if you wish my honest judgment, i will confess that among us all i am the most beautiful." the mule snorted, and the woozy laughed; toto had lost his growl and could only look scornfully at the sawhorse, who stood in his place unmoved. but the lion stretched himself and yawned, saying quietly, "were we all like the sawhorse, we would all be sawhorses, which would be too many of the kind. were we all like hank, we would be a herd of mules; if like toto, we would be a pack of dogs; should we all become the shape of the woozy, he would no longer be remarkable for his unusual appearance. finally, were you all like me, i would consider you so common that i would not care to associate with you. to be individual, my friends, to be different from others, is the only way to become distinguished from the common herd. let us be glad, therefore, that we differ from one another in form and in disposition. variety is the spice of life, and we are various enough to enjoy one another's society; so let us be content." "there is some truth in that speech," remarked toto reflectively. "but how about my lost growl?" "the growl is of importance only to you," responded the lion, "so it is your business to worry over the loss, not ours. if you love us, do not afflict your burdens on us; be unhappy all by yourself." "if the same person stole my growl who stole ozma," said the little dog, "i hope we shall find him very soon and punish him as he deserves. he must be the most cruel person in all the world, for to prevent a dog from growling when it is his nature to growl is just as wicked, in my opinion, as stealing all the magic in oz." chapter button-bright loses himself the patchwork girl, who never slept and who could see very well in the dark, had wandered among the rocks and bushes all night long, with the result that she was able to tell some good news the next morning. "over the crest of the hill before us," she said, "is a big grove of trees of many kinds on which all sorts of fruits grow. if you will go there, you will find a nice breakfast awaiting you." this made them eager to start, so as soon as the blankets were folded and strapped to the back of the sawhorse, they all took their places on the animals and set out for the big grove scraps had told them of. as soon as they got over the brow of the hill, they discovered it to be a really immense orchard, extending for miles to the right and left of them. as their way led straight through the trees, they hurried forward as fast as possible. the first trees they came to bore quinces, which they did not like. then there were rows of citron trees and then crab apples and afterward limes and lemons. but beyond these they found a grove of big, golden oranges, juicy and sweet, and the fruit hung low on the branches so they could pluck it easily. they helped themselves freely and all ate oranges as they continued on their way. then, a little farther along, they came to some trees bearing fine, red apples, which they also feasted on, and the wizard stopped here long enough to tie a lot of the apples in one end of a blanket. "we do not know what will happen to us after we leave this delightful orchard," he said, "so i think it wise to carry a supply of apples with us. we can't starve as long as we have apples, you know." scraps wasn't riding the woozy just now. she loved to climb the trees and swing herself by the branches from one tree to another. some of the choicest fruit was gathered by the patchwork girl from the very highest limbs and tossed down to the others. suddenly, trot asked, "where's button-bright?" and when the others looked for him, they found the boy had disappeared. "dear me!" cried dorothy. "i guess he's lost again, and that will mean our waiting here until we can find him." "it's a good place to wait," suggested betsy, who had found a plum tree and was eating some of its fruit. "how can you wait here and find button-bright at one and the same time?" inquired the patchwork girl, hanging by her toes on a limb just over the heads of the three mortal girls. "perhaps he'll come back here," answered dorothy. "if he tries that, he'll prob'ly lose his way," said trot. "i've known him to do that lots of times. it's losing his way that gets him lost." "very true," said the wizard. "so all the rest of you must stay here while i go look for the boy." "won't you get lost, too?" asked betsy. "i hope not, my dear." "let me go," said scraps, dropping lightly to the ground. "i can't get lost, and i'm more likely to find button-bright than any of you." without waiting for permission, she darted away through the trees and soon disappeared from their view. "dorothy," said toto, squatting beside his little mistress, "i've lost my growl." "how did that happen?" she asked. "i don't know," replied toto. "yesterday morning the woozy nearly stepped on me, and i tried to growl at him and found i couldn't growl a bit." "can you bark?" inquired dorothy. "oh, yes indeed." "then never mind the growl," said she. "but what will i do when i get home to the glass cat and the pink kitten?" asked the little dog in an anxious tone. "they won't mind if you can't growl at them, i'm sure," said dorothy. "i'm sorry for you, of course, toto, for it's just those things we can't do that we want to do most of all; but before we get back, you may find your growl again." "do you think the person who stole ozma stole my growl?" dorothy smiled. "perhaps, toto." "then he's a scoundrel!" cried the little dog. "anyone who would steal ozma is as bad as bad can be," agreed dorothy, "and when we remember that our dear friend, the lovely ruler of oz, is lost, we ought not to worry over just a growl." toto was not entirely satisfied with this remark, for the more he thought upon his lost growl, the more important his misfortune became. when no one was looking, he went away among the trees and tried his best to growl--even a little bit--but could not manage to do so. all he could do was bark, and a bark cannot take the place of a growl, so he sadly returned to the others. now button-bright had no idea that he was lost at first. he had merely wandered from tree to tree seeking the finest fruit until he discovered he was alone in the great orchard. but that didn't worry him just then, and seeing some apricot trees farther on, he went to them. then he discovered some cherry trees; just beyond these were some tangerines. "we've found 'most ev'ry kind of fruit but peaches," he said to himself, "so i guess there are peaches here, too, if i can find the trees." he searched here and there, paying no attention to his way, until he found that the trees surrounding him bore only nuts. he put some walnuts in his pockets and kept on searching, and at last--right among the nut trees--he came upon one solitary peach tree. it was a graceful, beautiful tree, but although it was thickly leaved, it bore no fruit except one large, splendid peach, rosy-cheeked and fuzzy and just right to eat. in his heart he doubted this statement, for this was a solitary peach tree, while all the other fruits grew upon many trees set close to one another; but that one luscious bite made him unable to resist eating the rest of it, and soon the peach was all gone except the pit. button-bright was about to throw this peach pit away when he noticed that it was of pure gold. of course, this surprised him, but so many things in the land of oz were surprising that he did not give much thought to the golden peach pit. he put it in his pocket, however, to show to the girls, and five minutes afterward had forgotten all about it. for now he realized that he was far separated from his companions, and knowing that this would worry them and delay their journey, he began to shout as loud as he could. his voice did not penetrate very far among all those trees, and after shouting a dozen times and getting no answer, he sat down on the ground and said, "well, i'm lost again. it's too bad, but i don't see how it can be helped." as he leaned his back against a tree, he looked up and saw a bluefinch fly down from the sky and alight upon a branch just before him. the bird looked and looked at him. first it looked with one bright eye and then turned its head and looked at him with the other eye. then, fluttering its wings a little, it said, "oho! so you've eaten the enchanted peach, have you?" "was it enchanted?" asked button-bright. "of course," replied the bluefinch. "ugu the shoemaker did that." "but why? and how was it enchanted? and what will happen to one who eats it?" questioned the boy. "ask ugu the shoemaker. he knows," said the bird, preening its feathers with its bill. "and who is ugu the shoemaker?" "the one who enchanted the peach and placed it here--in the exact center of the great orchard--so no one would ever find it. we birds didn't dare to eat it; we are too wise for that. but you are button-bright from the emerald city, and you, you, you ate the enchanted peach! you must explain to ugu the shoemaker why you did that." and then, before the boy could ask any more questions, the bird flew away and left him alone. button-bright was not much worried to find that the peach he had eaten was enchanted. it certainly had tasted very good, and his stomach didn't ache a bit. so again he began to reflect upon the best way to rejoin his friends. "whichever direction i follow is likely to be the wrong one," he said to himself, "so i'd better stay just where i am and let them find me--if they can." a white rabbit came hopping through the orchard and paused a little way off to look at him. "don't be afraid," said button-bright. "i won't hurt you." "oh, i'm not afraid for myself," returned the white rabbit. "it's you i'm worried about." "yes, i'm lost," said the boy. "i fear you are, indeed," answered the rabbit. "why on earth did you eat the enchanted peach?" the boy looked at the excited little animal thoughtfully. "there were two reasons," he explained. "one reason was that i like peaches, and the other reason was that i didn't know it was enchanted." "that won't save you from ugu the shoemaker," declared the white rabbit, and it scurried away before the boy could ask any more questions. "rabbits and birds," he thought, "are timid creatures and seem afraid of this shoemaker, whoever he may be. if there was another peach half as good as that other, i'd eat it in spite of a dozen enchantments or a hundred shoemakers!" just then, scraps came dancing along and saw him sitting at the foot of the tree. "oh, here you are!" she said. "up to your old tricks, eh? don't you know it's impolite to get lost and keep everybody waiting for you? come along, and i'll lead you back to dorothy and the others." button-bright rose slowly to accompany her. "that wasn't much of a loss," he said cheerfully. "i haven't been gone half a day, so there's no harm done." dorothy, however, when the boy rejoined the party, gave him a good scolding. "when we're doing such an important thing as searching for ozma," said she, "it's naughty for you to wander away and keep us from getting on. s'pose she's a pris'ner in a dungeon cell! do you want to keep our dear ozma there any longer than we can help?" "if she's in a dungeon cell, how are you going to get her out?" inquired the boy. "never you mind. we'll leave that to the wizard. he's sure to find a way." the wizard said nothing, for he realized that without his magic tools he could do no more than any other person. but there was no use reminding his companions of that fact; it might discourage them. "the important thing just now," he remarked, "is to find ozma, and as our party is again happily reunited, i propose we move on." as they came to the edge of the great orchard, the sun was setting and they knew it would soon be dark. so it was decided to camp under the trees, as another broad plain was before them. the wizard spread the blankets on a bed of soft leaves, and presently all of them except scraps and the sawhorse were fast asleep. toto snuggled close to his friend the lion, and the woozy snored so loudly that the patchwork girl covered his square head with her apron to deaden the sound. chapter the czarover of herku trot wakened just as the sun rose, and slipping out of the blankets, went to the edge of the great orchard and looked across the plain. something glittered in the far distance. "that looks like another city," she said half aloud. "and another city it is," declared scraps, who had crept to trot's side unheard, for her stuffed feet made no sound. "the sawhorse and i made a journey in the dark while you were all asleep, and we found over there a bigger city than thi. there's a wall around it, too, but it has gates and plenty of pathways." "did you get in?" asked trot. "no, for the gates were locked and the wall was a real wall. so we came back here again. it isn't far to the city. we can reach it in two hours after you've had your breakfasts." trot went back, and finding the other girls now awake, told them what scraps had said. so they hurriedly ate some fruit--there were plenty of plums and fijoas in this part of the orchard--and then they mounted the animals and set out upon the journey to the strange city. hank the mule had breakfasted on grass, and the lion had stolen away and found a breakfast to his liking; he never told what it was, but dorothy hoped the little rabbits and the field mice had kept out of his way. she warned toto not to chase birds and gave the dog some apple, with which he was quite content. the woozy was as fond of fruit as of any other food except honey, and the sawhorse never ate at all. except for their worry over ozma, they were all in good spirits as they proceeded swiftly over the plain. toto still worried over his lost growl, but like a wise little dog kept his worry to himself. before long, the city grew nearer and they could examine it with interest. in outward appearance the place was more imposing than thi, and it was a square city, with a square, four-sided wall around it, and on each side was a square gate of burnished copper. everything about the city looked solid and substantial; there were no banners flying, and the towers that rose above the city wall seemed bare of any ornament whatever. a path led from the fruit orchard directly to one of the city gates, showing that the inhabitants preferred fruit to thistles. our friends followed this path to the gate, which they found fast shut. but the wizard advanced and pounded upon it with his fist, saying in a loud voice, "open!" at once there rose above the great wall a row of immense heads, all of which looked down at them as if to see who was intruding. the size of these heads was astonishing, and our friends at once realized that they belonged to giants who were standing within the city. all had thick, bushy hair and whiskers, on some the hair being white and on others black or red or yellow, while the hair of a few was just turning gray, showing that the giants were of all ages. however fierce the heads might seem, the eyes were mild in expression, as if the creatures had been long subdued, and their faces expressed patience rather than ferocity. "what's wanted?" asked one old giant in a low, grumbling voice. "we are strangers, and we wish to enter the city," replied the wizard. "do you come in war or peace?" asked another. "in peace, of course," retorted the wizard, and he added impatiently, "do we look like an army of conquest?" "no," said the first giant who had spoken, "you look like innocent tramps; but you never can tell by appearances. wait here until we report to our masters. no one can enter here without the permission of vig, the czarover." "who's that?" inquired dorothy. but the heads had all bobbed down and disappeared behind the walls, so there was no answer. they waited a long time before the gate rolled back with a rumbling sound, and a loud voice cried, "enter!" but they lost no time in taking advantage of the invitation. on either side of the broad street that led into the city from the gate stood a row of huge giants, twenty of them on a side and all standing so close together that their elbows touched. they wore uniforms of blue and yellow and were armed with clubs as big around as treetrunks. each giant had around his neck a broad band of gold, riveted on, to show he was a slave. as our friends entered riding upon the lion, the woozy, the sawhorse and the mule, the giants half turned and walked in two files on either side of them, as if escorting them on their way. it looked to dorothy as if all her party had been made prisoners, for even mounted on their animals their heads scarcely reached to the knees of the marching giants. the girls and button-bright were anxious to know what sort of a city they had entered, and what the people were like who had made these powerful creatures their slaves. through the legs of the giants as they walked, dorothy could see rows of houses on each side of the street and throngs of people standing on the sidewalks, but the people were of ordinary size and the only remarkable thing about them was the fact that they were dreadfully lean and thin. between their skin and their bones there seemed to be little or no flesh, and they were mostly stoop-shouldered and weary looking, even to the little children. more and more, dorothy wondered how and why the great giants had ever submitted to become slaves of such skinny, languid masters, but there was no chance to question anyone until they arrived at a big palace located in the heart of the city. here the giants formed lines to the entrance and stood still while our friends rode into the courtyard of the palace. then the gates closed behind them, and before them was a skinny little man who bowed low and said in a sad voice, "if you will be so obliging as to dismount, it will give me pleasure to lead you into the presence of the world's most mighty ruler, vig the czarover." "i don't believe it!" said dorothy indignantly. "what don't you believe?" asked the man. "i don't believe your czarover can hold a candle to our ozma." "he wouldn't hold a candle under any circumstances, or to any living person," replied the man very seriously, "for he has slaves to do such things and the mighty vig is too dignified to do anything that others can do for him. he even obliges a slave to sneeze for him, if ever he catches cold. however, if you dare to face our powerful ruler, follow me." "we dare anything," said the wizard, "so go ahead." through several marble corridors having lofty ceilings they passed, finding each corridor and doorway guarded by servants. but these servants of the palace were of the people and not giants, and they were so thin that they almost resembled skeletons. finally, they entered a great circular room with a high, domed ceiling, where the czarover sat on a throne cut from a solid block of white marble and decorated with purple silk hangings and gold tassels. the ruler of these people was combing his eyebrows when our friends entered the throne room and stood before him, but he put the comb in his pocket and examined the strangers with evident curiosity. then he said, "dear me, what a surprise! you have really shocked me. for no outsider has ever before come to our city of herku, and i cannot imagine why you have ventured to do so." "we are looking for ozma, the supreme ruler of the land of oz," replied the wizard. "do you see her anywhere around here?" asked the czarover. "not yet, your majesty, but perhaps you may tell us where she is." "no, i have my hands full keeping track of my own people. i find them hard to manage because they are so tremendously strong." "they don't look very strong," said dorothy. "it seems as if a good wind would blow 'em way out of the city if it wasn't for the wall." "just so, just so," admitted the czarover. "they really look that way, don't they? but you must never trust to appearances, which have a way of fooling one. perhaps you noticed that i prevented you from meeting any of my people. i protected you with my giants while you were on the way from the gates to my palace so that not a herku got near you." "are your people so dangerous, then?" asked the wizard. "to strangers, yes. but only because they are so friendly. for if they shake hands with you, they are likely to break your arms or crush your fingers to a jelly." "why?" asked button-bright. "because we are the strongest people in all the world." "pshaw!" exclaimed the boy. "that's bragging. you prob'ly don't know how strong other people are. why, once i knew a man in philadelphi' who could bend iron bars with just his hands!" "but mercy me, it's no trick to bend iron bars," said his majesty. "tell me, could this man crush a block of stone with his bare hands?" "no one could do that," declared the boy. "if i had a block of stone, i'd show you," said the czarover, looking around the room. "ah, here is my throne. the back is too high, anyhow, so i'll just break off a piece of that." he rose to his feet and tottered in an uncertain way around the throne. then he took hold of the back and broke off a piece of marble over a foot thick. "this," said he, coming back to his seat, "is very solid marble and much harder than ordinary stone. yet i can crumble it easily with my fingers, a proof that i am very strong." even as he spoke, he began breaking off chunks of marble and crumbling them as one would a bit of earth. the wizard was so astonished that he took a piece in his own hands and tested it, finding it very hard indeed. just then one of the giant servants entered and exclaimed, "oh, your majesty, the cook has burned the soup! what shall we do?" "how dare you interrupt me?" asked the czarover, and grasping the immense giant by one of his legs, he raised him in the air and threw him headfirst out of an open window. "now, tell me," he said, turning to button-bright, "could your man in philadelphia crumble marble in his fingers?" "i guess not," said button-bright, much impressed by the skinny monarch's strength. "what makes you so strong?" inquired dorothy. "it's the zosozo," he explained, "which is an invention of my own. i and all my people eat zosozo, and it gives us tremendous strength. would you like to eat some?" "no thank you," replied the girl. "i--i don't want to get so thin." "well, of course one can't have strength and flesh at the same time," said the czarover. "zosozo is pure energy, and it's the only compound of its sort in existence. i never allow our giants to have it, you know, or they would soon become our masters, since they are bigger that we; so i keep all the stuff locked up in my private laboratory. once a year i feed a teaspoonful of it to each of my people--men, women and children--so every one of them is nearly as strong as i am. wouldn't you like a dose, sir?" he asked, turning to the wizard. "well," said the wizard, "if you would give me a little zosozo in a bottle, i'd like to take it with me on my travels. it might come in handy on occasion." "to be sure. i'll give you enough for six doses," promised the czarover. "but don't take more than a teaspoonful at a time. once ugu the shoemaker took two teaspoonsful, and it made him so strong that when he leaned against the city wall, he pushed it over, and we had to build it up again." "who is ugu the shoemaker?" button-bright curiously, for he now remembered that the bird and the rabbit had claimed ugu the shoemaker had enchanted the peach he had eaten. "why, ugu is a great magician who used to live here. but he's gone away now," replied the czarover. "where has he gone?" asked the wizard quickly. "i am told he lives in a wickerwork castle in the mountains to the west of here. you see, ugu became such a powerful magician that he didn't care to live in our city any longer for fear we would discover some of his secrets. so he went to the mountains and built him a splendid wicker castle which is so strong that even i and my people could not batter it down, and there he lives all by himself." "this is good news," declared the wizard, "for i think this is just the magician we are searching for. but why is he called ugu the shoemaker?" "once he was a very common citizen here and made shoes for a living," replied the monarch of herku. "but he was descended from the greatest wizard and sorcerer who ever lived in this or in any other country, and one day ugu the shoemaker discovered all the magical books and recipes of his famous great-grandfather, which had been hidden away in the attic of his house. so he began to study the papers and books and to practice magic, and in time he became so skillful that, as i said, he scorned our city and built a solitary castle for himself." "do you think," asked dorothy anxiously, "that ugu the shoemaker would be wicked enough to steal our ozma of oz?" "and the magic picture?" asked trot. "and the great book of records of glinda the good?" asked betsy. "and my own magic tools?" asked the wizard. "well," replied the czarover, "i won't say that ugu is wicked, exactly, but he is very ambitious to become the most powerful magician in the world, and so i suppose he would not be too proud to steal any magic things that belonged to anybody else--if he could manage to do so." "but how about ozma? why would he wish to steal her?" questioned dorothy. "don't ask me, my dear. ugu doesn't tell me why he does things, i assure you." "then we must go and ask him ourselves," declared the little girl. "i wouldn't do that if i were you," advised the czarover, looking first at the three girls and then at the boy and the little wizard and finally at the stuffed patchwork girl. "if ugu has really stolen your ozma, he will probably keep her a prisoner, in spite of all your threats or entreaties. and with all his magical knowledge he would be a dangerous person to attack. therefore, if you are wise, you will go home again and find a new ruler for the emerald city and the land of oz. but perhaps it isn't ugu the shoemaker who has stolen your ozma." "the only way to settle that question," replied the wizard, "is to go to ugu's castle and see if ozma is there. if she is, we will report the matter to the great sorceress glinda the good, and i'm pretty sure she will find a way to rescue our darling ruler from the shoemaker." "well, do as you please," said the czarover, "but if you are all transformed into hummingbirds or caterpillars, don't blame me for not warning you." they stayed the rest of that day in the city of herku and were fed at the royal table of the czarover and given sleeping rooms in his palace. the strong monarch treated them very nicely and gave the wizard a little golden vial of zosozo to use if ever he or any of his party wished to acquire great strength. even at the last, the czarover tried to persuade them not to go near ugu the shoemaker, but they were resolved on the venture, and the next morning bade the friendly monarch a cordial goodbye and, mounting upon their animals, left the herkus and the city of herku and headed for the mountains that lay to the west. chapter the truth pond it seems a long time since we have heard anything of the frogman and cayke the cookie cook, who had left the yip country in search of the diamond-studded dishpan which had been mysteriously stolen the same night that ozma had disappeared from the emerald city. but you must remember that while the frogman and the cookie cook were preparing to descend from their mountaintop, and even while on their way to the farmhouse of wiljon the winkie, dorothy and the wizard and their friends were encountering the adventures we have just related. so it was that on the very morning when the travelers from the emerald city bade farewell to the czarover of the city of herku, cayke and the frogman awoke in a grove in which they had passed the night sleeping on beds of leaves. there were plenty of farmhouses in the neighborhood, but no one seemed to welcome the puffy, haughty frogman or the little dried-up cookie cook, and so they slept comfortably enough underneath the trees of the grove. the frogman wakened first on this morning, and after going to the tree where cayke slept and finding her still wrapped in slumber, he decided to take a little walk and seek some breakfast. coming to the edge of the grove, he observed half a mile away a pretty yellow house that was surrounded by a yellow picket fence, so he walked toward this house and on entering the yard found a winkie woman picking up sticks with which to build a fire to cook her morning meal. "for goodness sake!" she exclaimed on seeing the frogman. "what are you doing out of your frog-pond?" "i am traveling in search of a jeweled gold dishpan, my good woman," he replied with an air of great dignity. "you won't find it here, then," said she. "our dishpans are tin, and they're good enough for anybody. so go back to your pond and leave me alone." she spoke rather crossly and with a lack of respect that greatly annoyed the frogman. "allow me to tell you, madam," said he, "that although i am a frog, i am the greatest and wisest frog in all the world. i may add that i possess much more wisdom than any winkie--man or woman--in this land. wherever i go, people fall on their knees before me and render homage to the great frogman! no one else knows so much as i; no one else is so grand, so magnificent!" "if you know so much," she retorted, "why don't you know where your dishpan is instead of chasing around the country after it?" "presently," he answered, "i am going where it is, but just now i am traveling and have had no breakfast. therefore i honor you by asking you for something to eat." "oho! the great frogman is hungry as any tramp, is he? then pick up these sticks and help me to build the fire," said the woman contemptuously. "me! the great frogman pick up sticks?" he exclaimed in horror. "in the yip country where i am more honored and powerful than any king could be, people weep with joy when i ask them to feed me." "then that's the place to go for your breakfast," declared the woman. "i fear you do not realize my importance," urged the frogman. "exceeding wisdom renders me superior to menial duties." "it's a great wonder to me," remarked the woman, carrying her sticks to the house, "that your wisdom doesn't inform you that you'll get no breakfast here." and she went in and slammed the door behind her. the frogman felt he had been insulted, so he gave a loud croak of indignation and turned away. after going a short distance, he came upon a faint path which led across a meadow in the direction of a grove of pretty trees, and thinking this circle of evergreens must surround a house where perhaps he would be kindly received, he decided to follow the path. and by and by he came to the trees, which were set close together, and pushing aside some branches he found no house inside the circle, but instead a very beautiful pond of clear water. now the frogman, although he was so big and well educated and now aped the ways and customs of human beings, was still a frog. as he gazed at this solitary, deserted pond, his love for water returned to him with irresistible force. "if i cannot get a breakfast, i may at least have a fine swim," said he, and pushing his way between the trees, he reached the bank. there he took off his fine clothing, laying his shiny purple hat and his gold-headed cane beside it. a moment later, he sprang with one leap into the water and dived to the very bottom of the pond. the water was deliciously cool and grateful to his thick, rough skin, and the frogman swam around the pond several times before he stopped to rest. then he floated upon the surface and examined the pond. the bottom and sides were all lined with glossy tiles of a light pink color; just one place in the bottom where the water bubbled up from a hidden spring had been left free. on the banks, the green grass grew to the edge of the pink tiling. and now, as the frogman examined the place, he found that on one side of the pool, just above the water line, had been set a golden plate on which some words were deeply engraved. he swam toward this plate, and on reaching it read the following inscription: _this is_ the truth pond _whoever bathes in this water must always afterward tell_ the truth. this statement startled the frogman. it even worried him, so that he leaped upon the bank and hurriedly began to dress himself. "a great misfortune has befallen me," he told himself, "for hereafter i cannot tell people i am wise, since it is not the truth. the truth is that my boasted wisdom is all a sham, assumed by me to deceive people and make them defer to me. in truth, no living creature can know much more than his fellows, for one may know one thing, and another know another thing, so that wisdom is evenly scattered throughout the world. but--ah me!--what a terrible fate will now be mine. even cayke the cookie cook will soon discover that my knowledge is no greater than her own, for having bathed in the enchanted water of the truth pond, i can no longer deceive her or tell a lie." more humbled than he had been for many years, the frogman went back to the grove where he had left cayke and found the woman now awake and washing her face in a tiny brook. "where has your honor been?" she asked. "to a farmhouse to ask for something to eat," said he, "but the woman refused me." "how dreadful!" she exclaimed. "but never mind, there are other houses where the people will be glad to feed the wisest creature in all the world." "do you mean yourself?" he asked. "no, i mean you." the frogman felt strongly impelled to tell the truth, but struggled hard against it. his reason told him there was no use in letting cayke know he was not wise, for then she would lose much respect for him, but each time he opened his mouth to speak, he realized he was about to tell the truth and shut it again as quickly as possible. he tried to talk about something else, but the words necessary to undeceive the woman would force themselves to his lips in spite of all his struggles. finally, knowing that he must either remain dumb or let the truth prevail, he gave a low groan of despair and said, "cayke, i am not the wisest creature in all the world; i am not wise at all." "oh, you must be!" she protested. "you told me so yourself, only last evening." "then last evening i failed to tell you the truth," he admitted, looking very shamefaced for a frog. "i am sorry i told you this lie, my good cayke, but if you must know the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, i am not really as wise as you are." the cookie cook was greatly shocked to hear this, for it shattered one of her most pleasing illusions. she looked at the gorgeously dressed frogman in amazement. "what has caused you to change your mind so suddenly?" she inquired. "i have bathed in the truth pond," he said, "and whoever bathes in that water is ever afterward obliged to tell the truth." "you were foolish to do that," declared the woman. "it is often very embarrassing to tell the truth. i'm glad i didn't bathe in that dreadful water!" the frogman looked at his companion thoughtfully. "cayke," said he, "i want you to go to the truth pond and take a bath in its water. for if we are to travel together and encounter unknown adventures, it would not be fair that i alone must always tell you the truth, while you could tell me whatever you pleased. if we both dip in the enchanted water, there will be no chance in the future of our deceiving one another." "no," she asserted, shaking her head positively, "i won't do it, your honor. for if i told you the truth, i'm sure you wouldn't like me. no truth pond for me. i'll be just as i am, an honest woman who can say what she wants to without hurting anyone's feelings." with this decision the frogman was forced to be content, although he was sorry the cookie cook would not listen to his advice. chapter the unhappy ferryman leaving the grove where they had slept, the frogman and the cookie cook turned to the east to seek another house, and after a short walk came to one where the people received them very politely. the children stared rather hard at the big, pompous frogman, but the woman of the house, when cayke asked for something to eat, at once brought them food and said they were welcome to it. "few people in need of help pass this way," she remarked, "for the winkies are all prosperous and love to stay in their own homes. but perhaps you are not a winkie," she added. "no," said cayke, "i am a yip, and my home is on a high mountain at the southeast of your country." "and the frogman, is he also a yip?" "i do not know what he is, other than a very remarkable and highly educated creature," replied the cookie cook. "but he has lived many years among the yips, who have found him so wise and intelligent that they always go to him for advice." "may i ask why you have left your home and where you are going?" said the winkie woman. then cayke told her of the diamond-studded gold dishpan and how it had been mysteriously stolen from her house, after which she had discovered that she could no longer cook good cookies. so she had resolved to search until she found her dishpan again, because a cookie cook who cannot cook good cookies is not of much use. the frogman, who had wanted to see more of the world, had accompanied her to assist in the search. when the woman had listened to this story, she asked, "then you have no idea as yet who has stolen your dishpan?" "i only know it must have been some mischievous fairy, or a magician, or some such powerful person, because none other could have climbed the steep mountain to the yip country. and who else could have carried away my beautiful magic dishpan without being seen?" the woman thought about this during the time that cayke and the frogman ate their breakfast. when they had finished, she said, "where are you going next?" "we have not decided," answered the cookie cook. "our plan," explained the frogman in his important way, "is to travel from place to place until we learn where the thief is located and then to force him to return the dishpan to its proper owner." "the plan is all right," agreed the woman, "but it may take you a long time before you succeed, your method being sort of haphazard and indefinite. however, i advise you to travel toward the east." "why?" asked the frogman. "because if you went west, you would soon come to the desert, and also because in this part of the winkie country no one steals, so your time here would be wasted. but toward the east, beyond the river, live many strange people whose honesty i would not vouch for. moreover, if you journey far enough east and cross the river for a second time, you will come to the emerald city, where there is much magic and sorcery. the emerald city is ruled by a dear little girl called ozma, who also rules the emperor of the winkies and all the land of oz. so, as ozma is a fairy, she may be able to tell you just who has taken your precious dishpan. provided, of course, you do not find it before you reach her." "this seems to be to be excellent advice," said the frogman, and cayke agreed with him. "the most sensible thing for you to do," continued the woman, "would be to return to your home and use another dishpan, learn to cook cookies as other people cook cookies, without the aid of magic. but if you cannot be happy without the magic dishpan you have lost, you are likely to learn more about it in the emerald city than at any other place in oz." they thanked the good woman, and on leaving her house faced the east and continued in that direction all the way. toward evening they came to the west branch of the winkie river and there, on the riverbank, found a ferryman who lived all alone in a little yellow house. this ferryman was a winkie with a very small head and a very large body. he was sitting in his doorway as the travelers approached him and did not even turn his head to look at them. "good evening," said the frogman. the ferryman made no reply. "we would like some supper and the privilege of sleeping in your house until morning," continued the frogman. "at daybreak, we would like some breakfast, and then we would like to have you row us across the river." the ferryman neither moved nor spoke. he sat in his doorway and looked straight ahead. "i think he must be deaf and dumb," cayke whispered to her companion. then she stood directly in front of the ferryman, and putting her mouth close to his ear, she yelled as loudly as she could, "good evening!" the ferryman scowled. "why do you yell at me, woman?" he asked. "can you hear what i say?" asked in her ordinary tone of voice. "of course," replied the man. "then why didn't you answer the frogman?" "because," said the ferryman, "i don't understand the frog language." "he speaks the same words that i do and in the same way," declared cayke. "perhaps," replied the ferryman, "but to me his voice sounded like a frog's croak. i know that in the land of oz animals can speak our language, and so can the birds and bugs and fishes; but in my ears, they sound merely like growls and chirps and croaks." "why is that?" asked the cookie cook in surprise. "once, many years ago, i cut the tail off a fox which had taunted me, and i stole some birds' eggs from a nest to make an omelet with, and also i pulled a fish from the river and left it lying on the bank to gasp for lack of water until it died. i don't know why i did those wicked things, but i did them. so the emperor of the winkies--who is the tin woodman and has a very tender tin heart--punished me by denying me any communication with beasts, birds or fishes. i cannot understand them when they speak to me, although i know that other people can do so, nor can the creatures understand a word i say to them. every time i meet one of them, i am reminded of my former cruelty, and it makes me very unhappy." "really," said cayke, "i'm sorry for you, although the tin woodman is not to blame for punishing you." "what is he mumbling about?" asked the frogman. "he is talking to me, but you don't understand him," she replied. and then she told him of the ferryman's punishment and afterward explained to the ferryman that they wanted to stay all night with him and be fed. he gave them some fruit and bread, which was the only sort of food he had, and he allowed cayke to sleep in a room of his cottage. but the frogman he refused to admit to his house, saying that the frog's presence made him miserable and unhappy. at no time would he look directly at the frogman, or even toward him, fearing he would shed tears if he did so; so the big frog slept on the riverbank where he could hear little frogs croaking in the river all the night through. but that did not keep him awake; it merely soothed him to slumber, for he realized how much superior he was to them. just as the sun was rising on a new day, the ferryman rowed the two travelers across the river--keeping his back to the frogman all the way--and then cayke thanked him and bade him goodbye and the ferryman rowed home again. on this side of the river, there were no paths at all, so it was evident they had reached a part of the country little frequented by travelers. there was a marsh at the south of them, sandhills at the north, and a growth of scrubby underbrush leading toward a forest at the east. so the east was really the least difficult way to go, and that direction was the one they had determined to follow. now the frogman, although he wore green patent-leather shoes with ruby buttons, had very large and flat feet, and when he tramped through the scrub, his weight crushed down the underbrush and made a path for cayke to follow him. therefore they soon reached the forest, where the tall trees were set far apart but were so leafy that they shaded all the spaces between them with their branches. "there are no bushes here," said cayke, much pleased, "so we can now travel faster and with more comfort." chapter the big lavender bear it was a pleasant place to wander, and the two travelers were proceeding at a brisk pace when suddenly a voice shouted, "halt!" they looked around in surprise, seeing at first no one at all. then from behind a tree there stepped a brown, fuzzy bear whose head came about as high as cayke's waist--and cayke was a small woman. the bear was chubby as well as fuzzy; his body was even puffy, while his legs and arms seemed jointed at the knees and elbows and fastened to his body by pins or rivets. his ears were round in shape and stuck out in a comical way, while his round, black eyes were bright and sparkling as beads. over his shoulder the little brown bear bore a gun with a tin barrel. the barrel had a cork in the end of it, and a string was attached to the cork and to the handle of the gun. both the frogman and cayke gazed hard at this curious bear, standing silent for some time. but finally the frogman recovered from his surprise and remarked, "it seems to me that you are stuffed with sawdust and ought not to be alive." "that's all you know about it," answered the little brown bear in a squeaky voice. "i am stuffed with a very good quality of curled hair, and my skin is the best plush that was ever made. as for my being alive, that is my own affair and cannot concern you at all, except that it gives me the privilege to say you are my prisoners." "prisoners! why do you speak such nonsense?" the frogman angrily. "do you think we are afraid of a toy bear with a toy gun?" "you ought to be," was the confident reply, "for i am merely the sentry guarding the way to bear center, which is a city containing hundreds of my race, who are ruled by a very powerful sorcerer known as the lavender bear. he ought to be a purple color, you know, seeing he is a king, but he's only light lavender, which is, of course, second cousin to royal purple. so unless you come with me peaceably as my prisoners, i shall fire my gun and bring a hundred bears of all sizes and colors to capture you." "why do you wish to capture us?" inquired the frogman, who had listened to his speech with much astonishment. "i don't wish to, as a matter of fact," replied the little brown bear, "but it is my duty to, because you are now trespassing on the domain of his majesty, the king of bear center. also, i will admit that things are rather quiet in our city just now, and the excitement of your capture, followed by your trial and execution, should afford us much entertainment." "we defy you!" said the frogman. "oh no, don't do that," pleaded cayke, speaking to her companion. "he says his king is a sorcerer, so perhaps it is he or one of his bears who ventured to steal my jeweled dishpan. let us go to the city of the bears and discover if my dishpan is there." "i must now register one more charge against you," remarked the little brown bear with evident satisfaction. "you have just accused us of stealing, and that is such a dreadful thing to say that i am quite sure our noble king will command you to be executed." "but how could you execute us?" inquired the cookie cook. "i've no idea. but our king is a wonderful inventor, and there is no doubt he can find a proper way to destroy you. so tell me, are you going to struggle, or will you go peaceably to meet your doom?" it was all so ridiculous that cayke laughed aloud, and even the frogman's wide mouth curled in a smile. neither was a bit afraid to go to the bear city, and it seemed to both that there was a possibility they might discover the missing dishpan. so the frogman said, "lead the way, little bear, and we will follow without a struggle." "that's very sensible of you, very sensible indeed," declared the brown bear. "so for-ward, march!" and with the command he turned around and began to waddle along a path that led between the trees. cayke and the frogman, as they followed their conductor, could scarce forbear laughing at his stiff, awkward manner of walking, and although he moved his stuffy legs fast, his steps were so short that they had to go slowly in order not to run into him. but after a time they reached a large, circular space in the center of the forest, which was clear of any stumps or underbrush. the ground was covered by a soft, gray moss, pleasant to tread upon. all the trees surrounding this space seemed to be hollow and had round holes in their trunks, set a little way above the ground, but otherwise there was nothing unusual about the place and nothing, in the opinion of the prisoners, to indicate a settlement. but the little brown bear said in a proud and impressive voice (although it still squeaked), "this is the wonderful city known to fame as bear center!" "but there are no houses, there are no bears living here at all!" exclaimed cayke. "oh indeed!" retorted their captor, and raising his gun he pulled the trigger. the cork flew out of the tin barrel with a loud "pop!" and at once from every hole in every tree within view of the clearing appeared the head of a bear. they were of many colors and of many sizes, but all were made in the same manner as the bear who had met and captured them. at first a chorus of growls arose, and then a sharp voice cried, "what has happened, corporal waddle?" "captives, your majesty!" answered the brown bear. "intruders upon our domain and slanderers of our good name." "ah, that's important," answered the voice. then from out the hollow trees tumbled a whole regiment of stuffed bears, some carrying tin swords, some popguns and others long spears with gay ribbons tied to the handles. there were hundreds of them, altogether, and they quietly formed a circle around the frogman and the cookie cook, but kept at a distance and left a large space for the prisoners to stand in. presently, this circle parted, and into the center of it stalked a huge toy bear of a lovely lavender color. he walked upon his hind legs, as did all the others, and on his head he wore a tin crown set with diamonds and amethysts, while in one paw he carried a short wand of some glittering metal that resembled silver but wasn't. "his majesty the king!" corporal waddle, and all the bears bowed low. some bowed so low that they lost their balance and toppled over, but they soon scrambled up again, and the lavender king squatted on his haunches before the prisoners and gazed at them steadily with his bright, pink eyes. chapter the little pink bear "one person and one freak," said the big lavender bear when he had carefully examined the strangers. "i am sorry to hear you call poor cayke the cookie cook a freak," remonstrated the frogman. "she is the person," asserted the king. "unless i am mistaken, it is you who are the freak." the frogman was silent, for he could not truthfully deny it. "why have you dared intrude in my forest?" demanded the bear king. "we didn't know it was your forest," said cayke, "and we are on our way to the far east, where the emerald city is." "ah, it's a long way from here to the emerald city," remarked the king. "it is so far away, indeed, that no bear among us has even been there. but what errand requires you to travel such a distance?" "someone has stolen my diamond-studded gold dishpan," explained cayke, "and as i cannot be happy without it, i have decided to search the world over until i find it again. the frogman, who is very learned and wonderfully wise, has come with me to give me his assistance. isn't it kind of him?" the king looked at the frogman. "what makes you so wonderfully wise?" he asked. "i'm not," was the candid reply. "the cookie cook and some others in the yip country think because i am a big frog and talk and act like a man that i must be very wise. i have learned more than a frog usually knows, it is true, but i am not yet so wise as i hope to become at some future time." the king nodded, and when he did so, something squeaked in his chest. "did your majesty speak?" asked cayke. "not just then," answered the lavender bear, seeming to be somewhat embarrassed. "i am so built, you must know, that when anything pushes against my chest, as my chin accidentally did just then, i make that silly noise. in this city it isn't considered good manners to notice. but i like your frogman. he is honest and truthful, which is more than can be said of many others. as for your late lamented dishpan, i'll show it to you." with this he waved three times the metal wand which he held in his paw, and instantly there appeared upon the ground midway between the king and cayke a big, round pan made of beaten gold. around the top edge was a row of small diamonds; around the center of the pan was another row of larger diamonds; and at the bottom was a row of exceedingly large and brilliant diamonds. in fact, they all sparkled magnificently, and the pan was so big and broad that it took a lot of diamonds to go around it three times. cayke stared so hard that her eyes seemed about to pop out of her head. "o-o-o-h!" she exclaimed, drawing a deep breath of delight. "is this your dishpan?" inquired the king. "it is, it is!" cried the cookie cook, and rushing forward, she fell on her knees and threw her arms around the precious pan. but her arms came together without meeting any resistance at all. cayke tried to seize the edge, but found nothing to grasp. the pan was surely there, she thought, for she could see it plainly; but it was not solid; she could not feel it at all. with a moan of astonishment and despair, she raised her head to look at the bear king, who was watching her actions curiously. then she turned to the pan again, only to find it had completely disappeared. "poor creature!" murmured the king pityingly. "you must have thought, for the moment, that you had actually recovered your dishpan. but what you saw was merely the image of it, conjured up by means of my magic. it is a pretty dishpan, indeed, though rather big and awkward to handle. i hope you will some day find it." cayke was grievously disappointed. she began to cry, wiping her eyes on her apron. the king turned to the throng of toy bears surrounding him and asked, "has any of you ever seen this golden dishpan before?" "no," they answered in a chorus. the king seemed to reflect. presently he inquired, "where is the little pink bear?" "at home, your majesty," was the reply. "fetch him here," commanded the king. several of the bears waddled over to one of the trees and pulled from its hollow a tiny pink bear, smaller than any of the others. a big, white bear carried the pink one in his arms and set it down beside the king, arranging the joints of its legs so that it would stand upright. this pink bear seemed lifeless until the king turned a crank which protruded from its side, when the little creature turned its head stiffly from side to side and said in a small, shrill voice, "hurrah for the king of bear center!" "very good," said the big lavender bear. "he seems to be working very well today. tell me, my pink pinkerton, what has become of this lady's jeweled dishpan?" "u-u-u," said the pink bear, and then stopped short. the king turned the crank again. "u-g-u the shoemaker has it," said the pink bear. "who is ugu the shoemaker?" demanded the king, again turning the crank. "a magician who lives on a mountain in a wickerwork castle," was the reply. "where is the mountain?" was the next question. "nineteen miles and three furlongs from bear center to the northeast." "and is the dishpan still at the castle of ugu the shoemaker?" asked the king. "it is." the king turned to cayke. "you may rely on this information," said he. "the pink bear can tell us anything we wish to know, and his words are always words of truth." "is he alive?" asked the frogman, much interested in the pink bear. "something animates him when you turn his crank," replied the king. "i do not know if it is life or what it is or how it happens that the little pink bear can answer correctly every question put to him. we discovered his talent a long time ago, and whenever we wish to know anything--which is not very often--we ask the pink bear. there is no doubt whatever, madam, that ugu the magician has your dishpan, and if you dare to go to him, you may be able to recover it. but of that i am not certain." "can't the pink bear tell?" asked cayke anxiously. "no, for that is in the future. he can tell anything that has happened, but nothing that is going to happen. don't ask me why, for i don't know." "well," said the cookie cook after a little thought, "i mean to go to this magician, anyhow, and tell him i want my dishpan. i wish i knew what ugu the shoemaker is like." "then i'll show him to you," promised the king. "but do not be frightened. it won't be ugu, remember, but only his image." with this, he waved his metal wand, and in the circle suddenly appeared a thin little man, very old and skinny, who was seated on a wicker stool before a wicker table. on the table lay a great book with gold clasps. the book was open, and the man was reading in it. he wore great spectacles which were fastened before his eyes by means of a ribbon that passed around his head and was tied in a bow at the neck. his hair was very thin and white; his skin, which clung fast to his bones, was brown and seared with furrows; he had a big, fat nose and little eyes set close together. on no account was ugu the shoemaker a pleasant person to gaze at. as his image appeared before them, all were silent and intent until corporal waddle, the brown bear, became nervous and pulled the trigger of his gun. instantly, the cork flew out of the tin barrel with a loud "pop!" that made them all jump. and at this sound, the image of the magician vanished. "so that's the thief, is it?" said cayke in an angry voice. "i should think he'd be ashamed of himself for stealing a poor woman's diamond dishpan! but i mean to face him in his wicker castle and force him to return my property." "to me," said the bear king reflectively, "he looked like a dangerous person. i hope he won't be so unkind as to argue the matter with you." the frogman was much disturbed by the vision of ugu the shoemaker, and cayke's determination to go to the magician filled her companion with misgivings. but he would not break his pledged word to assist the cookie cook, and after breathing a deep sigh of resignation, he asked the king, "will your majesty lend us this pink bear who answers questions that we may take him with us on our journey? he would be very useful to us, and we will promise to bring him safely back to you." the king did not reply at once. he seemed to be thinking. "please let us take the pink bear," begged cayke. "i'm sure he would be a great help to us." "the pink bear," said the king, "is the best bit of magic i possess, and there is not another like him in the world. i do not care to let him out of my sight, nor do i wish to disappoint you; so i believe i will make the journey in your company and carry my pink bear with me. he can walk when you wind the other side of him, but so slowly and awkwardly that he would delay you. but if i go along, i can carry him in my arms, so i will join your party. whenever you are ready to start, let me know." "but your majesty!" exclaimed corporal waddle in protest, "i hope you do not intend to let these prisoners escape without punishment." "of what crime do you accuse them?" inquired the king. "why, they trespassed on your domain, for one thing," said the brown bear. "we didn't know it was private property, your majesty," said the cookie cook. "and they asked if any of us had stolen the dishpan!" continued corporal waddle indignantly. "that is the same thing as calling us thieves and robbers and bandits and brigands, is it not?" "every person has the right to ask questions," said the frogman. "but the corporal is quite correct," declared the lavender bear. "i condemn you both to death, the execution to take place ten years from this hour." "but we belong in the land of oz, where no one ever dies," cayke reminded him. "very true," said the king. "i condemn you to death merely as a matter of form. it sounds quite terrible, and in ten years we shall have forgotten all about it. are you ready to start for the wicker castle of ugu the shoemaker?" "quite ready, your majesty." "but who will rule in your place while you are gone?" asked a big yellow bear. "i myself will rule while i am gone," was the reply. "a king isn't required to stay at home forever, and if he takes a notion to travel, whose business is it but his own? all i ask is that you bears behave yourselves while i am away. if any of you is naughty, i'll send him to some girl or boy in america to play with." this dreadful threat made all the toy bears look solemn. they assured the king in a chorus of growls that they would be good. then the big lavender bear picked up the little pink bear, and after tucking it carefully under one arm, he said, "goodbye till i come back!" and waddled along the path that led through the forest. the frogman and cayke the cookie cook also said goodbye to the bears and then followed after the king, much to the regret of the little brown bear, who pulled the trigger of his gun and popped the cork as a parting salute. chapter the meeting while the frogman and his party were advancing from the west, dorothy and her party were advancing from the east, and so it happened that on the following night they all camped at a little hill that was only a few miles from the wicker castle of ugu the shoemaker. but the two parties did not see one another that night, for one camped on one side of the hill while the other camped on the opposite side. but the next morning, the frogman thought he would climb the hill and see what was on top of it, and at the same time scraps, the patchwork girl, also decided to climb the hill to find if the wicker castle was visible from its top. so she stuck her head over an edge just as the frogman's head appeared over another edge, and both, being surprised, kept still while they took a good look at one another. scraps recovered from her astonishment first, and bounding upward, she turned a somersault and landed sitting down and facing the big frogman, who slowly advanced and sat opposite her. "well met, stranger!" cried the patchwork girl with a whoop of laughter. "you are quite the funniest individual i have seen in all my travels." "do you suppose i can be any funnier than you?" asked the frogman, gazing at her in wonder. "i'm not funny to myself, you know," returned scraps. "i wish i were. and perhaps you are so used to your own absurd shape that you do not laugh whenever you see your reflection in a pool or in a mirror." "no," said the frogman gravely, "i do not. i used to be proud of my great size and vain of my culture and education, but since i bathed in the truth pond, i sometimes think it is not right that i should be different from all other frogs." "right or wrong," said the patchwork girl, "to be different is to be distinguished. now in my case, i'm just like all other patchwork girls because i'm the only one there is. but tell me, where did you come from?" "the yip country," said he. "is that in the land of oz?" "of course," replied the frogman. "and do you know that your ruler, ozma of oz, has been stolen?" "i was not aware that i had a ruler, so of course i couldn't know that she was stolen." "well, you have. all the people of oz," explained scraps, "are ruled by ozma, whether they know it or not. and she has been stolen. aren't you angry? aren't you indignant? your ruler, whom you didn't know you had, has positively been stolen!" "that is queer," remarked the frogman thoughtfully. "stealing is a thing practically unknown in oz, yet this ozma has been taken, and a friend of mine has also had her dishpan stolen. with her i have traveled all the way from the yip country in order to recover it." "i don't see any connection between a royal ruler of oz and a dishpan!" declared scraps. "they've both been stolen, haven't they?" "true. but why can't your friend wash her dishes in another dishpan?" asked scraps. "why can't you use another royal ruler? i suppose you prefer the one who is lost, and my friend wants her own dishpan, which is made of gold and studded with diamonds and has magic powers." "magic, eh?" exclaimed scraps. "there is a link that connects the two steals, anyhow, for it seems that all the magic in the land of oz was stolen at the same time, whether it was in the emerald city of in glinda's castle or in the yip country. seems mighty strange and mysterious, doesn't it?" "it used to seem that way to me," admitted the frogman, "but we have now discovered who took our dishpan. it was ugu the shoemaker." "ugu? good gracious! that's the same magician we think has stolen ozma. we are now on our way to the castle of this shoemaker." "so are we," said the frogman. "then follow me, quick! and let me introduce you to dorothy and the other girls and to the wizard of oz and all the rest of us." she sprang up and seized his coatsleeve, dragging him off the hilltop and down the other side from that whence he had come. and at the foot of the hill, the frogman was astonished to find the three girls and the wizard and button-bright, who were surrounded by a wooden sawhorse, a lean mule, a square woozy, and a cowardly lion. a little black dog ran up and smelled at the frogman, but couldn't growl at him. "i've discovered another party that has been robbed," shouted scraps as she joined them. "this is their leader, and they're all going to ugu's castle to fight the wicked shoemaker!" they regarded the frogman with much curiosity and interest, and finding all eyes fixed upon him, the newcomer arranged his necktie and smoothed his beautiful vest and swung his gold-headed cane like a regular dandy. the big spectacles over his eyes quite altered his froglike countenance and gave him a learned and impressive look. used as she was to seeing strange creatures in the land of oz, dorothy was amazed at discovering the frogman. so were all her companions. toto wanted to growl at him, but couldn't, and he didn't dare bark. the sawhorse snorted rather contemptuously, but the lion whispered to the wooden steed, "bear with this strange creature, my friend, and remember he is no more extraordinary than you are. indeed, it is more natural for a frog to be big than for a sawhorse to be alive." on being questioned, the frogman told them the whole story of the loss of cayke's highly prized dishpan and their adventures in search of it. when he came to tell of the lavender bear king and of the little pink bear who could tell anything you wanted to know, his hearers became eager to see such interesting animals. "it will be best," said the wizard, "to unite our two parties and share our fortunes together, for we are all bound on the same errand, and as one band we may more easily defy this shoemaker magician than if separate. let us be allies." "i will ask my friends about that," replied the frogman, and he climbed over the hill to find cayke and the toy bears. the patchwork girl accompanied him, and when they came upon the cookie cook and the lavender bear and the pink bear, it was hard to tell which of the lot was the most surprised. "mercy me!" cried cayke, addressing the patchwork girl. "however did you come alive?" scraps stared at the bears. "mercy me!" she echoed, "you are stuffed, as i am, with cotton, and you appear to be living. that makes me feel ashamed, for i have prided myself on being the only live cotton-stuffed person in oz." "perhaps you are," returned the lavender bear, "for i am stuffed with extra-quality curled hair, and so is the little pink bear." "you have relieved my mind of a great anxiety," declared the patchwork girl, now speaking more cheerfully. "the scarecrow is stuffed with straw and you with hair, so i am still the original and only cotton-stuffed!" "i hope i am too polite to criticize cotton as compared with curled hair," said the king, "especially as you seem satisfied with it." then the frogman told of his interview with the party from the emerald city and added that the wizard of oz had invited the bears and cayke and himself to travel in company with them to the castle of ugu the shoemaker. cayke was much pleased, but the bear king looked solemn. he set the little pink bear on his lap and turned the crank in its side and asked, "is it safe for us to associate with those people from the emerald city?" and the pink bear at once replied, "safe for you and safe for me; perhaps no others safe will be." "that 'perhaps' need not worry us," said the king, "so let us join the others and offer them our protection." even the lavender bear was astonished, however, when on climbing over the hill he found on the other side the group of queer animals and the people from the emerald city. the bears and cayke were received very cordially, although button-bright was cross when they wouldn't let him play with the little pink bear. the three girls greatly admired the toy bears, and especially the pink one, which they longed to hold. "you see," explained the lavender king in denying them this privilege, "he's a very valuable bear, because his magic is a correct guide on all occasions, and especially if one is in difficulties. it was the pink bear who told us that ugu the shoemaker had stolen the cookie cook's dishpan." "and the king's magic is just as wonderful," added cayke, "because it showed us the magician himself." "what did he look like?" inquired dorothy. "he was dreadful!" "he was sitting at a table and examining an immense book which had three golden clasps," remarked the king. "why, that must have been glinda's great book of records!" exclaimed dorothy. "if it is, it proves that ugu the shoemaker stole ozma, and with her all the magic in the emerald city." "and my dishpan," said cayke. and the wizard added, "it also proves that he is following our adventures in the book of records, and therefore knows that we are seeking him and that we are determined to find him and reach ozma at all hazards." "if we can," added the woozy, but everybody frowned at him. the wizard's statement was so true that the faces around him were very serious until the patchwork girl broke into a peal of laughter. "wouldn't it be a rich joke if he made prisoners of us, too?" she said. "no one but a crazy patchwork girl would consider that a joke," grumbled button-bright. and then the lavender bear king asked, "would you like to see this magical shoemaker?" "wouldn't he know it?" dorothy inquired. "no, i think not." then the king waved his metal wand and before them appeared a room in the wicker castle of ugu. on the wall of the room hung ozma's magic picture, and seated before it was the magician. they could see the picture as well as he could, because it faced them, and in the picture was the hillside where they were now sitting, all their forms being reproduced in miniature. and curiously enough, within the scene of the picture was the scene they were now beholding, so they knew that the magician was at this moment watching them in the picture, and also that he saw himself and the room he was in become visible to the people on the hillside. therefore he knew very well that they were watching him while he was watching them. in proof of this, ugu sprang from his seat and turned a scowling face in their direction; but now he could not see the travelers who were seeking him, although they could still see him. his actions were so distinct, indeed, that it seemed he was actually before them. "it is only a ghost," said the bear king. "it isn't real at all except that it shows us ugu just as he looks and tells us truly just what he is doing." "i don't see anything of my lost growl, though," said toto as if to himself. then the vision faded away, and they could see nothing but the grass and trees and bushes around them. chapter the conference "now then," said the wizard, "let us talk this matter over and decide what to do when we get to ugu's wicker castle. there can be no doubt that the shoemaker is a powerful magician, and his powers have been increased a hundredfold since he secured the great book of records, the magic picture, all of glinda's recipes for sorcery, and my own black bag, which was full of tools of wizardry. the man who could rob us of those things and the man with all their powers at his command is one who may prove somewhat difficult to conquer, therefore we should plan our actions well before we venture too near to his castle." "i didn't see ozma in the magic picture," said trot. "what do you suppose ugu has done with her?" "couldn't the little pink bear tell us what he did with ozma?" asked button-bright. "to be sure," replied the lavender king. "i'll ask him." so he turned the crank in the little pink bear's side and inquired, "did ugu the shoemaker steal ozma of oz?" "yes," answered the little pink bear. "then what did he do with her?" asked the king. "shut her up in a dark place," answered the little pink bear. "oh, that must be a dungeon cell!" cried dorothy, horrified. "how dreadful!" "well, we must get her out of it," said the wizard. "that is what we came for, and of course we must rescue ozma. but how?" each one looked at some other one for an answer, and all shook their heads in a grave and dismal manner. all but scraps, who danced around them gleefully. "you're afraid," said the patchwork girl, "because so many things can hurt your meat bodies. why don't you give it up and go home? how can you fight a great magician when you have nothing to fight with?" dorothy looked at her reflectively. "scraps," said she, "you know that ugu couldn't hurt you a bit, whatever he did, nor could he hurt me, 'cause i wear the gnome king's magic belt. s'pose just we two go on together and leave the others here to wait for us." "no, no!" said the wizard positively. "that won't do at all. ozma is more powerful than either of you, yet she could not defeat the wicked ugu, who has shut her up in a dungeon. we must go to the shoemaker in one mighty band, for only in union is there strength." "that is excellent advice," said the lavender bear approvingly. "but what can we do when we get to ugu?" inquired the cookie cook anxiously. "do not expect a prompt answer to that important question," replied the wizard, "for we must first plan our line of conduct. ugu knows, of course, that we are after him, for he has seen our approach in the magic picture, and he has read of all we have done up to the present moment in the great book of records. therefore we cannot expect to take him by surprise." "don't you suppose ugu would listen to reason?" asked betsy. "if we explained to him how wicked he has been, don't you think he'd let poor ozma go?" "and give me back my dishpan?" added the cookie cook eagerly. "yes, yes, won't he say he's sorry and get on his knees and beg our pardon?" cried scraps, turning a flip-flop to show her scorn of the suggestion. "when ugu the shoemaker does that, please knock at the front door and let me know." the wizard sighed and rubbed his bald head with a puzzled air. "i'm quite sure ugu will not be polite to us," said he, "so we must conquer this cruel magician by force, much as we dislike to be rude to anyone. but none of you has yet suggested a way to do that. couldn't the little pink bear tell us how?" he asked, turning to the bear king. "no, for that is something that is going to happen," replied the lavender bear. "he can only tell us what already has happened." again, they were grave and thoughtful. but after a time, betsy said in a hesitating voice, "hank is a great fighter. perhaps he could conquer the magician." the mule turned his head to look reproachfully at his old friend, the young girl. "who can fight against magic?" he asked. "the cowardly lion could," said dorothy. the lion, who was lying with his front legs spread out, his chin on his paws, raised his shaggy head. "i can fight when i'm not afraid," said he calmly, "but the mere mention of a fight sets me to trembling." "ugu's magic couldn't hurt the sawhorse," suggested tiny trot. "and the sawhorse couldn't hurt the magician," declared that wooden animal. "for my part," said toto, "i am helpless, having lost my growl." "then," said cayke the cookie cook, "we must depend upon the frogman. his marvelous wisdom will surely inform him how to conquer the wicked magician and restore to me my dishpan." all eyes were now turned questioningly upon the frogman. finding himself the center of observation, he swung his gold-headed cane, adjusted his big spectacles, and after swelling out his chest, sighed and said in a modest tone of voice: "respect for truth obliges me to confess that cayke is mistaken in regard to my superior wisdom. i am not very wise. neither have i had any practical experience in conquering magicians. but let us consider this case. what is ugu, and what is a magician? ugu is a renegade shoemaker, and a magician is an ordinary man who, having learned how to do magical tricks, considers himself above his fellows. in this case, the shoemaker has been naughty enough to steal a lot of magical tools and things that did not belong to him, and he is more wicked to steal than to be a magician. yet with all the arts at his command, ugu is still a man, and surely there are ways in which a man may be conquered. how, do you say, how? allow me to state that i don't know. in my judgment, we cannot decide how best to act until we get to ugu's castle. so let us go to it and take a look at it. after that, we may discover an idea that will guide us to victory." "that may not be a wise speech, but it sounds good," said dorothy approvingly. "ugu the shoemaker is not only a common man, but he's a wicked man and a cruel man and deserves to be conquered. we mustn't have any mercy on him till ozma is set free. so let's go to his castle as the frogman says and see what the place looks like." no one offered any objection to this plan, and so it was adopted. they broke camp and were about to start on the journey to ugu's castle when they discovered that button-bright was lost again. the girls and the wizard shouted his name, and the lion roared and the donkey brayed and the frogman croaked and the big lavender bear growled (to the envy of toto, who couldn't growl but barked his loudest), yet none of them could make button-bright hear. so after vainly searching for the boy a full hour, they formed a procession and proceeded in the direction of the wicker castle of ugu the shoemaker. "button-bright's always getting lost," said dorothy. "and if he wasn't always getting found again, i'd prob'ly worry. he may have gone ahead of us, and he may have gone back, but wherever he is, we'll find him sometime and somewhere, i'm almost sure." chapter ugu the shoemaker a curious thing about ugu the shoemaker was that he didn't suspect in the least that he was wicked. he wanted to be powerful and great, and he hoped to make himself master of all the land of oz that he might compel everyone in that fairy country to obey him, his ambition blinded him to the rights of others, and he imagined anyone else would act just as he did if anyone else happened to be as clever as himself. when he inhabited his little shoemaking shop in the city of herku, he had been discontented, for a shoemaker is not looked upon with high respect, and ugu knew that his ancestors had been famous magicians for many centuries past and therefore his family was above the ordinary. even his father practiced magic when ugu was a boy, but his father had wandered away from herku and had never come back again. so when ugu grew up, he was forced to make shoes for a living, knowing nothing of the magic of his forefathers. but one day, in searching through the attic of his house, he discovered all the books of magical recipes and many magical instruments which had formerly been in use in his family. from that day, he stopped making shoes and began to study magic. finally, he aspired to become the greatest magician in oz, and for days and weeks and months he thought on a plan to render all the other sorcerers and wizards, as well as those with fairy powers, helpless to oppose him. from the books of his ancestors, he learned the following facts: ( ) that ozma of oz was the fairy ruler of the emerald city and the land of oz and that she could not be destroyed by any magic ever devised. also, by means of her magic picture she would be able to discover anyone who approached her royal palace with the idea of conquering it. ( ) that glinda the good was the most powerful sorceress in oz, among her other magical possessions being the great book of records, which told her all that happened anywhere in the world. this book of records was very dangerous to ugu's plans, and glinda was in the service of ozma and would use her arts of sorcery to protect the girl ruler. ( ) that the wizard of oz, who lived in ozma's palace, had been taught much powerful magic by glinda and had a bag of magic tools with which he might be able to conquer the shoemaker. ( ) that there existed in oz--in the yip country--a jeweled dishpan made of gold, which dishpan would grow large enough for a man to sit inside it. then, when he grasped both the golden handles, the dishpan would transport him in an instant to any place he wished to go within the borders of the land of oz. no one now living except ugu knew of the powers of the magic dishpan, so after long study, the shoemaker decided that if he could manage to secure the dishpan, he could by its means rob ozma and glinda and the wizard of oz of all their magic, thus becoming himself the most powerful person in all the land. his first act was to go away from the city of herku and build for himself the wicker castle in the hills. here he carried his books and instruments of magic, and here for a full year he diligently practiced all the magical arts learned from his ancestors. at the end of that time, he could do a good many wonderful things. then, when all his preparations were made, he set out for the yip country, and climbing the steep mountain at night he entered the house of cayke the cookie cook and stole her diamond-studded gold dishpan while all the yips were asleep, taking his prize outside, he set the pan upon the ground and uttered the required magic word. instantly, the dishpan grew as large as a big washtub, and ugu seated himself in it and grasped the two handles. then he wished himself in the great drawing room of glinda the good. he was there in a flash. first he took the great book of records and put it in the dishpan. then he went to glinda's laboratory and took all her rare chemical compounds and her instruments of sorcery, placing these also in the dishpan, which he caused to grow large enough to hold them. next he seated himself amongst the treasures he had stolen and wished himself in the room in ozma's palace which the wizard occupied and where he kept his bag of magic tools. this bag ugu added to his plunder and then wished himself in the apartments of ozma. here he first took the magic picture from the wall and then seized all the other magical things which ozma possessed. having placed these in the dishpan, he was about to climb in himself when he looked up and saw ozma standing beside him. her fairy instinct had warned her that danger was threatening her, so the beautiful girl ruler rose from her couch and leaving her bedchamber at once confronted the thief. ugu had to think quickly, for he realized that if he permitted ozma to rouse the inmates of her palace, all his plans and his present successes were likely to come to naught. so he threw a scarf over the girl's head so she could not scream, and pushed her into the dishpan and tied her fast so she could not move. then he climbed in beside her and wished himself in his own wicker castle. the magic dishpan was there in an instant, with all its contents, and ugu rubbed his hands together in triumphant joy as he realized that he now possessed all the important magic in the land of oz and could force all the inhabitants of that fairyland to do as he willed. so quickly had his journey been accomplished that before daylight the robber magician had locked ozma in a room, making her a prisoner, and had unpacked and arranged all his stolen goods. the next day he placed the book of records on his table and hung the magic picture on his wall and put away in his cupboards and drawers all the elixirs and magic compounds he had stolen. the magical instruments he polished and arranged, and this was fascinating work and made him very happy. by turns the imprisoned ruler wept and scolded the shoemaker, haughtily threatening him with dire punishment for the wicked deeds he had done. ugu became somewhat afraid of his fairy prisoner, in spite of the fact that he believed he had robbed her of all her powers; so he performed an enchantment that quickly disposed of her and placed her out of his sight and hearing. after that, being occupied with other things, he soon forgot her. but now, when he looked into the magic picture and read the great book of records, the shoemaker learned that his wickedness was not to go unchallenged. two important expeditions had set out to find him and force him to give up his stolen property. one was the party headed by the wizard and dorothy, while the other consisted of cayke and the frogman. others were also searching, but not in the right places. these two groups, however, were headed straight for the wicker castle, and so ugu began to plan how best to meet them and to defeat their efforts to conquer him. chapter more surprises all that first day after the union of the two parties, our friends marched steadily toward the wicker castle of ugu the shoemaker. when night came, they camped in a little grove and passed a pleasant evening together, although some of them were worried because button-bright was still lost. "perhaps," said toto as the animals lay grouped together for the night, "this shoemaker who stole my growl and who stole ozma has also stolen button-bright." "how do you know that the shoemaker stole your growl?" demanded the woozy. "he has stolen about everything else of value in oz, hasn't he?" replied the dog. "he has stolen everything he wants, perhaps," agreed the lion, "but what could anyone want with your growl?" "well," said the dog, wagging his tail slowly, "my recollection is that it was a wonderful growl, soft and low and--and--" "and ragged at the edges," said the sawhorse. "so," continued toto, "if that magician hadn't any growl of his own, he might have wanted mine and stolen it." "and if he has, he will soon wish he hadn't," remarked the mule. "also, if he has stolen button-bright, he will be sorry." "don't you like button-bright, then?" asked the lion in surprise. "it isn't a question of liking him," replied the mule. "it's a question of watching him and looking after him. any boy who causes his friends so much worry isn't worth having around. i never get lost." "if you did," said toto, "no one would worry a bit. i think button-bright is a very lucky boy because he always gets found." "see here," said the lion, "this chatter is keeping us all awake, and tomorrow is likely to be a busy day. go to sleep and forget your quarrels." "friend lion," retorted the dog, "if i hadn't lost my growl, you would hear it now. i have as much right to talk as you have to sleep." the lion sighed. "if only you had lost your voice when you lost your growl," said he, "you would be a more agreeable companion." but they quieted down after that, and soon the entire camp was wrapped in slumber. next morning they made an early start, but had hardly proceeded on their way an hour when, on climbing a slight elevation, they beheld in the distance a low mountain on top of which stood ugu's wicker castle. it was a good-sized building and rather pretty because the sides, roofs and domes were all of wicker, closely woven as it is in fine baskets. "i wonder if it is strong?" said dorothy musingly as she eyed the queer castle. "i suppose it is, since a magician built it," answered the wizard. "with magic to protect it, even a paper castle might be as strong as if made of stone. this ugu must be a man of ideas, because he does things in a different way from other people." "yes. no one else would steal our dear ozma," sighed tiny trot. "i wonder if ozma is there?" said betsy, indicating the castle with a nod of her head. "where else could she be?" asked scraps. "suppose we ask the pink bear," suggested dorothy. that seemed a good idea, so they halted the procession, and the bear king held the little pink bear on his lap and turned the crank in its side and asked, "where is ozma of oz?" and the little pink bear answered, "she is in a hole in the ground a half mile away at your left." "good gracious!" cried dorothy. "then she is not in ugu's castle at all." "it is lucky we asked that question," said the wizard, "for if we can find ozma and rescue her, there will be no need for us to fight that wicked and dangerous magician." "indeed!" said cayke. "then what about my dishpan?" the wizard looked puzzled at her tone of remonstrance, so she added, "didn't you people from the emerald city promise that we would all stick together, and that you would help me to get my dishpan if i would help you to get your ozma? and didn't i bring to you the little pink bear, which has told you where ozma is hidden?" "she's right," said dorothy to the wizard. "we must do as we agreed." "well, first of all, let us go and rescue ozma," proposed the wizard. "then our beloved ruler may be able to advise us how to conquer ugu the shoemaker." so they turned to the left and marched for half a mile until they came to a small but deep hole in the ground. at once, all rushed to the brim to peer into the hole, but instead of finding there princess ozma of oz, all that they saw was button-bright, who was lying asleep on the bottom. their cries soon wakened the boy, who sat up and rubbed his eyes. when he recognized his friends, he smiled sweetly, saying, "found again!" "where is ozma?" inquired dorothy anxiously. "i don't know," answered button-bright from the depths of the hole. "i got lost yesterday, as you may remember, and in the night while i was wandering around in the moonlight trying to find my way back to you, i suddenly fell into this hole." "and wasn't ozma in it then?" "there was no one in it but me, and i was sorry it wasn't entirely empty. the sides are so steep i can't climb out, so there was nothing to be done but sleep until someone found me. thank you for coming. if you'll please let down a rope, i'll empty this hole in a hurry." "how strange!" said dorothy, greatly disappointed. "it's evident the pink bear didn't tell the truth." "he never makes a mistake," declared the lavender bear king in a tone that showed his feelings were hurt. and then he turned the crank of the little pink bear again and asked, "is this the hole that ozma of oz is in?" "yes," answered the pink bear. "that settles it," said the king positively. "your ozma is in this hole in the ground." "don't be silly," returned dorothy impatiently. "even your beady eyes can see there is no one in the hole but button-bright." "perhaps button-bright is ozma," suggested the king. "and perhaps he isn't! ozma is a girl, and button-bright is a boy." "your pink bear must be out of order," said the wizard, "for, this time at least, his machinery has caused him to make an untrue statement." the bear king was so angry at this remark that he turned away, holding the pink bear in his paws, and refused to discuss the matter in any further way. "at any rate," said the frogman, "the pink bear has led us to your boy friend and so enabled you to rescue him." scraps was leaning so far over the hole trying to find ozma in it that suddenly she lost her balance and pitched in head foremost. she fell upon button-bright and tumbled him over, but he was not hurt by her soft, stuffed body and only laughed at the mishap. the wizard buckled some straps together and let one end of them down into the hole, and soon both scraps and the boy had climbed up and were standing safely beside the others. they looked once more for ozma, but the hole was now absolutely vacant. it was a round hole, so from the top they could plainly see every part of it. before they left the place, dorothy went to the bear king and said, "i'm sorry we couldn't believe what the little pink bear said, 'cause we don't want to make you feel bad by doubting him. there must be a mistake, somewhere, and we prob'ly don't understand just what the little pink bear said. will you let me ask him one more question?" the lavender bear king was a good-natured bear, considering how he was made and stuffed and jointed, so he accepted dorothy's apology and turned the crank and allowed the little girl to question his wee pink bear. "is ozma really in this hole?" asked dorothy. "no," said the little pink bear. this surprised everybody. even the bear king was now puzzled by the contradictory statements of his oracle. "where is she?" asked the king. "here, among you," answered the little pink bear. "well," said dorothy, "this beats me entirely! i guess the little pink bear has gone crazy." "perhaps," called scraps, who was rapidly turning "cartwheels" all around the perplexed group, "ozma is invisible." "of course!" cried betsy. "that would account for it." "well, i've noticed that people can speak, even when they've been made invisible," said the wizard. and then he looked all around him and said in a solemn voice, "ozma, are you here?" there was no reply. dorothy asked the question, too, and so did button-bright and trot and betsy, but none received any reply at all. "it's strange, it's terrible strange!" muttered cayke the cookie cook. "i was sure that the little pink bear always tells the truth." "i still believe in his honesty," said the frogman, and this tribute so pleased the bear king that he gave these last speakers grateful looks, but still gazed sourly on the others. "come to think of it," remarked the wizard, "ozma couldn't be invisible, for she is a fairy, and fairies cannot be made invisible against their will. of course, she could be imprisoned by the magician or enchanted or transformed, in spite of her fairy powers, but ugu could not render her invisible by any magic at his command." "i wonder if she's been transformed into button-bright?" said dorothy nervously. then she looked steadily at the boy and asked, "are you ozma? tell me truly!" button-bright laughed. "you're getting rattled, dorothy," he replied. "nothing ever enchants me. if i were ozma, do you think i'd have tumbled into that hole?" "anyhow," said the wizard, "ozma would never try to deceive her friends or prevent them from recognizing her in whatever form she happened to be. the puzzle is still a puzzle, so let us go on to the wicker castle and question the magician himself. since it was he who stole our ozma, ugu is the one who must tell us where to find her." chapter magic against magic the wizard's advice was good, so again they started in the direction of the low mountain on the crest of which the wicker castle had been built. they had been gradually advancing uphill, so now the elevation seemed to them more like a round knoll than a mountaintop. however, the sides of the knoll were sloping and covered with green grass, so there was a stiff climb before them yet. undaunted, they plodded on and had almost reached the knoll when they suddenly observed that it was surrounded by a circle of flame. at first, the flames barely rose above the ground, but presently they grew higher and higher until a circle of flaming tongues of fire taller than any of their heads quite surrounded the hill on which the wicker castle stood. when they approached the flames, the heat was so intense that it drove them back again. "this will never do for me!" exclaimed the patchwork girl. "i catch fire very easily." "it won't do for me either," grumbled the sawhorse, prancing to the rear. "i also strongly object to fire," said the bear king, following the sawhorse to a safe distance and hugging the little pink bear with his paws. "i suppose the foolish shoemaker imagines these blazes will stop us," remarked the wizard with a smile of scorn for ugu. "but i am able to inform you that this is merely a simple magic trick which the robber stole from glinda the good, and by good fortune i know how to destroy these flames as well as how to produce them. will some one of you kindly give me a match?" you may be sure the girls carried no matches, nor did the frogman or any of the animals. but button-bright, after searching carefully through his pockets, which contained all sorts of useful and useless things, finally produced a match and handed it to the wizard, who tied it to the end of a branch which he tore from a small tree growing near them. then the little wizard carefully lighted the match, and running forward thrust it into the nearest flame. instantly, the circle of fire began to die away, and soon vanished completely leaving the way clear for them to proceed. "that was funny!" laughed button-bright. "yes," agreed the wizard, "it seems odd that a little match could destroy such a great circle of fire, but when glinda invented this trick, she believed no one would ever think of a match being a remedy for fire. i suppose even ugu doesn't know how we managed to quench the flames of his barrier, for only glinda and i know the secret. glinda's book of magic which ugu stole told how to make the flames, but not how to put them out." they now formed in marching order and proceeded to advance up the slope of the hill, but had not gone far when before them rose a wall of steel, the surface of which was thickly covered with sharp, gleaming points resembling daggers. the wall completely surrounded the wicker castle, and its sharp points prevented anyone from climbing it. even the patchwork girl might be ripped to pieces if she dared attempt it. "ah!" exclaimed the wizard cheerfully, "ugu is now using one of my own tricks against me. but this is more serious than the barrier of fire, because the only way to destroy the wall is to get on the other side of it." "how can that be done?" asked dorothy. the wizard looked thoughtfully around his little party, and his face grew troubled. "it's a pretty high wall," he sadly remarked. "i'm pretty sure the cowardly lion could not leap over it." "i'm sure of that, too!" said the lion with a shudder of fear. "if i foolishly tried such a leap, i would be caught on those dreadful spikes." "i think i could do it, sir," said the frogman with a bow to the wizard. "it is an uphill jump as well as being a high jump, but i'm considered something of a jumper by my friends in the yip country, and i believe a good, strong leap will carry me to the other side." "i'm sure it would," agreed the cookie cook. "leaping, you know, is a froglike accomplishment," continued the frogman modestly, "but please tell me what i am to do when i reach the other side of the wall." "you're a brave creature," said the wizard admiringly. "has anyone a pin?" betsy had one, which she gave him. "all you need do," said the wizard to the frogman, giving him the pin, "is to stick this into the other side of the wall." "but the wall is of steel!" exclaimed the big frog. "i know. at least, it seems to be steel, but do as i tell you. stick the pin into the wall, and it will disappear." the frogman took off his handsome coat and carefully folded it and laid it on the grass. then he removed his hat and laid it together with his gold-headed cane beside the coat. he then went back a way and made three powerful leaps in rapid succession. the first two leaps took him to the wall, and the third leap carried him well over it, to the amazement of all. for a short time, he disappeared from their view, but when he had obeyed the wizard's injunction and had thrust the pin into the wall, the huge barrier vanished and showed them the form of the frogman, who now went to where his coat lay and put it on again. "we thank you very much," said the delighted wizard. "that was the most wonderful leap i ever saw, and it has saved us from defeat by our enemy. let us now hurry on to the castle before ugu the shoemaker thinks up some other means to stop us." "we must have surprised him so far," declared dorothy. "yes indeed. the fellow knows a lot of magic--all of our tricks and some of his own," replied the wizard. "so if he is half as clever as he ought to be, we shall have trouble with him yet." he had scarcely spoken these words when out from the gates of the wicker castle marched a regiment of soldiers, clad in gay uniforms and all bearing long, pointed spears and sharp battle axes. these soldiers were girls, and the uniforms were short skirts of yellow and black satin, golden shoes, bands of gold across their foreheads and necklaces of glittering jewels. their jackets were scarlet, braided with silver cords. there were hundreds of these girl-soldiers, and they were more terrible than beautiful, being strong and fierce in appearance. they formed a circle all around the castle and faced outward, their spears pointed toward the invaders, and their battle axes held over their shoulders, ready to strike. of course, our friends halted at once, for they had not expected this dreadful array of soldiery. the wizard seemed puzzled, and his companions exchanged discouraged looks. "i'd no idea ugu had such an army as that," said dorothy. "the castle doesn't look big enough to hold them all." "it isn't," declared the wizard. "but they all marched out of it." "they seemed to, but i don't believe it is a real army at all. if ugu the shoemaker had so many people living with him, i'm sure the czarover of herku would have mentioned the fact to us." "they're only girls!" laughed scraps. "girls are the fiercest soldiers of all," declared the frogman. "they are more brave than men, and they have better nerves. that is probably why the magician uses them for soldiers and has sent them to oppose us." no one argued this statement, for all were staring hard at the line of soldiers, which now, having taken a defiant position, remained motionless. "here is a trick of magic new to me," admitted the wizard after a time. "i do not believe the army is real, but the spears may be sharp enough to prick us, nevertheless, so we must be cautious. let us take time to consider how to meet this difficulty." while they were thinking it over, scraps danced closer to the line of girl soldiers. her button eyes sometimes saw more than did the natural eyes of her comrades, and so after staring hard at the magician's army, she boldly advanced and danced right through the threatening line! on the other side, she waved her stuffed arms and called out, "come on, folks. the spears can't hurt you." said the wizard gaily. "an optical illusion, as i thought. let us all follow the patchwork girl." the three little girls were somewhat nervous in attempting to brave the spears and battle axes, but after the others had safely passed the line, they ventured to follow. and when all had passed through the ranks of the girl army, the army itself magically disappeared from view. all this time our friends had been getting farther up the hill and nearer to the wicker castle. now, continuing their advance, they expected something else to oppose their way, but to their astonishment nothing happened, and presently they arrived at the wicker gates, which stood wide open, and boldly entered the domain of ugu the shoemaker. chapter in the wicker castle no sooner were the wizard of oz and his followers well within the castle entrance when the big gates swung to with a clang and heavy bars dropped across them. they looked at one another uneasily, but no one cared to speak of the incident. if they were indeed prisoners in the wicker castle, it was evident they must find a way to escape, but their first duty was to attend to the errand on which they had come and seek the royal ozma, whom they believed to be a prisoner of the magician, and rescue her. they found they had entered a square courtyard, from which an entrance led into the main building of the castle. no person had appeared to greet them so far, although a gaudy peacock perched upon the wall cackled with laughter and said in its sharp, shrill voice, "poor fools! poor fools!" "i hope the peacock is mistaken," remarked the frogman, but no one else paid any attention to the bird. they were a little awed by the stillness and loneliness of the place. as they entered the doors of the castle, which stood invitingly open, these also closed behind them and huge bolts shot into place. the animals had all accompanied the party into the castle because they felt it would be dangerous for them to separate. they were forced to follow a zigzag passage, turning this way and that, until finally they entered a great central hall, circular in form and with a high dome from which was suspended an enormous chandelier. the wizard went first, and dorothy, betsy and trot followed him, toto keeping at the heels of his little mistress. then came the lion, the woozy and the sawhorse, then cayke the cookie cook and button-bright, then the lavender bear carrying the pink bear, and finally the frogman and the patchwork girl, with hank the mule tagging behind. so it was the wizard who caught the first glimpse of the big, domed hall, but the others quickly followed and gathered in a wondering group just within the entrance. upon a raised platform at one side was a heavy table on which lay glinda's great book of records, but the platform was firmly fastened to the floor and the table was fastened to the platform and the book was chained fast to the table, just as it had been when it was kept in glinda's palace. on the wall over the table hung ozma's magic picture. on a row of shelves at the opposite side of the hall stood all the chemicals and essences of magic and all the magical instruments that had been stolen from glinda and ozma and the wizard, with glass doors covering the shelves so that no one could get at them. and in a far corner sat ugu the shoemaker, his feet lazily extended, his skinny hands clasped behind his head. he was leaning back at his ease and calmly smoking a long pipe. around the magician was a sort of cage, seemingly made of golden bars set wide apart, and at his feet, also within the cage, reposed the long-sought diamond-studded dishpan of cayke the cookie cook. princess ozma of oz was nowhere to be seen. "well, well," said ugu when the invaders had stood in silence for a moment, staring about them. "this visit is an unexpected pleasure, i assure you. i knew you were coming, and i know why you are here. you are not welcome, for i cannot use any of you to my advantage, but as you have insisted on coming, i hope you will make the afternoon call as brief as possible. it won't take long to transact your business with me. you will ask me for ozma, and my reply will be that you may find her--if you can." "sir," answered the wizard in a tone of rebuke, "you are a very wicked and cruel person. i suppose you imagine, because you have stolen this poor woman's dishpan and all the best magic in oz, that you are more powerful than we are and will be able to triumph over us." "yes," said ugu the shoemaker, slowly filling his pipe with fresh tobacco from a silver bowl that stood beside him, "that is exactly what i imagine. it will do you no good to demand from me the girl who was formerly the ruler of oz, because i will not tell you where i have hidden her, and you can't guess in a thousand years. neither will i restore to you any of the magic i have captured. i am not so foolish. but bear this in mind: i mean to be the ruler of oz myself, hereafter, so i advise you to be careful how you address your future monarch." "ozma is still ruler of oz, wherever you may have hidden her," declared the wizard. "and bear this in mind, miserable shoemaker: we intend to find her and to rescue her in time, but our first duty and pleasure will be to conquer you and then punish you for your misdeeds." "very well, go ahead and conquer," said ugu. "i'd really like to see how you can do it." now although the little wizard had spoken so boldly, he had at the moment no idea how they might conquer the magician. he had that morning given the frogman, at his request, a dose of zosozo from his bottle, and the frogman had promised to fight a good fight if it was necessary, but the wizard knew that strength alone could not avail against magical arts. the toy bear king seemed to have some pretty good magic, however, and the wizard depended to an extent on that. but something ought to be done right away, and the wizard didn't know what it was. while he considered this perplexing question and the others stood looking at him as their leader, a queer thing happened. the floor of the great circular hall on which they were standing suddenly began to tip. instead of being flat and level, it became a slant, and the slant grew steeper and steeper until none of the party could manage to stand upon it. presently they all slid down to the wall, which was now under them, and then it became evident that the whole vast room was slowly turning upside down! only ugu the shoemaker, kept in place by the bars of his golden cage, remained in his former position, and the wicked magician seemed to enjoy the surprise of his victims immensely. first they all slid down to the wall back of them, but as the room continued to turn over, they next slid down the wall and found themselves at the bottom of the great dome, bumping against the big chandelier which, like everything else, was now upside down. the turning movement now stopped, and the room became stationary. looking far up, they saw ugu suspended in his cage at the very top, which had once been the floor. "ah," said he, grinning down at them, "the way to conquer is to act, and he who acts promptly is sure to win. this makes a very good prison, from which i am sure you cannot escape. please amuse yourselves in any way you like, but i must beg you to excuse me, as i have business in another part of my castle." saying this, he opened a trap door in the floor of his cage (which was now over his head) and climbed through it and disappeared from their view. the diamond dishpan still remained in the cage, but the bars kept it from falling down on their heads. "well, i declare," said the patchwork girl, seizing one of the bars of the chandelier and swinging from it, "we must peg one for the shoemaker, for he has trapped us very cleverly." "get off my foot, please," said the lion to the sawhorse. "and oblige me, mr. mule," remarked the woozy, "by taking your tail out of my left eye." "it's rather crowded down here," explained dorothy, "because the dome is rounding and we have all slid into the middle of it. but let us keep as quiet as possible until we can think what's best to be done." "dear, dear!" wailed cayke, "i wish i had my darling dishpan," and she held her arms longingly toward it. "i wish i had the magic on those shelves up there," sighed the wizard. "don't you s'pose we could get to it?" asked trot anxiously. "we'd have to fly," laughed the patchwork girl. but the wizard took the suggestion seriously, and so did the frogman. they talked it over and soon planned an attempt to reach the shelves where the magical instruments were. first the frogman lay against the rounding dome and braced his foot on the stem of the chandelier; then the wizard climbed over him and lay on the dome with his feet on the frogman's shoulders; the cookie cook came next; then button-bright climbed to the woman's shoulders; then dorothy climbed up and betsy and trot, and finally the patchwork girl, and all their lengths made a long line that reached far up the dome, but not far enough for scraps to touch the shelves. "wait a minute. perhaps i can reach the magic," called the bear king, and began scrambling up the bodies of the others. but when he came to the cookie cook, his soft paws tickled her side so that she squirmed and upset the whole line. down they came, tumbling in a heap against the animals, and although no one was much hurt, it was a bad mix-up, and the frogman, who was at the bottom, almost lost his temper before he could get on his feet again. cayke positively refused to try what she called "the pyramid act" again, and as the wizard was now convinced they could not reach the magic tools in that manner, the attempt was abandoned. "but something must be done," said the wizard, and then he turned to the lavender bear and asked, "cannot your majesty's magic help us to escape from here?" "my magic powers are limited," was the reply. "when i was stuffed, the fairies stood by and slyly dropped some magic into my stuffing. therefore i can do any of the magic that's inside me, but nothing else. you, however, are a wizard, and a wizard should be able to do anything." "your majesty forgets that my tools of magic have been stolen," said the wizard sadly, "and a wizard without tools is as helpless as a carpenter without a hammer or saw." "don't give up," pleaded button-bright, "'cause if we can't get out of this queer prison, we'll all starve to death." "not i!" laughed the patchwork girl, now standing on top of the chandelier at the place that was meant to be the bottom of it. "don't talk of such dreadful things," said trot, shuddering. "we came here to capture the shoemaker, didn't we?" "yes, and to save ozma," said betsy. "and here we are, captured ourselves, and my darling dishpan up there in plain sight!" wailed the cookie cook, wiping her eyes on the tail of the frogman's coat. "hush!" called the lion with a low, deep growl. "give the wizard time to think." "he has plenty of time," said scraps. "what he needs is the scarecrow's brains." after all, it was little dorothy who came to their rescue, and her ability to save them was almost as much a surprise to the girl as it was to her friends. dorothy had been secretly testing the powers of her magic belt, which she had once captured from the nome king, and experimenting with it in various ways ever since she had started on this eventful journey. at different times she had stolen away from the others of her party and in solitude had tried to find out what the magic belt could do and what it could not do. there were a lot of things it could not do, she discovered, but she learned some things about the belt which even her girl friends did not suspect she knew. for one thing, she had remembered that when the nome king owned it, the magic belt used to perform transformations, and by thinking hard she had finally recalled the way in which such transformations had been accomplished. better than this, however, was the discovery that the magic belt would grant its wearer one wish a day. all she need do was close her right eye and wiggle her left toe and then draw a long breath and make her wish. yesterday she had wished in secret for a box of caramels, and instantly found the box beside her. today she had saved her daily wish in case she might need it in an emergency, and the time had now come when she must use the wish to enable her to escape with her friends from the prison in which ugu had caught them. so without telling anyone what she intended to do--for she had only used the wish once and could not be certain how powerful the magic belt might be--dorothy closed her right eye and wiggled her left big toe and drew a long breath and wished with all her might. the next moment the room began to revolve again, as slowly as before, and by degrees they all slid to the side wall and down the wall to the floor--all but scraps, who was so astonished that she still clung to the chandelier. when the big hall was in its proper position again and the others stood firmly upon the floor of it, they looked far up the dome and saw the patchwork girl swinging from the chandelier. "good gracious!" cried dorothy. "how ever will you get down?" "won't the room keep turning?" asked scraps. "i hope not. i believe it has stopped for good," said princess dorothy. "then stand from under, so you won't get hurt!" shouted the patchwork girl, and as soon as they had obeyed this request, she let go the chandelier and came tumbling down heels over head and twisting and turning in a very exciting manner. plump! she fell on the tiled floor, and they ran to her and rolled her and patted her into shape again. chapter the defiance of ugu the shoemaker the delay caused by scraps had prevented anyone from running to the shelves to secure the magic instruments so badly needed. even cayke neglected to get her diamond-studded dishpan because she was watching the patchwork girl. and now the magician had opened his trap door and appeared in his golden cage again, frowning angrily because his prisoners had been able to turn their upside-down prison right side up. "which of you has dared defy my magic?" he shouted in a terrible voice. "it was i," answered dorothy calmly. "then i shall destroy you, for you are only an earth girl and no fairy," he said, and began to mumble some magic words. dorothy now realized that ugu must be treated as an enemy, so she advanced toward the corner in which he sat, saying as she went, "i am not afraid of you, mr. shoemaker, and i think you'll be sorry, pretty soon, that you're such a bad man. you can't destroy me, and i won't destroy you, but i'm going to punish you for your wickedness." ugu laughed, a laugh that was not nice to hear, and then he waved his hand. dorothy was halfway across the room when suddenly a wall of glass rose before her and stopped her progress. through the glass she could see the magician sneering at her because she was a weak little girl, and this provoked her. although the glass wall obliged her to halt, she instantly pressed both hands to her magic belt and cried in a loud voice, "ugu the shoemaker, by the magic virtues of the magic belt, i command you to become a dove!" the magician instantly realized he was being enchanted, for he could feel his form changing. he struggled desperately against the enchantment, mumbling magic words and making magic passes with his hands. and in one way he succeeded in defeating dorothy's purpose, for while his form soon changed to that of a gray dove, the dove was of an enormous size, bigger even than ugu had been as a man, and this feat he had been able to accomplish before his powers of magic wholly deserted him. and the dove was not gentle, as doves usually are, for ugu was terribly enraged at the little girl's success. his books had told him nothing of the nome king's magic belt, the country of the nomes being outside the land of oz. he knew, however, that he was likely to be conquered unless he made a fierce fight, so he spread his wings and rose in the air and flew directly toward dorothy. the wall of glass had disappeared the instant ugu became transformed. dorothy had meant to command the belt to transform the magician into a dove of peace, but in her excitement she forgot to say more than "dove," and now ugu was not a dove of peace by any means, but rather a spiteful dove of war. his size made his sharp beak and claws very dangerous, but dorothy was not afraid when he came darting toward her with his talons outstretched and his sword-like beak open. she knew the magic belt would protect its wearer from harm. but the frogman did not know that fact and became alarmed at the little girl's seeming danger. so he gave a sudden leap and leaped full upon the back of the great dove. then began a desperate struggle. the dove was as strong as ugu had been, and in size it was considerably bigger than the frogman. but the frogman had eaten the zosozo, and it had made him fully as strong as ugu the dove. at the first leap he bore the dove to the floor, but the giant bird got free and began to bite and claw the frogman, beating him down with its great wings whenever he attempted to rise. the thick, tough skin of the big frog was not easily damaged, but dorothy feared for her champion, and by again using the transformation power of the magic belt, she made the dove grow small until it was no larger than a canary bird. ugu had not lost his knowledge of magic when he lost his shape as a man, and he now realized it was hopeless to oppose the power of the magic belt and knew that his only hope of escape lay in instant action. so he quickly flew into the golden jeweled dishpan he had stolen from cayke the cookie cook, and as birds can talk as well as beasts or men in the fairyland of oz, he muttered the magic word that was required and wished himself in the country of the quadlings, which was as far away from the wicker castle as he believed he could get. our friends did not know, of course, what ugu was about to do. they saw the dishpan tremble an instant and then disappear, the dove disappearing with it, and although they waited expectantly for some minutes for the magician's return, ugu did not come back again. "seems to me," said the wizard in a cheerful voice, "that we have conquered the wicked magician more quickly than we expected to." "don't say 'we.' dorothy did it!" cried the patchwork girl, turning three somersaults in succession and then walking around on her hands. "hurrah for dorothy!" "i thought you said you did not know how to use the magic of the nome king's belt," said the wizard to dorothy. "i didn't know at that time," she replied, "but afterward i remembered how the nome king once used the magic belt to enchant people and transform 'em into ornaments and all sorts of things, so i tried some enchantments in secret, and after a while i transformed the sawhorse into a potato masher and back again, and the cowardly lion into a pussycat and back again, and then i knew the thing would work all right." "when did you perform those enchantments?" asked the wizard, much surprised. "one night when all the rest of you were asleep but scraps, and she had gone chasing moonbeams." "well," remarked the wizard, "your discovery has certainly saved us a lot of trouble, and we must all thank the frogman, too, for making such a good fight. the dove's shape had ugu's evil disposition inside it, and that made the monster bird dangerous." the frogman was looking sad because the bird's talons had torn his pretty clothes, but he bowed with much dignity at this well-deserved praise. cayke, however, had squatted on the floor and was sobbing bitterly. "my precious dishpan is gone!" she wailed. "gone, just as i had found it again!" "never mind," said trot, trying to comfort her, "it's sure to be somewhere, so we'll cert'nly run across it some day." "yes indeed," added betsy, "now that we have ozma's magic picture, we can tell just where the dove went with your dishpan. they all approached the magic picture, and dorothy wished it to show the enchanted form of ugu the shoemaker, wherever it might be. at once there appeared in the frame of the picture a scene in the far quadling country, where the dove was perched disconsolately on the limb of a tree and the jeweled dishpan lay on the ground just underneath the limb. "but where is the place? how far or how near?" asked cayke anxiously. "the book of records will tell us that," answered the wizard. so they looked in the great book and read the following: "ugu the magician, being transformed into a dove by princess dorothy of oz, has used the magic of the golden dishpan to carry him instantly to the northeast corner of the quadling country." "don't worry, cayke, for the scarecrow and the tin woodman are in that part of the country looking for ozma, and they'll surely find your dishpan." "good gracious!" exclaimed button-bright. "we've forgot all about ozma. let's find out where the magician hid her." back to the magic picture they trooped, but when they wished to see ozma wherever she might be hidden, only a round black spot appeared in the center of the canvas. "i don't see how that can be ozma!" said dorothy, much puzzled. "it seems to be the best the magic picture can do, however," said the wizard, no less surprised. "if it's an enchantment, looks as if the magician had transformed ozma into a chunk of pitch." chapter the little pink bear speaks truly for several minutes they all stood staring at the black spot on the canvas of the magic picture, wondering what it could mean. "p'r'aps we'd better ask the little pink bear about ozma," suggested trot. "pshaw!" said button-bright. "he don't know anything." "he never makes a mistake," declared the king. "he did once, surely," said betsy. "but perhaps he wouldn't make a mistake again." "he won't have the chance," grumbled the bear king. "we might hear what he has to say," said dorothy. "it won't do any harm to ask the pink bear where ozma is." "i will not have him questioned," declared the king in a surly voice. "i do not intend to allow my little pink bear to be again insulted by your foolish doubts. he never makes a mistake." "didn't he say ozma was in that hole in the ground?" asked betsy. "he did, and i am certain she was there," replied the lavender bear. scraps laughed jeeringly, and the others saw there was no use arguing with the stubborn bear king, who seemed to have absolute faith in his pink bear. the wizard, who knew that magical things can usually be depended upon and that the little pink bear was able to answer questions by some remarkable power of magic, thought it wise to apologize to the lavender bear for the unbelief of his friends, at the same time urging the king to consent to question the pink bear once more. cayke and the frogman also pleaded with the big bear, who finally agreed, although rather ungraciously, to put the little bear's wisdom to the test once more. so he sat the little one on his knee and turned the crank, and the wizard himself asked the questions in a very respectful tone of voice. "where is ozma?" was his first query. "here in this room," answered the little pink bear. they all looked around the room, but of course did not see her. "in what part of the room is she?" was the wizard's next question. "in button-bright's pocket," said the little pink bear. this reply amazed them all, you may be sure, and although the three girls smiled and scraps yelled "hoo-ray!" in derision, the wizard turned to consider the matter with grave thoughtfulness. "in which one of button-bright's pockets is ozma?" he presently inquired. "in the left-hand jacket pocket," said the little pink bear. "the pink one has gone crazy!" exclaimed button-bright, staring hard at the little bear on the big bear's knee. "i am not so sure of that," declared the wizard. "if ozma proves to be really in your pocket, then the little pink bear spoke truly when he said ozma was in that hole in the ground. for at that time you were also in the hole, and after we had pulled you out of it, the little pink bear said ozma was not in the hole." "he never makes a mistake," asserted the bear king stoutly. "empty that pocket, button-bright, and let's see what's in it," requested dorothy. so button-bright laid the contents of his left jacket pocket on the table. these proved to be a peg top, a bunch of string, a small rubber ball and a golden peach pit. "what's this?" asked the wizard, picking up the peach pit and examining it closely. "oh," said the boy, "i saved that to show to the girls, and then forgot all about it. it came out of a lonesome peach that i found in the orchard back yonder, and which i ate while i was lost. it looks like gold, and i never saw a peach pit like it before." "nor i," said the wizard, "and that makes it seem suspicious." all heads were bent over the golden peach pit. the wizard turned it over several times and then took out his pocket knife and pried the pit open. as the two halves fell apart, a pink, cloud-like haze came pouring from the golden peach pit, almost filling the big room, and from the haze a form took shape and settled beside them. then, as the haze faded away, a sweet voice said, "thank you, my friends!" and there before them stood their lovely girl ruler, ozma of oz. with a cry of delight, dorothy rushed forward and embraced her. scraps turned gleeful flipflops all around the room. button-bright gave a low whistle of astonishment. the frogman took off his tall hat and bowed low before the beautiful girl who had been freed from her enchantment in so startling a manner. for a time, no sound was heard beyond the low murmur of delight that came from the amazed group, but presently the growl of the big lavender bear grew louder, and he said in a tone of triumph, "he never makes a mistake!" chapter ozma of oz "it's funny," said toto, standing before his friend the lion and wagging his tail, "but i've found my growl at last! i am positive now that it was the cruel magician who stole it." "let's hear your growl," requested the lion. "g-r-r-r-r-r!" said toto. "that is fine," declared the big beast. "it isn't as loud or as deep as the growl of the big lavender bear, but it is a very respectable growl for a small dog. where did you find it, toto?" "i was smelling in the corner yonder," said toto, "when suddenly a mouse ran out--and i growled." the others were all busy congratulating ozma, who was very happy at being released from the confinement of the golden peach pit, where the magician had placed her with the notion that she never could be found or liberated. "and only to think," cried dorothy, "that button-bright has been carrying you in his pocket all this time, and we never knew it!" "the little pink bear told you," said the bear king, "but you wouldn't believe him." "never mind, my dears," said ozma graciously, "all is well that ends well, and you couldn't be expected to know i was inside the peach pit. indeed, i feared i would remain a captive much longer than i did, for ugu is a bold and clever magician, and he had hidden me very securely." "you were in a fine peach," said button-bright, "the best i ever ate." "the magician was foolish to make the peach so tempting," remarked the wizard, "but ozma would lend beauty to any transformation." "how did you manage to conquer ugu the shoemaker?" inquired the girl ruler of oz. dorothy started to tell the story, and trot helped her, and button-bright wanted to relate it in his own way, and the wizard tried to make it clear to ozma, and betsy had to remind them of important things they left out, and all together there was such a chatter that it was a wonder that ozma understood any of it. but she listened patiently, with a smile on her lovely face at their eagerness, and presently had gleaned all the details of their adventures. ozma thanked the frogman very earnestly for his assistance, and she advised cayke the cookie cook to dry her weeping eyes, for she promised to take her to the emerald city and see that her cherished dishpan was restored to her. then the beautiful ruler took a chain of emeralds from around her own neck and placed it around the neck of the little pink bear. "your wise answers to the questions of my friends," said she, "helped them to rescue me. therefore i am deeply grateful to you and to your noble king." the bead eyes of the little pink bear stared unresponsive to this praise until the big lavender bear turned the crank in its side, when it said in its squeaky voice, "i thank your majesty." "for my part," returned the bear king, "i realize that you were well worth saving, miss ozma, and so i am much pleased that we could be of service to you. by means of my magic wand i have been creating exact images of your emerald city and your royal palace, and i must confess that they are more attractive than any places i have ever seen--not excepting bear center." "i would like to entertain you in my palace," returned ozma sweetly, "and you are welcome to return with me and to make me a long visit, if your bear subjects can spare you from your own kingdom." "as for that," answered the king, "my kingdom causes me little worry, and i often find it somewhat tame and uninteresting. therefore i am glad to accept your kind invitation. corporal waddle may be trusted to care for my bears in my absence." "and you'll bring the little pink bear?" asked dorothy eagerly. "of course, my dear. i would not willingly part with him." they remained in the wicker castle for three days, carefully packing all the magical things that had been stolen by ugu and also taking whatever in the way of magic the shoemaker had inherited from his ancestors. "for," said ozma, "i have forbidden any of my subjects except glinda the good and the wizard of oz to practice magical arts, because they cannot be trusted to do good and not harm. therefore ugu must never again be permitted to work magic of any sort." "well," remarked dorothy cheerfully, "a dove can't do much in the way of magic, anyhow, and i'm going to keep ugu in the form of a dove until he reforms and becomes a good and honest shoemaker." when everything was packed and loaded on the backs of the animals, they set out for the river, taking a more direct route than that by which cayke and the frogman had come. in this way they avoided the cities of thi and herku and bear center and after a pleasant journey reached the winkie river and found a jolly ferryman who had a fine, big boat and was willing to carry the entire party by water to a place quite near to the emerald city. the river had many windings and many branches, and the journey did not end in a day, but finally the boat floated into a pretty lake which was but a short distance from ozma's home. here the jolly ferryman was rewarded for his labors, and then the entire party set out in a grand procession to march to the emerald city. news that the royal ozma had been found spread quickly throughout the neighborhood, and both sides of the road soon became lined with loyal subjects of the beautiful and beloved ruler. therefore ozma's ears heard little but cheers, and her eyes beheld little else than waving handkerchiefs and banners during all the triumphal march from the lake to the city's gates. and there she met a still greater concourse, for all the inhabitants of the emerald city turned out to welcome her return, and all the houses were decorated with flags and bunting, and never before were the people so joyous and happy as at this moment when they welcomed home their girl ruler. for she had been lost and was now found again, and surely that was cause for rejoicing. glinda was at the royal palace to meet the returning party, and the good sorceress was indeed glad to have her great book of records returned to her, as well as all the precious collection of magic instruments and elixirs and chemicals that had been stolen from her castle. cap'n bill and the wizard at once hung the magic picture upon the wall of ozma's boudoir, and the wizard was so light-hearted that he did several tricks with the tools in his black bag to amuse his companions and prove that once again he was a powerful wizard. for a whole week there was feasting and merriment and all sorts of joyous festivities at the palace in honor of ozma's safe return. the lavender bear and the little pink bear received much attention and were honored by all, much to the bear king's satisfaction. the frogman speedily became a favorite at the emerald city, and the shaggy man and tik-tok and jack pumpkinhead, who had now returned from their search, were very polite to the big frog and made him feel quite at home. even the cookie cook, because she was quite a stranger and ozma's guest, was shown as much deference as if she had been a queen. "all the same, your majesty," said cayke to ozma, day after day with tiresome repetition, "i hope you will soon find my jeweled dishpan, for never can i be quite happy without it." chapter dorothy forgives the gray dove which had once been ugu the shoemaker sat on its tree in the far quadling country and moped, chirping dismally and brooding over its misfortunes. after a time, the scarecrow and the tin woodman came along and sat beneath the tree, paying no heed to the mutterings of the gray dove. the tin woodman took a small oilcan from his tin pocket and carefully oiled his tin joints with it. while he was thus engaged, the scarecrow remarked, "i feel much better, dear comrade, since we found that heap of nice, clean straw and you stuffed me anew with it." "and i feel much better now that my joints are oiled," returned the tin woodman with a sigh of pleasure. "you and i, friend scarecrow, are much more easily cared for than those clumsy meat people, who spend half their time dressing in fine clothes and who must live in splendid dwellings in order to be contented and happy. you and i do not eat, and so we are spared the dreadful bother of getting three meals a day. nor do we waste half our lives in sleep, a condition that causes the meat people to lose all consciousness and become as thoughtless and helpless as logs of wood." "you speak truly," responded the scarecrow, tucking some wisps of straw into his breast with his padded fingers. "i often feel sorry for the meat people, many of whom are my friends. even the beasts are happier than they, for they require less to make them content. and the birds are the luckiest creatures of all, for they can fly swiftly where they will and find a home at any place they care to perch. their food consists of seeds and grains they gather from the fields, and their drink is a sip of water from some running brook. if i could not be a scarecrow or a tin woodman, my next choice would be to live as a bird does." the gray dove had listened carefully to this speech and seemed to find comfort in it, for it hushed its moaning. and just then the tin woodman discovered cayke's dishpan, which was on the ground quite near to him. "here is a rather pretty utensil," he said, taking it in his tin hand to examine it, "but i would not care to own it. whoever fashioned it of gold and covered it with diamonds did not add to its usefulness, nor do i consider it as beautiful as the bright dishpans of tin one usually sees. no yellow color is ever so handsome as the silver sheen of tin," and he turned to look at his tin legs and body with approval. "i cannot quite agree with you there," replied the scarecrow. "my straw stuffing has a light yellow color, and it is not only pretty to look at, but it crunkles most delightfully when i move." "let us admit that all colors are good in their proper places," said the tin woodman, who was too kind-hearted to quarrel, "but you must agree with me that a dishpan that is yellow is unnatural. what shall we do with this one, which we have just found?" "let us carry it back to the emerald city," suggested the scarecrow. "some of our friends might like to have it for a foot-bath, and in using it that way, its golden color and sparkling ornaments would not injure its usefulness." so they went away and took the jeweled dishpan with them. and after wandering through the country for a day or so longer, they learned the news that ozma had been found. therefore they straightway returned to the emerald city and presented the dishpan to princess ozma as a token of their joy that she had been restored to them. ozma promptly gave the diamond-studded gold dishpan to cayke the cookie cook, who was delighted at regaining her lost treasure that she danced up and down in glee and then threw her skinny arms around ozma's neck and kissed her gratefully. cayke's mission was now successfully accomplished, but she was having such a good time at the emerald city that she seemed in no hurry to go back to the country of the yips. it was several weeks after the dishpan had been restored to the cookie cook when one day, as dorothy was seated in the royal gardens with trot and betsy beside her, a gray dove came flying down and alighted at the girl's feet. "i am ugu the shoemaker," said the dove in a soft, mourning voice, "and i have come to ask you to forgive me for the great wrong i did in stealing ozma and the magic that belonged to her and to others." "are you sorry, then?" asked dorothy, looking hard at the bird. "i am very sorry," declared ugu. "i've been thinking over my misdeeds for a long time, for doves have little else to do but think, and i'm surprised that i was such a wicked man and had so little regard for the rights of others. i am now convinced that even had i succeeded in making myself ruler of all oz, i should not have been happy, for many days of quiet thought have shown me that only those things one acquires honestly are able to render one content." "i guess that's so," said trot. "anyhow," said betsy, "the bad man seems truly sorry, and if he has now become a good and honest man, we ought to forgive him." "i fear i cannot become a good man again," said ugu, "for the transformation i am under will always keep me in the form of a dove. but with the kind forgiveness of my former enemies, i hope to become a very good dove and highly respected." "wait here till i run for my magic belt," said dorothy, "and i'll transform you back to your reg'lar shape in a jiffy." "no, don't do that!" pleaded the dove, fluttering its wings in an excited way. "i only want your forgiveness. i don't want to be a man again. as ugu the shoemaker i was skinny and old and unlovely. as a dove i am quite pretty to look at. as a man i was ambitious and cruel, while as a dove i can be content with my lot and happy in my simple life. i have learned to love the free and independent life of a bird, and i'd rather not change back." "just as you like, ugu," said dorothy, resuming her seat. "perhaps you are right, for you're certainly a better dove than you were a man, and if you should ever backslide an' feel wicked again, you couldn't do much harm as a gray dove." "then you forgive me for all the trouble i caused you?" he asked earnestly. "of course. anyone who's sorry just has to be forgiven." "thank you," said the gray dove, and flew away again. the end the wonderful oz books by l. frank baum the wizard of oz the land of oz ozma of oz dorothy and the wizard in oz the road to oz the emerald city of oz the patchwork girl of oz tik-tok of oz the scarecrow of oz rinkitink in oz the lost princess of oz the tin woodman of oz the magic of oz glinda of oz the works of henry fielding edited by george saintsbury in twelve volumes vol. ii. joseph andrews vol. ii. contents book ii.--continued. chapter xiv. _an interview between parson adams and parson trulliber._ chapter xv. _an adventure, the consequence of a new instance which parson adams gave of his forgetfulness._ chapter xvi. _a very curious adventure, in which mr adams gave a much greater instance of the honest simplicity of his heart, than of his experience in the ways of this world._ chapter xvii. _a dialogue between mr abraham adams and his host, which, by the disagreement in their opinions, seemed to threaten an unlucky catastrophe, had it not been timely prevented by the return of the lovers._ book iii. chapter i. _matter prefatory in praise of biography._ chapter ii. _a night scene, wherein several wonderful adventures befel adams and his fellow-travellers._ chapter iii. _in which the gentleman relates the history of his life._ chapter iv. _a description of mr wilson's way of living. the tragical adventure of the dog, and other grave matters._ chapter v. _a disputation on schools held on the road between mr abraham adams and joseph; and a discovery not unwelcome to them both._ chapter vi. _moral reflections by joseph andrews; with the hunting adventure, and parson adams's miraculous escape._ chapter vii. _a scene of roasting, very nicely adapted to the present taste and times._ chapter viii. _which some readers will think too short and others too long._ chapter ix. _containing as surprizing and bloody adventures as can be found in this or perhaps any other authentic history._ chapter x. _a discourse between the poet and the player; of no other use in this history but to divert the reader._ chapter xi. _containing the exhortations of parson adams to his friend in affliction; calculated for the instruction and improvement of the reader._ chapter xii. _more adventures, which we hope will as much please as surprize the reader._ chapter xiii. _a curious dialogue which passed between mr abraham adams and mr peter pounce, better worth reading than all the works of colley cibber and many others._ book iv. chapter i. _the arrival of lady booby and the rest at booby-hall._ chapter ii. _a dialogue between mr abraham adams and the lady booby._ chapter iii. _what passed between the lady and lawyer scout._ chapter iv. _a short chapter, but very full of matter; particularly the arrival of mr booby and his lady._ chapter v. _containing justice business; curious precedents of depositions, and other matters necessary to be perused by all justices of the peace and their clerks._ chapter vi. _of which you are desired to read no more than you like._ chapter vii. _philosophical reflections, the like not to be found in any light french romance. mr booby's grave advice to joseph, and fanny's encounter with a beau._ chapter viii. _a discourse which happened between mr adams, mrs adams, joseph, and fanny, with some behaviour of mr adams which will be called by some few readers very low, absurd, and unnatural._ chapter ix _a visit which the polite lady booby and her polite friend paid to the parson._ chapter x. _the history of two friends, which may afford an useful lesson to all those persons who happen to take up their residence in married families._ chapter xi. _in which the history is continued._ chapter xii. _where the good-natured reader will see something which will give him no great pleasure._ chapter xiii _the history, returning to the lady booby, gives some account of the terrible conflict in her breast between love and pride, with what happened on the present discovery._ chapter xiv. _containing several curious night-adventures, in which mr adams fell into many hair-breadth scapes, partly owing to his goodness, and partly to his inadvertency._ chapter xv. _the arrival of gaffar and gammar andrews with another person not much expected, and a perfect solution of the difficulties raised by the pedlar._ chapter xvi. _being the last. in which this true history is brought to a happy conclusion._ list of illustrations. mr wilson relates his history parson adams he ran towards her book ii.--continued. chapter xiv. _an interview between parson adams and parson trulliber._ parson adams came to the house of parson trulliber, whom he found stript into his waistcoat, with an apron on, and a pail in his hand, just come from serving his hogs; for mr trulliber was a parson on sundays, but all the other six might more properly be called a farmer. he occupied a small piece of land of his own, besides which he rented a considerable deal more. his wife milked his cows, managed his dairy, and followed the markets with butter and eggs. the hogs fell chiefly to his care, which he carefully waited on at home, and attended to fairs; on which occasion he was liable to many jokes, his own size being, with much ale, rendered little inferior to that of the beasts he sold. he was indeed one of the largest men you should see, and could have acted the part of sir john falstaff without stuffing. add to this that the rotundity of his belly was considerably increased by the shortness of his stature, his shadow ascending very near as far in height, when he lay on his back, as when he stood on his legs. his voice was loud and hoarse, and his accents extremely broad. to complete the whole, he had a stateliness in his gait, when he walked, not unlike that of a goose, only he stalked slower. mr trulliber, being informed that somebody wanted to speak with him, immediately slipt off his apron and clothed himself in an old night-gown, being the dress in which he always saw his company at home. his wife, who informed him of mr adams's arrival, had made a small mistake; for she had told her husband, "she believed there was a man come for some of his hogs." this supposition made mr trulliber hasten with the utmost expedition to attend his guest. he no sooner saw adams than, not in the least doubting the cause of his errand to be what his wife had imagined, he told him, "he was come in very good time; that he expected a dealer that very afternoon;" and added, "they were all pure and fat, and upwards of twenty score a-piece." adams answered, "he believed he did not know him." "yes, yes," cried trulliber, "i have seen you often at fair; why, we have dealt before now, mun, i warrant you. yes, yes," cries he, "i remember thy face very well, but won't mention a word more till you have seen them, though i have never sold thee a flitch of such bacon as is now in the stye." upon which he laid violent hands on adams, and dragged him into the hog-stye, which was indeed but two steps from his parlour window. they were no sooner arrived there than he cry'd out, "do but handle them! step in, friend! art welcome to handle them, whether dost buy or no." at which words, opening the gate, he pushed adams into the pig-stye, insisting on it that he should handle them before he would talk one word with him. adams, whose natural complacence was beyond any artificial, was obliged to comply before he was suffered to explain himself; and, laying hold on one of their tails, the unruly beast gave such a sudden spring, that he threw poor adams all along in the mire. trulliber, instead of assisting him to get up, burst into a laughter, and, entering the stye, said to adams, with some contempt, "why, dost not know how to handle a hog?" and was going to lay hold of one himself, but adams, who thought he had carried his complacence far enough, was no sooner on his legs than he escaped out of the reach of the animals, and cried out, "_nihil habeo cum porcis_: i am a clergyman, sir, and am not come to buy hogs." trulliber answered, "he was sorry for the mistake, but that he must blame his wife," adding, "she was a fool, and always committed blunders." he then desired him to walk in and clean himself, that he would only fasten up the stye and follow him. adams desired leave to dry his greatcoat, wig, and hat by the fire, which trulliber granted. mrs trulliber would have brought him a basin of water to wash his face, but her husband bid her be quiet like a fool as she was, or she would commit more blunders, and then directed adams to the pump. while adams was thus employed, trulliber, conceiving no great respect for the appearance of his guest, fastened the parlour door, and now conducted him into the kitchen, telling him he believed a cup of drink would do him no harm, and whispered his wife to draw a little of the worst ale. after a short silence adams said, "i fancy, sir, you already perceive me to be a clergyman."--"ay, ay," cries trulliber, grinning, "i perceive you have some cassock; i will not venture to caale it a whole one." adams answered, "it was indeed none of the best, but he had the misfortune to tear it about ten years ago in passing over a stile." mrs trulliber, returning with the drink, told her husband, "she fancied the gentleman was a traveller, and that he would be glad to eat a bit." trulliber bid her hold her impertinent tongue, and asked her, "if parsons used to travel without horses?" adding, "he supposed the gentleman had none by his having no boots on."--"yes, sir, yes," says adams; "i have a horse, but i have left him behind me."--"i am glad to hear you have one," says trulliber; "for i assure you i don't love to see clergymen on foot; it is not seemly nor suiting the dignity of the cloth." here trulliber made a long oration on the dignity of the cloth (or rather gown) not much worth relating, till his wife had spread the table and set a mess of porridge on it for his breakfast. he then said to adams, "i don't know, friend, how you came to caale on me; however, as you are here, if you think proper to eat a morsel, you may." adams accepted the invitation, and the two parsons sat down together; mrs trulliber waiting behind her husband's chair, as was, it seems, her custom. trulliber eat heartily, but scarce put anything in his mouth without finding fault with his wife's cookery. all which the poor woman bore patiently. indeed, she was so absolute an admirer of her husband's greatness and importance, of which she had frequent hints from his own mouth, that she almost carried her adoration to an opinion of his infallibility. to say the truth, the parson had exercised her more ways than one; and the pious woman had so well edified by her husband's sermons, that she had resolved to receive the bad things of this world together with the good. she had indeed been at first a little contentious; but he had long since got the better; partly by her love for this, partly by her fear of that, partly by her religion, partly by the respect he paid himself, and partly by that which he received from the parish. she had, in short, absolutely submitted, and now worshipped her husband, as sarah did abraham, calling him (not lord, but) master. whilst they were at table her husband gave her a fresh example of his greatness; for, as she had just delivered a cup of ale to adams, he snatched it out of his hand, and, crying out, "i caal'd vurst," swallowed down the ale. adams denied it; it was referred to the wife, who, though her conscience was on the side of adams, durst not give it against her husband; upon which he said, "no, sir, no; i should not have been so rude to have taken it from you if you had caal'd vurst, but i'd have you know i'm a better man than to suffer the best he in the kingdom to drink before me in my own house when i caale vurst." as soon as their breakfast was ended, adams began in the following manner: "i think, sir, it is high time to inform you of the business of my embassy. i am a traveller, and am passing this way in company with two young people, a lad and a damsel, my parishioners, towards my own cure; we stopt at a house of hospitality in the parish, where they directed me to you as having the cure."--"though i am but a curate," says trulliber, "i believe i am as warm as the vicar himself, or perhaps the rector of the next parish too; i believe i could buy them both."--"sir," cries adams, "i rejoice thereat. now, sir, my business is, that we are by various accidents stript of our money, and are not able to pay our reckoning, being seven shillings. i therefore request you to assist me with the loan of those seven shillings, and also seven shillings more, which, peradventure, i shall return to you; but if not, i am convinced you will joyfully embrace such an opportunity of laying up a treasure in a better place than any this world affords." suppose a stranger, who entered the chambers of a lawyer, being imagined a client, when the lawyer was preparing his palm for the fee, should pull out a writ against him. suppose an apothecary, at the door of a chariot containing some great doctor of eminent skill, should, instead of directions to a patient, present him with a potion for himself. suppose a minister should, instead of a good round sum, treat my lord ----, or sir ----, or esq. ---- with a good broomstick. suppose a civil companion, or a led captain, should, instead of virtue, and honour, and beauty, and parts, and admiration, thunder vice, and infamy, and ugliness, and folly, and contempt, in his patron's ears. suppose, when a tradesman first carries in his bill, the man of fashion should pay it; or suppose, if he did so, the tradesman should abate what he had overcharged, on the supposition of waiting. in short--suppose what you will, you never can nor will suppose anything equal to the astonishment which seized on trulliber, as soon as adams had ended his speech. a while he rolled his eyes in silence; sometimes surveying adams, then his wife; then casting them on the ground, then lifting them up to heaven. at last he burst forth in the following accents: "sir, i believe i know where to lay up my little treasure as well as another. i thank g--, if i am not so warm as some, i am content; that is a blessing greater than riches; and he to whom that is given need ask no more. to be content with a little is greater than to possess the world; which a man may possess without being so. lay up my treasure! what matters where a man's treasure is whose heart is in the scriptures? there is the treasure of a christian." at these words the water ran from adams's eyes; and, catching trulliber by the hand in a rapture, "brother," says he, "heavens bless the accident by which i came to see you! i would have walked many a mile to have communed with you; and, believe me, i will shortly pay you a second visit; but my friends, i fancy, by this time, wonder at my stay; so let me have the money immediately." trulliber then put on a stern look, and cried out, "thou dost not intend to rob me?" at which the wife, bursting into tears, fell on her knees and roared out, "o dear sir! for heaven's sake don't rob my master; we are but poor people." "get up, for a fool as thou art, and go about thy business," said trulliber; "dost think the man will venture his life? he is a beggar, and no robber." "very true, indeed," answered adams. "i wish, with all my heart, the tithing-man was here," cries trulliber; "i would have thee punished as a vagabond for thy impudence. fourteen shillings indeed! i won't give thee a farthing. i believe thou art no more a clergyman than the woman there" (pointing to his wife); "but if thou art, dost deserve to have thy gown stript over thy shoulders for running about the country in such a manner." "i forgive your suspicions," says adams; "but suppose i am not a clergyman, i am nevertheless thy brother; and thou, as a christian, much more as a clergyman, art obliged to relieve my distress." "dost preach to me?" replied trulliber; "dost pretend to instruct me in my duty?" "ifacks, a good story," cries mrs trulliber, "to preach to my master." "silence, woman," cries trulliber. "i would have thee know, friend" (addressing himself to adams), "i shall not learn my duty from such as thee. i know what charity is, better than to give to vagabonds." "besides, if we were inclined, the poor's rate obliges us to give so much charity," cries the wife. "pugh! thou art a fool. poor's reate! hold thy nonsense," answered trulliber; and then, turning to adams, he told him, "he would give him nothing." "i am sorry," answered adams, "that you do know what charity is, since you practise it no better: i must tell you, if you trust to your knowledge for your justification, you will find yourself deceived, though you should add faith to it, without good works." "fellow," cries trulliber, "dost thou speak against faith in my house? get out of my doors: i will no longer remain under the same roof with a wretch who speaks wantonly of faith and the scriptures." "name not the scriptures," says adams. "how! not name the scriptures! do you disbelieve the scriptures?" cries trulliber. "no; but you do," answered adams, "if i may reason from your practice; for their commands are so explicit, and their rewards and punishments so immense, that it is impossible a man should stedfastly believe without obeying. now, there is no command more express, no duty more frequently enjoined, than charity. whoever, therefore, is void of charity, i make no scruple of pronouncing that he is no christian." "i would not advise thee," says trulliber, "to say that i am no christian: i won't take it of you; for i believe i am as good a man as thyself" (and indeed, though he was now rather too corpulent for athletic exercises, he had, in his youth, been one of the best boxers and cudgel-players in the county). his wife, seeing him clench his fist, interposed, and begged him not to fight, but show himself a true christian, and take the law of him. as nothing could provoke adams to strike, but an absolute assault on himself or his friend, he smiled at the angry look and gestures of trulliber; and, telling him he was sorry to see such men in orders, departed without further ceremony. chapter xv. _an adventure, the consequence of a new instance which parson adams gave of his forgetfulness._ when he came back to the inn he found joseph and fanny sitting together. they were so far from thinking his absence long, as he had feared they would, that they never once missed or thought of him. indeed, i have been often assured by both, that they spent these hours in a most delightful conversation; but, as i never could prevail on either to relate it, so i cannot communicate it to the reader. adams acquainted the lovers with the ill success of his enterprize. they were all greatly confounded, none being able to propose any method of departing, till joseph at last advised calling in the hostess, and desiring her to trust them; which fanny said she despaired of her doing, as she was one of the sourest-faced women she had ever beheld. but she was agreeably disappointed; for the hostess was no sooner asked the question than she readily agreed; and, with a curtsy and smile, wished them a good journey. however, lest fanny's skill in physiognomy should be called in question, we will venture to assign one reason which might probably incline her to this confidence and good-humour. when adams said he was going to visit his brother, he had unwittingly imposed on joseph and fanny, who both believed he had meant his natural brother, and not his brother in divinity, and had so informed the hostess, on her enquiry after him. now mr trulliber had, by his professions of piety, by his gravity, austerity, reserve, and the opinion of his great wealth, so great an authority in his parish, that they all lived in the utmost fear and apprehension of him. it was therefore no wonder that the hostess, who knew it was in his option whether she should ever sell another mug of drink, did not dare to affront his supposed brother by denying him credit. they were now just on their departure when adams recollected he had left his greatcoat and hat at mr trulliber's. as he was not desirous of renewing his visit, the hostess herself, having no servant at home, offered to fetch it. this was an unfortunate expedient; for the hostess was soon undeceived in the opinion she had entertained of adams, whom trulliber abused in the grossest terms, especially when he heard he had had the assurance to pretend to be his near relation. at her return, therefore, she entirely changed her note. she said, "folks might be ashamed of travelling about, and pretending to be what they were not. that taxes were high, and for her part she was obliged to pay for what she had; she could not therefore possibly, nor would she, trust anybody; no, not her own father. that money was never scarcer, and she wanted to make up a sum. that she expected, therefore, they should pay their reckoning before they left the house." adams was now greatly perplexed; but, as he knew that he could easily have borrowed such a sum in his own parish, and as he knew he would have lent it himself to any mortal in distress, so he took fresh courage, and sallied out all round the parish, but to no purpose; he returned as pennyless as he went, groaning and lamenting that it was possible, in a country professing christianity, for a wretch to starve in the midst of his fellow-creatures who abounded. whilst he was gone, the hostess, who stayed as a sort of guard with joseph and fanny, entertained them with the goodness of parson trulliber. and, indeed, he had not only a very good character as to other qualities in the neighbourhood, but was reputed a man of great charity; for, though he never gave a farthing, he had always that word in his mouth. adams was no sooner returned the second time than the storm grew exceedingly high, the hostess declaring, among other things, that, if they offered to stir without paying her, she would soon overtake them with a warrant. plato and aristotle, or somebody else, hath said, _that when the most exquisite cunning fails, chance often hits the mark, and that by means the least expected_. virgil expresses this very boldly:-- _turne, quod optanti divum promittere nemo auderet, volvenda dies, en! attulit ultro._ i would quote more great men if i could; but my memory not permitting me, i will proceed to exemplify these observations by the following instance:-- there chanced (for adams had not cunning enough to contrive it) to be at that time in the alehouse a fellow who had been formerly a drummer in an irish regiment, and now travelled the country as a pedlar. this man, having attentively listened to the discourse of the hostess, at last took adams aside, and asked him what the sum was for which they were detained. as soon as he was informed, he sighed, and said, "he was sorry it was so much; for that he had no more than six shillings and sixpence in his pocket, which he would lend them with all his heart." adams gave a caper, and cry'd out, "it would do; for that he had sixpence himself." and thus these poor people, who could not engage the compassion of riches and piety, were at length delivered out of their distress by the charity of a poor pedlar. i shall refer it to my reader to make what observations he pleases on this incident: it is sufficient for me to inform him that, after adams and his companions had returned him a thousand thanks, and told him where he might call to be repaid, they all sallied out of the house without any compliments from their hostess, or indeed without paying her any; adams declaring he would take particular care never to call there again; and she on her side assuring them she wanted no such guests. chapter xvi. _a very curious adventure, in which mr adams gave a much greater instance of the honest simplicity of his heart, than of his experience in the ways of this world._ our travellers had walked about two miles from that inn, which they had more reason to have mistaken for a castle than don quixote ever had any of those in which he sojourned, seeing they had met with such difficulty in escaping out of its walls, when they came to a parish, and beheld a sign of invitation hanging out. a gentleman sat smoaking a pipe at the door, of whom adams inquired the road, and received so courteous and obliging an answer, accompanied with so smiling a countenance, that the good parson, whose heart was naturally disposed to love and affection, began to ask several other questions; particularly the name of the parish, and who was the owner of a large house whose front they then had in prospect. the gentleman answered as obligingly as before; and as to the house, acquainted him it was his own. he then proceeded in the following manner: "sir, i presume by your habit you are a clergyman; and as you are travelling on foot i suppose a glass of good beer will not be disagreeable to you; and i can recommend my landlord's within as some of the best in all this country. what say you, will you halt a little and let us take a pipe together? there is no better tobacco in the kingdom." this proposal was not displeasing to adams, who had allayed his thirst that day with no better liquor than what mrs trulliber's cellar had produced; and which was indeed little superior, either in richness or flavour, to that which distilled from those grains her generous husband bestowed on his hogs. having, therefore, abundantly thanked the gentleman for his kind invitation, and bid joseph and fanny follow him, he entered the alehouse, where a large loaf and cheese and a pitcher of beer, which truly answered the character given of it, being set before them, the three travellers fell to eating, with appetites infinitely more voracious than are to be found at the most exquisite eating-houses in the parish of st. james's. the gentleman expressed great delight in the hearty and cheerful behaviour of adams; and particularly in the familiarity with which he conversed with joseph and fanny, whom he often called his children; a term he explained to mean no more than his parishioners; saying, "he looked on all those whom god had intrusted to his care to stand to him in that relation." the gentleman, shaking him by the hand, highly applauded those sentiments. "they are, indeed," says he, "the true principles of a christian divine; and i heartily wish they were universal; but, on the contrary, i am sorry to say the parson of our parish, instead of esteeming his poor parishioners as a part of his family, seems rather to consider them as not of the same species with himself. he seldom speaks to any, unless some few of the richest of us; nay, indeed, he will not move his hat to the others. i often laugh when i behold him on sundays strutting along the churchyard like a turkey-cock through rows of his parishioners, who bow to him with as much submission, and are as unregarded, as a set of servile courtiers by the proudest prince in christendom. but if such temporal pride is ridiculous, surely the spiritual is odious and detestable; if such a puffed--up empty human bladder, strutting in princely robes, justly moves one's derision, surely in the habit of a priest it must raise our scorn." "doubtless," answered adams, "your opinion is right; but i hope such examples are rare. the clergy whom i have the honour to know maintain a different behaviour; and you will allow me, sir, that the readiness which too many of the laity show to contemn the order may be one reason of their avoiding too much humility." "very true, indeed," says the gentleman; "i find, sir, you are a man of excellent sense, and am happy in this opportunity of knowing you; perhaps our accidental meeting may not be disadvantageous to you neither. at present i shall only say to you that the incumbent of this living is old and infirm, and that it is in my gift. doctor, give me your hand; and assure yourself of it at his decease." adams told him, "he was never more confounded in his life than at his utter incapacity to make any return to such noble and unmerited generosity." "a mere trifle, sir," cries the gentleman, "scarce worth your acceptance; a little more than three hundred a year. i wish it was double the value for your sake." adams bowed, and cried from the emotions of his gratitude; when the other asked him, "if he was married, or had any children, besides those in the spiritual sense he had mentioned." "sir," replied the parson, "i have a wife and six at your service." "that is unlucky," says the gentleman; "for i would otherwise have taken you into my own house as my chaplain; however, i have another in the parish (for the parsonage-house is not good enough), which i will furnish for you. pray, does your wife understand a dairy?" "i can't profess she does," says adams. "i am sorry for it," quoth the gentleman; "i would have given you half-a-dozen cows, and very good grounds to have maintained them." "sir," said adams, in an ecstasy, "you are too liberal; indeed you are." "not at all," cries the gentleman: "i esteem riches only as they give me an opportunity of doing good; and i never saw one whom i had a greater inclination to serve." at which words he shook him heartily by the hand, and told him he had sufficient room in his house to entertain him and his friends. adams begged he might give him no such trouble; that they could be very well accommodated in the house where they were; forgetting they had not a sixpenny piece among them. the gentleman would not be denied; and, informing himself how far they were travelling, he said it was too long a journey to take on foot, and begged that they would favour him by suffering him to lend them a servant and horses; adding, withal, that, if they would do him the pleasure of their company only two days, he would furnish them with his coach and six. adams, turning to joseph, said, "how lucky is this gentleman's goodness to you, who i am afraid would be scarce able to hold out on your lame leg!" and then, addressing the person who made him these liberal promises, after much bowing, he cried out, "blessed be the hour which first introduced me to a man of your charity! you are indeed a christian of the true primitive kind, and an honour to the country wherein you live. i would willingly have taken a pilgrimage to the holy land to have beheld you; for the advantages which we draw from your goodness give me little pleasure, in comparison of what i enjoy for your own sake when i consider the treasures you are by these means laying up for yourself in a country that passeth not away. we will therefore, most generous sir, accept your goodness, as well the entertainment you have so kindly offered us at your house this evening, as the accommodation of your horses to-morrow morning." he then began to search for his hat, as did joseph for his; and both they and fanny were in order of departure, when the gentleman, stopping short, and seeming to meditate by himself for the space of about a minute, exclaimed thus: "sure never anything was so unlucky; i had forgot that my house-keeper was gone abroad, and hath locked up all my rooms; indeed, i would break them open for you, but shall not be able to furnish you with a bed; for she has likewise put away all my linen. i am glad it entered into my head before i had given you the trouble of walking there; besides, i believe you will find better accommodations here than you expected.--landlord, you can provide good beds for these people, can't you?" "yes, and please your worship," cries the host, "and such as no lord or justice of the peace in the kingdom need be ashamed to lie in." "i am heartily sorry," says the gentleman, "for this disappointment. i am resolved i will never suffer her to carry away the keys again." "pray, sir, let it not make you uneasy," cries adams; "we shall do very well here; and the loan of your horses is a favour we shall be incapable of making any return to." "ay!" said the squire, "the horses shall attend you here at what hour in the morning you please;" and now, after many civilities too tedious to enumerate, many squeezes by the hand, with most affectionate looks and smiles at each other, and after appointing the horses at seven the next morning, the gentleman took his leave of them, and departed to his own house. adams and his companions returned to the table, where the parson smoaked another pipe, and then they all retired to rest. mr adams rose very early, and called joseph out of his bed, between whom a very fierce dispute ensued, whether fanny should ride behind joseph, or behind the gentleman's servant; joseph insisting on it that he was perfectly recovered, and was as capable of taking care of fanny as any other person could be. but adams would not agree to it, and declared he would not trust her behind him; for that he was weaker than he imagined himself to be. this dispute continued a long time, and had begun to be very hot, when a servant arrived from their good friend, to acquaint them that he was unfortunately prevented from lending them any horses; for that his groom had, unknown to him, put his whole stable under a course of physic. this advice presently struck the two disputants dumb: adams cried out, "was ever anything so unlucky as this poor gentleman? i protest i am more sorry on his account than my own. you see, joseph, how this good-natured man is treated by his servants; one locks up his linen, another physics his horses, and i suppose, by his being at this house last night, the butler had locked up his cellar. bless us! how good-nature is used in this world! i protest i am more concerned on his account than my own." "so am not i," cries joseph; "not that i am much troubled about walking on foot; all my concern is, how we shall get out of the house, unless god sends another pedlar to redeem us. but certainly this gentleman has such an affection for you, that he would lend you a larger sum than we owe here, which is not above four or five shillings." "very true, child," answered adams; "i will write a letter to him, and will even venture to solicit him for three half-crowns; there will be no harm in having two or three shillings in our pockets; as we have full forty miles to travel, we may possibly have occasion for them." fanny being now risen, joseph paid her a visit, and left adams to write his letter, which having finished, he despatched a boy with it to the gentleman, and then seated himself by the door, lighted his pipe, and betook himself to meditation. the boy staying longer than seemed to be necessary, joseph, who with fanny was now returned to the parson, expressed some apprehensions that the gentleman's steward had locked up his purse too. to which adams answered, "it might very possibly be, and he should wonder at no liberties which the devil might put into the head of a wicked servant to take with so worthy a master;" but added, "that, as the sum was so small, so noble a gentleman would be easily able to procure it in the parish, though he had it not in his own pocket. indeed," says he, "if it was four or five guineas, or any such large quantity of money, it might be a different matter." they were now sat down to breakfast over some toast and ale, when the boy returned and informed them that the gentleman was not at home. "very well!" cries adams; "but why, child, did you not stay till his return? go back again, my good boy, and wait for his coming home; he cannot be gone far, as his horses are all sick; and besides, he had no intention to go abroad, for he invited us to spend this day and tomorrow at his house. therefore go back, child, and tarry till his return home." the messenger departed, and was back again with great expedition, bringing an account that the gentleman was gone a long journey, and would not be at home again this month. at these words adams seemed greatly confounded, saying, "this must be a sudden accident, as the sickness or death of a relation or some such unforeseen misfortune;" and then, turning to joseph, cried, "i wish you had reminded me to have borrowed this money last night." joseph, smiling, answered, "he was very much deceived if the gentleman would not have found some excuse to avoid lending it.--i own," says he, "i was never much pleased with his professing so much kindness for you at first sight; for i have heard the gentlemen of our cloth in london tell many such stories of their masters. but when the boy brought the message back of his not being at home, i presently knew what would follow; for, whenever a man of fashion doth not care to fulfil his promises, the custom is to order his servants that he will never be at home to the person so promised. in london they call it denying him. i have myself denied sir thomas booby above a hundred times, and when the man hath danced attendance for about a month or sometimes longer, he is acquainted in the end that the gentleman is gone out of town and could do nothing in the business."--"good lord!" says adams, "what wickedness is there in the christian world! i profess almost equal to what i have read of the heathens. but surely, joseph, your suspicions of this gentleman must be unjust, for what a silly fellow must he be who would do the devil's work for nothing! and canst thou tell me any interest he could possibly propose to himself by deceiving us in his professions?"--"it is not for me," answered joseph, "to give reasons for what men do, to a gentleman of your learning."--"you say right," quoth adams; "knowledge of men is only to be learned from books; plato and seneca for that; and those are authors, i am afraid, child, you never read."--"not i, sir, truly," answered joseph; "all i know is, it is a maxim among the gentlemen of our cloth, that those masters who promise the most perform the least; and i have often heard them say they have found the largest vails in those families where they were not promised any. but, sir, instead of considering any farther these matters, it would be our wisest way to contrive some method of getting out of this house; for the generous gentleman, instead of doing us any service, hath left us the whole reckoning to pay." adams was going to answer, when their host came in, and, with a kind of jeering smile, said, "well, masters! the squire hath not sent his horses for you yet. laud help me! how easily some folks make promises!"--"how!" says adams; "have you ever known him do anything of this kind before?"--"ay! marry have i," answered the host: "it is no business of mine, you know, sir, to say anything to a gentleman to his face; but now he is not here, i will assure you, he hath not his fellow within the three next market-towns. i own i could not help laughing when i heard him offer you the living, for thereby hangs a good jest. i thought he would have offered you my house next, for one is no more his to dispose of than the other." at these words adams, blessing himself, declared, "he had never read of such a monster. but what vexes me most," says he, "is, that he hath decoyed us into running up a long debt with you, which we are not able to pay, for we have no money about us, and, what is worse, live at such a distance, that if you should trust us, i am afraid you would lose your money for want of our finding any conveniency of sending it."--"trust you, master!" says the host, "that i will with all my heart. i honour the clergy too much to deny trusting one of them for such a trifle; besides, i like your fear of never paying me. i have lost many a debt in my lifetime, but was promised to be paid them all in a very short time. i will score this reckoning for the novelty of it. it is the first, i do assure you, of its kind. but what say you, master, shall we have t'other pot before we part? it will waste but a little chalk more, and if you never pay me a shilling the loss will not ruin me." adams liked the invitation very well, especially as it was delivered with so hearty an accent. he shook his host by the hand, and thanking him, said, "he would tarry another pot rather for the pleasure of such worthy company than for the liquor;" adding, "he was glad to find some christians left in the kingdom, for that he almost began to suspect that he was sojourning in a country inhabited only by jews and turks." the kind host produced the liquor, and joseph with fanny retired into the garden, where, while they solaced themselves with amorous discourse, adams sat down with his host; and, both filling their glasses, and lighting their pipes, they began that dialogue which the reader will find in the next chapter. chapter xvii. _a dialogue between mr abraham adams and his host, which, by the disagreement in their opinions, seemed to threaten an unlucky catastrophe, had it not been timely prevented by the return of the lovers._ "sir," said the host, "i assure you you are not the first to whom our squire hath promised more than he hath performed. he is so famous for this practice, that his word will not be taken for much by those who know him. i remember a young fellow whom he promised his parents to make an exciseman. the poor people, who could ill afford it, bred their son to writing and accounts, and other learning to qualify him for the place; and the boy held up his head above his condition with these hopes; nor would he go to plough, nor to any other kind of work, and went constantly drest as fine as could be, with two clean holland shirts a week, and this for several years; till at last he followed the squire up to london, thinking there to mind him of his promises; but he could never get sight of him. so that, being out of money and business, he fell into evil company and wicked courses; and in the end came to a sentence of transportation, the news of which broke the mother's heart.--i will tell you another true story of him. there was a neighbour of mine, a farmer, who had two sons whom he bred up to the business. pretty lads they were. nothing would serve the squire but that the youngest must be made a parson. upon which he persuaded the father to send him to school, promising that he would afterwards maintain him at the university, and, when he was of a proper age, give him a living. but after the lad had been seven years at school, and his father brought him to the squire, with a letter from his master that he was fit for the university, the squire, instead of minding his promise, or sending him thither at his expense, only told his father that the young man was a fine scholar, and it was pity he could not afford to keep him at oxford for four or five years more, by which time, if he could get him a curacy, he might have him ordained. the farmer said, 'he was not a man sufficient to do any such thing.'--'why, then,' answered the squire, 'i am very sorry you have given him so much learning; for, if he cannot get his living by that, it will rather spoil him for anything else; and your other son, who can hardly write his name, will do more at ploughing and sowing, and is in a better condition, than he.' and indeed so it proved; for the poor lad, not finding friends to maintain him in his learning, as he had expected, and being unwilling to work, fell to drinking, though he was a very sober lad before; and in a short time, partly with grief, and partly with good liquor, fell into a consumption, and died.--nay, i can tell you more still: there was another, a young woman, and the handsomest in all this neighbourhood, whom he enticed up to london, promising to make her a gentlewoman to one of your women of quality; but, instead of keeping his word, we have since heard, after having a child by her himself, she became a common whore; then kept a coffeehouse in covent garden; and a little after died of the french distemper in a gaol.--i could tell you many more stories; but how do you imagine he served me myself? you must know, sir, i was bred a seafaring man, and have been many voyages; till at last i came to be master of a ship myself, and was in a fair way of making a fortune, when i was attacked by one of those cursed guarda-costas who took our ships before the beginning of the war; and after a fight, wherein i lost the greater part of my crew, my rigging being all demolished, and two shots received between wind and water, i was forced to strike. the villains carried off my ship, a brigantine of tons--a pretty creature she was--and put me, a man, and a boy, into a little bad pink, in which, with much ado, we at last made falmouth; though i believe the spaniards did not imagine she could possibly live a day at sea. upon my return hither, where my wife, who was of this country, then lived, the squire told me he was so pleased with the defence i had made against the enemy, that he did not fear getting me promoted to a lieutenancy of a man-of-war, if i would accept of it; which i thankfully assured him i would. well, sir, two or three years passed, during which i had many repeated promises, not only from the squire, but (as he told me) from the lords of the admiralty. he never returned from london but i was assured i might be satisfied now, for i was certain of the first vacancy; and, what surprizes me still, when i reflect on it, these assurances were given me with no less confidence, after so many disappointments, than at first. at last, sir, growing weary, and somewhat suspicious, after so much delay, i wrote to a friend in london, who i knew had some acquaintance at the best house in the admiralty, and desired him to back the squire's interest; for indeed i feared he had solicited the affair with more coldness than he pretended. and what answer do you think my friend sent me? truly, sir, he acquainted me that the squire had never mentioned my name at the admiralty in his life; and, unless i had much faithfuller interest, advised me to give over my pretensions; which i immediately did, and, with the concurrence of my wife, resolved to set up an alehouse, where you are heartily welcome; and so my service to you; and may the squire, and all such sneaking rascals, go to the devil together."--"o fie!" says adams, "o fie! he is indeed a wicked man; but g-- will, i hope, turn his heart to repentance. nay, if he could but once see the meanness of this detestable vice; would he but once reflect that he is one of the most scandalous as well as pernicious lyars; sure he must despise himself to so intolerable a degree, that it would be impossible for him to continue a moment in such a course. and to confess the truth, notwithstanding the baseness of this character, which he hath too well deserved, he hath in his countenance sufficient symptoms of that _bona indoles_, that sweetness of disposition, which furnishes out a good christian."--"ah, master! master!" says the host, "if you had travelled as far as i have, and conversed with the many nations where i have traded, you would not give any credit to a man's countenance. symptoms in his countenance, quotha! i would look there, perhaps, to see whether a man had the small-pox, but for nothing else." he spoke this with so little regard to the parson's observation, that it a good deal nettled him; and, taking the pipe hastily from his mouth, he thus answered: "master of mine, perhaps i have travelled a great deal farther than you without the assistance of a ship. do you imagine sailing by different cities or countries is travelling? no. "caelum non animum mutant qui trans mare currunt. "i can go farther in an afternoon than you in a twelvemonth. what, i suppose you have seen the pillars of hercules, and perhaps the walls of carthage. nay, you may have heard scylla, and seen charybdis; you may have entered the closet where archimedes was found at the taking of syracuse. i suppose you have sailed among the cyclades, and passed the famous straits which take their name from the unfortunate helle, whose fate is sweetly described by apollonius rhodius; you have passed the very spot, i conceive, where daedalus fell into that sea, his waxen wings being melted by the sun; you have traversed the euxine sea, i make no doubt; nay, you may have been on the banks of the caspian, and called at colchis, to see if there is ever another golden fleece." "not i, truly, master," answered the host: "i never touched at any of these places."--"but i have been at all these," replied adams. "then, i suppose," cries the host, "you have been at the east indies; for there are no such, i will be sworn, either in the west or the levant."--"pray where's the levant?" quoth adams; "that should be in the east indies by right." "oho! you are a pretty traveller," cries the host, "and not know the levant! my service to you, master; you must not talk of these things with me! you must not tip us the traveller; it won't go here." "since thou art so dull to misunderstand me still," quoth adams, "i will inform thee; the travelling i mean is in books, the only way of travelling by which any knowledge is to be acquired. from them i learn what i asserted just now, that nature generally imprints such a portraiture of the mind in the countenance, that a skilful physiognomist will rarely be deceived. i presume you have never read the story of socrates to this purpose, and therefore i will tell it you. a certain physiognomist asserted of socrates, that he plainly discovered by his features that he was a rogue in his nature. a character so contrary to the tenour of all this great man's actions, and the generally received opinion concerning him, incensed the boys of athens so that they threw stones at the physiognomist, and would have demolished him for his ignorance, had not socrates himself prevented them by confessing the truth of his observations, and acknowledging that, though he corrected his disposition by philosophy, he was indeed naturally as inclined to vice as had been predicated of him. now, pray resolve me--how should a man know this story if he had not read it?" "well, master," said the host, "and what signifies it whether a man knows it or no? he who goes abroad, as i have done, will always have opportunities enough of knowing the world without troubling his head with socrates, or any such fellows." "friend," cries adams, "if a man should sail round the world, and anchor in every harbour of it, without learning, he would return home as ignorant as he went out." "lord help you!" answered the host; "there was my boatswain, poor fellow! he could scarce either write or read, and yet he would navigate a ship with any master of a man-of-war; and a very pretty knowledge of trade he had too." "trade," answered adams, "as aristotle proves in his first chapter of politics, is below a philosopher, and unnatural as it is managed now." the host looked stedfastly at adams, and after a minute's silence asked him, "if he was one of the writers of the gazetteers? for i have heard," says he, "they are writ by parsons." "gazetteers!" answered adams, "what is that?" "it is a dirty newspaper," replied the host, "which hath been given away all over the nation for these many years, to abuse trade and honest men, which i would not suffer to lye on my table, though it hath been offered me for nothing." "not i truly," said adams; "i never write anything but sermons; and i assure you i am no enemy to trade, whilst it is consistent with honesty; nay, i have always looked on the tradesman as a very valuable member of society, and, perhaps, inferior to none but the man of learning." "no, i believe he is not, nor to him neither," answered the host. "of what use would learning be in a country without trade? what would all you parsons do to clothe your backs and feed your bellies? who fetches you your silks, and your linens, and your wines, and all the other necessaries of life? i speak chiefly with regard to the sailors." "you should say the extravagancies of life," replied the parson; "but admit they were the necessaries, there is something more necessary than life itself, which is provided by learning; i mean the learning of the clergy. who clothes you with piety, meekness, humility, charity, patience, and all the other christian virtues? who feeds your souls with the milk of brotherly love, and diets them with all the dainty food of holiness, which at once cleanses them of all impure carnal affections, and fattens them with the truly rich spirit of grace? who doth this?" "ay, who, indeed?" cries the host; "for i do not remember ever to have seen any such clothing or such feeding. and so, in the mean time, master, my service to you." adams was going to answer with some severity, when joseph and fanny returned and pressed his departure so eagerly that he would not refuse them; and so, grasping his crabstick, he took leave of his host (neither of them being so well pleased with each other as they had been at their first sitting down together), and with joseph and fanny, who both expressed much impatience, departed, and now all together renewed their journey. book iii. chapter i. _matter prefatory in praise of biography._ notwithstanding the preference which may be vulgarly given to the authority of those romance writers who entitle their books "the history of england, the history of france, of spain, &c.," it is most certain that truth is to be found only in the works of those who celebrate the lives of great men, and are commonly called biographers, as the others should indeed be termed topographers, or chorographers; words which might well mark the distinction between them; it being the business of the latter chiefly to describe countries and cities, which, with the assistance of maps, they do pretty justly, and may be depended upon; but as to the actions and characters of men, their writings are not quite so authentic, of which there needs no other proof than those eternal contradictions occurring between two topographers who undertake the history of the same country: for instance, between my lord clarendon and mr whitelocke, between mr echard and rapin, and many others; where, facts being set forth in a different light, every reader believes as he pleases; and, indeed, the more judicious and suspicious very justly esteem the whole as no other than a romance, in which the writer hath indulged a happy and fertile invention. but though these widely differ in the narrative of facts; some ascribing victory to the one, and others to the other party; some representing the same man as a rogue, while others give him a great and honest character; yet all agree in the scene where the fact is supposed to have happened, and where the person, who is both a rogue and an honest man, lived. now with us biographers the case is different; the facts we deliver may be relied on, though we often mistake the age and country wherein they happened: for, though it may be worth the examination of critics, whether the shepherd chrysostom, who, as cervantes informs us, died for love of the fair marcella, who hated him, was ever in spain, will any one doubt but that such a silly fellow hath really existed? is there in the world such a sceptic as to disbelieve the madness of cardenio, the perfidy of ferdinand, the impertinent curiosity of anselmo, the weakness of camilla, the irresolute friendship of lothario? though perhaps, as to the time and place where those several persons lived, that good historian may be deplorably deficient. but the most known instance of this kind is in the true history of gil blas, where the inimitable biographer hath made a notorious blunder in the country of dr sangrado, who used his patients as a vintner doth his wine-vessels, by letting out their blood, and filling them up with water. doth not every one, who is the least versed in physical history, know that spain was not the country in which this doctor lived? the same writer hath likewise erred in the country of his archbishop, as well as that of those great personages whose understandings were too sublime to taste anything but tragedy, and in many others. the same mistakes may likewise be observed in scarron, the arabian nights, the history of marianne and le paisan parvenu, and perhaps some few other writers of this class, whom i have not read, or do not at present recollect; for i would by no means be thought to comprehend those persons of surprizing genius, the authors of immense romances, or the modern novel and atalantis writers; who, without any assistance from nature or history, record persons who never were, or will be, and facts which never did, nor possibly can, happen; whose heroes are of their own creation, and their brains the chaos whence all their materials are selected. not that such writers deserve no honour; so far otherwise, that perhaps they merit the highest; for what can be nobler than to be as an example of the wonderful extent of human genius? one may apply to them what balzac says of aristotle, that they are a second nature (for they have no communication with the first; by which, authors of an inferior class, who cannot stand alone, are obliged to support themselves as with crutches); but these of whom i am now speaking seem to be possessed of those stilts, which the excellent voltaire tells us, in his letters, "carry the genius far off, but with an regular pace." indeed, far out of the sight of the reader, beyond the realm of chaos and old night. but to return to the former class, who are contented to copy nature, instead of forming originals from the confused heap of matter in their own brains, is not such a book as that which records the achievements of the renowned don quixote more worthy the name of a history than even mariana's: for, whereas the latter is confined to a particular period of time, and to a particular nation, the former is the history of the world in general, at least that part which is polished by laws, arts, and sciences; and of that from the time it was first polished to this day; nay, and forwards as long as it shall so remain? i shall now proceed to apply these observations to the work before us; for indeed i have set them down principally to obviate some constructions which the good nature of mankind, who are always forward to see their friends' virtues recorded, may put to particular parts. i question not but several of my readers will know the lawyer in the stage-coach the moment they hear his voice. it is likewise odds but the wit and the prude meet with some of their acquaintance, as well as all the rest of my characters. to prevent, therefore, any such malicious applications, i declare here, once for all, i describe not men, but manners; not an individual, but a species. perhaps it will be answered, are not the characters then taken from life? to which i answer in the affirmative; nay, i believe i might aver that i have writ little more than i have seen. the lawyer is not only alive, but hath been so these four thousand years; and i hope g-- will indulge his life as many yet to come. he hath not indeed confined himself to one profession, one religion, or one country; but when the first mean selfish creature appeared on the human stage, who made self the centre of the whole creation, would give himself no pain, incur no danger, advance no money, to assist or preserve his fellow-creatures; then was our lawyer born; and, whilst such a person as i have described exists on earth, so long shall he remain upon it. it is, therefore, doing him little honour to imagine he endeavours to mimick some little obscure fellow, because he happens to resemble him in one particular feature, or perhaps in his profession; whereas his appearance in the world is calculated for much more general and noble purposes; not to expose one pitiful wretch to the small and contemptible circle of his acquaintance; but to hold the glass to thousands in their closets, that they may contemplate their deformity, and endeavour to reduce it, and thus by suffering private mortification may avoid public shame. this places the boundary between, and distinguishes the satirist from the libeller: for the former privately corrects the fault for the benefit of the person, like a parent; the latter publickly exposes the person himself, as an example to others, like an executioner. there are besides little circumstances to be considered; as the drapery of a picture, which though fashion varies at different times, the resemblance of the countenance is not by those means diminished. thus i believe we may venture to say mrs tow-wouse is coeval with our lawyer: and, though perhaps, during the changes which so long an existence must have passed through, she may in her turn have stood behind the bar at an inn, i will not scruple to affirm she hath likewise in the revolution of ages sat on a throne. in short, where extreme turbulency of temper, avarice, and an insensibility of human misery, with a degree of hypocrisy, have united in a female composition, mrs tow-wouse was that woman; and where a good inclination, eclipsed by a poverty of spirit and understanding, hath glimmered forth in a man, that man hath been no other than her sneaking husband. i shall detain my reader no longer than to give him one caution more of an opposite kind: for, as in most of our particular characters we mean not to lash individuals, but all of the like sort, so, in our general descriptions, we mean not universals, but would be understood with many exceptions: for instance, in our description of high people, we cannot be intended to include such as, whilst they are an honour to their high rank, by a well-guided condescension make their superiority as easy as possible to those whom fortune chiefly hath placed below them. of this number i could name a peer no less elevated by nature than by fortune; who, whilst he wears the noblest ensigns of honour on his person, bears the truest stamp of dignity on his mind, adorned with greatness, enriched with knowledge, and embellished with genius. i have seen this man relieve with generosity, while he hath conversed with freedom, and be to the same person a patron and a companion. i could name a commoner, raised higher above the multitude by superior talents than is in the power of his prince to exalt him, whose behaviour to those he hath obliged is more amiable than the obligation itself; and who is so great a master of affability, that, if he could divest himself of an inherent greatness in his manner, would often make the lowest of his acquaintance forget who was the master of that palace in which they are so courteously entertained. these are pictures which must be, i believe, known: i declare they are taken from the life, and not intended to exceed it. by those high people, therefore, whom i have described, i mean a set of wretches, who, while they are a disgrace to their ancestors, whose honours and fortunes they inherit (or perhaps a greater to their mother, for such degeneracy is scarce credible), have the insolence to treat those with disregard who are at least equal to the founders of their own splendor. it is, i fancy, impossible to conceive a spectacle more worthy of our indignation, than that of a fellow, who is not only a blot in the escutcheon of a great family, but a scandal to the human species, maintaining a supercilious behaviour to men who are an honour to their nature and a disgrace to their fortune. and now, reader, taking these hints along with you, you may, if you please, proceed to the sequel of this our true history. chapter ii. _a night scene, wherein several wonderful adventures befel adams and his fellow-travellers._ it was so late when our travellers left the inn or alehouse (for it might be called either), that they had not travelled many miles before night overtook them, or met them, which you please. the reader must excuse me if i am not particular as to the way they took; for, as we are now drawing near the seat of the boobies, and as that is a ticklish name, which malicious persons may apply, according to their evil inclinations, to several worthy country squires, a race of men whom we look upon as entirely inoffensive, and for whom we have an adequate regard, we shall lend no assistance to any such malicious purposes. darkness had now overspread the hemisphere, when fanny whispered joseph "that she begged to rest herself a little; for that she was so tired she could walk no farther." joseph immediately prevailed with parson adams, who was as brisk as a bee, to stop. he had no sooner seated himself than he lamented the loss of his dear aeschylus; but was a little comforted when reminded that, if he had it in his possession, he could not see to read. the sky was so clouded, that not a star appeared. it was indeed, according to milton, darkness visible. this was a circumstance, however, very favourable to joseph; for fanny, not suspicious of being overseen by adams, gave a loose to her passion which she had never done before, and, reclining her head on his bosom, threw her arm carelessly round him, and suffered him to lay his cheek close to hers. all this infused such happiness into joseph, that he would not have changed his turf for the finest down in the finest palace in the universe. adams sat at some distance from the lovers, and, being unwilling to disturb them, applied himself to meditation; in which he had not spent much time before he discovered a light at some distance that seemed approaching towards him. he immediately hailed it; but, to his sorrow and surprize, it stopped for a moment, and then disappeared. he then called to joseph, asking him, "if he had not seen the light?" joseph answered, "he had."--"and did you not mark how it vanished?" returned he: "though i am not afraid of ghosts, i do not absolutely disbelieve them." he then entered into a meditation on those unsubstantial beings; which was soon interrupted by several voices, which he thought almost at his elbow, though in fact they were not so extremely near. however, he could distinctly hear them agree on the murder of any one they met; and a little after heard one of them say, "he had killed a dozen since that day fortnight." adams now fell on his knees, and committed himself to the care of providence; and poor fanny, who likewise heard those terrible words, embraced joseph so closely, that had not he, whose ears were also open, been apprehensive on her account, he would have thought no danger which threatened only himself too dear a price for such embraces. joseph now drew forth his penknife, and adams, having finished his ejaculations, grasped his crab-stick, his only weapon, and, coming up to joseph, would have had him quit fanny, and place her in the rear; but his advice was fruitless; she clung closer to him, not at all regarding the presence of adams, and in a soothing voice declared, "she would die in his arms." joseph, clasping her with inexpressible eagerness, whispered her, "that he preferred death in hers to life out of them." adams, brandishing his crabstick, said, "he despised death as much as any man," and then repeated aloud-- "est hic, est animus lucis contemptor et illum, qui vita bene credat emi quo tendis, honorem." upon this the voices ceased for a moment, and then one of them called out, "d--n you, who is there?" to which adams was prudent enough to make no reply; and of a sudden he observed half-a-dozen lights, which seemed to rise all at once from the ground and advance briskly towards him. this he immediately concluded to be an apparition; and now, beginning to conceive that the voices were of the same kind, he called out, "in the name of the l--d, what wouldst thou have?" he had no sooner spoke than he heard one of the voices cry out, "d--n them, here they come;" and soon after heard several hearty blows, as if a number of men had been engaged at quarterstaff. he was just advancing towards the place of combat, when joseph, catching him by the skirts, begged him that they might take the opportunity of the dark to convey away fanny from the danger which threatened her. he presently complied, and, joseph lifting up fanny, they all three made the best of their way; and without looking behind them, or being overtaken, they had travelled full two miles, poor fanny not once complaining of being tired, when they saw afar off several lights scattered at a small distance from each other, and at the same time found themselves on the descent of a very steep hill. adams's foot slipping, he instantly disappeared, which greatly frightened both joseph and fanny: indeed, if the light had permitted them to see it, they would scarce have refrained laughing to see the parson rolling down the hill; which he did from top to bottom, without receiving any harm. he then hollowed as loud as he could, to inform them of his safety, and relieve them from the fears which they had conceived for him. joseph and fanny halted some time, considering what to do; at last they advanced a few paces, where the declivity seemed least steep; and then joseph, taking his fanny in his arms, walked firmly down the hill, without making a false step, and at length landed her at the bottom, where adams soon came to them. learn hence, my fair countrywomen, to consider your own weakness, and the many occasions on which the strength of a man may be useful to you; and, duly weighing this, take care that you match not yourselves with the spindle-shanked beaus and _petit-maîtres_ of the age, who, instead of being able, like joseph andrews, to carry you in lusty arms through the rugged ways and downhill steeps of life, will rather want to support their feeble limbs with your strength and assistance. our travellers now moved forwards where the nearest light presented itself; and, having crossed a common field, they came to a meadow, where they seemed to be at a very little distance from the light, when, to their grief, they arrived at the banks of a river. adams here made a full stop, and declared he could swim, but doubted how it was possible to get fanny over: to which joseph answered, "if they walked along its banks, they might be certain of soon finding a bridge, especially as by the number of lights they might be assured a parish was near." "odso, that's true indeed," said adams; "i did not think of that." accordingly, joseph's advice being taken, they passed over two meadows, and came to a little orchard, which led them to a house. fanny begged of joseph to knock at the door, assuring him "she was so weary that she could hardly stand on her feet." adams, who was foremost, performed this ceremony; and, the door being immediately opened, a plain kind of man appeared at it: adams acquainted him "that they had a young woman with them who was so tired with her journey that he should be much obliged to him if he would suffer her to come in and rest herself." the man, who saw fanny by the light of the candle which he held in his hand, perceiving her innocent and modest look, and having no apprehensions from the civil behaviour of adams, presently answered, "that the young woman was very welcome to rest herself in his house, and so were her company." he then ushered them into a very decent room, where his wife was sitting at a table: she immediately rose up, and assisted them in setting forth chairs, and desired them to sit down; which they had no sooner done than the man of the house asked them if they would have anything to refresh themselves with? adams thanked him, and answered he should be obliged to him for a cup of his ale, which was likewise chosen by joseph and fanny. whilst he was gone to fill a very large jug with this liquor, his wife told fanny she seemed greatly fatigued, and desired her to take something stronger than ale; but she refused with many thanks, saying it was true she was very much tired, but a little rest she hoped would restore her. as soon as the company were all seated, mr adams, who had filled himself with ale, and by public permission had lighted his pipe, turned to the master of the house, asking him, "if evil spirits did not use to walk in that neighbourhood?" to which receiving no answer, he began to inform him of the adventure which they met with on the downs; nor had he proceeded far in the story when somebody knocked very hard at the door. the company expressed some amazement, and fanny and the good woman turned pale: her husband went forth, and whilst he was absent, which was some time, they all remained silent, looking at one another, and heard several voices discoursing pretty loudly. adams was fully persuaded that spirits were abroad, and began to meditate some exorcisms; joseph a little inclined to the same opinion; fanny was more afraid of men; and the good woman herself began to suspect her guests, and imagined those without were rogues belonging to their gang. at length the master of the house returned, and, laughing, told adams he had discovered his apparition; that the murderers were sheep-stealers, and the twelve persons murdered were no other than twelve sheep; adding, that the shepherds had got the better of them, had secured two, and were proceeding with them to a justice of peace. this account greatly relieved the fears of the whole company; but adams muttered to himself, "he was convinced of the truth of apparitions for all that." they now sat chearfully round the fire, till the master of the house, having surveyed his guests, and conceiving that the cassock, which, having fallen down, appeared under adams's greatcoat, and the shabby livery on joseph andrews, did not well suit with the familiarity between them, began to entertain some suspicions not much to their advantage: addressing himself therefore to adams, he said, "he perceived he was a clergyman by his dress, and supposed that honest man was his footman." "sir," answered adams, "i am a clergyman at your service; but as to that young man, whom you have rightly termed honest, he is at present in nobody's service; he never lived in any other family than that of lady booby, from whence he was discharged, i assure you, for no crime." joseph said, "he did not wonder the gentleman was surprized to see one of mr adams's character condescend to so much goodness with a poor man."--"child," said adams, "i should be ashamed of my cloth if i thought a poor man, who is honest, below my notice or my familiarity. i know not how those who think otherwise can profess themselves followers and servants of him who made no distinction, unless, peradventure, by preferring the poor to the rich.--sir," said he, addressing himself to the gentleman, "these two poor young people are my parishioners, and i look on them and love them as my children. there is something singular enough in their history, but i have not now time to recount it." the master of the house, notwithstanding the simplicity which discovered itself in adams, knew too much of the world to give a hasty belief to professions. he was not yet quite certain that adams had any more of the clergyman in him than his cassock. to try him therefore further, he asked him, "if mr pope had lately published anything new?" adams answered, "he had heard great commendations of that poet, but that he had never read nor knew any of his works."--"ho! ho!" says the gentleman to himself, "have i caught you? what!" said he, "have you never seen his homer?" adams answered, "he had never read any translation of the classicks." "why, truly," reply'd the gentleman, "there is a dignity in the greek language which i think no modern tongue can reach."--"do you understand greek, sir?" said adams hastily. "a little, sir," answered the gentleman. "do you know, sir," cry'd adams, "where i can buy an aeschylus? an unlucky misfortune lately happened to mine." aeschylus was beyond the gentleman, though he knew him very well by name; he therefore, returning back to homer, asked adams, "what part of the iliad he thought most excellent?" adams returned, "his question would be properer, what kind of beauty was the chief in poetry? for that homer was equally excellent in them all. and, indeed," continued he, "what cicero says of a complete orator may well be applied to a great poet: 'he ought to comprehend all perfections.' homer did this in the most excellent degree; it is not without reason, therefore, that the philosopher, in the twenty-second chapter of his poeticks, mentions him by no other appellation than that of the poet. he was the father of the drama as well as the epic; not of tragedy only, but of comedy also; for his margites, which is deplorably lost, bore, says aristotle, the same analogy to comedy as his odyssey and iliad to tragedy. to him, therefore, we owe aristophanes as well as euripides, sophocles, and my poor aeschylus. but if you please we will confine ourselves (at least for the present) to the iliad, his noblest work; though neither aristotle nor horace give it the preference, as i remember, to the odyssey. first, then, as to his subject, can anything be more simple, and at the same time more noble? he is rightly praised by the first of those judicious critics for not chusing the whole war, which, though he says it hath a complete beginning and end, would have been too great for the understanding to comprehend at one view. i have, therefore, often wondered why so correct a writer as horace should, in his epistle to lollius, call him the trojani belli scriptorem. secondly, his action, termed by aristotle, pragmaton systasis; is it possible for the mind of man to conceive an idea of such perfect unity, and at the same time so replete with greatness? and here i must observe, what i do not remember to have seen noted by any, the harmotton, that agreement of his action to his subject: for, as the subject is anger, how agreeable is his action, which is war; from which every incident arises and to which every episode immediately relates. thirdly, his manners, which aristotle places second in his description of the several parts of tragedy, and which he says are included in the action; i am at a loss whether i should rather admire the exactness of his judgment in the nice distinction or the immensity of his imagination in their variety. for, as to the former of these, how accurately is the sedate, injured resentment of achilles, distinguished from the hot, insulting passion of agamemnon! how widely doth the brutal courage of ajax differ from the amiable bravery of diomedes; and the wisdom of nestor, which is the result of long reflection and experience, from the cunning of ulysses, the effect of art and subtlety only! if we consider their variety, we may cry out, with aristotle in his th chapter, that no part of this divine poem is destitute of manners. indeed, i might affirm that there is scarce a character in human nature untouched in some part or other. and, as there is no passion which he is not able to describe, so is there none in his reader which he cannot raise. if he hath any superior excellence to the rest, i have been inclined to fancy it is in the pathetic. i am sure i never read with dry eyes the two episodes where andromache is introduced in the former lamenting the danger, and in the latter the death, of hector. the images are so extremely tender in these, that i am convinced the poet had the worthiest and best heart imaginable. nor can i help observing how sophocles falls short of the beauties of the original, in that imitation of the dissuasive speech of andromache which he hath put into the mouth of tecmessa. and yet sophocles was the greatest genius who ever wrote tragedy; nor have any of his successors in that art, that is to say, neither euripides nor seneca the tragedian, been able to come near him. as to his sentiments and diction, i need say nothing; the former are particularly remarkable for the utmost perfection on that head, namely, propriety; and as to the latter, aristotle, whom doubtless you have read over and over, is very diffuse. i shall mention but one thing more, which that great critic in his division of tragedy calls opsis, or the scenery; and which is as proper to the epic as to the drama, with this difference, that in the former it falls to the share of the poet, and in the latter to that of the painter. but did ever painter imagine a scene like that in the th and th iliads? where the reader sees at one view the prospect of troy, with the army drawn up before it; the grecian army, camp, and fleet; jupiter sitting on mount ida, with his head wrapt in a cloud, and a thunderbolt in his hand, looking towards thrace; neptune driving through the sea, which divides on each side to permit his passage, and then seating himself on mount samos; the heavens opened, and the deities all seated on their thrones. this is sublime! this is poetry!" adams then rapt out a hundred greek verses, and with such a voice, emphasis, and action, that he almost frightened the women; and as for the gentleman, he was so far from entertaining any further suspicion of adams, that he now doubted whether he had not a bishop in his house. he ran into the most extravagant encomiums on his learning; and the goodness of his heart began to dilate to all the strangers. he said he had great compassion for the poor young woman, who looked pale and faint with her journey; and in truth he conceived a much higher opinion of her quality than it deserved. he said he was sorry he could not accommodate them all; but if they were contented with his fireside, he would sit up with the men; and the young woman might, if she pleased, partake his wife's bed, which he advised her to; for that they must walk upwards of a mile to any house of entertainment, and that not very good neither. adams, who liked his seat, his ale, his tobacco, and his company, persuaded fanny to accept this kind proposal, in which sollicitation he was seconded by joseph. nor was she very difficultly prevailed on; for she had slept little the last night and not at all the preceding; so that love itself was scarce able to keep her eyes open any longer. the offer, therefore, being kindly accepted, the good woman produced everything eatable in her house on the table, and the guests, being heartily invited, as heartily regaled themselves, especially parson adams. as to the other two, they were examples of the truth of that physical observation, that love, like other sweet things, is no whetter of the stomach. supper was no sooner ended, than fanny at her own request retired, and the good woman bore her company. the man of the house, adams, and joseph, who would modestly have withdrawn, had not the gentleman insisted on the contrary, drew round the fireside, where adams (to use his own words) replenished his pipe, and the gentleman produced a bottle of excellent beer, being the best liquor in his house. the modest behaviour of joseph, with the gracefulness of his person, the character which adams gave of him, and the friendship he seemed to entertain for him, began to work on the gentleman's affections, and raised in him a curiosity to know the singularity which adams had mentioned in his history. this curiosity adams was no sooner informed of than, with joseph's consent, he agreed to gratify it; and accordingly related all he knew, with as much tenderness as was possible for the character of lady booby; and concluded with the long, faithful, and mutual passion between him and fanny, not concealing the meanness of her birth and education. these latter circumstances entirely cured a jealousy which had lately risen in the gentleman's mind, that fanny was the daughter of some person of fashion, and that joseph had run away with her, and adams was concerned in the plot. he was now enamoured of his guests, drank their healths with great chearfulness, and returned many thanks to adams, who had spent much breath, for he was a circumstantial teller of a story. adams told him it was now in his power to return that favour; for his extraordinary goodness, as well as that fund of literature he was master of,[a] which he did not expect to find under such a roof, had raised in him more curiosity than he had ever known. "therefore," said he, "if it be not too troublesome, sir, your history, if you please." [a] the author hath by some been represented to have made a blunder here: for adams had indeed shown some learning (say they), perhaps all the author had; but the gentleman hath shown none, unless his approbation of mr adams be such: but surely it would be preposterous in him to call it so. i have, however, notwithstanding this criticism, which i am told came from the mouth of a great orator in a public coffee-house, left this blunder as it stood in the first edition. i will not have the vanity to apply to anything in this work the observation which m. dacier makes in her preface to her aristophanes: _je tiens pour une maxime constante, qu'une beauté mediocré plait plus généralement qu'une beauté sans défaut._ mr congreve hath made such another blunder in his love for love, where tattle tells miss prue, "she should admire him as much for the beauty he commends in her as if he himself was possessed of it." the gentleman answered, he could not refuse him what he had so much right to insist on; and after some of the common apologies, which are the usual preface to a story, he thus began. chapter iii. _in which the gentleman relates the history of his life._ sir, i am descended of a good family, and was born a gentleman. my education was liberal, and at a public school, in which i proceeded so far as to become master of the latin, and to be tolerably versed in the greek language. my father died when i was sixteen, and left me master of myself. he bequeathed me a moderate fortune, which he intended i should not receive till i attained the age of twenty-five: for he constantly asserted that was full early enough to give up any man entirely to the guidance of his own discretion. however, as this intention was so obscurely worded in his will that the lawyers advised me to contest the point with my trustees, i own i paid so little regard to the inclinations of my dead father, which were sufficiently certain to me, that i followed their advice, and soon succeeded, for the trustees did not contest the matter very obstinately on their side. "sir," said adams, "may i crave the favour of your name?" the gentleman answered his name was wilson, and then proceeded. i stayed a very little while at school after his death; for, being a forward youth, i was extremely impatient to be in the world, for which i thought my parts, knowledge, and manhood thoroughly qualified me. and to this early introduction into life, without a guide, i impute all my future misfortunes; for, besides the obvious mischiefs which attend this, there is one which hath not been so generally observed: the first impression which mankind receives of you will be very difficult to eradicate. how unhappy, therefore, must it be to fix your character in life, before you can possibly know its value, or weigh the consequences of those actions which are to establish your future reputation! a little under seventeen i left my school, and went to london with no more than six pounds in my pocket; a great sum, as i then conceived; and which i was afterwards surprized to find so soon consumed. the character i was ambitious of attaining was that of a fine gentleman; the first requisites to which i apprehended were to be supplied by a taylor, a periwig-maker, and some few more tradesmen, who deal in furnishing out the human body. notwithstanding the lowness of my purse, i found credit with them more easily than i expected, and was soon equipped to my wish. this i own then agreeably surprized me; but i have since learned that it is a maxim among many tradesmen at the polite end of the town to deal as largely as they can, reckon as high as they can, and arrest as soon as they can. the next qualifications, namely, dancing, fencing, riding the great horse, and music, came into my head: but, as they required expense and time, i comforted myself, with regard to dancing, that i had learned a little in my youth, and could walk a minuet genteelly enough; as to fencing, i thought my good-humour would preserve me from the danger of a quarrel; as to the horse, i hoped it would not be thought of; and for music, i imagined i could easily acquire the reputation of it; for i had heard some of my schoolfellows pretend to knowledge in operas, without being able to sing or play on the fiddle. knowledge of the town seemed another ingredient; this i thought i should arrive at by frequenting public places. accordingly i paid constant attendance to them all; by which means i was soon master of the fashionable phrases, learned to cry up the fashionable diversions, and knew the names and faces of the most fashionable men and women. nothing now seemed to remain but an intrigue, which i was resolved to have immediately; i mean the reputation of it; and indeed i was so successful, that in a very short time i had half-a-dozen with the finest women in town. at these words adams fetched a deep groan, and then, blessing himself, cried out, "good lord! what wicked times these are!" not so wicked as you imagine, continued the gentleman; for i assure you they were all vestal virgins for anything which i knew to the contrary. the reputation of intriguing with them was all i sought, and was what i arrived at: and perhaps i only flattered myself even in that; for very probably the persons to whom i showed their billets knew as well as i that they were counterfeits, and that i had written them to myself. "write letters to yourself!" said adams, staring. o sir, answered the gentleman, it is the very error of the times. half our modern plays have one of these characters in them. it is incredible the pains i have taken, and the absurd methods i employed, to traduce the character of women of distinction. when another had spoken in raptures of any one, i have answered, "d--n her, she! we shall have her at h----d's very soon." when he hath replied, "he thought her virtuous," i have answered, "ay, thou wilt always think a woman virtuous, till she is in the streets; but you and i, jack or tom (turning to another in company), know better." at which i have drawn a paper out of my pocket, perhaps a taylor's bill, and kissed it, crying at the same time, "by gad i was once fond of her." "proceed, if you please, but do not swear any more," said adams. sir, said the gentleman, i ask your pardon. well, sir, in this course of life i continued full three years.--"what course of life?" answered adams; "i do not remember you have mentioned any."--your remark is just, said the gentleman, smiling; i should rather have said, in this course of doing nothing. i remember some time afterwards i wrote the journal of one day, which would serve, i believe, as well for any other during the whole time. i will endeavour to repeat it to you. in the morning i arose, took my great stick, and walked out in my green frock, with my hair in papers (a groan from adams), and sauntered about till ten. went to the auction; told lady ---- she had a dirty face; laughed heartily at something captain ---- said, i can't remember what, for i did not very well hear it; whispered lord ----; bowed to the duke of ----; and was going to bid for a snuff-box, but did not, for fear i should have had it. from to , drest myself. _a groan._ to , dined. _a groan._ to , coffee-house. to , drury-lane playhouse. to , lincoln's inn fields. to , drawing-room. _a great groan._ at all which places nothing happened worth remark. at which adams said, with some vehemence, "sir, this is below the life of an animal, hardly above vegetation: and i am surprized what could lead a man of your sense into it." what leads us into more follies than you imagine, doctor, answered the gentleman--vanity; for as contemptible a creature as i was, and i assure you, yourself cannot have more contempt for such a wretch than i now have, i then admired myself, and should have despised a person of your present appearance (you will pardon me), with all your learning and those excellent qualities which i have remarked in you. adams bowed, and begged him to proceed. after i had continued two years in this course of life, said the gentleman, an accident happened which obliged me to change the scene. as i was one day at st james's coffee-house, making very free with the character of a young lady of quality, an officer of the guards, who was present, thought proper to give me the lye. i answered i might possibly be mistaken, but i intended to tell no more than the truth. to which he made no reply but by a scornful sneer. after this i observed a strange coldness in all my acquaintance; none of them spoke to me first, and very few returned me even the civility of a bow. the company i used to dine with left me out, and within a week i found myself in as much solitude at st james's as if i had been in a desart. an honest elderly man, with a great hat and long sword, at last told me he had a compassion for my youth, and therefore advised me to show the world i was not such a rascal as they thought me to be. i did not at first understand him; but he explained himself, and ended with telling me, if i would write a challenge to the captain, he would, out of pure charity, go to him with it. "a very charitable person, truly!" cried adams. i desired till the next day, continued the gentleman, to consider on it, and, retiring to my lodgings, i weighed the consequences on both sides as fairly as i could. on the one, i saw the risk of this alternative, either losing my own life, or having on my hands the blood of a man with whom i was not in the least angry. i soon determined that the good which appeared on the other was not worth this hazard. i therefore resolved to quit the scene, and presently retired to the temple, where i took chambers. here i soon got a fresh set of acquaintance, who knew nothing of what had happened to me. indeed, they were not greatly to my approbation; for the beaus of the temple are only the shadows of the others. they are the affectation of affectation. the vanity of these is still more ridiculous, if possible, than of the others. here i met with smart fellows who drank with lords they did not know, and intrigued with women they never saw. covent garden was now the farthest stretch of my ambition; where i shone forth in the balconies at the playhouses, visited whores, made love to orange-wenches, and damned plays. this career was soon put a stop to by my surgeon, who convinced me of the necessity of confining myself to my room for a month. at the end of which, having had leisure to reflect, i resolved to quit all farther conversation with beaus and smarts of every kind, and to avoid, if possible, any occasion of returning to this place of confinement. "i think," said adams, "the advice of a month's retirement and reflection was very proper; but i should rather have expected it from a divine than a surgeon." the gentleman smiled at adams's simplicity, and, without explaining himself farther on such an odious subject, went on thus: i was no sooner perfectly restored to health than i found my passion for women, which i was afraid to satisfy as i had done, made me very uneasy; i determined, therefore, to keep a mistress. nor was i long before i fixed my choice on a young woman, who had before been kept by two gentlemen, and to whom i was recommended by a celebrated bawd. i took her home to my chambers, and made her a settlement during cohabitation. this would, perhaps, have been very ill paid: however, she did not suffer me to be perplexed on that account; for, before quarter-day, i found her at my chambers in too familiar conversation with a young fellow who was drest like an officer, but was indeed a city apprentice. instead of excusing her inconstancy, she rapped out half-a-dozen oaths, and, snapping her fingers at me, swore she scorned to confine herself to the best man in england. upon this we parted, and the same bawd presently provided her another keeper. i was not so much concerned at our separation as i found, within a day or two, i had reason to be for our meeting; for i was obliged to pay a second visit to my surgeon. i was now forced to do penance for some weeks, during which time i contracted an acquaintance with a beautiful young girl, the daughter of a gentleman who, after having been forty years in the army, and in all the campaigns under the duke of marlborough, died a lieutenant on half-pay, and had left a widow, with this only child, in very distrest circumstances: they had only a small pension from the government, with what little the daughter could add to it by her work, for she had great excellence at her needle. this girl was, at my first acquaintance with her, solicited in marriage by a young fellow in good circumstances. he was apprentice to a linendraper, and had a little fortune, sufficient to set up his trade. the mother was greatly pleased with this match, as indeed she had sufficient reason. however, i soon prevented it. i represented him in so low a light to his mistress, and made so good an use of flattery, promises, and presents, that, not to dwell longer on this subject than is necessary, i prevailed with the poor girl, and conveyed her away from her mother! in a word, i debauched her.--(at which words adams started up, fetched three strides across the room, and then replaced himself in his chair.) you are not more affected with this part of my story than myself; i assure you it will never be sufficiently repented of in my own opinion: but, if you already detest it, how much more will your indignation be raised when you hear the fatal consequences of this barbarous, this villanous action! if you please, therefore, i will here desist.--"by no means," cries adams; "go on, i beseech you; and heaven grant you may sincerely repent of this and many other things you have related!"--i was now, continued the gentleman, as happy as the possession of a fine young creature, who had a good education, and was endued with many agreeable qualities, could make me. we lived some months with vast fondness together, without any company or conversation, more than we found in one another: but this could not continue always; and, though i still preserved great affection for her, i began more and more to want the relief of other company, and consequently to leave her by degrees--at last whole days to herself. she failed not to testify some uneasiness on these occasions, and complained of the melancholy life she led; to remedy which, i introduced her into the acquaintance of some other kept mistresses, with whom she used to play at cards, and frequent plays and other diversions. she had not lived long in this intimacy before i perceived a visible alteration in her behaviour; all her modesty and innocence vanished by degrees, till her mind became thoroughly tainted. she affected the company of rakes, gave herself all manner of airs, was never easy but abroad, or when she had a party at my chambers. she was rapacious of money, extravagant to excess, loose in her conversation; and, if ever i demurred to any of her demands, oaths, tears, and fits were the immediate consequences. as the first raptures of fondness were long since over, this behaviour soon estranged my affections from her; i began to reflect with pleasure that she was not my wife, and to conceive an intention of parting with her; of which, having given her a hint, she took care to prevent me the pains of turning her out of doors, and accordingly departed herself, having first broken open my escrutore, and taken with her all she could find, to the amount of about £ . in the first heat of my resentment i resolved to pursue her with all the vengeance of the law: but, as she had the good luck to escape me during that ferment, my passion afterwards cooled; and, having reflected that i had been the first aggressor, and had done her an injury for which i could make her no reparation, by robbing her of the innocence of her mind; and hearing at the same time that the poor old woman her mother had broke her heart on her daughter's elopement from her, i, concluding myself her murderer ("as you very well might," cries adams, with a groan), was pleased that god almighty had taken this method of punishing me, and resolved quietly to submit to the loss. indeed, i could wish i had never heard more of the poor creature, who became in the end an abandoned profligate; and, after being some years a common prostitute, at last ended her miserable life in newgate.--here the gentleman fetched a deep sigh, which mr adams echoed very loudly; and both continued silent, looking on each other for some minutes. at last the gentleman proceeded thus: i had been perfectly constant to this girl during the whole time i kept her: but she had scarce departed before i discovered more marks of her infidelity to me than the loss of my money. in short, i was forced to make a third visit to my surgeon, out of whose hands i did not get a hasty discharge. i now forswore all future dealings with the sex, complained loudly that the pleasure did not compensate the pain, and railed at the beautiful creatures in as gross language as juvenal himself formerly reviled them in. i looked on all the town harlots with a detestation not easy to be conceived, their persons appeared to me as painted palaces, inhabited by disease and death: nor could their beauty make them more desirable objects in my eyes than gilding could make me covet a pill, or golden plates a coffin. but though i was no longer the absolute slave, i found some reasons to own myself still the subject, of love. my hatred for women decreased daily; and i am not positive but time might have betrayed me again to some common harlot, had i not been secured by a passion for the charming sapphira, which, having once entered upon, made a violent progress in my heart. sapphira was wife to a man of fashion and gallantry, and one who seemed, i own, every way worthy of her affections; which, however, he had not the reputation of having. she was indeed a coquette _achevée_. "pray, sir," says adams, "what is a coquette? i have met with the word in french authors, but never could assign any idea to it. i believe it is the same with _une sotte,_ anglicè, a fool." sir, answered the gentleman, perhaps you are not much mistaken; but, as it is a particular kind of folly, i will endeavour to describe it. were all creatures to be ranked in the order of creation according to their usefulness, i know few animals that would not take place of a coquette; nor indeed hath this creature much pretence to anything beyond instinct; for, though sometimes we might imagine it was animated by the passion of vanity, yet far the greater part of its actions fall beneath even that low motive; for instance, several absurd gestures and tricks, infinitely more foolish than what can be observed in the most ridiculous birds and beasts, and which would persuade the beholder that the silly wretch was aiming at our contempt. indeed its characteristic is affectation, and this led and governed by whim only: for as beauty, wisdom, wit, good-nature, politeness, and health are sometimes affected by this creature, so are ugliness, folly, nonsense, ill-nature, ill-breeding, and sickness likewise put on by it in their turn. its life is one constant lie; and the only rule by which you can form any judgment of them is, that they are never what they seem. if it was possible for a coquette to love (as it is not, for if ever it attains this passion the coquette ceases instantly), it would wear the face of indifference, if not of hatred, to the beloved object; you may therefore be assured, when they endeavour to persuade you of their liking, that they are indifferent to you at least. and indeed this was the case of my sapphira, who no sooner saw me in the number of her admirers than she gave me what is commonly called encouragement: she would often look at me, and, when she perceived me meet her eyes, would instantly take them off, discovering at the same time as much surprize and emotion as possible. these arts failed not of the success she intended; and, as i grew more particular to her than the rest of her admirers, she advanced, in proportion, more directly to me than to the others. she affected the low voice, whisper, lisp, sigh, start, laugh, and many other indications of passion which daily deceive thousands. when i played at whist with her, she would look earnestly at me, and at the same time lose deal or revoke; then burst into a ridiculous laugh and cry, "la! i can't imagine what i was thinking of." to detain you no longer, after i had gone through a sufficient course of gallantry, as i thought, and was thoroughly convinced i had raised a violent passion in my mistress, i sought an opportunity of coming to an eclaircissement with her. she avoided this as much as possible; however, great assiduity at length presented me one. i will not describe all the particulars of this interview; let it suffice that, when she could no longer pretend not to see my drift, she first affected a violent surprize, and immediately after as violent a passion: she wondered what i had seen in her conduct which could induce me to affront her in this manner; and, breaking from me the first moment she could, told me i had no other way to escape the consequence of her resentment than by never seeing, or at least speaking to her more. i was not contented with this answer; i still pursued her, but to no purpose; and was at length convinced that her husband had the sole possession of her person, and that neither he nor any other had made any impression on her heart. i was taken off from following this _ignis fatuus_ by some advances which were made me by the wife of a citizen, who, though neither very young nor handsome, was yet too agreeable to be rejected by my amorous constitution. i accordingly soon satisfied her that she had not cast away her hints on a barren or cold soil: on the contrary, they instantly produced her an eager and desiring lover. nor did she give me any reason to complain; she met the warmth she had raised with equal ardour. i had no longer a coquette to deal with, but one who was wiser than to prostitute the noble passion of love to the ridiculous lust of vanity. we presently understood one another; and, as the pleasures we sought lay in a mutual gratification, we soon found and enjoyed them. i thought myself at first greatly happy in the possession of this new mistress, whose fondness would have quickly surfeited a more sickly appetite; but it had a different effect on mine: she carried my passion higher by it than youth or beauty had been able. but my happiness could not long continue uninterrupted. the apprehensions we lay under from the jealousy of her husband gave us great uneasiness. "poor wretch! i pity him," cried adams. he did indeed deserve it, said the gentleman; for he loved his wife with great tenderness; and, i assure you, it is a great satisfaction to me that i was not the man who first seduced her affections from him. these apprehensions appeared also too well grounded, for in the end he discovered us, and procured witnesses of our caresses. he then prosecuted me at law, and recovered £ damages, which much distressed my fortune to pay; and, what was worse, his wife, being divorced, came upon my hands. i led a very uneasy life with her; for, besides that my passion was now much abated, her excessive jealousy was very troublesome. at length death rid me of an inconvenience which the consideration of my having been the author of her misfortunes would never suffer me to take any other method of discarding. i now bad adieu to love, and resolved to pursue other less dangerous and expensive pleasures. i fell into the acquaintance of a set of jolly companions, who slept all day and drank all night; fellows who might rather be said to consume time than to live. their best conversation was nothing but noise: singing, hollowing, wrangling, drinking, toasting, sp--wing, smoaking were the chief ingredients of our entertainment. and yet, bad as these were, they were more tolerable than our graver scenes, which were either excessive tedious narratives of dull common matters of fact, or hot disputes about trifling matters, which commonly ended in a wager. this way of life the first serious reflection put a period to; and i became member of a club frequented by young men of great abilities. the bottle was now only called in to the assistance of our conversation, which rolled on the deepest points of philosophy. these gentlemen were engaged in a search after truth, in the pursuit of which they threw aside all the prejudices of education, and governed themselves only by the infallible guide of human reason. this great guide, after having shown them the falsehood of that very ancient but simple tenet, that there is such a being as a deity in the universe, helped them to establish in his stead a certain rule of right, by adhering to which they all arrived at the utmost purity of morals. reflection made me as much delighted with this society as it had taught me to despise and detest the former. i began now to esteem myself a being of a higher order than i had ever before conceived; and was the more charmed with this rule of right, as i really found in my own nature nothing repugnant to it. i held in utter contempt all persons who wanted any other inducement to virtue besides her intrinsic beauty and excellence; and had so high an opinion of my present companions, with regard to their morality, that i would have trusted them with whatever was nearest and dearest to me. whilst i was engaged in this delightful dream, two or three accidents happened successively, which at first much surprized me;--for one of our greatest philosophers, or rule-of-right men, withdrew himself from us, taking with him the wife of one of his most intimate friends. secondly, another of the same society left the club without remembering to take leave of his bail. a third, having borrowed a sum of money of me, for which i received no security, when i asked him to repay it, absolutely denied the loan. these several practices, so inconsistent with our golden rule, made me begin to suspect its infallibility; but when i communicated my thoughts to one of the club, he said, "there was nothing absolutely good or evil in itself; that actions were denominated good or bad by the circumstances of the agent. that possibly the man who ran away with his neighbour's wife might be one of very good inclinations, but over-prevailed on by the violence of an unruly passion; and, in other particulars, might be a very worthy member of society; that if the beauty of any woman created in him an uneasiness, he had a right from nature to relieve himself;"--with many other things, which i then detested so much, that i took leave of the society that very evening and never returned to it again. being now reduced to a state of solitude which i did not like, i became a great frequenter of the playhouses, which indeed was always my favourite diversion; and most evenings passed away two or three hours behind the scenes, where i met with several poets, with whom i made engagements at the taverns. some of the players were likewise of our parties. at these meetings we were generally entertained by the poets with reading their performances, and by the players with repeating their parts: upon which occasions, i observed the gentleman who furnished our entertainment was commonly the best pleased of the company; who, though they were pretty civil to him to his face, seldom failed to take the first opportunity of his absence to ridicule him. now i made some remarks which probably are too obvious to be worth relating. "sir," says adams, "your remarks if you please." first then, says he, i concluded that the general observation, that wits are most inclined to vanity, is not true. men are equally vain of riches, strength, beauty, honours, &c. but these appear of themselves to the eyes of the beholders, whereas the poor wit is obliged to produce his performance to show you his perfection; and on his readiness to do this that vulgar opinion i have before mentioned is grounded; but doth not the person who expends vast sums in the furniture of his house or the ornaments of his person, who consumes much time and employs great pains in dressing himself, or who thinks himself paid for self-denial, labour, or even villany, by a title or a ribbon, sacrifice as much to vanity as the poor wit who is desirous to read you his poem or his play? my second remark was, that vanity is the worst of passions, and more apt to contaminate the mind than any other: for, as selfishness is much more general than we please to allow it, so it is natural to hate and envy those who stand between us and the good we desire. now, in lust and ambition these are few; and even in avarice we find many who are no obstacles to our pursuits; but the vain man seeks pre-eminence; and everything which is excellent or praiseworthy in another renders him the mark of his antipathy. adams now began to fumble in his pockets, and soon cried out, "o la! i have it not about me." upon this, the gentleman asking him what he was searching for, he said he searched after a sermon, which he thought his masterpiece, against vanity. "fie upon it, fie upon it!" cries he, "why do i ever leave that sermon out of my pocket? i wish it was within five miles; i would willingly fetch it, to read it you." the gentleman answered that there was no need, for he was cured of the passion. "and for that very reason," quoth adams, "i would read it, for i am confident you would admire it: indeed, i have never been a greater enemy to any passion than that silly one of vanity." the gentleman smiled, and proceeded--from this society i easily passed to that of the gamesters, where nothing remarkable happened but the finishing my fortune, which those gentlemen soon helped me to the end of. this opened scenes of life hitherto unknown; poverty and distress, with their horrid train of duns, attorneys, bailiffs, haunted me day and night. my clothes grew shabby, my credit bad, my friends and acquaintance of all kinds cold. in this situation the strangest thought imaginable came into my head; and what was this but to write a play? for i had sufficient leisure: fear of bailiffs confined me every day to my room: and, having always had a little inclination and something of a genius that way, i set myself to work, and within a few months produced a piece of five acts, which was accepted of at the theatre. i remembered to have formerly taken tickets of other poets for their benefits, long before the appearance of their performances; and, resolving to follow a precedent which was so well suited to my present circumstances, i immediately provided myself with a large number of little papers. happy indeed would be the state of poetry, would these tickets pass current at the bakehouse, the ale-house, and the chandler's shop: but alas! far otherwise; no taylor will take them in payment for buckram, canvas, stay-tape; nor no bailiff for civility money. they are, indeed, no more than a passport to beg with; a certificate that the owner wants five shillings, which induces well-disposed christians to charity. i now experienced what is worse than poverty, or rather what is the worst consequence of poverty--i mean attendance and dependance on the great. many a morning have i waited hours in the cold parlours of men of quality; where, after seeing the lowest rascals in lace and embroidery, the pimps and buffoons in fashion, admitted, i have been sometimes told, on sending in my name, that my lord could not possibly see me this morning; a sufficient assurance that i should never more get entrance into that house. sometimes i have been at last admitted; and the great man hath thought proper to excuse himself, by telling me he was tied up. "tied up," says adams, "pray what's that?" sir, says the gentleman, the profit which booksellers allowed authors for the best works was so very small, that certain men of birth and fortune some years ago, who were the patrons of wit and learning, thought fit to encourage them farther by entering into voluntary subscriptions for their encouragement. thus prior, rowe, pope, and some other men of genius, received large sums for their labours from the public. this seemed so easy a method of getting money, that many of the lowest scribblers of the times ventured to publish their works in the same way; and many had the assurance to take in subscriptions for what was not writ, nor ever intended. subscriptions in this manner growing infinite, and a kind of tax on the publick, some persons, finding it not so easy a task to discern good from bad authors, or to know what genius was worthy encouragement and what was not, to prevent the expense of subscribing to so many, invented a method to excuse themselves from all subscriptions whatever; and this was to receive a small sum of money in consideration of giving a large one if ever they subscribed; which many have done, and many more have pretended to have done, in order to silence all solicitation. the same method was likewise taken with playhouse tickets, which were no less a public grievance; and this is what they call being tied up from subscribing. "i can't say but the term is apt enough, and somewhat typical," said adams; "for a man of large fortune, who ties himself up, as you call it, from the encouragement of men of merit, ought to be tied up in reality." well, sir, says the gentleman, to return to my story. sometimes i have received a guinea from a man of quality, given with as ill a grace as alms are generally to the meanest beggar; and purchased too with as much time spent in attendance as, if it had been spent in honest industry, might have brought me more profit with infinitely more satisfaction. after about two months spent in this disagreeable way, with the utmost mortification, when i was pluming my hopes on the prospect of a plentiful harvest from my play, upon applying to the prompter to know when it came into rehearsal, he informed me he had received orders from the managers to return me the play again, for that they could not possibly act it that season; but, if i would take it and revise it against the next, they would be glad to see it again. i snatched it from him with great indignation, and retired to my room, where i threw myself on the bed in a fit of despair. "you should rather have thrown yourself on your knees," says adams, "for despair is sinful." as soon, continued the gentleman, as i had indulged the first tumult of my passion, i began to consider coolly what course i should take, in a situation without friends, money, credit, or reputation of any kind. after revolving many things in my mind, i could see no other possibility of furnishing myself with the miserable necessaries of life than to retire to a garret near the temple, and commence hackney-writer to the lawyers, for which i was well qualified, being an excellent penman. this purpose i resolved on, and immediately put it in execution. i had an acquaintance with an attorney who had formerly transacted affairs for me, and to him i applied; but, instead of furnishing me with any business, he laughed at my undertaking, and told me, "he was afraid i should turn his deeds into plays, and he should expect to see them on the stage." not to tire you with instances of this kind from others, i found that plato himself did not hold poets in greater abhorrence than these men of business do. whenever i durst venture to a coffeehouse, which was on sundays only, a whisper ran round the room, which was constantly attended with a sneer--that's poet wilson; for i know not whether you have observed it, but there is a malignity in the nature of man, which, when not weeded out, or at least covered by a good education and politeness, delights in making another uneasy or dissatisfied with himself. this abundantly appears in all assemblies, except those which are filled by people of fashion, and especially among the younger people of both sexes whose birth and fortunes place them just without the polite circles; i mean the lower class of the gentry, and the higher of the mercantile world, who are, in reality, the worst-bred part of mankind. well, sir, whilst i continued in this miserable state, with scarce sufficient business to keep me from starving, the reputation of a poet being my bane, i accidentally became acquainted with a bookseller, who told me, "it was a pity a man of my learning and genius should be obliged to such a method of getting his livelihood; that he had a compassion for me, and, if i would engage with him, he would undertake to provide handsomely for me." a man in my circumstances, as he very well knew, had no choice. i accordingly accepted his proposal with his conditions, which were none of the most favourable, and fell to translating with all my might. i had no longer reason to lament the want of business; for he furnished me with so much, that in half a year i almost writ myself blind. i likewise contracted a distemper by my sedentary life, in which no part of my body was exercised but my right arm, which rendered me incapable of writing for a long time. this unluckily happening to delay the publication of a work, and my last performance not having sold well, the bookseller declined any further engagement, and aspersed me to his brethren as a careless idle fellow. i had, however, by having half worked and half starved myself to death during the time i was in his service, saved a few guineas, with which i bought a lottery-ticket, resolving to throw myself into fortune's lap, and try if she would make me amends for the injuries she had done me at the gaming-table. this purchase, being made, left me almost pennyless; when, as if i had not been sufficiently miserable, a bailiff in woman's clothes got admittance to my chamber, whither he was directed by the bookseller. he arrested me at my taylor's suit for thirty-five pounds; a sum for which i could not procure bail; and was therefore conveyed to his house, where i was locked up in an upper chamber. i had now neither health (for i was scarce recovered from my indisposition), liberty, money, or friends; and had abandoned all hopes, and even the desire, of life. "but this could not last long," said adams; "for doubtless the taylor released you the moment he was truly acquainted with your affairs, and knew that your circumstances would not permit you to pay him." "oh, sir," answered the gentleman, "he knew that before he arrested me; nay, he knew that nothing but incapacity could prevent me paying my debts; for i had been his customer many years, had spent vast sums of money with him, and had always paid most punctually in my prosperous days; but when i reminded him of this, with assurances that, if he would not molest my endeavours, i would pay him all the money i could by my utmost labour and industry procure, reserving only what was sufficient to preserve me alive, he answered, his patience was worn out; that i had put him off from time to time; that he wanted the money; that he had put it into a lawyer's hands; and if i did not pay him immediately, or find security, i must die in gaol and expect no mercy." "he may expect mercy," cries adams, starting from his chair, "where he will find none! how can such a wretch repeat the lord's prayer; where the word, which is translated, i know not for what reason, trespasses, is in the original, debts? and as surely as we do not forgive others their debts, when they are unable to pay them, so surely shall we ourselves be unforgiven when we are in no condition of paying." he ceased, and the gentleman proceeded. while i was in this deplorable situation, a former acquaintance, to whom i had communicated my lottery-ticket, found me out, and, making me a visit, with great delight in his countenance, shook me heartily by the hand, and wished me joy of my good fortune: for, says he, your ticket is come up a prize of £ . adams snapped his fingers at these words in an ecstasy of joy; which, however, did not continue long; for the gentleman thus proceeded:--alas! sir, this was only a trick of fortune to sink me the deeper; for i had disposed of this lottery-ticket two days before to a relation, who refused lending me a shilling without it, in order to procure myself bread. as soon as my friend was acquainted with my unfortunate sale he began to revile me and remind me of all the ill-conduct and miscarriages of my life. he said i was one whom fortune could not save if she would; that i was now ruined without any hopes of retrieval, nor must expect any pity from my friends; that it would be extreme weakness to compassionate the misfortunes of a man who ran headlong to his own destruction. he then painted to me, in as lively colours as he was able, the happiness i should have now enjoyed, had i not foolishly disposed of my ticket. i urged the plea of necessity; but he made no answer to that, and began again to revile me, till i could bear it no longer, and desired him to finish his visit. i soon exchanged the bailiff's house for a prison; where, as i had not money sufficient to procure me a separate apartment, i was crouded in with a great number of miserable wretches, in common with whom i was destitute of every convenience of life, even that which all the brutes enjoy, wholesome air. in these dreadful circumstances i applied by letter to several of my old acquaintance, and such to whom i had formerly lent money without any great prospect of its being returned, for their assistance; but in vain. an excuse, instead of a denial, was the gentlest answer i received. whilst i languished in a condition too horrible to be described, and which, in a land of humanity, and, what is much more, christianity, seems a strange punishment for a little inadvertency and indiscretion; whilst i was in this condition, a fellow came into the prison, and, enquiring me out, delivered me the following letter:-- "sir,--my father, to whom you sold your ticket in the last lottery, died the same day in which it came up a prize, as you have possibly heard, and left me sole heiress of all his fortune. i am so much touched with your present circumstances, and the uneasiness you must feel at having been driven to dispose of what might have made you happy, that i must desire your acceptance of the enclosed, and am your humble servant, "harriet hearty." and what do you think was enclosed? "i don't know," cried adams; "not less than a guinea, i hope." sir, it was a bank-note for £ .--"£ ?" says adams, in a rapture. no less, i assure you, answered the gentleman; a sum i was not half so delighted with as with the dear name of the generous girl that sent it me; and who was not only the best but the handsomest creature in the universe, and for whom i had long had a passion which i never durst disclose to her. i kissed her name a thousand times, my eyes overflowing with tenderness and gratitude; i repeated--but not to detain you with these raptures, i immediately acquired my liberty; and, having paid all my debts, departed, with upwards of fifty pounds in my pocket, to thank my kind deliverer. she happened to be then out of town, a circumstance which, upon reflection, pleased me; for by that means i had an opportunity to appear before her in a more decent dress. at her return to town, within a day or two, i threw myself at her feet with the most ardent acknowledgments, which she rejected with an unfeigned greatness of mind, and told me i could not oblige her more than by never mentioning, or if possible thinking on, a circumstance which must bring to my mind an accident that might be grievous to me to think on. she proceeded thus: "what i have done is in my own eyes a trifle, and perhaps infinitely less than would have become me to do. and if you think of engaging in any business where a larger sum may be serviceable to you, i shall not be over-rigid either as to the security or interest." i endeavoured to express all the gratitude in my power to this profusion of goodness, though perhaps it was my enemy, and began to afflict my mind with more agonies than all the miseries i had underwent; it affected me with severer reflections than poverty, distress, and prisons united had been able to make me feel; for, sir, these acts and professions of kindness, which were sufficient to have raised in a good heart the most violent passion of friendship to one of the same, or to age and ugliness in a different sex, came to me from a woman, a young and beautiful woman; one whose perfections i had long known, and for whom i had long conceived a violent passion, though with a despair which made me endeavour rather to curb and conceal, than to nourish or acquaint her with it. in short, they came upon me united with beauty, softness, and tenderness: such bewitching smiles!--o mr adams, in that moment i lost myself, and, forgetting our different situations, nor considering what return i was making to her goodness by desiring her, who had given me so much, to bestow her all, i laid gently hold on her hand, and, conveying it to my lips, i prest it with inconceivable ardour; then, lifting up my swimming eyes, i saw her face and neck overspread with one blush; she offered to withdraw her hand, yet not so as to deliver it from mine, though i held it with the gentlest force. we both stood trembling; her eyes cast on the ground, and mine stedfastly fixed on her. good g--d, what was then the condition of my soul! burning with love, desire, admiration, gratitude, and every tender passion, all bent on one charming object. passion at last got the better of both reason and respect, and, softly letting go her hand, i offered madly to clasp her in my arms; when, a little recovering herself, she started from me, asking me, with some show of anger, "if she had any reason to expect this treatment from me." i then fell prostrate before her, and told her, if i had offended, my life was absolutely in her power, which i would in any manner lose for her sake. nay, madam, said i, you shall not be so ready to punish me as i to suffer. i own my guilt. i detest the reflection that i would have sacrificed your happiness to mine. believe me, i sincerely repent my ingratitude; yet, believe me too, it was my passion, my unbounded passion for you, which hurried me so far: i have loved you long and tenderly, and the goodness you have shown me hath innocently weighed down a wretch undone before. acquit me of all mean, mercenary views; and, before i take my leave of you for ever, which i am resolved instantly to do, believe me that fortune could have raised me to no height to which i could not have gladly lifted you. o, curst be fortune!--"do not," says she, interrupting me with the sweetest voice, "do not curse fortune, since she hath made me happy; and, if she hath put your happiness in my power, i have told you you shall ask nothing in reason which i will refuse." madam, said i, you mistake me if you imagine, as you seem, my happiness is in the power of fortune now. you have obliged me too much already; if i have any wish, it is for some blest accident, by which i may contribute with my life to the least augmentation of your felicity. as for myself, the only happiness i can ever have will be hearing of yours; and if fortune will make that complete, i will forgive her all her wrongs to me. "you may, indeed," answered she, smiling, "for your own happiness must be included in mine. i have long known your worth; nay, i must confess," said she, blushing, "i have long discovered that passion for me you profess, notwithstanding those endeavours, which i am convinced were unaffected, to conceal it; and if all i can give with reason will not suffice, take reason away; and now i believe you cannot ask me what i will deny."--she uttered these words with a sweetness not to be imagined. i immediately started; my blood, which lay freezing at my heart, rushed tumultuously through every vein. i stood for a moment silent; then, flying to her, i caught her in my arms, no longer resisting, and softly told her she must give me then herself. o, sir! can i describe her look? she remained silent, and almost motionless, several minutes. at last, recovering herself a little, she insisted on my leaving her, and in such a manner that i instantly obeyed: you may imagine, however, i soon saw her again.--but i ask pardon: i fear i have detained you too long in relating the particulars of the former interview. "so far otherwise," said adams, licking his lips, "that i could willingly hear it over again." well, sir, continued the gentleman, to be as concise as possible, within a week she consented to make me the happiest of mankind. we were married shortly after; and when i came to examine the circumstances of my wife's fortune (which, i do assure you, i was not presently at leisure enough to do), i found it amounted to about six thousand pounds, most part of which lay in effects; for her father had been a wine-merchant, and she seemed willing, if i liked it, that i should carry on the same trade. i readily, and too inconsiderately, undertook it; for, not having been bred up to the secrets of the business, and endeavouring to deal with the utmost honesty and uprightness, i soon found our fortune in a declining way, and my trade decreasing by little and little; for my wines, which i never adulterated after their importation, and were sold as neat as they came over, were universally decried by the vintners, to whom i could not allow them quite as cheap as those who gained double the profit by a less price. i soon began to despair of improving our fortune by these means; nor was i at all easy at the visits and familiarity of many who had been my acquaintance in my prosperity, but had denied and shunned me in my adversity, and now very forwardly renewed their acquaintance with me. in short, i had sufficiently seen that the pleasures of the world are chiefly folly, and the business of it mostly knavery, and both nothing better than vanity; the men of pleasure tearing one another to pieces from the emulation of spending money, and the men of business from envy in getting it. my happiness consisted entirely in my wife, whom i loved with an inexpressible fondness, which was perfectly returned; and my prospects were no other than to provide for our growing family; for she was now big of her second child: i therefore took an opportunity to ask her opinion of entering into a retired life, which, after hearing my reasons and perceiving my affection for it, she readily embraced. we soon put our small fortune, now reduced under three thousand pounds, into money, with part of which we purchased this little place, whither we retired soon after her delivery, from a world full of bustle, noise, hatred, envy, and ingratitude, to ease, quiet, and love. we have here lived almost twenty years, with little other conversation than our own, most of the neighbourhood taking us for very strange people; the squire of the parish representing me as a madman, and the parson as a presbyterian, because i will not hunt with the one nor drink with the other. "sir," says adams, "fortune hath, i think, paid you all her debts in this sweet retirement." sir, replied the gentleman, i am thankful to the great author of all things for the blessings i here enjoy. i have the best of wives, and three pretty children, for whom i have the true tenderness of a parent. but no blessings are pure in this world: within three years of my arrival here i lost my eldest son. (here he sighed bitterly.) "sir," says adams, "we must submit to providence, and consider death as common to all." we must submit, indeed, answered the gentleman; and if he had died i could have borne the loss with patience; but alas! sir, he was stolen away from my door by some wicked travelling people whom they call gipsies; nor could i ever, with the most diligent search, recover him. poor child! he had the sweetest look--the exact picture of his mother; at which some tears unwittingly dropt from his eyes, as did likewise from those of adams, who always sympathized with his friends on those occasions. thus, sir, said the gentleman, i have finished my story, in which if i have been too particular, i ask your pardon; and now, if you please, i will fetch you another bottle: which proposal the parson thankfully accepted. chapter iv. _a description of mr wilson's way of living. the tragical adventure of the dog, and other grave matters._ the gentleman returned with the bottle; and adams and he sat some time silent, when the former started up, and cried, "no, that won't do." the gentleman inquired into his meaning; he answered, "he had been considering that it was possible the late famous king theodore might have been that very son whom he had lost;" but added, "that his age could not answer that imagination. however," says he, "g-- disposes all things for the best; and very probably he may be some great man, or duke, and may, one day or other, revisit you in that capacity." the gentleman answered, he should know him amongst ten thousand, for he had a mark on his left breast of a strawberry, which his mother had given him by longing for that fruit. that beautiful young lady the morning now rose from her bed, and with a countenance blooming with fresh youth and sprightliness, like miss ----[a], with soft dews hanging on her pouting lips, began to take her early walk over the eastern hills; and presently after, that gallant person the sun stole softly from his wife's chamber to pay his addresses to her; when the gentleman asked his guest if he would walk forth and survey his little garden, which he readily agreed to, and joseph at the same time awaking from a sleep in which he had been two hours buried, went with them. no parterres, no fountains, no statues, embellished this little garden. its only ornament was a short walk, shaded on each side by a filbert-hedge, with a small alcove at one end, whither in hot weather the gentleman and his wife used to retire and divert themselves with their children, who played in the walk before them. but, though vanity had no votary in this little spot, here was variety of fruit and everything useful for the kitchen, which was abundantly sufficient to catch the admiration of adams, who told the gentleman he had certainly a good gardener. sir, answered he, that gardener is now before you: whatever you see here is the work solely of my own hands. whilst i am providing necessaries for my table, i likewise procure myself an appetite for them. in fair seasons i seldom pass less than six hours of the twenty-four in this place, where i am not idle; and by these means i have been able to preserve my health ever since my arrival here, without assistance from physic. hither i generally repair at the dawn, and exercise myself whilst my wife dresses her children and prepares our breakfast; after which we are seldom asunder during the residue of the day, for, when the weather will not permit them to accompany me here, i am usually within with them; for i am neither ashamed of conversing with my wife nor of playing with my children: to say the truth, i do not perceive that inferiority of understanding which the levity of rakes, the dulness of men of business, or the austerity of the learned, would persuade us of in women. as for my woman, i declare i have found none of my own sex capable of making juster observations on life, or of delivering them more agreeably; nor do i believe any one possessed of a faithfuller or braver friend. and sure as this friendship is sweetened with more delicacy and tenderness, so is it confirmed by dearer pledges than can attend the closest male alliance; for what union can be so fast as our common interest in the fruits of our embraces? perhaps, sir, you are not yourself a father; if you are not, be assured you cannot conceive the delight i have in my little ones. would you not despise me if you saw me stretched on the ground, and my children playing round me? "i should reverence the sight," quoth adams; "i myself am now the father of six, and have been of eleven, and i can say i never scourged a child of my own, unless as his schoolmaster, and then have felt every stroke on my own posteriors. and as to what you say concerning women, i have often lamented my own wife did not understand greek."--the gentleman smiled, and answered, he would not be apprehended to insinuate that his own had an understanding above the care of her family; on the contrary, says he, my harriet, i assure you, is a notable housewife, and few gentlemen's housekeepers understand cookery or confectionery better; but these are arts which she hath no great occasion for now: however, the wine you commended so much last night at supper was of her own making, as is indeed all the liquor in my house, except my beer, which falls to my province. "and i assure you it is as excellent," quoth adams, "as ever i tasted." we formerly kept a maid-servant, but since my girls have been growing up she is unwilling to indulge them in idleness; for as the fortunes i shall give them will be very small, we intend not to breed them above the rank they are likely to fill hereafter, nor to teach them to despise or ruin a plain husband. indeed, i could wish a man of my own temper, and a retired life, might fall to their lot; for i have experienced that calm serene happiness, which is seated in content, is inconsistent with the hurry and bustle of the world. he was proceeding thus when the little things, being just risen, ran eagerly towards him and asked him blessing. they were shy to the strangers, but the eldest acquainted her father, that her mother and the young gentlewoman were up, and that breakfast was ready. they all went in, where the gentleman was surprized at the beauty of fanny, who had now recovered herself from her fatigue, and was entirely clean drest; for the rogues who had taken away her purse had left her her bundle. but if he was so much amazed at the beauty of this young creature, his guests were no less charmed at the tenderness which appeared in the behaviour of the husband and wife to each other, and to their children, and at the dutiful and affectionate behaviour of these to their parents. these instances pleased the well-disposed mind of adams equally with the readiness which they exprest to oblige their guests, and their forwardness to offer them the best of everything in their house; and what delighted him still more was an instance or two of their charity; for whilst they were at breakfast the good woman was called for to assist her sick neighbour, which she did with some cordials made for the public use, and the good man went into his garden at the same time to supply another with something which he wanted thence, for they had nothing which those who wanted it were not welcome to. these good people were in the utmost cheerfulness, when they heard the report of a gun, and immediately afterwards a little dog, the favourite of the eldest daughter, came limping in all bloody and laid himself at his mistress's feet: the poor girl, who was about eleven years old, burst into tears at the sight; and presently one of the neighbours came in and informed them that the young squire, the son of the lord of the manor, had shot him as he past by, swearing at the same time he would prosecute the master of him for keeping a spaniel, for that he had given notice he would not suffer one in the parish. the dog, whom his mistress had taken into her lap, died in a few minutes, licking her hand. she exprest great agony at his loss, and the other children began to cry for their sister's misfortune; nor could fanny herself refrain. whilst the father and mother attempted to comfort her, adams grasped his crabstick and would have sallied out after the squire had not joseph withheld him. he could not however bridle his tongue--he pronounced the word rascal with great emphasis; said he deserved to be hanged more than a highwayman, and wished he had the scourging him. the mother took her child, lamenting and carrying the dead favourite in her arms, out of the room, when the gentleman said this was the second time this squire had endeavoured to kill the little wretch, and had wounded him smartly once before; adding, he could have no motive but ill-nature, for the little thing, which was not near as big as one's fist, had never been twenty yards from the house in the six years his daughter had had it. he said he had done nothing to deserve this usage, but his father had too great a fortune to contend with: that he was as absolute as any tyrant in the universe, and had killed all the dogs and taken away all the guns in the neighbourhood; and not only that, but he trampled down hedges and rode over corn and gardens, with no more regard than if they were the highway. "i wish i could catch him in my garden," said adams, "though i would rather forgive him riding through my house than such an ill-natured act as this." the cheerfulness of their conversation being interrupted by this accident, in which the guests could be of no service to their kind entertainer; and as the mother was taken up in administering consolation to the poor girl, whose disposition was too good hastily to forget the sudden loss of her little favourite, which had been fondling with her a few minutes before; and as joseph and fanny were impatient to get home and begin those previous ceremonies to their happiness which adams had insisted on, they now offered to take their leave. the gentleman importuned them much to stay dinner; but when he found their eagerness to depart he summoned his wife; and accordingly, having performed all the usual ceremonies of bows and curtsies more pleasant to be seen than to be related, they took their leave, the gentleman and his wife heartily wishing them a good journey, and they as heartily thanking them for their kind entertainment. they then departed, adams declaring that this was the manner in which the people had lived in the golden age. [a] whoever the reader pleases. chapter v. _a disputation on schools held on the road between mr abraham adams and joseph; and a discovery not unwelcome to them both._ our travellers, having well refreshed themselves at the gentleman's house, joseph and fanny with sleep, and mr abraham adams with ale and tobacco, renewed their journey with great alacrity; and pursuing the road into which they were directed, travelled many miles before they met with any adventure worth relating. in this interval we shall present our readers with a very curious discourse, as we apprehend it, concerning public schools, which passed between mr joseph andrews and mr abraham adams. they had not gone far before adams, calling to joseph, asked him, "if he had attended to the gentleman's story?" he answered, "to all the former part."--"and don't you think," says he, "he was a very unhappy man in his youth?"--"a very unhappy man, indeed," answered the other. "joseph," cries adams, screwing up his mouth, "i have found it; i have discovered the cause of all the misfortunes which befel him: a public school, joseph, was the cause of all the calamities which he afterwards suffered. public schools are the nurseries of all vice and immorality. all the wicked fellows whom i remember at the university were bred at them.--ah, lord! i can remember as well as if it was but yesterday, a knot of them; they called them king's scholars, i forget why--very wicked fellows! joseph, you may thank the lord you were not bred at a public school; you would never have preserved your virtue as you have. the first care i always take is of a boy's morals; i had rather he should be a blockhead than an atheist or a presbyterian. what is all the learning in the world compared to his immortal soul? what shall a man take in exchange for his soul? but the masters of great schools trouble themselves about no such thing. i have known a lad of eighteen at the university, who hath not been able to say his catechism; but for my own part, i always scourged a lad sooner for missing that than any other lesson. believe me, child, all that gentleman's misfortunes arose from his being educated at a public school." "it doth not become me," answered joseph, "to dispute anything, sir, with you, especially a matter of this kind; for to be sure you must be allowed by all the world to be the best teacher of a school in all our county." "yes, that," says adams, "i believe, is granted me; that i may without much vanity pretend to--nay, i believe i may go to the next county too--but _gloriari non est meum_."--"however, sir, as you are pleased to bid me speak," says joseph, "you know my late master, sir thomas booby, was bred at a public school, and he was the finest gentleman in all the neighbourhood. and i have often heard him say, if he had a hundred boys he would breed them all at the same place. it was his opinion, and i have often heard him deliver it, that a boy taken from a public school and carried into the world, will learn more in one year there than one of a private education will in five. he used to say the school itself initiated him a great way (i remember that was his very expression), for great schools are little societies, where a boy of any observation may see in epitome what he will afterwards find in the world at large."--"_hinc illae lachrymae_: for that very reason," quoth adams, "i prefer a private school, where boys may be kept in innocence and ignorance; for, according to that fine passage in the play of cato, the only english tragedy i ever read-- "'if knowledge of the world must make men villains may juba ever live in ignorance!' "who would not rather preserve the purity of his child than wish him to attain the whole circle of arts and sciences? which, by the bye, he may learn in the classes of a private school; for i would not be vain, but i esteem myself to be second to none, _nulli secundum_, in teaching these things; so that a lad may have as much learning in a private as in a public education."--"and, with submission," answered joseph, "he may get as much vice: witness several country gentlemen, who were educated within five miles of their own houses, and are as wicked as if they had known the world from their infancy. i remember when i was in the stable, if a young horse was vicious in his nature, no correction would make him otherwise: i take it to be equally the same among men: if a boy be of a mischievous wicked inclination, no school, though ever so private, will ever make him good: on the contrary, if he be of a righteous temper, you may trust him to london, or wherever else you please--he will be in no danger of being corrupted. besides, i have often heard my master say that the discipline practised in public schools was much better than that in private."--"you talk like a jackanapes," says adams, "and so did your master. discipline indeed! because one man scourges twenty or thirty boys more in a morning than another, is he therefore a better disciplinarian? i do presume to confer in this point with all who have taught from chiron's time to this day; and, if i was master of six boys only, i would preserve as good discipline amongst them as the master of the greatest school in the world. i say nothing, young man; remember i say nothing; but if sir thomas himself had been educated nearer home, and under the tuition of somebody--remember i name nobody--it might have been better for him:--but his father must institute him in the knowledge of the world. _nemo mortalium omnibus horis sapit_." joseph, seeing him run on in this manner, asked pardon many times, assuring him he had no intention to offend. "i believe you had not, child," said he, "and i am not angry with you; but for maintaining good discipline in a school; for this."--and then he ran on as before, named all the masters who are recorded in old books, and preferred himself to them all. indeed, if this good man had an enthusiasm, or what the vulgar call a blind side, it was this: he thought a schoolmaster the greatest character in the world, and himself the greatest of all schoolmasters: neither of which points he would have given up to alexander the great at the head of his army. adams continued his subject till they came to one of the beautifullest spots of ground in the universe. it was a kind of natural amphitheatre, formed by the winding of a small rivulet, which was planted with thick woods, and the trees rose gradually above each other by the natural ascent of the ground they stood on; which ascent as they hid with their boughs, they seemed to have been disposed by the design of the most skilful planter. the soil was spread with a verdure which no paint could imitate; and the whole place might have raised romantic ideas in elder minds than those of joseph and fanny, without the assistance of love. here they arrived about noon, and joseph proposed to adams that they should rest awhile in this delightful place, and refresh themselves with some provisions which the good-nature of mrs wilson had provided them with. adams made no objection to the proposal; so down they sat, and, pulling out a cold fowl and a bottle of wine, they made a repast with a cheerfulness which might have attracted the envy of more splendid tables. i should not omit that they found among their provision a little paper containing a piece of gold, which adams imagining had been put there by mistake, would have returned back to restore it; but he was at last convinced by joseph that mr wilson had taken this handsome way of furnishing them with a supply for their journey, on his having related the distress which they had been in, when they were relieved by the generosity of the pedlar. adams said he was glad to see such an instance of goodness, not so much for the conveniency which it brought them as for the sake of the doer, whose reward would be great in heaven. he likewise comforted himself with a reflection that he should shortly have an opportunity of returning it him; for the gentleman was within a week to make a journey into somersetshire, to pass through adams's parish, and had faithfully promised to call on him; a circumstance which we thought too immaterial to mention before; but which those who have as great an affection for that gentleman as ourselves will rejoice at, as it may give them hopes of seeing him again. then joseph made a speech on charity, which the reader, if he is so disposed, may see in the next chapter; for we scorn to betray him into any such reading, without first giving him warning. chapter vi. _moral reflections by joseph andrews; with the hunting adventure, and parson adams's miraculous escape._ "i have often wondered, sir," said joseph, "to observe so few instances of charity among mankind; for though the goodness of a man's heart did not incline him to relieve the distresses of his fellow-creatures, methinks the desire of honour should move him to it. what inspires a man to build fine houses, to purchase fine furniture, pictures, clothes, and other things, at a great expense, but an ambition to be respected more than other people? now, would not one great act of charity, one instance of redeeming a poor family from all the miseries of poverty, restoring an unfortunate tradesman by a sum of money to the means of procuring a livelihood by his industry, discharging an undone debtor from his debts or a gaol, or any suchlike example of goodness, create a man more honour and respect than he could acquire by the finest house, furniture, pictures, or clothes, that were ever beheld? for not only the object himself who was thus relieved, but all who heard the name of such a person, must, i imagine, reverence him infinitely more than the possessor of all those other things; which when we so admire, we rather praise the builder, the workman, the painter, the lace-maker, the taylor, and the rest, by whose ingenuity they are produced, than the person who by his money makes them his own. for my own part, when i have waited behind my lady in a room hung with fine pictures, while i have been looking at them i have never once thought of their owner, nor hath any one else, as i ever observed; for when it hath been asked whose picture that was, it was never once answered the master's of the house; but ammyconni, paul varnish, hannibal scratchi, or hogarthi, which i suppose were the names of the painters; but if it was asked--who redeemed such a one out of prison? who lent such a ruined tradesman money to set up? who clothed that family of poor small children? it is very plain what must be the answer. and besides, these great folks are mistaken if they imagine they get any honour at all by these means; for i do not remember i ever was with my lady at any house where she commended the house or furniture but i have heard her at her return home make sport and jeer at whatever she had before commended; and i have been told by other gentlemen in livery that it is the same in their families: but i defy the wisest man in the world to turn a true good action into ridicule. i defy him to do it. he who should endeavour it would be laughed at himself, instead of making others laugh. nobody scarce doth any good, yet they all agree in praising those who do. indeed, it is strange that all men should consent in commending goodness, and no man endeavour to deserve that commendation; whilst, on the contrary, all rail at wickedness, and all are as eager to be what they abuse. this i know not the reason of; but it is as plain as daylight to those who converse in the world, as i have done these three years." "are all the great folks wicked then?" says fanny. "to be sure there are some exceptions," answered joseph. "some gentlemen of our cloth report charitable actions done by their lords and masters; and i have heard squire pope, the great poet, at my lady's table, tell stories of a man that lived at a place called ross, and another at the bath, one al--al--i forget his name, but it is in the book of verses. this gentleman hath built up a stately house too, which the squire likes very well; but his charity is seen farther than his house, though it stands on a hill,--ay, and brings him more honour too. it was his charity that put him in the book, where the squire says he puts all those who deserve it; and to be sure, as he lives among all the great people, if there were any such, he would know them." this was all of mr joseph andrews's speech which i could get him to recollect, which i have delivered as near as was possible in his own words, with a very small embellishment. but i believe the reader hath not been a little surprized at the long silence of parson adams, especially as so many occasions offered themselves to exert his curiosity and observation. the truth is, he was fast asleep, and had so been from the beginning of the preceding narrative; and, indeed, if the reader considers that so many hours had passed since he had closed his eyes, he will not wonder at his repose, though even henley himself, or as great an orator (if any such be), had been in his rostrum or tub before him. joseph, who whilst he was speaking had continued in one attitude, with his head reclining on one side, and his eyes cast on the ground, no sooner perceived, on looking up, the position of adams, who was stretched on his back, and snored louder than the usual braying of the animal with long ears, than he turned towards fanny, and, taking her by the hand, began a dalliance, which, though consistent with the purest innocence and decency, neither he would have attempted nor she permitted before any witness. whilst they amused themselves in this harmless and delightful manner they heard a pack of hounds approaching in full cry towards them, and presently afterwards saw a hare pop forth from the wood, and, crossing the water, land within a few yards of them in the meadows. the hare was no sooner on shore than it seated itself on its hinder legs, and listened to the sound of the pursuers. fanny was wonderfully pleased with the little wretch, and eagerly longed to have it in her arms that she might preserve it from the dangers which seemed to threaten it; but the rational part of the creation do not always aptly distinguish their friends from their foes; what wonder then if this silly creature, the moment it beheld her, fled from the friend who would have protected it, and, traversing the meadows again, passed the little rivulet on the opposite side? it was, however, so spent and weak, that it fell down twice or thrice in its way. this affected the tender heart of fanny, who exclaimed, with tears in her eyes, against the barbarity of worrying a poor innocent defenceless animal out of its life, and putting it to the extremest torture for diversion. she had not much time to make reflections of this kind, for on a sudden the hounds rushed through the wood, which resounded with their throats and the throats of their retinue, who attended on them on horseback. the dogs now past the rivulet, and pursued the footsteps of the hare; five horsemen attempted to leap over, three of whom succeeded, and two were in the attempt thrown from their saddles into the water; their companions, and their own horses too, proceeded after their sport, and left their friends and riders to invoke the assistance of fortune, or employ the more active means of strength and agility for their deliverance. joseph, however, was not so unconcerned on this occasion; he left fanny for a moment to herself, and ran to the gentlemen, who were immediately on their legs, shaking their ears, and easily, with the help of his hand, obtained the bank (for the rivulet was not at all deep); and, without staying to thank their kind assister, ran dripping across the meadow, calling to their brother sportsmen to stop their horses; but they heard them not. the hounds were now very little behind their poor reeling, staggering prey, which, fainting almost at every step, crawled through the wood, and had almost got round to the place where fanny stood, when it was overtaken by its enemies, and being driven out of the covert, was caught, and instantly tore to pieces before fanny's face, who was unable to assist it with any aid more powerful than pity; nor could she prevail on joseph, who had been himself a sportsman in his youth, to attempt anything contrary to the laws of hunting in favour of the hare, which he said was killed fairly. the hare was caught within a yard or two of adams, who lay asleep at some distance from the lovers; and the hounds, in devouring it, and pulling it backwards and forwards, had drawn it so close to him, that some of them (by mistake perhaps for the hare's skin) laid hold of the skirts of his cassock; others at the same time applying their teeth to his wig, which he had with a handkerchief fastened to his head, began to pull him about; and had not the motion of his body had more effect on him than seemed to be wrought by the noise, they must certainly have tasted his flesh, which delicious flavour might have been fatal to him; but being roused by these tuggings, he instantly awaked, and with a jerk delivering his head from his wig, he with most admirable dexterity recovered his legs, which now seemed the only members he could entrust his safety to. having, therefore, escaped likewise from at least a third part of his cassock, which he willingly left as his _exuviae_ or spoils to the enemy, he fled with the utmost speed he could summon to his assistance. nor let this be any detraction from the bravery of his character: let the number of the enemies, and the surprize in which he was taken, be considered; and if there be any modern so outrageously brave that he cannot admit of flight in any circumstance whatever, i say (but i whisper that softly, and i solemnly declare without any intention of giving offence to any brave man in the nation), i say, or rather i whisper, that he is an ignorant fellow, and hath never read homer nor virgil, nor knows he anything of hector or turnus; nay, he is unacquainted with the history of some great men living, who, though as brave as lions, ay, as tigers, have run away, the lord knows how far, and the lord knows why, to the surprize of their friends and the entertainment of their enemies. but if persons of such heroic disposition are a little offended at the behaviour of adams, we assure them they shall be as much pleased with what we shall immediately relate of joseph andrews. the master of the pack was just arrived, or, as the sportsmen call it, come in, when adams set out, as we have before mentioned. this gentleman was generally said to be a great lover of humour; but, not to mince the matter, especially as we are upon this subject, he was a great hunter of men; indeed, he had hitherto followed the sport only with dogs of his own species; for he kept two or three couple of barking curs for that use only. however, as he thought he had now found a man nimble enough, he was willing to indulge himself with other sport, and accordingly, crying out, "stole away," encouraged the hounds to pursue mr adams, swearing it was the largest jack-hare he ever saw; at the same time hallooing and hooping as if a conquered foe was flying before him; in which he was imitated by these two or three couple of human or rather two-legged curs on horseback which we have mentioned before. now, thou, whoever thou art, whether a muse, or by what other name soever thou choosest to be called, who presidest over biography, and hast inspired all the writers of lives in these our times: thou who didst infuse such wonderful humour into the pen of immortal gulliver; who hast carefully guided the judgment whilst thou hast exalted the nervous manly style of thy mallet: thou who hadst no hand in that dedication and preface, or the translations, which thou wouldst willingly have struck out of the life of cicero: lastly, thou who, without the assistance of the least spice of literature, and even against his inclination, hast, in some pages of his book, forced colley cibber to write english; do thou assist me in what i find myself unequal to. do thou introduce on the plain the young, the gay, the brave joseph andrews, whilst men shall view him with admiration and envy, tender virgins with love and anxious concern for his safety. no sooner did joseph andrews perceive the distress of his friend, when first the quick-scenting dogs attacked him, than he grasped his cudgel in his right hand--a cudgel which his father had of his grandfather, to whom a mighty strong man of kent had given it for a present in that day when he broke three heads on the stage. it was a cudgel of mighty strength and wonderful art, made by one of mr deard's best workmen, whom no other artificer can equal, and who hath made all those sticks which the beaus have lately walked with about the park in a morning; but this was far his masterpiece. on its head was engraved a nose and chin, which might have been mistaken for a pair of nutcrackers. the learned have imagined it designed to represent the gorgon; but it was in fact copied from the face of a certain long english baronet, of infinite wit, humour, and gravity. he did intend to have engraved here many histories: as the first night of captain b----'s play, where you would have seen critics in embroidery transplanted from the boxes to the pit, whose ancient inhabitants were exalted to the galleries, where they played on catcalls. he did intend to have painted an auction room, where mr cock would have appeared aloft in his pulpit, trumpeting forth the praises of a china basin, and with astonishment wondering that "nobody bids more for that fine, that superb--" he did intend to have engraved many other things, but was forced to leave all out for want of room. no sooner had joseph grasped his cudgel in his hands than lightning darted from his eyes; and the heroick youth, swift of foot, ran with the utmost speed to his friend's assistance. he overtook him just as rockwood had laid hold of the skirt of his cassock, which, being torn, hung to the ground. reader, we would make a simile on this occasion, but for two reasons: the first is, it would interrupt the description, which should be rapid in this part; but that doth not weigh much, many precedents occurring for such an interruption: the second and much the greater reason is, that we could find no simile adequate to our purpose: for indeed, what instance could we bring to set before our reader's eyes at once the idea of friendship, courage, youth, beauty, strength, and swiftness? all which blazed in the person of joseph andrews. let those, therefore, that describe lions and tigers, and heroes fiercer than both, raise their poems or plays with the simile of joseph andrews, who is himself above the reach of any simile. now rockwood had laid fast hold on the parson's skirts, and stopt his flight; which joseph no sooner perceived than he levelled his cudgel at his head and laid him sprawling. jowler and ringwood then fell on his greatcoat, and had undoubtedly brought him to the ground, had not joseph, collecting all his force, given jowler such a rap on the back, that, quitting his hold, he ran howling over the plain. a harder fate remained for thee, o ringwood! ringwood the best hound that ever pursued a hare, who never threw his tongue but where the scent was undoubtedly true; good at trailing, and sure in a highway; no babler, no overrunner; respected by the whole pack, who, whenever he opened, knew the game was at hand. he fell by the stroke of joseph. thunder and plunder, and wonder and blunder, were the next victims of his wrath, and measured their lengths on the ground. then fairmaid, a bitch which mr john temple had bred up in his house, and fed at his own table, and lately sent the squire fifty miles for a present, ran fiercely at joseph and bit him by the leg: no dog was ever fiercer than she, being descended from an amazonian breed, and had worried bulls in her own country, but now waged an unequal fight, and had shared the fate of those we have mentioned before, had not diana (the reader may believe it or not if he pleases) in that instant interposed, and, in the shape of the huntsman, snatched her favourite up in her arms. the parson now faced about, and with his crabstick felled many to the earth, and scattered others, till he was attacked by caesar and pulled to the ground. then joseph flew to his rescue, and with such might fell on the victor, that, o eternal blot to his name! caesar ran yelping away. the battle now raged with the most dreadful violence, when, lo! the huntsman, a man of years and dignity, lifted his voice, and called his hounds from the fight, telling them, in a language they understood, that it was in vain to contend longer, for that fate had decreed the victory to their enemies. thus far the muse hath with her usual dignity related this prodigious battle, a battle we apprehend never equalled by any poet, romance or life writer whatever, and, having brought it to a conclusion, she ceased; we shall therefore proceed in our ordinary style with the continuation of this history. the squire and his companions, whom the figure of adams and the gallantry of joseph had at first thrown into a violent fit of laughter, and who had hitherto beheld the engagement with more delight than any chase, shooting-match, race, cock-fighting, bull or bear baiting, had ever given them, began now to apprehend the danger of their hounds, many of which lay sprawling in the fields. the squire, therefore, having first called his friends about him, as guards for safety of his person, rode manfully up to the combatants, and, summoning all the terror he was master of into his countenance, demanded with an authoritative voice of joseph what he meant by assaulting his dogs in that manner? joseph answered, with great intrepidity, that they had first fallen on his friend; and if they had belonged to the greatest man in the kingdom, he would have treated them in the same way; for, whilst his veins contained a single drop of blood, he would not stand idle by and see that gentleman (pointing to adams) abused either by man or beast; and, having so said, both he and adams brandished their wooden weapons, and put themselves into such a posture, that the squire and his company thought proper to preponderate before they offered to revenge the cause of their four-footed allies. at this instant fanny, whom the apprehension of joseph's danger had alarmed so much that, forgetting her own, she had made the utmost expedition, came up. the squire and all the horsemen were so surprized with her beauty, that they immediately fixed both their eyes and thoughts solely on her, every one declaring he had never seen so charming a creature. neither mirth nor anger engaged them a moment longer, but all sat in silent amaze. the huntsman only was free from her attraction, who was busy in cutting the ears of the dogs, and endeavouring to recover them to life; in which he succeeded so well, that only two of no great note remained slaughtered on the field of action. upon this the huntsman declared, "'twas well it was no worse; for his part he could not blame the gentleman, and wondered his master would encourage the dogs to hunt christians; that it was the surest way to spoil them, to make them follow vermin instead of sticking to a hare." the squire, being informed of the little mischief that had been done, and perhaps having more mischief of another kind in his head, accosted mr adams with a more favourable aspect than before: he told him he was sorry for what had happened; that he had endeavoured all he could to prevent it the moment he was acquainted with his cloth, and greatly commended the courage of his servant, for so he imagined joseph to be. he then invited mr adams to dinner, and desired the young woman might come with him. adams refused a long while; but the invitation was repeated with so much earnestness and courtesy, that at length he was forced to accept it. his wig and hat, and other spoils of the field, being gathered together by joseph (for otherwise probably they would have been forgotten), he put himself into the best order he could; and then the horse and foot moved forward in the same pace towards the squire's house, which stood at a very little distance. whilst they were on the road the lovely fanny attracted the eyes of all: they endeavoured to outvie one another in encomiums on her beauty; which the reader will pardon my not relating, as they had not anything new or uncommon in them: so must he likewise my not setting down the many curious jests which were made on adams; some of them declaring that parson-hunting was the best sport in the world; others commending his standing at bay, which they said he had done as well as any badger; with such like merriment, which, though it would ill become the dignity of this history, afforded much laughter and diversion to the squire and his facetious companions. chapter vii. _a scene of roasting, very nicely adapted to the present taste and times._ they arrived at the squire's house just as his dinner was ready. a little dispute arose on the account of fanny, whom the squire, who was a bachelor, was desirous to place at his own table; but she would not consent, nor would mr adams permit her to be parted from joseph; so that she was at length with him consigned over to the kitchen, where the servants were ordered to make him drunk; a favour which was likewise intended for adams; which design being executed, the squire thought he should easily accomplish what he had when he first saw her intended to perpetrate with fanny. it may not be improper, before we proceed farther, to open a little the character of this gentleman, and that of his friends. the master of this house, then, was a man of a very considerable fortune; a bachelor, as we have said, and about forty years of age: he had been educated (if we may use the expression) in the country, and at his own home, under the care of his mother, and a tutor who had orders never to correct him, nor to compel him to learn more than he liked, which it seems was very little, and that only in his childhood; for from the age of fifteen he addicted himself entirely to hunting and other rural amusements, for which his mother took care to equip him with horses, hounds, and all other necessaries; and his tutor, endeavouring to ingratiate himself with his young pupil, who would, he knew, be able handsomely to provide for him, became his companion, not only at these exercises, but likewise over a bottle, which the young squire had a very early relish for. at the age of twenty his mother began to think she had not fulfilled the duty of a parent; she therefore resolved to persuade her son, if possible, to that which she imagined would well supply all that he might have learned at a public school or university--this is what they commonly call travelling; which, with the help of the tutor, who was fixed on to attend him, she easily succeeded in. he made in three years the tour of europe, as they term it, and returned home well furnished with french clothes, phrases, and servants, with a hearty contempt for his own country; especially what had any savour of the plain spirit and honesty of our ancestors. his mother greatly applauded herself at his return. and now, being master of his own fortune, he soon procured himself a seat in parliament, and was in the common opinion one of the finest gentlemen of his age: but what distinguished him chiefly was a strange delight which he took in everything which is ridiculous, odious, and absurd in his own species; so that he never chose a companion without one or more of these ingredients, and those who were marked by nature in the most eminent degree with them were most his favourites. if he ever found a man who either had not, or endeavoured to conceal, these imperfections, he took great pleasure in inventing methods of forcing him into absurdities which were not natural to him, or in drawing forth and exposing those that were; for which purpose he was always provided with a set of fellows, whom we have before called curs, and who did, indeed, no great honour to the canine kind; their business was to hunt out and display everything that had any savour of the above-mentioned qualities, and especially in the gravest and best characters; but if they failed in their search, they were to turn even virtue and wisdom themselves into ridicule, for the diversion of their master and feeder. the gentlemen of curlike disposition who were now at his house, and whom he had brought with him from london, were, an old half-pay officer, a player, a dull poet, a quack-doctor, a scraping fiddler, and a lame german dancing-master. as soon as dinner was served, while mr adams was saying grace, the captain conveyed his chair from behind him; so that when he endeavoured to seat himself he fell down on the ground, and this completed joke the first, to the great entertainment of the whole company. the second joke was performed by the poet, who sat next him on the other side, and took an opportunity, while poor adams was respectfully drinking to the master of the house, to overturn a plate of soup into his breeches; which, with the many apologies he made, and the parson's gentle answers, caused much mirth in the company. joke the third was served up by one of the waiting-men, who had been ordered to convey a quantity of gin into mr adams's ale, which he declaring to be the best liquor he ever drank, but rather too rich of the malt, contributed again to their laughter. mr adams, from whom we had most of this relation, could not recollect all the jests of this kind practised on him, which the inoffensive disposition of his own heart made him slow in discovering; and indeed, had it not been for the information which we received from a servant of the family, this part of our history, which we take to be none of the least curious, must have been deplorably imperfect; though we must own it probable that some more jokes were (as they call it) cracked during their dinner; but we have by no means been able to come at the knowledge of them. when dinner was removed, the poet began to repeat some verses, which, he said, were made extempore. the following is a copy of them, procured with the greatest difficulty:-- _an extempore poem on parson adams._ did ever mortal such a parson view? his cassock old, his wig not over-new, well might the hounds have him for fox mistaken, in smell more like to that than rusty bacon[a]; but would it not make any mortal stare to see this parson taken for a hare? could phoebus err thus grossly, even he for a good player might have taken thee. [a] all hounds that will hunt fox or other vermin will hunt a piece of rusty bacon trailed on the ground. at which words the bard whipt off the player's wig, and received the approbation of the company, rather perhaps for the dexterity of his hand than his head. the player, instead of retorting the jest on the poet, began to display his talents on the same subject. he repeated many scraps of wit out of plays, reflecting on the whole body of the clergy, which were received with great acclamations by all present. it was now the dancing-master's turn to exhibit his talents; he therefore, addressing himself to adams in broken english, told him, "he was a man ver well made for de dance, and he suppose by his walk dat he had learn of some great master." he said, "it was ver pretty quality in clergyman to dance;" and concluded with desiring him to dance a minuet, telling him, "his cassock would serve for petticoats; and that he would himself be his partner." at which words, without waiting for an answer, he pulled out his gloves, and the fiddler was preparing his fiddle. the company all offered the dancing-master wagers that the parson out-danced him, which he refused, saying "he believed so too, for he had never seen any man in his life who looked de dance so well as de gentleman:" he then stepped forwards to take adams by the hand, which the latter hastily withdrew, and, at the same time clenching his fist, advised him not to carry the jest too far, for he would not endure being put upon. the dancing-master no sooner saw the fist than he prudently retired out of its reach, and stood aloof, mimicking adams, whose eyes were fixed on him, not guessing what he was at, but to avoid his laying hold on him, which he had once attempted. in the meanwhile, the captain, perceiving an opportunity, pinned a cracker or devil to the cassock, and then lighted it with their little smoking-candle. adams, being a stranger to this sport, and believing he had been blown up in reality, started from his chair, and jumped about the room, to the infinite joy of the beholders, who declared he was the best dancer in the universe. as soon as the devil had done tormenting him, and he had a little recovered his confusion, he returned to the table, standing up in the posture of one who intended to make a speech. they all cried out, "hear him, hear him;" and he then spoke in the following manner: "sir, i am sorry to see one to whom providence hath been so bountiful in bestowing his favours make so ill and ungrateful a return for them; for, though you have not insulted me yourself, it is visible you have delighted in those that do it, nor have once discouraged the many rudenesses which have been shown towards me; indeed, towards yourself, if you rightly understood them; for i am your guest, and by the laws of hospitality entitled to your protection. one gentleman had thought proper to produce some poetry upon me, of which i shall only say, that i had rather be the subject than the composer. he hath pleased to treat me with disrespect as a parson. i apprehend my order is not the subject of scorn, nor that i can become so, unless by being a disgrace to it, which i hope poverty will never be called. another gentleman, indeed, hath repeated some sentences, where the order itself is mentioned with contempt. he says they are taken from plays. i am sure such plays are a scandal to the government which permits them, and cursed will be the nation where they are represented. how others have treated me i need not observe; they themselves, when they reflect, must allow the behaviour to be as improper to my years as to my cloth. you found me, sir, travelling with two of my parishioners (i omit your hounds falling on me; for i have quite forgiven it, whether it proceeded from the wantonness or negligence of the huntsman): my appearance might very well persuade you that your invitation was an act of charity, though in reality we were well provided; yes, sir, if we had had an hundred miles to travel, we had sufficient to bear our expenses in a noble manner." (at which words he produced the half-guinea which was found in the basket.) "i do not show you this out of ostentation of riches, but to convince you i speak truth. your seating me at your table was an honour which i did not ambitiously affect. when i was here, i endeavoured to behave towards you with the utmost respect; if i have failed, it was not with design; nor could i, certainly, so far be guilty as to deserve the insults i have suffered. if they were meant, therefore, either to my order or my poverty (and you see i am not very poor), the shame doth not lie at my door, and i heartily pray that the sin may be averted from yours." he thus finished, and received a general clap from the whole company. then the gentleman of the house told him, "he was sorry for what had happened; that he could not accuse him of any share in it; that the verses were, as himself had well observed, so bad, that he might easily answer them; and for the serpent, it was undoubtedly a very great affront done him by the dancing-master, for which, if he well thrashed him, as he deserved, he should be very much pleased to see it" (in which, probably, he spoke truth). adams answered, "whoever had done it, it was not his profession to punish him that way; but for the person whom he had accused, i am a witness," says he, "of his innocence; for i had my eye on him all the while. whoever he was, god forgive him, and bestow on him a little more sense as well as humanity." the captain answered with a surly look and accent, "that he hoped he did not mean to reflect upon him; d--n him, he had as much imanity as another, and, if any man said he had not, he would convince him of his mistake by cutting his throat." adams, smiling, said, "he believed he had spoke right by accident." to which the captain returned, "what do you mean by my speaking right? if you was not a parson, i would not take these words; but your gown protects you. if any man who wears a sword had said so much, i had pulled him by the nose before this." adams replied, "if he attempted any rudeness to his person, he would not find any protection for himself in his gown;" and, clenching his fist, declared "he had thrashed many a stouter man." the gentleman did all he could to encourage this warlike disposition in adams, and was in hopes to have produced a battle, but he was disappointed; for the captain made no other answer than, "it is very well you are a parson;" and so, drinking off a bumper to old mother church, ended the dispute. then the doctor, who had hitherto been silent, and who was the gravest but most mischievous dog of all, in a very pompous speech highly applauded what adams had said, and as much discommended the behaviour to him. he proceeded to encomiums on the church and poverty; and, lastly, recommended forgiveness of what had passed to adams, who immediately answered, "that everything was forgiven;" and in the warmth of his goodness he filled a bumper of strong beer (a liquor he preferred to wine), and drank a health to the whole company, shaking the captain and the poet heartily by the hand, and addressing himself with great respect to the doctor; who, indeed, had not laughed outwardly at anything that past, as he had a perfect command of his muscles, and could laugh inwardly without betraying the least symptoms in his countenance. the doctor now began a second formal speech, in which he declaimed against all levity of conversation, and what is usually called mirth. he said, "there were amusements fitted for persons of all ages and degrees, from the rattle to the discussing a point of philosophy; and that men discovered themselves in nothing more than in the choice of their amusements; for," says he, "as it must greatly raise our expectation of the future conduct in life of boys whom in their tender years we perceive, instead of taw or balls, or other childish playthings, to chuse, at their leisure hours, to exercise their genius in contentions of wit, learning, and such like; so must it inspire one with equal contempt of a man, if we should discover him playing at taw or other childish play." adams highly commended the doctor's opinion, and said, "he had often wondered at some passages in ancient authors, where scipio, laelius, and other great men were represented to have passed many hours in amusements of the most trifling kind." the doctor replied, "he had by him an old greek manuscript where a favourite diversion of socrates was recorded." "ay!" says the parson eagerly; "i should be most infinitely obliged to you for the favour of perusing it." the doctor promised to send it him, and farther said, "that he believed he could describe it. i think," says he, "as near as i can remember, it was this: there was a throne erected, on one side of which sat a king and on the other a queen, with their guards and attendants ranged on both sides; to them was introduced an ambassador, which part socrates always used to perform himself; and when he was led up to the footsteps of the throne he addressed himself to the monarchs in some grave speech, full of virtue, and goodness, and morality, and such like. after which, he was seated between the king and queen, and royally entertained. this i think was the chief part. perhaps i may have forgot some particulars; for it is long since i read it." adams said, "it was, indeed, a diversion worthy the relaxation of so great a man; and thought something resembling it should be instituted among our great men, instead of cards and other idle pastime, in which, he was informed, they trifled away too much of their lives." he added, "the christian religion was a nobler subject for these speeches than any socrates could have invented." the gentleman of the house approved what mr adams said, and declared "he was resolved to perform the ceremony this very evening." to which the doctor objected, as no one was prepared with a speech, "unless," said he (turning to adams with a gravity of countenance which would have deceived a more knowing man), "you have a sermon about you, doctor." "sir," said adams, "i never travel without one, for fear of what may happen." he was easily prevailed on by his worthy friend, as he now called the doctor, to undertake the part of the ambassador; so that the gentleman sent immediate orders to have the throne erected, which was performed before they had drank two bottles; and, perhaps, the reader will hereafter have no great reason to admire the nimbleness of the servants. indeed, to confess the truth, the throne was no more than this: there was a great tub of water provided, on each side of which were placed two stools raised higher than the surface of the tub, and over the whole was laid a blanket; on these stools were placed the king and queen, namely, the master of the house and the captain. and now the ambassador was introduced between the poet and the doctor; who, having read his sermon, to the great entertainment of all present, was led up to his place and seated between their majesties. they immediately rose up, when the blanket, wanting its supports at either end, gave way, and soused adams over head and ears in the water. the captain made his escape, but, unluckily, the gentleman himself not being as nimble as he ought, adams caught hold of him before he descended from his throne, and pulled him in with him, to the entire secret satisfaction of all the company. adams, after ducking the squire twice or thrice, leapt out of the tub, and looked sharp for the doctor, whom he would certainly have conveyed to the same place of honour; but he had wisely withdrawn: he then searched for his crabstick, and having found that, as well as his fellow travellers, he declared he would not stay a moment longer in such a house. he then departed, without taking leave of his host, whom he had exacted a more severe revenge on than he intended; for, as he did not use sufficient care to dry himself in time, he caught a cold by the accident which threw him into a fever that had like to have cost him his life. chapter viii. _which some readers will think too short and others too long._ adams, and joseph, who was no less enraged than his friend at the treatment he met with, went out with their sticks in their hands, and carried off fanny, notwithstanding the opposition of the servants, who did all, without proceeding to violence, in their power to detain them. they walked as fast as they could, not so much from any apprehension of being pursued as that mr adams might, by exercise, prevent any harm from the water. the gentleman, who had given such orders to his servants concerning fanny that he did not in the least fear her getting away, no sooner heard that she was gone, than he began to rave, and immediately despatched several with orders either to bring her back or never return. the poet, the player, and all but the dancing-master and doctor, went on this errand. the night was very dark in which our friends began their journey; however, they made such expedition, that they soon arrived at an inn which was at seven miles' distance. here they unanimously consented to pass the evening, mr adams being now as dry as he was before he had set out on his embassy. this inn, which indeed we might call an ale-house, had not the words, the new inn, been writ on the sign, afforded them no better provision than bread and cheese and ale; on which, however, they made a very comfortable meal; for hunger is better than a french cook. they had no sooner supped, than adams, returning thanks to the almighty for his food, declared he had eat his homely commons with much greater satisfaction than his splendid dinner; and expressed great contempt for the folly of mankind, who sacrificed their hopes of heaven to the acquisition of vast wealth, since so much comfort was to be found in the humblest state and the lowest provision. "very true, sir," says a grave man who sat smoaking his pipe by the fire, and who was a traveller as well as himself. "i have often been as much surprized as you are, when i consider the value which mankind in general set on riches, since every day's experience shows us how little is in their power; for what, indeed, truly desirable, can they bestow on us? can they give beauty to the deformed, strength to the weak, or health to the infirm? surely if they could we should not see so many ill-favoured faces haunting the assemblies of the great, nor would such numbers of feeble wretches languish in their coaches and palaces. no, not the wealth of a kingdom can purchase any paint to dress pale ugliness in the bloom of that young maiden, nor any drugs to equip disease with the vigour of that young man. do not riches bring us to solicitude instead of rest, envy instead of affection, and danger instead of safety? can they prolong their own possession, or lengthen his days who enjoys them? so far otherwise, that the sloth, the luxury, the care which attend them, shorten the lives of millions, and bring them with pain and misery to an untimely grave. where, then, is their value if they can neither embellish nor strengthen our forms, sweeten nor prolong our lives?--again: can they adorn the mind more than the body? do they not rather swell the heart with vanity, puff up the cheeks with pride, shut our ears to every call of virtue, and our bowels to every motive of compassion?" "give me your hand, brother," said adams, in a rapture, "for i suppose you are a clergyman."--"no, truly," answered the other (indeed, he was a priest of the church of rome; but those who understand our laws will not wonder he was not over-ready to own it).--"whatever you are," cries adams, "you have spoken my sentiments: i believe i have preached every syllable of your speech twenty times over; for it hath always appeared to me easier for a cable-rope (which by the way is the true rendering of that word we have translated camel) to go through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to get into the kingdom of heaven."--"that, sir," said the other, "will be easily granted you by divines, and is deplorably true; but as the prospect of our good at a distance doth not so forcibly affect us, it might be of some service to mankind to be made thoroughly sensible--which i think they might be with very little serious attention--that even the blessings of this world are not to be purchased with riches; a doctrine, in my opinion, not only metaphysically, but, if i may so say, mathematically demonstrable; and which i have been always so perfectly convinced of that i have a contempt for nothing so much as for gold." adams now began a long discourse: but as most which he said occurs among many authors who have treated this subject, i shall omit inserting it. during its continuance joseph and fanny retired to rest, and the host likewise left the room. when the english parson had concluded, the romish resumed the discourse, which he continued with great bitterness and invective; and at last ended by desiring adams to lend him eighteen-pence to pay his reckoning; promising, if he never paid him, he might be assured of his prayers. the good man answered that eighteen-pence would be too little to carry him any very long journey; that he had half a guinea in his pocket, which he would divide with him. he then fell to searching his pockets, but could find no money; for indeed the company with whom he dined had passed one jest upon him which we did not then enumerate, and had picked his pocket of all that treasure which he had so ostentatiously produced. "bless me!" cried adams, "i have certainly lost it; i can never have spent it. sir, as i am a christian, i had a whole half-guinea in my pocket this morning, and have not now a single halfpenny of it left. sure the devil must have taken it from me!"--"sir," answered the priest, smiling, "you need make no excuses; if you are not willing to lend me the money, i am contented."--"sir," cries adams, "if i had the greatest sum in the world--aye, if i had ten pounds about me--i would bestow it all to rescue any christian from distress. i am more vexed at my loss on your account than my own. was ever anything so unlucky? because i have no money in my pocket i shall be suspected to be no christian."--"i am more unlucky," quoth the other, "if you are as generous as you say; for really a crown would have made me happy, and conveyed me in plenty to the place i am going, which is not above twenty miles off, and where i can arrive by to-morrow night. i assure you i am not accustomed to travel pennyless. i am but just arrived in england; and we were forced by a storm in our passage to throw all we had overboard. i don't suspect but this fellow will take my word for the trifle i owe him; but i hate to appear so mean as to confess myself without a shilling to such people; for these, and indeed too many others, know little difference in their estimation between a beggar and a thief." however, he thought he should deal better with the host that evening than the next morning: he therefore resolved to set out immediately, notwithstanding the darkness; and accordingly, as soon as the host returned, he communicated to him the situation of his affairs; upon which the host, scratching his head, answered, "why, i do not know, master; if it be so, and you have no money, i must trust, i think, though i had rather always have ready money if i could; but, marry, you look like so honest a gentleman that i don't fear your paying me if it was twenty times as much." the priest made no reply, but, taking leave of him and adams as fast as he could, not without confusion, and perhaps with some distrust of adams's sincerity, departed. he was no sooner gone than the host fell a-shaking his head, and declared, if he had suspected the fellow had no money, he would not have drawn him a single drop of drink, saying he despaired of ever seeing his face again, for that he looked like a confounded rogue. "rabbit the fellow," cries he, "i thought, by his talking so much about riches, that he had a hundred pounds at least in his pocket." adams chid him for his suspicions, which, he said, were not becoming a christian; and then, without reflecting on his loss, or considering how he himself should depart in the morning, he retired to a very homely bed, as his companions had before; however, health and fatigue gave them a sweeter repose than is often in the power of velvet and down to bestow. chapter ix. _containing as surprizing and bloody adventures as can be found in this or perhaps any other authentic history._ it was almost morning when joseph andrews, whose eyes the thoughts of his dear fanny had opened, as he lay fondly meditating on that lovely creature, heard a violent knocking at the door over which he lay. he presently jumped out of bed, and, opening the window, was asked if there were no travellers in the house? and presently, by another voice, if two men and a woman had not taken up there their lodging that night? though he knew not the voices, he began to entertain a suspicion of the truth--for indeed he had received some information from one of the servants of the squire's house of his design--and answered in the negative. one of the servants, who knew the host well, called out to him by his name just as he had opened another window, and asked him the same question; to which he answered in the affirmative. o ho! said another, have we found you? and ordered the host to come down and open his door. fanny, who was as wakeful as joseph, no sooner heard all this than she leaped from her bed, and, hastily putting on her gown and petticoats, ran as fast as possible to joseph's room, who then was almost drest. he immediately let her in, and, embracing her with the most passionate tenderness, bid her fear nothing, for he would die in her defence. "is that a reason why i should not fear," says she, "when i should lose what is dearer to me than the whole world?" joseph, then kissing her hand, said, "he could almost thank the occasion which had extorted from her a tenderness she would never indulge him with before." he then ran and waked his bedfellow adams, who was yet fast asleep, notwithstanding many calls from joseph; but was no sooner made sensible of their danger than he leaped from his bed, without considering the presence of fanny, who hastily turned her face from him, and enjoyed a double benefit from the dark, which, as it would have prevented any offence, to an innocence less pure, or a modesty less delicate, so it concealed even those blushes which were raised in her. adams had soon put on all his clothes but his breeches, which, in the hurry, he forgot; however, they were pretty well supplied by the length of his other garments; and now, the house-door being opened, the captain, the poet, the player, and three servants came in. the captain told the host that two fellows, who were in his house, had run away with a young woman, and desired to know in which room she lay. the host, who presently believed the story, directed them, and instantly the captain and poet, justling one another, ran up. the poet, who was the nimblest, entering the chamber first, searched the bed, and every other part, but to no purpose; the bird was flown, as the impatient reader, who might otherwise have been in pain for her, was before advertised. they then enquired where the men lay, and were approaching the chamber, when joseph roared out, in a loud voice, that he would shoot the first man who offered to attack the door. the captain enquired what fire-arms they had; to which the host answered, he believed they had none; nay, he was almost convinced of it, for he had heard one ask the other in the evening what they should have done if they had been overtaken, when they had no arms; to which the other answered, they would have defended themselves with their sticks as long as they were able, and god would assist a just cause. this satisfied the captain, but not the poet, who prudently retreated downstairs, saying, it was his business to record great actions, and not to do them. the captain was no sooner well satisfied that there were no fire-arms than, bidding defiance to gunpowder, and swearing he loved the smell of it, he ordered the servants to follow him, and, marching boldly up, immediately attempted to force the door, which the servants soon helped him to accomplish. when it was opened, they discovered the enemy drawn up three deep; adams in the front, and fanny in the rear. the captain told adams that if they would go all back to the house again they should be civilly treated; but unless they consented he had orders to carry the young lady with him, whom there was great reason to believe they had stolen from her parents; for, notwithstanding her disguise, her air, which she could not conceal, sufficiently discovered her birth to be infinitely superior to theirs. fanny, bursting into tears, solemnly assured him he was mistaken; that she was a poor helpless foundling, and had no relation in the world which she knew of; and, throwing herself on her knees, begged that he would not attempt to take her from her friends, who, she was convinced, would die before they would lose her; which adams confirmed with words not far from amounting to an oath. the captain swore he had no leisure to talk, and, bidding them thank themselves for what happened, he ordered the servants to fall on, at the same time endeavouring to pass by adams, in order to lay hold on fanny; but the parson, interrupting him, received a blow from one of them, which, without considering whence it came, he returned to the captain, and gave him so dexterous a knock in that part of the stomach which is vulgarly called the pit, that he staggered some paces backwards. the captain, who was not accustomed to this kind of play, and who wisely apprehended the consequence of such another blow, two of them seeming to him equal to a thrust through the body, drew forth his hanger, as adams approached him, and was levelling a blow at his head, which would probably have silenced the preacher for ever, had not joseph in that instant lifted up a certain huge stone pot of the chamber with one hand, which six beaus could not have lifted with both, and discharged it, together with the contents, full in the captain's face. the uplifted hanger dropped from his hand, and he fell prostrated on the floor with a lumpish noise, and his halfpence rattled in his pocket; the red liquor which his veins contained, and the white liquor which the pot contained, ran in one stream down his face and his clothes. nor had adams quite escaped, some of the water having in its passage shed its honours on his head, and began to trickle down the wrinkles or rather furrows of his cheeks, when one of the servants, snatching a mop out of a pail of water, which had already done its duty in washing the house, pushed it in the parson's face; yet could not he bear him down, for the parson, wresting the mop from the fellow with one hand, with the other brought his enemy as low as the earth, having given him a stroke over that part of the face where, in some men of pleasure, the natural and artificial noses are conjoined. hitherto, fortune seemed to incline the victory on the travellers' side, when, according to her custom, she began to show the fickleness of her disposition; for now the host, entering the field, or rather chamber of battle, flew directly at joseph, and, darting his head into his stomach (for he was a stout fellow and an expert boxer), almost staggered him: but joseph, stepping one leg back, did with his left hand so chuck him under the chin that he reeled. the youth was pursuing his blow with his right hand when he received from one of the servants such a stroke with a cudgel on his temples, that it instantly deprived him of sense, and he measured his length on the ground. fanny rent the air with her cries, and adams was coming to the assistance of joseph; but the two serving-men and the host now fell on him, and soon subdued him, though he fought like a madman, and looked so black with the impressions he had received from the mop, that don quixote would certainly have taken him for an inchanted moor. but now follows the most tragical part; for the captain was risen again, and, seeing joseph on the floor, and adams secured, he instantly laid hold on fanny, and, with the assistance of the poet and player, who, hearing the battle was over, were now come up, dragged her, crying and tearing her hair, from the sight of her joseph, and, with a perfect deafness to all her entreaties, carried her downstairs by violence, and fastened her on the player's horse; and the captain, mounting his own, and leading that on which this poor miserable wretch was, departed, without any more consideration of her cries than a butcher hath of those of a lamb; for indeed his thoughts were entertained only with the degree of favour which he promised himself from the squire on the success of this adventure. the servants, who were ordered to secure adams and joseph as safe as possible, that the squire might receive no interruption to his design on poor fanny, immediately, by the poet's advice, tied adams to one of the bed-posts, as they did joseph on the other side, as soon as they could bring him to himself; and then, leaving them together, back to back, and desiring the host not to set them at liberty, nor to go near them, till he had further orders, they departed towards their master; but happened to take a different road from that which the captain had fallen into. chapter x. _a discourse between the poet and the player; of no other use in this history but to divert the reader._ before we proceed any farther in this tragedy we shall leave mr joseph and mr adams to themselves, and imitate the wise conductors of the stage, who in the midst of a grave action entertain you with some excellent piece of satire or humour called a dance. which piece, indeed, is therefore danced, and not spoke, as it is delivered to the audience by persons whose thinking faculty is by most people held to lie in their heels; and to whom, as well as heroes, who think with their hands, nature hath only given heads for the sake of conformity, and as they are of use in dancing, to hang their hats on. the poet, addressing the player, proceeded thus, "as i was saying" (for they had been at this discourse all the time of the engagement above-stairs), "the reason you have no good new plays is evident; it is from your discouragement of authors. gentlemen will not write, sir, they will not write, without the expectation of fame or profit, or perhaps both. plays are like trees, which will not grow without nourishment; but like mushrooms, they shoot up spontaneously, as it were, in a rich soil. the muses, like vines, may be pruned, but not with a hatchet. the town, like a peevish child, knows not what it desires, and is always best pleased with a rattle. a farce-writer hath indeed some chance for success: but they have lost all taste for the sublime. though i believe one reason of their depravity is the badness of the actors. if a man writes like an angel, sir, those fellows know not how to give a sentiment utterance."--"not so fast," says the player: "the modern actors are as good at least as their authors, nay, they come nearer their illustrious predecessors; and i expect a booth on the stage again, sooner than a shakespear or an otway; and indeed i may turn your observation against you, and with truth say, that the reason no authors are encouraged is because we have no good new plays."--"i have not affirmed the contrary," said the poet; "but i am surprized you grow so warm; you cannot imagine yourself interested in this dispute; i hope you have a better opinion of my taste than to apprehend i squinted at yourself. no, sir, if we had six such actors as you, we should soon rival the bettertons and sandfords of former times; for, without a compliment to you, i think it impossible for any one to have excelled you in most of your parts. nay, it is solemn truth, and i have heard many, and all great judges, express as much; and, you will pardon me if i tell you, i think every time i have seen you lately you have constantly acquired some new excellence, like a snowball. you have deceived me in my estimation of perfection, and have outdone what i thought inimitable."--"you are as little interested," answered the player, "in what i have said of other poets; for d--n me if there are not many strokes, ay, whole scenes, in your last tragedy, which at least equal shakespear. there is a delicacy of sentiment, a dignity of expression in it, which i will own many of our gentlemen did not do adequate justice to. to confess the truth, they are bad enough, and i pity an author who is present at the murder of his works."--"nay, it is but seldom that it can happen," returned the poet; "the works of most modern authors, like dead-born children, cannot be murdered. it is such wretched half-begotten, half-writ, lifeless, spiritless, low, grovelling stuff, that i almost pity the actor who is obliged to get it by heart, which must be almost as difficult to remember as words in a language you don't understand."--"i am sure," said the player, "if the sentences have little meaning when they are writ, when they are spoken they have less. i know scarce one who ever lays an emphasis right, and much less adapts his action to his character. i have seen a tender lover in an attitude of fighting with his mistress, and a brave hero suing to his enemy with his sword in his hand. i don't care to abuse my profession, but rot me if in my heart i am not inclined to the poet's side."--"it is rather generous in you than just," said the poet; "and, though i hate to speak ill of any person's production--nay, i never do it, nor will--but yet, to do justice to the actors, what could booth or betterton have made of such horrible stuff as fenton's mariamne, frowd's philotas, or mallet's eurydice; or those low, dirty, last-dying-speeches, which a fellow in the city of wapping, your dillo or lillo, what was his name, called tragedies?"--"very well," says the player; "and pray what do you think of such fellows as quin and delane, or that face-making puppy young cibber, that ill-looked dog macklin, or that saucy slut mrs clive? what work would they make with your shakespears, otways, and lees? how would those harmonious lines of the last come from their tongues?-- "'--no more; for i disdain all pomp when thou art by: far be the noise of kings and crowns from us, whose gentle souls our kinder fates have steer'd another way. free as the forest birds we'll pair together, without rememb'ring who our fathers were: fly to the arbors, grots, and flow'ry meads; there in soft murmurs interchange our souls; together drink the crystal of the stream, or taste the yellow fruit which autumn yields, and, when the golden evening calls us home, wing to our downy nests, and sleep till morn.' "or how would this disdain of otway-- "'who'd be that foolish sordid thing call'd man?'" "hold! hold! hold!" said the poet: "do repeat that tender speech in the third act of my play which you made such a figure in."--"i would willingly," said the player, "but i have forgot it."--"ay, you was not quite perfect in it when you played it," cries the poet, "or you would have had such an applause as was never given on the stage; an applause i was extremely concerned for your losing."--"sure," says the player, "if i remember, that was hissed more than any passage in the whole play."--"ay, your speaking it was hissed," said the poet.--"my speaking it!" said the player.--"i mean your not speaking it," said the poet. "you was out, and then they hissed."--"they hissed, and then i was out, if i remember," answered the player; "and i must say this for myself, that the whole audience allowed i did your part justice; so don't lay the damnation of your play to my account."--"i don't know what you mean by damnation," replied the poet.--"why, you know it was acted but one night," cried the player.--"no," said the poet, "you and the whole town were enemies; the pit were all my enemies, fellows that would cut my throat, if the fear of hanging did not restrain them. all taylors, sir, all taylors."--"why should the taylors be so angry with you?" cries the player. "i suppose you don't employ so many in making your clothes."--"i admit your jest," answered the poet; "but you remember the affair as well as myself; you know there was a party in the pit and upper gallery that would not suffer it to be given out again; though much, ay infinitely, the majority, all the boxes in particular, were desirous of it; nay, most of the ladies swore they never would come to the house till it was acted again. indeed, i must own their policy was good in not letting it be given out a second time: for the rascals knew if it had gone a second night it would have run fifty; for if ever there was distress in a tragedy--i am not fond of my own performance; but if i should tell you what the best judges said of it--nor was it entirely owing to my enemies neither that it did not succeed on the stage as well as it hath since among the polite readers; for you can't say it had justice done it by the performers."--"i think," answered the player, "the performers did the distress of it justice; for i am sure we were in distress enough, who were pelted with oranges all the last act: we all imagined it would have been the last act of our lives." the poet, whose fury was now raised, had just attempted to answer when they were interrupted, and an end put to their discourse, by an accident, which if the reader is impatient to know, he must skip over the next chapter, which is a sort of counterpart to this, and contains some of the best and gravest matters in the whole book, being a discourse between parson abraham adams and mr joseph andrews. chapter xi. _containing the exhortations of parson adams to his friend in affliction; calculated for the instruction and improvement of the reader._ joseph no sooner came perfectly to himself than, perceiving his mistress gone, he bewailed her loss with groans which would have pierced any heart but those which are possessed by some people, and are made of a certain composition not unlike flint in its hardness and other properties; for you may strike fire from them, which will dart through the eyes, but they can never distil one drop of water the same way. his own, poor youth! was of a softer composition; and at those words, "o my dear fanny! o my love! shall i never, never see thee more?" his eyes overflowed with tears, which would have become any but a hero. in a word, his despair was more easy to be conceived than related. mr adams, after many groans, sitting with his back to joseph, began thus in a sorrowful tone: "you cannot imagine, my good child, that i entirely blame these first agonies of your grief; for, when misfortunes attack us by surprize, it must require infinitely more learning than you are master of to resist them; but it is the business of a man and a christian to summon reason as quickly as he can to his aid; and she will presently teach him patience and submission. be comforted, therefore, child; i say be comforted. it is true, you have lost the prettiest, kindest, loveliest, sweetest young woman, one with whom you might have expected to have lived in happiness, virtue, and innocence; by whom you might have promised yourself many little darlings, who would have been the delight of your youth and the comfort of your age. you have not only lost her, but have reason to fear the utmost violence which lust and power can inflict upon her. now, indeed, you may easily raise ideas of horror, which might drive you to despair."--"o i shall run mad!" cries joseph. "o that i could but command my hands to tear my eyes out and my flesh off!"--"if you would use them to such purposes, i am glad you can't," answered adams. "i have stated your misfortune as strong as i possibly can; but, on the other side, you are to consider you are a christian, that no accident happens to us without the divine permission, and that it is the duty of a man, and a christian, to submit. we did not make ourselves; but the same power which made us rules over us, and we are absolutely at his disposal; he may do with us what he pleases, nor have we any right to complain. a second reason against our complaint is our ignorance; for, as we know not future events, so neither can we tell to what purpose any accident tends; and that which at first threatens us with evil may in the end produce our good. i should indeed have said our ignorance is twofold (but i have not at present time to divide properly), for, as we know not to what purpose any event is ultimately directed, so neither can we affirm from what cause it originally sprung. you are a man, and consequently a sinner; and this may be a punishment to you for your sins: indeed in this sense it may be esteemed as a good, yea, as the greatest good, which satisfies the anger of heaven, and averts that wrath which cannot continue without our destruction. thirdly, our impotency of relieving ourselves demonstrates the folly and absurdity of our complaints: for whom do we resist, or against whom do we complain, but a power from whose shafts no armour can guard us, no speed can fly?--a power which leaves us no hope but in submission." "o sir!" cried joseph, "all this is very true, and very fine, and i could hear you all day if i was not so grieved at heart as now i am."--"would you take physic," says adams, "when you are well, and refuse it when you are sick? is not comfort to be administered to the afflicted, and not to those who rejoice or those who are at ease?" "o! you have not spoken one word of comfort to me yet!" returned joseph. "no!" cries adams; "what am i then doing? what can i say to comfort you?" "o tell me," cries joseph, "that fanny will escape back to my arms, that they shall again enclose that lovely creature, with all her sweetness, all her untainted innocence about her!" "why, perhaps you may," cries adams, "but i can't promise you what's to come. you must, with perfect resignation, wait the event: if she be restored to you again, it is your duty to be thankful, and so it is if she be not. joseph, if you are wise and truly know your own interest, you will peaceably and quietly submit to all the dispensations of providence, being thoroughly assured that all the misfortunes, how great soever, which happen to the righteous, happen to them for their own good. nay, it is not your interest only, but your duty, to abstain from immoderate grief; which if you indulge, you are not worthy the name of a christian." he spoke these last words with an accent a little severer than usual; upon which joseph begged him not to be angry, saying, he mistook him if he thought he denied it was his duty, for he had known that long ago. "what signifies knowing your duty, if you do not perform it?" answered adams. "your knowledge increases your guilt. o joseph! i never thought you had this stubbornness in your mind." joseph replied, "he fancied he misunderstood him; which i assure you," says he, "you do, if you imagine i endeavour to grieve; upon my soul i don't." adams rebuked him for swearing, and then proceeded to enlarge on the folly of grief, telling him, all the wise men and philosophers, even among the heathens, had written against it, quoting several passages from seneca, and the consolation, which, though it was not cicero's, was, he said, as good almost as any of his works; and concluded all by hinting that immoderate grief in this case might incense that power which alone could restore him his fanny. this reason, or indeed rather the idea which it raised of the restoration of his mistress, had more effect than all which the parson had said before, and for a moment abated his agonies; but, when his fears sufficiently set before his eyes the danger that poor creature was in, his grief returned again with repeated violence, nor could adams in the least asswage it; though it may be doubted in his behalf whether socrates himself could have prevailed any better. they remained some time in silence, and groans and sighs issued from them both; at length joseph burst out into the following soliloquy:-- "yes, i will bear my sorrows like a man, but i must also feel them as a man. i cannot but remember such things were, and were most dear to me." adams asked him what stuff that was he repeated? to which he answered, they were some lines he had gotten by heart out of a play. "ay, there is nothing but heathenism to be learned from plays," replied he. "i never heard of any plays fit for a christian to read, but cato and the conscious lovers; and, i must own, in the latter there are some things almost solemn enough for a sermon." but we shall now leave them a little, and enquire after the subject of their conversation. chapter xii. _more adventures, which we hope will as much please as surprize the reader._ neither the facetious dialogue which passed between the poet and the player, nor the grave and truly solemn discourse of mr adams, will, we conceive, make the reader sufficient amends for the anxiety which he must have felt on the account of poor fanny, whom we left in so deplorable a condition. we shall therefore now proceed to the relation of what happened to that beautiful and innocent virgin, after she fell into the wicked hands of the captain. the man of war, having conveyed his charming prize out of the inn a little before day, made the utmost expedition in his power towards the squire's house, where this delicate creature was to be offered up a sacrifice to the lust of a ravisher. he was not only deaf to all her bewailings and entreaties on the road, but accosted her ears with impurities which, having been never before accustomed to them, she happily for herself very little understood. at last he changed his note, and attempted to soothe and mollify her, by setting forth the splendor and luxury which would be her fortune with a man who would have the inclination, and power too, to give her whatever her utmost wishes could desire; and told her he doubted not but she would soon look kinder on him, as the instrument of her happiness, and despise that pitiful fellow whom her ignorance only could make her fond of. she answered, she knew not whom he meant; she never was fond of any pitiful fellow. "are you affronted, madam," says he, "at my calling him so? but what better can be said of one in a livery, notwithstanding your fondness for him?" she returned, that she did not understand him, that the man had been her fellow-servant, and she believed was as honest a creature as any alive; but as for fondness for men--"i warrant ye," cries the captain, "we shall find means to persuade you to be fond; and i advise you to yield to gentle ones, for you may be assured that it is not in your power, by any struggles whatever, to preserve your virginity two hours longer. it will be your interest to consent; for the squire will be much kinder to you if he enjoys you willingly than by force." at which words she began to call aloud for assistance (for it was now open day), but, finding none, she lifted her eyes to heaven, and supplicated the divine assistance to preserve her innocence. the captain told her, if she persisted in her vociferation, he would find a means of stopping her mouth. and now the poor wretch, perceiving no hopes of succour, abandoned herself to despair, and, sighing out the name of joseph! joseph! a river of tears ran down her lovely cheeks, and wet the handkerchief which covered her bosom. a horseman now appeared in the road, upon which the captain threatened her violently if she complained; however, the moment they approached each other she begged him with the utmost earnestness to relieve a distressed creature who was in the hands of a ravisher. the fellow stopt at those words, but the captain assured him it was his wife, and that he was carrying her home from her adulterer, which so satisfied the fellow, who was an old one (and perhaps a married one too), that he wished him a good journey, and rode on. he was no sooner past than the captain abused her violently for breaking his commands, and threatened to gagg her, when two more horsemen, armed with pistols, came into the road just before them. she again solicited their assistance, and the captain told the same story as before. upon which one said to the other, "that's a charming wench, jack; i wish i had been in the fellow's place, whoever he is." but the other, instead of answering him, cried out, "zounds, i know her;" and then, turning to her, said, "sure you are not fanny goodwill?"--"indeed, indeed, i am," she cried--"o john, i know you now-heaven hath sent you to my assistance, to deliver me from this wicked man, who is carrying me away for his vile purposes--o for god's sake rescue me from him!" a fierce dialogue immediately ensued between the captain and these two men, who, being both armed with pistols, and the chariot which they attended being now arrived, the captain saw both force and stratagem were vain, and endeavoured to make his escape, in which however he could not succeed. the gentleman who rode in the chariot ordered it to stop, and with an air of authority examined into the merits of the cause; of which being advertised by fanny, whose credit was confirmed by the fellow who knew her, he ordered the captain, who was all bloody from his encounter at the inn, to be conveyed as a prisoner behind the chariot, and very gallantly took fanny into it; for, to say the truth, this gentleman (who was no other than the celebrated mr peter pounce, and who preceded the lady booby only a few miles, by setting out earlier in the morning) was a very gallant person, and loved a pretty girl better than anything besides his own money or the money of other people. the chariot now proceeded towards the inn, which, as fanny was informed, lay in their way, and where it arrived at that very time while the poet and player were disputing below-stairs, and adams and joseph were discoursing back to back above; just at that period to which we brought them both in the two preceding chapters the chariot stopt at the door, and in an instant fanny, leaping from it, ran up to her joseph.--o reader! conceive if thou canst the joy which fired the breasts of these lovers on this meeting; and if thy own heart doth not sympathetically assist thee in this conception, i pity thee sincerely from my own; for let the hard-hearted villain know this, that there is a pleasure in a tender sensation beyond any which he is capable of tasting. peter, being informed by fanny of the presence of adams, stopt to see him, and receive his homage; for, as peter was an hypocrite, a sort of people whom mr adams never saw through, the one paid that respect to his seeming goodness which the other believed to be paid to his riches; hence mr adams was so much his favourite, that he once lent him four pounds thirteen shillings and sixpence to prevent his going to gaol, on no greater security than a bond and judgment, which probably he would have made no use of, though the money had not been (as it was) paid exactly at the time. it is not perhaps easy to describe the figure of adams; he had risen in such a hurry, that he had on neither breeches, garters, nor stockings; nor had he taken from his head a red spotted handkerchief, which by night bound his wig, turned inside out, around his head. he had on his torn cassock and his greatcoat; but, as the remainder of his cassock hung down below his greatcoat, so did a small stripe of white, or rather whitish, linen appear below that; to which we may add the several colours which appeared on his face, where a long piss-burnt beard served to retain the liquor of the stone-pot, and that of a blacker hue which distilled from the mop.--this figure, which fanny had delivered from his captivity, was no sooner spied by peter than it disordered the composed gravity of his muscles; however, he advised him immediately to make himself clean, nor would accept his homage in that pickle. the poet and player no sooner saw the captain in captivity than they began to consider of their own safety, of which flight presented itself as the only means; they therefore both of them mounted the poet's horse, and made the most expeditious retreat in their power. the host, who well knew mr pounce and lady booby's livery, was not a little surprized at this change of the scene; nor was his confusion much helped by his wife, who was now just risen, and, having heard from him the account of what had passed, comforted him with a decent number of fools and blockheads; asked him why he did not consult her, and told him he would never leave following the nonsensical dictates of his own numskull till she and her family were ruined. joseph, being informed of the captain's arrival, and seeing his fanny now in safety, quitted her a moment, and, running downstairs, went directly to him, and stripping off his coat, challenged him to fight; but the captain refused, saying he did not understand boxing. he then grasped a cudgel in one hand, and, catching the captain by the collar with the other, gave him a most severe drubbing, and ended with telling him he had now had some revenge for what his dear fanny had suffered. when mr pounce had a little regaled himself with some provision which he had in his chariot, and mr adams had put on the best appearance his clothes would allow him, pounce ordered the captain into his presence, for he said he was guilty of felony, and the next justice of peace should commit him; but the servants (whose appetite for revenge is soon satisfied), being sufficiently contented with the drubbing which joseph had inflicted on him, and which was indeed of no very moderate kind, had suffered him to go off, which he did, threatening a severe revenge against joseph, which i have never heard he thought proper to take. the mistress of the house made her voluntary appearance before mr pounce, and with a thousand curtsies told him, "she hoped his honour would pardon her husband, who was a very nonsense man, for the sake of his poor family; that indeed if he could be ruined alone, she should be very willing of it; for because as why, his worship very well knew he deserved it; but she had three poor small children, who were not capable to get their own living; and if her husband was sent to gaol, they must all come to the parish; for she was a poor weak woman, continually a-breeding, and had no time to work for them. she therefore hoped his honour would take it into his worship's consideration, and forgive her husband this time; for she was sure he never intended any harm to man, woman, or child; and if it was not for that block-head of his own, the man in some things was well enough; for she had had three children by him in less than three years, and was almost ready to cry out the fourth time." she would have proceeded in this manner much longer, had not peter stopt her tongue, by telling her he had nothing to say to her husband nor her neither. so, as adams and the rest had assured her of forgiveness, she cried and curtsied out of the room. mr pounce was desirous that fanny should continue her journey with him in the chariot; but she absolutely refused, saying she would ride behind joseph on a horse which one of lady booby's servants had equipped him with. but, alas! when the horse appeared, it was found to be no other than that identical beast which mr adams had left behind him at the inn, and which these honest fellows, who knew him, had redeemed. indeed, whatever horse they had provided for joseph, they would have prevailed with him to mount none, no, not even to ride before his beloved fanny, till the parson was supplied; much less would he deprive his friend of the beast which belonged to him, and which he knew the moment he saw, though adams did not; however, when he was reminded of the affair, and told that they had brought the horse with them which he left behind, he answered--bless me! and so i did. adams was very desirous that joseph and fanny should mount this horse, and declared he could very easily walk home. "if i walked alone," says he, "i would wage a shilling that the pedestrian outstripped the equestrian travellers; but, as i intend to take the company of a pipe, peradventure i may be an hour later." one of the servants whispered joseph to take him at his word, and suffer the old put to walk if he would: this proposal was answered with an angry look and a peremptory refusal by joseph, who, catching fanny up in his arms, averred he would rather carry her home in that manner, than take away mr adams's horse and permit him to walk on foot. perhaps, reader, thou hast seen a contest between two gentlemen, or two ladies, quickly decided, though they have both asserted they would not eat such a nice morsel, and each insisted on the other's accepting it; but in reality both were very desirous to swallow it themselves. do not therefore conclude hence that this dispute would have come to a speedy decision: for here both parties were heartily in earnest, and it is very probable they would have remained in the inn-yard to this day, had not the good peter pounce put a stop to it; for, finding he had no longer hopes of satisfying his old appetite with fanny, and being desirous of having some one to whom he might communicate his grandeur, he told the parson he would convey him home in his chariot. this favour was by adams, with many bows and acknowledgments, accepted, though he afterwards said, "he ascended the chariot rather that he might not offend than from any desire of riding in it, for that in his heart he preferred the pedestrian even to the vehicular expedition." all matters being now settled, the chariot, in which rode adams and pounce, moved forwards; and joseph having borrowed a pillion from the host, fanny had just seated herself thereon, and had laid hold of the girdle which her lover wore for that purpose, when the wise beast, who concluded that one at a time was sufficient, that two to one were odds, &c., discovered much uneasiness at his double load, and began to consider his hinder as his fore legs, moving the direct contrary way to that which is called forwards. nor could joseph, with all his horsemanship, persuade him to advance; but, without having any regard to the lovely part of the lovely girl which was on his back, he used such agitations, that, had not one of the men come immediately to her assistance, she had, in plain english, tumbled backwards on the ground. this inconvenience was presently remedied by an exchange of horses; and then fanny being again placed on her pillion, on a better-natured and somewhat a better-fed beast, the parson's horse, finding he had no longer odds to contend with, agreed to march; and the whole procession set forwards for booby-hall, where they arrived in a few hours without anything remarkable happening on the road, unless it was a curious dialogue between the parson and the steward: which, to use the language of a late apologist, a pattern to all biographers, "waits for the reader in the next chapter." chapter xiii. _a curious dialogue which passed between mr abraham adams and mr peter pounce, better worth reading than all the works of colley cibber and many others._ the chariot had not proceeded far before mr adams observed it was a very fine day. "ay, and a very fine country too," answered pounce.--"i should think so more," returned adams, "if i had not lately travelled over the downs, which i take to exceed this and all other prospects in the universe."--"a fig for prospects!" answered pounce; "one acre here is worth ten there; and for my own part, i have no delight in the prospect of any land but my own."--"sir," said adams, "you can indulge yourself with many fine prospects of that kind."--"i thank god i have a little," replied the other, "with which i am content, and envy no man: i have a little, mr adams, with which i do as much good as i can." adams answered, "that riches without charity were nothing worth; for that they were a blessing only to him who made them a blessing to others."--"you and i," said peter, "have different notions of charity. i own, as it is generally used, i do not like the word, nor do i think it becomes one of us gentlemen; it is a mean parson-like quality; though i would not infer many parsons have it neither."--"sir," said adams, "my definition of charity is, a generous disposition to relieve the distressed."--"there is something in that definition," answered peter, "which i like well enough; it is, as you say, a disposition, and does not so much consist in the act as in the disposition to do it. but, alas! mr adams, who are meant by the distressed? believe me, the distresses of mankind are mostly imaginary, and it would be rather folly than goodness to relieve them."--"sure, sir," replied adams, "hunger and thirst, cold and nakedness, and other distresses which attend the poor, can never be said to be imaginary evils."--"how can any man complain of hunger," said peter, "in a country where such excellent salads are to be gathered in almost every field? or of thirst, where every river and stream produces such delicious potations? and as for cold and nakedness, they are evils introduced by luxury and custom. a man naturally wants clothes no more than a horse or any other animal; and there are whole nations who go without them; but these are things perhaps which you, who do not know the world"--"you will pardon me, sir," returned adams; "i have read of the gymnosophists."--"a plague of your jehosaphats!" cried peter; "the greatest fault in our constitution is the provision made for the poor, except that perhaps made for some others. sir, i have not an estate which doth not contribute almost as much again to the poor as to the land-tax; and i do assure you i expect to come myself to the parish in the end." to which adams giving a dissenting smile, peter thus proceeded: "i fancy, mr adams, you are one of those who imagine i am a lump of money; for there are many who, i fancy, believe that not only my pockets, but my whole clothes, are lined with bank-bills; but i assure you, you are all mistaken; i am not the man the world esteems me. if i can hold my head above water it is all i can. i have injured myself by purchasing. i have been too liberal of my money. indeed, i fear my heir will find my affairs in a worse situation than they are reputed to be. ah! he will have reason to wish i had loved money more and land less. pray, my good neighbour, where should i have that quantity of riches the world is so liberal to bestow on me? where could i possibly, without i had stole it, acquire such a treasure?" "why, truly," says adams, "i have been always of your opinion; i have wondered as well as yourself with what confidence they could report such things of you, which have to me appeared as mere impossibilities; for you know, sir, and i have often heard you say it, that your wealth is of your own acquisition; and can it be credible that in your short time you should have amassed such a heap of treasure as these people will have you worth? indeed, had you inherited an estate like sir thomas booby, which had descended in your family for many generations, they might have had a colour for their assertions." "why, what do they say i am worth?" cries peter, with a malicious sneer. "sir," answered adams, "i have heard some aver you are not worth less than twenty thousand pounds." at which peter frowned. "nay, sir," said adams, "you ask me only the opinion of others; for my own part, i have always denied it, nor did i ever believe you could possibly be worth half that sum." "however, mr adams," said he, squeezing him by the hand, "i would not sell them all i am worth for double that sum; and as to what you believe, or they believe, i care not a fig, no not a fart. i am not poor because you think me so, nor because you attempt to undervalue me in the country. i know the envy of mankind very well; but i thank heaven i am above them. it is true, my wealth is of my own acquisition. i have not an estate, like sir thomas booby, that has descended in my family through many generations; but i know heirs of such estates who are forced to travel about the country like some people in torn cassocks, and might be glad to accept of a pitiful curacy for what i know. yes, sir, as shabby fellows as yourself, whom no man of my figure, without that vice of good-nature about him, would suffer to ride in a chariot with him." "sir," said adams, "i value not your chariot of a rush; and if i had known you had intended to affront me, i would have walked to the world's end on foot ere i would have accepted a place in it. however, sir, i will soon rid you of that inconvenience;" and, so saying, he opened the chariot door, without calling to the coachman, and leapt out into the highway, forgetting to take his hat along with him; which, however, mr pounce threw after him with great violence. joseph and fanny stopt to bear him company the rest of the way, which was not above a mile. book iv. chapter i. _the arrival of lady booby and the rest at booby-hall._ the coach and six, in which lady booby rode, overtook the other travellers as they entered the parish. she no sooner saw joseph than her cheeks glowed with red, and immediately after became as totally pale. she had in her surprize almost stopt her coach; but recollected herself timely enough to prevent it. she entered the parish amidst the ringing of bells and the acclamations of the poor, who were rejoiced to see their patroness returned after so long an absence, during which time all her rents had been drafted to london, without a shilling being spent among them, which tended not a little to their utter impoverishing; for, if the court would be severely missed in such a city as london, how much more must the absence of a person of great fortune be felt in a little country village, for whose inhabitants such a family finds a constant employment and supply; and with the offals of whose table the infirm, aged, and infant poor are abundantly fed, with a generosity which hath scarce a visible effect on their benefactors' pockets! but, if their interest inspired so public a joy into every countenance, how much more forcibly did the affection which they bore parson adams operate upon all who beheld his return! they flocked about him like dutiful children round an indulgent parent, and vyed with each other in demonstrations of duty and love. the parson on his side shook every one by the hand, enquired heartily after the healths of all that were absent, of their children, and relations; and exprest a satisfaction in his face which nothing but benevolence made happy by its objects could infuse. nor did joseph and fanny want a hearty welcome from all who saw them. in short, no three persons could be more kindly received, as, indeed, none ever more deserved to be universally beloved. adams carried his fellow-travellers home to his house, where he insisted on their partaking whatever his wife, whom, with his children, he found in health and joy, could provide:--where we shall leave them enjoying perfect happiness over a homely meal, to view scenes of greater splendour, but infinitely less bliss. our more intelligent readers will doubtless suspect, by this second appearance of lady booby on the stage, that all was not ended by the dismission of joseph; and, to be honest with them, they are in the right: the arrow had pierced deeper than she imagined; nor was the wound so easily to be cured. the removal of the object soon cooled her rage, but it had a different effect on her love; that departed with his person, but this remained lurking in her mind with his image. restless, interrupted slumbers, and confused horrible dreams were her portion the first night. in the morning, fancy painted her a more delicious scene; but to delude, not delight her; for, before she could reach the promised happiness, it vanished, and left her to curse, not bless, the vision. she started from her sleep, her imagination being all on fire with the phantom, when, her eyes accidentally glancing towards the spot where yesterday the real joseph had stood, that little circumstance raised his idea in the liveliest colours in her memory. each look, each word, each gesture rushed back on her mind with charms which all his coldness could not abate. nay, she imputed that to his youth, his folly, his awe, his religion, to everything but what would instantly have produced contempt, want of passion for the sex, or that which would have roused her hatred, want of liking to her. reflection then hurried her farther, and told her she must see this beautiful youth no more; nay, suggested to her that she herself had dismissed him for no other fault than probably that of too violent an awe and respect for herself; and which she ought rather to have esteemed a merit, the effects of which were besides so easily and surely to have been removed; she then blamed, she cursed the hasty rashness of her temper; her fury was vented all on herself, and joseph appeared innocent in her eyes. her passion at length grew so violent, that it forced her on seeking relief, and now she thought of recalling him: but pride forbad that; pride, which soon drove all softer passions from her soul, and represented to her the meanness of him she was fond of. that thought soon began to obscure his beauties; contempt succeeded next, and then disdain, which presently introduced her hatred of the creature who had given her so much uneasiness. these enemies of joseph had no sooner taken possession of her mind than they insinuated to her a thousand things in his disfavour; everything but dislike of her person; a thought which, as it would have been intolerable to bear, she checked the moment it endeavoured to arise. revenge came now to her assistance; and she considered her dismission of him, stript, and without a character, with the utmost pleasure. she rioted in the several kinds of misery which her imagination suggested to her might be his fate; and, with a smile composed of anger, mirth, and scorn, viewed him in the rags in which her fancy had drest him. mrs slipslop, being summoned, attended her mistress, who had now in her own opinion totally subdued this passion. whilst she was dressing she asked if that fellow had been turned away according to her orders. slipslop answered, she had told her ladyship so (as indeed she had).--"and how did he behave?" replied the lady. "truly, madam," cries slipslop, "in such a manner that infected everybody who saw him. the poor lad had but little wages to receive; for he constantly allowed his father and mother half his income; so that, when your ladyship's livery was stript off, he had not wherewithal to buy a coat, and must have gone naked if one of the footmen had not incommodated him with one; and whilst he was standing in his shirt (and, to say truth, he was an amorous figure), being told your ladyship would not give him a character, he sighed, and said he had done nothing willingly to offend; that for his part, he should always give your ladyship a good character wherever he went; and he prayed god to bless you; for you was the best of ladies, though his enemies had set you against him. i wish you had not turned him away; for i believe you have not a faithfuller servant in the house."--"how came you then," replied the lady, "to advise me to turn him away?"--"i, madam!" said slipslop; "i am sure you will do me the justice to say, i did all in my power to prevent it; but i saw your ladyship was angry; and it is not the business of us upper servants to hinterfear on these occasions." "and was it not you, audacious wretch!" cried the lady, "who made me angry? was it not your tittle-tattle, in which i believe you belyed the poor fellow, which incensed me against him? he may thank you for all that hath happened; and so may i for the loss of a good servant, and one who probably had more merit than all of you. poor fellow! i am charmed with his goodness to his parents. why did not you tell me of that, but suffer me to dismiss so good a creature without a character? i see the reason of your whole behaviour now as well as your complaint; you was jealous of the wenches." "i jealous!" said slipslop; "i assure you, i look upon myself as his betters; i am not meat for a footman, i hope." these words threw the lady into a violent passion, and she sent slipslop from her presence, who departed, tossing her nose, and crying, "marry, come up! there are some people more jealous than i, i believe." her lady affected not to hear the words, though in reality she did, and understood them too. now ensued a second conflict, so like the former, that it might savour of repetition to relate it minutely. it may suffice to say that lady booby found good reason to doubt whether she had so absolutely conquered her passion as she had flattered herself; and, in order to accomplish it quite, took a resolution, more common than wise, to retire immediately into the country. the reader hath long ago seen the arrival of mrs slipslop, whom no pertness could make her mistress resolve to part with; lately, that of mr pounce, her forerunners; and, lastly, that of the lady herself. the morning after her arrival being sunday, she went to church, to the great surprize of everybody, who wondered to see her ladyship, being no very constant church-woman, there so suddenly upon her journey. joseph was likewise there; and i have heard it was remarked that she fixed her eyes on him much more than on the parson; but this i believe to be only a malicious rumour. when the prayers were ended mr adams stood up, and with a loud voice pronounced, "i publish the banns of marriage between joseph andrews and frances goodwill, both of this parish," &c. whether this had any effect on lady booby or no, who was then in her pew, which the congregation could not see into, i could never discover: but certain it is that in about a quarter of an hour she stood up, and directed her eyes to that part of the church where the women sat, and persisted in looking that way during the remainder of the sermon in so scrutinizing a manner, and with so angry a countenance, that most of the women were afraid she was offended at them. the moment she returned home she sent for slipslop into her chamber, and told her she wondered what that impudent fellow joseph did in that parish? upon which slipslop gave her an account of her meeting adams with him on the road, and likewise the adventure with fanny. at the relation of which the lady often changed her countenance; and when she had heard all, she ordered mr adams into her presence, to whom she behaved as the reader will see in the next chapter. chapter ii. _a dialogue between mr abraham adams and the lady booby._ mr adams was not far off, for he was drinking her ladyship's health below in a cup of her ale. he no sooner came before her than she began in the following manner: "i wonder, sir, after the many great obligations you have had to this family" (with all which the reader hath in the course of this history been minutely acquainted), "that you will ungratefully show any respect to a fellow who hath been turned out of it for his misdeeds. nor doth it, i can tell you, sir, become a man of your character, to run about the country with an idle fellow and wench. indeed, as for the girl, i know no harm of her. slipslop tells me she was formerly bred up in my house, and behaved as she ought, till she hankered after this fellow, and he spoiled her. nay, she may still, perhaps, do very well, if he will let her alone. you are, therefore, doing a monstrous thing in endeavouring to procure a match between these two people, which will be to the ruin of them both."--"madam," said adams, "if your ladyship will but hear me speak, i protest i never heard any harm of mr joseph andrews; if i had, i should have corrected him for it; for i never have, nor will, encourage the faults of those under my care. as for the young woman, i assure your ladyship i have as good an opinion of her as your ladyship yourself or any other can have. she is the sweetest-tempered, honestest, worthiest young creature; indeed, as to her beauty, i do not commend her on that account, though all men allow she is the handsomest woman, gentle or simple, that ever appeared in the parish."--"you are very impertinent," says she, "to talk such fulsome stuff to me. it is mighty becoming truly in a clergyman to trouble himself about handsome women, and you are a delicate judge of beauty, no doubt. a man who hath lived all his life in such a parish as this is a rare judge of beauty! ridiculous! beauty indeed! a country wench a beauty! i shall be sick whenever i hear beauty mentioned again. and so this wench is to stock the parish with beauties, i hope. but, sir, our poor is numerous enough already; i will have no more vagabonds settled here."--"madam," says adams, "your ladyship is offended with me, i protest, without any reason. this couple were desirous to consummate long ago, and i dissuaded them from it; nay, i may venture to say, i believe i was the sole cause of their delaying it."--"well," says she, "and you did very wisely and honestly too, notwithstanding she is the greatest beauty in the parish."--"and now, madam," continued he, "i only perform my office to mr joseph."--"pray, don't mister such fellows to me," cries the lady. "he," said the parson, "with the consent of fanny, before my face, put in the banns." "yes," answered the lady, "i suppose the slut is forward enough; slipslop tells me how her head runs upon fellows; that is one of her beauties, i suppose. but if they have put in the banns, i desire you will publish them no more without my orders."--"madam," cries adams, "if any one puts in a sufficient caution, and assigns a proper reason against them, i am willing to surcease."--"i tell you a reason," says she: "he is a vagabond, and he shall not settle here, and bring a nest of beggars into the parish; it will make us but little amends that they will be beauties."--"madam," answered adams, "with the utmost submission to your ladyship, i have been informed by lawyer scout that any person who serves a year gains a settlement in the parish where he serves."--"lawyer scout," replied the lady, "is an impudent coxcomb; i will have no lawyer scout interfere with me. i repeat to you again, i will have no more incumbrances brought on us: so i desire you will proceed no farther."--"madam," returned adams, "i would obey your ladyship in everything that is lawful; but surely the parties being poor is no reason against their marrying. god forbid there should be any such law! the poor have little share enough of this world already; it would be barbarous indeed to deny them the common privileges and innocent enjoyments which nature indulges to the animal creation."--"since you understand yourself no better," cries the lady, "nor the respect due from such as you to a woman of my distinction, than to affront my ears by such loose discourse, i shall mention but one short word; it is my orders to you that you publish these banns no more; and if you dare, i will recommend it to your master, the doctor, to discard you from his service. i will, sir, notwithstanding your poor family; and then you and the greatest beauty in the parish may go and beg together."--"madam," answered adams, "i know not what your ladyship means by the terms master and service. i am in the service of a master who will never discard me for doing my duty; and if the doctor (for indeed i have never been able to pay for a licence) thinks proper to turn me from my cure, god will provide me, i hope, another. at least, my family, as well as myself, have hands; and he will prosper, i doubt not, our endeavours to get our bread honestly with them. whilst my conscience is pure, i shall never fear what man can do unto me."--"i condemn my humility," said the lady, "for demeaning myself to converse with you so long. i shall take other measures; for i see you are a confederate with them. but the sooner you leave me the better; and i shall give orders that my doors may no longer be open to you. i will suffer no parsons who run about the country with beauties to be entertained here."--"madam," said adams, "i shall enter into no persons' doors against their will; but i am assured, when you have enquired farther into this matter, you will applaud, not blame, my proceeding; and so i humbly take my leave:" which he did with many bows, or at least many attempts at a bow. chapter iii. _what passed between the lady and lawyer scout._ in the afternoon the lady sent for mr scout, whom she attacked most violently for intermeddling with her servants, which he denied, and indeed with truth, for he had only asserted accidentally, and perhaps rightly, that a year's service gained a settlement; and so far he owned he might have formerly informed the parson and believed it was law. "i am resolved," said the lady, "to have no discarded servants of mine settled here; and so, if this be your law, i shall send to another lawyer." scout said, "if she sent to a hundred lawyers, not one or all of them could alter the law. the utmost that was in the power of a lawyer was to prevent the law's taking effect; and that he himself could do for her ladyship as well as any other; and i believe," says he, "madam, your ladyship, not being conversant in these matters, hath mistaken a difference; for i asserted only that a man who served a year was settled. now there is a material difference between being settled in law and settled in fact; and as i affirmed generally he was settled, and law is preferable to fact, my settlement must be understood in law and not in fact. and suppose, madam, we admit he was settled in law, what use will they make of it? how doth that relate to fact? he is not settled in fact; and if he be not settled in fact, he is not an inhabitant; and if he is not an inhabitant, he is not of this parish; and then undoubtedly he ought not to be published here; for mr adams hath told me your ladyship's pleasure, and the reason, which is a very good one, to prevent burdening us with the poor; we have too many already, and i think we ought to have an act to hang or transport half of them. if we can prove in evidence that he is not settled in fact, it is another matter. what i said to mr adams was on a supposition that he was settled in fact; and indeed, if that was the case, i should doubt."--"don't tell me your facts and your ifs," said the lady; "i don't understand your gibberish; you take too much upon you, and are very impertinent, in pretending to direct in this parish; and you shall be taught better, i assure you, you shall. but as to the wench, i am resolved she shall not settle here; i will not suffer such beauties as these to produce children for us to keep."--"beauties, indeed! your ladyship is pleased to be merry," answered scout.--"mr adams described her so to me," said the lady. "pray, what sort of dowdy is it, mr scout?"--"the ugliest creature almost i ever beheld; a poor dirty drab, your ladyship never saw such a wretch."--"well, but, dear mr scout, let her be what she will, these ugly women will bring children, you know; so that we must prevent the marriage."--"true, madam," replied scout, "for the subsequent marriage co-operating with the law will carry law into fact. when a man is married he is settled in fact, and then he is not removable. i will see mr adams, and i make no doubt of prevailing with him. his only objection is, doubtless, that he shall lose his fee; but that being once made easy, as it shall be, i am confident no farther objection will remain. no, no, it is impossible; but your ladyship can't discommend his unwillingness to depart from his fee. every man ought to have a proper value for his fee. as to the matter in question, if your ladyship pleases to employ me in it, i will venture to promise you success. the laws of this land are not so vulgar to permit a mean fellow to contend with one of your ladyship's fortune. we have one sure card, which is, to carry him before justice frolick, who, upon hearing your ladyship's name, will commit him without any farther questions. as for the dirty slut, we shall have nothing to do with her; for, if we get rid of the fellow, the ugly jade will--"--"take what measures you please, good mr scout," answered the lady: "but i wish you could rid the parish of both; for slipslop tells me such stories of this wench, that i abhor the thoughts of her; and, though you say she is such an ugly slut, yet you know, dear mr scout, these forward creatures, who run after men, will always find some as forward as themselves; so that, to prevent the increase of beggars, we must get rid of her."--"your ladyship is very much in the right," answered scout; "but i am afraid the law is a little deficient in giving us any such power of prevention; however, the justice will stretch it as far as he is able, to oblige your ladyship. to say truth, it is a great blessing to the country that he is in the commission, for he hath taken several poor off our hands that the law would never lay hold on. i know some justices who think as much of committing a man to bridewell as his lordship at 'size would of hanging him; but it would do a man good to see his worship, our justice, commit a fellow to bridewell, he takes so much pleasure in it; and when once we ha'um there, we seldom hear any more o'um. he's either starved or eat up by vermin in a month's time."--here the arrival of a visitor put an end to the conversation, and mr scout, having undertaken the cause and promised it success, departed. this scout was one of those fellows who, without any knowledge of the law, or being bred to it, take upon them, in defiance of an act of parliament, to act as lawyers in the country, and are called so. they are the pests of society, and a scandal to a profession, to which indeed they do not belong, and which owes to such kind of rascallions the ill-will which weak persons bear towards it. with this fellow, to whom a little before she would not have condescended to have spoken, did a certain passion for joseph, and the jealousy and the disdain of poor innocent fanny, betray the lady booby into a familiar discourse, in which she inadvertently confirmed many hints with which slipslop, whose gallant he was, had pre-acquainted him; and whence he had taken an opportunity to assert those severe falsehoods of little fanny which possibly the reader might not have been well able to account for if we had not thought proper to give him this information. chapter iv. _a short chapter, but very full of matter; particularly the arrival of mr booby and his lady._ all that night, and the next day, the lady booby past with the utmost anxiety; her mind was distracted and her soul tossed up and down by many turbulent and opposite passions. she loved, hated, pitied, scorned, admired, despised the same person by fits, which changed in a very short interval. on tuesday morning, which happened to be a holiday, she went to church, where, to her surprize, mr adams published the banns again with as audible a voice as before. it was lucky for her that, as there was no sermon, she had an immediate opportunity of returning home to vent her rage, which she could not have concealed from the congregation five minutes; indeed, it was not then very numerous, the assembly consisting of no more than adams, his clerk, his wife, the lady, and one of her servants. at her return she met slipslop, who accosted her in these words:--"o meam, what doth your ladyship think? to be sure, lawyer scout hath carried joseph and fanny both before the justice. all the parish are in tears, and say they will certainly be hanged; for nobody knows what it is for"--"i suppose they deserve it," says the lady. "what! dost thou mention such wretches to me?"--"o dear madam," answered slipslop, "is it not a pity such a graceless young man should die a virulent death? i hope the judge will take commensuration on his youth. as for fanny, i don't think it signifies much what becomes of her; and if poor joseph hath done anything, i could venture to swear she traduced him to it: few men ever come to a fragrant punishment, but by those nasty creatures, who are a scandal to our sect." the lady was no more pleased at this news, after a moment's reflection, than slipslop herself; for, though she wished fanny far enough, she did not desire the removal of joseph, especially with her. she was puzzled how to act or what to say on this occasion, when a coach and six drove into the court, and a servant acquainted her with the arrival of her nephew booby and his lady. she ordered them to be conducted into a drawing-room, whither she presently repaired, having composed her countenance as well as she could, and being a little satisfied that the wedding would by these means be at least interrupted, and that she should have an opportunity to execute any resolution she might take, for which she saw herself provided with an excellent instrument in scout. the lady booby apprehended her servant had made a mistake when he mentioned mr booby's lady; for she had never heard of his marriage: but how great was her surprize when, at her entering the room, her nephew presented his wife to her; saying, "madam, this is that charming pamela, of whom i am convinced you have heard so much." the lady received her with more civility than he expected; indeed with the utmost; for she was perfectly polite, nor had any vice inconsistent with good-breeding. they past some little time in ordinary discourse, when a servant came and whispered mr booby, who presently told the ladies he must desert them a little on some business of consequence; and, as their discourse during his absence would afford little improvement or entertainment to the reader, we will leave them for a while to attend mr booby. chapter v. _containing justice business; curious precedents of depositions, and other matters necessary to be perused by all justices of the peace and their clerks._ the young squire and his lady were no sooner alighted from their coach than the servants began to inquire after mr joseph, from whom they said their lady had not heard a word, to her great surprize, since he had left lady booby's. upon this they were instantly informed of what had lately happened, with which they hastily acquainted their master, who took an immediate resolution to go himself, and endeavour to restore his pamela her brother, before she even knew she had lost him. the justice before whom the criminals were carried, and who lived within a short mile of the lady's house, was luckily mr booby's acquaintance, by his having an estate in his neighbourhood. ordering therefore his horses to his coach, he set out for the judgment-seat, and arrived when the justice had almost finished his business. he was conducted into a hall, where he was acquainted that his worship would wait on him in a moment; for he had only a man and a woman to commit to bridewell first. as he was now convinced he had not a minute to lose, he insisted on the servant's introducing him directly into the room where the justice was then executing his office, as he called it. being brought thither, and the first compliments being passed between the squire and his worship, the former asked the latter what crime those two young people had been guilty of? "no great crime," answered the justice; "i have only ordered them to bridewell for a month." "but what is their crime?" repeated the squire. "larceny, an't please your honour," said scout. "ay," says the justice, "a kind of felonious larcenous thing. i believe i must order them a little correction too, a little stripping and whipping." (poor fanny, who had hitherto supported all with the thoughts of joseph's company, trembled at that sound; but, indeed, without reason, for none but the devil himself would have executed such a sentence on her.) "still," said the squire, "i am ignorant of the crime--the fact i mean." "why, there it is in peaper," answered the justice, showing him a deposition which, in the absence of his clerk, he had writ himself, of which we have with great difficulty procured an authentic copy; and here it follows _verbatim et literatim:_-- _the depusition of james scout, layer, and thomas trotter, yeoman, taken before mee, one of his magesty's justasses of the piece for zumersetshire._ "these deponants saith, and first thomas trotter for himself saith, that on the -- of this instant october, being sabbath-day, betwin the ours of and in the afternoon, he zeed joseph andrews and francis goodwill walk akross a certane felde belunging to layer scout, and out of the path which ledes thru the said felde, and there he zede joseph andrews with a nife cut one hassel twig, of the value, as he believes, of three half-pence, or thereabouts; and he saith that the said francis goodwill was likewise walking on the grass out of the said path in the said felde, and did receive and karry in her hand the said twig, and so was cumfarting, eading, and abatting to the said joseph therein. and the said james scout for himself says that he verily believes the said twig to be his own proper twig," &c. "jesu!" said the squire, "would you commit two persons to bridewell for a twig?" "yes," said the lawyer, "and with great lenity too; for if we had called it a young tree, they would have been both hanged." "harkee," says the justice, taking aside the squire; "i should not have been so severe on this occasion, but lady booby desires to get them out of the parish; so lawyer scout will give the constable orders to let them run away, if they please: but it seems they intend to marry together, and the lady hath no other means, as they are legally settled there, to prevent their bringing an incumbrance on her own parish." "well," said the squire, "i will take care my aunt shall be satisfied in this point; and likewise i promise you, joseph here shall never be any incumbrance on her. i shall be obliged to you, therefore, if, instead of bridewell, you will commit them to my custody." "o! to be sure, sir, if you desire it," answered the justice; and without more ado joseph and fanny were delivered over to squire booby, whom joseph very well knew, but little guessed how nearly he was related to him. the justice burnt his mittimus, the constable was sent about his business, the lawyer made no complaint for want of justice; and the prisoners, with exulting hearts, gave a thousand thanks to his honour mr booby; who did not intend their obligations to him should cease here; for, ordering his man to produce a cloak-bag, which he had caused to be brought from lady booby's on purpose, he desired the justice that he might have joseph with him into a room; where, ordering his servant to take out a suit of his own clothes, with linnen and other necessaries, he left joseph to dress himself, who, not yet knowing the cause of all this civility, excused his accepting such a favour as long as decently he could. whilst joseph was dressing, the squire repaired to the justice, whom he found talking with fanny; for, during the examination, she had flopped her hat over her eyes, which were also bathed in tears, and had by that means concealed from his worship what might perhaps have rendered the arrival of mr booby unnecessary, at least for herself. the justice no sooner saw her countenance cleared up, and her bright eyes shining through her tears, than he secretly cursed himself for having once thought of bridewell for her. he would willingly have sent his own wife thither, to have had fanny in her place. and, conceiving almost at the same instant desires and schemes to accomplish them, he employed the minutes whilst the squire was absent with joseph in assuring her how sorry he was for having treated her so roughly before he knew her merit; and told her, that since lady booby was unwilling that she should settle in her parish, she was heartily welcome to his, where he promised her his protection, adding that he would take joseph and her into his own family, if she liked it; which assurance he confirmed with a squeeze by the hand. she thanked him very kindly, and said, "she would acquaint joseph with the offer, which he would certainly be glad to accept; for that lady booby was angry with them both; though she did not know either had done anything to offend her, but imputed it to madam slipslop, who had always been her enemy." the squire now returned, and prevented any farther continuance of this conversation; and the justice, out of a pretended respect to his guest, but in reality from an apprehension of a rival (for he knew nothing of his marriage), ordered fanny into the kitchen, whither she gladly retired; nor did the squire, who declined the trouble of explaining the whole matter, oppose it. it would be unnecessary, if i was able, which indeed i am not, to relate the conversation between these two gentlemen, which rolled, as i have been informed, entirely on the subject of horse-racing. joseph was soon drest in the plainest dress he could find, which was a blue coat and breeches, with a gold edging, and a red waistcoat with the same: and as this suit, which was rather too large for the squire, exactly fitted him, so he became it so well, and looked so genteel, that no person would have doubted its being as well adapted to his quality as his shape; nor have suspected, as one might, when my lord ----, or sir ----, or mr ----, appear in lace or embroidery, that the taylor's man wore those clothes home on his back which he should have carried under his arm. the squire now took leave of the justice; and, calling for fanny, made her and joseph, against their wills, get into the coach with him, which he then ordered to drive to lady booby's. it had moved a few yards only, when the squire asked joseph if he knew who that man was crossing the field; for, added he, i never saw one take such strides before. joseph answered eagerly, "o, sir, it is parson adams!" "o la, indeed, and so it is," said fanny; "poor man, he is coming to do what he could for us. well, he is the worthiest, best-natured creature."--"ay," said joseph; "god bless him! for there is not such another in the universe." "the best creature living sure," cries fanny. "is he?" says the squire; "then i am resolved to have the best creature living in my coach;" and so saying, he ordered it to stop, whilst joseph, at his request, hallowed to the parson, who, well knowing his voice, made all the haste imaginable, and soon came up with them. he was desired by the master, who could scarce refrain from laughter at his figure, to mount into the coach, which he with many thanks refused, saying he could walk by its side, and he'd warrant he kept up with it; but he was at length over-prevailed on. the squire now acquainted joseph with his marriage; but he might have spared himself that labour; for his servant, whilst joseph was dressing, had performed that office before. he continued to express the vast happiness he enjoyed in his sister, and the value he had for all who belonged to her. joseph made many bows, and exprest as many acknowledgments: and parson adams, who now first perceived joseph's new apparel, burst into tears with joy, and fell to rubbing his hands and snapping his fingers as if he had been mad. they were now arrived at the lady booby's, and the squire, desiring them to wait a moment in the court, walked in to his aunt, and calling her out from his wife, acquainted her with joseph's arrival; saying, "madam, as i have married a virtuous and worthy woman, i am resolved to own her relations, and show them all a proper respect; i shall think myself therefore infinitely obliged to all mine who will do the same. it is true, her brother hath been your servant, but he is now become my brother; and i have one happiness, that neither his character, his behaviour, or appearance, give me any reason to be ashamed of calling him so. in short, he is now below, dressed like a gentleman, in which light i intend he shall hereafter be seen; and you will oblige me beyond expression if you will admit him to be of our party; for i know it will give great pleasure to my wife, though she will not mention it." this was a stroke of fortune beyond the lady booby's hopes or expectation; she answered him eagerly, "nephew, you know how easily i am prevailed on to do anything which joseph andrews desires--phoo, i mean which you desire me; and, as he is now your relation, i cannot refuse to entertain him as such." the squire told her he knew his obligation to her for her compliance; and going three steps, returned and told her--he had one more favour, which he believed she would easily grant, as she had accorded him the former. "there is a young woman--"--"nephew," says she, "don't let my good-nature make you desire, as is too commonly the case, to impose on me. nor think, because i have with so much condescension agreed to suffer your brother-in-law to come to my table, that i will submit to the company of all my own servants, and all the dirty trollops in the country." "madam," answered the squire, "i believe you never saw this young creature. i never beheld such sweetness and innocence joined with such beauty, and withal so genteel." "upon my soul i won't admit her," replied the lady in a passion; "the whole world shan't prevail on me; i resent even the desire as an affront, and--" the squire, who knew her inflexibility, interrupted her, by asking pardon, and promising not to mention it more. he then returned to joseph, and she to pamela. he took joseph aside, and told him he would carry him to his sister, but could not prevail as yet for fanny. joseph begged that he might see his sister alone, and then be with his fanny; but the squire, knowing the pleasure his wife would have in her brother's company, would not admit it, telling joseph there would be nothing in so short an absence from fanny, whilst he was assured of her safety; adding, he hoped he could not so easily quit a sister whom he had not seen so long, and who so tenderly loved him. joseph immediately complied; for indeed no brother could love a sister more; and, recommending fanny, who rejoiced that she was not to go before lady booby, to the care of mr adams, he attended the squire upstairs, whilst fanny repaired with the parson to his house, where she thought herself secure of a kind reception. chapter vi. _of which you are desired to read no more than you like._ the meeting between joseph and pamela was not without tears of joy on both sides; and their embraces were full of tenderness and affection. they were, however, regarded with much more pleasure by the nephew than by the aunt, to whose flame they were fuel only; and this was increased by the addition of dress, which was indeed not wanted to set off the lively colours in which nature had drawn health, strength, comeliness, and youth. in the afternoon joseph, at their request, entertained them with an account of his adventures: nor could lady booby conceal her dissatisfaction at those parts in which fanny was concerned, especially when mr booby launched forth into such rapturous praises of her beauty. she said, applying to her niece, that she wondered her nephew, who had pretended to marry for love, should think such a subject proper to amuse his wife with; adding, that, for her part, she should be jealous of a husband who spoke so warmly in praise of another woman. pamela answered, indeed, she thought she had cause; but it was an instance of mr booby's aptness to see more beauty in women than they were mistresses of. at which words both the women fixed their eyes on two looking-glasses; and lady booby replied, that men were, in the general, very ill judges of beauty; and then, whilst both contemplated only their own faces, they paid a cross compliment to each other's charms. when the hour of rest approached, which the lady of the house deferred as long as decently she could, she informed joseph (whom for the future we shall call mr joseph, he having as good a title to that appellation as many others--i mean that incontested one of good clothes) that she had ordered a bed to be provided for him. he declined this favour to his utmost; for his heart had long been with his fanny; but she insisted on his accepting it, alledging that the parish had no proper accommodation for such a person as he was now to esteem himself. the squire and his lady both joining with her, mr joseph was at last forced to give over his design of visiting fanny that evening; who, on her side, as impatiently expected him till midnight, when, in complacence to mr adams's family, who had sat up two hours out of respect to her, she retired to bed, but not to sleep; the thoughts of her love kept her waking, and his not returning according to his promise filled her with uneasiness; of which, however, she could not assign any other cause than merely that of being absent from him. mr joseph rose early in the morning, and visited her in whom his soul delighted. she no sooner heard his voice in the parson's parlour than she leapt from her bed, and, dressing herself in a few minutes, went down to him. they passed two hours with inexpressible happiness together; and then, having appointed monday, by mr adams's permission, for their marriage, mr joseph returned, according to his promise, to breakfast at the lady booby's, with whose behaviour, since the evening, we shall now acquaint the reader. she was no sooner retired to her chamber than she asked slipslop "what she thought of this wonderful creature her nephew had married?"-- "madam?" said slipslop, not yet sufficiently understanding what answer she was to make. "i ask you," answered the lady, "what you think of the dowdy, my niece, i think i am to call her?" slipslop, wanting no further hint, began to pull her to pieces, and so miserably defaced her, that it would have been impossible for any one to have known the person. the lady gave her all the assistance she could, and ended with saying, "i think, slipslop, you have done her justice; but yet, bad as she is, she is an angel compared to this fanny." slipslop then fell on fanny, whom she hacked and hewed in the like barbarous manner, concluding with an observation that there was always something in those low-life creatures which must eternally extinguish them from their betters. "really," said the lady, "i think there is one exception to your rule; i am certain you may guess who i mean."--"not i, upon my word, madam," said slipslop. "i mean a young fellow; sure you are the dullest wretch," said the lady. "o la! i am indeed. yes, truly, madam, he is an accession," answered slipslop. "ay, is he not, slipslop?" returned the lady. "is he not so genteel that a prince might, without a blush, acknowledge him for his son? his behaviour is such that would not shame the best education. he borrows from his station a condescension in everything to his superiors, yet unattended by that mean servility which is called good behaviour in such persons. everything he doth hath no mark of the base motive of fear, but visibly shows some respect and gratitude, and carries with it the persuasion of love. and then for his virtues: such piety to his parents, such tender affection to his sister, such integrity in his friendship, such bravery, such goodness, that, if he had been born a gentleman, his wife would have possessed the most invaluable blessing."--"to be sure, ma'am," says slipslop. "but as he is," answered the lady, "if he had a thousand more good qualities, it must render a woman of fashion contemptible even to be suspected of thinking of him; yes, i should despise myself for such a thought."--"to be sure, ma'am," said slipslop. "and why to be sure?" replied the lady; "thou art always one's echo. is he not more worthy of affection than a dirty country clown, though born of a family as old as the flood? or an idle worthless rake, or little puisny beau of quality? and yet these we must condemn ourselves to, in order to avoid the censure of the world; to shun the contempt of others, we must ally ourselves to those we despise; we must prefer birth, title, and fortune, to real merit. it is a tyranny of custom, a tyranny we must comply with; for we people of fashion are the slaves of custom."--"marry come up!" said slipslop, who now knew well which party to take. "if i was a woman of your ladyship's fortune and quality, i would be a slave to nobody."--"me," said the lady; "i am speaking if a young woman of fashion, who had seen nothing of the world, should happen to like such a fellow.--me, indeed! i hope thou dost not imagine--"--"no, ma'am, to be sure," cries slipslop. "no! what no?" cried the lady. "thou art always ready to answer before thou hast heard one. so far i must allow he is a charming fellow. me, indeed! no, slipslop, all thoughts of men are over with me. i have lost a husband who--but if i should reflect i should run mad. my future ease must depend upon forgetfulness. slipslop, let me hear some of thy nonsense, to turn my thoughts another way. what dost thou think of mr andrews?"--"why, i think," says slipslop, "he is the handsomest, most properest man i ever saw; and if i was a lady of the greatest degree it would be well for some folks. your ladyship may talk of custom, if you please: but i am confidous there is no more comparison between young mr andrews and most of the young gentlemen who come to your ladyship's house in london; a parcel of whipper-snapper sparks: i would sooner marry our old parson adams. never tell me what people say, whilst i am happy in the arms of him i love. some folks rail against other folks because other folks have what some folks would be glad of."--"and so," answered the lady, "if you was a woman of condition, you would really marry mr andrews?"--"yes, i assure your ladyship," replied slipslop, "if he would have me."--"fool, idiot!" cries the lady; "if he would have a woman of fashion! is that a question?"--"no, truly, madam," said slipslop, "i believe it would be none if fanny was out of the way; and i am confidous, if i was in your ladyship's place, and liked mr joseph andrews, she should not stay in the parish a moment. i am sure lawyer scout would send her packing if your ladyship would but say the word." this last speech of slipslop raised a tempest in the mind of her mistress. she feared scout had betrayed her, or rather that she had betrayed herself. after some silence, and a double change of her complexion, first to pale and then to red, she thus spoke: "i am astonished at the liberty you give your tongue. would you insinuate that i employed scout against this wench on account of the fellow?"--"la, ma'am," said slipslop, frighted out of her wits, "i assassinate such a thing!"--"i think you dare not," answered the lady; "i believe my conduct may defy malice itself to assert so cursed a slander. if i had ever discovered any wantonness, any lightness in my behaviour; if i had followed the example of some whom thou hast, i believe, seen, in allowing myself indecent liberties, even with a husband; but the dear man who is gone" (here she began to sob), "was he alive again" (then she produced tears), "could not upbraid me with any one act of tenderness or passion. no, slipslop, all the time i cohabited with him he never obtained even a kiss from me without my expressing reluctance in the granting it. i am sure he himself never suspected how much i loved him. since his death, thou knowest, though it is almost six weeks (it wants but a day) ago, i have not admitted one visitor till this fool my nephew arrived. i have confined myself quite to one party of friends. and can such a conduct as this fear to be arraigned? to be accused, not only of a passion which i have always despised, but of fixing it on such an object, a creature so much beneath my notice!"--"upon my word, ma'am," says slipslop, "i do not understand your ladyship; nor know i anything of the matter."--"i believe indeed thou dost not understand me. those are delicacies which exist only in superior minds; thy coarse ideas cannot comprehend them. thou art a low creature, of the andrews breed, a reptile of a lower order, a weed that grows in the common garden of the creation."--"i assure your ladyship," says slipslop, whose passions were almost of as high an order as her lady's, "i have no more to do with common garden than other folks. really, your ladyship talks of servants as if they were not born of the christian specious. servants have flesh and blood as well as quality; and mr andrews himself is a proof that they have as good, if not better. and for my own part, i can't perceive my dears[a] are coarser than other people's; and i am sure, if mr andrews was a dear of mine, i should not be ashamed of him in company with gentlemen; for whoever hath seen him in his new clothes must confess he looks as much like a gentleman as anybody. coarse, quotha! i can't bear to hear the poor young fellow run down neither; for i will say this, i never heard him say an ill word of anybody in his life. i am sure his coarseness doth not lie in his heart, for he is the best-natured man in the world; and as for his skin, it is no coarser than other people's, i am sure. his bosom, when a boy, was as white as driven snow; and, where it is not covered with hairs, is so still. ifakins! if i was mrs andrews, with a hundred a year, i should not envy the best she who wears a head. a woman that could not be happy with such a man ought never to be so; for if he can't make a woman happy, i never yet beheld the man who could. i say again, i wish i was a great lady for his sake. i believe, when i had made a gentleman of him, he'd behave so that nobody should deprecate what i had done; and i fancy few would venture to tell him he was no gentleman to his face, nor to mine neither." at which words, taking up the candles, she asked her mistress, who had been some time in her bed, if she had any farther commands? who mildly answered, she had none; and, telling her she was a comical creature, bid her good-night. [a] meaning perhaps ideas. chapter vii. _philosophical reflections, the like not to be found in any light french romance. mr booby's grave advice to joseph, and fanny's encounter with a beau._ habit, my good reader, hath so vast a prevalence over the human mind, that there is scarce anything too strange or too strong to be asserted of it. the story of the miser, who, from long accustoming to cheat others, came at last to cheat himself, and with great delight and triumph picked his own pocket of a guinea to convey to his hoard, is not impossible or improbable. in like manner it fares with the practisers of deceit, who, from having long deceived their acquaintance, gain at last a power of deceiving themselves, and acquire that very opinion (however false) of their own abilities, excellencies, and virtues, into which they have for years perhaps endeavoured to betray their neighbours. now, reader, to apply this observation to my present purpose, thou must know, that as the passion generally called love exercises most of the talents of the female or fair world, so in this they now and then discover a small inclination to deceit; for which thou wilt not be angry with the beautiful creatures when thou hast considered that at the age of seven, or something earlier, miss is instructed by her mother that master is a very monstrous kind of animal, who will, if she suffers him to come too near her, infallibly eat her up and grind her to pieces: that, so far from kissing or toying with him of her own accord, she must not admit him to kiss or toy with her: and, lastly, that she must never have any affection towards him; for if she should, all her friends in petticoats would esteem her a traitress, point at her, and hunt her out of their society. these impressions, being first received, are farther and deeper inculcated by their school-mistresses and companions; so that by the age of ten they have contracted such a dread and abhorrence of the above-named monster, that whenever they see him they fly from him as the innocent hare doth from the greyhound. hence, to the age of fourteen or fifteen, they entertain a mighty antipathy to master; they resolve, and frequently profess, that they will never have any commerce with him, and entertain fond hopes of passing their lives out of his reach, of the possibility of which they have so visible an example in their good maiden aunt. but when they arrive at this period, and have now passed their second climacteric, when their wisdom, grown riper, begins to see a little farther, and, from almost daily falling in master's way, to apprehend the great difficulty of keeping out of it; and when they observe him look often at them, and sometimes very eagerly and earnestly too (for the monster seldom takes any notice of them till at this age), they then begin to think of their danger; and, as they perceive they cannot easily avoid him, the wiser part bethink themselves of providing by other means for their security. they endeavour, by all methods they can invent, to render themselves so amiable in his eyes, that he may have no inclination to hurt them; in which they generally succeed so well, that his eyes, by frequent languishing, soon lessen their idea of his fierceness, and so far abate their fears, that they venture to parley with him; and when they perceive him so different from what he hath been described, all gentleness, softness, kindness, tenderness, fondness, their dreadful apprehensions vanish in a moment; and now (it being usual with the human mind to skip from one extreme to its opposite, as easily, and almost as suddenly, as a bird from one bough to another) love instantly succeeds to fear: but, as it happens to persons who have in their infancy been thoroughly frightened with certain no-persons called ghosts, that they retain their dread of those beings after they are convinced that there are no such things, so these young ladies, though they no longer apprehend devouring, cannot so entirely shake off all that hath been instilled into them; they still entertain the idea of that censure which was so strongly imprinted on their tender minds, to which the declarations of abhorrence they every day hear from their companions greatly contribute. to avoid this censure, therefore, is now their only care; for which purpose they still pretend the same aversion to the monster: and the more they love him, the more ardently they counterfeit the antipathy. by the continual and constant practice of which deceit on others, they at length impose on themselves, and really believe they hate what they love. thus, indeed, it happened to lady booby, who loved joseph long before she knew it; and now loved him much more than she suspected. she had indeed, from the time of his sister's arrival in the quality of her niece, and from the instant she viewed him in the dress and character of a gentleman, began to conceive secretly a design which love had concealed from herself till a dream betrayed it to her. she had no sooner risen than she sent for her nephew. when he came to her, after many compliments on his choice, she told him, "he might perceive, in her condescension to admit her own servant to her table, that she looked on the family of andrews as his relations, and indeed hers; that, as he had married into such a family, it became him to endeavour by all methods to raise it as much as possible. at length she advised him to use all his heart to dissuade joseph from his intended match, which would still enlarge their relation to meanness and poverty; concluding that, by a commission in the army, or some other genteel employment, he might soon put young mr andrews on the foot of a gentleman; and, that being once done, his accomplishments might quickly gain him an alliance which would not be to their discredit." her nephew heartily embraced this proposal, and, finding mr joseph with his wife, at his return to her chamber, he immediately began thus: "my love to my dear pamela, brother, will extend to all her relations; nor shall i show them less respect than if i had married into the family of a duke. i hope i have given you some early testimonies of this, and shall continue to give you daily more. you will excuse me therefore, brother, if my concern for your interest makes me mention what may be, perhaps, disagreeable to you to hear: but i must insist upon it, that, if you have any value for my alliance or my friendship, you will decline any thoughts of engaging farther with a girl who is, as you are a relation of mine, so much beneath you. i know there may be at first some difficulty in your compliance, but that will daily diminish; and you will in the end sincerely thank me for my advice. i own, indeed, the girl is handsome; but beauty alone is a poor ingredient, and will make but an uncomfortable marriage."--"sir," said joseph, "i assure you her beauty is her least perfection; nor do i know a virtue which that young creature is not possesst of."--"as to her virtues," answered mr booby, "you can be yet but a slender judge of them; but, if she had never so many, you will find her equal in these among her superiors in birth and fortune, which now you are to esteem on a footing with yourself; at least i will take care they shall shortly be so, unless you prevent me by degrading yourself with such a match, a match i have hardly patience to think of, and which would break the hearts of your parents, who now rejoice in the expectation of seeing you make a figure in the world."--"i know not," replied joseph, "that my parents have any power over my inclinations; nor am i obliged to sacrifice my happiness to their whim or ambition: besides, i shall be very sorry to see that the unexpected advancement of my sister should so suddenly inspire them with this wicked pride, and make them despise their equals. i am resolved on no account to quit my dear fanny; no, though i could raise her as high above her present station as you have raised my sister."--"your sister, as well as myself," said booby, "are greatly obliged to you for the comparison: but, sir, she is not worthy to be compared in beauty to my pamela; nor hath she half her merit. and besides, sir, as you civilly throw my marriage with your sister in my teeth, i must teach you the wide difference between us: my fortune enabled me to please myself; and it would have been as overgrown a folly in me to have omitted it as in you to do it."--"my fortune enables me to please myself likewise," said joseph; "for all my pleasure is centered in fanny; and whilst i have health i shall be able to support her with my labour in that station to which she was born, and with which she is content."--"brother," said pamela, "mr booby advises you as a friend; and no doubt my papa and mamma will be of his opinion, and will have great reason to be angry with you for destroying what his goodness hath done, and throwing down our family again, after he hath raised it. it would become you better, brother, to pray for the assistance of grace against such a passion than to indulge it."--"sure, sister, you are not in earnest; i am sure she is your equal, at least."--"she was my equal," answered pamela; "but i am no longer pamela andrews; i am now this gentleman's lady, and, as such, am above her.--i hope i shall never behave with an unbecoming pride: but, at the same time, i shall always endeavour to know myself, and question not the assistance of grace to that purpose." they were now summoned to breakfast, and thus ended their discourse for the present, very little to the satisfaction of any of the parties. fanny was now walking in an avenue at some distance from the house, where joseph had promised to take the first opportunity of coming to her. she had not a shilling in the world, and had subsisted ever since her return entirely on the charity of parson adams. a young gentleman, attended by many servants, came up to her, and asked her if that was not the lady booby's house before him? this, indeed, he well knew; but had framed the question for no other reason than to make her look up, and discover if her face was equal to the delicacy of her shape. he no sooner saw it than he was struck with amazement. he stopt his horse, and swore she was the most beautiful creature he ever beheld. then, instantly alighting and delivering his horse to his servant, he rapt out half-a-dozen oaths that he would kiss her; to which she at first submitted, begging he would not be rude; but he was not satisfied with the civility of a salute, nor even with the rudest attack he could make on her lips, but caught her in his arms, and endeavoured to kiss her breasts, which with all her strength she resisted, and, as our spark was not of the herculean race, with some difficulty prevented. the young gentleman, being soon out of breath in the struggle, quitted her, and, remounting his horse, called one of his servants to him, whom he ordered to stay behind with her, and make her any offers whatever to prevail on her to return home with him in the evening; and to assure her he would take her into keeping. he then rode on with his other servants, and arrived at the lady's house, to whom he was a distant relation, and was come to pay a visit. the trusty fellow, who was employed in an office he had been long accustomed to, discharged his part with all the fidelity and dexterity imaginable, but to no purpose. she was entirely deaf to his offers, and rejected them with the utmost disdain. at last the pimp, who had perhaps more warm blood about him than his master, began to sollicit for himself; he told her, though he was a servant, he was a man of some fortune, which he would make her mistress of; and this without any insult to her virtue, for that he would marry her. she answered, if his master himself, or the greatest lord in the land, would marry her, she would refuse him. at last, being weary with persuasions, and on fire with charms which would have almost kindled a flame in the bosom of an ancient philosopher or modern divine, he fastened his horse to the ground, and attacked her with much more force than the gentleman had exerted. poor fanny would not have been able to resist his rudeness a short time, but the deity who presides over chaste love sent her joseph to her assistance. he no sooner came within sight, and perceived her struggling with a man, than, like a cannon-ball, or like lightning, or anything that is swifter, if anything be, he ran towards her, and, coming up just as the ravisher had torn her handkerchief from her breast, before his lips had touched that seat of innocence and bliss, he dealt him so lusty a blow in that part of his neck which a rope would have become with the utmost propriety, that the fellow staggered backwards, and, perceiving he had to do with something rougher than the little, tender, trembling hand of fanny, he quitted her, and, turning about, saw his rival, with fire flashing from his eyes, again ready to assail him; and, indeed, before he could well defend himself, or return the first blow, he received a second, which, had it fallen on that part of the stomach to which it was directed, would have been probably the last he would have had any occasion for; but the ravisher, lifting up his hand, drove the blow upwards to his mouth, whence it dislodged three of his teeth; and now, not conceiving any extraordinary affection for the beauty of joseph's person, nor being extremely pleased with this method of salutation, he collected all his force, and aimed a blow at joseph's breast, which he artfully parried with one fist, so that it lost its force entirely in air; and, stepping one foot backward, he darted his fist so fiercely at his enemy, that, had he not caught it in his hand (for he was a boxer of no inferior fame), it must have tumbled him on the ground. and now the ravisher meditated another blow, which he aimed at that part of the breast where the heart is lodged; joseph did not catch it as before, yet so prevented its aim that it fell directly on his nose, but with abated force. joseph then, moving both fist and foot forwards at the same time, threw his head so dexterously into the stomach of the ravisher that he fell a lifeless lump on the field, where he lay many minutes breathless and motionless. when fanny saw her joseph receive a blow in his face, and blood running in a stream from him, she began to tear her hair and invoke all human and divine power to his assistance. she was not, however, long under this affliction before joseph, having conquered his enemy, ran to her, and assured her he was not hurt; she then instantly fell on her knees, and thanked god that he had made joseph the means of her rescue, and at the same time preserved him from being injured in attempting it. she offered, with her handkerchief, to wipe his blood from his face; but he, seeing his rival attempting to recover his legs, turned to him, and asked him if he had enough? to which the other answered he had; for he believed he had fought with the devil instead of a man; and, loosening his horse, said he should not have attempted the wench if he had known she had been so well provided for. fanny now begged joseph to return with her to parson adams, and to promise that he would leave her no more. these were propositions so agreeable to joseph, that, had he heard them, he would have given an immediate assent; but indeed his eyes were now his only sense; for you may remember, reader, that the ravisher had tore her handkerchief from fanny's neck, by which he had discovered such a sight, that joseph hath declared all the statues he ever beheld were so much inferior to it in beauty, that it was more capable of converting a man into a statue than of being imitated by the greatest master of that art. this modest creature, whom no warmth in summer could ever induce to expose her charms to the wanton sun, a modesty to which, perhaps, they owed their inconceivable whiteness, had stood many minutes bare-necked in the presence of joseph before her apprehension of his danger and the horror of seeing his blood would suffer her once to reflect on what concerned herself; till at last, when the cause of her concern had vanished, an admiration at his silence, together with observing the fixed position of his eyes, produced an idea in the lovely maid which brought more blood into her face than had flowed from joseph's nostrils. the snowy hue of her bosom was likewise changed to vermilion at the instant when she clapped her handkerchief round her neck. joseph saw the uneasiness she suffered, and immediately removed his eyes from an object, in surveying which he had felt the greatest delight which the organs of sight were capable of conveying to his soul;--so great was his fear of offending her, and so truly did his passion for her deserve the noble name of love. fanny, being recovered from her confusion, which was almost equalled by what joseph had felt from observing it, again mentioned her request; this was instantly and gladly complied with; and together they crossed two or three fields, which brought them to the habitation of mr adams. chapter viii. _a discourse which happened between mr adams, mrs adams, joseph, and fanny; with some behaviour of mr adams which will be called by some few readers very low, absurd, and unnatural._ the parson and his wife had just ended a long dispute when the lovers came to the door. indeed, this young couple had been the subject of the dispute; for mrs adams was one of those prudent people who never do anything to injure their families, or, perhaps, one of those good mothers who would even stretch their conscience to serve their children. she had long entertained hopes of seeing her eldest daughter succeed mrs slipslop, and of making her second son an exciseman by lady booby's interest. these were expectations she could not endure the thoughts of quitting, and was, therefore, very uneasy to see her husband so resolute to oppose the lady's intention in fanny's affair. she told him, "it behoved every man to take the first care of his family; that he had a wife and six children, the maintaining and providing for whom would be business enough for him without intermeddling in other folks' affairs; that he had always preached up submission to superiors, and would do ill to give an example of the contrary behaviour in his own conduct; that if lady booby did wrong she must answer for it herself, and the sin would not lie at their door; that fanny had been a servant, and bred up in the lady's own family, and consequently she must have known more of her than they did, and it was very improbable, if she had behaved herself well, that the lady would have been so bitterly her enemy; that perhaps he was too much inclined to think well of her because she was handsome, but handsome women were often no better than they should be; that g-- made ugly women as well as handsome ones; and that if a woman had virtue it signified nothing whether she had beauty or no." for all which reasons she concluded he should oblige the lady, and stop the future publication of the banns. but all these excellent arguments had no effect on the parson, who persisted in doing his duty without regarding the consequence it might have on his worldly interest. he endeavoured to answer her as well as he could; to which she had just finished her reply (for she had always the last word everywhere but at church) when joseph and fanny entered their kitchen, where the parson and his wife then sat at breakfast over some bacon and cabbage. there was a coldness in the civility of mrs adams which persons of accurate speculation might have observed, but escaped her present guests; indeed, it was a good deal covered by the heartiness of adams, who no sooner heard that fanny had neither eat nor drank that morning than he presented her a bone of bacon he had just been gnawing, being the only remains of his provision, and then ran nimbly to the tap, and produced a mug of small beer, which he called ale; however, it was the best in his house. joseph, addressing himself to the parson, told him the discourse which had past between squire booby, his sister, and himself concerning fanny; he then acquainted him with the dangers whence he had rescued her, and communicated some apprehensions on her account. he concluded that he should never have an easy moment till fanny was absolutely his, and begged that he might be suffered to fetch a licence, saying he could easily borrow the money. the parson answered, that he had already given his sentiments concerning a licence, and that a very few days would make it unnecessary. "joseph," says he, "i wish this haste doth not arise rather from your impatience than your fear; but, as it certainly springs from one of these causes, i will examine both. of each of these therefore in their turn; and first for the first of these, namely, impatience. now, child, i must inform you that, if in your purposed marriage with this young woman you have no intention but the indulgence of carnal appetites, you are guilty of a very heinous sin. marriage was ordained for nobler purposes, as you will learn when you hear the service provided on that occasion read to you. nay, perhaps, if you are a good lad, i, child, shall give you a sermon gratis, wherein i shall demonstrate how little regard ought to be had to the flesh on such occasions. the text will be matthew the th, and part of the th verse--_whosoever looketh on a woman, so as to lust after her_. the latter part i shall omit, as foreign to my purpose. indeed, all such brutal lusts and affections are to be greatly subdued, if not totally eradicated, before the vessel can be said to be consecrated to honour. to marry with a view of gratifying those inclinations is a prostitution of that holy ceremony, and must entail a curse on all who so lightly undertake it. if, therefore, this haste arises from impatience, you are to correct, and not give way to it. now, as to the second head which i proposed to speak to, namely, fear: it argues a diffidence, highly criminal, of that power in which alone we should put our trust, seeing we may be well assured that he is able, not only to defeat the designs of our enemies, but even to turn their hearts. instead of taking, therefore, any unjustifiable or desperate means to rid ourselves of fear, we should resort to prayer only on these occasions; and we may be then certain of obtaining what is best for us. when any accident threatens us we are not to despair, nor, when it overtakes us, to grieve; we must submit in all things to the will of providence, and set our affections so much on nothing here that we cannot quit it without reluctance. you are a young man, and can know but little of this world; i am older, and have seen a great deal. all passions are criminal in their excess; and even love itself, if it is not subservient to our duty, may render us blind to it. had abraham so loved his son isaac as to refuse the sacrifice required, is there any of us who would not condemn him? joseph, i know your many good qualities, and value you for them; but, as i am to render an account of your soul, which is committed to my cure, i cannot see any fault without reminding you of it. you are too much inclined to passion, child, and have set your affections so absolutely on this young woman, that, if g-- required her at your hands, i fear you would reluctantly part with her. now, believe me, no christian ought so to set his heart on any person or thing in this world, but that, whenever it shall be required or taken from him in any manner by divine providence, he may be able, peaceably, quietly, and contentedly to resign it." at which words one came hastily in, and acquainted mr adams that his youngest son was drowned. he stood silent a moment, and soon began to stamp about the room and deplore his loss with the bitterest agony. joseph, who was overwhelmed with concern likewise, recovered himself sufficiently to endeavour to comfort the parson; in which attempt he used many arguments that he had at several times remembered out of his own discourses, both in private and public (for he was a great enemy to the passions, and preached nothing more than the conquest of them by reason and grace), but he was not at leisure now to hearken to his advice. "child, child," said he, "do not go about impossibilities. had it been any other of my children i could have borne it with patience; but my little prattler, the darling and comfort of my old age--the little wretch, to be snatched out of life just at his entrance into it; the sweetest, best-tempered boy, who never did a thing to offend me. it was but this morning i gave him his first lesson in _que genus_. this was the very book he learnt; poor child! it is of no further use to thee now. he would have made the best scholar, and have been an ornament to the church;--such parts and such goodness never met in one so young." "and the handsomest lad too," says mrs adams, recovering from a swoon in fanny's arms. "my poor jacky, shall i never see thee more?" cries the parson. "yes, surely," says joseph, "and in a better place; you will meet again, never to part more." i believe the parson did not hear these words, for he paid little regard to them, but went on lamenting, whilst the tears trickled down into his bosom. at last he cried out, "where is my little darling?" and was sallying out, when to his great surprize and joy, in which i hope the reader will sympathize, he met his son in a wet condition indeed, but alive and running towards him. the person who brought the news of his misfortune had been a little too eager, as people sometimes are, from, i believe, no very good principle, to relate ill news; and, seeing him fall into the river, instead of running to his assistance, directly ran to acquaint his father of a fate which he had concluded to be inevitable, but whence the child was relieved by the same poor pedlar who had relieved his father before from a less distress. the parson's joy was now as extravagant as his grief had been before; he kissed and embraced his son a thousand times, and danced about the room like one frantic; but as soon as he discovered the face of his old friend the pedlar, and heard the fresh obligation he had to him, what were his sensations? not those which two courtiers feel in one another's embraces; not those with which a great man receives the vile treacherous engines of his wicked purposes, not those with which a worthless younger brother wishes his elder joy of a son, or a man congratulates his rival on his obtaining a mistress, a place, or an honour.--no, reader; he felt the ebullition, the overflowings of a full, honest, open heart, towards the person who had conferred a real obligation, and of which, if thou canst not conceive an idea within, i will not vainly endeavour to assist thee. when these tumults were over, the parson, taking joseph aside, proceeded thus--"no, joseph, do not give too much way to thy passions, if thou dost expect happiness." the patience of joseph, nor perhaps of job, could bear no longer; he interrupted the parson, saying, "it was easier to give advice than take it; nor did he perceive he could so entirely conquer himself, when he apprehended he had lost his son, or when he found him recovered."--"boy," replied adams, raising his voice, "it doth not become green heads to advise grey hairs.--thou art ignorant of the tenderness of fatherly affection; when thou art a father thou wilt be capable then only of knowing what a father can feel. no man is obliged to impossibilities; and the loss of a child is one of those great trials where our grief may be allowed to become immoderate."--"well, sir," cries joseph, "and if i love a mistress as well as you your child, surely her loss would grieve me equally."--"yes, but such love is foolishness and wrong in itself, and ought to be conquered," answered adams; "it savours too much of the flesh."--"sure, sir," says joseph, "it is not sinful to love my wife, no, not even to doat on her to distraction!"--"indeed but it is," says adams. "every man ought to love his wife, no doubt; we are commanded so to do; but we ought to love her with moderation and discretion."--"i am afraid i shall be guilty of some sin in spite of all my endeavours," says joseph; "for i shall love without any moderation, i am sure."--"you talk foolishly and childishly," cries adams.--"indeed," says mrs adams, who had listened to the latter part of their conversation, "you talk more foolishly yourself. i hope, my dear, you will never preach any such doctrine as that husbands can love their wives too well. if i knew you had such a sermon in the house i am sure i would burn it, and i declare, if i had not been convinced you had loved me as well as you could, i can answer for myself, i should have hated and despised you. marry come up! fine doctrine, indeed! a wife hath a right to insist on her husband's loving her as much as ever he can; and he is a sinful villain who doth not. doth he not promise to love her, and to comfort her, and to cherish her, and all that? i am sure i remember it all as well as if i had repeated it over but yesterday, and shall never forget it. besides, i am certain you do not preach as you practise; for you have been a loving and a cherishing husband to me; that's the truth on't; and why you should endeavour to put such wicked nonsense into this young man's head i cannot devise. don't hearken to him, mr joseph; be as good a husband as you are able, and love your wife with all your body and soul too." here a violent rap at the door put an end to their discourse, and produced a scene which the reader will find in the next chapter. chapter ix. _a visit which the polite lady booby and her polite friend paid to the parson._ the lady booby had no sooner had an account from the gentleman of his meeting a wonderful beauty near her house, and perceived the raptures with which he spoke of her, than, immediately concluding it must be fanny, she began to meditate a design of bringing them better acquainted; and to entertain hopes that the fine clothes, presents, and promises of this youth, would prevail on her to abandon joseph: she therefore proposed to her company a walk in the fields before dinner, when she led them towards mr adams's house; and, as she approached it, told them if they pleased she would divert them with one of the most ridiculous sights they had ever seen, which was an old foolish parson, who, she said, laughing, kept a wife and six brats on a salary of about twenty pounds a year; adding, that there was not such another ragged family in the parish. they all readily agreed to this visit, and arrived whilst mrs adams was declaiming as in the last chapter. beau didapper, which was the name of the young gentleman we have seen riding towards lady booby's, with his cane mimicked the rap of a london footman at the door. the people within, namely, adams, his wife and three children, joseph, fanny, and the pedlar, were all thrown into confusion by this knock, but adams went directly to the door, which being opened, the lady booby and her company walked in, and were received by the parson with about two hundred bows, and by his wife with as many curtsies; the latter telling the lady "she was ashamed to be seen in such a pickle, and that her house was in such a litter; but that if she had expected such an honour from her ladyship she should have found her in a better manner." the parson made no apologies, though he was in his half-cassock and a flannel nightcap. he said "they were heartily welcome to his poor cottage," and turning to mr didapper, cried out, "_non mea renidet in domo lacunar_." the beau answered, "he did not understand welsh;" at which the parson stared and made no reply. mr didapper, or beau didapper, was a young gentleman of about four foot five inches in height. he wore his own hair, though the scarcity of it might have given him sufficient excuse for a periwig. his face was thin and pale; the shape of his body and legs none of the best, for he had very narrow shoulders and no calf; and his gait might more properly be called hopping than walking. the qualifications of his mind were well adapted to his person. we shall handle them first negatively. he was not entirely ignorant; for he could talk a little french and sing two or three italian songs; he had lived too much in the world to be bashful, and too much at court to be proud: he seemed not much inclined to avarice, for he was profuse in his expenses; nor had he all the features of prodigality, for he never gave a shilling: no hater of women, for he always dangled after them; yet so little subject to lust, that he had, among those who knew him best, the character of great moderation in his pleasures; no drinker of wine; nor so addicted to passion but that a hot word or two from an adversary made him immediately cool. now, to give him only a dash or two on the affirmative side: though he was born to an immense fortune, he chose, for the pitiful and dirty consideration of a place of little consequence, to depend entirely on the will of a fellow whom they call a great man; who treated him with the utmost disrespect, and exacted of him a plenary obedience to his commands, which he implicitly submitted to, at the expense of his conscience, his honour, and of his country, in which he had himself so very large a share. and to finish his character; as he was entirely well satisfied with his own person and parts, so he was very apt to ridicule and laugh at any imperfection in another. such was the little person, or rather thing, that hopped after lady booby into mr adams's kitchen. the parson and his company retreated from the chimney-side, where they had been seated, to give room to the lady and hers. instead of returning any of the curtsies or extraordinary civility of mrs adams, the lady, turning to mr booby, cried out, "_quelle bête! quel animal!_" and presently after discovering fanny (for she did not need the circumstance of her standing by joseph to assure the identity of her person), she asked the beau "whether he did not think her a pretty girl?"--"begad, madam," answered he, "'tis the very same i met." "i did not imagine," replied the lady, "you had so good a taste."--"because i never liked you, i warrant," cries the beau. "ridiculous!" said she: "you know you was always my aversion." "i would never mention aversion," answered the beau, "with that face[a]; dear lady booby, wash your face before you mention aversion, i beseech you." he then laughed, and turned about to coquet it with fanny. [a] lest this should appear unnatural to some readers, we think proper to acquaint them, that it is taken verbatim from very polite conversation. mrs adams had been all this time begging and praying the ladies to sit down, a favour which she at last obtained. the little boy to whom the accident had happened, still keeping his place by the fire, was chid by his mother for not being more mannerly: but lady booby took his part, and, commending his beauty, told the parson he was his very picture. she then, seeing a book in his hand, asked "if he could read?"--"yes," cried adams, "a little latin, madam: he is just got into quae genus."--"a fig for quere genius!" answered she; "let me hear him read a little english."--"lege, dick, lege," said adams: but the boy made no answer, till he saw the parson knit his brows, and then cried, "i don't understand you, father."--"how, boy!" says adams; "what doth lego make in the imperative mood? legito, doth it not?"--"yes," answered dick.--"and what besides ?" says the father. "lege," quoth the son, after some hesitation. "a good boy," says the father: "and now, child, what is the english of lego?"--to which the boy, after long puzzling, answered, he could not tell. "how!" cries adams, in a passion;--"what, hath the water washed away your learning? why, what is latin for the english verb read? consider before you speak." the child considered some time, and then the parson cried twice or thrice, "le--, le--." dick answered, "lego."--"very well;--and then what is the english," says the parson, "of the verb lego?"--"to read," cried dick.--"very well," said the parson; "a good boy: you can do well if you will take pains.--i assure your ladyship he is not much above eight years old, and is out of his propria quae maribus already.--come, dick, read to her ladyship;"--which she again desiring, in order to give the beau time and opportunity with fanny, dick began as in the following chapter. chapter x. _the history of two friends, which may afford an useful lesson to all those persons who happen to take up their residence in married families._ "leonard and paul were two friends."--"pronounce it lennard, child," cried the parson.--"pray, mr adams," says lady booby, "let your son read without interruption." dick then proceeded. "lennard and paul were two friends, who, having been educated together at the same school, commenced a friendship which they preserved a long time for each other. it was so deeply fixed in both their minds, that a long absence, during which they had maintained no correspondence, did not eradicate nor lessen it: but it revived in all its force at their first meeting, which was not till after fifteen years' absence, most of which time lennard had spent in the east indi-es."--"pronounce it short, indies," says adams.--"pray? sir, be quiet," says the lady.--the boy repeated--"in the east indies, whilst paul had served his king and country in the army. in which different services they had found such different success, that lennard was now married, and retired with a fortune of thirty thousand pounds; and paul was arrived to the degree of a lieutenant of foot; and was not worth a single shilling. "the regiment in which paul was stationed happened to be ordered into quarters within a small distance from the estate which lennard had purchased, and where he was settled. this latter, who was now become a country gentleman, and a justice of peace, came to attend the quarter sessions in the town where his old friend was quartered, soon after his arrival. some affair in which a soldier was concerned occasioned paul to attend the justices. manhood, and time, and the change of climate had so much altered lennard, that paul did not immediately recollect the features of his old acquaintance: but it was otherwise with lennard. he knew paul the moment he saw him; nor could he contain himself from quitting the bench, and running hastily to embrace him. paul stood at first a little surprized; but had soon sufficient information from his friend, whom he no sooner remembered than he returned his embrace with a passion which made many of the spectators laugh, and gave to some few a much higher and more agreeable sensation. "not to detain the reader with minute circumstances, lennard insisted on his friend's returning with him to his house that evening; which request was complied with, and leave for a month's absence for paul obtained of the commanding officer. "if it was possible for any circumstance to give any addition to the happiness which paul proposed in this visit, he received that additional pleasure by finding, on his arrival at his friend's house, that his lady was an old acquaintance which he had formerly contracted at his quarters, and who had always appeared to be of a most agreeable temper; a character she had ever maintained among her intimates, being of that number, every individual of which is called quite the best sort of woman in the world. "but, good as this lady was, she was still a woman; that is to say, an angel, and not an angel."--"you must mistake, child," cries the parson, "for you read nonsense."--"it is so in the book," answered the son. mr adams was then silenced by authority, and dick proceeded--"for though her person was of that kind to which men attribute the name of angel, yet in her mind she was perfectly woman. of which a great degree of obstinacy gave the most remarkable and perhaps most pernicious instance. "a day or two passed after paul's arrival before any instances of this appeared; but it was impossible to conceal it long. both she and her husband soon lost all apprehension from their friend's presence, and fell to their disputes with as much vigour as ever. these were still pursued with the utmost ardour and eagerness, however trifling the causes were whence they first arose. nay, however incredible it may seem, the little consequence of the matter in debate was frequently given as a reason for the fierceness of the contention, as thus: 'if you loved me, sure you would never dispute with me such a trifle as this.' the answer to which is very obvious; for the argument would hold equally on both sides, and was constantly retorted with some addition, as--'i am sure i have much more reason to say so, who am in the right.' during all these disputes, paul always kept strict silence, and preserved an even countenance, without showing the least visible inclination to either party. one day, however, when madam had left the room in a violent fury, lennard could not refrain from referring his cause to his friend. was ever anything so unreasonable, says he, as this woman? what shall i do with her? i doat on her to distraction; nor have i any cause to complain of, more than this obstinacy in her temper; whatever she asserts, she will maintain against all the reason and conviction in the world. pray give me your advice.--first, says paul, i will give my opinion, which is, flatly, that you are in the wrong; for, supposing she is in the wrong, was the subject of your contention any ways material? what signified it whether you was married in a red or a yellow waistcoat? for that was your dispute. now, suppose she was mistaken; as you love her you say so tenderly, and i believe she deserves it, would it not have been wiser to have yielded, though you certainly knew yourself in the right, than to give either her or yourself any uneasiness. for my own part, if ever i marry, i am resolved to enter into an agreement with my wife, that in all disputes (especially about trifles) that party who is most convinced they are right shall always surrender the victory; by which means we shall both be forward to give up the cause. i own, said lennard, my dear friend, shaking him by the hand, there is great truth and reason in what you say; and i will for the future endeavour to follow your advice. they soon after broke up the conversation, and lennard, going to his wife, asked her pardon, and told her his friend had convinced him he had been in the wrong. she immediately began a vast encomium on paul, in which he seconded her, and both agreed he was the worthiest and wisest man upon earth. when next they met, which was at supper, though she had promised not to mention what her husband told her, she could not forbear casting the kindest and most affectionate looks on paul, and asked him, with the sweetest voice, whether she should help him to some potted woodcock? potted partridge, my dear, you mean, says the husband. my dear, says she, i ask your friend if he will eat any potted woodcock; and i am sure i must know, who potted it. i think i should know too, who shot them, replied the husband, and i am convinced that i have not seen a woodcock this year; however, though i know i am in the right, i submit, and the potted partridge is potted woodcock if you desire to have it so. it is equal to me, says she, whether it is one or the other; but you would persuade one out of one's senses; to be sure, you are always in the right in your own opinion; but your friend, i believe, knows which he is eating. paul answered nothing, and the dispute continued, as usual, the greatest part of the evening. the next morning the lady, accidentally meeting paul, and being convinced he was her friend, and of her side, accosted him thus:--i am certain, sir, you have long since wondered at the unreasonableness of my husband. he is indeed, in other respects, a good sort of man, but so positive, that no woman but one of my complying temper could possibly live with him. why, last night, now, was ever any creature so unreasonable? i am certain you must condemn him. pray, answer me, was he not in the wrong? paul, after a short silence, spoke as follows: i am sorry, madam, that, as good manners obliges me to answer against my will, so an adherence to truth forces me to declare myself of a different opinion. to be plain and honest, you was entirely in the wrong; the cause i own not worth disputing, but the bird was undoubtedly a partridge. o sir! replyed the lady, i cannot possibly help your taste. madam, returned paul, that is very little material; for, had it been otherwise, a husband might have expected submission.--indeed! sir, says she, i assure you!--yes, madam, cryed he, he might, from a person of your excellent understanding; and pardon me for saying, such a condescension would have shown a superiority of sense even to your husband himself.--but, dear sir, said she, why should i submit when i am in the right?--for that very reason, answered he; it would be the greatest instance of affection imaginable; for can anything be a greater object of our compassion than a person we love in the wrong? ay, but i should endeavour, said she, to set him right. pardon me, madam, answered paul: i will apply to your own experience if you ever found your arguments had that effect. the more our judgments err, the less we are willing to own it: for my own part, i have always observed the persons who maintain the worst side in any contest are the warmest. why, says she, i must confess there is truth in what you say, and i will endeavour to practise it. the husband then coming in, paul departed. and leonard, approaching his wife with an air of good humour, told her he was sorry for their foolish dispute the last night; but he was now convinced of his error. she answered, smiling, she believed she owed his condescension to his complacence; that she was ashamed to think a word had passed on so silly an occasion, especially as she was satisfyed she had been mistaken. a little contention followed, but with the utmost good-will to each other, and was concluded by her asserting that paul had thoroughly convinced her she had been in the wrong. upon which they both united in the praises of their common friend. "paul now passed his time with great satisfaction, these disputes being much less frequent, as well as shorter than usual; but the devil, or some unlucky accident in which perhaps the devil had no hand, shortly put an end to his happiness. he was now eternally the private referee of every difference; in which, after having perfectly, as he thought, established the doctrine of submission, he never scrupled to assure both privately that they were in the right in every argument, as before he had followed the contrary method. one day a violent litigation happened in his absence, and both parties agreed to refer it to his decision. the husband professing himself sure the decision would be in his favour; the wife answered, he might be mistaken; for she believed his friend was convinced how seldom she was to blame; and that if he knew all--the husband replied, my dear, i have no desire of any retrospect; but i believe, if you knew all too, you would not imagine my friend so entirely on your side. nay, says she, since you provoke me, i will mention one instance. you may remember our dispute about sending jackey to school in cold weather, which point i gave up to you from mere compassion, knowing myself to be in the right; and paul himself told me afterwards he thought me so. my dear, replied the husband, i will not scruple your veracity; but i assure you solemnly, on my applying to him, he gave it absolutely on my side, and said he would have acted in the same manner. they then proceeded to produce numberless other instances, in all which paul had, on vows of secresy, given his opinion on both sides. in the conclusion, both believing each other, they fell severely on the treachery of paul, and agreed that he had been the occasion of almost every dispute which had fallen out between them. they then became extremely loving, and so full of condescension on both sides, that they vyed with each other in censuring their own conduct, and jointly vented their indignation on paul, whom the wife, fearing a bloody consequence, earnestly entreated her husband to suffer quietly to depart the next day, which was the time fixed for his return to quarters, and then drop his acquaintance. "however ungenerous this behaviour in lennard may be esteemed, his wife obtained a promise from him (though with difficulty) to follow her advice; but they both expressed such unusual coldness that day to paul, that he, who was quick of apprehension, taking lennard aside, pressed him so home, that he at last discovered the secret. paul acknowledged the truth, but told him the design with which he had done it.--to which the other answered, he would have acted more friendly to have let him into the whole design; for that he might have assured himself of his secresy. paul replyed, with some indignation, he had given him a sufficient proof how capable he was of concealing a secret from his wife. lennard returned with some warmth--he had more reason to upbraid him, for that he had caused most of the quarrels between them by his strange conduct, and might (if they had not discovered the affair to each other) have been the occasion of their separation. paul then said"--but something now happened which put a stop to dick's reading, and of which we shall treat in the next chapter. chapter xi. _in which the history is continued._ joseph andrews had borne with great uneasiness the impertinence of beau didapper to fanny, who had been talking pretty freely to her, and offering her settlements; but the respect to the company had restrained him from interfering whilst the beau confined himself to the use of his tongue only; but the said beau, watching an opportunity whilst the ladies' eyes were disposed another way, offered a rudeness to her with his hands; which joseph no sooner perceived than he presented him with so sound a box on the ear, that it conveyed him several paces from where he stood. the ladies immediately screamed out, rose from their chairs; and the beau, as soon as he recovered himself, drew his hanger: which adams observing, snatched up the lid of a pot in his left hand, and, covering himself with it as with a shield, without any weapon of offence in his other hand, stept in before joseph, and exposed himself to the enraged beau, who threatened such perdition and destruction, that it frighted the women, who were all got in a huddle together, out of their wits, even to hear his denunciations of vengeance. joseph was of a different complexion, and begged adams to let his rival come on; for he had a good cudgel in his hand, and did not fear him. fanny now fainted into mrs adams's arms, and the whole room was in confusion, when mr booby, passing by adams, who lay snug under the pot-lid, came up to didapper, and insisted on his sheathing the hanger, promising he should have satisfaction; which joseph declared he would give him, and fight him at any weapon whatever. the beau now sheathed his hanger, and taking out a pocket-glass, and vowing vengeance all the time, re-adjusted his hair; the parson deposited his shield; and joseph, running to fanny, soon brought her back to life. lady booby chid joseph for his insult on didapper; but he answered, he would have attacked an army in the same cause. "what cause?" said the lady. "madam," answered joseph, "he was rude to that young woman."--"what," says the lady, "i suppose he would have kissed the wench; and is a gentleman to be struck for such an offer? i must tell you, joseph, these airs do not become you."--"madam," said mr booby, "i saw the whole affair, and i do not commend my brother; for i cannot perceive why he should take upon him to be this girl's champion."--"i can commend him," says adams: "he is a brave lad; and it becomes any man to be the champion of the innocent; and he must be the basest coward who would not vindicate a woman with whom he is on the brink of marriage."--"sir," says mr booby, "my brother is not a proper match for such a young woman as this."--"no," says lady booby; "nor do you, mr adams, act in your proper character by encouraging any such doings; and i am very much surprized you should concern yourself in it. i think your wife and family your properer care."--"indeed, madam, your ladyship says very true," answered mrs adams: "he talks a pack of nonsense, that the whole parish are his children. i am sure i don't understand what he means by it; it would make some women suspect he had gone astray, but i acquit him of that; i can read scripture as well as he, and i never found that the parson was obliged to provide for other folks' children; and besides, he is but a poor curate, and hath little enough, as your ladyship knows, for me and mine."--"you say very well, mrs adams," quoth the lady booby, who had not spoke a word to her before; "you seem to be a very sensible woman; and i assure you, your husband is acting a very foolish part, and opposing his own interest, seeing my nephew is violently set against this match: and indeed i can't blame him; it is by no means one suitable to our family." in this manner the lady proceeded with mrs adams, whilst the beau hopped about the room, shaking his head, partly from pain and partly from anger; and pamela was chiding fanny for her assurance in aiming at such a match as her brother. poor fanny answered only with her tears, which had long since begun to wet her handkerchief; which joseph perceiving, took her by the arm, and wrapping it in his carried her off, swearing he would own no relation to any one who was an enemy to her he loved more than all the world. he went out with fanny under his left arm, brandishing a cudgel in his right, and neither mr booby nor the beau thought proper to oppose him. lady booby and her company made a very short stay behind him; for the lady's bell now summoned them to dress; for which they had just time before dinner. adams seemed now very much dejected, which his wife perceiving, began to apply some matrimonial balsam. she told him he had reason to be concerned, for that he had probably ruined his family with his tricks almost; but perhaps he was grieved for the loss of his two children, joseph and fanny. his eldest daughter went on: "indeed, father, it is very hard to bring strangers here to eat your children's bread out of their mouths. you have kept them ever since they came home; and, for anything i see to the contrary, may keep them a month longer; are you obliged to give her meat, tho'f she was never so handsome? but i don't see she is so much handsomer than other people. if people were to be kept for their beauty, she would scarce fare better than her neighbours, i believe. as for mr joseph, i have nothing to say; he is a young man of honest principles, and will pay some time or other for what he hath; but for the girl--why doth she not return to her place she ran away from? i would not give such a vagabond slut a halfpenny though i had a million of money; no, though she was starving." "indeed but i would," cries little dick; "and, father, rather than poor fanny shall be starved, i will give her all this bread and cheese"--(offering what he held in his hand). adams smiled on the boy, and told him he rejoiced to see he was a christian; and that if he had a halfpenny in his pocket, he would have given it him; telling him it was his duty to look upon all his neighbours as his brothers and sisters, and love them accordingly. "yes, papa," says he, "i love her better than my sisters, for she is handsomer than any of them." "is she so, saucebox?" says the sister, giving him a box on the ear; which the father would probably have resented, had not joseph, fanny, and the pedlar at that instant returned together. adams bid his wife prepare some food for their dinner; she said, "truly she could not, she had something else to do." adams rebuked her for disputing his commands, and quoted many texts of scripture to prove "that the husband is the head of the wife, and she is to submit and obey." the wife answered, "it was blasphemy to talk scripture out of church; that such things were very proper to be said in the pulpit, but that it was profane to talk them in common discourse." joseph told mr adams "he was not come with any design to give him or mrs adams any trouble; but to desire the favour of all their company to the george (an ale-house in the parish), where he had bespoke a piece of bacon and greens for their dinner." mrs adams, who was a very good sort of woman, only rather too strict in oeconomies, readily accepted this invitation, as did the parson himself by her example; and away they all walked together, not omitting little dick, to whom joseph gave a shilling when he heard of his intended liberality to fanny. chapter xii. _where the good-natured reader will see something which will give him no great pleasure._ the pedlar had been very inquisitive from the time he had first heard that the great house in this parish belonged to the lady booby, and had learnt that she was the widow of sir thomas, and that sir thomas had bought fanny, at about the age of three or four years, of a travelling woman; and, now their homely but hearty meal was ended, he told fanny he believed he could acquaint her with her parents. the whole company, especially she herself, started at this offer of the pedlar's. he then proceeded thus, while they all lent their strictest attention:--"though i am now contented with this humble way of getting my livelihood, i was formerly a gentleman; for so all those of my profession are called. in a word, i was a drummer in an irish regiment of foot. whilst i was in this honourable station i attended an officer of our regiment into england a-recruiting. in our march from bristol to froome (for since the decay of the woollen trade the clothing towns have furnished the army with a great number of recruits) we overtook on the road a woman, who seemed to be about thirty years old or thereabouts, not very handsome, but well enough for a soldier. as we came up to her, she mended her pace, and falling into discourse with our ladies (for every man of the party, namely, a serjeant, two private men, and a drum, were provided with their woman except myself), she continued to travel on with us. i, perceiving she must fall to my lot, advanced presently to her, made love to her in our military way, and quickly succeeded to my wishes. we struck a bargain within a mile, and lived together as man and wife to her dying day." "i suppose," says adams, interrupting him, "you were married with a licence; for i don't see how you could contrive to have the banns published while you were marching from place to place." "no, sir," said the pedlar, "we took a licence to go to bed together without any banns." "ay! ay!" said the parson; "_ex necessitate_, a licence may be allowable enough; but surely, surely, the other is the more regular and eligible way." the pedlar proceeded thus: "she returned with me to our regiment, and removed with us from quarters to quarters, till at last, whilst we lay at galloway, she fell ill of a fever and died. when she was on her death-bed she called me to her, and, crying bitterly, declared she could not depart this world without discovering a secret to me, which, she said, was the only sin which sat heavy on her heart. she said she had formerly travelled in a company of gypsies, who had made a practice of stealing away children; that for her own part, she had been only once guilty of the crime; which, she said, she lamented more than all the rest of her sins, since probably it might have occasioned the death of the parents; for, added she, it is almost impossible to describe the beauty of the young creature, which was about a year and a half old when i kidnapped it. we kept her (for she was a girl) above two years in our company, when i sold her myself, for three guineas, to sir thomas booby, in somersetshire. now, you know whether there are any more of that name in this county." "yes," says adams, "there are several boobys who are squires, but i believe no baronet now alive; besides, it answers so exactly in every point, there is no room for doubt; but you have forgot to tell us the parents from whom the child was stolen." "their name," answered the pedlar, "was andrews. they lived about thirty miles from the squire; and she told me that i might be sure to find them out by one circumstance; for that they had a daughter of a very strange name, pamela, or pam_e_la; some pronounced it one way, and some the other." fanny, who had changed colour at the first mention of the name, now fainted away; joseph turned pale, and poor dicky began to roar; the parson fell on his knees, and ejaculated many thanksgivings that this discovery had been made before the dreadful sin of incest was committed; and the pedlar was struck with amazement, not being able to account for all this confusion; the cause of which was presently opened by the parson's daughter, who was the only unconcerned person (for the mother was chafing fanny's temples, and taking the utmost care of her): and, indeed, fanny was the only creature whom the daughter would not have pitied in her situation; wherein, though we compassionate her ourselves, we shall leave her for a little while, and pay a short visit to lady booby. chapter xiii. _the history, returning to the lady booby, gives some account of the terrible conflict in her breast between love and pride; with what happened on the present discovery._ the lady sat down with her company to dinner, but eat nothing. as soon as her cloth was removed she whispered pamela that she was taken a little ill, and desired her to entertain her husband and beau didapper. she then went up into her chamber, sent for slipslop, threw herself on the bed in the agonies of love, rage, and despair; nor could she conceal these boiling passions longer without bursting. slipslop now approached her bed, and asked how her ladyship did; but, instead of revealing her disorder, as she intended, she entered into a long encomium on the beauty and virtues of joseph andrews; ending, at last, with expressing her concern that so much tenderness should be thrown away on so despicable an object as fanny. slipslop, well knowing how to humour her mistress's frenzy, proceeded to repeat, with exaggeration, if possible, all her mistress had said, and concluded with a wish that joseph had been a gentleman, and that she could see her lady in the arms of such a husband. the lady then started from the bed, and, taking a turn or two across the room, cryed out, with a deep sigh, "sure he would make any woman happy!"--"your ladyship," says she, "would be the happiest woman in the world with him. a fig for custom and nonsense! what 'vails what people say? shall i be afraid of eating sweetmeats because people may say i have a sweet tooth? if i had a mind to marry a man, all the world should not hinder me. your ladyship hath no parents to tutelar your infections; besides, he is of your ladyship's family now, and as good a gentleman as any in the country; and why should not a woman follow her mind as well as man? why should not your ladyship marry the brother as well as your nephew the sister. i am sure, if it was a fragrant crime, i would not persuade your ladyship to it."--"but, dear slipslop," answered the lady, "if i could prevail on myself to commit such a weakness, there is that cursed fanny in the way, whom the idiot--o how i hate and despise him!"--"she! a little ugly mynx," cries slipslop; "leave her to me. i suppose your ladyship hath heard of joseph's fitting with one of mr didapper's servants about her; and his master hath ordered them to carry her away by force this evening. i'll take care they shall not want assistance. i was talking with this gentleman, who was below, just when your ladyship sent for me."--"go back," says the lady booby, "this instant, for i expect mr didapper will soon be going. do all you can; for i am resolved this wench shall not be in our family: i will endeavour to return to the company; but let me know as soon as she is carried off." slipslop went away; and her mistress began to arraign her own conduct in the following manner:-- "what am i doing? how do i suffer this passion to creep imperceptibly upon me? how many days are past since i could have submitted to ask myself the question?--marry a footman! distraction! can i afterwards bear the eyes of my acquaintance? but i can retire from them; retire with one in whom i propose more happiness than the world without him can give me! retire-to feed continually on beauties which my inflamed imagination sickens with eagerly gazing on; to satisfy every appetite, every desire, with their utmost wish. ha! and do i doat thus on a footman? i despise, i detest my passion.--yet why? is he not generous, gentle, kind?--kind! to whom? to the meanest wretch, a creature below my consideration. doth he not--yes, he doth prefer her. curse his beauties, and the little low heart that possesses them; which can basely descend to this despicable wench, and be ungratefully deaf to all the honours i do him. and can i then love this monster? no, i will tear his image from my bosom, tread on him, spurn him. i will have those pitiful charms, which now i despise, mangled in my sight; for i will not suffer the little jade i hate to riot in the beauties i contemn. no; though i despise him myself, though i would spurn him from my feet, was he to languish at them, no other should taste the happiness i scorn. why do i say happiness? to me it would be misery. to sacrifice my reputation, my character, my rank in life, to the indulgence of a mean and a vile appetite! how i detest the thought! how much more exquisite is the pleasure resulting from the reflection of virtue and prudence than the faint relish of what flows from vice and folly! whither did i suffer this improper, this mad passion to hurry me, only by neglecting to summon the aids of reason to my assistance? reason, which hath now set before me my desires in their proper colours, and immediately helped me to expel them. yes, i thank heaven and my pride, i have now perfectly conquered this unworthy passion; and if there was no obstacle in its way, my pride would disdain any pleasures which could be the consequence of so base, so mean, so vulgar--" slipslop returned at this instant in a violent hurry, and with the utmost eagerness cryed out, "o madam! i have strange news. tom the footman is just come from the george; where, it seems, joseph and the rest of them are a jinketting; and he says there is a strange man who hath discovered that fanny and joseph are brother and sister."--"how, slipslop?" cries the lady, in a surprize.--"i had not time, madam," cries slipslop, "to enquire about particles, but tom says it is most certainly true." this unexpected account entirely obliterated all those admirable reflections which the supreme power of reason had so wisely made just before. in short, when despair, which had more share in producing the resolutions of hatred we have seen taken, began to retreat, the lady hesitated a moment, and then, forgetting all the purport of her soliloquy, dismissed her woman again, with orders to bid tom attend her in the parlour, whither she now hastened to acquaint pamela with the news. pamela said she could not believe it; for she had never heard that her mother had lost any child, or that she had ever had any more than joseph and herself. the lady flew into a violent rage with her, and talked of upstarts and disowning relations who had so lately been on a level with her. pamela made no answer; but her husband, taking up her cause, severely reprimanded his aunt for her behaviour to his wife: he told her, if it had been earlier in the evening she should not have staid a moment longer in her house; that he was convinced, if this young woman could be proved her sister, she would readily embrace her as such, and he himself would do the same. he then desired the fellow might be sent for, and the young woman with him, which lady booby immediately ordered; and, thinking proper to make some apology to pamela for what she had said, it was readily accepted, and all things reconciled. the pedlar now attended, as did fanny and joseph, who would not quit her; the parson likewise was induced, not only by curiosity, of which he had no small portion, but his duty, as he apprehended it, to follow them; for he continued all the way to exhort them, who were now breaking their hearts, to offer up thanksgivings, and be joyful for so miraculous an escape. when they arrived at booby-hall they were presently called into the parlour, where the pedlar repeated the same story he had told before, and insisted on the truth of every circumstance; so that all who heard him were extremely well satisfied of the truth, except pamela, who imagined, as she had never heard either of her parents mention such an accident, that it must be certainly false; and except the lady booby, who suspected the falsehood of the story from her ardent desire that it should be true; and joseph, who feared its truth, from his earnest wishes that it might prove false. mr booby now desired them all to suspend their curiosity and absolute belief or disbelief till the next morning, when he expected old mr andrews and his wife to fetch himself and pamela home in his coach, and then they might be certain of certainly knowing the truth or falsehood of this relation; in which, he said, as there were many strong circumstances to induce their credit, so he could not perceive any interest the pedlar could have in inventing it, or in endeavouring to impose such a falsehood on them. the lady booby, who was very little used to such company, entertained them all--_viz_. her nephew, his wife, her brother and sister, the beau, and the parson, with great good humour at her own table. as to the pedlar, she ordered him to be made as welcome as possible by her servants. all the company in the parlour, except the disappointed lovers, who sat sullen and silent, were full of mirth; for mr booby had prevailed on joseph to ask mr didapper's pardon, with which he was perfectly satisfied. many jokes passed between the beau and the parson, chiefly on each other's dress; these afforded much diversion to the company. pamela chid her brother joseph for the concern which he exprest at discovering a new sister. she said, if he loved fanny as he ought, with a pure affection, he had no reason to lament being related to her.--upon which adams began to discourse on platonic love; whence he made a quick transition to the joys in the next world, and concluded with strongly asserting that there was no such thing as pleasure in this. at which pamela and her husband smiled on one another. this happy pair proposing to retire (for no other person gave the least symptom of desiring rest), they all repaired to several beds provided for them in the same house; nor was adams himself suffered to go home, it being a stormy night. fanny indeed often begged she might go home with the parson; but her stay was so strongly insisted on, that she at last, by joseph's advice, consented. chapter xiv. _containing several curious night-adventures, in which mr adams fell into many hair-breadth 'scapes, partly owing to his goodness, and partly to his inadvertency._ about an hour after they had all separated (it being now past three in the morning), beau didapper, whose passion for fanny permitted him not to close his eyes, but had employed his imagination in contrivances how to satisfy his desires, at last hit on a method by which he hoped to effect it. he had ordered his servant to bring him word where fanny lay, and had received his information; he therefore arose, put on his breeches and nightgown, and stole softly along the gallery which led to her apartment; and, being come to the door, as he imagined it, he opened it with the least noise possible and entered the chamber. a savour now invaded his nostrils which he did not expect in the room of so sweet a young creature, and which might have probably had no good effect on a cooler lover. however, he groped out the bed with difficulty, for there was not a glimpse of light, and, opening the curtains, he whispered in joseph's voice (for he was an excellent mimic), "fanny, my angel! i am come to inform thee that i have discovered the falsehood of the story we last night heard. i am no longer thy brother, but the lover; nor will i be delayed the enjoyment of thee one moment longer. you have sufficient assurances of my constancy not to doubt my marrying you, and it would be want of love to deny me the possession of thy charms."--so saying, he disencumbered himself from the little clothes he had on, and, leaping into bed, embraced his angel, as he conceived her, with great rapture. if he was surprized at receiving no answer, he was no less pleased to find his hug returned with equal ardour. he remained not long in this sweet confusion; for both he and his paramour presently discovered their error. indeed it was no other than the accomplished slipslop whom he had engaged; but, though she immediately knew the person whom she had mistaken for joseph, he was at a loss to guess at the representative of fanny. he had so little seen or taken notice of this gentlewoman, that light itself would have afforded him no assistance in his conjecture. beau didapper no sooner had perceived his mistake than he attempted to escape from the bed with much greater haste than he had made to it; but the watchful slipslop prevented him. for that prudent woman, being disappointed of those delicious offerings which her fancy had promised her pleasure, resolved to make an immediate sacrifice to her virtue. indeed she wanted an opportunity to heal some wounds, which her late conduct had, she feared, given her reputation; and, as she had a wonderful presence of mind, she conceived the person of the unfortunate beau to be luckily thrown in her way to restore her lady's opinion of her impregnable chastity. at that instant, therefore, when he offered to leap from the bed, she caught fast hold of his shirt, at the same time roaring out, "o thou villain! who hast attacked my chastity, and, i believe, ruined me in my sleep; i will swear a rape against thee, i will prosecute thee with the utmost vengeance." the beau attempted to get loose, but she held him fast, and when he struggled she cried out "murder! murder! rape! robbery! ruin!" at which words, parson adams, who lay in the next chamber, wakeful, and meditating on the pedlar's discovery, jumped out of bed, and, without staying to put a rag of clothes on, hastened into the apartment whence the cries proceeded. he made directly to the bed in the dark, where, laying hold of the beau's skin (for slipslop had torn his shirt almost off), and finding his skin extremely soft, and hearing him in a low voice begging slipslop to let him go, he no longer doubted but this was the young woman in danger of ravishing, and immediately falling on the bed, and laying hold on slipslop's chin, where he found a rough beard, his belief was confirmed; he therefore rescued the beau, who presently made his escape, and then, turning towards slipslop, received such a cuff on his chops, that, his wrath kindling instantly, he offered to return the favour so stoutly, that had poor slipslop received the fist, which in the dark passed by her and fell on the pillow, she would most probably have given up the ghost. adams, missing his blow, fell directly on slipslop, who cuffed and scratched as well as she could; nor was he behindhand with her in his endeavours, but happily the darkness of the night befriended her. she then cried she was a woman; but adams answered, she was rather the devil, and if she was he would grapple with him; and, being again irritated by another stroke on his chops, he gave her such a remembrance in the guts, that she began to roar loud enough to be heard all over the house. adams then, seizing her by the hair (for her double-clout had fallen off in the scuffle), pinned her head down to the bolster, and then both called for lights together. the lady booby, who was as wakeful as any of her guests, had been alarmed from the beginning; and, being a woman of a bold spirit, she slipt on a nightgown, petticoat, and slippers, and taking a candle, which always burnt in her chamber, in her hand, she walked undauntedly to slipslop's room; where she entered just at the instant as adams had discovered, by the two mountains which slipslop carried before her, that he was concerned with a female. he then concluded her to be a witch, and said he fancied those breasts gave suck to a legion of devils. slipslop, seeing lady booby enter the room, cried help! or i am ravished, with a most audible voice: and adams, perceiving the light, turned hastily, and saw the lady (as she did him) just as she came to the feet of the bed; nor did her modesty, when she found the naked condition of adams, suffer her to approach farther. she then began to revile the parson as the wickedest of all men, and particularly railed at his impudence in chusing her house for the scene of his debaucheries, and her own woman for the object of his bestiality. poor adams had before discovered the countenance of his bedfellow, and, now first recollecting he was naked, he was no less confounded than lady booby herself, and immediately whipt under the bedclothes, whence the chaste slipslop endeavoured in vain to shut him out. then putting forth his head, on which, by way of ornament, he wore a flannel nightcap, he protested his innocence, and asked ten thousand pardons of mrs slipslop for the blows he had struck her, vowing he had mistaken her for a witch. lady booby, then casting her eyes on the ground, observed something sparkle with great lustre, which, when she had taken it up, appeared to be a very fine pair of diamond buttons for the sleeves. a little farther she saw lie the sleeve itself of a shirt with laced ruffles. "heyday!" says she, "what is the meaning of this?" "o, madam," says slipslop, "i don't know what hath happened, i have been so terrified. here may have been a dozen men in the room." "to whom belongs this laced shirt and jewels?" says the lady. "undoubtedly," cries the parson, "to the young gentleman whom i mistook for a woman on coming into the room, whence proceeded all the subsequent mistakes; for if i had suspected him for a man, i would have seized him, had he been another hercules, though, indeed, he seems rather to resemble hylas." he then gave an account of the reason of his rising from bed, and the rest, till the lady came into the room; at which, and the figures of slipslop and her gallant, whose heads only were visible at the opposite corners of the bed, she could not refrain from laughter; nor did slipslop persist in accusing the parson of any motions towards a rape. the lady therefore desired him to return to his bed as soon as she was departed, and then ordering slipslop to rise and attend her in her own room, she returned herself thither. when she was gone, adams renewed his petitions for pardon to mrs slipslop, who, with a most christian temper, not only forgave, but began to move with much courtesy towards him, which he taking as a hint to begin, immediately quitted the bed, and made the best of his way towards his own; but unluckily, instead of turning to the right, he turned to the left, and went to the apartment where fanny lay, who (as the reader may remember) had not slept a wink the preceding night, and who was so hagged out with what had happened to her in the day, that, notwithstanding all thoughts of her joseph, she was fallen into so profound a sleep, that all the noise in the adjoining room had not been able to disturb her. adams groped out the bed, and, turning the clothes down softly, a custom mrs adams had long accustomed him to, crept in, and deposited his carcase on the bed-post, a place which that good woman had always assigned him. as the cat or lap-dog of some lovely nymph, for whom ten thousand lovers languish, lies quietly by the side of the charming maid, and, ignorant of the scene of delight on which they repose, meditates the future capture of a mouse, or surprisal of a plate of bread and butter: so adams lay by the side of fanny, ignorant of the paradise to which he was so near; nor could the emanation of sweets which flowed from her breath overpower the fumes of tobacco which played in the parson's nostrils. and now sleep had not overtaken the good man, when joseph, who had secretly appointed fanny to come to her at the break of day, rapped softly at the chamber-door, which when he had repeated twice, adams cryed, "come in, whoever you are." joseph thought he had mistaken the door, though she had given him the most exact directions; however, knowing his friend's voice, he opened it, and saw some female vestments lying on a chair. fanny waking at the same instant, and stretching out her hand on adams's beard, she cried out,--"o heavens! where am i?" "bless me! where am i?" said the parson. then fanny screamed, adams leapt out of bed, and joseph stood, as the tragedians call it, like the statue of surprize. "how came she into my room?" cryed adams. "how came you into hers?" cryed joseph, in an astonishment. "i know nothing of the matter," answered adams, "but that she is a vestal for me. as i am a christian, i know not whether she is a man or woman. he is an infidel who doth not believe in witchcraft. they as surely exist now as in the days of saul. my clothes are bewitched away too, and fanny's brought into their place." for he still insisted he was in his own apartment; but fanny denied it vehemently, and said his attempting to persuade joseph of such a falsehood convinced her of his wicked designs. "how!" said joseph in a rage, "hath he offered any rudeness to you?" she answered--she could not accuse him of any more than villanously stealing to bed to her, which she thought rudeness sufficient, and what no man would do without a wicked intention. joseph's great opinion of adams was not easily to be staggered, and when he heard from fanny that no harm had happened he grew a little cooler; yet still he was confounded, and, as he knew the house, and that the women's apartments were on this side mrs slipslop's room, and the men's on the other, he was convinced that he was in fanny's chamber. assuring adams therefore of this truth, he begged him to give some account how he came there. adams then, standing in his shirt, which did not offend fanny, as the curtains of the bed were drawn, related all that had happened; and when he had ended joseph told him,--it was plain he had mistaken by turning to the right instead of the left. "odso!" cries adams, "that's true: as sure as sixpence, you have hit on the very thing." he then traversed the room, rubbing his hands, and begged fanny's pardon, assuring her he did not know whether she was man or woman. that innocent creature firmly believing all he said, told him she was no longer angry, and begged joseph to conduct him into his own apartment, where he should stay himself till she had put her clothes on. joseph and adams accordingly departed, and the latter soon was convinced of the mistake he had committed; however, whilst he was dressing himself, he often asserted he believed in the power of witchcraft notwithstanding, and did not see how a christian could deny it. chapter xv. _the arrival of gaffar and gammar andrews, with another person not much expected; and a perfect solution of the difficulties raised by the pedlar._ as soon as fanny was drest joseph returned to her, and they had a long conversation together, the conclusion of which was, that, if they found themselves to be really brother and sister, they vowed a perpetual celibacy, and to live together all their days, and indulge a platonic friendship for each other. the company were all very merry at breakfast, and joseph and fanny rather more chearful than the preceding night. the lady booby produced the diamond button, which the beau most readily owned, and alledged that he was very subject to walk in his sleep. indeed, he was far from being ashamed of his amour, and rather endeavoured to insinuate that more than was really true had passed between him and the fair slipslop. their tea was scarce over when news came of the arrival of old mr andrews and his wife. they were immediately introduced, and kindly received by the lady booby, whose heart went now pit-a-pat, as did those of joseph and fanny. they felt, perhaps, little less anxiety in this interval than oedipus himself, whilst his fate was revealing. mr booby first opened the cause by informing the old gentleman that he had a child in the company more than he knew of, and, taking fanny by the hand, told him, this was that daughter of his who had been stolen away by gypsies in her infancy. mr andrews, after expressing some astonishment, assured his honour that he had never lost a daughter by gypsies, nor ever had any other children than joseph and pamela. these words were a cordial to the two lovers; but had a different effect on lady booby. she ordered the pedlar to be called, who recounted his story as he had done before.--at the end of which, old mrs andrews, running to fanny, embraced her, crying out, "she is, she is my child!" the company were all amazed at this disagreement between the man and his wife; and the blood had now forsaken the cheeks of the lovers, when the old woman, turning to her husband, who was more surprized than all the rest, and having a little recovered her own spirits, delivered herself as follows: "you may remember, my dear, when you went a serjeant to gibraltar, you left me big with child; you stayed abroad, you know, upwards of three years. in your absence i was brought to bed, i verily believe, of this daughter, whom i am sure i have reason to remember, for i suckled her at this very breast till the day she was stolen from me. one afternoon, when the child was about a year, or a year and a half old, or thereabouts, two gypsy-women came to the door and offered to tell my fortune. one of them had a child in her lap. i showed them my hand, and desired to know if you was ever to come home again, which i remember as well as if it was but yesterday: they faithfully promised me you should.--i left the girl in the cradle and went to draw them a cup of liquor, the best i had: when i returned with the pot (i am sure i was not absent longer than whilst i am telling it to you) the women were gone. i was afraid they had stolen something, and looked and looked, but to no purpose, and, heaven knows, i had very little for them to steal. at last, hearing the child cry in the cradle, i went to take it up--but, o the living! how was i surprized to find, instead of my own girl that i had put into the cradle, who was as fine a fat thriving child as you shall see in a summer's day, a poor sickly boy, that did not seem to have an hour to live. i ran out, pulling my hair off and crying like any mad after the women, but never could hear a word of them from that day to this. when i came back the poor infant (which is our joseph there, as stout as he now stands) lifted up its eyes upon me so piteously, that, to be sure, notwithstanding my passion, i could not find in my heart to do it any mischief. a neighbour of mine, happening to come in at the same time, and hearing the case, advised me to take care of this poor child, and god would perhaps one day restore me my own. upon which i took the child up, and suckled it to be sure, all the world as if it had been born of my own natural body; and as true as i am alive, in a little time i loved the boy all to nothing as if it had been my own girl.--well, as i was saying, times growing very hard, i having two children and nothing but my own work, which was little enough, god knows, to maintain them, was obliged to ask relief of the parish; but, instead of giving it me, they removed me, by justices' warrants, fifteen miles, to the place where i now live, where i had not been long settled before you came home. joseph (for that was the name i gave him myself--the lord knows whether he was baptized or no, or by what name), joseph, i say, seemed to me about five years old when you returned; for i believe he is two or three years older than our daughter here (for i am thoroughly convinced she is the same); and when you saw him you said he was a chopping boy, without ever minding his age; and so i, seeing you did not suspect anything of the matter, thought i might e'en as well keep it to myself, for fear you should not love him as well as i did. and all this is veritably true, and i will take my oath of it before any justice in the kingdom." the pedlar, who had been summoned by the order of lady booby, listened with the utmost attention to gammar andrews's story; and, when she had finished, asked her if the supposititious child had no mark on its breast? to which she answered, "yes, he had as fine a strawberry as ever grew in a garden." this joseph acknowledged, and, unbuttoning his coat, at the intercession of the company, showed to them. "well," says gaffar andrews, who was a comical sly old fellow, and very likely desired to have no more children than he could keep, "you have proved, i think, very plainly, that this boy doth not belong to us; but how are you certain that the girl is ours?" the parson then brought the pedlar forward, and desired him to repeat the story which he had communicated to him the preceding day at the ale-house; which he complied with, and related what the reader, as well as mr adams, hath seen before. he then confirmed, from his wife's report, all the circumstances of the exchange, and of the strawberry on joseph's breast. at the repetition of the word strawberry, adams, who had seen it without any emotion, started and cried, "bless me! something comes into my head." but before he had time to bring anything out a servant called him forth. when he was gone the pedlar assured joseph that his parents were persons of much greater circumstances than those he had hitherto mistaken for such; for that he had been stolen from a gentleman's house by those whom they call gypsies, and had been kept by them during a whole year, when, looking on him as in a dying condition, they had exchanged him for the other healthier child, in the manner before related. he said, as to the name of his father, his wife had either never known or forgot it; but that she had acquainted him he lived about forty miles from the place where the exchange had been made, and which way, promising to spare no pains in endeavouring with him to discover the place. but fortune, which seldom doth good or ill, or makes men happy or miserable, by halves, resolved to spare him this labour. the reader may please to recollect that mr wilson had intended a journey to the west, in which he was to pass through mr adams's parish, and had promised to call on him. he was now arrived at the lady booby's gates for that purpose, being directed thither from the parson's house, and had sent in the servant whom we have above seen call mr adams forth. this had no sooner mentioned the discovery of a stolen child, and had uttered the word strawberry, than mr wilson, with wildness in his looks, and the utmost eagerness in his words, begged to be shewed into the room, where he entered without the least regard to any of the company but joseph, and, embracing him with a complexion all pale and trembling, desired to see the mark on his breast; the parson followed him capering, rubbing his hands, and crying out, _hic est quem quaeris; inventus est, &c_. joseph complied with the request of mr wilson, who no sooner saw the mark than, abandoning himself to the most extravagant rapture of passion, he embraced joseph with inexpressible ecstasy, and cried out in tears of joy, "i have discovered my son, i have him again in my arms!" joseph was not sufficiently apprized yet to taste the same delight with his father (for so in reality he was); however, he returned some warmth to his embraces: but he no sooner perceived, from his father's account, the agreement of every circumstance, of person, time, and place, than he threw himself at his feet, and, embracing his knees, with tears begged his blessing, which was given with much affection, and received with such respect, mixed with such tenderness on both sides, that it affected all present; but none so much as lady booby, who left the room in an agony, which was but too much perceived, and not very charitably accounted for by some of the company. chapter xvi. _being the last in which this true history is brought to a happy conclusion._ fanny was very little behind her joseph in the duty she exprest towards her parents, and the joy she evidenced in discovering them. gammar andrews kissed her, and said, she was heartily glad to see her; but for her part, she could never love any one better than joseph. gaffar andrews testified no remarkable emotion: he blessed and kissed her, but complained bitterly that he wanted his pipe, not having had a whiff that morning. mr booby, who knew nothing of his aunt's fondness, imputed her abrupt departure to her pride, and disdain of the family into which he was married; he was therefore desirous to be gone with the utmost celerity; and now, having congratulated mr wilson and joseph on the discovery, he saluted fanny, called her sister, and introduced her as such to pamela, who behaved with great decency on the occasion. he now sent a message to his aunt, who returned that she wished him a good journey, but was too disordered to see any company: he therefore prepared to set out, having invited mr wilson to his house; and pamela and joseph both so insisted on his complying, that he at last consented, having first obtained a messenger from mr booby to acquaint his wife with the news; which, as he knew it would render her completely happy, he could not prevail on himself to delay a moment in acquainting her with. the company were ranged in this manner: the two old people, with their two daughters, rode in the coach; the squire, mr wilson, joseph, parson adams, and the pedlar, proceeded on horseback. in their way, joseph informed his father of his intended match with fanny; to which, though he expressed some reluctance at first, on the eagerness of his son's instances he consented; saying, if she was so good a creature as she appeared, and he described her, he thought the disadvantages of birth and fortune might be compensated. he however insisted on the match being deferred till he had seen his mother; in which, joseph perceiving him positive, with great duty obeyed him, to the great delight of parson adams, who by these means saw an opportunity of fulfilling the church forms, and marrying his parishioners without a licence. mr adams, greatly exulting on this occasion (for such ceremonies were matters of no small moment with him), accidentally gave spurs to his horse, which the generous beast disdaining--for he was of high mettle, and had been used to more expert riders than the gentleman who at present bestrode him, for whose horsemanship he had perhaps some contempt--immediately ran away full speed, and played so many antic tricks that he tumbled the parson from his back; which joseph perceiving, came to his relief. this accident afforded infinite merriment to the servants, and no less frighted poor fanny, who beheld him as he passed by the coach; but the mirth of the one and terror of the other were soon determined, when the parson declared he had received no damage. the horse having freed himself from his unworthy rider, as he probably thought him, proceeded to make the best of his way; but was stopped by a gentleman and his servants, who were travelling the opposite way, and were now at a little distance from the coach. they soon met; and as one of the servants delivered adams his horse, his master hailed him, and adams, looking up, presently recollected he was the justice of peace before whom he and fanny had made their appearance. the parson presently saluted him very kindly; and the justice informed him that he had found the fellow who attempted to swear against him and the young woman the very next day, and had committed him to salisbury gaol, where he was charged with many robberies. many compliments having passed between the parson and the justice, the latter proceeded on his journey; and the former, having with some disdain refused joseph's offer of changing horses, and declared he was as able a horseman as any in the kingdom, remounted his beast; and now the company again proceeded, and happily arrived at their journey's end, mr adams, by good luck, rather than by good riding, escaping a second fall. the company, arriving at mr booby's house, were all received by him in the most courteous and entertained in the most splendid manner, after the custom of the old english hospitality, which is still preserved in some very few families in the remote parts of england. they all passed that day with the utmost satisfaction; it being perhaps impossible to find any set of people more solidly and sincerely happy. joseph and fanny found means to be alone upwards of two hours, which were the shortest but the sweetest imaginable. in the morning mr wilson proposed to his son to make a visit with him to his mother; which, notwithstanding his dutiful inclinations, and a longing desire he had to see her, a little concerned him, as he must be obliged to leave his fanny; but the goodness of mr booby relieved him; for he proposed to send his own coach and six for mrs wilson, whom pamela so very earnestly invited, that mr wilson at length agreed with the entreaties of mr booby and joseph, and suffered the coach to go empty for his wife. on saturday night the coach returned with mrs wilson, who added one more to this happy assembly. the reader may imagine much better and quicker too than i can describe the many embraces and tears of joy which succeeded her arrival. it is sufficient to say she was easily prevailed with to follow her husband's example in consenting to the match. on sunday mr adams performed the service at the squire's parish church, the curate of which very kindly exchanged duty, and rode twenty miles to the lady booby's parish so to do; being particularly charged not to omit publishing the banns, being the third and last time. at length the happy day arrived which was to put joseph in the possession of all his wishes. he arose, and drest himself in a neat but plain suit of mr booby's, which exactly fitted him; for he refused all finery; as did fanny likewise, who could be prevailed on by pamela to attire herself in nothing richer than a white dimity nightgown. her shift indeed, which pamela presented her, was of the finest kind, and had an edging of lace round the bosom. she likewise equipped her with a pair of fine white thread stockings, which were all she would accept; for she wore one of her own short round-eared caps, and over it a little straw hat, lined with cherry-coloured silk, and tied with a cherry-coloured ribbon. in this dress she came forth from her chamber, blushing and breathing sweets; and was by joseph, whose eyes sparkled fire, led to church, the whole family attending, where mr adams performed the ceremony; at which nothing was so remarkable as the extraordinary and unaffected modesty of fanny, unless the true christian piety of adams, who publickly rebuked mr booby and pamela for laughing in so sacred a place, and on so solemn an occasion. our parson would have done no less to the highest prince on earth; for, though he paid all submission and deference to his superiors in other matters, where the least spice of religion intervened he immediately lost all respect of persons. it was his maxim, that he was a servant of the highest, and could not, without departing from his duty, give up the least article of his honour or of his cause to the greatest earthly potentate. indeed, he always asserted that mr adams at church with his surplice on, and mr adams without that ornament in any other place, were two very different persons. when the church rites were over joseph led his blooming bride back to mr booby's (for the distance was so very little they did not think proper to use a coach); the whole company attended them likewise on foot; and now a most magnificent entertainment was provided, at which parson adams demonstrated an appetite surprizing as well as surpassing every one present. indeed the only persons who betrayed any deficiency on this occasion were those on whose account the feast was provided. they pampered their imaginations with the much more exquisite repast which the approach of night promised them; the thoughts of which filled both their minds, though with different sensations; the one all desire, while the other had her wishes tempered with fears. at length, after a day passed with the utmost merriment, corrected by the strictest decency, in which, however, parson adams, being well filled with ale and pudding, had given a loose to more facetiousness than was usual to him, the happy, the blest moment arrived when fanny retired with her mother, her mother-in-law, and her sister. she was soon undrest; for she had no jewels to deposit in their caskets, nor fine laces to fold with the nicest exactness. undressing to her was properly discovering, not putting off, ornaments; for, as all her charms were the gifts of nature, she could divest herself of none. how, reader, shall i give thee an adequate idea of this lovely young creature? the bloom of roses and lilies might a little illustrate her complexion, or their smell her sweetness; but to comprehend her entirely, conceive youth, health, bloom, neatness, and innocence, in her bridal bed; conceive all these in their utmost perfection, and you may place the charming fanny's picture before your eyes. joseph no sooner heard she was in bed than he fled with the utmost eagerness to her. a minute carried him into her arms, where we shall leave this happy couple to enjoy the private rewards of their constancy; rewards so great and sweet, that i apprehend joseph neither envied the noblest duke, nor fanny the finest duchess, that night. the third day mr wilson and his wife, with their son and daughter, returned home; where they now live together in a state of bliss scarce ever equalled. mr booby hath, with unprecedented generosity, given fanny a fortune of two thousand pounds, which joseph hath laid out in a little estate in the same parish with his father, which he now occupies (his father having stocked it for him); and fanny presides with most excellent management in his dairy; where, however, she is not at present very able to bustle much, being, as mr wilson informs me in his last letter, extremely big with her first child. mr booby hath presented mr adams with a living of one hundred and thirty pounds a year. he at first refused it, resolving not to quit his parishioners, with whom he had lived so long; but, on recollecting he might keep a curate at this living, he hath been lately inducted into it. the pedlar, besides several handsome presents, both from mr wilson and mr booby, is, by the latter's interest, made an exciseman; a trust which he discharges with such justice, that he is greatly beloved in his neighbourhood. as for the lady booby, she returned to london in a few days, where a young captain of dragoons, together with eternal parties at cards, soon obliterated the memory of joseph. joseph remains blest with his fanny, whom he doats on with the utmost tenderness, which is all returned on her side. the happiness of this couple is a perpetual fountain of pleasure to their fond parents; and, what is particularly remarkable, he declares he will imitate them in their retirement, nor will be prevailed on by any booksellers, or their authors, to make his appearance in high life. the end. the works of henry fielding edited by george saintsbury in twelve volumes vol. i. joseph andrews vol. i. contents. introduction. preface. book i. chapter i. _of writing lives in general, and particularly of pamela, with a word by the bye of colley cibber and others_ chapter ii. _of mr joseph andrews, his birth, parentage, education, and great endowments, with a word or two concerning ancestors_ chapter iii. _of mr abraham adams the curate, mrs slipslop the chambermaid, and others_ chapter iv. _what happened after their journey to london_ chapter v. _the death of sir thomas booby, with the affectionate and mournful behaviour of his widow, and the great purity of joseph andrews_ chapter vi. _how joseph andrews writ a letter to his sister pamela_ chapter vii. _sayings of wise men. a dialogue between the lady and her maid; and a panegyric, or rather satire, on the passion of love, in the sublime style_ chapter viii. _in which, after some very fine writing, the history goes on, and relates the interview between the lady and joseph; where the latter hath set an example which we despair of seeing followed by his sex in this vicious age_ chapter ix. _what passed between the lady and mrs slipslop; in which we prophesy there are some strokes which every one will not truly comprehend at the first reading_ chapter x. _joseph writes another letter; his transactions with mr peter pounce, &c., with his departure from lady booby_ chapter xi. _of several new matters not expected_ chapter xii. _containing many surprizing adventures which joseph andrews met with on the road, scarce credible to those who have never travelled in a stage-coach_ chapter xiii. _what happened to joseph during his sickness at the inn, with the curious discourse between him and mr barnabas, the parson of the parish_ chapter xiv. _being very full of adventures which succeeded each other at the inn_ chapter xv. _showing how mrs tow-wouse was a little mollified; and how officious mr barnabas and the surgeon were to prosecute the thief: with a dissertation accounting for their zeal, and that of many other persons not mentioned in this history_ chapter xvi. _the escape of the thief. mr adams's disappointment. the arrival of two very extraordinary personages, and the introduction of parson adams to parson barnabas_ chapter xvii. _a pleasant discourse between the two parsons and the bookseller, which was broke off by an unlucky accident happening in the inn, which produced a dialogue between mrs tow-wouse and her maid of no gentle kind._ chapter xviii. _the history of betty the chambermaid, and an account of what occasioned the violent scene in the preceding chapter_ book ii. chapter i. _of divisions in authors_ chapter ii. _a surprizing instance of mr adams's short memory, with the unfortunate consequences which it brought on joseph_ chapter iii. _the opinion of two lawyers concerning the same gentleman, with mr adams's inquiry into the religion of his host_ chapter iv. _the history of leonora, or the unfortunate jilt_ chapter v. _a dreadful quarrel which happened at the inn where the company dined, with its bloody consequences to mr adams_ chapter vi. _conclusion of the unfortunate jilt_ chapter vii. _a very short chapter, in which parson adams went a great way_ chapter viii. _a notable dissertation by mr abraham adams; wherein that gentleman appears in a political light_ chapter ix. _in which the gentleman discants on bravery and heroic virtue, till an unlucky accident puts an end to the discourse_ chapter x. _giving an account of the strange catastrophe of the preceding adventure, which drew poor adams into fresh calamities; and who the woman was who owed the preservation of her chastity to his victorious arm_ chapter xi. _what happened to them while before the justice. a chapter very full of learning_ chapter xii. _a very delightful adventure, as well to the persons concerned as to the good-natured reader_ chapter xiii. _a dissertation concerning high people and low people, with mrs slipslop's departure in no very good temper of mind, and the evil plight in which she left adams and his company_ list of illustrations. portrait of fielding, from bust in the shire hall, taunton "joseph, i am sorry to hear such complaints against you" the hostler presented him a bill joseph thanked her on his knees general introduction. there are few amusements more dangerous for an author than the indulgence in ironic descriptions of his own work. if the irony is depreciatory, posterity is but too likely to say, "many a true word is spoken in jest;" if it is encomiastic, the same ruthless and ungrateful critic is but too likely to take it as an involuntary confession of folly and vanity. but when fielding, in one of his serio-comic introductions to _tom jones_, described it as "this prodigious work," he all unintentionally (for he was the least pretentious of men) anticipated the verdict which posterity almost at once, and with ever-increasing suffrage of the best judges as time went on, was about to pass not merely upon this particular book, but upon his whole genius and his whole production as a novelist. his work in other kinds is of a very different order of excellence. it is sufficiently interesting at times in itself; and always more than sufficiently interesting as his; for which reasons, as well as for the further one that it is comparatively little known, a considerable selection from it is offered to the reader in the last two volumes of this edition. until the present occasion (which made it necessary that i should acquaint myself with it) i own that my own knowledge of these miscellaneous writings was by no means thorough. it is now pretty complete; but the idea which i previously had of them at first and second hand, though a little improved, has not very materially altered. though in all this hack-work fielding displayed, partially and at intervals, the same qualities which he displayed eminently and constantly in the four great books here given, he was not, as the french idiom expresses it, _dans son assiette_, in his own natural and impregnable disposition and situation of character and ability, when he was occupied on it. the novel was for him that _assiette_; and all his novels are here. although henry fielding lived in quite modern times, although by family and connections he was of a higher rank than most men of letters, and although his genius was at once recognised by his contemporaries so soon as it displayed itself in its proper sphere, his biography until very recently was by no means full; and the most recent researches, including those of mr austin dobson--a critic unsurpassed for combination of literary faculty and knowledge of the eighteenth century--have not altogether sufficed to fill up the gaps. his family, said to have descended from a member of the great house of hapsburg who came to england in the reign of henry ii., distinguished itself in the wars of the roses, and in the seventeenth century was advanced to the peerages of denbigh in england and (later) of desmond in ireland. the novelist was the grandson of john fielding, canon of salisbury, the fifth son of the first earl of desmond of this creation. the canon's third son, edmond, entered the army, served under marlborough, and married sarah gold or gould, daughter of a judge of the king's bench. their eldest son was henry, who was born on april , , and had an uncertain number of brothers and sisters of the whole blood. after his first wife's death, general fielding (for he attained that rank) married again. the most remarkable offspring of the first marriage, next to henry, was his sister sarah, also a novelist, who wrote david simple; of the second, john, afterwards sir john fielding, who, though blind, succeeded his half-brother as a bow street magistrate, and in that office combined an equally honourable record with a longer tenure. fielding was born at sharpham park in somersetshire, the seat of his maternal grandfather; but most of his early youth was spent at east stour in dorsetshire, to which his father removed after the judge's death. he is said to have received his first education under a parson of the neighbourhood named oliver, in whom a very uncomplimentary tradition sees the original of parson trulliber. he was then certainly sent to eton, where he did not waste his time as regards learning, and made several valuable friends. but the dates of his entering and leaving school are alike unknown; and his subsequent sojourn at leyden for two years--though there is no reason to doubt it--depends even less upon any positive documentary evidence. this famous university still had a great repute as a training school in law, for which profession he was intended; but the reason why he did not receive the even then far more usual completion of a public school education by a sojourn at oxford or cambridge may be suspected to be different. it may even have had something to do with a curious escapade of his about which not very much is known--an attempt to carry off a pretty heiress of lyme, named sarah andrew. even at leyden, however, general fielding seems to have been unable or unwilling to pay his son's expenses, which must have been far less there than at an english university; and henry's return to london in - is said to have been due to sheer impecuniosity. when he returned to england, his father was good enough to make him an allowance of l nominal, which appears to have been equivalent to l actual. and as practically nothing is known of him for the next six or seven years, except the fact of his having worked industriously enough at a large number of not very good plays of the lighter kind, with a few poems and miscellanies, it is reasonably enough supposed that he lived by his pen. the only product of this period which has kept (or indeed which ever received) competent applause is _tom thumb, or the tragedy of tragedies_, a following of course of the _rehearsal_, but full of humour and spirit. the most successful of his other dramatic works were the _mock doctor_ and the _miser_, adaptations of moliere's famous pieces. his undoubted connection with the stage, and the fact of the contemporary existence of a certain timothy fielding, helped suggestions of less dignified occupations as actor, booth-keeper, and so forth; but these have long been discredited and indeed disproved. in or about , when fielding was twenty-eight, we find him in a new, a more brilliant and agreeable, but even a more transient phase. he had married (we do not know when or where) miss charlotte cradock, one of three sisters who lived at salisbury (it is to be observed that fielding's entire connections, both in life and letters, are with the western counties and london), who were certainly of competent means, and for whose alleged illegitimacy there is no evidence but an unsupported fling of that old maid of genius, richardson. the descriptions both of sophia and of amelia are said to have been taken from this lady; her good looks and her amiability are as well established as anything of the kind can be in the absence of photographs and affidavits; and it is certain that her husband was passionately attached to her, during their too short married life. his method, however, of showing his affection smacked in some ways too much of the foibles which he has attributed to captain booth, and of those which we must suspect mr thomas jones would also have exhibited, if he had not been adopted as mr allworthy's heir, and had not had mr western's fortune to share and look forward to. it is true that grave breaches have been made by recent criticism in the very picturesque and circumstantial story told on the subject by murphy, the first of fielding's biographers. this legend was that fielding, having succeeded by the death of his mother to a small estate at east stour, worth about l a year, and having received l in ready money as his wife's fortune, got through the whole in three years by keeping open house, with a large retinue in "costly yellow liveries," and so forth. in details, this story has been simply riddled. his mother had died long before; he was certainly not away from london three years, or anything like it; and so forth. at the same time, the best and soberest judges agree that there is an intrinsic probability, a consensus (if a vague one) of tradition, and a chain of almost unmistakably personal references in the novels, which plead for a certain amount of truth, at the bottom of a much embellished legend. at any rate, if fielding established himself in the country, it was not long before he returned to town; for early in we find him back again, and not merely a playwright, but lessee of the "little theatre" in the haymarket. the plays which he produced here--satirico-political pieces, such as _pasquin_ and the _historical register_--were popular enough, but offended the government; and in a new bill regulating theatrical performances, and instituting the lord chamberlain's control, was passed. this measure put an end directly to the "great mogul's company," as fielding had called his troop, and indirectly to its manager's career as a playwright. he did indeed write a few pieces in future years, but they were of the smallest importance. after this check he turned at last to a serious profession, entered himself of the middle temple in november of the same year, and was called three years later; but during these years, and indeed for some time afterwards, our information about him is still of the vaguest character. nobody doubts that he had a large share in the _champion_, an essay-periodical on the usual eighteenth-century model, which began to appear in , and which is still occasionally consulted for the work that is certainly or probably his. he went the western circuit, and attended the wiltshire sessions, after he was called, giving up his contributions to periodicals soon after that event. but he soon returned to literature proper, or rather made his _debut_ in it, with the immortal book now republished. the _history of the adventures of joseph andrews, and his friend mr abraham adams_, appeared in february , and its author received from andrew millar, the publisher, the sum of l , s. even greater works have fetched much smaller sums; but it will be admitted that _joseph andrews_ was not dear. the advantage, however, of presenting a survey of an author's life uninterrupted by criticism is so clear, that what has to be said about _joseph_ may be conveniently postponed for the moment. immediately after its publication the author fell back upon miscellaneous writing, and in the next year ( ) collected and issued three volumes of _miscellanies_. in the two first volumes the only thing of much interest is the unfinished and unequal, but in part powerful, _journey from this world to the next_, an attempt of a kind which fontenelle and others, following lucian, had made very popular with the time. but the third volume of the _miscellanies_ deserved a less modest and gregarious appearance, for it contained, and is wholly occupied by, the wonderful and terrible satire of _jonathan wild_, the greatest piece of pure irony in english out of swift. soon after the publication of the book, a great calamity came on fielding. his wife had been very ill when he wrote the preface; soon afterwards she was dead. they had taken the chance, had made the choice, that the more prudent and less wise student-hero and heroine of mr browning's _youth and art_ had shunned; they had no doubt "sighed deep, laughed free, starved, feasted, despaired," and we need not question, that they had also "been happy." except this sad event and its rather incongruous sequel, fielding's marriage to his wife's maid mary daniel--a marriage, however, which did not take place till full four years later, and which by all accounts supplied him with a faithful and excellent companion and nurse, and his children with a kind stepmother--little or nothing is again known of this elusive man of genius between the publication of the _miscellanies_ in , and that of _tom jones_ in . the second marriage itself in november ; an interview which joseph warton had with him rather more than a year earlier (one of the very few direct interviews we have); the publication of two anti-jacobite newspapers (fielding was always a strong whig and hanoverian), called the _true patriot_ and the _jacobite's journal_ in and the following years; some indistinct traditions about residences at twickenham and elsewhere, and some, more precise but not much more authenticated, respecting patronage by the duke of bedford, mr lyttelton, mr allen, and others, pretty well sum up the whole. _tom jones_ was published in february (a favourite month with fielding or his publisher millar) ; and as it brought him the, for those days, very considerable sum of l to which millar added another hundred later, the novelist must have been, for a time at any rate, relieved from his chronic penury. but he had already, by lyttelton's interest, secured his first and last piece of preferment, being made justice of the peace for westminster, an office on which he entered with characteristic vigour. he was qualified for it not merely by a solid knowledge of the law, and by great natural abilities, but by his thorough kindness of heart; and, perhaps, it may also be added, by his long years of queer experience on (as mr carlyle would have said) the "burning marl" of the london bohemia. very shortly afterwards he was chosen chairman of quarter sessions, and established himself in bow street. the bow street magistrate of that time occupied a most singular position, and was more like a french prefect of police or even a minister of public safety than a mere justice. yet he was ill paid. fielding says that the emoluments, which before his accession had but been l a year of "dirty" money, were by his own action but l of clean; and the work, if properly performed, was very severe. that he performed it properly all competent evidence shows, a foolish, inconclusive, and i fear it must be said emphatically snobbish story of walpole's notwithstanding. in particular, he broke up a gang of cut-throat thieves, which had been the terror of london. but his tenure of the post was short enough, and scarcely extended to five years. his health had long been broken, and he was now constantly attacked by gout, so that he had frequently to retreat on bath from bow street, or his suburban cottage of fordhook, ealing. but he did not relax his literary work. his pen was active with pamphlets concerning his office; _amelia_, his last novel, appeared towards the close of ; and next year saw the beginning of a new paper, the _covent garden journal_, which appeared twice a week, ran for the greater part of the year, and died in november. its great author did not see that month twice again. in the spring of he grew worse; and after a year's struggle with ill health, hard work, and hard weather, lesser measures being pronounced useless, was persuaded to try the "portugal voyage," of which he has left so charming a record in the _journey to lisbon_. he left fordhook on june , , reached lisbon in august, and, dying there on the th of october, was buried in the cemetery of the estrella. of not many writers perhaps does a clearer notion, as far as their personality goes, exist in the general mind that interests itself at all in literature than of fielding. yet more than once a warning has been sounded, especially by his best and most recent biographer, to the effect that this idea is founded upon very little warranty of scripture. the truth is, that as the foregoing record--which, brief as it is, is a sufficiently faithful summary--will have shown, we know very little about fielding. we have hardly any letters of his, and so lack the best by far and the most revealing of all character-portraits; we have but one important autobiographic fragment, and though that is of the highest interest and value, it was written far in the valley of the shadow of death, it is not in the least retrospective, and it affords but dim and inferential light on his younger, healthier, and happier days and ways. he came, moreover, just short of one set of men of letters, of whom we have a great deal of personal knowledge, and just beyond another. he was neither of those about addison, nor of those about johnson. no intimate friend of his has left us anything elaborate about him. on the other hand, we have a far from inconsiderable body of documentary evidence, of a kind often by no means trustworthy. the best part of it is contained in the letters of his cousin, lady mary wortley montagu, and the reminiscences or family traditions of her grand-daughter, lady louisa stuart. but lady mary, vivacious and agreeable as she is, had with all her talent a very considerable knack of writing for effect, of drawing strong contrasts and the like; and it is not quite certain that she saw very much of fielding in the last and most interesting third of his life. another witness, horace walpole, to less knowledge and equally dubious accuracy, added decided ill-will, which may have been due partly to the shrinking of a dilettante and a fop from a burly bohemian; but i fear is also consequent upon the fact that horace could not afford to despise fielding's birth, and knew him to be vastly his own superior in genius. we hear something of him again from richardson; and richardson hated him with the hatred of dissimilar genius, of inferior social position, and, lastly, of the cat for the dog who touzles and worries her. johnson partly inherited or shared richardson's aversion, partly was blinded to fielding's genius by his aggressive whiggery. i fear, too, that he was incapable of appreciating it for reasons other than political. it is certain that johnson, sane and robust as he was, was never quite at ease before genius of the gigantic kind, either in dead or living. whether he did not like to have to look up too much, or was actually unable to do so, it is certain that shakespeare, milton, swift, and fielding, those four atlantes of english verse and prose, all affected him with lukewarm admiration, or with positive dislike, for which it is vain to attempt to assign any uniform secondary cause, political or other. it may be permitted to hint another reason. all johnson's most sharp-sighted critics have noticed, though most have discreetly refrained from insisting on, his "thorn-in-the-flesh," the combination in him of very strong physical passions with the deepest sense of the moral and religious duty of abstinence. it is perhaps impossible to imagine anything more distasteful to a man so buffeted, than the extreme indulgence with which fielding regards, and the easy freedom, not to say gusto, with which he depicts, those who succumb to similar temptation. only by supposing the workings of some subtle influence of this kind is it possible to explain, even in so capricious a humour as johnson's, the famous and absurd application of the term "barren rascal" to a writer who, dying almost young, after having for many years lived a life of pleasure, and then for four or five one of laborious official duty, has left work anything but small in actual bulk, and fertile with the most luxuriant growth of intellectual originality. partly on the _obiter dicta_ of persons like these, partly on the still more tempting and still more treacherous ground of indications drawn from his works, a fielding of fantasy has been constructed, which in thackeray's admirable sketch attains real life and immortality as a creature of art, but which possesses rather dubious claims as a historical character. it is astonishing how this fielding of fantasy sinks and shrivels when we begin to apply the horrid tests of criticism to his component parts. the _eidolon_, with inked ruffles and a towel round his head, sits in the temple and dashes off articles for the _covent garden journal_; then comes criticism, hellish maid, and reminds us that when the _covent garden journal_ appeared, fielding's wild oats, if ever sown at all, had been sown long ago; that he was a busy magistrate and householder in bow street; and that, if he had towels round his head, it was probably less because he had exceeded in liquor than because his grace of newcastle had given him a headache by wanting elaborate plans and schemes prepared at an hour's notice. lady mary, apparently with some envy, tells us that he could "feel rapture with his cook-maid." "which many has," as mr ridley remarks, from xanthias phoceus downwards; but when we remember the historic fact that he married this maid (not a "cook-maid" at all), and that though he always speaks of her with warm affection and hearty respect, such "raptures" as we have of his clearly refer to a very different woman, who was both a lady and a beautiful one, we begin a little to shake our heads. horace walpole at second-hand draws us a fielding, pigging with low companions in a house kept like a hedge tavern; fielding himself, within a year or two, shows us more than half-undesignedly in the _voyage to lisbon_ that he was very careful about the appointments and decency of his table, that he stood rather upon ceremony in regard to his own treatment of his family, and the treatment of them and himself by others, and that he was altogether a person orderly, correct, and even a little finikin. nor is there the slightest reasonable reason to regard this as a piece of hypocrisy, a vice as alien from the fielding of fancy as from the fielding of fact, and one the particular manifestation of which, in this particular place, would have been equally unlikely and unintelligible. it may be asked whether i propose to substitute for the traditional fielding a quite different person, of regular habits and methodical economy. certainly not. the traditional estimate of great men is rarely wrong altogether, but it constantly has a habit of exaggerating and dramatising their characteristics. for some things in fielding's career we have positive evidence of document, and evidence hardly less certain of probability. although i believe the best judges are now of opinion that his impecuniosity has been overcharged, he certainly had experiences which did not often fall to the lot of even a cadet of good family in the eighteenth century. there can be no reasonable doubt that he was a man who had a leaning towards pretty girls and bottles of good wine; and i should suppose that if the girl were kind and fairly winsome, he would not have insisted that she should possess helen's beauty, that if the bottle of good wine were not forthcoming, he would have been very tolerant of a mug of good ale. he may very possibly have drunk more than he should, and lost more than he could conveniently pay. it may be put down as morally ascertained that towards all these weaknesses of humanity, and others like unto them, he held an attitude which was less that of the unassailable philosopher than that of the sympathiser, indulgent and excusing. in regard more especially to what are commonly called moral delinquencies, this attitude was so decided as to shock some people even in those days, and many in these. just when the first sheets of this edition were passing through the press, a violent attack was made in a newspaper correspondence on the morality of _tom jones_ by certain notorious advocates of purity, as some say, of pruriency and prudery combined, according to less complimentary estimates. even midway between the two periods we find the admirable miss ferrier, a sister of fielding's own craft, who sometimes had touches of nature and satire not far inferior to his own, expressing by the mouth of one of her characters with whom she seems partly to agree, the sentiment that his works are "vanishing like noxious exhalations." towards any misdoing by persons of the one sex towards persons of the other, when it involved brutality or treachery, fielding was pitiless; but when treachery and brutality were not concerned, he was, to say the least, facile. so, too, he probably knew by experience--he certainly knew by native shrewdness and acquired observation--that to look too much on the wine when it is red, or on the cards when they are parti-coloured, is ruinous to health and fortune; but he thought not over badly of any man who did these things. still it is possible to admit this in him, and to stop short of that idea of a careless and reckless _viveur_ which has so often been put forward. in particular, lady mary's view of his childlike enjoyment of the moment has been, i think, much exaggerated by posterity, and was probably not a little mistaken by the lady herself. there are two moods in which the motto is _carpe diem_, one a mood of simply childish hurry, the other one where behind the enjoyment of the moment lurks, and in which the enjoyment of the moment is not a little heightened by, that vast ironic consciousness of the before and after, which i at least see everywhere in the background of fielding's work. the man, however, of whom we know so little, concerns us much less than the author of the works, of which it only rests with ourselves to know everything. i have above classed fielding as one of the four atlantes of english verse and prose, and i doubt not that both the phrase and the application of it to him will meet with question and demur. i have only to interject, as the critic so often has to interject, a request to the court to take what i say in the sense in which i say it. i do not mean that shakespeare, milton, swift, and fielding are in all or even in most respects on a level. i do not mean that the three last are in all respects of the greatest names in english literature. i only mean that, in a certain quality, which for want of a better word i have chosen to call atlantean, they stand alone. each of them, for the metaphor is applicable either way, carries a whole world on his shoulders, or looks down on a whole world from his natural altitude. the worlds are different, but they are worlds; and though the attitude of the giants is different also, it agrees in all of them on the points of competence and strength. take whomsoever else we may among our men of letters, and we shall find this characteristic to be in comparison wanting. these four carry their world, and are not carried by it; and if it, in the language so dear to fielding himself, were to crash and shatter, the inquiry, "_que vous reste-t-il?_" could be answered by each, "_moi!_" the appearance which fielding makes is no doubt the most modest of the four. he has not shakespeare's absolute universality, and in fact not merely the poet's tongue, but the poet's thought seems to have been denied him. his sphere is not the ideal like milton's. his irony, splendid as it is, falls a little short of that diabolical magnificence which exalts swift to the point whence, in his own way, he surveys all the kingdoms of the world, and the glory or vainglory of them. all fielding's critics have noted the manner, in a certain sense modest, in another ostentatious, in which he seems to confine himself to the presentation of things english. they might have added to the presentation of things english--as they appear in london, and on the western circuit, and on the bath road. but this apparent parochialism has never deceived good judges. it did not deceive lady mary, who had seen the men and manners of very many climes; it did not deceive gibbon, who was not especially prone to overvalue things english, and who could look down from twenty centuries on things ephemeral. it deceives, indeed, i am told, some excellent persons at the present day, who think fielding's microcosm a "toylike world," and imagine that russian nihilists and french naturalists have gone beyond it. it will deceive no one who has lived for some competent space of time a life during which he has tried to regard his fellow-creatures and himself, as nearly as a mortal may, _sub specie aeternitatis_. as this is in the main an introduction to a complete reprint of fielding's four great novels, the justification in detail of the estimate just made or hinted of the novelist's genius will be best and most fitly made by a brief successive discussion of the four as they are here presented, with some subsequent remarks on the _miscellanies_ here selected. and, indeed, it is not fanciful to perceive in each book a somewhat different presentment of the author's genius; though in no one of the four is any one of his masterly qualities absent. there is tenderness even in _jonathan wild_; there are touches in _joseph andrews_ of that irony of the preacher, the last echo of which is heard amid the kindly resignation of the _journey to lisbon_, in the sentence, "whereas envy of all things most exposes us to danger from others, so contempt of all things best secures us from them." but on the whole it is safe to say that _joseph andrews_ best presents fielding's mischievous and playful wit; _jonathan wild_ his half-lucianic half-swiftian irony; _tom jones_ his unerring knowledge of human nature, and his constructive faculty; _amelia_ his tenderness, his _mitis sapientia_, his observation of the details of life. and first of the first. _the history of the adventures of joseph andrews and his friend mr abraham adams_ was, as has been said above, published in february . a facsimile of the agreement between author and publisher will be given in the second volume of this series; and it is not uninteresting to observe that the witness, william young, is none other than the asserted original of the immortal mr adams himself. he might, on balzac's plea in a tolerably well-known anecdote, have demanded half of the l , s. of the other origins of the book we have a pretty full account, partly documentary. that it is "writ in the manner of cervantes," and is intended as a kind of comic epic, is the author's own statement--no doubt as near the actual truth as is consistent with comic-epic theory. that there are resemblances to scarron, to le sage, and to other practitioners of the picaresque novel is certain; and it was inevitable that there should be. of directer and more immediate models or starting-points one is undoubted; the other, though less generally admitted, not much less indubitable to my mind. the parody of richardson's _pamela_, which was little more than a year earlier (nov. ), is avowed, open, flagrant; nor do i think that the author was so soon carried away by the greater and larger tide of his own invention as some critics seem to hold. he is always more or less returning to the ironic charge; and the multiplicity of the assailants of joseph's virtue only disguises the resemblance to the long-drawn dangers of pamela from a single ravisher. but fielding was also well acquainted with marivaux's _paysan parvenu_, and the resemblances between that book and _joseph andrews_ are much stronger than fielding's admirers have always been willing to admit. this recalcitrance has, i think, been mainly due to the erroneous conception of marivaux as, if not a mere fribble, yet a dresden-shepherdess kind of writer, good at "preciousness" and patch-and-powder manners, but nothing more. there was, in fact, a very strong satiric and ironic touch in the author of _marianne_, and i do not think that i was too rash when some years ago i ventured to speak of him as "playing fielding to his own richardson" in the _paysan parvenu_. origins, however, and indebtedness and the like, are, when great work is concerned, questions for the study and the lecture-room, for the literary historian and the professional critic, rather than for the reader, however intelligent and alert, who wishes to enjoy a masterpiece, and is content simply to enjoy it. it does not really matter how close to anything else something which possesses independent goodness is; the very utmost technical originality, the most spotless purity from the faintest taint of suggestion, will not suffice to confer merit on what does not otherwise possess it. whether, as i rather think, fielding pursued the plan he had formed _ab incepto_, or whether he cavalierly neglected it, or whether the current of his own genius carried him off his legs and landed him, half against his will, on the shore of originality, are questions for the schools, and, as i venture to think, not for the higher forms in them. we have _joseph andrews_ as it is; and we may be abundantly thankful for it. the contents of it, as of all fielding's work in this kind, include certain things for which the moderns are scantly grateful. of late years, and not of late years only, there has grown up a singular and perhaps an ignorant impatience of digressions, of episodes, of tales within a tale. the example of this which has been most maltreated is the "man of the hill" episode in _tom jones_; but the stories of the "unfortunate jilt" and of mr wilson in our present subject, do not appear to me to be much less obnoxious to the censure; and _amelia_ contains more than one or two things of the same kind. me they do not greatly disturb; and i see many defences for them besides the obvious, and at a pinch sufficient one, that divagations of this kind existed in all fielding's spanish and french models, that the public of the day expected them, and so forth. this defence is enough, but it is easy to amplify and reintrench it. it is not by any means the fact that the picaresque novel of adventure is the only or the chief form of fiction which prescribes or admits these episodic excursions. all the classical epics have them; many eastern and other stories present them; they are common, if not invariable, in the abundant mediaeval literature of prose and verse romance; they are not unknown by any means in the modern novel; and you will very rarely hear a story told orally at the dinner-table or in the smoking-room without something of the kind. there must, therefore, be something in them corresponding to an inseparable accident of that most unchanging of all things, human nature. and i do not think the special form with which we are here concerned by any means the worst that they have taken. it has the grand and prominent virtue of being at once and easily skippable. there is about cervantes and le sage, about fielding and smollett, none of the treachery of the modern novelist, who induces the conscientious reader to drag through pages, chapters, and sometimes volumes which have nothing to do with the action, for fear he should miss something that has to do with it. these great men have a fearless frankness, and almost tell you in so many words when and what you may skip. therefore, if the "curious impertinent," and the "baneful marriage," and the "man of the hill," and the "lady of quality," get in the way, when you desire to "read for the story," you have nothing to do but turn the page till _finis_ comes. the defence has already been made by an illustrious hand for fielding's inter-chapters and exordiums. it appears to me to be almost more applicable to his insertions. and so we need not trouble ourselves any more either about the insertions or about the exordiums. they both please me; the second class has pleased persons much better worth pleasing than i can pretend to be; but the making or marring of the book lies elsewhere. i do not think that it lies in the construction, though fielding's following of the ancients, both sincere and satiric, has imposed a false air of regularity upon that. the odyssey of joseph, of fanny, and of their ghostly mentor and bodily guard is, in truth, a little haphazard, and might have been longer or shorter without any discreet man approving it the more or the less therefor. the real merits lie partly in the abounding humour and satire of the artist's criticism, but even more in the marvellous vivacity and fertility of his creation. for the very first time in english prose fiction every character is alive, every incident is capable of having happened. there are lively touches in the elizabethan romances; but they are buried in verbiage, swathed in stage costume, choked and fettered by their authors' want of art. the quality of bunyan's knowledge of men was not much inferior to shakespeare's, or at least to fielding's; but the range and the results of it were cramped by his single theological purpose, and his unvaried allegoric or typical form. why defoe did not discover the new world of fiction, i at least have never been able to put into any brief critical formula that satisfies me, and i have never seen it put by any one else. he had not only seen it afar off, he had made landings and descents on it; he had carried off and exhibited in triumph natives such as robinson crusoe, as man friday, as moll flanders, as william the quaker; but he had conquered, subdued, and settled no province therein. i like _pamela_; i like it better than some persons who admire richardson on the whole more than i do, seem to like it. but, as in all its author's work, the handling seems to me academic--the working out on paper of an ingeniously conceived problem rather than the observation or evolution of actual or possible life. i should not greatly fear to push the comparison even into foreign countries; but it is well to observe limits. let us be content with holding that in england at least, without prejudice to anything further, fielding was the first to display the qualities of the perfect novelist as distinguished from the romancer. what are those qualities, as shown in _joseph andrews_? the faculty of arranging a probable and interesting course of action is one, of course, and fielding showed it here. but i do not think that it is at any time the greatest one; and nobody denies that he made great advances in this direction later. the faculty of lively dialogue is another; and that he has not often been refused; but much the same may be said of it. the interspersing of appropriate description is another; but here also we shall not find him exactly a paragon. it is in character--the chief _differentia_ of the novel as distinguished not merely from its elder sister the romance, and its cousin the drama, but still more from every other kind of literature--that fielding stands even here pre-eminent. no one that i can think of, except his greatest successor in the present century, has the same unfailing gift of breathing life into every character he creates or borrows; and even thackeray draws, if i may use the phrase, his characters more in the flat and less in the round than fielding. whether in blifil he once failed, we must discuss hereafter; he has failed nowhere in _joseph andrews_. some of his sketches may require the caution that they are eighteenth-century men and women; some the warning that they are obviously caricatured, or set in designed profile, or merely sketched. but they are all alive. the finical estimate of gray (it is a horrid joy to think how perfectly capable fielding was of having joined in that practical joke of the young gentlemen of cambridge, which made gray change his college), while dismissing these light things with patronage, had to admit that "parson adams is perfectly well, so is mrs slipslop." "they _were_, mr gray," said some one once, "they were more perfectly well, and in a higher kind, than anything you ever did; though you were a pretty workman too." yes, parson adams is perfectly well, and so is mrs slipslop. but so are they all. even the hero and heroine, tied and bound as they are by the necessity under which their maker lay of preserving joseph's joseph-hood, and of making fanny the example of a franker and less interested virtue than her sister-in-law that might have been, are surprisingly human where most writers would have made them sticks. and the rest require no allowance. lady booby, few as are the strokes given to her, is not much less alive than lady bellaston. mr trulliber, monster and not at all delicate monster as he is, is also a man, and when he lays it down that no one even in his own house shall drink when he "caaled vurst," one can but pay his maker the tribute of that silent shudder of admiration which hails the addition of one more everlasting entity to the world of thought and fancy. and mr tow-wouse is real, and mrs tow-wouse is more real still, and betty is real; and the coachman, and miss grave-airs, and all the wonderful crew from first to last. the dresses they wear, the manners they exhibit, the laws they live under, the very foods and drinks they live upon, are "past like the shadows on glasses"--to the comfort and rejoicing of some, to the greater or less sorrow of others. but _they_ are there--alive, full of blood, full of breath as we are, and, in truth, i fear a little more so. for some purposes a century is a gap harder to cross and more estranging than a couple of millenniums. but in their case the gap is nothing; and it is not too much to say that as they have stood the harder test, they will stand the easier. there are very striking differences between nausicaa and mrs slipslop; there are differences not less striking between mrs slipslop and beatrice. but their likeness is a stranger and more wonderful thing than any of their unlikenesses. it is that they are all women, that they are all live citizenesses of the land of matters unforgot, the fashion whereof passeth not away, and the franchise whereof, once acquired, assures immortality. note to general introduction. _the text of this issue in the main follows that of the standard or first collected edition of . the variants which the author introduced in successive editions during his lifetime are not inconsiderable; but for the purposes of the present issue it did not seem necessary or indeed desirable to take account of them. in the case of prose fiction, more than in any other department of literature, it is desirable that work should be read in the form which represents the completest intention and execution of the author. nor have any notes been attempted; for again such things, in the case of prose fiction, are of very doubtful use, and supply pretty certain stumbling-blocks to enjoyment; while in the particular case of fielding, the annotation, unless extremely capricious, would have to be disgustingly full. far be it at any rate from the present editor to bury these delightful creations under an ugly crust of parallel passages and miscellaneous erudition. the sheets, however, have been carefully read in order to prevent the casual errors which are wont to creep into frequently reprinted texts; and the editor hopes that if any such have escaped him, the escape will not be attributed to wilful negligence. a few obvious errors, in spelling of proper names, &c., which occur in the version have been corrected: but wherever the readings of that version are possible they have been preferred. the embellishments of the edition are partly fanciful and partly "documentary;" so that it is hoped both classes of taste may have something to feed upon._ author's preface. as it is possible the mere english reader may have a different idea of romance from the author of these little[a] volumes, and may consequently expect a kind of entertainment not to be found, nor which was even intended, in the following pages, it may not be improper to premise a few words concerning this kind of writing, which i do not remember to have seen hitherto attempted in our language. [a] _joseph andrews_ was originally published in vols. duodecimo. the epic, as well as the drama, is divided into tragedy and comedy. homer, who was the father of this species of poetry, gave us a pattern of both these, though that of the latter kind is entirely lost; which aristotle tells us, bore the same relation to comedy which his iliad bears to tragedy. and perhaps, that we have no more instances of it among the writers of antiquity, is owing to the loss of this great pattern, which, had it survived, would have found its imitators equally with the other poems of this great original. and farther, as this poetry may be tragic or comic, i will not scruple to say it may be likewise either in verse or prose: for though it wants one particular, which the critic enumerates in the constituent parts of an epic poem, namely metre; yet, when any kind of writing contains all its other parts, such as fable, action, characters, sentiments, and diction, and is deficient in metre only, it seems, i think, reasonable to refer it to the epic; at least, as no critic hath thought proper to range it under any other head, or to assign it a particular name to itself. thus the telemachus of the archbishop of cambray appears to me of the epic kind, as well as the odyssey of homer; indeed, it is much fairer and more reasonable to give it a name common with that species from which it differs only in a single instance, than to confound it with those which it resembles in no other. such are those voluminous works, commonly called romances, namely, clelia, cleopatra, astraea, cassandra, the grand cyrus, and innumerable others, which contain, as i apprehend, very little instruction or entertainment. now, a comic romance is a comic epic poem in prose; differing from comedy, as the serious epic from tragedy: its action being more extended and comprehensive; containing a much larger circle of incidents, and introducing a greater variety of characters. it differs from the serious romance in its fable and action, in this; that as in the one these are grave and solemn, so in the other they are light and ridiculous: it differs in its characters by introducing persons of inferior rank, and consequently, of inferior manners, whereas the grave romance sets the highest before us: lastly, in its sentiments and diction; by preserving the ludicrous instead of the sublime. in the diction, i think, burlesque itself may be sometimes admitted; of which many instances will occur in this work, as in the description of the battles, and some other places, not necessary to be pointed out to the classical reader, for whose entertainment those parodies or burlesque imitations are chiefly calculated. but though we have sometimes admitted this in our diction, we have carefully excluded it from our sentiments and characters; for there it is never properly introduced, unless in writings of the burlesque kind, which this is not intended to be. indeed, no two species of writing can differ more widely than the comic and the burlesque; for as the latter is ever the exhibition of what is monstrous and unnatural, and where our delight, if we examine it, arises from the surprizing absurdity, as in appropriating the manners of the highest to the lowest, or _e converso_; so in the former we should ever confine ourselves strictly to nature, from the just imitation of which will flow all the pleasure we can this way convey to a sensible reader. and perhaps there is one reason why a comic writer should of all others be the least excused for deviating from nature, since it may not be always so easy for a serious poet to meet with the great and the admirable; but life everywhere furnishes an accurate observer with the ridiculous. i have hinted this little concerning burlesque, because i have often heard that name given to performances which have been truly of the comic kind, from the author's having sometimes admitted it in his diction only; which, as it is the dress of poetry, doth, like the dress of men, establish characters (the one of the whole poem, and the other of the whole man), in vulgar opinion, beyond any of their greater excellences: but surely, a certain drollery in stile, where characters and sentiments are perfectly natural, no more constitutes the burlesque, than an empty pomp and dignity of words, where everything else is mean and low, can entitle any performance to the appellation of the true sublime. and i apprehend my lord shaftesbury's opinion of mere burlesque agrees with mine, when he asserts, there is no such thing to be found in the writings of the ancients. but perhaps i have less abhorrence than he professes for it; and that, not because i have had some little success on the stage this way, but rather as it contributes more to exquisite mirth and laughter than any other; and these are probably more wholesome physic for the mind, and conduce better to purge away spleen, melancholy, and ill affections, than is generally imagined. nay, i will appeal to common observation, whether the same companies are not found more full of good-humour and benevolence, after they have been sweetened for two or three hours with entertainments of this kind, than when soured by a tragedy or a grave lecture. but to illustrate all this by another science, in which, perhaps, we shall see the distinction more clearly and plainly, let us examine the works of a comic history painter, with those performances which the italians call caricatura, where we shall find the true excellence of the former to consist in the exactest copying of nature; insomuch that a judicious eye instantly rejects anything _outre_, any liberty which the painter hath taken with the features of that _alma mater_; whereas in the caricatura we allow all licence--its aim is to exhibit monsters, not men; and all distortions and exaggerations whatever are within its proper province. now, what caricatura is in painting, burlesque is in writing; and in the same manner the comic writer and painter correlate to each other. and here i shall observe, that, as in the former the painter seems to have the advantage; so it is in the latter infinitely on the side of the writer; for the monstrous is much easier to paint than describe, and the ridiculous to describe than paint. and though perhaps this latter species doth not in either science so strongly affect and agitate the muscles as the other; yet it will be owned, i believe, that a more rational and useful pleasure arises to us from it. he who should call the ingenious hogarth a burlesque painter, would, in my opinion, do him very little honour; for sure it is much easier, much less the subject of admiration, to paint a man with a nose, or any other feature, of a preposterous size, or to expose him in some absurd or monstrous attitude, than to express the affections of men on canvas. it hath been thought a vast commendation of a painter to say his figures seem to breathe; but surely it is a much greater and nobler applause, that they appear to think. but to return. the ridiculous only, as i have before said, falls within my province in the present work. nor will some explanation of this word be thought impertinent by the reader, if he considers how wonderfully it hath been mistaken, even by writers who have professed it: for to what but such a mistake can we attribute the many attempts to ridicule the blackest villanies, and, what is yet worse, the most dreadful calamities? what could exceed the absurdity of an author, who should write the comedy of nero, with the merry incident of ripping up his mother's belly? or what would give a greater shock to humanity than an attempt to expose the miseries of poverty and distress to ridicule? and yet the reader will not want much learning to suggest such instances to himself. besides, it may seem remarkable, that aristotle, who is so fond and free of definitions, hath not thought proper to define the ridiculous. indeed, where he tells us it is proper to comedy, he hath remarked that villany is not its object: but he hath not, as i remember, positively asserted what is. nor doth the abbe bellegarde, who hath written a treatise on this subject, though he shows us many species of it, once trace it to its fountain. the only source of the true ridiculous (as it appears to me) is affectation. but though it arises from one spring only, when we consider the infinite streams into which this one branches, we shall presently cease to admire at the copious field it affords to an observer. now, affectation proceeds from one of these two causes, vanity or hypocrisy: for as vanity puts us on affecting false characters, in order to purchase applause; so hypocrisy sets us on an endeavour to avoid censure, by concealing our vices under an appearance of their opposite virtues. and though these two causes are often confounded (for there is some difficulty in distinguishing them), yet, as they proceed from very different motives, so they are as clearly distinct in their operations: for indeed, the affectation which arises from vanity is nearer to truth than the other, as it hath not that violent repugnancy of nature to struggle with, which that of the hypocrite hath. it may be likewise noted, that affectation doth not imply an absolute negation of those qualities which are affected; and, therefore, though, when it proceeds from hypocrisy, it be nearly allied to deceit; yet when it comes from vanity only, it partakes of the nature of ostentation: for instance, the affectation of liberality in a vain man differs visibly from the same affectation in the avaricious; for though the vain man is not what he would appear, or hath not the virtue he affects, to the degree he would be thought to have it; yet it sits less awkwardly on him than on the avaricious man, who is the very reverse of what he would seem to be. from the discovery of this affectation arises the ridiculous, which always strikes the reader with surprize and pleasure; and that in a higher and stronger degree when the affectation arises from hypocrisy, than when from vanity; for to discover any one to be the exact reverse of what he affects, is more surprizing, and consequently more ridiculous, than to find him a little deficient in the quality he desires the reputation of. i might observe that our ben jonson, who of all men understood the ridiculous the best, hath chiefly used the hypocritical affectation. now, from affectation only, the misfortunes and calamities of life, or the imperfections of nature, may become the objects of ridicule. surely he hath a very ill-framed mind who can look on ugliness, infirmity, or poverty, as ridiculous in themselves: nor do i believe any man living, who meets a dirty fellow riding through the streets in a cart, is struck with an idea of the ridiculous from it; but if he should see the same figure descend from his coach and six, or bolt from his chair with his hat under his arm, he would then begin to laugh, and with justice. in the same manner, were we to enter a poor house and behold a wretched family shivering with cold and languishing with hunger, it would not incline us to laughter (at least we must have very diabolical natures if it would); but should we discover there a grate, instead of coals, adorned with flowers, empty plate or china dishes on the sideboard, or any other affectation of riches and finery, either on their persons or in their furniture, we might then indeed be excused for ridiculing so fantastical an appearance. much less are natural imperfections the object of derision; but when ugliness aims at the applause of beauty, or lameness endeavours to display agility, it is then that these unfortunate circumstances, which at first moved our compassion, tend only to raise our mirth. the poet carries this very far:-- none are for being what they are in fault, but for not being what they would be thought. where if the metre would suffer the word ridiculous to close the first line, the thought would be rather more proper. great vices are the proper objects of our detestation, smaller faults, of our pity; but affectation appears to me the only true source of the ridiculous. but perhaps it may be objected to me, that i have against my own rules introduced vices, and of a very black kind, into this work. to which i shall answer: first, that it is very difficult to pursue a series of human actions, and keep clear from them. secondly, that the vices to be found here are rather the accidental consequences of some human frailty or foible, than causes habitually existing in the mind. thirdly, that they are never set forth as the objects of ridicule, but detestation. fourthly, that they are never the principal figure at that time on the scene: and, lastly, they never produce the intended evil. having thus distinguished joseph andrews from the productions of romance writers on the one hand and burlesque writers on the other, and given some few very short hints (for i intended no more) of this species of writing, which i have affirmed to be hitherto unattempted in our language; i shall leave to my good-natured reader to apply my piece to my observations, and will detain him no longer than with a word concerning the characters in this work. and here i solemnly protest i have no intention to vilify or asperse any one; for though everything is copied from the book of nature, and scarce a character or action produced which i have not taken from my i own observations and experience; yet i have used the utmost care to obscure the persons by such different circumstances, degrees, and colours, that it will be impossible to guess at them with any degree of certainty; and if it ever happens otherwise, it is only where the failure characterized is so minute, that it is a foible only which the party himself may laugh at as well as any other. as to the character of adams, as it is the most glaring in the whole, so i conceive it is not to be found in any book now extant. it is designed a character of perfect simplicity; and as the goodness of his heart will recommend him to the good-natured, so i hope it will excuse me to the gentlemen of his cloth; for whom, while they are worthy of their sacred order, no man can possibly have a greater respect. they will therefore excuse me, notwithstanding the low adventures in which he is engaged, that i have made him a clergyman; since no other office could have given him so many opportunities of displaying his worthy inclinations. the history of the adventures of joseph andrews and his friend mr abraham adams book i. chapter i. _of writing lives in general, and particularly of pamela; with a word by the bye of colley cibber and others._ it is a trite but true observation, that examples work more forcibly on the mind than precepts: and if this be just in what is odious and blameable, it is more strongly so in what is amiable and praiseworthy. here emulation most effectually operates upon us, and inspires our imitation in an irresistible manner. a good man therefore is a standing lesson to all his acquaintance, and of far greater use in that narrow circle than a good book. but as it often happens that the best men are but little known, and consequently cannot extend the usefulness of their examples a great way; the writer may be called in aid to spread their history farther, and to present the amiable pictures to those who have not the happiness of knowing the originals; and so, by communicating such valuable patterns to the world, he may perhaps do a more extensive service to mankind than the person whose life originally afforded the pattern. in this light i have always regarded those biographers who have recorded the actions of great and worthy persons of both sexes. not to mention those antient writers which of late days are little read, being written in obsolete, and as they are generally thought, unintelligible languages, such as plutarch, nepos, and others which i heard of in my youth; our own language affords many of excellent use and instruction, finely calculated to sow the seeds of virtue in youth, and very easy to be comprehended by persons of moderate capacity. such as the history of john the great, who, by his brave and heroic actions against men of large and athletic bodies, obtained the glorious appellation of the giant-killer; that of an earl of warwick, whose christian name was guy; the lives of argalus and parthenia; and above all, the history of those seven worthy personages, the champions of christendom. in all these delight is mixed with instruction, and the reader is almost as much improved as entertained. but i pass by these and many others to mention two books lately published, which represent an admirable pattern of the amiable in either sex. the former of these, which deals in male virtue, was written by the great person himself, who lived the life he hath recorded, and is by many thought to have lived such a life only in order to write it. the other is communicated to us by an historian who borrows his lights, as the common method is, from authentic papers and records. the reader, i believe, already conjectures, i mean the lives of mr colley cibber and of mrs pamela andrews. how artfully doth the former, by insinuating that he escaped being promoted to the highest stations in church and state, teach us a contempt of worldly grandeur! how strongly doth he inculcate an absolute submission to our superiors! lastly, how completely doth he arm us against so uneasy, so wretched a passion as the fear of shame! how clearly doth he expose the emptiness and vanity of that phantom, reputation! what the female readers are taught by the memoirs of mrs andrews is so well set forth in the excellent essays or letters prefixed to the second and subsequent editions of that work, that it would be here a needless repetition. the authentic history with which i now present the public is an instance of the great good that book is likely to do, and of the prevalence of example which i have just observed: since it will appear that it was by keeping the excellent pattern of his sister's virtues before his eyes, that mr joseph andrews was chiefly enabled to preserve his purity in the midst of such great temptations. i shall only add that this character of male chastity, though doubtless as desirable and becoming in one part of the human species as in the other, is almost the only virtue which the great apologist hath not given himself for the sake of giving the example to his readers. chapter ii. _of mr joseph andrews, his birth, parentage, education, and great endowments; with a word or two concerning ancestors._ mr joseph andrews, the hero of our ensuing history, was esteemed to be the only son of gaffar and gammer andrews, and brother to the illustrious pamela, whose virtue is at present so famous. as to his ancestors, we have searched with great diligence, but little success; being unable to trace them farther than his great-grandfather, who, as an elderly person in the parish remembers to have heard his father say, was an excellent cudgel-player. whether he had any ancestors before this, we must leave to the opinion of our curious reader, finding nothing of sufficient certainty to rely on. however, we cannot omit inserting an epitaph which an ingenious friend of ours hath communicated:-- stay, traveller, for underneath this pew lies fast asleep that merry man andrew: when the last day's great sun shall gild the skies, then he shall from his tomb get up and rise. be merry while thou canst: for surely thou shalt shortly be as sad as he is now. the words are almost out of the stone with antiquity. but it is needless to observe that andrew here is writ without an _s_, and is, besides, a christian name. my friend, moreover, conjectures this to have been the founder of that sect of laughing philosophers since called merry-andrews. to waive, therefore, a circumstance which, though mentioned in conformity to the exact rules of biography, is not greatly material, i proceed to things of more consequence. indeed, it is sufficiently certain that he had as many ancestors as the best man living, and, perhaps, if we look five or six hundred years backwards, might be related to some persons of very great figure at present, whose ancestors within half the last century are buried in as great obscurity. but suppose, for argument's sake, we should admit that he had no ancestors at all, but had sprung up, according to the modern phrase, out of a dunghill, as the athenians pretended they themselves did from the earth, would not this autokopros[a] have been justly entitled to all the praise arising from his own virtues? would it not be hard that a man who hath no ancestors should therefore be rendered incapable of acquiring honour; when we see so many who have no virtues enjoying the honour of their forefathers? at ten years old (by which time his education was advanced to writing and reading) he was bound an apprentice, according to the statute, to sir thomas booby, an uncle of mr booby's by the father's side. sir thomas having then an estate in his own hands, the young andrews was at first employed in what in the country they call keeping birds. his office was to perform the part the ancients assigned to the god priapus, which deity the moderns call by the name of jack o' lent; but his voice being so extremely musical, that it rather allured the birds than terrified them, he was soon transplanted from the fields into the dog-kennel, where he was placed under the huntsman, and made what the sportsmen term whipper-in. for this place likewise the sweetness of his voice disqualified him; the dogs preferring the melody of his chiding to all the alluring notes of the huntsman, who soon became so incensed at it, that he desired sir thomas to provide otherwise for him, and constantly laid every fault the dogs were at to the account of the poor boy, who was now transplanted to the stable. here he soon gave proofs of strength and agility beyond his years, and constantly rode the most spirited and vicious horses to water, with an intrepidity which surprized every one. while he was in this station, he rode several races for sir thomas, and this with such expertness and success, that the neighbouring gentlemen frequently solicited the knight to permit little joey (for so he was called) to ride their matches. the best gamesters, before they laid their money, always inquired which horse little joey was to ride; and the bets were rather proportioned by the rider than by the horse himself; especially after he had scornfully refused a considerable bribe to play booty on such an occasion. this extremely raised his character, and so pleased the lady booby, that she desired to have him (being now seventeen years of age) for her own footboy. [a] in english, sprung from a dunghill. joey was now preferred from the stable to attend on his lady, to go on her errands, stand behind her chair, wait at her tea-table, and carry her prayer-book to church; at which place his voice gave him an opportunity of distinguishing himself by singing psalms: he behaved likewise in every other respect so well at divine service, that it recommended him to the notice of mr abraham adams, the curate, who took an opportunity one day, as he was drinking a cup of ale in sir thomas's kitchen, to ask the young man several questions concerning religion; with his answers to which he was wonderfully pleased. chapter iii. _of mr abraham adams the curate, mrs slipslop the chambermaid, and others._ mr abraham adams was an excellent scholar. he was a perfect master of the greek and latin languages; to which he added a great share of knowledge in the oriental tongues; and could read and translate french, italian, and spanish. he had applied many years to the most severe study, and had treasured up a fund of learning rarely to be met with in a university. he was, besides, a man of good sense, good parts, and good nature; but was at the same time as entirely ignorant of the ways of this world as an infant just entered into it could possibly be. as he had never any intention to deceive, so he never suspected such a design in others. he was generous, friendly, and brave to an excess; but simplicity was his characteristick: he did, no more than mr colley cibber, apprehend any such passions as malice and envy to exist in mankind; which was indeed less remarkable in a country parson than in a gentleman who hath passed his life behind the scenes,--a place which hath been seldom thought the school of innocence, and where a very little observation would have convinced the great apologist that those passions have a real existence in the human mind. his virtue, and his other qualifications, as they rendered him equal to his office, so they made him an agreeable and valuable companion, and had so much endeared and well recommended him to a bishop, that at the age of fifty he was provided with a handsome income of twenty-three pounds a year; which, however, he could not make any great figure with, because he lived in a dear country, and was a little encumbered with a wife and six children. it was this gentleman, who having, as i have said, observed the singular devotion of young andrews, had found means to question him concerning several particulars; as, how many books there were in the new testament? which were they? how many chapters they contained? and such like: to all which, mr adams privately said, he answered much better than sir thomas, or two other neighbouring justices of the peace could probably have done. mr adams was wonderfully solicitous to know at what time, and by what opportunity, the youth became acquainted with these matters: joey told him that he had very early learnt to read and write by the goodness of his father, who, though he had not interest enough to get him into a charity school, because a cousin of his father's landlord did not vote on the right side for a churchwarden in a borough town, yet had been himself at the expense of sixpence a week for his learning. he told him likewise, that ever since he was in sir thomas's family he had employed all his hours of leisure in reading good books; that he had read the bible, the whole duty of man, and thomas a kempis; and that as often as he could, without being perceived, he had studied a great good book which lay open in the hall window, where he had read, "as how the devil carried away half a church in sermon-time, without hurting one of the congregation; and as how a field of corn ran away down a hill with all the trees upon it, and covered another man's meadow." this sufficiently assured mr adams that the good book meant could be no other than baker's chronicle. the curate, surprized to find such instances of industry and application in a young man who had never met with the least encouragement, asked him, if he did not extremely regret the want of a liberal education, and the not having been born of parents who might have indulged his talents and desire of knowledge? to which he answered, "he hoped he had profited somewhat better from the books he had read than to lament his condition in this world. that, for his part, he was perfectly content with the state to which he was called; that he should endeavour to improve his talent, which was all required of him; but not repine at his own lot, nor envy those of his betters." "well said, my lad," replied the curate; "and i wish some who have read many more good books, nay, and some who have written good books themselves, had profited so much by them." adams had no nearer access to sir thomas or my lady than through the waiting-gentlewoman; for sir thomas was too apt to estimate men merely by their dress or fortune; and my lady was a woman of gaiety, who had been blest with a town education, and never spoke of any of her country neighbours by any other appellation than that of the brutes. they both regarded the curate as a kind of domestic only, belonging to the parson of the parish, who was at this time at variance with the knight; for the parson had for many years lived in a constant state of civil war, or, which is perhaps as bad, of civil law, with sir thomas himself and the tenants of his manor. the foundation of this quarrel was a modus, by setting which aside an advantage of several shillings _per annum_ would have accrued to the rector; but he had not yet been able to accomplish his purpose, and had reaped hitherto nothing better from the suits than the pleasure (which he used indeed frequently to say was no small one) of reflecting that he had utterly undone many of the poor tenants, though he had at the same time greatly impoverished himself. mrs slipslop, the waiting-gentlewoman, being herself the daughter of a curate, preserved some respect for adams: she professed great regard for his learning, and would frequently dispute with him on points of theology; but always insisted on a deference to be paid to her understanding, as she had been frequently at london, and knew more of the world than a country parson could pretend to. she had in these disputes a particular advantage over adams: for she was a mighty affecter of hard words, which she used in such a manner that the parson, who durst not offend her by calling her words in question, was frequently at some loss to guess her meaning, and would have been much less puzzled by an arabian manuscript. adams therefore took an opportunity one day, after a pretty long discourse with her on the essence (or, as she pleased to term it, the incence) of matter, to mention the case of young andrews; desiring her to recommend him to her lady as a youth very susceptible of learning, and one whose instruction in latin he would himself undertake; by which means he might be qualified for a higher station than that of a footman; and added, she knew it was in his master's power easily to provide for him in a better manner. he therefore desired that the boy might be left behind under his care. "la! mr adams," said mrs slipslop, "do you think my lady will suffer any preambles about any such matter? she is going to london very concisely, and i am confidous would not leave joey behind her on any account; for he is one of the genteelest young fellows you may see in a summer's day; and i am confidous she would as soon think of parting with a pair of her grey mares, for she values herself as much on one as the other." adams would have interrupted, but she proceeded: "and why is latin more necessitous for a footman than a gentleman? it is very proper that you clergymen must learn it, because you can't preach without it: but i have heard gentlemen say in london, that it is fit for nobody else. i am confidous my lady would be angry with me for mentioning it; and i shall draw myself into no such delemy." at which words her lady's bell rung, and mr adams was forced to retire; nor could he gain a second opportunity with her before their london journey, which happened a few days afterwards. however, andrews behaved very thankfully and gratefully to him for his intended kindness, which he told him he never would forget, and at the same time received from the good man many admonitions concerning the regulation of his future conduct, and his perseverance in innocence and industry. chapter iv. _what happened after their journey to london._ no sooner was young andrews arrived at london than he began to scrape an acquaintance with his party-coloured brethren, who endeavoured to make him despise his former course of life. his hair was cut after the newest fashion, and became his chief care; he went abroad with it all the morning in papers, and drest it out in the afternoon. they could not, however, teach him to game, swear, drink, nor any other genteel vice the town abounded with. he applied most of his leisure hours to music, in which he greatly improved himself; and became so perfect a connoisseur in that art, that he led the opinion of all the other footmen at an opera, and they never condemned or applauded a single song contrary to his approbation or dislike. he was a little too forward in riots at the play-houses and assemblies; and when he attended his lady at church (which was but seldom) he behaved with less seeming devotion than formerly: however, if he was outwardly a pretty fellow, his morals remained entirely uncorrupted, though he was at the same time smarter and genteeler than any of the beaus in town, either in or out of livery. his lady, who had often said of him that joey was the handsomest and genteelest footman in the kingdom, but that it was pity he wanted spirit, began now to find that fault no longer; on the contrary, she was frequently heard to cry out, "ay, there is some life in this fellow." she plainly saw the effects which the town air hath on the soberest constitutions. she would now walk out with him into hyde park in a morning, and when tired, which happened almost every minute, would lean on his arm, and converse with him in great familiarity. whenever she stept out of her coach, she would take him by the hand, and sometimes, for fear of stumbling, press it very hard; she admitted him to deliver messages at her bedside in a morning, leered at him at table, and indulged him in all those innocent freedoms which women of figure may permit without the least sully of their virtue. but though their virtue remains unsullied, yet now and then some small arrows will glance on the shadow of it, their reputation; and so it fell out to lady booby, who happened to be walking arm-in-arm with joey one morning in hyde park, when lady tittle and lady tattle came accidentally by in their coach. "bless me," says lady tittle, "can i believe my eyes? is that lady booby?"--"surely," says tattle. "but what makes you surprized?"--"why, is not that her footman?" replied tittle. at which tattle laughed, and cried, "an old business, i assure you: is it possible you should not have heard it? the whole town hath known it this half-year." the consequence of this interview was a whisper through a hundred visits, which were separately performed by the two ladies[a] the same afternoon, and might have had a mischievous effect, had it not been stopt by two fresh reputations which were published the day afterwards, and engrossed the whole talk of the town. [a] it may seem an absurdity that tattle should visit, as she actually did, to spread a known scandal: but the reader may reconcile this by supposing, with me, that, notwithstanding what she says, this was her first acquaintance with it. but, whatever opinion or suspicion the scandalous inclination of defamers might entertain of lady booby's innocent freedoms, it is certain they made no impression on young andrews, who never offered to encroach beyond the liberties which his lady allowed him,--a behaviour which she imputed to the violent respect he preserved for her, and which served only to heighten a something she began to conceive, and which the next chapter will open a little farther. chapter v. _the death of sir thomas booby, with the affectionate and mournful behaviour of his widow, and the great purity of joseph andrews._ at this time an accident happened which put a stop to those agreeable walks, which probably would have soon puffed up the cheeks of fame, and caused her to blow her brazen trumpet through the town; and this was no other than the death of sir thomas booby, who, departing this life, left his disconsolate lady confined to her house, as closely as if she herself had been attacked by some violent disease. during the first six days the poor lady admitted none but mrs. slipslop, and three female friends, who made a party at cards: but on the seventh she ordered joey, whom, for a good reason, we shall hereafter call joseph, to bring up her tea-kettle. the lady being in bed, called joseph to her, bade him sit down, and, having accidentally laid her hand on his, she asked him if he had ever been in love. joseph answered, with some confusion, it was time enough for one so young as himself to think on such things. "as young as you are," replied the lady, "i am convinced you are no stranger to that passion. come, joey," says she, "tell me truly, who is the happy girl whose eyes have made a conquest of you?" joseph returned, that all the women he had ever seen were equally indifferent to him. "oh then," said the lady, "you are a general lover. indeed, you handsome fellows, like handsome women, are very long and difficult in fixing; but yet you shall never persuade me that your heart is so insusceptible of affection; i rather impute what you say to your secrecy, a very commendable quality, and what i am far from being angry with you for. nothing can be more unworthy in a young man, than to betray any intimacies with the ladies." "ladies! madam," said joseph, "i am sure i never had the impudence to think of any that deserve that name." "don't pretend to too much modesty," said she, "for that sometimes may be impertinent: but pray answer me this question. suppose a lady should happen to like you; suppose she should prefer you to all your sex, and admit you to the same familiarities as you might have hoped for if you had been born her equal, are you certain that no vanity could tempt you to discover her? answer me honestly, joseph; have you so much more sense and so much more virtue than you handsome young fellows generally have, who make no scruple of sacrificing our dear reputation to your pride, without considering the great obligation we lay on you by our condescension and confidence? can you keep a secret, my joey?" "madam," says he, "i hope your ladyship can't tax me with ever betraying the secrets of the family; and i hope, if you was to turn me away, i might have that character of you." "i don't intend to turn you away, joey," said she, and sighed; "i am afraid it is not in my power." she then raised herself a little in her bed, and discovered one of the whitest necks that ever was seen; at which joseph blushed. "la!" says she, in an affected surprize, "what am i doing? i have trusted myself with a man alone, naked in bed; suppose you should have any wicked intentions upon my honour, how should i defend myself?" joseph protested that he never had the least evil design against her. "no," says she, "perhaps you may not call your designs wicked; and perhaps they are not so."--he swore they were not. "you misunderstand me," says she; "i mean if they were against my honour, they may not be wicked; but the world calls them so. but then, say you, the world will never know anything of the matter; yet would not that be trusting to your secrecy? must not my reputation be then in your power? would you not then be my master?" joseph begged her ladyship to be comforted; for that he would never imagine the least wicked thing against her, and that he had rather die a thousand deaths than give her any reason to suspect him. "yes," said she, "i must have reason to suspect you. are you not a man? and, without vanity, i may pretend to some charms. but perhaps you may fear i should prosecute you; indeed i hope you do; and yet heaven knows i should never have the confidence to appear before a court of justice; and you know, joey, i am of a forgiving temper. tell me, joey, don't you think i should forgive you?"--"indeed, madam," says joseph, "i will never do anything to disoblige your ladyship."--"how," says she, "do you think it would not disoblige me then? do you think i would willingly suffer you?"--"i don't understand you, madam," says joseph.--"don't you?" said she, "then you are either a fool, or pretend to be so; i find i was mistaken in you. so get you downstairs, and never let me see your face again; your pretended innocence cannot impose on me."--"madam," said joseph, "i would not have your ladyship think any evil of me. i have always endeavoured to be a dutiful servant both to you and my master."--"o thou villain!" answered my lady; "why didst thou mention the name of that dear man, unless to torment me, to bring his precious memory to my mind?" (and then she burst into a fit of tears.) "get thee from my sight! i shall never endure thee more." at which words she turned away from him; and joseph retreated from the room in a most disconsolate condition, and writ that letter which the reader will find in the next chapter. chapter vi. _how joseph andrews writ a letter to his sister pamela._ "to mrs pamela andrews, living with squire booby. "dear sister,--since i received your letter of your good lady's death, we have had a misfortune of the same kind in our family. my worthy master sir thomas died about four days ago; and, what is worse, my poor lady is certainly gone distracted. none of the servants expected her to take it so to heart, because they quarrelled almost every day of their lives: but no more of that, because you know, pamela, i never loved to tell the secrets of my master's family; but to be sure you must have known they never loved one another; and i have heard her ladyship wish his honour dead above a thousand times; but nobody knows what it is to lose a friend till they have lost him. "don't tell anybody what i write, because i should not care to have folks say i discover what passes in our family; but if it had not been so great a lady, i should have thought she had had a mind to me. dear pamela, don't tell anybody; but she ordered me to sit down by her bedside, when she was naked in bed; and she held my hand, and talked exactly as a lady does to her sweetheart in a stage-play, which i have seen in covent garden, while she wanted him to be no better than he should be. "if madam be mad, i shall not care for staying long in the family; so i heartily wish you could get me a place, either at the squire's, or some other neighbouring gentleman's, unless it be true that you are going to be married to parson williams, as folks talk, and then i should be very willing to be his clerk; for which you know i am qualified, being able to read and to set a psalm. "i fancy i shall be discharged very soon; and the moment i am, unless i hear from you, i shall return to my old master's country-seat, if it be only to see parson adams, who is the best man in the world. london is a bad place, and there is so little good fellowship, that the next-door neighbours don't know one another. pray give my service to all friends that inquire for me. so i rest "your loving brother, "joseph andrews." as soon as joseph had sealed and directed this letter he walked downstairs, where he met mrs. slipslop, with whom we shall take this opportunity to bring the reader a little better acquainted. she was a maiden gentlewoman of about forty-five years of age, who, having made a small slip in her youth, had continued a good maid ever since. she was not at this time remarkably handsome; being very short, and rather too corpulent in body, and somewhat red, with the addition of pimples in the face. her nose was likewise rather too large, and her eyes too little; nor did she resemble a cow so much in her breath as in two brown globes which she carried before her; one of her legs was also a little shorter than the other, which occasioned her to limp as she walked. this fair creature had long cast the eyes of affection on joseph, in which she had not met with quite so good success as she probably wished, though, besides the allurements of her native charms, she had given him tea, sweetmeats, wine, and many other delicacies, of which, by keeping the keys, she had the absolute command. joseph, however, had not returned the least gratitude to all these favours, not even so much as a kiss; though i would not insinuate she was so easily to be satisfied; for surely then he would have been highly blameable. the truth is, she was arrived at an age when she thought she might indulge herself in any liberties with a man, without the danger of bringing a third person into the world to betray them. she imagined that by so long a self-denial she had not only made amends for the small slip of her youth above hinted at, but had likewise laid up a quantity of merit to excuse any future failings. in a word, she resolved to give a loose to her amorous inclinations, and to pay off the debt of pleasure which she found she owed herself, as fast as possible. with these charms of person, and in this disposition of mind, she encountered poor joseph at the bottom of the stairs, and asked him if he would drink a glass of something good this morning. joseph, whose spirits were not a little cast down, very readily and thankfully accepted the offer; and together they went into a closet, where, having delivered him a full glass of ratafia, and desired him to sit down, mrs. slipslop thus began:-- "sure nothing can be a more simple contract in a woman than to place her affections on a boy. if i had ever thought it would have been my fate, i should have wished to die a thousand deaths rather than live to see that day. if we like a man, the lightest hint sophisticates. whereas a boy proposes upon us to break through all the regulations of modesty, before we can make any oppression upon him." joseph, who did not understand a word she said, answered, "yes, madam."--"yes, madam!" replied mrs. slipslop with some warmth, "do you intend to result my passion? is it not enough, ungrateful as you are, to make no return to all the favours i have done you; but you must treat me with ironing? barbarous monster! how have i deserved that my passion should be resulted and treated with ironing?" "madam," answered joseph, "i don't understand your hard words; but i am certain you have no occasion to call me ungrateful, for, so far from intending you any wrong, i have always loved you as well as if you had been my own mother." "how, sirrah!" says mrs. slipslop in a rage; "your own mother? do you assinuate that i am old enough to be your mother? i don't know what a stripling may think, but i believe a man would refer me to any green-sickness silly girl whatsomdever: but i ought to despise you rather than be angry with you, for referring the conversation of girls to that of a woman of sense."--"madam," says joseph, "i am sure i have always valued the honour you did me by your conversation, for i know you are a woman of learning."--"yes, but, joseph," said she, a little softened by the compliment to her learning, "if you had a value for me, you certainly would have found some method of showing it me; for i am convicted you must see the value i have for you. yes, joseph, my eyes, whether i would or no, must have declared a passion i cannot conquer.--oh! joseph!" as when a hungry tigress, who long has traversed the woods in fruitless search, sees within the reach of her claws a lamb, she prepares to leap on her prey; or as a voracious pike, of immense size, surveys through the liquid element a roach or gudgeon, which cannot escape her jaws, opens them wide to swallow the little fish; so did mrs. slipslop prepare to lay her violent amorous hands on the poor joseph, when luckily her mistress's bell rung, and delivered the intended martyr from her clutches. she was obliged to leave him abruptly, and to defer the execution of her purpose till some other time. we shall therefore return to the lady booby, and give our reader some account of her behaviour, after she was left by joseph in a temper of mind not greatly different from that of the inflamed slipslop. chapter vii. _sayings of wise men. a dialogue between the lady and her maid; and a panegyric, or rather satire, on the passion of love, in the sublime style._ it is the observation of some antient sage, whose name i have forgot, that passions operate differently on the human mind, as diseases on the body, in proportion to the strength or weakness, soundness or rottenness, of the one and the other. we hope, therefore, a judicious reader will give himself some pains to observe, what we have so greatly laboured to describe, the different operations of this passion of love in the gentle and cultivated mind of the lady booby, from those which it effected in the less polished and coarser disposition of mrs slipslop. another philosopher, whose name also at present escapes my memory, hath somewhere said, that resolutions taken in the absence of the beloved object are very apt to vanish in its presence; on both which wise sayings the following chapter may serve as a comment. no sooner had joseph left the room in the manner we have before related than the lady, enraged at her disappointment, began to reflect with severity on her conduct. her love was now changed to disdain, which pride assisted to torment her. she despised herself for the meanness of her passion, and joseph for its ill success. however, she had now got the better of it in her own opinion, and determined immediately to dismiss the object. after much tossing and turning in her bed, and many soliloquies, which if we had no better matter for our reader we would give him, she at last rung the bell as above mentioned, and was presently attended by mrs slipslop, who was not much better pleased with joseph than the lady herself. "slipslop," said lady booby, "when did you see joseph?" the poor woman was so surprized at the unexpected sound of his name at so critical a time, that she had the greatest difficulty to conceal the confusion she was under from her mistress; whom she answered, nevertheless, with pretty good confidence, though not entirely void of fear of suspicion, that she had not seen him that morning. "i am afraid," said lady booby, "he is a wild young fellow."--"that he is," said slipslop, "and a wicked one too. to my knowledge he games, drinks, swears, and fights eternally; besides, he is horribly indicted to wenching."--"ay!" said the lady, "i never heard that of him."--"o madam!" answered the other, "he is so lewd a rascal, that if your ladyship keeps him much longer, you will not have one virgin in your house except myself. and yet i can't conceive what the wenches see in him, to be so foolishly fond as they are; in my eyes, he is as ugly a scarecrow as i ever upheld."--"nay," said the lady, "the boy is well enough."--"la! ma'am," cries slipslop, "i think him the ragmaticallest fellow in the family."--"sure, slipslop," says she, "you are mistaken: but which of the women do you most suspect?"--"madam," says slipslop, "there is betty the chambermaid, i am almost convicted, is with child by him."--"ay!" says the lady, "then pray pay her her wages instantly. i will keep no such sluts in my family. and as for joseph, you may discard him too."--"would your ladyship have him paid off immediately?" cries slipslop, "for perhaps, when betty is gone he may mend: and really the boy is a good servant, and a strong healthy luscious boy enough."-- "this morning," answered the lady with some vehemence. "i wish, madam," cries slipslop, "your ladyship would be so good as to try him a little longer."--"i will not have my commands disputed," said the lady; "sure you are not fond of him yourself?"--"i, madam!" cries slipslop, reddening, if not blushing, "i should be sorry to think your ladyship had any reason to respect me of fondness for a fellow; and if it be your pleasure, i shall fulfil it with as much reluctance as possible."--"as little, i suppose you mean," said the lady; "and so about it instantly." mrs. slipslop went out, and the lady had scarce taken two turns before she fell to knocking and ringing with great violence. slipslop, who did not travel post haste, soon returned, and was countermanded as to joseph, but ordered to send betty about her business without delay. she went out a second time with much greater alacrity than before; when the lady began immediately to accuse herself of want of resolution, and to apprehend the return of her affection, with its pernicious consequences; she therefore applied herself again to the bell, and re-summoned mrs. slipslop into her presence; who again returned, and was told by her mistress that she had considered better of the matter, and was absolutely resolved to turn away joseph; which she ordered her to do immediately. slipslop, who knew the violence of her lady's temper, and would not venture her place for any adonis or hercules in the universe, left her a third time; which she had no sooner done, than the little god cupid, fearing he had not yet done the lady's business, took a fresh arrow with the sharpest point out of his quiver, and shot it directly into her heart; in other and plainer language, the lady's passion got the better of her reason. she called back slipslop once more, and told her she had resolved to see the boy, and examine him herself; therefore bid her send him up. this wavering in her mistress's temper probably put something into the waiting-gentlewoman's head not necessary to mention to the sagacious reader. lady booby was going to call her back again, but could not prevail with herself. the next consideration therefore was, how she should behave to joseph when he came in. she resolved to preserve all the dignity of the woman of fashion to her servant, and to indulge herself in this last view of joseph (for that she was most certainly resolved it should be) at his own expense, by first insulting and then discarding him. o love, what monstrous tricks dost thou play with thy votaries of both sexes! how dost thou deceive them, and make them deceive themselves! their follies are thy delight! their sighs make thee laugh, and their pangs are thy merriment! not the great rich, who turns men into monkeys, wheel-barrows, and whatever else best humours his fancy, hath so strangely metamorphosed the human shape; nor the great cibber, who confounds all number, gender, and breaks through every rule of grammar at his will, hath so distorted the english language as thou dost metamorphose and distort the human senses. thou puttest out our eyes, stoppest up our ears, and takest away the power of our nostrils; so that we can neither see the largest object, hear the loudest noise, nor smell the most poignant perfume. again, when thou pleasest, thou canst make a molehill appear as a mountain, a jew's-harp sound like a trumpet, and a daisy smell like a violet. thou canst make cowardice brave, avarice generous, pride humble, and cruelty tender-hearted. in short, thou turnest the heart of man inside out, as a juggler doth a petticoat, and bringest whatsoever pleaseth thee out from it. if there be any one who doubts all this, let him read the next chapter. chapter viii. _in which, after some very fine writing, the history goes on, and relates the interview between the lady and joseph; where the latter hath set an example which we despair of seeing followed by his sex in this vicious age._ now the rake hesperus had called for his breeches, and, having well rubbed his drowsy eyes, prepared to dress himself for all night; by whose example his brother rakes on earth likewise leave those beds in which they had slept away the day. now thetis, the good housewife, began to put on the pot, in order to regale the good man phoebus after his daily labours were over. in vulgar language, it was in the evening when joseph attended his lady's orders. but as it becomes us to preserve the character of this lady, who is the heroine of our tale; and as we have naturally a wonderful tenderness for that beautiful part of the human species called the fair sex; before we discover too much of her frailty to our reader, it will be proper to give him a lively idea of the vast temptation, which overcame all the efforts of a modest and virtuous mind; and then we humbly hope his good nature will rather pity than condemn the imperfection of human virtue. [illustration] nay, the ladies themselves will, we hope, be induced, by considering the uncommon variety of charms which united in this young man's person, to bridle their rampant passion for chastity, and be at least as mild as their violent modesty and virtue will permit them, in censuring the conduct of a woman who, perhaps, was in her own disposition as chaste as those pure and sanctified virgins who, after a life innocently spent in the gaieties of the town, begin about fifty to attend twice _per diem_ at the polite churches and chapels, to return thanks for the grace which preserved them formerly amongst beaus from temptations perhaps less powerful than what now attacked the lady booby. mr joseph andrews was now in the one-and-twentieth year of his age. he was of the highest degree of middle stature; his limbs were put together with great elegance, and no less strength; his legs and thighs were formed in the exactest proportion; his shoulders were broad and brawny, but yet his arm hung so easily, that he had all the symptoms of strength without the least clumsiness. his hair was of a nut-brown colour, and was displayed in wanton ringlets down his back; his forehead was high, his eyes dark, and as full of sweetness as of fire; his nose a little inclined to the roman; his teeth white and even; his lips full, red, and soft; his beard was only rough on his chin and upper lip; but his cheeks, in which his blood glowed, were overspread with a thick down; his countenance had a tenderness joined with a sensibility inexpressible. add to this the most perfect neatness in his dress, and an air which, to those who have not seen many noblemen, would give an idea of nobility. such was the person who now appeared before the lady. she viewed him some time in silence, and twice or thrice before she spake changed her mind as to the manner in which she should begin. at length she said to him, "joseph, i am sorry to hear such complaints against you: i am told you behave so rudely to the maids, that they cannot do their business in quiet; i mean those who are not wicked enough to hearken to your solicitations. as to others, they may, perhaps, not call you rude; for there are wicked sluts who make one ashamed of one's own sex, and are as ready to admit any nauseous familiarity as fellows to offer it: nay, there are such in my family, but they shall not stay in it; that impudent trollop who is with child by you is discharged by this time." as a person who is struck through the heart with a thunderbolt looks extremely surprised, nay, and perhaps is so too--thus the poor joseph received the false accusation of his mistress; he blushed and looked confounded, which she misinterpreted to be symptoms of his guilt, and thus went on:-- "come hither, joseph: another mistress might discard you for these offences; but i have a compassion for your youth, and if i could be certain you would be no more guilty--consider, child," laying her hand carelessly upon his, "you are a handsome young fellow, and might do better; you might make your fortune." "madam," said joseph, "i do assure your ladyship i don't know whether any maid in the house is man or woman." "oh fie! joseph," answered the lady, "don't commit another crime in denying the truth. i could pardon the first; but i hate a lyar." "madam," cries joseph, "i hope your ladyship will not be offended at my asserting my innocence; for, by all that is sacred, i have never offered more than kissing." "kissing!" said the lady, with great discomposure of countenance, and more redness in her cheeks than anger in her eyes; "do you call that no crime? kissing, joseph, is as a prologue to a play. can i believe a young fellow of your age and complexion will be content with kissing? no, joseph, there is no woman who grants that but will grant more; and i am deceived greatly in you if you would not put her closely to it. what would you think, joseph, if i admitted you to kiss me?" joseph replied he would sooner die than have any such thought. "and yet, joseph," returned she, "ladies have admitted their footmen to such familiarities; and footmen, i confess to you, much less deserving them; fellows without half your charms--for such might almost excuse the crime. tell me therefore, joseph, if i should admit you to such freedom, what would you think of me?--tell me freely." "madam," said joseph, "i should think your ladyship condescended a great deal below yourself." "pugh!" said she; "that i am to answer to myself: but would not you insist on more? would you be contented with a kiss? would not your inclinations be all on fire rather by such a favour?" "madam," said joseph, "if they were, i hope i should be able to controul them, without suffering them to get the better of my virtue." you have heard, reader, poets talk of the statue of surprize; you have heard likewise, or else you have heard very little, how surprize made one of the sons of croesus speak, though he was dumb. you have seen the faces, in the eighteen-penny gallery, when, through the trap-door, to soft or no music, mr. bridgewater, mr. william mills, or some other of ghostly appearance, hath ascended, with a face all pale with powder, and a shirt all bloody with ribbons;--but from none of these, nor from phidias or praxiteles, if they should return to life--no, not from the inimitable pencil of my friend hogarth, could you receive such an idea of surprize as would have entered in at your eyes had they beheld the lady booby when those last words issued out from the lips of joseph. "your virtue!" said the lady, recovering after a silence of two minutes; "i shall never survive it. your virtue!--intolerable confidence! have you the assurance to pretend, that when a lady demeans herself to throw aside the rules of decency, in order to honour you with the highest favour in her power, your virtue should resist her inclination? that, when she had conquered her own virtue, she should find an obstruction in yours?" "madam," said joseph, "i can't see why her having no virtue should be a reason against my having any; or why, because i am a man, or because i am poor, my virtue must be subservient to her pleasures." "i am out of patience," cries the lady: "did ever mortal hear of a man's virtue? did ever the greatest or the gravest men pretend to any of this kind? will magistrates who punish lewdness, or parsons who preach against it, make any scruple of committing it? and can a boy, a stripling, have the confidence to talk of his virtue?" "madam," says joseph, "that boy is the brother of pamela, and would be ashamed that the chastity of his family, which is preserved in her, should be stained in him. if there are such men as your ladyship mentions, i am sorry for it; and i wish they had an opportunity of reading over those letters which my father hath sent me of my sister pamela's; nor do i doubt but such an example would amend them." "you impudent villain!" cries the lady in a rage; "do you insult me with the follies of my relation, who hath exposed himself all over the country upon your sister's account? a little vixen, whom i have always wondered my late lady booby ever kept in her house. sirrah! get out of my sight, and prepare to set out this night; for i will order you your wages immediately, and you shall be stripped and turned away." "madam," says joseph, "i am sorry i have offended your ladyship, i am sure i never intended it." "yes, sirrah," cries she, "you have had the vanity to misconstrue the little innocent freedom i took, in order to try whether what i had heard was true. o' my conscience, you have had the assurance to imagine i was fond of you myself." joseph answered, he had only spoke out of tenderness for his virtue; at which words she flew into a violent passion, and refusing to hear more, ordered him instantly to leave the room. he was no sooner gone than she burst forth into the following exclamation:--"whither doth this violent passion hurry us? what meannesses do we submit to from its impulse! wisely we resist its first and least approaches; for it is then only we can assure ourselves the victory. no woman could ever safely say, so far only will i go. have i not exposed myself to the refusal of my footman? i cannot bear the reflection." upon which she applied herself to the bell, and rung it with infinite more violence than was necessary--the faithful slipslop attending near at hand: to say the truth, she had conceived a suspicion at her last interview with her mistress, and had waited ever since in the antechamber, having carefully applied her ears to the keyhole during the whole time that the preceding conversation passed between joseph and the lady. chapter ix. _what passed between the lady and mrs slipslop; in which we prophesy there are some strokes which every one will not truly comprehend at the first reading._ "slipslop," said the lady, "i find too much reason to believe all thou hast told me of this wicked joseph; i have determined to part with him instantly; so go you to the steward, and bid him pay his wages." slipslop, who had preserved hitherto a distance to her lady--rather out of necessity than inclination--and who thought the knowledge of this secret had thrown down all distinction between them, answered her mistress very pertly--"she wished she knew her own mind; and that she was certain she would call her back again before she was got half-way downstairs." the lady replied, she had taken a resolution, and was resolved to keep it. "i am sorry for it," cries slipslop, "and, if i had known you would have punished the poor lad so severely, you should never have heard a particle of the matter. here's a fuss indeed about nothing!" "nothing!" returned my lady; "do you think i will countenance lewdness in my house?" "if you will turn away every footman," said slipslop, "that is a lover of the sport, you must soon open the coach door yourself, or get a set of mophrodites to wait upon you; and i am sure i hated the sight of them even singing in an opera." "do as i bid you," says my lady, "and don't shock my ears with your beastly language." "marry-come-up," cries slipslop, "people's ears are sometimes the nicest part about them." the lady, who began to admire the new style in which her waiting-gentlewoman delivered herself, and by the conclusion of her speech suspected somewhat of the truth, called her back, and desired to know what she meant by the extraordinary degree of freedom in which she thought proper to indulge her tongue. "freedom!" says slipslop; "i don't know what you call freedom, madam; servants have tongues as well as their mistresses." "yes, and saucy ones too," answered the lady; "but i assure you i shall bear no such impertinence." "impertinence! i don't know that i am impertinent," says slipslop. "yes, indeed you are," cries my lady, "and, unless you mend your manners, this house is no place for you." "manners!" cries slipslop; "i never was thought to want manners nor modesty neither; and for places, there are more places than one; and i know what i know." "what do you know, mistress?" answered the lady. "i am not obliged to tell that to everybody," says slipslop, "any more than i am obliged to keep it a secret." "i desire you would provide yourself," answered the lady. "with all my heart," replied the waiting-gentlewoman; and so departed in a passion, and slapped the door after her. the lady too plainly perceived that her waiting-gentlewoman knew more than she would willingly have had her acquainted with; and this she imputed to joseph's having discovered to her what passed at the first interview. this, therefore, blew up her rage against him, and confirmed her in a resolution of parting with him. but the dismissing mrs slipslop was a point not so easily to be resolved upon. she had the utmost tenderness for her reputation, as she knew on that depended many of the most valuable blessings of life; particularly cards, making curtsies in public places, and, above all, the pleasure of demolishing the reputations of others, in which innocent amusement she had an extraordinary delight. she therefore determined to submit to any insult from a servant, rather than run a risque of losing the title to so many great privileges. she therefore sent for her steward, mr peter pounce, and ordered him to pay joseph his wages, to strip off his livery, and to turn him out of the house that evening. she then called slipslop up, and, after refreshing her spirits with a small cordial, which she kept in her corset, she began in the following manner:-- "slipslop, why will you, who know my passionate temper, attempt to provoke me by your answers? i am convinced you are an honest servant, and should be very unwilling to part with you. i believe, likewise, you have found me an indulgent mistress on many occasions, and have as little reason on your side to desire a change. i can't help being surprized, therefore, that you will take the surest method to offend me--i mean, repeating my words, which you know i have always detested." the prudent waiting-gentlewoman had duly weighed the whole matter, and found, on mature deliberation, that a good place in possession was better than one in expectation. as she found her mistress, therefore, inclined to relent, she thought proper also to put on some small condescension, which was as readily accepted; and so the affair was reconciled, all offences forgiven, and a present of a gown and petticoat made her, as an instance of her lady's future favour. she offered once or twice to speak in favour of joseph; but found her lady's heart so obdurate, that she prudently dropt all such efforts. she considered there were more footmen in the house, and some as stout fellows, though not quite so handsome, as joseph; besides, the reader hath already seen her tender advances had not met with the encouragement she might have reasonable expected. she thought she had thrown away a great deal of sack and sweetmeats on an ungrateful rascal; and, being a little inclined to the opinion of that female sect, who hold one lusty young fellow to be nearly as good as another lusty young fellow, she at last gave up joseph and his cause, and, with a triumph over her passion highly commendable, walked off with her present, and with great tranquillity paid a visit to a stone-bottle, which is of sovereign use to a philosophical temper. she left not her mistress so easy. the poor lady could not reflect without agony that her dear reputation was in the power of her servants. all her comfort as to joseph was, that she hoped he did not understand her meaning; at least she could say for herself, she had not plainly expressed anything to him; and as to mrs slipslop, she imagines she could bribe her to secrecy. but what hurt her most was, that in reality she had not so entirely conquered her passion; the little god lay lurking in her heart, though anger and distain so hood-winked her, that she could not see him. she was a thousand times on the very brink of revoking the sentence she had passed against the poor youth. love became his advocate, and whispered many things in his favour. honour likewise endeavoured to vindicate his crime, and pity to mitigate his punishment. on the other side, pride and revenge spoke as loudly against him. and thus the poor lady was tortured with perplexity, opposite passions distracting and tearing her mind different ways. so have i seen, in the hall of westminster, where serjeant bramble hath been retained on the right side, and serjeant puzzle on the left, the balance of opinion (so equal were their fees) alternately incline to either scale. now bramble throws in an argument, and puzzle's scale strikes the beam; again bramble shares the like fate, overpowered by the weight of puzzle. here bramble hits, there puzzle strikes; here one has you, there t'other has you; till at last all becomes one scene of confusion in the tortured minds of the hearers; equal wagers are laid on the success, and neither judge nor jury can possibly make anything of the matter; all things are so enveloped by the careful serjeants in doubt and obscurity. or, as it happens in the conscience, where honour and honesty pull one way, and a bribe and necessity another.--if it was our present business only to make similes, we could produce many more to this purpose; but a simile (as well as a word) to the wise.--we shall therefore see a little after our hero, for whom the reader is doubtless in some pain. chapter x. _joseph writes another letter: his transactions with mr peter pounce, &c., with his departure from lady booby._ the disconsolate joseph would not have had an understanding sufficient for the principal subject of such a book as this, if he had any longer misunderstood the drift of his mistress; and indeed, that he did not discern it sooner, the reader will be pleased to impute to an unwillingness in him to discover what he must condemn in her as a fault. having therefore quitted her presence, he retired into his own garret, and entered himself into an ejaculation on the numberless calamities which attended beauty, and the misfortune it was to be handsomer than one's neighbours. he then sat down, and addressed himself to his sister pamela in the following words:-- "dear sister pamela,--hoping you are well, what news have i to tell you! o pamela! my mistress is fallen in love with me-that is, what great folks call falling in love-she has a mind to ruin me; but i hope i shall have more resolution and more grace than to part with my virtue to any lady upon earth. "mr adams hath often told me, that chastity is as great a virtue in a man as in a woman. he says he never knew any more than his wife, and i shall endeavour to follow his example. indeed, it is owing entirely to his excellent sermons and advice, together with your letters, that i have been able to resist a temptation, which, he says, no man complies with, but he repents in this world, or is damned for it in the next; and why should i trust to repentance on my deathbed, since i may die in my sleep? what fine things are good advice and good examples! but i am glad she turned me out of the chamber as she did: for i had once almost forgotten every word parson adams had ever said to me. "i don't doubt, dear sister, but you will have grace to preserve your virtue against all trials; and i beg you earnestly to pray i may be enabled to preserve mine; for truly it is very severely attacked by more than one; but i hope i shall copy your example, and that of joseph my namesake, and maintain my virtue against all temptations." joseph had not finished his letter, when he was summoned downstairs by mr peter pounce, to receive his wages; for, besides that out of eight pounds a year he allowed his father and mother four, he had been obliged, in order to furnish himself with musical instruments, to apply to the generosity of the aforesaid peter, who, on urgent occasions, used to advance the servants their wages: not before they were due, but before they were payable; that is, perhaps, half a year after they were due; and this at the moderate premium of fifty per cent, or a little more: by which charitable methods, together with lending money to other people, and even to his own master and mistress, the honest man had, from nothing, in a few years amassed a small sum of twenty thousand pounds or thereabouts. joseph having received his little remainder of wages, and having stript off his livery, was forced to borrow a frock and breeches of one of the servants (for he was so beloved in the family, that they would all have lent him anything): and, being told by peter that he must not stay a moment longer in the house than was necessary to pack up his linen, which he easily did in a very narrow compass, he took a melancholy leave of his fellow-servants, and set out at seven in the evening. he had proceeded the length of two or three streets, before he absolutely determined with himself whether he should leave the town that night, or, procuring a lodging, wait till the morning. at last, the moon shining very bright helped him to come to a resolution of beginning his journey immediately, to which likewise he had some other inducements; which the reader, without being a conjurer, cannot possibly guess, till we have given him those hints which it may be now proper to open. chapter xi. _of several new matters not expected._ it is an observation sometimes made, that to indicate our idea of a simple fellow, we say, he is easily to be seen through: nor do i believe it a more improper denotation of a simple book. instead of applying this to any particular performance, we chuse rather to remark the contrary in this history, where the scene opens itself by small degrees; and he is a sagacious reader who can see two chapters before him. for this reason, we have not hitherto hinted a matter which now seems necessary to be explained; since it may be wondered at, first, that joseph made such extraordinary haste out of town, which hath been already shewn; and secondly, which will be now shewn, that, instead of proceeding to the habitation of his father and mother, or to his beloved sister pamela, he chose rather to set out full speed to the lady booby's country-seat, which he had left on his journey to london. be it known, then, that in the same parish where this seat stood there lived a young girl whom joseph (though the best of sons and brothers) longed more impatiently to see than his parents or his sister. she was a poor girl, who had formerly been bred up in sir john's family; whence, a little before the journey to london, she had been discarded by mrs slipslop, on account of her extraordinary beauty: for i never could find any other reason. this young creature (who now lived with a farmer in the parish) had been always beloved by joseph, and returned his affection. she was two years only younger than our hero. they had been acquainted from their infancy, and had conceived a very early liking for each other; which had grown to such a degree of affection, that mr adams had with much ado prevented them from marrying, and persuaded them to wait till a few years' service and thrift had a little improved their experience, and enabled them to live comfortably together. they followed this good man's advice, as indeed his word was little less than a law in his parish; for as he had shown his parishioners, by an uniform behaviour of thirty-five years' duration, that he had their good entirely at heart, so they consulted him on every occasion, and very seldom acted contrary to his opinion. nothing can be imagined more tender than was the parting between these two lovers. a thousand sighs heaved the bosom of joseph, a thousand tears distilled from the lovely eyes of fanny (for that was her name). though her modesty would only suffer her to admit his eager kisses, her violent love made her more than passive in his embraces; and she often pulled him to her breast with a soft pressure, which though perhaps it would not have squeezed an insect to death, caused more emotion in the heart of joseph than the closest cornish hug could have done. the reader may perhaps wonder that so fond a pair should, during a twelvemonth's absence, never converse with one another: indeed, there was but one reason which did or could have prevented them; and this was, that poor fanny could neither write nor read: nor could she be prevailed upon to transmit the delicacies of her tender and chaste passion by the hands of an amanuensis. they contented themselves therefore with frequent inquiries after each other's health, with a mutual confidence in each other's fidelity, and the prospect of their future happiness. having explained these matters to our reader, and, as far as possible, satisfied all his doubts, we return to honest joseph, whom we left just set out on his travels by the light of the moon. those who have read any romance or poetry, antient or modern, must have been informed that love hath wings: by which they are not to understand, as some young ladies by mistake have done, that a lover can fly; the writers, by this ingenious allegory, intending to insinuate no more than that lovers do not march like horse-guards; in short, that they put the best leg foremost; which our lusty youth, who could walk with any man, did so heartily on this occasion, that within four hours he reached a famous house of hospitality well known to the western traveller. it presents you a lion on the sign-post: and the master, who was christened timotheus, is commonly called plain tim. some have conceived that he hath particularly chosen the lion for his sign, as he doth in countenance greatly resemble that magnanimous beast, though his disposition savours more of the sweetness of the lamb. he is a person well received among all sorts of men, being qualified to render himself agreeable to any; as he is well versed in history and politics, hath a smattering in law and divinity, cracks a good jest, and plays wonderfully well on the french horn. a violent storm of hail forced joseph to take shelter in this inn, where he remembered sir thomas had dined in his way to town. joseph had no sooner seated himself by the kitchen fire than timotheus, observing his livery, began to condole the loss of his late master; who was, he said, his very particular and intimate acquaintance, with whom he had cracked many a merry bottle, ay many a dozen, in his time. he then remarked, that all these things were over now, all passed, and just as if they had never been; and concluded with an excellent observation on the certainty of death, which his wife said was indeed very true. a fellow now arrived at the same inn with two horses, one of which he was leading farther down into the country to meet his master; these he put into the stable, and came and took his place by joseph's side, who immediately knew him to be the servant of a neighbouring gentleman, who used to visit at their house. this fellow was likewise forced in by the storm; for he had orders to go twenty miles farther that evening, and luckily on the same road which joseph himself intended to take. he, therefore, embraced this opportunity of complimenting his friend with his master's horse (notwithstanding he had received express commands to the contrary), which was readily accepted; and so, after they had drank a loving pot, and the storm was over, they set out together. chapter xii. _containing many surprizing adventures which joseph andrews met with on the road, scarce credible to those who have never travelled in a stage-coach._ nothing remarkable happened on the road till their arrival at the inn to which the horses were ordered; whither they came about two in the morning. the moon then shone very bright; and joseph, making his friend a present of a pint of wine, and thanking him for the favour of his horse, notwithstanding all entreaties to the contrary, proceeded on his journey on foot. he had not gone above two miles, charmed with the hope of shortly seeing his beloved fanny, when he was met by two fellows in a narrow lane, and ordered to stand and deliver. he readily gave them all the money he had, which was somewhat less than two pounds; and told them he hoped they would be so generous as to return him a few shillings, to defray his charges on his way home. one of the ruffians answered with an oath, "yes, we'll give you something presently: but first strip and be d---n'd to you."--"strip," cried the other, "or i'll blow your brains to the devil." joseph, remembering that he had borrowed his coat and breeches of a friend, and that he should be ashamed of making any excuse for not returning them, replied, he hoped they would not insist on his clothes, which were not worth much, but consider the coldness of the night. "you are cold, are you, you rascal?" said one of the robbers: "i'll warm you with a vengeance;" and, damning his eyes, snapped a pistol at his head; which he had no sooner done than the other levelled a blow at him with his stick, which joseph, who was expert at cudgel-playing, caught with his, and returned the favour so successfully on his adversary, that he laid him sprawling at his feet, and at the same instant received a blow from behind, with the butt end of a pistol, from the other villain, which felled him to the ground, and totally deprived him of his senses. the thief who had been knocked down had now recovered himself; and both together fell to belabouring poor joseph with their sticks, till they were convinced they had put an end to his miserable being: they then stripped him entirely naked, threw him into a ditch, and departed with their booty. the poor wretch, who lay motionless a long time, just began to recover his senses as a stage-coach came by. the postillion, hearing a man's groans, stopt his horses, and told the coachman he was certain there was a dead man lying in the ditch, for he heard him groan. "go on, sirrah," says the coachman; "we are confounded late, and have no time to look after dead men." a lady, who heard what the postillion said, and likewise heard the groan, called eagerly to the coachman to stop and see what was the matter. upon which he bid the postillion alight, and look into the ditch. he did so, and returned, "that there was a man sitting upright, as naked as ever he was born."--"o j--sus!" cried the lady; "a naked man! dear coachman, drive on and leave him." upon this the gentlemen got out of the coach; and joseph begged them to have mercy upon him: for that he had been robbed and almost beaten to death. "robbed!" cries an old gentleman: "let us make all the haste imaginable, or we shall be robbed too." a young man who belonged to the law answered, "he wished they had passed by without taking any notice; but that now they might be proved to have been last in his company; if he should die they might be called to some account for his murder. he therefore thought it advisable to save the poor creature's life, for their own sakes, if possible; at least, if he died, to prevent the jury's finding that they fled for it. he was therefore of opinion to take the man into the coach, and carry him to the next inn." the lady insisted, "that he should not come into the coach. that if they lifted him in, she would herself alight: for she had rather stay in that place to all eternity than ride with a naked man." the coachman objected, "that he could not suffer him to be taken in unless somebody would pay a shilling for his carriage the four miles." which the two gentlemen refused to do. but the lawyer, who was afraid of some mischief happening to himself, if the wretch was left behind in that condition, saying no man could be too cautious in these matters, and that he remembered very extraordinary cases in the books, threatened the coachman, and bid him deny taking him up at his peril; for that, if he died, he should be indicted for his murder; and if he lived, and brought an action against him, he would willingly take a brief in it. these words had a sensible effect on the coachman, who was well acquainted with the person who spoke them; and the old gentleman above mentioned, thinking the naked man would afford him frequent opportunities of showing his wit to the lady, offered to join with the company in giving a mug of beer for his fare; till, partly alarmed by the threats of the one, and partly by the promises of the other, and being perhaps a little moved with compassion at the poor creature's condition, who stood bleeding and shivering with the cold, he at length agreed; and joseph was now advancing to the coach, where, seeing the lady, who held the sticks of her fan before her eyes, he absolutely refused, miserable as he was, to enter, unless he was furnished with sufficient covering to prevent giving the least offence to decency--so perfectly modest was this young man; such mighty effects had the spotless example of the amiable pamela, and the excellent sermons of mr adams, wrought upon him. though there were several greatcoats about the coach, it was not easy to get over this difficulty which joseph had started. the two gentlemen complained they were cold, and could not spare a rag; the man of wit saying, with a laugh, that charity began at home; and the coachman, who had two greatcoats spread under him, refused to lend either, lest they should be made bloody: the lady's footman desired to be excused for the same reason, which the lady herself, notwithstanding her abhorrence of a naked man, approved: and it is more than probable poor joseph, who obstinately adhered to his modest resolution, must have perished, unless the postillion (a lad who hath been since transported for robbing a hen-roost) had voluntarily stript off a greatcoat, his only garment, at the same time swearing a great oath (for which he was rebuked by the passengers), "that he would rather ride in his shirt all his life than suffer a fellow-creature to lie in so miserable a condition." joseph, having put on the greatcoat, was lifted into the coach, which now proceeded on its journey. he declared himself almost dead with the cold, which gave the man of wit an occasion to ask the lady if she could not accommodate him with a dram. she answered, with some resentment, "she wondered at his asking her such a question; but assured him she never tasted any such thing." the lawyer was inquiring into the circumstances of the robbery, when the coach stopt, and one of the ruffians, putting a pistol in, demanded their money of the passengers, who readily gave it them; and the lady, in her fright, delivered up a little silver bottle, of about a half-pint size, which the rogue, clapping it to his mouth, and drinking her health, declared, held some of the best nantes he had ever tasted: this the lady afterwards assured the company was the mistake of her maid, for that she had ordered her to fill the bottle with hungary-water. as soon as the fellows were departed, the lawyer, who had, it seems, a case of pistols in the seat of the coach, informed the company, that if it had been daylight, and he could have come at his pistols, he would not have submitted to the robbery: he likewise set forth that he had often met highwaymen when he travelled on horseback, but none ever durst attack him; concluding that, if he had not been more afraid for the lady than for himself, he should not have now parted with his money so easily. as wit is generally observed to love to reside in empty pockets, so the gentleman whose ingenuity we have above remarked, as soon as he had parted with his money, began to grow wonderfully facetious. he made frequent allusions to adam and eve, and said many excellent things on figs and fig-leaves; which perhaps gave more offence to joseph than to any other in the company. the lawyer likewise made several very pretty jests without departing from his profession. he said, "if joseph and the lady were alone, he would be more capable of making a conveyance to her, as his affairs were not fettered with any incumbrance; he'd warrant he soon suffered a recovery by a writ of entry, which was the proper way to create heirs in tail; that, for his own part, he would engage to make so firm a settlement in a coach, that there should be no danger of an ejectment," with an inundation of the like gibberish, which he continued to vent till the coach arrived at an inn, where one servant-maid only was up, in readiness to attend the coachman, and furnish him with cold meat and a dram. joseph desired to alight, and that he might have a bed prepared for him, which the maid readily promised to perform; and, being a good-natured wench, and not so squeamish as the lady had been, she clapt a large fagot on the fire, and, furnishing joseph with a greatcoat belonging to one of the hostlers, desired him to sit down and warm himself whilst she made his bed. the coachman, in the meantime, took an opportunity to call up a surgeon, who lived within a few doors; after which, he reminded his passengers how late they were, and, after they had taken leave of joseph, hurried them off as fast as he could. the wench soon got joseph to bed, and promised to use her interest to borrow him a shirt; but imagining, as she afterwards said, by his being so bloody, that he must be a dead man, she ran with all speed to hasten the surgeon, who was more than half drest, apprehending that the coach had been overturned, and some gentleman or lady hurt. as soon as the wench had informed him at his window that it was a poor foot-passenger who had been stripped of all he had, and almost murdered, he chid her for disturbing him so early, slipped off his clothes again, and very quietly returned to bed and to sleep. aurora now began to shew her blooming cheeks over the hills, whilst ten millions of feathered songsters, in jocund chorus, repeated odes a thousand times sweeter than those of our laureat, and sung both the day and the song; when the master of the inn, mr tow-wouse, arose, and learning from his maid an account of the robbery, and the situation of his poor naked guest, he shook his head, and cried, "good-lack-a-day!" and then ordered the girl to carry him one of his own shirts. mrs tow-wouse was just awake, and had stretched out her arms in vain to fold her departed husband, when the maid entered the room. "who's there? betty?"--"yes, madam."--"where's your master?"--"he's without, madam; he hath sent me for a shirt to lend a poor naked man, who hath been robbed and murdered."--"touch one if you dare, you slut," said mrs tow-wouse: "your master is a pretty sort of a man, to take in naked vagabonds, and clothe them with his own clothes. i shall have no such doings. if you offer to touch anything, i'll throw the chamber-pot at your head. go, send your master to me."--"yes, madam," answered betty. as soon as he came in, she thus began: "what the devil do you mean by this, mr tow-wouse? am i to buy shirts to lend to a set of scabby rascals?"--"my dear," said mr tow-wouse, "this is a poor wretch."--"yes," says she, "i know it is a poor wretch; but what the devil have we to do with poor wretches? the law makes us provide for too many already. we shall have thirty or forty poor wretches in red coats shortly."--"my dear," cries tow-wouse, "this man hath been robbed of all he hath."--"well then," said she, "where's his money to pay his reckoning? why doth not such a fellow go to an alehouse? i shall send him packing as soon as i am up, i assure you."--"my dear," said he, "common charity won't suffer you to do that."--"common charity, a f--t!" says she, "common charity teaches us to provide for ourselves and our families; and i and mine won't be ruined by your charity, i assure you."--"well," says he, "my dear, do as you will, when you are up; you know i never contradict you."--"no," says she; "if the devil was to contradict me, i would make the house too hot to hold him." with such like discourses they consumed near half-an-hour, whilst betty provided a shirt from the hostler, who was one of her sweethearts, and put it on poor joseph. the surgeon had likewise at last visited him, and washed and drest his wounds, and was now come to acquaint mr tow-wouse that his guest was in such extreme danger of his life, that he scarce saw any hopes of his recovery. "here's a pretty kettle of fish," cries mrs tow-wouse, "you have brought upon us! we are like to have a funeral at our own expense." tow-wouse (who, notwithstanding his charity, would have given his vote as freely as ever he did at an election, that any other house in the kingdom should have quiet possession of his guest) answered, "my dear, i am not to blame; he was brought hither by the stage-coach, and betty had put him to bed before i was stirring."--"i'll betty her," says she.--at which, with half her garments on, the other half under her arm, she sallied out in quest of the unfortunate betty, whilst tow-wouse and the surgeon went to pay a visit to poor joseph, and inquire into the circumstances of this melancholy affair. chapter xiii. _what happened to joseph during his sickness at the inn, with the curious discourse between him and mr barnabas, the parson of the parish._ as soon as joseph had communicated a particular history of the robbery, together with a short account of himself, and his intended journey, he asked the surgeon if he apprehended him to be in any danger: to which the surgeon very honestly answered, "he feared he was; for that his pulse was very exalted and feverish, and, if his fever should prove more than symptomatic, it would be impossible to save him." joseph, fetching a deep sigh, cried, "poor fanny, i would i could have lived to see thee! but god's will be done." the surgeon then advised him, if he had any worldly affairs to settle, that he would do it as soon as possible; for, though he hoped he might recover, yet he thought himself obliged to acquaint him he was in great danger; and if the malign concoction of his humours should cause a suscitation of his fever, he might soon grow delirious and incapable to make his will. joseph answered, "that it was impossible for any creature in the universe to be in a poorer condition than himself; for since the robbery he had not one thing of any kind whatever which he could call his own." "i had," said he, "a poor little piece of gold, which they took away, that would have been a comfort to me in all my afflictions; but surely, fanny, i want nothing to remind me of thee. i have thy dear image in my heart, and no villain can ever tear it thence." joseph desired paper and pens, to write a letter, but they were refused him; and he was advised to use all his endeavours to compose himself. they then left him; and mr tow-wouse sent to a clergyman to come and administer his good offices to the soul of poor joseph, since the surgeon despaired of making any successful applications to his body. mr barnabas (for that was the clergyman's name) came as soon as sent for; and, having first drank a dish of tea with the landlady, and afterwards a bowl of punch with the landlord, he walked up to the room where joseph lay; but, finding him asleep, returned to take the other sneaker; which when he had finished, he again crept softly up to the chamber-door, and, having opened it, heard the sick man talking to himself in the following manner:-- "o most adorable pamela! most virtuous sister! whose example could alone enable me to withstand all the temptations of riches and beauty, and to preserve my virtue pure and chaste for the arms of my dear fanny, if it had pleased heaven that i should ever have come unto them. what riches, or honours, or pleasures, can make us amends for the loss of innocence? doth not that alone afford us more consolation than all worldly acquisitions? what but innocence and virtue could give any comfort to such a miserable wretch as i am? yet these can make me prefer this sick and painful bed to all the pleasures i should have found in my lady's. these can make me face death without fear; and though i love my fanny more than ever man loved a woman, these can teach me to resign myself to the divine will without repining. o thou delightful charming creature! if heaven had indulged thee to my arms, the poorest, humblest state would have been a paradise; i could have lived with thee in the lowest cottage without envying the palaces, the dainties, or the riches of any man breathing. but i must leave thee, leave thee for ever, my dearest angel! i must think of another world; and i heartily pray thou may'st meet comfort in this."--barnabas thought he had heard enough, so downstairs he went, and told tow-wouse he could do his guest no service; for that he was very light-headed, and had uttered nothing but a rhapsody of nonsense all the time he stayed in the room. the surgeon returned in the afternoon, and found his patient in a higher fever, as he said, than when he left him, though not delirious; for, notwithstanding mr barnabas's opinion, he had not been once out of his senses since his arrival at the inn. mr barnabas was again sent for, and with much difficulty prevailed on to make another visit. as soon as he entered the room he told joseph "he was come to pray by him, and to prepare him for another world: in the first place, therefore, he hoped he had repented of all his sins." joseph answered, "he hoped he had; but there was one thing which he knew not whether he should call a sin; if it was, he feared he should die in the commission of it; and that was, the regret of parting with a young woman whom he loved as tenderly as he did his heart-strings." barnabas bad him be assured "that any repining at the divine will was one of the greatest sins he could commit; that he ought to forget all carnal affections, and think of better things." joseph said, "that neither in this world nor the next he could forget his fanny; and that the thought, however grievous, of parting from her for ever, was not half so tormenting as the fear of what she would suffer when she knew his misfortune." barnabas said, "that such fears argued a diffidence and despondence very criminal; that he must divest himself of all human passions, and fix his heart above." joseph answered, "that was what he desired to do, and should be obliged to him if he would enable him to accomplish it." barnabas replied, "that must be done by grace." joseph besought him to discover how he might attain it. barnabas answered, "by prayer and faith." he then questioned him concerning his forgiveness of the thieves. joseph answered, "he feared that was more than he could do; for nothing would give him more pleasure than to hear they were taken."--"that," cries barnabas, "is for the sake of justice."--"yes," said joseph, "but if i was to meet them again, i am afraid i should attack them, and kill them too, if i could."--"doubtless," answered barnabas, "it is lawful to kill a thief; but can you say you forgive them as a christian ought?" joseph desired to know what that forgiveness was. "that is," answered barnabas, "to forgive them as--as--it is to forgive them as--in short, it is to forgive them as a christian."-- joseph replied, "he forgave them as much as he could."--"well, well," said barnabas, "that will do." he then demanded of him, "if he remembered any more sins unrepented of; and if he did, he desired him to make haste and repent of them as fast as he could, that they might repeat over a few prayers together." joseph answered, "he could not recollect any great crimes he had been guilty of, and that those he had committed he was sincerely sorry for." barnabas said that was enough, and then proceeded to prayer with all the expedition he was master of, some company then waiting for him below in the parlour, where the ingredients for punch were all in readiness; but no one would squeeze the oranges till he came. joseph complained he was dry, and desired a little tea; which barnabas reported to mrs tow-wouse, who answered, "she had just done drinking it, and could not be slopping all day;" but ordered betty to carry him up some small beer. betty obeyed her mistress's commands; but joseph, as soon as he had tasted it, said, he feared it would increase his fever, and that he longed very much for tea; to which the good-natured betty answered, he should have tea, if there was any in the land; she accordingly went and bought him some herself, and attended him with it; where we will leave her and joseph together for some time, to entertain the reader with other matters. chapter xiv. _being very full of adventures which succeeded each other at the inn._ it was now the dusk of the evening, when a grave person rode into the inn, and, committing his horse to the hostler, went directly into the kitchen, and, having called for a pipe of tobacco, took his place by the fireside, where several other persons were likewise assembled. the discourse ran altogether on the robbery which was committed the night before, and on the poor wretch who lay above in the dreadful condition in which we have already seen him. mrs tow-wouse said, "she wondered what the devil tom whipwell meant by bringing such guests to her house, when there were so many alehouses on the road proper for their reception. but she assured him, if he died, the parish should be at the expense of the funeral." she added, "nothing would serve the fellow's turn but tea, she would assure him." betty, who was just returned from her charitable office, answered, she believed he was a gentleman, for she never saw a finer skin in her life. "pox on his skin!" replied mrs tow-wouse, "i suppose that is all we are like to have for the reckoning. i desire no such gentlemen should ever call at the dragon" (which it seems was the sign of the inn). the gentleman lately arrived discovered a great deal of emotion at the distress of this poor creature, whom he observed to be fallen not into the most compassionate hands. and indeed, if mrs tow-wouse had given no utterance to the sweetness of her temper, nature had taken such pains in her countenance, that hogarth himself never gave more expression to a picture. her person was short, thin, and crooked. her forehead projected in the middle, and thence descended in a declivity to the top of her nose, which was sharp and red, and would have hung over her lips, had not nature turned up the end of it. her lips were two bits of skin, which, whenever she spoke, she drew together in a purse. her chin was peaked; and at the upper end of that skin which composed her cheeks, stood two bones, that almost hid a pair of small red eyes. add to this a voice most wonderfully adapted to the sentiments it was to convey, being both loud and hoarse. it is not easy to say whether the gentleman had conceived a greater dislike for his landlady or compassion for her unhappy guest. he inquired very earnestly of the surgeon, who was now come into the kitchen, whether he had any hopes of his recovery? he begged him to use all possible means towards it, telling him, "it was the duty of men of all professions to apply their skill gratis for the relief of the poor and necessitous." the surgeon answered, "he should take proper care; but he defied all the surgeons in london to do him any good."--"pray, sir," said the gentleman, "what are his wounds?"--"why, do you know anything of wounds?" says the surgeon (winking upon mrs tow-wouse).--"sir, i have a small smattering in surgery," answered the gentleman.--"a smattering--ho, ho, ho!" said the surgeon; "i believe it is a smattering indeed." the company were all attentive, expecting to hear the doctor, who was what they call a dry fellow, expose the gentleman. he began therefore with an air of triumph: "i suppose, sir, you have travelled?"--"no, really, sir," said the gentleman.--"ho! then you have practised in the hospitals perhaps?"--"no, sir."--"hum! not that neither? whence, sir, then, if i may be so bold to inquire, have you got your knowledge in surgery?"--"sir," answered the gentleman, "i do not pretend to much; but the little i know i have from books."--"books!" cries the doctor. "what, i suppose you have read galen and hippocrates!"--"no, sir," said the gentleman.--"how! you understand surgery," answers the doctor, "and not read galen and hippocrates?"-- "sir," cries the other, "i believe there are many surgeons who have never read these authors."--"i believe so too," says the doctor, "more shame for them; but, thanks to my education, i have them by heart, and very seldom go without them both in my pocket."--"they are pretty large books," said the gentleman.--"aye," said the doctor, "i believe i know how large they are better than you." (at which he fell a winking, and the whole company burst into a laugh.) the doctor pursuing his triumph, asked the gentleman, "if he did not understand physic as well as surgery." "rather better," answered the gentleman.--"aye, like enough," cries the doctor, with a wink. "why, i know a little of physic too."--"i wish i knew half so much," said tow-wouse, "i'd never wear an apron again."--"why, i believe, landlord," cries the doctor, "there are few men, though i say it, within twelve miles of the place, that handle a fever better. _veniente accurrite morbo_: that is my method. i suppose, brother, you understand _latin_?"--"a little," says the gentleman.--"aye, and greek now, i'll warrant you: _ton dapomibominos poluflosboio thalasses_. but i have almost forgot these things: i could have repeated homer by heart once."--"ifags! the gentleman has caught a traytor," says mrs tow-wouse; at which they all fell a laughing. the gentleman, who had not the least affection for joking, very contentedly suffered the doctor to enjoy his victory, which he did with no small satisfaction; and, having sufficiently sounded his depth, told him, "he was thoroughly convinced of his great learning and abilities; and that he would be obliged to him if he would let him know his opinion of his patient's case above-stairs."--"sir," says the doctor, "his case is that of a dead man--the contusion on his head has perforated the internal membrane of the occiput, and divelicated that radical small minute invisible nerve which coheres to the pericranium; and this was attended with a fever at first symptomatic, then pneumatic; and he is at length grown deliriuus, or delirious, as the vulgar express it." he was proceeding in this learned manner, when a mighty noise interrupted him. some young fellows in the neighbourhood had taken one of the thieves, and were bringing him into the inn. betty ran upstairs with this news to joseph, who begged they might search for a little piece of broken gold, which had a ribband tied to it, and which he could swear to amongst all the hoards of the richest men in the universe. notwithstanding the fellow's persisting in his innocence, the mob were very busy in searching him, and presently, among other things, pulled out the piece of gold just mentioned; which betty no sooner saw than she laid violent hands on it, and conveyed it up to joseph, who received it with raptures of joy, and, hugging it in his bosom, declared he could now die contented. within a few minutes afterwards came in some other fellows, with a bundle which they had found in a ditch, and which was indeed the cloaths which had been stripped off from joseph, and the other things they had taken from him. the gentleman no sooner saw the coat than he declared he knew the livery; and, if it had been taken from the poor creature above-stairs, desired he might see him; for that he was very well acquainted with the family to whom that livery belonged. he was accordingly conducted up by betty; but what, reader, was the surprize on both sides, when he saw joseph was the person in bed, and when joseph discovered the face of his good friend mr abraham adams! it would be impertinent to insert a discourse which chiefly turned on the relation of matters already well known to the reader; for, as soon as the curate had satisfied joseph concerning the perfect health of his fanny, he was on his side very inquisitive into all the particulars which had produced this unfortunate accident. to return therefore to the kitchen, where a great variety of company were now assembled from all the rooms of the house, as well as the neighbourhood: so much delight do men take in contemplating the countenance of a thief. mr tow-wouse began to rub his hands with pleasure at seeing so large an assembly; who would, he hoped, shortly adjourn into several apartments, in order to discourse over the robbery, and drink a health to all honest men. but mrs tow-wouse, whose misfortune it was commonly to see things a little perversely, began to rail at those who brought the fellow into her house; telling her husband, "they were very likely to thrive who kept a house of entertainment for beggars and thieves." the mob had now finished their search, and could find nothing about the captive likely to prove any evidence; for as to the cloaths, though the mob were very well satisfied with that proof, yet, as the surgeon observed, they could not convict him, because they were not found in his custody; to which barnabas agreed, and added that these were _bona waviata_, and belonged to the lord of the manor. "how," says the surgeon, "do you say these goods belong to the lord of the manor?"--"i do," cried barnabas.--"then i deny it," says the surgeon: "what can the lord of the manor have to do in the case? will any one attempt to persuade me that what a man finds is not his own?"--"i have heard," says an old fellow in the corner, "justice wise-one say, that, if every man had his right, whatever is found belongs to the king of london."--"that may be true," says barnabas, "in some sense; for the law makes a difference between things stolen and things found; for a thing may be stolen that never is found, and a thing may be found that never was stolen: now, goods that are both stolen and found are _waviata_; and they belong to the lord of the manor."--"so the lord of the manor is the receiver of stolen goods," says the doctor; at which there was an universal laugh, being first begun by himself. while the prisoner, by persisting in his innocence, had almost (as there was no evidence against him) brought over barnabas, the surgeon, tow-wouse, and several others to his side, betty informed them that they had overlooked a little piece of gold, which she had carried up to the man in bed, and which he offered to swear to amongst a million, aye, amongst ten thousand. this immediately turned the scale against the prisoner, and every one now concluded him guilty. it was resolved, therefore, to keep him secured that night, and early in the morning to carry him before a justice. chapter xv. _showing how mrs tow-wouse was a little mollified; and how officious mr barnabas and the surgeon were to prosecute the thief: with a dissertation accounting for their zeal, and that of many other persons not mentioned in this history._ betty told her mistress she believed the man in bed was a greater man than they took him for; for, besides the extreme whiteness of his skin, and the softness of his hands, she observed a very great familiarity between the gentleman and him; and added, she was certain they were intimate acquaintance, if not relations. this somewhat abated the severity of mrs tow-wouse's countenance. she said, "god forbid she should not discharge the duty of a christian, since the poor gentleman was brought to her house. she had a natural antipathy to vagabonds; but could pity the misfortunes of a christian as soon as another." tow-wouse said, "if the traveller be a gentleman, though he hath no money about him now, we shall most likely be paid hereafter; so you may begin to score whenever you will." mrs tow-wouse answered, "hold your simple tongue, and don't instruct me in my business. i am sure i am sorry for the gentleman's misfortune with all my heart; and i hope the villain who hath used him so barbarously will be hanged. betty, go see what he wants. god forbid he should want anything in my house." barnabas and the surgeon went up to joseph to satisfy themselves concerning the piece of gold; joseph was with difficulty prevailed upon to show it them, but would by no entreaties be brought to deliver it out of his own possession. he however attested this to be the same which had been taken from him, and betty was ready to swear to the finding it on the thief. the only difficulty that remained was, how to produce this gold before the justice; for as to carrying joseph himself, it seemed impossible; nor was there any great likelihood of obtaining it from him, for he had fastened it with a ribband to his arm, and solemnly vowed that nothing but irresistible force should ever separate them; in which resolution, mr adams, clenching a fist rather less than the knuckle of an ox, declared he would support him. a dispute arose on this occasion concerning evidence not very necessary to be related here; after which the surgeon dressed mr joseph's head, still persisting in the imminent danger in which his patient lay, but concluding, with a very important look, "that he began to have some hopes; that he should send him a sanative soporiferous draught, and would see him in the morning." after which barnabas and he departed, and left mr joseph and mr adams together. adams informed joseph of the occasion of this journey which he was making to london, namely, to publish three volumes of sermons; being encouraged, as he said, by an advertisement lately set forth by the society of booksellers, who proposed to purchase any copies offered to them, at a price to be settled by two persons; but though he imagined he should get a considerable sum of money on this occasion, which his family were in urgent need of, he protested he would not leave joseph in his present condition: finally, he told him, "he had nine shillings and threepence halfpenny in his pocket, which he was welcome to use as he pleased." this goodness of parson adams brought tears into joseph's eyes; he declared, "he had now a second reason to desire life, that he might show his gratitude to such a friend." adams bade him "be cheerful; for that he plainly saw the surgeon, besides his ignorance, desired to make a merit of curing him, though the wounds in his head, he perceived, were by no means dangerous; that he was convinced he had no fever, and doubted not but he would be able to travel in a day or two." these words infused a spirit into joseph; he said, "he found himself very sore from the bruises, but had no reason to think any of his bones injured, or that he had received any harm in his inside, unless that he felt something very odd in his stomach; but he knew not whether that might not arise from not having eaten one morsel for above twenty-four hours." being then asked if he had any inclination to eat, he answered in the affirmative. then parson adams desired him to "name what he had the greatest fancy for; whether a poached egg, or chicken-broth." he answered, "he could eat both very well; but that he seemed to have the greatest appetite for a piece of boiled beef and cabbage." adams was pleased with so perfect a confirmation that he had not the least fever, but advised him to a lighter diet for that evening. he accordingly ate either a rabbit or a fowl, i never could with any tolerable certainty discover which; after this he was, by mrs tow-wouse's order, conveyed into a better bed and equipped with one of her husband's shirts. in the morning early, barnabas and the surgeon came to the inn, in order to see the thief conveyed before the justice. they had consumed the whole night in debating what measures they should take to produce the piece of gold in evidence against him; for they were both extremely zealous in the business, though neither of them were in the least interested in the prosecution; neither of them had ever received any private injury from the fellow, nor had either of them ever been suspected of loving the publick well enough to give them a sermon or a dose of physic for nothing. to help our reader, therefore, as much as possible to account for this zeal, we must inform him that, as this parish was so unfortunate as to have no lawyer in it, there had been a constant contention between the two doctors, spiritual and physical, concerning their abilities in a science, in which, as neither of them professed it, they had equal pretensions to dispute each other's opinions. these disputes were carried on with great contempt on both sides, and had almost divided the parish; mr tow-wouse and one half of the neighbours inclining to the surgeon, and mrs tow-wouse with the other half to the parson. the surgeon drew his knowledge from those inestimable fountains, called the attorney's pocket companion, and mr jacob's law-tables; barnabas trusted entirely to wood's institutes. it happened on this occasion, as was pretty frequently the case, that these two learned men differed about the sufficiency of evidence; the doctor being of opinion that the maid's oath would convict the prisoner without producing the gold; the parson, _é contra, totis viribus._ to display their parts, therefore, before the justice and the parish, was the sole motive which we can discover to this zeal which both of them pretended to have for public justice. o vanity! how little is thy force acknowledged, or thy operations discerned! how wantonly dost thou deceive mankind under different disguises! sometimes thou dost wear the face of pity, sometimes of generosity: nay, thou hast the assurance even to put on those glorious ornaments which belong only to heroic virtue. thou odious, deformed monster! whom priests have railed at, philosophers despised, and poets ridiculed; is there a wretch so abandoned as to own thee for an acquaintance in public?--yet, how few will refuse to enjoy thee in private? nay, thou art the pursuit of most men through their lives. the greatest villainies are daily practised to please thee; nor is the meanest thief below, or the greatest hero above, thy notice. thy embraces are often the sole aim and sole reward of the private robbery and the plundered province. it is to pamper up thee, thou harlot, that we attempt to withdraw from others what we do not want, or to withhold from them what they do. all our passions are thy slaves. avarice itself is often no more than thy handmaid, and even lust thy pimp. the bully fear, like a coward, flies before thee, and joy and grief hide their heads in thy presence. i know thou wilt think that whilst i abuse thee i court thee, and that thy love hath inspired me to write this sarcastical panegyric on thee; but thou art deceived: i value thee not of a farthing; nor will it give me any pain if thou shouldst prevail on the reader to censure this digression as arrant nonsense; for know, to thy confusion, that i have introduced thee for no other purpose than to lengthen out a short chapter, and so i return to my history. chapter xvi. _the escape of the thief. mr adams's disappointment. the arrival of two very extraordinary personages, and the introduction of parson adams to parson barnabas._ barnabas and the surgeon, being returned, as we have said, to the inn, in order to convey the thief before the justice, were greatly concerned to find a small accident had happened, which somewhat disconcerted them; and this was no other than the thief's escape, who had modestly withdrawn himself by night, declining all ostentation, and not chusing, in imitation of some great men, to distinguish himself at the expense of being pointed at. when the company had retired the evening before, the thief was detained in a room where the constable, and one of the young fellows who took him, were planted as his guard. about the second watch a general complaint of drought was made, both by the prisoner and his keepers. among whom it was at last agreed that the constable should remain on duty, and the young fellow call up the tapster; in which disposition the latter apprehended not the least danger, as the constable was well armed, and could besides easily summon him back to his assistance, if the prisoner made the least attempt to gain his liberty. the young fellow had not long left the room before it came into the constable's head that the prisoner might leap on him by surprize, and, thereby preventing him of the use of his weapons, especially the long staff in which he chiefly confided, might reduce the success of a struggle to a equal chance. he wisely, therefore, to prevent this inconvenience, slipt out of the room himself, and locked the door, waiting without with his staff in his hand, ready lifted to fell the unhappy prisoner, if by ill fortune he should attempt to break out. but human life, as hath been discovered by some great man or other (for i would by no means be understood to affect the honour of making any such discovery), very much resembles a game at chess; for as in the latter, while a gamester is too attentive to secure himself very strongly on one side the board, he is apt to leave an unguarded opening on the other; so doth it often happen in life, and so did it happen on this occasion; for whilst the cautious constable with such wonderful sagacity had possessed himself of the door, he most unhappily forgot the window. the thief, who played on the other side, no sooner perceived this opening than he began to move that way; and, finding the passage easy, he took with him the young fellow's hat, and without any ceremony stepped into the street and made the best of his way. the young fellow, returning with a double mug of strong beer, was a little surprized to find the constable at the door; but much more so when, the door being opened, he perceived the prisoner had made his escape, and which way. he threw down the beer, and, without uttering anything to the constable except a hearty curse or two, he nimbly leapt out of the window, and went again in pursuit of his prey, being very unwilling to lose the reward which he had assured himself of. the constable hath not been discharged of suspicion on this account; it hath been said that, not being concerned in the taking the thief, he could not have been entitled to any part of the reward if he had been convicted; that the thief had several guineas in his pocket; that it was very unlikely he should have been guilty of such an oversight; that his pretence for leaving the room was absurd; that it was his constant maxim, that a wise man never refused money on any conditions; that at every election he always had sold his vote to both parties, &c. but, notwithstanding these and many other such allegations, i am sufficiently convinced of his innocence; having been positively assured of it by those who received their informations from his own mouth; which, in the opinion of some moderns, is the best and indeed only evidence. all the family were now up, and with many others assembled in the kitchen, where mr tow-wouse was in some tribulation; the surgeon having declared that by law he was liable to be indicted for the thief's escape, as it was out of his house; he was a little comforted, however, by mr barnabas's opinion, that as the escape was by night the indictment would not lie. mrs tow-wouse delivered herself in the following words: "sure never was such a fool as my husband; would any other person living have left a man in the custody of such a drunken drowsy blockhead as tom suckbribe?" (which was the constable's name); "and if he could be indicted without any harm to his wife and children, i should be glad of it." (then the bell rung in joseph's room.) "why betty, john, chamberlain, where the devil are you all? have you no ears, or no conscience, not to tend the sick better? see what the gentleman wants. why don't you go yourself, mr tow-wouse? but any one may die for you; you have no more feeling than a deal board. if a man lived a fortnight in your house without spending a penny, you would never put him in mind of it. see whether he drinks tea or coffee for breakfast." "yes, my dear," cried tow-wouse. she then asked the doctor and mr barnabas what morning's draught they chose, who answered, they had a pot of cyder-and at the fire; which we will leave them merry over, and return to joseph. he had rose pretty early this morning; but, though his wounds were far from threatening any danger, he was so sore with the bruises, that it was impossible for him to think of undertaking a journey yet; mr adams, therefore, whose stock was visibly decreased with the expenses of supper and breakfast, and which could not survive that day's scoring, began to consider how it was possible to recruit it. at last he cried, "he had luckily hit on a sure method, and, though it would oblige him to return himself home together with joseph, it mattered not much." he then sent for tow-wouse, and, taking him into another room, told him "he wanted to borrow three guineas, for which he would put ample security into his hands." tow-wouse, who expected a watch, or ring, or something of double the value, answered, "he believed he could furnish him." upon which adams, pointing to his saddle-bag, told him, with a face and voice full of solemnity, "that there were in that bag no less than nine volumes of manuscript sermons, as well worth a hundred pounds as a shilling was worth twelve pence, and that he would deposit one of the volumes in his hands by way of pledge; not doubting but that he would have the honesty to return it on his repayment of the money; for otherwise he must be a very great loser, seeing that every volume would at least bring him ten pounds, as he had been informed by a neighbouring clergyman in the country; for," said he, "as to my own part, having never yet dealt in printing, i do not pretend to ascertain the exact value of such things." tow-wouse, who was a little surprized at the pawn, said (and not without some truth), "that he was no judge of the price of such kind of goods; and as for money, he really was very short." adams answered, "certainly he would not scruple to lend him three guineas on what was undoubtedly worth at least ten." the landlord replied, "he did not believe he had so much money in the house, and besides, he was to make up a sum. he was very confident the books were of much higher value, and heartily sorry it did not suit him." he then cried out, "coming sir!" though nobody called; and ran downstairs without any fear of breaking his neck. poor adams was extremely dejected at this disappointment, nor knew he what further stratagem to try. he immediately applied to his pipe, his constant friend and comfort in his afflictions; and, leaning over the rails, he devoted himself to meditation, assisted by the inspiring fumes of tobacco. he had on a nightcap drawn over his wig, and a short greatcoat, which half covered his cassock--a dress which, added to something comical enough in his countenance, composed a figure likely to attract the eyes of those who were not over given to observation. whilst he was smoaking his pipe in this posture, a coach and six, with a numerous attendance, drove into the inn. there alighted from the coach a young fellow and a brace of pointers, after which another young fellow leapt from the box, and shook the former by the hand; and both, together with the dogs, were instantly conducted by mr tow-wouse into an apartment; whither as they passed, they entertained themselves with the following short facetious dialogue:-- "you are a pretty fellow for a coachman, jack!" says he from the coach; "you had almost overturned us just now."--"pox take you!" says the coachman; "if i had only broke your neck, it would have been saving somebody else the trouble; but i should have been sorry for the pointers."--"why, you son of a b--," answered the other, "if nobody could shoot better than you, the pointers would be of no use."--"d--n me," says the coachman, "i will shoot with you five guineas a shot."--"you be hanged," says the other; "for five guineas you shall shoot at my a--."--"done," says the coachman; "i'll pepper you better than ever you was peppered by jenny bouncer."--"pepper your grandmother," says the other: "here's tow-wouse will let you shoot at him for a shilling a time."--"i know his honour better," cries tow-wouse; "i never saw a surer shot at a partridge. every man misses now and then; but if i could shoot half as well as his honour, i would desire no better livelihood than i could get by my gun."--"pox on you," said the coachman, "you demolish more game now than your head's worth. there's a bitch, tow-wouse: by g-- she never blinked[a] a bird in her life."--"i have a puppy, not a year old, shall hunt with her for a hundred," cries the other gentleman.--"done," says the coachman: "but you will be pox'd before you make the bett."--"if you have a mind for a bett," cries the coachman, "i will match my spotted dog with your white bitch for a hundred, play or pay."--"done," says the other: "and i'll run baldface against slouch with you for another."--"no," cries he from the box; "but i'll venture miss jenny against baldface, or hannibal either."--"go to the devil," cries he from the coach: "i will make every bett your own way, to be sure! i will match hannibal with slouch for a thousand, if you dare; and i say done first." [footnote a: to blink is a term used to signify the dog's passing by a bird without pointing at it.] they were now arrived; and the reader will be very contented to leave them, and repair to the kitchen; where barnabas, the surgeon, and an exciseman were smoaking their pipes over some cyder-and; and where the servants, who attended the two noble gentlemen we have just seen alight, were now arrived. "tom," cries one of the footmen, "there's parson adams smoaking his pipe in the gallery."--"yes," says tom; "i pulled off my hat to him, and the parson spoke to me." "is the gentleman a clergyman, then?" says barnabas (for his cassock had been tied up when he arrived). "yes, sir," answered the footman; "and one there be but few like."--"aye," said barnabas; "if i had known it sooner, i should have desired his company; i would always shew a proper respect for the cloth: but what say you, doctor, shall we adjourn into a room, and invite him to take part of a bowl of punch?" this proposal was immediately agreed to and executed; and parson adams accepting the invitation, much civility passed between the two clergymen, who both declared the great honour they had for the cloth. they had not been long together before they entered into a discourse on small tithes, which continued a full hour, without the doctor or exciseman's having one opportunity to offer a word. it was then proposed to begin a general conversation, and the exciseman opened on foreign affairs; but a word unluckily dropping from one of them introduced a dissertation on the hardships suffered by the inferior clergy; which, after a long duration, concluded with bringing the nine volumes of sermons on the carpet. barnabas greatly discouraged poor adams; he said, "the age was so wicked, that nobody read sermons: would you think it, mr adams?" said he, "i once intended to print a volume of sermons myself, and they had the approbation of two or three bishops; but what do you think a bookseller offered me?"--"twelve guineas perhaps," cried adams.--"not twelve pence, i assure you," answered barnabas: "nay, the dog refused me a concordance in exchange. at last i offered to give him the printing them, for the sake of dedicating them to that very gentleman who just now drove his own coach into the inn; and, i assure you, he had the impudence to refuse my offer; by which means i lost a good living, that was afterwards given away in exchange for a pointer, to one who--but i will not say anything against the cloth. so you may guess, mr adams, what you are to expect; for if sermons would have gone down, i believe--i will not be vain; but to be concise with you, three bishops said they were the best that ever were writ: but indeed there are a pretty moderate number printed already, and not all sold yet."--"pray, sir," said adams, "to what do you think the numbers may amount?"--"sir," answered barnabas, "a bookseller told me, he believed five thousand volumes at least."--"five thousand?" quoth the surgeon: "what can they be writ upon? i remember when i was a boy, i used to read one tillotson's sermons; and, i am sure, if a man practised half so much as is in one of those sermons, he will go to heaven."--"doctor," cried barnabas, "you have a prophane way of talking, for which i must reprove you. a man can never have his duty too frequently inculcated into him. and as for tillotson, to be sure he was a good writer, and said things very well; but comparisons are odious; another man may write as well as he--i believe there are some of my sermons,"--and then he applied the candle to his pipe.--"and i believe there are some of my discourses," cries adams, "which the bishops would not think totally unworthy of being printed; and i have been informed i might procure a very large sum (indeed an immense one) on them."--"i doubt that," answered barnabas: "however, if you desire to make some money of them, perhaps you may sell them by advertising the manuscript sermons of a clergyman lately deceased, all warranted originals, and never printed. and now i think of it, i should be obliged to you, if there be ever a funeral one among them, to lend it me; for i am this very day to preach a funeral sermon, for which i have not penned a line, though i am to have a double price."--adams answered, "he had but one, which he feared would not serve his purpose, being sacred to the memory of a magistrate, who had exerted himself very singularly in the preservation of the morality of his neighbours, insomuch that he had neither alehouse nor lewd woman in the parish where he lived."--"no," replied barnabas, "that will not do quite so well; for the deceased, upon whose virtues i am to harangue, was a little too much addicted to liquor, and publickly kept a mistress.--i believe i must take a common sermon, and trust to my memory to introduce something handsome on him."--"to your invention rather," said the doctor: "your memory will be apter to put you out; for no man living remembers anything good of him." with such kind of spiritual discourse, they emptied the bowl of punch, paid their reckoning, and separated: adams and the doctor went up to joseph, parson barnabas departed to celebrate the aforesaid deceased, and the exciseman descended into the cellar to gauge the vessels. joseph was now ready to sit down to a loin of mutton, and waited for mr adams, when he and the doctor came in. the doctor, having felt his pulse and examined his wounds, declared him much better, which he imputed to that sanative soporiferous draught, a medicine "whose virtues," he said, "were never to be sufficiently extolled." and great indeed they must be, if joseph was so much indebted to them as the doctor imagined; since nothing more than those effluvia which escaped the cork could have contributed to his recovery; for the medicine had stood untouched in the window ever since its arrival. joseph passed that day, and the three following, with his friend adams, in which nothing so remarkable happened as the swift progress of his recovery. as he had an excellent habit of body, his wounds were now almost healed; and his bruises gave him so little uneasiness, that he pressed mr adams to let him depart; told him he should never be able to return sufficient thanks for all his favours, but begged that he might no longer delay his journey to london. adams, notwithstanding the ignorance, as he conceived it, of mr tow-wouse, and the envy (for such he thought it) of mr barnabas, had great expectations from his sermons: seeing therefore joseph in so good a way, he told him he would agree to his setting out the next morning in the stage-coach, that he believed he should have sufficient, after the reckoning paid, to procure him one day's conveyance in it, and afterwards he would be able to get on on foot, or might be favoured with a lift in some neighbour's waggon, especially as there was then to be a fair in the town whither the coach would carry him, to which numbers from his parish resorted--and as to himself, he agreed to proceed to the great city. they were now walking in the inn-yard, when a fat, fair, short person rode in, and, alighting from his horse, went directly up to barnabas, who was smoaking his pipe on a bench. the parson and the stranger shook one another very lovingly by the hand, and went into a room together. the evening now coming on, joseph retired to his chamber, whither the good adams accompanied him, and took this opportunity to expatiate on the great mercies god had lately shown him, of which he ought not only to have the deepest inward sense, but likewise to express outward thankfulness for them. they therefore fell both on their knees, and spent a considerable time in prayer and thanksgiving. they had just finished when betty came in and told mr adams mr barnabas desired to speak to him on some business of consequence below-stairs. joseph desired, if it was likely to detain him long, he would let him know it, that he might go to bed, which adams promised, and in that case they wished one another good-night. chapter xvii. _a pleasant discourse between the two parsons and the bookseller, which was broke off by an unlucky accident happening in the inn, which produced a dialogue between mrs tow-wouse and her maid of no gentle kind._ as soon as adams came into the room, mr barnabas introduced him to the stranger, who was, he told him, a bookseller, and would be as likely to deal with him for his sermons as any man whatever. adams, saluting the stranger, answered barnabas, that he was very much obliged to him; that nothing could be more convenient, for he had no other business to the great city, and was heartily desirous of returning with the young man, who was just recovered of his misfortune. he then snapt his fingers (as was usual with him), and took two or three turns about the room in an extasy. and to induce the bookseller to be as expeditious as possible, as likewise to offer him a better price for his commodity, he assured them their meeting was extremely lucky to himself; for that he had the most pressing occasion for money at that time, his own being almost spent, and having a friend then in the same inn, who was just recovered from some wounds he had received from robbers, and was in a most indigent condition. "so that nothing," says he, "could be so opportune for the supplying both our necessities as my making an immediate bargain with you." as soon as he had seated himself, the stranger began in these words: "sir, i do not care absolutely to deny engaging in what my friend mr barnabas recommends; but sermons are mere drugs. the trade is so vastly stocked with them, that really, unless they come out with the name of whitefield or wesley, or some other such great man, as a bishop, or those sort of people, i don't care to touch; unless now it was a sermon preached on the th of january; or we could say in the title-page, published at the earnest request of the congregation, or the inhabitants; but, truly, for a dry piece of sermons, i had rather be excused; especially as my hands are so full at present. however, sir, as mr barnabas mentioned them to me, i will, if you please, take the manuscript with me to town, and send you my opinion of it in a very short time." "oh!" said adams, "if you desire it, i will read two or three discourses as a specimen." this barnabas, who loved sermons no better than a grocer doth figs, immediately objected to, and advised adams to let the bookseller have his sermons: telling him, "if he gave him a direction, he might be certain of a speedy answer;" adding, he need not scruple trusting them in his possession. "no," said the bookseller, "if it was a play that had been acted twenty nights together, i believe it would be safe." adams did not at all relish the last expression; he said "he was sorry to hear sermons compared to plays." "not by me, i assure you," cried the bookseller, "though i don't know whether the licensing act may not shortly bring them to the same footing; but i have formerly known a hundred guineas given for a play."--"more shame for those who gave it," cried barnabas.--"why so?" said the bookseller, "for they got hundreds by it."--"but is there no difference between conveying good or ill instructions to mankind?" said adams: "would not an honest mind rather lose money by the one, than gain it by the other?"--"if you can find any such, i will not be their hindrance," answered the bookseller; "but i think those persons who get by preaching sermons are the properest to lose by printing them: for my part, the copy that sells best will be always the best copy in my opinion; i am no enemy to sermons, but because they don't sell: for i would as soon print one of whitefield's as any farce whatever." "whoever prints such heterodox stuff ought to be hanged," says barnabas. "sir," said he, turning to adams, "this fellow's writings (i know not whether you have seen them) are levelled at the clergy. he would reduce us to the example of the primitive ages, forsooth! and would insinuate to the people that a clergyman ought to be always preaching and praying. he pretends to understand the scripture literally; and would make mankind believe that the poverty and low estate which was recommended to the church in its infancy, and was only temporary doctrine adapted to her under persecution, was to be preserved in her flourishing and established state. sir, the principles of toland, woolston, and all the freethinkers, are not calculated to do half the mischief, as those professed by this fellow and his followers." "sir," answered adams, "if mr whitefield had carried his doctrine no farther than you mention, i should have remained, as i once was, his well-wisher. i am, myself, as great an enemy to the luxury and splendour of the clergy as he can be. i do not, more than he, by the flourishing estate of the church, understand the palaces, equipages, dress, furniture, rich dainties, and vast fortunes, of her ministers. surely those things, which savour so strongly of this world, become not the servants of one who professed his kingdom was not of it. but when he began to call nonsense and enthusiasm to his aid, and set up the detestable doctrine of faith against good works, i was his friend no longer; for surely that doctrine was coined in hell; and one would think none but the devil himself could have the confidence to preach it. for can anything be more derogatory to the honour of god than for men to imagine that the all-wise being will hereafter say to the good and virtuous, 'notwithstanding the purity of thy life, notwithstanding that constant rule of virtue and goodness in which you walked upon earth, still, as thou didst not believe everything in the true orthodox manner, thy want of faith shall condemn thee?' or, on the other side, can any doctrine have a more pernicious influence on society, than a persuasion that it will be a good plea for the villain at the last day--'lord, it is true i never obeyed one of thy commandments, yet punish me not, for i believe them all?'"--"i suppose, sir," said the bookseller, "your sermons are of a different kind."--"aye, sir," said adams; "the contrary, i thank heaven, is inculcated in almost every page, or i should belye my own opinion, which hath always been, that a virtuous and good turk, or heathen, are more acceptable in the sight of their creator than a vicious and wicked christian, though his faith was as perfectly orthodox as st paul's himself."--"i wish you success," says the bookseller, "but must beg to be excused, as my hands are so very full at present; and, indeed, i am afraid you will find a backwardness in the trade to engage in a book which the clergy would be certain to cry down."--"god forbid," says adams, "any books should be propagated which the clergy would cry down; but if you mean by the clergy, some few designing factious men, who have it at heart to establish some favourite schemes at the price of the liberty of mankind, and the very essence of religion, it is not in the power of such persons to decry any book they please; witness that excellent book called, 'a plain account of the nature and end of the sacrament;' a book written (if i may venture on the expression) with the pen of an angel, and calculated to restore the true use of christianity, and of that sacred institution; for what could tend more to the noble purposes of religion than frequent chearful meetings among the members of a society, in which they should, in the presence of one another, and in the service of the supreme being, make promises of being good, friendly, and benevolent to each other? now, this excellent book was attacked by a party, but unsuccessfully." at these words barnabas fell a-ringing with all the violence imaginable; upon which a servant attending, he bid him "bring a bill immediately; for that he was in company, for aught he knew, with the devil himself; and he expected to hear the alcoran, the leviathan, or woolston commended, if he staid a few minutes longer." adams desired, "as he was so much moved at his mentioning a book which he did without apprehending any possibility of offence, that he would be so kind to propose any objections he had to it, which he would endeavour to answer."--"i propose objections!" said barnabas, "i never read a syllable in any such wicked book; i never saw it in my life, i assure you."--adams was going to answer, when a most hideous uproar began in the inn. mrs tow-wouse, mr tow-wouse, and betty, all lifting up their voices together; but mrs tow-wouse's voice, like a bass viol in a concert, was clearly and distinctly distinguished among the rest, and was heard to articulate the following sounds:--"o you damn'd villain! is this the return to all the care i have taken of your family? this the reward of my virtue? is this the manner in which you behave to one who brought you a fortune, and preferred you to so many matches, all your betters? to abuse my bed, my own bed, with my own servant! but i'll maul the slut, i'll tear her nasty eyes out! was ever such a pitiful dog, to take up with such a mean trollop? if she had been a gentlewoman, like myself, it had been some excuse; but a beggarly, saucy, dirty servant-maid. get you out of my house, you whore." to which she added another name, which we do not care to stain our paper with. it was a monosyllable beginning with a b--, and indeed was the same as if she had pronounced the words, she-dog. which term we shall, to avoid offence, use on this occasion, though indeed both the mistress and maid uttered the above-mentioned b--, a word extremely disgustful to females of the lower sort. betty had borne all hitherto with patience, and had uttered only lamentations; but the last appellation stung her to the quick. "i am a woman as well as yourself," she roared out, "and no she-dog; and if i have been a little naughty, i am not the first; if i have been no better than i should be," cries she, sobbing, "that's no reason you should call me out of my name; my be-betters are wo-rse than me."--"huzzy, huzzy," says mrs tow-wouse, "have you the impudence to answer me? did i not catch you, you saucy"--and then again repeated the terrible word so odious to female ears. "i can't bear that name," answered betty: "if i have been wicked, i am to answer for it myself in the other world; but i have done nothing that's unnatural; and i will go out of your house this moment, for i will never be called she-dog by any mistress in england." mrs tow-wouse then armed herself with the spit, but was prevented from executing any dreadful purpose by mr adams, who confined her arms with the strength of a wrist which hercules would not have been ashamed of. mr tow-wouse, being caught, as our lawyers express it, with the manner, and having no defence to make, very prudently withdrew himself; and betty committed herself to the protection of the hostler, who, though she could not conceive him pleased with what had happened, was, in her opinion, rather a gentler beast than her mistress. mrs tow-wouse, at the intercession of mr adams, and finding the enemy vanished, began to compose herself, and at length recovered the usual serenity of her temper, in which we will leave her, to open to the reader the steps which led to a catastrophe, common enough, and comical enough too perhaps, in modern history, yet often fatal to the repose and well-being of families, and the subject of many tragedies, both in life and on the stage. chapter xviii. _the history of betty the chambermaid, and an account of what occasioned the violent scene in the preceding chapter._ betty, who was the occasion of all this hurry, had some good qualities. she had good-nature, generosity, and compassion, but unfortunately, her constitution was composed of those warm ingredients which, though the purity of courts or nunneries might have happily controuled them, were by no means able to endure the ticklish situation of a chambermaid at an inn; who is daily liable to the solicitations of lovers of all complexions; to the dangerous addresses of fine gentlemen of the army, who sometimes are obliged to reside with them a whole year together; and, above all, are exposed to the caresses of footmen, stage-coachmen, and drawers; all of whom employ the whole artillery of kissing, flattering, bribing, and every other weapon which is to be found in the whole armoury of love, against them. betty, who was but one-and-twenty, had now lived three years in this dangerous situation, during which she had escaped pretty well. an ensign of foot was the first person who made an impression on her heart; he did indeed raise a flame in her which required the care of a surgeon to cool. while she burnt for him, several others burnt for her. officers of the army, young gentlemen travelling the western circuit, inoffensive squires, and some of graver character, were set a-fire by her charms! at length, having perfectly recovered the effects of her first unhappy passion, she seemed to have vowed a state of perpetual chastity. she was long deaf to all the sufferings of her lovers, till one day, at a neighbouring fair, the rhetoric of john the hostler, with a new straw hat and a pint of wine, made a second conquest over her. she did not, however, feel any of those flames on this occasion which had been the consequence of her former amour; nor, indeed, those other ill effects which prudent young women very justly apprehend from too absolute an indulgence to the pressing endearments of their lovers. this latter, perhaps, was a little owing to her not being entirely constant to john, with whom she permitted tom whipwell the stage-coachman, and now and then a handsome young traveller, to share her favours. mr tow-wouse had for some time cast the languishing eyes of affection on this young maiden. he had laid hold on every opportunity of saying tender things to her, squeezing her by the hand, and sometimes kissing her lips; for, as the violence of his passion had considerably abated to mrs tow-wouse, so, like water, which is stopt from its usual current in one place, it naturally sought a vent in another. mrs tow-wouse is thought to have perceived this abatement, and, probably, it added very little to the natural sweetness of her temper; for though she was as true to her husband as the dial to the sun, she was rather more desirous of being shone on, as being more capable of feeling his warmth. ever since joseph's arrival, betty had conceived an extraordinary liking to him, which discovered itself more and more as he grew better and better; till that fatal evening, when, as she was warming his bed, her passion grew to such a height, and so perfectly mastered both her modesty and her reason, that, after many fruitless hints and sly insinuations, she at last threw down the warming-pan, and, embracing him with great eagerness, swore he was the handsomest creature she had ever seen. joseph, in great confusion, leapt from her, and told her he was sorry to see a young woman cast off all regard to modesty; but she had gone too far to recede, and grew so very indecent, that joseph was obliged, contrary to his inclination, to use some violence to her; and, taking her in his arms, he shut her out of the room, and locked the door. how ought man to rejoice that his chastity is always in his own power; that, if he hath sufficient strength of mind, he hath always a competent strength of body to defend himself, and cannot, like a poor weak woman, be ravished against his will! betty was in the most violent agitation at this disappointment. rage and lust pulled her heart, as with two strings, two different ways; one moment she thought of stabbing joseph; the next, of taking him in her arms, and devouring him with kisses; but the latter passion was far more prevalent. then she thought of revenging his refusal on herself; but, whilst she was engaged in this meditation, happily death presented himself to her in so many shapes, of drowning, hanging, poisoning, &c., that her distracted mind could resolve on none. in this perturbation of spirit, it accidentally occurred to her memory that her master's bed was not made; she therefore went directly to his room, where he happened at that time to be engaged at his bureau. as soon as she saw him, she attempted to retire; but he called her back, and, taking her by the hand, squeezed her so tenderly, at the same time whispering so many soft things into her ears, and then pressed her so closely with his kisses, that the vanquished fair one, whose passions were already raised, and which were not so whimsically capricious that one man only could lay them, though, perhaps, she would have rather preferred that one--the vanquished fair one quietly submitted, i say, to her master's will, who had just attained the accomplishment of his bliss when mrs tow-wouse unexpectedly entered the room, and caused all that confusion which we have before seen, and which it is not necessary, at present, to take any farther notice of; since, without the assistance of a single hint from us, every reader of any speculation or experience, though not married himself, may easily conjecture that it concluded with the discharge of betty, the submission of mr tow-wouse, with some things to be performed on his side by way of gratitude for his wife's goodness in being reconciled to him, with many hearty promises never to offend any more in the like manner; and, lastly, his quietly and contentedly bearing to be reminded of his transgressions, as a kind of penance, once or twice a day during the residue of his life. book ii. chapter i. _of divisions in authors_. there are certain mysteries or secrets in all trades, from the highest to the lowest, from that of prime-ministering to this of authoring, which are seldom discovered unless to members of the same calling. among those used by us gentlemen of the latter occupation, i take this of dividing our works into books and chapters to be none of the least considerable. now, for want of being truly acquainted with this secret, common readers imagine, that by this art of dividing we mean only to swell our works to a much larger bulk than they would otherwise be extended to. these several places therefore in our paper, which are filled with our books and chapters, are understood as so much buckram, stays, and stay-tape in a taylor's bill, serving only to make up the sum total, commonly found at the bottom of our first page and of his last. but in reality the case is otherwise, and in this as well as all other instances we consult the advantage of our reader, not our own; and indeed, many notable uses arise to him from this method; for, first, those little spaces between our chapters may be looked upon as an inn or resting-place where he may stop and take a glass or any other refreshment as it pleases him. nay, our fine readers will, perhaps, be scarce able to travel farther than through one of them in a day. as to those vacant pages which are placed between our books, they are to be regarded as those stages where in long journies the traveller stays some time to repose himself, and consider of what he hath seen in the parts he hath already passed through; a consideration which i take the liberty to recommend a little to the reader; for, however swift his capacity may be, i would not advise him to travel through these pages too fast; for if he doth, he may probably miss the seeing some curious productions of nature, which will be observed by the slower and more accurate reader. a volume without any such places of rest resembles the opening of wilds or seas, which tires the eye and fatigues the spirit when entered upon. secondly, what are the contents prefixed to every chapter but so many inscriptions over the gates of inns (to continue the same metaphor), informing the reader what entertainment he is to expect, which if he likes not, he may travel on to the next; for, in biography, as we are not tied down to an exact concatenation equally with other historians, so a chapter or two (for instance, this i am now writing) may be often passed over without any injury to the whole. and in these inscriptions i have been as faithful as possible, not imitating the celebrated montaigne, who promises you one thing and gives you another; nor some title-page authors, who promise a great deal and produce nothing at all. there are, besides these more obvious benefits, several others which our readers enjoy from this art of dividing; though perhaps most of them too mysterious to be presently understood by any who are not initiated into the science of authoring. to mention, therefore, but one which is most obvious, it prevents spoiling the beauty of a book by turning down its leaves, a method otherwise necessary to those readers who (though they read with great improvement and advantage) are apt, when they return to their study after half-an-hour's absence, to forget where they left off. these divisions have the sanction of great antiquity. homer not only divided his great work into twenty-four books (in compliment perhaps to the twenty-four letters to which he had very particular obligations), but, according to the opinion of some very sagacious critics, hawked them all separately, delivering only one book at a time (probably by subscription). he was the first inventor of the art which hath so long lain dormant, of publishing by numbers; an art now brought to such perfection, that even dictionaries are divided and exhibited piecemeal to the public; nay, one bookseller hath (to encourage learning and ease the public) contrived to give them a dictionary in this divided manner for only fifteen shillings more than it would have cost entire. virgil hath given us his poem in twelve books, an argument of his modesty; for by that, doubtless, he would insinuate that he pretends to no more than half the merit of the greek; for the same reason, our milton went originally no farther than ten; till, being puffed up by the praise of his friends, he put himself on the same footing with the roman poet. i shall not, however, enter so deep into this matter as some very learned criticks have done; who have with infinite labour and acute discernment discovered what books are proper for embellishment, and what require simplicity only, particularly with regard to similes, which i think are now generally agreed to become any book but the first. i will dismiss this chapter with the following observation: that it becomes an author generally to divide a book, as it does a butcher to joint his meat, for such assistance is of great help to both the reader and the carver. and now, having indulged myself a little, i will endeavour to indulge the curiosity of my reader, who is no doubt impatient to know what he will find in the subsequent chapters of this book. chapter ii. _a surprizing instance of mr adams's short memory, with the unfortunate consequences which it brought on joseph._ mr adams and joseph were now ready to depart different ways, when an accident determined the former to return with his friend, which tow-wouse, barnabas, and the bookseller had not been able to do. this accident was, that those sermons, which the parson was travelling to london to publish, were, o my good reader! left behind; what he had mistaken for them in the saddlebags being no other than three shirts, a pair of shoes, and some other necessaries, which mrs adams, who thought her husband would want shirts more than sermons on his journey, had carefully provided him. this discovery was now luckily owing to the presence of joseph at the opening the saddlebags; who, having heard his friend say he carried with him nine volumes of sermons, and not being of that sect of philosophers who can reduce all the matter of the world into a nutshell, seeing there was no room for them in the bags, where the parson had said they were deposited, had the curiosity to cry out, "bless me, sir, where are your sermons?" the parson answered, "there, there, child; there they are, under my shirts." now it happened that he had taken forth his last shirt, and the vehicle remained visibly empty. "sure, sir," says joseph, "there is nothing in the bags." upon which adams, starting, and testifying some surprize, cried, "hey! fie, fie upon it! they are not here sure enough. ay, they are certainly left behind." joseph was greatly concerned at the uneasiness which he apprehended his friend must feel from this disappointment; he begged him to pursue his journey, and promised he would himself return with the books to him with the utmost expedition. "no, thank you, child," answered adams; "it shall not be so. what would it avail me, to tarry in the great city, unless i had my discourses with me, which are _ut ita dicam_, the sole cause, the _aitia monotate_ of my peregrination? no, child, as this accident hath happened, i am resolved to return back to my cure, together with you; which indeed my inclination sufficiently leads me to. this disappointment may perhaps be intended for my good." he concluded with a verse out of theocritus, which signifies no more than that sometimes it rains, and sometimes the sun shines. joseph bowed with obedience and thankfulness for the inclination which the parson expressed of returning with him; and now the bill was called for, which, on examination, amounted within a shilling to the sum mr adams had in his pocket. perhaps the reader may wonder how he was able to produce a sufficient sum for so many days: that he may not be surprized, therefore, it cannot be unnecessary to acquaint him that he had borrowed a guinea of a servant belonging to the coach and six, who had been formerly one of his parishioners, and whose master, the owner of the coach, then lived within three miles of him; for so good was the credit of mr adams, that even mr peter, the lady booby's steward, would have lent him a guinea with very little security. [illustration] mr adams discharged the bill, and they were both setting out, having agreed to ride and tie; a method of travelling much used by persons who have but one horse between them, and is thus performed. the two travellers set out together, one on horseback, the other on foot: now, as it generally happens that he on horseback outgoes him on foot, the custom is, that, when he arrives at the distance agreed on, he is to dismount, tie the horse to some gate, tree, post, or other thing, and then proceed on foot; when the other comes up to the horse he unties him, mounts, and gallops on, till, having passed by his fellow-traveller, he likewise arrives at the place of tying. and this is that method of travelling so much in use among our prudent ancestors, who knew that horses had mouths as well as legs, and that they could not use the latter without being at the expense of suffering the beasts themselves to use the former. this was the method in use in those days when, instead of a coach and six, a member of parliament's lady used to mount a pillion behind her husband; and a grave serjeant at law condescended to amble to westminster on an easy pad, with his clerk kicking his heels behind him. adams was now gone some minutes, having insisted on joseph's beginning the journey on horseback, and joseph had his foot in the stirrup, when the hostler presented him a bill for the horse's board during his residence at the inn. joseph said mr adams had paid all; but this matter, being referred to mr tow-wouse, was by him decided in favour of the hostler, and indeed with truth and justice; for this was a fresh instance of that shortness of memory which did not arise from want of parts, but that continual hurry in which parson adams was always involved. joseph was now reduced to a dilemma which extremely puzzled him. the sum due for horse-meat was twelve shillings (for adams, who had borrowed the beast of his clerk, had ordered him to be fed as well as they could feed him), and the cash in his pocket amounted to sixpence (for adams had divided the last shilling with him). now, though there have been some ingenious persons who have contrived to pay twelve shillings with sixpence, joseph was not one of them. he had never contracted a debt in his life, and was consequently the less ready at an expedient to extricate himself. tow-wouse was willing to give him credit till next time, to which mrs tow-wouse would probably have consented (for such was joseph's beauty, that it had made some impression even on that piece of flint which that good woman wore in her bosom by way of heart). joseph would have found, therefore, very likely the passage free, had he not, when he honestly discovered the nakedness of his pockets, pulled out that little piece of gold which we have mentioned before. this caused mrs tow-wouse's eyes to water; she told joseph she did not conceive a man could want money whilst he had gold in his pocket. joseph answered he had such a value for that little piece of gold, that he would not part with it for a hundred times the riches which the greatest esquire in the county was worth. "a pretty way, indeed," said mrs tow-wouse, "to run in debt, and then refuse to part with your money, because you have a value for it! i never knew any piece of gold of more value than as many shillings as it would change for."--"not to preserve my life from starving, nor to redeem it from a robber, would i part with this dear piece!" answered joseph. "what," says mrs tow-wouse, "i suppose it was given you by some vile trollop, some miss or other; if it had been the present of a virtuous woman, you would not have had such a value for it. my husband is a fool if he parts with the horse without being paid for him."--"no, no, i can't part with the horse, indeed, till i have the money," cried tow-wouse. a resolution highly commended by a lawyer then in the yard, who declared mr tow-wouse might justify the detainer. as we cannot therefore at present get mr joseph out of the inn, we shall leave him in it, and carry our reader on after parson adams, who, his mind being perfectly at ease, fell into a contemplation on a passage in aeschylus, which entertained him for three miles together, without suffering him once to reflect on his fellow-traveller. at length, having spun out his thread, and being now at the summit of a hill, he cast his eyes backwards, and wondered that he could not see any sign of joseph. as he left him ready to mount the horse, he could not apprehend any mischief had happened, neither could he suspect that he missed his way, it being so broad and plain; the only reason which presented itself to him was, that he had met with an acquaintance who had prevailed with him to delay some time in discourse. he therefore resolved to proceed slowly forwards, not doubting but that he should be shortly overtaken; and soon came to a large water, which, filling the whole road, he saw no method of passing unless by wading through, which he accordingly did up to his middle; but was no sooner got to the other side than he perceived, if he had looked over the hedge, he would have found a footpath capable of conducting him without wetting his shoes. his surprize at joseph's not coming up grew now very troublesome: he began to fear he knew not what; and as he determined to move no farther, and, if he did not shortly overtake him, to return back, he wished to find a house of public entertainment where he might dry his clothes and refresh himself with a pint; but, seeing no such (for no other reason than because he did not cast his eyes a hundred yards forwards), he sat himself down on a stile, and pulled out his aeschylus. a fellow passing presently by, adams asked him if he could direct him to an alehouse. the fellow, who had just left it, and perceived the house and sign to be within sight, thinking he had jeered him, and being of a morose temper, bade him follow his nose and be d---n'd. adams told him he was a saucy jackanapes; upon which the fellow turned about angrily; but, perceiving adams clench his fist, he thought proper to go on without taking any farther notice. a horseman, following immediately after, and being asked the same question, answered, "friend, there is one within a stone's throw; i believe you may see it before you." adams, lifting up his eyes, cried, "i protest, and so there is;" and, thanking his informer, proceeded directly to it. chapter iii. _the opinion of two lawyers concerning the same gentleman, with mr adams's inquiry into the religion of his host._ he had just entered the house, and called for his pint, and seated himself, when two horsemen came to the door, and, fastening their horses to the rails, alighted. they said there was a violent shower of rain coming on, which they intended to weather there, and went into a little room by themselves, not perceiving mr adams. one of these immediately asked the other, "if he had seen a more comical adventure a great while?" upon which the other said, "he doubted whether, by law, the landlord could justify detaining the horse for his corn and hay." but the former answered, "undoubtedly he can; it is an adjudged case, and i have known it tried." adams, who, though he was, as the reader may suspect, a little inclined to forgetfulness, never wanted more than a hint to remind him, overhearing their discourse, immediately suggested to himself that this was his own horse, and that he had forgot to pay for him, which, upon inquiry, he was certified of by the gentlemen; who added, that the horse was likely to have more rest than food, unless he was paid for. the poor parson resolved to return presently to the inn, though he knew no more than joseph how to procure his horse his liberty; he was, however, prevailed on to stay under covert, till the shower, which was now very violent, was over. the three travellers then sat down together over a mug of good beer; when adams, who had observed a gentleman's house as he passed along the road, inquired to whom it belonged; one of the horsemen had no sooner mentioned the owner's name, than the other began to revile him in the most opprobrious terms. the english language scarce affords a single reproachful word, which he did not vent on this occasion. he charged him likewise with many particular facts. he said, "he no more regarded a field of wheat when he was hunting, than he did the highway; that he had injured several poor farmers by trampling their corn under his horse's heels; and if any of them begged him with the utmost submission to refrain, his horsewhip was always ready to do them justice." he said, "that he was the greatest tyrant to the neighbours in every other instance, and would not suffer a farmer to keep a gun, though he might justify it by law; and in his own family so cruel a master, that he never kept a servant a twelvemonth. in his capacity as a justice," continued he, "he behaves so partially, that he commits or acquits just as he is in the humour, without any regard to truth or evidence; the devil may carry any one before him for me; i would rather be tried before some judges, than be a prosecutor before him: if i had an estate in the neighbourhood, i would sell it for half the value rather than live near him." adams shook his head, and said, "he was sorry such men were suffered to proceed with impunity, and that riches could set any man above the law." the reviler, a little after, retiring into the yard, the gentleman who had first mentioned his name to adams began to assure him "that his companion was a prejudiced person. it is true," says he, "perhaps, that he may have sometimes pursued his game over a field of corn, but he hath always made the party ample satisfaction: that so far from tyrannising over his neighbours, or taking away their guns, he himself knew several farmers not qualified, who not only kept guns, but killed game with them; that he was the best of masters to his servants, and several of them had grown old in his service; that he was the best justice of peace in the kingdom, and, to his certain knowledge, had decided many difficult points, which were referred to him, with the greatest equity and the highest wisdom; and he verily believed, several persons would give a year's purchase more for an estate near him, than under the wings of any other great man." he had just finished his encomium when his companion returned and acquainted him the storm was over. upon which they presently mounted their horses and departed. adams, who was in the utmost anxiety at those different characters of the same person, asked his host if he knew the gentleman: for he began to imagine they had by mistake been speaking of two several gentlemen. "no, no, master," answered the host (a shrewd, cunning fellow); "i know the gentleman very well of whom they have been speaking, as i do the gentlemen who spoke of him. as for riding over other men's corn, to my knowledge he hath not been on horseback these two years. i never heard he did any injury of that kind; and as to making reparation, he is not so free of his money as that comes to neither. nor did i ever hear of his taking away any man's gun; nay, i know several who have guns in their houses; but as for killing game with them, no man is stricter; and i believe he would ruin any who did. you heard one of the gentlemen say he was the worst master in the world, and the other that he is the best; but for my own part, i know all his servants, and never heard from any of them that he was either one or the other."--"aye! aye!" says adams; "and how doth he behave as a justice, pray?"--"faith, friend," answered the host, "i question whether he is in the commission; the only cause i have heard he hath decided a great while, was one between those very two persons who just went out of this house; and i am sure he determined that justly, for i heard the whole matter."--"which did he decide it in favour of?" quoth adams.--"i think i need not answer that question," cried the host, "after the different characters you have heard of him. it is not my business to contradict gentlemen while they are drinking in my house; but i knew neither of them spoke a syllable of truth."--"god forbid!" said adams, "that men should arrive at such a pitch of wickedness to belye the character of their neighbour from a little private affection, or, what is infinitely worse, a private spite. i rather believe we have mistaken them, and they mean two other persons; for there are many houses on the road."--"why, prithee, friend," cries the host, "dost thou pretend never to have told a lye in thy life?"--"never a malicious one, i am certain," answered adams, "nor with a design to injure the reputation of any man living."--"pugh! malicious; no, no," replied the host; "not malicious with a design to hang a man, or bring him into trouble; but surely, out of love to oneself, one must speak better of a friend than an enemy."--"out of love to yourself, you should confine yourself to truth," says adams, "for by doing otherwise you injure the noblest part of yourself, your immortal soul. i can hardly believe any man such an idiot to risque the loss of that by any trifling gain, and the greatest gain in this world is but dirt in comparison of what shall be revealed hereafter." upon which the host, taking up the cup, with a smile, drank a health to hereafter; adding, "he was for something present."--"why," says adams very gravely, "do not you believe another world?" to which the host answered, "yes; he was no atheist."--"and you believe you have an immortal soul?" cries adams. he answered, "god forbid he should not."--"and heaven and hell?" said the parson. the host then bid him "not to profane; for those were things not to be mentioned nor thought of but in church." adams asked him, "why he went to church, if what he learned there had no influence on his conduct in life?" "i go to church," answered the host, "to say my prayers and behave godly."--"and dost not thou," cried adams, "believe what thou hearest at church?"--"most part of it, master," returned the host. "and dost not thou then tremble," cries adams, "at the thought of eternal punishment?"--"as for that, master," said he, "i never once thought about it; but what signifies talking about matters so far off? the mug is out, shall i draw another?" whilst he was going for that purpose, a stage-coach drove up to the door. the coachman coming into the house was asked by the mistress what passengers he had in his coach? "a parcel of squinny-gut b--s," says he; "i have a good mind to overturn them; you won't prevail upon them to drink anything, i assure you." adams asked him, "if he had not seen a young man on horseback on the road" (describing joseph). "aye," said the coachman, "a gentlewoman in my coach that is his acquaintance redeemed him and his horse; he would have been here before this time, had not the storm driven him to shelter." "god bless her!" said adams, in a rapture; nor could he delay walking out to satisfy himself who this charitable woman was; but what was his surprize when he saw his old acquaintance, madam slipslop? hers indeed was not so great, because she had been informed by joseph that he was on the road. very civil were the salutations on both sides; and mrs slipslop rebuked the hostess for denying the gentleman to be there when she asked for him; but indeed the poor woman had not erred designedly; for mrs slipslop asked for a clergyman, and she had unhappily mistaken adams for a person travelling to a neighbouring fair with the thimble and button, or some other such operation; for he marched in a swinging great but short white coat with black buttons, a short wig, and a hat which, so far from having a black hatband, had nothing black about it. joseph was now come up, and mrs slipslop would have had him quit his horse to the parson, and come himself into the coach; but he absolutely refused, saying, he thanked heaven he was well enough recovered to be very able to ride; and added, he hoped he knew his duty better than to ride in a coach while mr adams was on horseback. mrs slipslop would have persisted longer, had not a lady in the coach put a short end to the dispute, by refusing to suffer a fellow in a livery to ride in the same coach with herself; so it was at length agreed that adams should fill the vacant place in the coach, and joseph should proceed on horseback. they had not proceeded far before mrs slipslop, addressing herself to the parson, spoke thus:--"there hath been a strange alteration in our family, mr adams, since sir thomas's death." "a strange alteration indeed," says adams, "as i gather from some hints which have dropped from joseph."--"aye," says she, "i could never have believed it; but the longer one lives in the world, the more one sees. so joseph hath given you hints." "but of what nature will always remain a perfect secret with me," cries the parson: "he forced me to promise before he would communicate anything. i am indeed concerned to find her ladyship behave in so unbecoming a manner. i always thought her in the main a good lady, and should never have suspected her of thoughts so unworthy a christian, and with a young lad her own servant." "these things are no secrets to me, i assure you," cries slipslop, "and i believe they will be none anywhere shortly; for ever since the boy's departure, she hath behaved more like a mad woman than anything else." "truly, i am heartily concerned," says adams, "for she was a good sort of a lady. indeed, i have often wished she had attended a little more constantly at the service, but she hath done a great deal of good in the parish." "o mr adams," says slipslop, "people that don't see all, often know nothing. many things have been given away in our family, i do assure you, without her knowledge. i have heard you say in the pulpit we ought not to brag; but indeed i can't avoid saying, if she had kept the keys herself, the poor would have wanted many a cordial which i have let them have. as for my late master, he was as worthy a man as ever lived, and would have done infinite good if he had not been controlled; but he loved a quiet life, heaven rest his soul! i am confident he is there, and enjoys a quiet life, which some folks would not allow him here."--adams answered, "he had never heard this before, and was mistaken if she herself (for he remembered she used to commend her mistress and blame her master) had not formerly been of another opinion." "i don't know," replied she, "what i might once think; but now i am confidous matters are as i tell you; the world will shortly see who hath been deceived; for my part, i say nothing, but that it is wondersome how some people can carry all things with a grave face." thus mr adams and she discoursed, till they came opposite to a great house which stood at some distance from the road: a lady in the coach, spying it, cried, "yonder lives the unfortunate leonora, if one can justly call a woman unfortunate whom we must own at the same time guilty and the author of her own calamity." this was abundantly sufficient to awaken the curiosity of mr adams, as indeed it did that of the whole company, who jointly solicited the lady to acquaint them with leonora's history, since it seemed, by what she had said, to contain something remarkable. the lady, who was perfectly well-bred, did not require many entreaties, and having only wished their entertainment might make amends for the company's attention, she began in the following manner. chapter iv. _the history of leonora, or the unfortunate jilt._ leonora was the daughter of a gentleman of fortune; she was tall and well-shaped, with a sprightliness in her countenance which often attracts beyond more regular features joined with an insipid air: nor is this kind of beauty less apt to deceive than allure; the good humour which it indicates being often mistaken for good nature, and the vivacity for true understanding. leonora, who was now at the age of eighteen, lived with an aunt of hers in a town in the north of england. she was an extreme lover of gaiety, and very rarely missed a ball or any other public assembly; where she had frequent opportunities of satisfying a greedy appetite of vanity, with the preference which was given her by the men to almost every other woman present. among many young fellows who were particular in their gallantries towards her, horatio soon distinguished himself in her eyes beyond all his competitors; she danced with more than ordinary gaiety when he happened to be her partner; neither the fairness of the evening, nor the musick of the nightingale, could lengthen her walk like his company. she affected no longer to understand the civilities of others; whilst she inclined so attentive an ear to every compliment of horatio, that she often smiled even when it was too delicate for her comprehension. "pray, madam," says adams, "who was this squire horatio?" horatio, says the lady, was a young gentleman of a good family, bred to the law, and had been some few years called to the degree of a barrister. his face and person were such as the generality allowed handsome; but he had a dignity in his air very rarely to be seen. his temper was of the saturnine complexion, and without the least taint of moroseness. he had wit and humour, with an inclination to satire, which he indulged rather too much. this gentleman, who had contracted the most violent passion for leonora, was the last person who perceived the probability of its success. the whole town had made the match for him before he himself had drawn a confidence from her actions sufficient to mention his passion to her; for it was his opinion (and perhaps he was there in the right) that it is highly impolitick to talk seriously of love to a woman before you have made such a progress in her affections, that she herself expects and desires to hear it. but whatever diffidence the fears of a lover may create, which are apt to magnify every favour conferred on a rival, and to see the little advances towards themselves through the other end of the perspective, it was impossible that horatio's passion should so blind his discernment as to prevent his conceiving hopes from the behaviour of leonora, whose fondness for him was now as visible to an indifferent person in their company as his for her. "i never knew any of these forward sluts come to good" (says the lady who refused joseph's entrance into the coach), "nor shall i wonder at anything she doth in the sequel." the lady proceeded in her story thus: it was in the midst of a gay conversation in the walks one evening, when horatio whispered leonora, that he was desirous to take a turn or two with her in private, for that he had something to communicate to her of great consequence. "are you sure it is of consequence?" said she, smiling. "i hope," answered he, "you will think so too, since the whole future happiness of my life must depend on the event." leonora, who very much suspected what was coming, would have deferred it till another time; but horatio, who had more than half conquered the difficulty of speaking by the first motion, was so very importunate, that she at last yielded, and, leaving the rest of the company, they turned aside into an unfrequented walk. they had retired far out of the sight of the company, both maintaining a strict silence. at last horatio made a full stop, and taking leonora, who stood pale and trembling, gently by the hand, he fetched a deep sigh, and then, looking on her eyes with all the tenderness imaginable, he cried out in a faltering accent, "o leonora! is it necessary for me to declare to you on what the future happiness of my life must be founded? must i say there is something belonging to you which is a bar to my happiness, and which unless you will part with, i must be miserable!"--"what can that be?" replied leonora. "no wonder," said he, "you are surprized that i should make an objection to anything which is yours: yet sure you may guess, since it is the only one which the riches of the world, if they were mine, should purchase for me. oh, it is that which you must part with to bestow all the rest! can leonora, or rather will she, doubt longer? let me then whisper it in her ears--it is your name, madam. it is by parting with that, by your condescension to be for ever mine, which must at once prevent me from being the most miserable, and will render me the happiest of mankind." leonora, covered with blushes, and with as angry a look as she could possibly put on, told him, "that had she suspected what his declaration would have been, he should not have decoyed her from her company, that he had so surprized and frighted her, that she begged him to convey her back as quick as possible;" which he, trembling very near as much as herself, did. "more fool he," cried slipslop; "it is a sign he knew very little of our sect."--"truly, madam," said adams, "i think you are in the right: i should have insisted to know a piece of her mind, when i had carried matters so far." but mrs grave-airs desired the lady to omit all such fulsome stuff in her story, for that it made her sick. well then, madam, to be as concise as possible, said the lady, many weeks had not passed after this interview before horatio and leonora were what they call on a good footing together. all ceremonies except the last were now over; the writings were now drawn, and everything was in the utmost forwardness preparative to the putting horatio in possession of all his wishes. i will, if you please, repeat you a letter from each of them, which i have got by heart, and which will give you no small idea of their passion on both sides. mrs grave-airs objected to hearing these letters; but being put to the vote, it was carried against her by all the rest in the coach; parson adams contending for it with the utmost vehemence. horatio to leonora. "how vain, most adorable creature, is the pursuit of pleasure in the absence of an object to which the mind is entirely devoted, unless it have some relation to that object! i was last night condemned to the society of men of wit and learning, which, however agreeable it might have formerly been to me, now only gave me a suspicion that they imputed my absence in conversation to the true cause. for which reason, when your engagements forbid me the ecstatic happiness of seeing you, i am always desirous to be alone; since my sentiments for leonora are so delicate, that i cannot bear the apprehension of another's prying into those delightful endearments with which the warm imagination of a lover will sometimes indulge him, and which i suspect my eyes then betray. to fear this discovery of our thoughts may perhaps appear too ridiculous a nicety to minds not susceptible of all the tendernesses of this delicate passion. and surely we shall suspect there are few such, when we consider that it requires every human virtue to exert itself in its full extent; since the beloved, whose happiness it ultimately respects, may give us charming opportunities of being brave in her defence, generous to her wants, compassionate to her afflictions, grateful to her kindness; and in the same manner, of exercising every other virtue, which he who would not do to any degree, and that with the utmost rapture, can never deserve the name of a lover. it is, therefore, with a view to the delicate modesty of your mind that i cultivate it so purely in my own; and it is that which will sufficiently suggest to you the uneasiness i bear from those liberties, which men to whom the world allow politeness will sometimes give themselves on these occasions. "can i tell you with what eagerness i expect the arrival of that blest day, when i shall experience the falsehood of a common assertion, that the greatest human happiness consists in hope? a doctrine which no person had ever stronger reason to believe than myself at present, since none ever tasted such bliss as fires my bosom with the thoughts of spending my future days with such a companion, and that every action of my life will have the glorious satisfaction of conducing to your happiness." leonora to horatio.[a] [a] this letter was written by a young lady on reading the former. "the refinement of your mind has been so evidently proved by every word and action ever since i had the first pleasure of knowing you, that i thought it impossible my good opinion of horatio could have been heightened to any additional proof of merit. this very thought was my amusement when i received your last letter, which, when i opened, i confess i was surprized to find the delicate sentiments expressed there so far exceeding what i thought could come even from you (although i know all the generous principles human nature is capable of are centred in your breast), that words cannot paint what i feel on the reflection that my happiness shall be the ultimate end of all your actions. "oh, horatio! what a life must that be, where the meanest domestic cares are sweetened by the pleasing consideration that the man on earth who best deserves, and to whom you are most inclined to give your affections, is to reap either profit or pleasure from all you do! in such a case toils must be turned into diversions, and nothing but the unavoidable inconveniences of life can make us remember that we are mortal. "if the solitary turn of your thoughts, and the desire of keeping them undiscovered, makes even the conversation of men of wit and learning tedious to you, what anxious hours must i spend, who am condemned by custom to the conversation of women, whose natural curiosity leads them to pry into all my thoughts, and whose envy can never suffer horatio's heart to be possessed by any one, without forcing them into malicious designs against the person who is so happy as to possess it! but, indeed, if ever envy can possibly have any excuse, or even alleviation, it is in this case, where the good is so great, and it must be equally natural to all to wish it for themselves; nor am i ashamed to own it: and to your merit, horatio, i am obliged, that prevents my being in that most uneasy of all the situations i can figure in my imagination, of being led by inclination to love the person whom my own judgment forces me to condemn." matters were in so great forwardness between this fond couple, that the day was fixed for their marriage, and was now within a fortnight, when the sessions chanced to be held for that county in a town about twenty miles' distance from that which is the scene of our story. it seems, it is usual for the young gentlemen of the bar to repair to these sessions, not so much for the sake of profit as to show their parts and learn the law of the justices of peace; for which purpose one of the wisest and gravest of all the justices is appointed speaker, or chairman, as they modestly call it, and he reads them a lecture, and instructs them in the true knowledge of the law. "you are here guilty of a little mistake," says adams, "which, if you please, i will correct: i have attended at one of these quarter-sessions, where i observed the counsel taught the justices, instead of learning anything of them." it is not very material, said the lady. hither repaired horatio, who, as he hoped by his profession to advance his fortune, which was not at present very large, for the sake of his dear leonora, he resolved to spare no pains, nor lose any opportunity of improving or advancing himself in it. the same afternoon in which he left the town, as leonora stood at her window, a coach and six passed by, which she declared to be the completest, genteelest, prettiest equipage she ever saw; adding these remarkable words, "oh, i am in love with that equipage!" which, though her friend florella at that time did not greatly regard, she hath since remembered. in the evening an assembly was held, which leonora honoured with her company; but intended to pay her dear horatio the compliment of refusing to dance in his absence. oh, why have not women as good resolution to maintain their vows as they have often good inclinations in making them! the gentleman who owned the coach and six came to the assembly. his clothes were as remarkably fine as his equipage could be. he soon attracted the eyes of the company; all the smarts, all the silk waistcoats with silver and gold edgings, were eclipsed in an instant. "madam," said adams, "if it be not impertinent, i should be glad to know how this gentleman was drest." sir, answered the lady, i have been told he had on a cut velvet coat of a cinnamon colour, lined with a pink satten, embroidered all over with gold; his waistcoat, which was cloth of silver, was embroidered with gold likewise. i cannot be particular as to the rest of his dress; but it was all in the french fashion, for bellarmine (that was his name) was just arrived from paris. this fine figure did not more entirely engage the eyes of every lady in the assembly than leonora did his. he had scarce beheld her, but he stood motionless and fixed as a statue, or at least would have done so if good breeding had permitted him. however, he carried it so far before he had power to correct himself, that every person in the room easily discovered where his admiration was settled. the other ladies began to single out their former partners, all perceiving who would be bellarmine's choice; which they however endeavoured, by all possible means, to prevent: many of them saying to leonora, "o madam! i suppose we shan't have the pleasure of seeing you dance to-night;" and then crying out, in bellarmine's hearing, "oh! leonora will not dance, i assure you: her partner is not here." one maliciously attempted to prevent her, by sending a disagreeable fellow to ask her, that so she might be obliged either to dance with him, or sit down; but this scheme proved abortive. leonora saw herself admired by the fine stranger, and envied by every woman present. her little heart began to flutter within her, and her head was agitated with a convulsive motion: she seemed as if she would speak to several of her acquaintance, but had nothing to say; for, as she would not mention her present triumph, so she could not disengage her thoughts one moment from the contemplation of it. she had never tasted anything like this happiness. she had before known what it was to torment a single woman; but to be hated and secretly cursed by a whole assembly was a joy reserved for this blessed moment. as this vast profusion of ecstasy had confounded her understanding, so there was nothing so foolish as her behaviour: she played a thousand childish tricks, distorted her person into several shapes, and her face into several laughs, without any reason. in a word, her carriage was as absurd as her desires, which were to affect an insensibility of the stranger's admiration, and at the same time a triumph, from that admiration, over every woman in the room. in this temper of mind, bellarmine, having inquired who she was, advanced to her, and with a low bow begged the honour of dancing with her, which she, with as low a curtesy, immediately granted. she danced with him all night, and enjoyed, perhaps, the highest pleasure that she was capable of feeling. at these words, adams fetched a deep groan, which frighted the ladies, who told him, "they hoped he was not ill." he answered, "he groaned only for the folly of leonora." leonora retired (continued the lady) about six in the morning, but not to rest. she tumbled and tossed in her bed, with very short intervals of sleep, and those entirely filled with dreams of the equipage and fine clothes she had seen, and the balls, operas, and ridottos, which had been the subject of their conversation. in the afternoon, bellarmine, in the dear coach and six, came to wait on her. he was indeed charmed with her person, and was, on inquiry, so well pleased with the circumstances of her father (for he himself, notwithstanding all his finery, was not quite so rich as a croesus or an attalus).--"attalus," says mr. adams: "but pray how came you acquainted with these names?" the lady smiled at the question, and proceeded. he was so pleased, i say, that he resolved to make his addresses to her directly. he did so accordingly, and that with so much warmth and briskness, that he quickly baffled her weak repulses, and obliged the lady to refer him to her father, who, she knew, would quickly declare in favour of a coach and six. thus what horatio had by sighs and tears, love and tenderness, been so long obtaining, the french-english bellarmine with gaiety and gallantry possessed himself of in an instant. in other words, what modesty had employed a full year in raising, impudence demolished in twenty-four hours. here adams groaned a second time; but the ladies, who began to smoke him, took no notice. from the opening of the assembly till the end of bellarmine's visit, leonora had scarce once thought of horatio; but he now began, though an unwelcome guest, to enter into her mind. she wished she had seen the charming bellarmine and his charming equipage before matters had gone so far. "yet why," says she, "should i wish to have seen him before; or what signifies it that i have seen him now? is not horatio my lover, almost my husband? is he not as handsome, nay handsomer than bellarmine? aye, but bellarmine is the genteeler, and the finer man; yes, that he must be allowed. yes, yes, he is that certainly. but did not i, no longer ago than yesterday, love horatio more than all the world? aye, but yesterday i had not seen bellarmine. but doth not horatio doat on me, and may he not in despair break his heart if i abandon him? well, and hath not bellarmine a heart to break too? yes, but i promised horatio first; but that was poor bellarmine's misfortune; if i had seen him first, i should certainly have preferred him. did not the dear creature prefer me to every woman in the assembly, when every she was laying out for him? when was it in horatio's power to give me such an instance of affection? can he give me an equipage, or any of those things which bellarmine will make me mistress of? how vast is the difference between being the wife of a poor counsellor and the wife of one of bellarmine's fortune! if i marry horatio, i shall triumph over no more than one rival; but by marrying bellarmine, i shall be the envy of all my acquaintance. what happiness! but can i suffer horatio to die? for he hath sworn he cannot survive my loss: but perhaps he may not die: if he should, can i prevent it? must i sacrifice myself to him? besides, bellarmine may be as miserable for me too." she was thus arguing with herself, when some young ladies called her to the walks, and a little relieved her anxiety for the present. the next morning bellarmine breakfasted with her in presence of her aunt, whom he sufficiently informed of his passion for leonora. he was no sooner withdrawn than the old lady began to advise her niece on this occasion. "you see, child," says she, "what fortune hath thrown in your way; and i hope you will not withstand your own preferment." leonora, sighing, begged her not to mention any such thing, when she knew her engagements to horatio. "engagements to a fig!" cried the aunt; "you should thank heaven on your knees that you have it yet in your power to break them. will any woman hesitate a moment whether she shall ride in a coach or walk on foot all the days of her life? but bellarmine drives six, and horatio not even a pair."--"yes, but, madam, what will the world say?" answered leonora: "will not they condemn me?"--"the world is always on the side of prudence," cries the aunt, "and would surely condemn you if you sacrificed your interest to any motive whatever. oh! i know the world very well; and you shew your ignorance, my dear, by your objection. o' my conscience! the world is wiser. i have lived longer in it than you; and i assure you there is not anything worth our regard besides money; nor did i ever know one person who married from other considerations, who did not afterwards heartily repent it. besides, if we examine the two men, can you prefer a sneaking fellow, who hath been bred at the university, to a fine gentleman just come from his travels. all the world must allow bellarmine to be a fine gentleman, positively a fine gentleman, and a handsome man."--"perhaps, madam, i should not doubt, if i knew how to be handsomely off with the other."--"oh! leave that to me," says the aunt. "you know your father hath not been acquainted with the affair. indeed, for my part i thought it might do well enough, not dreaming of such an offer; but i'll disengage you: leave me to give the fellow an answer. i warrant you shall have no farther trouble." leonora was at length satisfied with her aunt's reasoning; and bellarmine supping with her that evening, it was agreed he should the next morning go to her father and propose the match, which she consented should be consummated at his return. the aunt retired soon after supper; and, the lovers being left together, bellarmine began in the following manner: "yes, madam; this coat, i assure you, was made at paris, and i defy the best english taylor even to imitate it. there is not one of them can cut, madam; they can't cut. if you observe how this skirt is turned, and this sleeve: a clumsy english rascal can do nothing like it. pray, how do you like my liveries?" leonora answered, "she thought them very pretty."--"all french," says he, "i assure you, except the greatcoats; i never trust anything more than a greatcoat to an englishman. you know one must encourage our own people what one can, especially as, before i had a place, i was in the country interest, he, he, he! but for myself, i would see the dirty island at the bottom of the sea, rather than wear a single rag of english work about me: and i am sure, after you have made one tour to paris, you will be of the same opinion with regard to your own clothes. you can't conceive what an addition a french dress would be to your beauty; i positively assure you, at the first opera i saw since i came over, i mistook the english ladies for chambermaids, he, he, he!" with such sort of polite discourse did the gay bellarmine entertain his beloved leonora, when the door opened on a sudden, and horatio entered the room. here 'tis impossible to express the surprize of leonora. "poor woman!" says mrs slipslop, "what a terrible quandary she must be in!"--"not at all," says mrs grave-airs; "such sluts can never be confounded."--"she must have then more than corinthian assurance," said adams; "aye, more than lais herself." a long silence, continued the lady, prevailed in the whole company. if the familiar entrance of horatio struck the greatest astonishment into bellarmine, the unexpected presence of bellarmine no less surprized horatio. at length leonora, collecting all the spirit she was mistress of, addressed herself to the latter, and pretended to wonder at the reason of so late a visit. "i should indeed," answered he, "have made some apology for disturbing you at this hour, had not my finding you in company assured me i do not break in upon your repose." bellarmine rose from his chair, traversed the room in a minuet step, and hummed an opera tune, while horatio, advancing to leonora, asked her in a whisper if that gentleman was not a relation of hers; to which she answered with a smile, or rather sneer, "no, he is no relation of mine yet;" adding, "she could not guess the meaning of his question." horatio told her softly, "it did not arise from jealousy."--"jealousy! i assure you, it would be very strange in a common acquaintance to give himself any of those airs." these words a little surprized horatio; but, before he had time to answer, bellarmine danced up to the lady and told her, "he feared he interrupted some business between her and the gentleman."--"i can have no business," said she, "with the gentleman, nor any other, which need be any secret to you." "you'll pardon me," said horatio, "if i desire to know who this gentleman is who is to be entrusted with all our secrets."--"you'll know soon enough," cries leonora; "but i can't guess what secrets can ever pass between us of such mighty consequence."--"no, madam!" cries horatio; "i am sure you would not have me understand you in earnest."--"'tis indifferent to me," says she, "how you understand me; but i think so unseasonable a visit is difficult to be understood at all, at least when people find one engaged: though one's servants do not deny one, one may expect a well-bred person should soon take the hint." "madam," said horatio, "i did not imagine any engagement with a stranger, as it seems this gentleman is, would have made my visit impertinent, or that any such ceremonies were to be preserved between persons in our situation." "sure you are in a dream," says she, "or would persuade me that i am in one. i know no pretensions a common acquaintance can have to lay aside the ceremonies of good breeding." "sure," said he, "i am in a dream; for it is impossible i should be really esteemed a common acquaintance by leonora, after what has passed between us?" "passed between us! do you intend to affront me before this gentleman?" "d--n me, affront the lady," says bellarmine, cocking his hat, and strutting up to horatio: "does any man dare affront this lady before me, d--n me?" "hark'ee, sir," says horatio, "i would advise you to lay aside that fierce air; for i am mightily deceived if this lady has not a violent desire to get your worship a good drubbing." "sir," said bellarmine, "i have the honour to be her protector; and, d--n me, if i understand your meaning." "sir," answered horatio, "she is rather your protectress; but give yourself no more airs, for you see i am prepared for you" (shaking his whip at him). "oh! _serviteur tres humble_," says bellarmine: "_je vous entend parfaitment bien_." at which time the aunt, who had heard of horatio's visit, entered the room, and soon satisfied all his doubts. she convinced him that he was never more awake in his life, and that nothing more extraordinary had happened in his three days' absence than a small alteration in the affections of leonora; who now burst into tears, and wondered what reason she had given him to use her in so barbarous a manner. horatio desired bellarmine to withdraw with him; but the ladies prevented it by laying violent hands on the latter; upon which the former took his leave without any great ceremony, and departed, leaving the lady with his rival to consult for his safety, which leonora feared her indiscretion might have endangered; but the aunt comforted her with assurances that horatio would not venture his person against so accomplished a cavalier as bellarmine, and that, being a lawyer, he would seek revenge in his own way, and the most they had to apprehend from him was an action. they at length therefore agreed to permit bellarmine to retire to his lodgings, having first settled all matters relating to the journey which he was to undertake in the morning, and their preparations for the nuptials at his return. but, alas! as wise men have observed, the seat of valour is not the countenance; and many a grave and plain man will, on a just provocation, betake himself to that mischievous metal, cold iron; while men of a fiercer brow, and sometimes with that emblem of courage, a cockade, will more prudently decline it. leonora was waked in the morning, from a visionary coach and six, with the dismal account that bellarmine was run through the body by horatio; that he lay languishing at an inn, and the surgeons had declared the wound mortal. she immediately leaped out of the bed, danced about the room in a frantic manner, tore her hair and beat her breast in all the agonies of despair; in which sad condition her aunt, who likewise arose at the news, found her. the good old lady applied her utmost art to comfort her niece. she told her, "while there was life there was hope; but that if he should die her affliction would be of no service to bellarmine, and would only expose herself, which might, probably, keep her some time without any future offer; that, as matters had happened, her wisest way would be to think no more of bellarmine, but to endeavour to regain the affections of horatio." "speak not to me," cried the disconsolate leonora; "is it not owing to me that poor bellarmine has lost his life? have not these cursed charms (at which words she looked steadfastly in the glass) been the ruin of the most charming man of this age? can i ever bear to contemplate my own face again (with her eyes still fixed on the glass)? am i not the murderess of the finest gentleman? no other woman in the town could have made any impression on him." "never think of things past," cries the aunt: "think of regaining the affections of horatio." "what reason," said the niece, "have i to hope he would forgive me? no, i have lost him as well as the other, and it was your wicked advice which was the occasion of all; you seduced me, contrary to my inclinations, to abandon poor horatio (at which words she burst into tears); you prevailed upon me, whether i would or no, to give up my affections for him; had it not been for you, bellarmine never would have entered into my thoughts; had not his addresses been backed by your persuasions, they never would have made any impression on me; i should have defied all the fortune and equipage in the world; but it was you, it was you, who got the better of my youth and simplicity, and forced me to lose my dear horatio for ever." the aunt was almost borne down with this torrent of words; she, however, rallied all the strength she could, and, drawing her mouth up in a purse, began: "i am not surprized, niece, at this ingratitude. those who advise young women for their interest, must always expect such a return: i am convinced my brother will thank me for breaking off your match with horatio, at any rate."--"that may not be in your power yet," answered leonora, "though it is very ungrateful in you to desire or attempt it, after the presents you have received from him." (for indeed true it is, that many presents, and some pretty valuable ones, had passed from horatio to the old lady; but as true it is, that bellarmine, when he breakfasted with her and her niece, had complimented her with a brilliant from his finger, of much greater value than all she had touched of the other.) the aunt's gall was on float to reply, when a servant brought a letter into the room, which leonora, hearing it came from bellarmine, with great eagerness opened, and read as follows:-- "most divine creature,--the wound which i fear you have heard i received from my rival is not like to be so fatal as those shot into my heart which have been fired from your eyes, _tout brilliant_. those are the only cannons by which i am to fall; for my surgeon gives me hopes of being soon able to attend your _ruelle_; till when, unless you would do me an honour which i have scarce the _hardiesse_ to think of, your absence will be the greatest anguish which can be felt by, "madam, "_avec toute le respecte_ in the world, "your most obedient, most absolute _devote_, "bellarmine." as soon as leonora perceived such hopes of bellarmine's recovery, and that the gossip fame had, according to custom, so enlarged his danger, she presently abandoned all further thoughts of horatio, and was soon reconciled to her aunt, who received her again into favour, with a more christian forgiveness than we generally meet with. indeed, it is possible she might be a little alarmed at the hints which her niece had given her concerning the presents. she might apprehend such rumours, should they get abroad, might injure a reputation which, by frequenting church twice a day, and preserving the utmost rigour and strictness in her countenance and behaviour for many years, she had established. leonora's passion returned now for bellarmine with greater force, after its small relaxation, than ever. she proposed to her aunt to make him a visit in his confinement, which the old lady, with great and commendable prudence, advised her to decline: "for," says she, "should any accident intervene to prevent your intended match, too forward a behaviour with this lover may injure you in the eyes of others. every woman, till she is married, ought to consider of, and provide against, the possibility of the affair's breaking off." leonora said, "she should be indifferent to whatever might happen in such a case; for she had now so absolutely placed her affections on this dear man (so she called him), that, if it was her misfortune to lose him, she should for ever abandon all thoughts of mankind." she, therefore, resolved to visit him, notwithstanding all the prudent advice of her aunt to the contrary, and that very afternoon executed her resolution. the lady was proceeding in her story, when the coach drove into the inn where the company were to dine, sorely to the dissatisfaction of mr adams, whose ears were the most hungry part about him; he being, as the reader may perhaps guess, of an insatiable curiosity, and heartily desirous of hearing the end of this amour, though he professed he could scarce wish success to a lady of so inconstant a disposition. chapter v. _a dreadful quarrel which happened at the inn where the company dined, with its bloody consequences to mr adams._ as soon as the passengers had alighted from the coach, mr adams, as was his custom, made directly to the kitchen, where he found joseph sitting by the fire, and the hostess anointing his leg; for the horse which mr adams had borrowed of his clerk had so violent a propensity to kneeling, that one would have thought it had been his trade, as well as his master's; nor would he always give any notice of such his intention; he was often found on his knees when the rider least expected it. this foible, however, was of no great inconvenience to the parson, who was accustomed to it; and, as his legs almost touched the ground when he bestrode the beast, had but a little way to fall, and threw himself forward on such occasions with so much dexterity that he never received any mischief; the horse and he frequently rolling many paces' distance, and afterwards both getting up and meeting as good friends as ever. poor joseph, who had not been used to such kind of cattle, though an excellent horseman, did not so happily disengage himself; but, falling with his leg under the beast, received a violent contusion, to which the good woman was, as we have said, applying a warm hand, with some camphorated spirits, just at the time when the parson entered the kitchen. he had scarce expressed his concern for joseph's misfortune before the host likewise entered. he was by no means of mr tow-wouse's gentle disposition; and was, indeed, perfect master of his house, and everything in it but his guests. this surly fellow, who always proportioned his respect to the appearance of a traveller, from "god bless your honour," down to plain "coming presently," observing his wife on her knees to a footman, cried out, without considering his circumstances, "what a pox is the woman about? why don't you mind the company in the coach? go and ask them what they will have for dinner." "my dear," says she, "you know they can have nothing but what is at the fire, which will be ready presently; and really the poor young man's leg is very much bruised." at which words she fell to chafing more violently than before: the bell then happening to ring, he damn'd his wife, and bid her go in to the company, and not stand rubbing there all day, for he did not believe the young fellow's leg was so bad as he pretended; and if it was, within twenty miles he would find a surgeon to cut it off. upon these words, adams fetched two strides across the room; and snapping his fingers over his head, muttered aloud, he would excommunicate such a wretch for a farthing, for he believed the devil had more humanity. these words occasioned a dialogue between adams and the host, in which there were two or three sharp replies, till joseph bad the latter know how to behave himself to his betters. at which the host (having first strictly surveyed adams) scornfully repeating the word "betters," flew into a rage, and, telling joseph he was as able to walk out of his house as he had been to walk into it, offered to lay violent hands on him; which perceiving, adams dealt him so sound a compliment over his face with his fist, that the blood immediately gushed out of his nose in a stream. the host, being unwilling to be outdone in courtesy, especially by a person of adams's figure, returned the favour with so much gratitude, that the parson's nostrils began to look a little redder than usual. upon which he again assailed his antagonist, and with another stroke laid him sprawling on the floor. the hostess, who was a better wife than so surly a husband deserved, seeing her husband all bloody and stretched along, hastened presently to his assistance, or rather to revenge the blow, which, to all appearance, was the last he would ever receive; when, lo! a pan full of hog's blood, which unluckily stood on the dresser, presented itself first to her hands. she seized it in her fury, and without any reflection, discharged it into the parson's face; and with so good an aim, that much the greater part first saluted his countenance, and trickled thence in so large a current down to his beard, and over his garments, that a more horrible spectacle was hardly to be seen, or even imagined. all which was perceived by mrs slipslop, who entered the kitchen at that instant. this good gentlewoman, not being of a temper so extremely cool and patient as perhaps was required to ask many questions on this occasion, flew with great impetuosity at the hostess's cap, which, together with some of her hair, she plucked from her head in a moment, giving her, at the same time, several hearty cuffs in the face; which by frequent practice on the inferior servants, she had learned an excellent knack of delivering with a good grace. poor joseph could hardly rise from his chair; the parson was employed in wiping the blood from his eyes, which had entirely blinded him; and the landlord was but just beginning to stir; whilst mrs slipslop, holding down the landlady's face with her left hand, made so dexterous an use of her right, that the poor woman began to roar, in a key which alarmed all the company in the inn. there happened to be in the inn, at this time, besides the ladies who arrived in the stage-coach, the two gentlemen who were present at mr tow-wouse's when joseph was detained for his horse's meat, and whom we have before mentioned to have stopt at the alehouse with adams. there was likewise a gentleman just returned from his travels to italy; all whom the horrid outcry of murder presently brought into the kitchen, where the several combatants were found in the postures already described. it was now no difficulty to put an end to the fray, the conquerors being satisfied with the vengeance they had taken, and the conquered having no appetite to renew the fight. the principal figure, and which engaged the eyes of all, was adams, who was all over covered with blood, which the whole company concluded to be his own, and consequently imagined him no longer for this world. but the host, who had now recovered from his blow, and was risen from the ground, soon delivered them from this apprehension, by damning his wife for wasting the hog's puddings, and telling her all would have been very well if she had not intermeddled, like a b--as she was; adding, he was very glad the gentlewoman had paid her, though not half what she deserved. the poor woman had indeed fared much the worst; having, besides the unmerciful cuffs received, lost a quantity of hair, which mrs slipslop in triumph held in her left hand. the traveller, addressing himself to mrs grave-airs, desired her not to be frightened; for here had been only a little boxing, which he said, to their _disgracia_, the english were _accustomata_ to: adding, it must be, however, a sight somewhat strange to him, who was just come from italy; the italians not being addicted to the _cuffardo_ but _bastonza_, says he. he then went up to adams, and telling him he looked like the ghost of othello, bid him not shake his gory locks at him, for he could not say he did it. adams very innocently answered, "sir, i am far from accusing you." he then returned to the lady, and cried, "i find the bloody gentleman is _uno insipido del nullo senso_. _dammato di me_, if i have seen such a _spectaculo_ in my way from viterbo." one of the gentlemen having learnt from the host the occasion of this bustle, and being assured by him that adams had struck the first blow, whispered in his ear, "he'd warrant he would recover."--"recover! master," said the host, smiling: "yes, yes, i am not afraid of dying with a blow or two neither; i am not such a chicken as that."--"pugh!" said the gentleman, "i mean you will recover damages in that action which, undoubtedly, you intend to bring, as soon as a writ can be returned from london; for you look like a man of too much spirit and courage to suffer any one to beat you without bringing your action against him: he must be a scandalous fellow indeed who would put up with a drubbing whilst the law is open to revenge it; besides, he hath drawn blood from you, and spoiled your coat; and the jury will give damages for that too. an excellent new coat upon my word; and now not worth a shilling! i don't care," continued he, "to intermeddle in these cases; but you have a right to my evidence; and if i am sworn, i must speak the truth. i saw you sprawling on the floor, and blood gushing from your nostrils. you may take your own opinion; but was i in your circumstances, every drop of my blood should convey an ounce of gold into my pocket: remember i don't advise you to go to law; but if your jury were christians, they must give swinging damages. that's all."--"master," cried the host, scratching his head, "i have no stomach to law, i thank you. i have seen enough of that in the parish, where two of my neighbours have been at law about a house, till they have both lawed themselves into a gaol." at which words he turned about, and began to inquire again after his hog's puddings; nor would it probably have been a sufficient excuse for his wife, that she spilt them in his defence, had not some awe of the company, especially of the italian traveller, who was a person of great dignity, withheld his rage. whilst one of the above-mentioned gentlemen was employed, as we have seen him, on the behalf of the landlord, the other was no less hearty on the side of mr adams, whom he advised to bring his action immediately. he said the assault of the wife was in law the assault of the husband, for they were but one person; and he was liable to pay damages, which he said must be considerable, where so bloody a disposition appeared. adams answered, if it was true that they were but one person, he had assaulted the wife; for he was sorry to own he had struck the husband the first blow. "i am sorry you own it too," cries the gentleman; "for it could not possibly appear to the court; for here was no evidence present but the lame man in the chair, whom i suppose to be your friend, and would consequently say nothing but what made for you."--"how, sir," says adams, "do you take me for a villain, who would prosecute revenge in cold blood, and use unjustifiable means to obtain it? if you knew me, and my order, i should think you affronted both." at the word order, the gentleman stared (for he was too bloody to be of any modern order of knights); and, turning hastily about, said, "every man knew his own business." matters being now composed, the company retired to their several apartments; the two gentlemen congratulating each other on the success of their good offices in procuring a perfect reconciliation between the contending parties; and the traveller went to his repast, crying, "as the italian poet says-- '_je voi_ very well _que tutta e pace_, so send up dinner, good boniface.'" the coachman began now to grow importunate with his passengers, whose entrance into the coach was retarded by miss grave-airs insisting, against the remonstrance of all the rest, that she would not admit a footman into the coach; for poor joseph was too lame to mount a horse. a young lady, who was, as it seems, an earl's grand-daughter, begged it with almost tears in her eyes. mr adams prayed, and mrs slipslop scolded; but all to no purpose. she said, "she would not demean herself to ride with a footman: that there were waggons on the road: that if the master of the coach desired it, she would pay for two places; but would suffer no such fellow to come in."--"madam," says slipslop, "i am sure no one can refuse another coming into a stage-coach."--"i don't know, madam," says the lady; "i am not much used to stage-coaches; i seldom travel in them."--"that may be, madam," replied slipslop; "very good people do; and some people's betters, for aught i know." miss grave-airs said, "some folks might sometimes give their tongues a liberty, to some people that were their betters, which did not become them; for her part, she was not used to converse with servants." slipslop returned, "some people kept no servants to converse with; for her part, she thanked heaven she lived in a family where there were a great many, and had more under her own command than any paultry little gentlewoman in the kingdom." miss grave-airs cried, "she believed her mistress would not encourage such sauciness to her betters."--"my betters," says slipslop, "who is my betters, pray?"--"i am your betters," answered miss grave-airs, "and i'll acquaint your mistress."--at which mrs slipslop laughed aloud, and told her, "her lady was one of the great gentry; and such little paultry gentlewomen as some folks, who travelled in stagecoaches, would not easily come at her." this smart dialogue between some people and some folks was going on at the coach door when a solemn person, riding into the inn, and seeing miss grave-airs, immediately accosted her with "dear child, how do you?" she presently answered, "o papa, i am glad you have overtaken me."--"so am i," answered he; "for one of our coaches is just at hand; and, there being room for you in it, you shall go no farther in the stage unless you desire it."--"how can you imagine i should desire it?" says she; so, bidding slipslop ride with her fellow, if she pleased, she took her father by the hand, who was just alighted, and walked with him into a room. adams instantly asked the coachman, in a whisper, "if he knew who the gentleman was?" the coachman answered, "he was now a gentleman, and kept his horse and man; but times are altered, master," said be; "i remember when he was no better born than myself."--"ay! ay!" says adams. "my father drove the squire's coach," answered he, "when that very man rode postillion; but he is now his steward; and a great gentleman." adams then snapped his fingers, and cried, "he thought she was some such trollop." adams made haste to acquaint mrs slipslop with this good news, as he imagined it; but it found a reception different from what he expected. the prudent gentlewoman, who despised the anger of miss grave-airs whilst she conceived her the daughter of a gentleman of small fortune, now she heard her alliance with the upper servants of a great family in her neighbourhood, began to fear her interest with the mistress. she wished she had not carried the dispute so far, and began to think of endeavouring to reconcile herself to the young lady before she left the inn; when, luckily, the scene at london, which the reader can scarce have forgotten, presented itself to her mind, and comforted her with such assurance, that she no longer apprehended any enemy with her mistress. everything being now adjusted, the company entered the coach, which was just on its departure, when one lady recollected she had left her fan, a second her gloves, a third a snuff-box, and a fourth a smelling-bottle behind her; to find all which occasioned some delay and much swearing to the coachman. as soon as the coach had left the inn, the women all together fell to the character of miss grave-airs; whom one of them declared she had suspected to be some low creature, from the beginning of their journey, and another affirmed she had not even the looks of a gentlewoman: a third warranted she was no better than she should be; and, turning to the lady who had related the story in the coach, said, "did you ever hear, madam, anything so prudish as her remarks? well, deliver me from the censoriousness of such a prude." the fourth added, "o madam! all these creatures are censorious; but for my part, i wonder where the wretch was bred; indeed, i must own i have seldom conversed with these mean kind of people, so that it may appear stranger to me; but to refuse the general desire of a whole company had something in it so astonishing, that, for my part, i own i should hardly believe it if my own ears had not been witnesses to it."--"yes, and so handsome a young fellow," cries slipslop; "the woman must have no compulsion in her: i believe she is more of a turk than a christian; i am certain, if she had any christian woman's blood in her veins, the sight of such a young fellow must have warmed it. indeed, there are some wretched, miserable old objects, that turn one's stomach; i should not wonder if she had refused such a one; i am as nice as herself, and should have cared no more than herself for the company of stinking old fellows; but, hold up thy head, joseph, thou art none of those; and she who hath not compulsion for thee is a myhummetman, and i will maintain it." this conversation made joseph uneasy as well as the ladies; who, perceiving the spirits which mrs slipslop was in (for indeed she was not a cup too low), began to fear the consequence; one of them therefore desired the lady to conclude the story. "aye, madam," said slipslop, "i beg your ladyship to give us that story you commensated in the morning;" which request that well-bred woman immediately complied with. chapter vi. _conclusion of the unfortunate jilt._ leonora, having once broke through the bounds which custom and modesty impose on her sex, soon gave an unbridled indulgence to her passion. her visits to bellarmine were more constant, as well as longer, than his surgeon's: in a word, she became absolutely his nurse; made his water-gruel, administered him his medicines; and, notwithstanding the prudent advice of her aunt to the contrary, almost intirely resided in her wounded lover's apartment. the ladies of the town began to take her conduct under consideration: it was the chief topic of discourse at their tea-tables, and was very severely censured by the most part; especially by lindamira, a lady whose discreet and starch carriage, together with a constant attendance at church three times a day, had utterly defeated many malicious attacks on her own reputation; for such was the envy that lindamira's virtue had attracted, that, notwithstanding her own strict behaviour and strict enquiry into the lives of others, she had not been able to escape being the mark of some arrows herself, which, however, did her no injury; a blessing, perhaps, owed by her to the clergy, who were her chief male companions, and with two or three of whom she had been barbarously and unjustly calumniated. "not so unjustly neither, perhaps," says slipslop; "for the clergy are men, as well as other folks." the extreme delicacy of lindamira's virtue was cruelly hurt by those freedoms which leonora allowed herself: she said, "it was an affront to her sex; that she did not imagine it consistent with any woman's honour to speak to the creature, or to be seen in her company; and that, for her part, she should always refuse to dance at an assembly with her, for fear of contamination by taking her by the hand." but to return to my story: as soon as bellarmine was recovered, which was somewhat within a month from his receiving the wound, he set out, according to agreement, for leonora's father's, in order to propose the match, and settle all matters with him touching settlements, and the like. a little before his arrival the old gentleman had received an intimation of the affair by the following letter, which i can repeat verbatim, and which, they say, was written neither by leonora nor her aunt, though it was in a woman's hand. the letter was in these words:-- "sir,--i am sorry to acquaint you that your daughter, leonora, hath acted one of the basest as well as most simple parts with a young gentleman to whom she had engaged herself, and whom she hath (pardon the word) jilted for another of inferior fortune, notwithstanding his superior figure. you may take what measures you please on this occasion; i have performed what i thought my duty; as i have, though unknown to you, a very great respect for your family." the old gentleman did not give himself the trouble to answer this kind epistle; nor did he take any notice of it, after he had read it, till he saw bellarmine. he was, to say the truth, one of those fathers who look on children as an unhappy consequence of their youthful pleasures; which, as he would have been delighted not to have had attended them, so was he no less pleased with any opportunity to rid himself of the incumbrance. he passed, in the world's language, as an exceeding good father; being not only so rapacious as to rob and plunder all mankind to the utmost of his power, but even to deny himself the conveniencies, and almost necessaries, of life; which his neighbours attributed to a desire of raising immense fortunes for his children: but in fact it was not so; he heaped up money for its own sake only, and looked on his children as his rivals, who were to enjoy his beloved mistress when he was incapable of possessing her, and which he would have been much more charmed with the power of carrying along with him; nor had his children any other security of being his heirs than that the law would constitute them such without a will, and that he had not affection enough for any one living to take the trouble of writing one. to this gentleman came bellarmine, on the errand i have mentioned. his person, his equipage, his family, and his estate, seemed to the father to make him an advantageous match for his daughter: he therefore very readily accepted his proposals: but when bellarmine imagined the principal affair concluded, and began to open the incidental matters of fortune, the old gentleman presently changed his countenance, saying, "he resolved never to marry his daughter on a smithfield match; that whoever had love for her to take her would, when he died, find her share of his fortune in his coffers; but he had seen such examples of undutifulness happen from the too early generosity of parents, that he had made a vow never to part with a shilling whilst he lived." he commended the saying of solomon, "he that spareth the rod spoileth the child;" but added, "he might have likewise asserted, that he that spareth the purse saveth the child." he then ran into a discourse on the extravagance of the youth of the age; whence he launched into a dissertation on horses; and came at length to commend those bellarmine drove. that fine gentleman, who at another season would have been well enough pleased to dwell a little on that subject, was now very eager to resume the circumstance of fortune. he said, "he had a very high value for the young lady, and would receive her with less than he would any other whatever; but that even his love to her made some regard to worldly matters necessary; for it would be a most distracting sight for him to see her, when he had the honour to be her husband, in less than a coach and six." the old gentleman answered, "four will do, four will do;" and then took a turn from horses to extravagance and from extravagance to horses, till he came round to the equipage again; whither he was no sooner arrived than bellarmine brought him back to the point; but all to no purpose; he made his escape from that subject in a minute; till at last the lover declared, "that in the present situation of his affairs it was impossible for him, though he loved leonora more than _tout le monde_, to marry her without any fortune." to which the father answered, "he was sorry that his daughter must lose so valuable a match; that, if he had an inclination, at present it was not in his power to advance a shilling: that he had had great losses, and been at great expenses on projects; which, though he had great expectation from them, had yet produced him nothing: that he did not know what might happen hereafter, as on the birth of a son, or such accident; but he would make no promise, or enter into any article, for he would not break his vow for all the daughters in the world." in short, ladies, to keep you no longer in suspense, bellarmine, having tried every argument and persuasion which he could invent, and finding them all ineffectual, at length took his leave, but not in order to return to leonora; he proceeded directly to his own seat, whence, after a few days' stay, he returned to paris, to the great delight of the french and the honour of the english nation. but as soon as he arrived at his home he presently despatched a messenger with the following epistle to leonora:-- "adorable and charmante,--i am sorry to have the honour to tell you i am not the _heureux_ person destined for your divine arms. your papa hath told me so with a _politesse_ not often seen on this side paris. you may perhaps guess his manner of refusing me. _ah, mon dieu!_ you will certainly believe me, madam, incapable myself of delivering this _triste_ message, which i intend to try the french air to cure the consequences of. _a jamais! coeur! ange! au diable!_ if your papa obliges you to a marriage, i hope we shall see you at paris; till when, the wind that flows from thence will be the warmest _dans le monde_, for it will consist almost entirely of my sighs. _adieu, ma princesse! ah, l'amour!_ "bellarmine." i shall not attempt, ladies, to describe leonora's condition when she received this letter. it is a picture of horror, which i should have as little pleasure in drawing as you in beholding. she immediately left the place where she was the subject of conversation and ridicule, and retired to that house i showed you when i began the story; where she hath ever since led a disconsolate life, and deserves, perhaps, pity for her misfortunes, more than our censure for a behaviour to which the artifices of her aunt very probably contributed, and to which very young women are often rendered too liable by that blameable levity in the education of our sex. "if i was inclined to pity her," said a young lady in the coach, "it would be for the loss of horatio; for i cannot discern any misfortune in her missing such a husband as bellarmine." "why, i must own," says slipslop, "the gentleman was a little false-hearted; but howsumever, it was hard to have two lovers, and get never a husband at all. but pray, madam, what became of _our-asho_?" he remains, said the lady, still unmarried, and hath applied himself so strictly to his business, that he hath raised, i hear, a very considerable fortune. and what is remarkable, they say he never hears the name of leonora without a sigh, nor hath ever uttered one syllable to charge her with her ill-conduct towards him. chapter vii. _a very short chapter, in which parson adams went a great way._ the lady, having finished her story, received the thanks of the company; and now joseph, putting his head out of the coach, cried out, "never believe me if yonder be not our parson adams walking along without his horse!"--"on my word, and so he is," says slipslop: "and as sure as twopence he hath left him behind at the inn." indeed, true it is, the parson had exhibited a fresh instance of his absence of mind; for he was so pleased with having got joseph into the coach, that he never once thought of the beast in the stable; and, finding his legs as nimble as he desired, he sallied out, brandishing a crabstick, and had kept on before the coach, mending and slackening his pace occasionally, so that he had never been much more or less than a quarter of a mile distant from it. mrs slipslop desired the coachman to overtake him, which he attempted, but in vain; for the faster he drove the faster ran the parson, often crying out, "aye, aye, catch me if you can;" till at length the coachman swore he would as soon attempt to drive after a greyhound, and, giving the parson two or three hearty curses, he cry'd, "softly, softly, boys," to his horses, which the civil beasts immediately obeyed. but we will be more courteous to our reader than he was to mrs slipslop; and, leaving the coach and its company to pursue their journey, we will carry our reader on after parson adams, who stretched forwards without once looking behind him, till, having left the coach full three miles in his rear, he came to a place where, by keeping the extremest track to the right, it was just barely possible for a human creature to miss his way. this track, however, did he keep, as indeed he had a wonderful capacity at these kinds of bare possibilities, and, travelling in it about three miles over the plain, he arrived at the summit of a hill, whence looking a great way backwards, and perceiving no coach in sight, he sat himself down on the turf, and, pulling out his aeschylus, determined to wait here for its arrival. he had not sat long here before a gun going off very near, a little startled him; he looked up and saw a gentleman within a hundred paces taking up a partridge which he had just shot. adams stood up and presented a figure to the gentleman which would have moved laughter in many; for his cassock had just again fallen down below his greatcoat, that is to say, it reached his knees, whereas the skirts of his greatcoat descended no lower than half-way down his thighs; but the gentleman's mirth gave way to his surprize at beholding such a personage in such a place. adams, advancing to the gentleman, told him he hoped he had good sport, to which the other answered, "very little."--"i see, sir," says adams, "you have smote one partridge;" to which the sportsman made no reply, but proceeded to charge his piece. whilst the gun was charging, adams remained in silence, which he at last broke by observing that it was a delightful evening. the gentleman, who had at first sight conceived a very distasteful opinion of the parson, began, on perceiving a book in his hand and smoaking likewise the information of the cassock, to change his thoughts, and made a small advance to conversation on his side by saying, "sir, i suppose you are not one of these parts?" adams immediately told him, "no; that he was a traveller, and invited by the beauty of the evening and the place to repose a little and amuse himself with reading."--"i may as well repose myself too," said the sportsman, "for i have been out this whole afternoon, and the devil a bird have i seen till i came hither." "perhaps then the game is not very plenty hereabouts?" cries adams. "no, sir," said the gentleman: "the soldiers, who are quartered in the neighbourhood, have killed it all."--"it is very probable," cries adams, "for shooting is their profession."--"ay, shooting the game," answered the other; "but i don't see they are so forward to shoot our enemies. i don't like that affair of carthagena; if i had been there, i believe i should have done other-guess things, d--n me: what's a man's life when his country demands it? a man who won't sacrifice his life for his country deserves to be hanged, d--n me." which words he spoke with so violent a gesture, so loud a voice, so strong an accent, and so fierce a countenance, that he might have frightened a captain of trained bands at the head of his company; but mr adams was not greatly subject to fear; he told him intrepidly that he very much approved his virtue, but disliked his swearing, and begged him not to addict himself to so bad a custom, without which he said he might fight as bravely as achilles did. indeed he was charmed with this discourse; he told the gentleman he would willingly have gone many miles to have met a man of his generous way of thinking; that, if he pleased to sit down, he should be greatly delighted to commune with him; for, though he was a clergyman, he would himself be ready, if thereto called, to lay down his life for his country. the gentleman sat down, and adams by him; and then the latter began, as in the following chapter, a discourse which we have placed by itself, as it is not only the most curious in this but perhaps in any other book. chapter viii. _a notable dissertation by mr abraham adams; wherein that gentleman appears in a political light._ "i do assure you, sir" (says he, taking the gentleman by the hand), "i am heartily glad to meet with a man of your kidney; for, though i am a poor parson, i will be bold to say i am an honest man, and would not do an ill thing to be made a bishop; nay, though it hath not fallen in my way to offer so noble a sacrifice, i have not been without opportunities of suffering for the sake of my conscience, i thank heaven for them; for i have had relations, though i say it, who made some figure in the world; particularly a nephew, who was a shopkeeper and an alderman of a corporation. he was a good lad, and was under my care when a boy; and i believe would do what i bade him to his dying day. indeed, it looks like extreme vanity in me to affect being a man of such consequence as to have so great an interest in an alderman; but others have thought so too, as manifestly appeared by the rector, whose curate i formerly was, sending for me on the approach of an election, and telling me, if i expected to continue in his cure, that i must bring my nephew to vote for one colonel courtly, a gentleman whom i had never heard tidings of till that instant. i told the rector i had no power over my nephew's vote (god forgive me for such prevarication!); that i supposed he would give it according to his conscience; that i would by no means endeavour to influence him to give it otherwise. he told me it was in vain to equivocate; that he knew i had already spoke to him in favour of esquire fickle, my neighbour; and, indeed, it was true i had; for it was at a season when the church was in danger, and when all good men expected they knew not what would happen to us all. i then answered boldly, if he thought i had given my promise, he affronted me in proposing any breach of it. not to be too prolix; i persevered, and so did my nephew, in the esquire's interest, who was chose chiefly through his means; and so i lost my curacy, well, sir, but do you think the esquire ever mentioned a word of the church? _ne verbum quidem, ut ita dicam_: within two years he got a place, and hath ever since lived in london; where i have been informed (but god forbid i should believe that,) that he never so much as goeth to church. i remained, sir, a considerable time without any cure, and lived a full month on one funeral sermon, which i preached on the indisposition of a clergyman; but this by the bye. at last, when mr fickle got his place, colonel courtly stood again; and who should make interest for him but mr fickle himself! that very identical mr fickle, who had formerly told me the colonel was an enemy to both the church and state, had the confidence to sollicit my nephew for him; and the colonel himself offered me to make me chaplain to his regiment, which i refused in favour of sir oliver hearty, who told us he would sacrifice everything to his country; and i believe he would, except his hunting, which he stuck so close to, that in five years together he went but twice up to parliament; and one of those times, i have been told, never was within sight of the house. however, he was a worthy man, and the best friend i ever had; for, by his interest with a bishop, he got me replaced into my curacy, and gave me eight pounds out of his own pocket to buy me a gown and cassock, and furnish my house. he had our interest while he lived, which was not many years. on his death i had fresh applications made to me; for all the world knew the interest i had with my good nephew, who now was a leading man in the corporation; and sir thomas booby, buying the estate which had been sir oliver's, proposed himself a candidate. he was then a young gentleman just come from his travels; and it did me good to hear him discourse on affairs which, for my part, i knew nothing of. if i had been master of a thousand votes he should have had them all. i engaged my nephew in his interest, and he was elected; and a very fine parliament-man he was. they tell me he made speeches of an hour long, and, i have been told, very fine ones; but he could never persuade the parliament to be of his opinion. _non omnia possumus omnes_. he promised me a living, poor man! and i believe i should have had it, but an accident happened, which was, that my lady had promised it before, unknown to him. this, indeed, i never heard till afterwards; for my nephew, who died about a month before the incumbent, always told me i might be assured of it. since that time, sir thomas, poor man, had always so much business, that he never could find leisure to see me. i believe it was partly my lady's fault too, who did not think my dress good enough for the gentry at her table. however, i must do him the justice to say he never was ungrateful; and i have always found his kitchen, and his cellar too, open to me: many a time, after service on a sunday--for i preach at four churches--have i recruited my spirits with a glass of his ale. since my nephew's death, the corporation is in other hands; and i am not a man of that consequence i was formerly. i have now no longer any talents to lay out in the service of my country; and to whom nothing is given, of him can nothing be required. however, on all proper seasons, such as the approach of an election, i throw a suitable dash or two into my sermons; which i have the pleasure to hear is not disagreeable to sir thomas and the other honest gentlemen my neighbours, who have all promised me these five years to procure an ordination for a son of mine, who is now near thirty, hath an infinite stock of learning, and is, i thank heaven, of an unexceptionable life; though, as he was never at an university, the bishop refuses to ordain him. too much care cannot indeed be taken in admitting any to the sacred office; though i hope he will never act so as to be a disgrace to any order, but will serve his god and his country to the utmost of his power, as i have endeavoured to do before him; nay, and will lay down his life whenever called to that purpose. i am sure i have educated him in those principles; so that i have acquitted my duty, and shall have nothing to answer for on that account. but i do not distrust him, for he is a good boy; and if providence should throw it in his way to be of as much consequence in a public light as his father once was, i can answer for him he will use his talents as honestly as i have done." chapter ix. _in which the gentleman discants on bravery and heroic virtue, till an unlucky accident puts an end to the discourse._ the gentleman highly commended mr adams for his good resolutions, and told him, "he hoped his son would tread in his steps;" adding, "that if he would not die for his country, he would not be worthy to live in it. i'd make no more of shooting a man that would not die for his country, than-- "sir," said he, "i have disinherited a nephew, who is in the army, because he would not exchange his commission and go to the west indies. i believe the rascal is a coward, though he pretends to be in love forsooth. i would have all such fellows hanged, sir; i would have them hanged." adams answered, "that would be too severe; that men did not make themselves; and if fear had too much ascendance in the mind, the man was rather to be pitied than abhorred; that reason and time might teach him to subdue it." he said, "a man might be a coward at one time, and brave at another. homer," says he, "who so well understood and copied nature, hath taught us this lesson; for paris fights and hector runs away. nay, we have a mighty instance of this in the history of later ages, no longer ago than the th year of rome, when the great pompey, who had won so many battles and been honoured with so many triumphs, and of whose valour several authors, especially cicero and paterculus, have formed such elogiums; this very pompey left the battle of pharsalia before he had lost it, and retreated to his tent, where he sat like the most pusillanimous rascal in a fit of despair, and yielded a victory, which was to determine the empire of the world, to caesar. i am not much travelled in the history of modern times, that is to say, these last thousand years; but those who are can, i make no question, furnish you with parallel instances." he concluded, therefore, that, had he taken any such hasty resolutions against his nephew, he hoped he would consider better, and retract them. the gentleman answered with great warmth, and talked much of courage and his country, till, perceiving it grew late, he asked adams, "what place he intended for that night?" he told him, "he waited there for the stage-coach."--"the stage-coach, sir!" said the gentleman; "they are all passed by long ago. you may see the last yourself almost three miles before us."--"i protest and so they are," cries adams; "then i must make haste and follow them." the gentleman told him, "he would hardly be able to overtake them; and that, if he did not know his way, he would be in danger of losing himself on the downs, for it would be presently dark; and he might ramble about all night, and perhaps find himself farther from his journey's end in the morning than he was now." he advised him, therefore, "to accompany him to his house, which was very little out of his way," assuring him "that he would find some country fellow in his parish who would conduct him for sixpence to the city where he was going." adams accepted this proposal, and on they travelled, the gentleman renewing his discourse on courage, and the infamy of not being ready, at all times, to sacrifice our lives to our country. night overtook them much about the same time as they arrived near some bushes; whence, on a sudden, they heard the most violent shrieks imaginable in a female voice. adams offered to snatch the gun out of his companion's hand. "what are you doing?" said he. "doing!" said adams; "i am hastening to the assistance of the poor creature whom some villains are murdering." "you are not mad enough, i hope," says the gentleman, trembling: "do you consider this gun is only charged with shot, and that the robbers are most probably furnished with pistols loaded with bullets? this is no business of ours; let us make as much haste as possible out of the way, or we may fall into their hands ourselves." the shrieks now increasing, adams made no answer, but snapt his fingers, and, brandishing his crabstick, made directly to the place whence the voice issued; and the man of courage made as much expedition towards his own home, whither he escaped in a very short time without once looking behind him; where we will leave him, to contemplate his own bravery, and to censure the want of it in others, and return to the good adams, who, on coming up to the place whence the noise proceeded, found a woman struggling with a man, who had thrown her on the ground, and had almost overpowered her. the great abilities of mr adams were not necessary to have formed a right judgment of this affair on the first sight. he did not, therefore, want the entreaties of the poor wretch to assist her; but, lifting up his crabstick, he immediately levelled a blow at that part of the ravisher's head where, according to the opinion of the ancients, the brains of some persons are deposited, and which he had undoubtedly let forth, had not nature (who, as wise men have observed, equips all creatures with what is most expedient for them) taken a provident care (as she always doth with those she intends for encounters) to make this part of the head three times as thick as those of ordinary men who are designed to exercise talents which are vulgarly called rational, and for whom, as brains are necessary, she is obliged to leave some room for them in the cavity of the skull; whereas, those ingredients being entirely useless to persons of the heroic calling, she hath an opportunity of thickening the bone, so as to make it less subject to any impression, or liable to be cracked or broken: and indeed, in some who are predestined to the command of armies and empires, she is supposed sometimes to make that part perfectly solid. as a game cock, when engaged in amorous toying with a hen, if perchance he espies another cock at hand, immediately quits his female, and opposes himself to his rival, so did the ravisher, on the information of the crabstick, immediately leap from the woman and hasten to assail the man. he had no weapons but what nature had furnished him with. however, he clenched his fist, and presently darted it at that part of adams's breast where the heart is lodged. adams staggered at the violence of the blow, when, throwing away his staff, he likewise clenched that fist which we have before commemorated, and would have discharged it full in the breast of his antagonist, had he not dexterously caught it with his left hand, at the same time darting his head (which some modern heroes of the lower class use, like the battering-ram of the ancients, for a weapon of offence; another reason to admire the cunningness of nature, in composing it of those impenetrable materials); dashing his head, i say, into the stomach of adams, he tumbled him on his back; and, not having any regard to the laws of heroism, which would have restrained him from any farther attack on his enemy till he was again on his legs, he threw himself upon him, and, laying hold on the ground with his left hand, he with his right belaboured the body of adams till he was weary, and indeed till he concluded (to use the language of fighting) "that he had done his business;" or, in the language of poetry, "that he had sent him to the shades below;" in plain english, "that he was dead." but adams, who was no chicken, and could bear a drubbing as well as any boxing champion in the universe, lay still only to watch his opportunity; and now, perceiving his antagonist to pant with his labours, he exerted his utmost force at once, and with such success that he overturned him, and became his superior; when, fixing one of his knees in his breast, he cried out in an exulting voice, "it is my turn now;" and, after a few minutes' constant application, he gave him so dexterous a blow just under his chin that the fellow no longer retained any motion, and adams began to fear he had struck him once too often; for he often asserted "he should be concerned to have the blood of even the wicked upon him." adams got up and called aloud to the young woman. "be of good cheer, damsel," said he, "you are no longer in danger of your ravisher, who, i am terribly afraid, lies dead at my feet; but god forgive me what i have done in defence of innocence!" the poor wretch, who had been some time in recovering strength enough to rise, and had afterwards, during the engagement, stood trembling, being disabled by fear even from running away, hearing her champion was victorious, came up to him, but not without apprehensions even of her deliverer; which, however, she was soon relieved from by his courteous behaviour and gentle words. they were both standing by the body, which lay motionless on the ground, and which adams wished to see stir much more than the woman did, when he earnestly begged her to tell him "by what misfortune she came, at such a time of night, into so lonely a place." she acquainted him, "she was travelling towards london, and had accidentally met with the person from whom he had delivered her, who told her he was likewise on his journey to the same place, and would keep her company; an offer which, suspecting no harm, she had accepted; that he told her they were at a small distance from an inn where she might take up her lodging that evening, and he would show her a nearer way to it than by following the road; that if she had suspected him (which she did not, he spoke so kindly to her), being alone on these downs in the dark, she had no human means to avoid him; that, therefore, she put her whole trust in providence, and walked on, expecting every moment to arrive at the inn; when on a sudden, being come to those bushes, he desired her to stop, and after some rude kisses, which she resisted, and some entreaties, which she rejected, he laid violent hands on her, and was attempting to execute his wicked will, when, she thanked g--, he timely came up and prevented him." adams encouraged her for saying she had put her whole trust in providence, and told her, "he doubted not but providence had sent him to her deliverance, as a reward for that trust. he wished indeed he had not deprived the wicked wretch of life, but g--'s will be done;" said, "he hoped the goodness of his intention would excuse him in the next world, and he trusted in her evidence to acquit him in this." he was then silent, and began to consider with himself whether it would be properer to make his escape, or to deliver himself into the hands of justice; which meditation ended as the reader will see in the next chapter. chapter x. _giving an account of the strange catastrophe of the preceding adventure, which drew poor adams into fresh calamities; and who the woman was who owed the preservation of her chastity to his victorious arm._ the silence of adams, added to the darkness of the night and loneliness of the place, struck dreadful apprehension into the poor woman's mind; she began to fear as great an enemy in her deliverer as he had delivered her from; and as she had not light enough to discover the age of adams, and the benevolence visible in his countenance, she suspected he had used her as some very honest men have used their country; and had rescued her out of the hands of one rifler in order to rifle her himself. such were the suspicions she drew from his silence; but indeed they were ill-grounded. he stood over his vanquished enemy, wisely weighing in his mind the objections which might be made to either of the two methods of proceeding mentioned in the last chapter, his judgment sometimes inclining to the one, and sometimes to the other; for both seemed to him so equally advisable and so equally dangerous, that probably he would have ended his days, at least two or three of them, on that very spot, before he had taken any resolution; at length he lifted up his eyes, and spied a light at a distance, to which he instantly addressed himself with _heus tu, traveller, heus tu!_ he presently heard several voices, and perceived the light approaching toward him. the persons who attended the light began some to laugh, others to sing, and others to hollow, at which the woman testified some fear (for she had concealed her suspicions of the parson himself); but adams said, "be of good cheer, damsel, and repose thy trust in the same providence which hath hitherto protected thee, and never will forsake the innocent." these people, who now approached, were no other, reader, than a set of young fellows, who came to these bushes in pursuit of a diversion which they call bird-batting. this, if you are ignorant of it (as perhaps if thou hast never travelled beyond kensington, islington, hackney, or the borough, thou mayst be), i will inform thee, is performed by holding a large clap-net before a lanthorn, and at the same time beating the bushes; for the birds, when they are disturbed from their places of rest, or roost, immediately make to the light, and so are inticed within the net. adams immediately told them what happened, and desired them to hold the lanthorn to the face of the man on the ground, for he feared he had smote him fatally. but indeed his fears were frivolous; for the fellow, though he had been stunned by the last blow he received, had long since recovered his senses, and, finding himself quit of adams, had listened attentively to the discourse between him and the young woman; for whose departure he had patiently waited, that he might likewise withdraw himself, having no longer hopes of succeeding in his desires, which were moreover almost as well cooled by mr adams as they could have been by the young woman herself had he obtained his utmost wish. this fellow, who had a readiness at improving any accident, thought he might now play a better part than that of a dead man; and, accordingly, the moment the candle was held to his face he leapt up, and, laying hold on adams, cried out, "no, villain, i am not dead, though you and your wicked whore might well think me so, after the barbarous cruelties you have exercised on me. gentlemen," said he, "you are luckily come to the assistance of a poor traveller, who would otherwise have been robbed and murdered by this vile man and woman, who led me hither out of my way from the high-road, and both falling on me have used me as you see." adams was going to answer, when one of the young fellows cried, "d--n them, let's carry them both before the justice." the poor woman began to tremble, and adams lifted up his voice, but in vain. three or four of them laid hands on him; and one holding the lanthorn to his face, they all agreed he had the most villainous countenance they ever beheld; and an attorney's clerk, who was of the company, declared he was sure he had remembered him at the bar. as to the woman, her hair was dishevelled in the struggle, and her nose had bled; so that they could not perceive whether she was handsome or ugly, but they said her fright plainly discovered her guilt. and searching her pockets, as they did those of adams, for money, which the fellow said he had lost, they found in her pocket a purse with some gold in it, which abundantly convinced them, especially as the fellow offered to swear to it. mr adams was found to have no more than one halfpenny about him. this the clerk said "was a great presumption that he was an old offender, by cunningly giving all the booty to the woman." to which all the rest readily assented. this accident promising them better sport than what they had proposed, they quitted their intention of catching birds, and unanimously resolved to proceed to the justice with the offenders. being informed what a desperate fellow adams was, they tied his hands behind him; and, having hid their nets among the bushes, and the lanthorn being carried before them, they placed the two prisoners in their front, and then began their march; adams not only submitting patiently to his own fate, but comforting and encouraging his companion under her sufferings. whilst they were on their way the clerk informed the rest that this adventure would prove a very beneficial one; for that they would all be entitled to their proportions of £ for apprehending the robbers. this occasioned a contention concerning the parts which they had severally borne in taking them; one insisting he ought to have the greatest share, for he had first laid his hands on adams; another claiming a superior part for having first held the lanthorn to the man's face on the ground, by which, he said, "the whole was discovered." the clerk claimed four-fifths of the reward for having proposed to search the prisoners, and likewise the carrying them before the justice: he said, "indeed, in strict justice, he ought to have the whole." these claims, however, they at last consented to refer to a future decision, but seemed all to agree that the clerk was entitled to a moiety. they then debated what money should be allotted to the young fellow who had been employed only in holding the nets. he very modestly said, "that he did not apprehend any large proportion would fall to his share, but hoped they would allow him something; he desired them to consider that they had assigned their nets to his care, which prevented him from being as forward as any in laying hold of the robbers" (for so those innocent people were called); "that if he had not occupied the nets, some other must;" concluding, however, "that he should be contented with the smallest share imaginable, and should think that rather their bounty than his merit." but they were all unanimous in excluding him from any part whatever, the clerk particularly swearing, "if they gave him a shilling they might do what they pleased with the rest; for he would not concern himself with the affair." this contention was so hot, and so totally engaged the attention of all the parties, that a dexterous nimble thief, had he been in mr adams's situation, would have taken care to have given the justice no trouble that evening. indeed, it required not the art of a sheppard to escape, especially as the darkness of the night would have so much befriended him; but adams trusted rather to his innocence than his heels, and, without thinking of flight, which was easy, or resistance (which was impossible, as there were six lusty young fellows, besides the villain himself, present), he walked with perfect resignation the way they thought proper to conduct him. adams frequently vented himself in ejaculations during their journey; at last, poor joseph andrews occurring to his mind, he could not refrain sighing forth his name, which being heard by his companion in affliction, she cried with some vehemence, "sure i should know that voice; you cannot certainly, sir, be mr abraham adams?"--"indeed, damsel," says he, "that is my name; there is something also in your voice which persuades me i have heard it before."--"la! sir," says she, "don't you remember poor fanny?"--"how, fanny!" answered adams: "indeed i very well remember you; what can have brought you hither?"--"i have told you, sir," replied she, "i was travelling towards london; but i thought you mentioned joseph andrews; pray what is become of him?"--"i left him, child, this afternoon," said adams, "in the stage-coach, in his way towards our parish, whither he is going to see you."--"to see me! la, sir," answered fanny, "sure you jeer me; what should he be going to see me for?"--"can you ask that?" replied adams. "i hope, fanny, you are not inconstant; i assure you he deserves much better of you."--"la! mr adams," said she, "what is mr joseph to me? i am sure i never had anything to say to him, but as one fellow-servant might to another."--"i am sorry to hear this," said adams; "a virtuous passion for a young man is what no woman need be ashamed of. you either do not tell me truth, or you are false to a very worthy man." adams then told her what had happened at the inn, to which she listened very attentively; and a sigh often escaped from her, notwithstanding her utmost endeavours to the contrary; nor could she prevent herself from asking a thousand questions, which would have assured any one but adams, who never saw farther into people than they desired to let him, of the truth of a passion she endeavoured to conceal. indeed, the fact was, that this poor girl, having heard of joseph's misfortune, by some of the servants belonging to the coach which we have formerly mentioned to have stopt at the inn while the poor youth was confined to his bed, that instant abandoned the cow she was milking, and, taking with her a little bundle of clothes under her arm, and all the money she was worth in her own purse, without consulting any one, immediately set forward in pursuit of one whom, notwithstanding her shyness to the parson, she loved with inexpressible violence, though with the purest and most delicate passion. this shyness, therefore, as we trust it will recommend her character to all our female readers, and not greatly surprize such of our males as are well acquainted with the younger part of the other sex, we shall not give ourselves any trouble to vindicate. chapter xi. _what happened to them while before the justice. a chapter very full of learning._ their fellow-travellers were so engaged in the hot dispute concerning the division of the reward for apprehending these innocent people, that they attended very little to their discourse. they were now arrived at the justice's house, and had sent one of his servants in to acquaint his worship that they had taken two robbers and brought them before him. the justice, who was just returned from a fox-chase, and had not yet finished his dinner, ordered them to carry the prisoners into the stable, whither they were attended by all the servants in the house, and all the people in the neighbourhood, who flocked together to see them with as much curiosity as if there was something uncommon to be seen, or that a rogue did not look like other people. the justice, now being in the height of his mirth and his cups, bethought himself of the prisoners; and, telling his company he believed they should have good sport in their examination, he ordered them into his presence. they had no sooner entered the room than he began to revile them, saying, "that robberies on the highway were now grown so frequent, that people could not sleep safely in their beds, and assured them they both should be made examples of at the ensuing assizes." after he had gone on some time in this manner, he was reminded by his clerk, "that it would be proper to take the depositions of the witnesses against them." which he bid him do, and he would light his pipe in the meantime. whilst the clerk was employed in writing down the deposition of the fellow who had pretended to be robbed, the justice employed himself in cracking jests on poor fanny, in which he was seconded by all the company at table. one asked, "whether she was to be indicted for a highwayman?" another whispered in her ear, "if she had not provided herself a great belly, he was at her service." a third said, "he warranted she was a relation of turpin." to which one of the company, a great wit, shaking his head, and then his sides, answered, "he believed she was nearer related to turpis;" at which there was an universal laugh. they were proceeding thus with the poor girl, when somebody, smoking the cassock peeping forth from under the greatcoat of adams, cried out, "what have we here, a parson?" "how, sirrah," says the justice, "do you go robbing in the dress of a clergyman? let me tell you your habit will not entitle you to the benefit of the clergy." "yes," said the witty fellow, "he will have one benefit of clergy, he will be exalted above the heads of the people;" at which there was a second laugh. and now the witty spark, seeing his jokes take, began to rise in spirits; and, turning to adams, challenged him to cap verses, and, provoking him by giving the first blow, he repeated-- _"molle meum levibus cord est vilebile telis."_ upon which adams, with a look full of ineffable contempt, told him, "he deserved scourging for his pronunciation." the witty fellow answered, "what do you deserve, doctor, for not being able to answer the first time? why, i'll give one, you blockhead, with an s. _"'si licet, ut fulvum spectatur in ignibus haurum.'_ "what, canst not with an m neither? thou art a pretty fellow for a parson! why didst not steal some of the parson's latin as well as his gown?" another at the table then answered, "if he had, you would have been too hard for him; i remember you at the college a very devil at this sport; i have seen you catch a freshman, for nobody that knew you would engage with you." "i have forgot those things now," cried the wit. "i believe i could have done pretty well formerly. let's see, what did i end with?--an m again--aye-- _"'mars, bacchus, apollo, virorum.'_ i could have done it once." "ah! evil betide you, and so you can now," said the other: "nobody in this country will undertake you." adams could hold no longer: "friend," said he, "i have a boy not above eight years old who would instruct thee that the last verse runs thus:-- _"'ut sunt divorum, mars, bacchus, apollo, virorum.'"_ "i'll hold thee a guinea of that," said the wit, throwing the money on the table. "and i'll go your halves," cries the other. "done," answered adams; but upon applying to his pocket he was forced to retract, and own he had no money about him; which set them all a-laughing, and confirmed the triumph of his adversary, which was not moderate, any more than the approbation he met with from the whole company, who told adams he must go a little longer to school before he attempted to attack that gentleman in latin. the clerk, having finished the depositions, as well of the fellow himself, as of those who apprehended the prisoners, delivered them to the justice; who, having sworn the several witnesses without reading a syllable, ordered his clerk to make the mittimus. adams then said, "he hoped he should not be condemned unheard." "no, no," cries the justice, "you will be asked what you have to say for yourself when you come on your trial: we are not trying you now; i shall only commit you to gaol: if you can prove your innocence at size, you will be found ignoramus, and so no harm done." "is it no punishment, sir, for an innocent man to lie several months in gaol?" cries adams: "i beg you would at least hear me before you sign the mittimus." "what signifies all you can say?" says the justice: "is it not here in black and white against you? i must tell you you are a very impertinent fellow to take up so much of my time. so make haste with his mittimus." the clerk now acquainted the justice that among other suspicious things, as a penknife, &c., found in adams's pocket, they had discovered a book written, as he apprehended, in cyphers; for no one could read a word in it. "ay," says the justice, "the fellow may be more than a common robber, he may be in a plot against the government. produce the book." upon which the poor manuscript of aeschylus, which adams had transcribed with his own hand, was brought forth; and the justice, looking at it, shook his head, and, turning to the prisoner, asked the meaning of those cyphers. "cyphers?" answered adams, "it is a manuscript of aeschylus." "who? who?" said the justice. adams repeated, "aeschylus." "that is an outlandish name," cried the clerk. "a fictitious name rather, i believe," said the justice. one of the company declared it looked very much like greek. "greek?" said the justice; "why, 'tis all writing." "no," says the other, "i don't positively say it is so; for it is a very long time since i have seen any greek." "there's one," says he, turning to the parson of the parish, who was present, "will tell us immediately." the parson, taking up the book, and putting on his spectacles and gravity together, muttered some words to himself, and then pronounced aloud--"ay, indeed, it is a greek manuscript; a very fine piece of antiquity. i make no doubt but it was stolen from the same clergyman from whom the rogue took the cassock." "what did the rascal mean by his aeschylus?" says the justice. "pooh!" answered the doctor, with a contemptuous grin, "do you think that fellow knows anything of this book? aeschylus! ho! ho! i see now what it is--a manuscript of one of the fathers. i know a nobleman who would give a great deal of money for such a piece of antiquity. ay, ay, question and answer. the beginning is the catechism in greek. ay, ay, _pollaki toi_: what's your name?"--"ay, what's your name?" says the justice to adams; who answered, "it is aeschylus, and i will maintain it."--"oh! it is," says the justice: "make mr aeschylus his mittimus. i will teach you to banter me with a false name." one of the company, having looked steadfastly at adams, asked him, "if he did not know lady booby?" upon which adams, presently calling him to mind, answered in a rapture, "o squire! are you there? i believe you will inform his worship i am innocent."--"i can indeed say," replied the squire, "that i am very much surprized to see you in this situation:" and then, addressing himself to the justice, he said, "sir, i assure you mr adams is a clergyman, as he appears, and a gentleman of a very good character. i wish you would enquire a little farther into this affair; for i am convinced of his innocence."--"nay," says the justice, "if he is a gentleman, and you are sure he is innocent, i don't desire to commit him, not i: i will commit the woman by herself, and take your bail for the gentleman: look into the book, clerk, and see how it is to take bail--come--and make the mittimus for the woman as fast as you can."--"sir," cries adams, "i assure you she is as innocent as myself."--"perhaps," said the squire, "there may be some mistake! pray let us hear mr adams's relation."--"with all my heart," answered the justice; "and give the gentleman a glass to wet his whistle before he begins. i know how to behave myself to gentlemen as well as another. nobody can say i have committed a gentleman since i have been in the commission." adams then began the narrative, in which, though he was very prolix, he was uninterrupted, unless by several hums and hahs of the justice, and his desire to repeat those parts which seemed to him most material. when he had finished, the justice, who, on what the squire had said, believed every syllable of his story on his bare affirmation, notwithstanding the depositions on oath to the contrary, began to let loose several rogues and rascals against the witness, whom he ordered to stand forth, but in vain; the said witness, long since finding what turn matters were likely to take, had privily withdrawn, without attending the issue. the justice now flew into a violent passion, and was hardly prevailed with not to commit the innocent fellows who had been imposed on as well as himself. he swore, "they had best find out the fellow who was guilty of perjury, and bring him before him within two days, or he would bind them all over to their good behaviour." they all promised to use their best endeavours to that purpose, and were dismissed. then the justice insisted that mr adams should sit down and take a glass with him; and the parson of the parish delivered him back the manuscript without saying a word; nor would adams, who plainly discerned his ignorance, expose it. as for fanny, she was, at her own request, recommended to the care of a maid-servant of the house, who helped her to new dress and clean herself. the company in the parlour had not been long seated before they were alarmed with a horrible uproar from without, where the persons who had apprehended adams and fanny had been regaling, according to the custom of the house, with the justice's strong beer. these were all fallen together by the ears, and were cuffing each other without any mercy. the justice himself sallied out, and with the dignity of his presence soon put an end to the fray. on his return into the parlour, he reported, "that the occasion of the quarrel was no other than a dispute to whom, if adams had been convicted, the greater share of the reward for apprehending him had belonged." all the company laughed at this, except adams, who, taking his pipe from his mouth, fetched a deep groan, and said, "he was concerned to see so litigious a temper in men. that he remembered a story something like it in one of the parishes where his cure lay:--there was," continued he, "a competition between three young fellows for the place of the clerk, which i disposed of, to the best of my abilities, according to merit; that is, i gave it to him who had the happiest knack at setting a psalm. the clerk was no sooner established in his place than a contention began between the two disappointed candidates concerning their excellence; each contending on whom, had they two been the only competitors, my election would have fallen. this dispute frequently disturbed the congregation, and introduced a discord into the psalmody, till i was forced to silence them both. but, alas! the litigious spirit could not be stifled; and, being no longer able to vent itself in singing, it now broke forth in fighting. it produced many battles (for they were very near a match), and i believe would have ended fatally, had not the death of the clerk given me an opportunity to promote one of them to his place; which presently put an end to the dispute, and entirely reconciled the contending parties." adams then proceeded to make some philosophical observations on the folly of growing warm in disputes in which neither party is interested. he then applied himself vigorously to smoaking; and a long silence ensued, which was at length broke by the justice, who began to sing forth his own praises, and to value himself exceedingly on his nice discernment in the cause which had lately been before him. he was quickly interrupted by mr adams, between whom and his worship a dispute now arose, whether he ought not, in strictness of law, to have committed him, the said adams; in which the latter maintained he ought to have been committed, and the justice as vehemently held he ought not. this had most probably produced a quarrel (for both were very violent and positive in their opinions), had not fanny accidentally heard that a young fellow was going from the justice's house to the very inn where the stage-coach in which joseph was, put up. upon this news, she immediately sent for the parson out of the parlour. adams, when he found her resolute to go (though she would not own the reason, but pretended she could not bear to see the faces of those who had suspected her of such a crime), was as fully determined to go with her; he accordingly took leave of the justice and company: and so ended a dispute in which the law seemed shamefully to intend to set a magistrate and a divine together by the ears. chapter xii. _a very delightful adventure, as well to the persons concerned as to the good-natured reader._ adams, fanny, and the guide, set out together about one in the morning, the moon being then just risen. they had not gone above a mile before a most violent storm of rain obliged them to take shelter in an inn, or rather alehouse, where adams immediately procured himself a good fire, a toast and ale, and a pipe, and began to smoke with great content, utterly forgetting everything that had happened. fanny sat likewise down by the fire; but was much more impatient at the storm. she presently engaged the eyes of the host, his wife, the maid of the house, and the young fellow who was their guide; they all conceived they had never seen anything half so handsome; and indeed, reader, if thou art of an amorous hue, i advise thee to skip over the next paragraph; which, to render our history perfect, we are obliged to set down, humbly hoping that we may escape the fate of pygmalion; for if it should happen to us, or to thee, to be struck with this picture, we should be perhaps in as helpless a condition as narcissus, and might say to ourselves, _quod petis est nusquam_. or, if the finest features in it should set lady ----'s image before our eyes, we should be still in as bad a situation, and might say to our desires, _coelum ipsum petimus stultitia_. fanny was now in the nineteenth year of her age; she was tall and delicately shaped; but not one of those slender young women who seem rather intended to hang up in the hall of an anatomist than for any other purpose. on the contrary, she was so plump that she seemed bursting through her tight stays, especially in the part which confined her swelling breasts. nor did her hips want the assistance of a hoop to extend them. the exact shape of her arms denoted the form of those limbs which she concealed; and though they were a little reddened by her labour, yet, if her sleeve slipped above her elbow, or her handkerchief discovered any part of her neck, a whiteness appeared which the finest italian paint would be unable to reach. her hair was of a chesnut brown, and nature had been extremely lavish to her of it, which she had cut, and on sundays used to curl down her neck, in the modern fashion. her forehead was high, her eyebrows arched, and rather full than otherwise. her eyes black and sparkling; her nose just inclining to the roman; her lips red and moist, and her underlip, according to the opinion of the ladies, too pouting. her teeth were white, but not exactly even. the small-pox had left one only mark on her chin, which was so large, it might have been mistaken for a dimple, had not her left cheek produced one so near a neighbour to it, that the former served only for a foil to the latter. her complexion was fair, a little injured by the sun, but overspread with such a bloom that the finest ladies would have exchanged all their white for it: add to these a countenance in which, though she was extremely bashful, a sensibility appeared almost incredible; and a sweetness, whenever she smiled, beyond either imitation or description. to conclude all, she had a natural gentility, superior to the acquisition of art, and which surprized all who beheld her. this lovely creature was sitting by the fire with adams, when her attention was suddenly engaged by a voice from an inner room, which sung the following song:-- the song. say, chloe, where must the swain stray who is by thy beauties undone? to wash their remembrance away, to what distant lethe must run? the wretch who is sentenced to die may escape, and leave justice behind; from his country perhaps he may fly, but oh! can he fly from his mind? o rapture! unthought of before, to be thus of chloe possess'd; nor she, nor no tyrant's hard power, her image can tear from my breast. but felt not narcissus more joy, with his eyes he beheld his loved charms? yet what he beheld the fond boy more eagerly wish'd in his arms. how can it thy dear image be which fills thus my bosom with woe? can aught bear resemblance to thee which grief and not joy can bestow? this counterfeit snatch from my heart, ye pow'rs, tho' with torment i rave, tho' mortal will prove the fell smart: i then shall find rest in my grave. ah, see the dear nymph o'er the plain come smiling and tripping along! a thousand loves dance in her train, the graces around her all throng. to meet her soft zephyrus flies, and wafts all the sweets from the flowers, ah, rogue i whilst he kisses her eyes, more sweets from her breath he devours. my soul, whilst i gaze, is on fire: but her looks were so tender and kind, my hope almost reach'd my desire, and left lame despair far behind. transported with madness, i flew, and eagerly seized on my bliss; her bosom but half she withdrew, but half she refused my fond kiss. advances like these made me bold; i whisper'd her--love, we're alone.-- the rest let immortals unfold; no language can tell but their own. ah, chloe, expiring, i cried, how long i thy cruelty bore! ah, strephon, she blushing replied, you ne'er was so pressing before. adams had been ruminating all this time on a passage in aeschylus, without attending in the least to the voice, though one of the most melodious that ever was heard, when, casting his eyes on fanny, he cried out, "bless us, you look extremely pale!"--"pale! mr adams," says she; "o jesus!" and fell backwards in her chair. adams jumped up, flung his aeschylus into the fire, and fell a-roaring to the people of the house for help. he soon summoned every one into the room, and the songster among the rest; but, o reader! when this nightingale, who was no other than joseph andrews himself, saw his beloved fanny in the situation we have described her, canst thou conceive the agitations of his mind? if thou canst not, waive that meditation to behold his happiness, when, clasping her in his arms, he found life and blood returning into her cheeks: when he saw her open her beloved eyes, and heard her with the softest accent whisper, "are you joseph andrews?"--"art thou my fanny?" he answered eagerly: and, pulling her to his heart, he imprinted numberless kisses on her lips, without considering who were present. if prudes are offended at the lusciousness of this picture, they may take their eyes off from it, and survey parson adams dancing about the room in a rapture of joy. some philosophers may perhaps doubt whether he was not the happiest of the three: for the goodness of his heart enjoyed the blessings which were exulting in the breasts of both the other two, together with his own. but we shall leave such disquisitions, as too deep for us, to those who are building some favourite hypothesis, which they will refuse no metaphysical rubbish to erect and support: for our part, we give it clearly on the side of joseph, whose happiness was not only greater than the parson's, but of longer duration: for as soon as the first tumults of adams's rapture were over he cast his eyes towards the fire, where aeschylus lay expiring; and immediately rescued the poor remains, to wit, the sheepskin covering, of his dear friend, which was the work of his own hands, and had been his inseparable companion for upwards of thirty years. fanny had no sooner perfectly recovered herself than she began to restrain the impetuosity of her transports; and, reflecting on what she had done and suffered in the presence of so many, she was immediately covered with confusion; and, pushing joseph gently from her, she begged him to be quiet, nor would admit of either kiss or embrace any longer. then, seeing mrs slipslop, she curtsied, and offered to advance to her; but that high woman would not return her curtsies; but, casting her eyes another way, immediately withdrew into another room, muttering, as she went, she wondered who the creature was. chapter xiii. _a dissertation concerning high people and low people, with mrs slipslop's departure in no very good temper of mind, and the evil plight in which she left adams and his company._ it will doubtless seem extremely odd to many readers, that mrs slipslop, who had lived several years in the same house with fanny, should, in a short separation, utterly forget her. and indeed the truth is, that she remembered her very well. as we would not willingly, therefore, that anything should appear unnatural in this our history, we will endeavour to explain the reasons of her conduct; nor do we doubt being able to satisfy the most curious reader that mrs slipslop did not in the least deviate from the common road in this behaviour; and, indeed, had she done otherwise, she must have descended below herself, and would have very justly been liable to censure. be it known then, that the human species are divided into two sorts of people, to wit, high people and low people. as by high people i would not be understood to mean persons literally born higher in their dimensions than the rest of the species, nor metaphorically those of exalted characters or abilities; so by low people i cannot be construed to intend the reverse. high people signify no other than people of fashion, and low people those of no fashion. now, this word fashion hath by long use lost its original meaning, from which at present it gives us a very different idea; for i am deceived if by persons of fashion we do not generally include a conception of birth and accomplishments superior to the herd of mankind; whereas, in reality, nothing more was originally meant by a person of fashion than a person who drest himself in the fashion of the times; and the word really and truly signifies no more at this day. now, the world being thus divided into people of fashion and people of no fashion, a fierce contention arose between them; nor would those of one party, to avoid suspicion, be seen publicly to speak to those of the other, though they often held a very good correspondence in private. in this contention it is difficult to say which party succeeded; for, whilst the people of fashion seized several places to their own use, such as courts, assemblies, operas, balls, &c., the people of no fashion, besides one royal place, called his majesty's bear-garden, have been in constant possession of all hops, fairs, revels, &c. two places have been agreed to be divided between them, namely, the church and the playhouse, where they segregate themselves from each other in a remarkable manner; for, as the people of fashion exalt themselves at church over the heads of the people of no fashion, so in the playhouse they abase themselves in the same degree under their feet. this distinction i have never met with any one able to account for: it is sufficient that, so far from looking on each other as brethren in the christian language, they seem scarce to regard each other as of the same species. this, the terms "strange persons, people one does not know, the creature, wretches, beasts, brutes," and many other appellations evidently demonstrate; which mrs slipslop, having often heard her mistress use, thought she had also a right to use in her turn; and perhaps she was not mistaken; for these two parties, especially those bordering nearly on each other, to wit, the lowest of the high, and the highest of the low, often change their parties according to place and time; for those who are people of fashion in one place are often people of no fashion in another. and with regard to time, it may not be unpleasant to survey the picture of dependance like a kind of ladder; as, for instance; early in the morning arises the postillion, or some other boy, which great families, no more than great ships, are without, and falls to brushing the clothes and cleaning the shoes of john the footman; who, being drest himself, applies his hands to the same labours for mr second-hand, the squire's gentleman; the gentleman in the like manner, a little later in the day, attends the squire; the squire is no sooner equipped than he attends the levee of my lord; which is no sooner over than my lord himself is seen at the levee of the favourite, who, after the hour of homage is at an end, appears himself to pay homage to the levee of his sovereign. nor is there, perhaps, in this whole ladder of dependance, any one step at a greater distance from the other than the first from the second; so that to a philosopher the question might only seem, whether you would chuse to be a great man at six in the morning, or at two in the afternoon. and yet there are scarce two of these who do not think the least familiarity with the persons below them a condescension, and, if they were to go one step farther, a degradation. and now, reader, i hope thou wilt pardon this long digression, which seemed to me necessary to vindicate the great character of mrs slipslop from what low people, who have never seen high people, might think an absurdity; but we who know them must have daily found very high persons know us in one place and not in another, to-day and not to-morrow; all which it is difficult to account for otherwise than i have here endeavoured; and perhaps, if the gods, according to the opinion of some, made men only to laugh at them, there is no part of our behaviour which answers the end of our creation better than this. but to return to our history: adams, who knew no more of this than the cat which sat on the table, imagining mrs slipslop's memory had been much worse than it really was, followed her into the next room, crying out, "madam slipslop, here is one of your old acquaintance; do but see what a fine woman she is grown since she left lady booby's service."--"i think i reflect something of her," answered she, with great dignity, "but i can't remember all the inferior servants in our family." she then proceeded to satisfy adams's curiosity, by telling him, "when she arrived at the inn, she found a chaise ready for her; that, her lady being expected very shortly in the country, she was obliged to make the utmost haste; and, in commensuration of joseph's lameness, she had taken him with her;" and lastly, "that the excessive virulence of the storm had driven them into the house where he found them." after which, she acquainted adams with his having left his horse, and exprest some wonder at his having strayed so far out of his way, and at meeting him, as she said, "in the company of that wench, who she feared was no better than she should be." the horse was no sooner put into adams's head but he was immediately driven out by this reflection on the character of fanny. he protested, "he believed there was not a chaster damsel in the universe. i heartily wish, i heartily wish," cried he (snapping his fingers), "that all her betters were as good." he then proceeded to inform her of the accident of their meeting; but when he came to mention the circumstance of delivering her from the rape, she said, "she thought him properer for the army than the clergy; that it did not become a clergyman to lay violent hands on any one; that he should have rather prayed that she might be strengthened." adams said, "he was very far from being ashamed of what he had done:" she replied, "want of shame was not the currycuristic of a clergyman." this dialogue might have probably grown warmer, had not joseph opportunely entered the room, to ask leave of madam slipslop to introduce fanny: but she positively refused to admit any such trollops, and told him, "she would have been burnt before she would have suffered him to get into a chaise with her, if she had once respected him of having his sluts waylaid on the road for him;" adding, "that mr adams acted a very pretty part, and she did not doubt but to see him a bishop." he made the best bow he could, and cried out, "i thank you, madam, for that right-reverend appellation, which i shall take all honest means to deserve."-"very honest means," returned she, with a sneer, "to bring people together." at these words adams took two or three strides across the room, when the coachman came to inform mrs slipslop, "that the storm was over, and the moon shone very bright." she then sent for joseph, who was sitting without with his fanny, and would have had him gone with her; but he peremptorily refused to leave fanny behind, which threw the good woman into a violent rage. she said, "she would inform her lady what doings were carrying on, and did not doubt but she would rid the parish of all such people;" and concluded a long speech, full of bitterness and very hard words, with some reflections on the clergy not decent to repeat; at last, finding joseph unmoveable, she flung herself into the chaise, casting a look at fanny as she went, not unlike that which cleopatra gives octavia in the play. to say the truth, she was most disagreeably disappointed by the presence of fanny: she had, from her first seeing joseph at the inn, conceived hopes of something which might have been accomplished at an alehouse as well as a palace. indeed, it is probable mr adams had rescued more than fanny from the danger of a rape that evening. when the chaise had carried off the enraged slipslop, adams, joseph, and fanny assembled over the fire, where they had a great deal of innocent chat, pretty enough; but, as possibly it would not be very entertaining to the reader, we shall hasten to the morning; only observing that none of them went to bed that night. adams, when he had smoaked three pipes, took a comfortable nap in a great chair, and left the lovers, whose eyes were too well employed to permit any desire of shutting them, to enjoy by themselves, during some hours, an happiness which none of my readers who have never been in love are capable of the least conception of, though we had as many tongues as homer desired, to describe it with, and which all true lovers will represent to their own minds without the least assistance from us. let it suffice then to say, that fanny, after a thousand entreaties, at last gave up her whole soul to joseph; and, almost fainting in his arms, with a sigh infinitely softer and sweeter too than any arabian breeze, she whispered to his lips, which were then close to hers, "o joseph, you have won me: i will be yours for ever." joseph, having thanked her on his knees, and embraced her with an eagerness which she now almost returned, leapt up in a rapture, and awakened the parson, earnestly begging him "that he would that instant join their hands together." adams rebuked him for his request, and told him "he would by no means consent to anything contrary to the forms of the church; that he had no licence, nor indeed would he advise him to obtain one; that the church had prescribed a form--namely, the publication of banns--with which all good christians ought to comply, and to the omission of which he attributed the many miseries which befell great folks in marriage;" concluding, "as many as are joined together otherwise than g--'s word doth allow are not joined together by g--, neither is their matrimony lawful." fanny agreed with the parson, saying to joseph, with a blush, "she assured him she would not consent to any such thing, and that she wondered at his offering it." in which resolution she was comforted and commended by adams; and joseph was obliged to wait patiently till after the third publication of the banns, which, however, he obtained the consent of fanny, in the presence of adams, to put in at their arrival. the sun had been now risen some hours, when joseph, finding his leg surprizingly recovered, proposed to walk forwards; but when they were all ready to set out, an accident a little retarded them. this was no other than the reckoning, which amounted to seven shillings; no great sum if we consider the immense quantity of ale which mr adams poured in. indeed, they had no objection to the reasonableness of the bill, but many to the probability of paying it; for the fellow who had taken poor fanny's purse had unluckily forgot to return it. so that the account stood thus:-- £ s d mr adams and company, dr. in mr adams's pocket / in mr joseph's in mrs fanny's balance / they stood silent some few minutes, staring at each other, when adams whipt out on his toes, and asked the hostess, "if there was no clergyman in that parish?" she answered, "there was."--"is he wealthy?" replied he; to which she likewise answered in the affirmative. adams then snapping his fingers returned overjoyed to his companions, crying out, "heureka, heureka;" which not being understood, he told them in plain english, "they need give themselves no trouble, for he had a brother in the parish who would defray the reckoning, and that he would just step to his house and fetch the money, and return to them instantly." end of vol. i sarah's first start in life. by adelaide m. g. campbell. published under the direction of the tract committee. london: society for promoting christian knowledge, northumberland avenue, w.c.; , queen victoria street, e.c. brighton: , north street. new york: e. & j. b. young and co. printed by william clowes and sons, limited, london and beccles. [illustration: "let him down, miss; it's all right now."] sarah's first start in life. "now, sarah, just you make haste with that kettle, and we will have a nice cup of tea for dad when he comes in." "dad's" real name was david brown, and sarah was his only child, just turned eighteen. the browns were a happy family, though poor, and they put their trust in god, and did not worry about the morrow. sarah had just been telling her mother of a situation as kitchen maid that she had been inquiring about, and had almost decided to take, but her father's permission was still wanting. mr. brown was a cab driver, and found it sometimes very hard work to make both ends meet, especially in the winter time, when coals were a necessity and dear at best. this conversation took place on christmas day, and brown had promised to be home for tea, knowing how disappointed his wife and sarah would feel if he stayed out until his usual hour, which was half-past ten. soon the kettle was singing away merrily on the hob, and sarah was toasting some bread in front of a small bright fire, when a knock was heard, the door opened, and a man about twenty-four came in. he was evidently not unexpected, as four places were prepared at the table. dick bream was one of a large family, and very much devoted to sarah; they had told each other how they would work hard to earn some money and set up house together, and sarah was now longing to tell him about her future situation. dick was a footman, and had a very comfortable place in belgrave square--he was getting on well, and his master had promised to help him to get a place as upper servant in a year or two. he and sarah kissed each other heartily under the misletoe, which was over the door, and dick shook hands with mrs. brown, and they were beginning to talk about sarah's future when mr. brown's cheerful voice was heard calling her to hold the horse, while he got down from the box. up sprang sarah, out she ran and stood at bobby's head, patting and soothing him in his impatience to get to the warm stable and clean hay. mr. brown took the horse and harness to the stable, and sarah held the lantern whilst he wiped down bobby. "well, father," said sarah, "tea is ready, your slippers are by the fire, and i have some news to tell you; but you shan't hear it till you have drunk a hot cup of tea and eaten one of my best baked cakes." the father patted her cheek, kissed his wife, and, drawing off his coat, sat down at the head of the table. after the grace was reverently said by sarah, mr. brown said-- "well, what is this wonderful news?" sarah looked across the table at dick, whom mrs. brown had told about the situation, and smiled, whilst her mother began telling the father about sarah's plan. mr. brown looked grave, and slowly shook his head when he heard that a departure was meditated. "nay, nay, i won't have my girl going out into the world and becoming independent and looking down on her old dad, when she sees the way fine folk treat one another;" so said brown, and he evidently thought the discussion was at an end, as he got up, pulled out his pipe and invited dick to take a turn. but sarah had set her heart on helping her family, and was not thus to be set aside. "oh, dad," she exclaimed, "how can you think such dreadful things about me? can i ever forget how you and mother have worked for me since i was a baby? i only wish to help you, and mother is willing if you agree." mrs. brown was silently wiping away a few tears with her apron, and dick was comforting her with promises to do what he could to smooth matters. "well," said mr. brown, "i'll talk it over with your mother, and tell you to-morrow what we think." with this scanty comfort sarah was obliged to content herself. meanwhile mr. brown and dick went outside to smoke, and naturally they began talking about sarah's plan. "i don't think my girl is fitted for service," said mr. brown; "she ought to stay at home and help her mother." "but," interrupted dick, "sarah is a big girl now, and you cannot expect her always to stay at home; and what could she do if she were left without the experience service is sure to give her?" mr. brown saw this, but was still undecided as to what should be done; but at last, after a little more persuasion, he agreed to let sarah try service for a year. in saying good night dick just whispered to her to be quite easy, as it was all right; so, like a wise girl, she went to bed, and in her prayers asked god to bless her future career and comfort her father. the next day at breakfast, which was at . , mr. brown began by solemnly announcing that he had a thing or two to tell his family; so, with expectant eyes fixed on him, he said that sarah might take the situation for a year, and went on to tell her of all the temptations and troubles she would meet with in service, and his parting advice was, "honesty is the best policy." after mr. brown had left for his day's work, and sarah had cleared away the breakfast things and cleaned their three rooms, she put on her neatest dress and went off to ask when she might go into her situation and begin her new work. she took an omnibus to sloane square, and from there walked to eaton place, and went up to a big house, where she rang the bell, where, after the door was opened, she was shown into a little anteroom. after waiting half an hour a messenger was sent to conduct her to lady james, her future mistress. sarah felt very nervous, as, although she had already had an interview, this was the final one, and much depended on it. lady james was busy writing letters, but when she saw sarah, she put down her pen and turned to her with a bright smile and a few kind words of encouragement. after ten minutes had been passed in asking and answering questions, lady james told sarah she thought she would suit, and wished her to begin her work in three days. poor sarah thought this was rather too quick, but said she would certainly try and be ready; so she went out of the house feeling very important at the idea of at last going into service. of course the next few days were very busy ones, as she had to make two new print dresses and neatly mend her clothes. mrs. brown was very unhappy at the idea of losing her only child, but tried to make the last few days cheerful, and took as much of the housework off her hands as possible. at last only the good-byes remained to be said. poor mrs. brown was sobbing bitterly, and mr. brown was fussing over sarah's box and bag, whilst dick, who was going with her as far as the house, was busy harnessing bobby. the good-byes were at last over, mrs. brown was all but kissed away, and sarah jumped into her father's cab, which was to take her to eaton place. dick and sarah were not so sad as the mother and father, for they felt that this was at last a step towards getting on in life, and, after all, "nothing venture nothing have." eaton place was soon reached, and mr. brown pulled up at the door of the house where sarah was to begin her new duties. the bell was rung, and the door was opened by a footman in silk stockings and powdered hair. of course sarah was much too frightened to ask this grand man what she should do, so she made dick ask him if he might take her box upstairs, and whilst sarah and her father were saying the real good-bye, dick and the footman went up to the attic with the box. dick, who was a friend of his, told him a little about sarah, that this was her first place, and that he and she were engaged, etc. mr. brown had just driven off when dick arrived downstairs to take his departure also. "now, miss," said charles the footman, "will you come downstairs and have a cup of tea and see all your future friends?" "i should like to very much," said sarah; "but i must take off my jacket, and where can i put it?" "oh!" said charles, "we arn't too particular, leave it anywhere." now, sarah had been brought up, quite properly, to think tidiness one of the greatest virtues; however, she said nothing, and trotted happily away with her jacket on her arm. at the bottom of the dark staircase, her jacket was rather roughly taken from her by charles and flung on the dresser. "well," thought sarah, "if this is the way my things are to be treated, they won't last me long, and how can i get others?" however, the sound of tea-cups and laughter soon drove such thoughts out of her head, and she was shown into a fairly large room, in which about five servants were talking very merrily, and altogether making rather an unnecessary noise. directly the two appeared there was a dead silence, and one of the housemaids called out to sarah to come and sit beside her. she took the offered place, and had only just seated herself when she was asked all sorts of questions, as _e.g._ "how long have you been in service?" "what wages did you get?" and many others of the same kind. sarah at last found time to answer all these various questions, which she did with her usual good temper, and, during loud exclamations, managed to tell them a little about her former life. she did not quite like all this catechising, but not wanting to be thought disagreeable, made the best of it. when she had finished, edith, the housemaid, began at once to tell sarah some of the trials of their downstairs life. she told her that the cook, who was then in the kitchen, was very cross, and would be sure to give her a lot to do, and as she did not like any kind of dirty work herself, the kitchen-maid had to do it all, and keep the kitchen spotless. sarah was rather frightened by this account of the cook, and begged edith to tell her more; but she had some work to do, and could not stop to chat any longer. in a few minutes in came mrs. ellis, the cook, and told sarah to hurry up as there were some pots to wash, and poor sarah had to gulp down her cup of tea and eat her bread and butter very fast. "please, ma'am, may i first go and take off this dress?" asked sarah, in a timid little voice. "no," said mrs. ellis; "can't you pin that one up? it ain't so grand, you need not take such care of it." now, it was sarah's best dress, so she thought this was very unkind, and told the cook she had no better, and was afraid of spoiling the neatest she had. "well," said mrs. ellis, "go up, and make haste; i can't have you wasting your time, there's enough to be done without that." sarah flew upstairs, not forgetting to take up her jacket on the way, and before the cook had found time to grumble at her absence was down again, dressed in a neat cotton gown and apron. mrs. ellis showed her where to find the pots, pans, hot water, and washing-up cloths, and sarah set to work with might and main; but it was not so easy as she expected. first, some of the spots on the coppers would not come off, then the cloths got so wet there was nothing to dry up with, and altogether when sarah had cleaned a dozen she felt her arms ache as they had never ached before. all at once she heard mrs. ellis calling her, so she ran into the kitchen where she found a great fuss going on, as dinner was being dished up, and mrs. ellis had burnt her hand badly in pouring out the soup. sarah was very sorry about this accident, and anxious to do all she could to help; but being new, and not knowing the ways of the lower regions, she was not able to be of much use, but she was most helpful in carrying the dishes up to the dining-room door, and so saved a little of the footman's time, who was in consequence very grateful. she then went upstairs to brush her hair and make herself tidy, and when she came down found, to her surprise, that supper had been ready some time. edith found room for her and saw she had all she wanted, and introduced her to the other servants, whom she had not seen at tea, and she was wished success in her new career. after supper was over sarah hoped she would be able to go to bed, but found that all the dinner things had to be washed up and put into their proper places, so she began her work at once, and soon edith good-naturedly offered to help her, both making great friends over the work. at half-past ten all was finished, and edith conducted her to the small but airy bedroom they were to share. sarah now had to finish her unpacking--her father's, mother's, and dick's photographs taking a most prominent position on the little chest of drawers. edith naturally wanted to hear all about dick, and sarah was delighted to find so sympathetic a friend to discuss him with. edith soon tumbled into bed, but sarah folded her things tidily up on a chair, and then opened her bible to read her chapter. sarah's mother was a very religious woman, and knew that the bible was always a friend in time of need, so she had made sarah promise never to omit reading a few verses after her day's work was over. in her prayers, sarah thanked god for giving her so comfortable a home, and asked him to soften her temper, which she knew would often get the upper hand. the light was soon put out, and all was quiet, and she remembered nothing more till she saw edith standing half-dressed by her bedside, telling her to hurry or else mrs. ellis would be grumbling at her the first day. sarah found that last night's experience was but an instance of what her daily work would be. after she had been a month in her place, she ventured to ask mrs. ellis whether she might go and see her mother, and the cook, who had grown quite fond of her for her cheerful and helpful ways, willingly gave her the required permission. if only people would learn how a little oil of cheerfulness eases the wheels of life surely they would cultivate it more. troubles come quite readily enough without making them, and the sunshine of a bright countenance often remedies what no earthly doctor can cure. sarah finished all her work, put on her hat, her neat black dress and jacket, and went off in great spirits to see her home. she found a great difference in her mother, who had evidently only just got up, as her hair was not done, and the room, although fairly tidy, was not so neat as sarah had been accustomed to see it. mrs. brown told her that she had been very poorly ever since her departure, and really if it had not been for mrs. carrol, she would never have managed to get on as well as she had. sarah was very distressed at this account, and was just beginning to tell her mother about her life, when in came mrs. carrol to get tea ready. she was not at all mrs. brown's style, being very rough and dictatorial, and had not learnt that the power of gentleness is irresistible. mrs. carrol was a widow, her husband having been killed down a coal-mine in wales, she had not married again, but was very fond of both mrs. and mr. brown, probably finding in them the qualities most missing in herself, _e.g._ gentleness and humility. mrs. carrol did not seem best pleased at finding sarah with her mother. "mrs. brown, you know you ought not to be out of bed. why didn't sarah make you lie down again? what's the use of a daughter if she don't take care of her mother?" poor sarah was so surprised at this onslaught that she could not find words to defend herself--so, wisely, said nothing. mrs. brown went meekly back to bed whilst mrs. carrol made her a nice cup of tea and sarah prepared the toast. soon mother and daughter were left alone again, and sarah began talking about her situation and her hopes of soon being able to send her mother a little money. mrs. brown was quite delighted at having her daughter near her again, and they had so much to tell each other that when sarah next looked at the old cuckoo clock in the corner it was almost eight, and time to return to eaton place. she gave her mother a good hug, and told her to be sure and write if she got worse. unfortunately mr. brown had not yet come home from his work, so poor sarah had to go back without having been able to inquire from him about her mother's health. sarah was often made uneasy by the very casual way in which sunday was regarded. sometimes she was able to induce edith to go to church with her, but generally she went alone, and she knew that few, if any, of the servants thought it necessary to attend. sarah looked forward from sunday to sunday; she forgot all her petty troubles in church, and always found some golden word of comfort to help her through the week. six months had passed and she was still in the same place, having made great friends with the other servants, and earned a golden opinion from mrs. ellis, which naturally pleased her mistress, lady james, very much. mrs. brown had been steadily getting weaker and weaker, till one day when sarah was, as usual, washing up, the footman came to tell her that she was wanted in the servants' hall. she was surprised at this summons, and still more so when she found dick waiting for her, especially as she had seen him only a week ago. "well, dick, whatever is the matter?" asked sarah. "why do you look so sad? make haste and tell me." poor dick, who had come to tell sarah of her mother's death, did not quite know how to begin, so he asked how long it was since she had seen her, and was told a fortnight. "well," said dick, "mrs. brown was taken suddenly worse, and----" here poor dick broke down, and naturally sarah had little difficulty in supplying the rest, which dick was obliged to tell her was only too true. sarah was in great distress, and really did not know what she was saying. she kept reproaching herself for having omitted to write oftener, also, for ever having left her mother, and especially for not having tried to see more of her. dick told her all he could, assuring her that mrs. carrol had been very kind, and had done all that was possible to ease her mother in the household affairs. "now, sarah," said dick at last, "can you get your things and come home for a bit, as your father will want you sadly?" sarah went to her friend the cook, told her of her trouble, and asked for two days absence. mrs. ellis went upstairs to see if she could find her mistress, and having done so, obtained not only a day or two, but a week. sarah was crying so very bitterly she could hardly pack the few necessary things; but, with edith to help her, she and dick went off to mr. brown's home. there they found all in great confusion, neighbours whispering outside the house, and women trying to keep the children from screaming and making a noise. when sarah and dick appeared, there was a general silence, and as she went into the house many of her former friends tried to say a few sympathetic words and press her hand. sarah tried to thank them, but only tears would come, and she hurried upstairs to comfort her unhappy father. mr. brown silently held out his hand in welcome and sobbed bitterly, whilst dick remained below, not knowing whether to go in or stay outside. however, he at last went into the house and found, as he expected, sarah and her father taking their last silent farewell at their loved one's bedside. the days that followed were naturally very sad, and sarah was thankful there was so much to be done, knowing that there would be only too much time for brooding afterwards. the funeral took place three days after sarah's return home, and, although sarah followed the beautiful service as attentively as she was able, her heart was too sorrowful to receive so much comfort from it as is possible. a great many of the neighbours attended to show this last mark of respect to their dead friend. mrs. carrol had offered on the way back to help sarah to tidy the house, and she gladly accepted the offer, as, having been so long away, she did not know where the things had been kept, although she did not quite like the thought of anybody touching her mother's things except herself. mr. brown was going to take his cab out the next day as usual, to see if he could earn a little money, as the six months' illness had made a great hole in his earnings, but sarah besought him to stay and talk to her a little, which, after some demur, he was willing to do, and they sat down to breakfast, not trusting themselves to speak of yesterday's sad events. the week soon passed, and sarah had to return once more to her work, but this time she had great doubts in her mind as to whether she ought not to stop and take care of her father; but mr. brown told her so plainly that it helped him more to know that she was comfortable and earning some money, that for the time being she gave up the idea. all the servants were glad to have her among them again, and tried to tell her how much they felt for her, and lady james sent for her to say that if she would like to go twice a week to see mr. brown she might take an hour off her work, for which kindness sarah was very grateful. after this permission, sarah went very often to see her father, and found that mrs. carrol made him so comfortable and cheered him so much that she really need have no compunction about having left him. the house always seemed to be tidy and clean, and although nobody seemed to think this at all extraordinary, sarah sometimes felt an uneasy sensation creeping over her; but mrs. carrol was always so kind that she put these thoughts away from her, as being disloyal to her father. one day her mistress had taken her three boys, aged six, seven, and eight, to the zoological gardens in honour of sir alfred's birthday, and sarah was given a whole day's holiday. she had written to dick to ask whether he could get a day off and take her for a walk, and, as he bore a very good and steady character, his master let him have the day, knowing he was engaged to sarah. at eleven o'clock they started for their trip, and dick suggested going in a penny steamer down the thames, to which sarah joyfully agreed. the day was very fine and warm, and when they landed at greenwich they bought some ginger beer and buns, and had quite a feast on the grass under some shady trees. they naturally had a great deal to tell each other, and discussed many plans for the future. dick told sarah that his master was thinking of taking a house in the north of scotland for a year, and he wanted dick very much to go with him. sarah was very distressed about this, as she thought a year a very long time, and in her heart of hearts she was afraid dick might get to like some one else better than herself. dick read her thoughts fairly accurately, and assured her she need never think he would forget her, as he felt certain there was no nicer or prettier girl all the world over, and sarah was too pleased at this speech to think of further objections. at last they had to turn homewards, and on the steamer they spoke but little, each wondering when and where they should meet again, little thinking how much was to happen before a year was over. walking down the embankment towards westminster sarah all at once met her father, who was so deep in conversation with his companion, mrs. carrol, that he did not see sarah till they were close to each other. "oh, father," she said, "i am very glad to see you, and really you look quite well and cheery again." mr. brown was equally surprised to see sarah, and rather stammered out his welcome. the girl turned to mrs. carrol and said-- "well, mrs. carrol, how are you; thank you so much for looking after my father so well. i really don't know what he would have done without you." mr. brown here interrupted sarah by saying: "yes, she has indeed earned our thanks, and she has promised i need never do without her again--in fact, we were married this morning, and we were on our way to see you and ask for your congratulations." sarah could hardly believe her ears, and showed very plainly that such was the case, whilst dick stood by in shocked silence. "oh, father!" cried sarah, "do you mean to say you have already forgotten my dear mother? why, it is barely four months since we lost her. i don't think you have behaved well to me in this matter. surely i ought to have been told before this last step was taken." mr. brown gazed in silence at sarah's flushed and angry face, not knowing what to say. he managed at last, however, to get in a few words of excuse between her breathless expostulations. "well, sarah, you seem to forget how lonely i have been all this time, and if i choose to marry again i need not first ask my daughter. i always knew this idea of going out to service would do you no good." mrs. carrol, who must now be called mrs. brown, had up to the present said nothing, but she told sarah she hoped to make her and her father comfortable, and that in time they would be good friends. sarah answered that she did not think this was very likely, as she did not like underhand ways, and she was in fact getting so angry that dick thought it high time to take her away, in which effort he was at last successful. "well, really, sarah," said dick, "i do think you have spoken rather too unkindly to your father. surely if he chooses to marry again so soon it is his own business. of course, i perfectly understand your feelings, but you must not forget that he is still your father, and you should never forget to show respect to him. you did not show the christian spirit i hoped to see, and you have certainly done no good by losing your temper." sarah had been feeling very sad and angry during dick's little lecture, and as she still considered herself quite in the right, she would not confess even to dick that she had behaved hastily. "well," said sarah, "you needn't begin to scold me; you won't have me much longer to scold, and i do think father ought to have told me first." now, dick saw quite well that it was no use arguing with her when she was in this mood, so when they arrived at lady james's house he bade her rather a cold farewell, and promised to come and see her for the last time on sunday, before he went to scotland. sarah went straight up to her room, and throwing herself on her bed wept bitterly. she felt very lonely, and, now that even dick was vexed with her, she began to think that her behaviour was not all it should have been. she knew she had quite lost her temper and behaved badly, and although we may say she had some excuse, it is always a silly thing to do. nobody will respect a person who gives way to their evil passions, and sarah felt that for the time being she had estranged her father and dick and greatly lowered herself in their opinion. she fell on her knees and begged god with might and main to forgive her, and rose in a few minutes feeling calmer and happier. the servants' supper-bell had rung, but sarah did not feel inclined to talk and laugh with the others, so she stayed where she was and occupied herself with her thoughts, which were anything but happy ones. the next day was very wet and gloomy and quite in accordance with sarah's feelings, as the more she thought over the previous day's events the angrier she felt with herself, knowing that, after all, it did not much matter to her if her father were married, as she was always in service, and hoped soon to be married herself. she also could not help remembering how, in spite of herself, she had been struck by mrs. carrol's much softened voice and manner, and she really began to think that, after all, it might be for the best. the days dragged slowly on, till at last sunday arrived, and sarah had decided to make her peace with dick, not liking him to go on his journey feeling unhappy about her. six o'clock was the hour he generally came, and she rushed upstairs to see that her hair was tidy, and had taken the opportunity of pinning some geraniums into her dress, which had been sent downstairs from the drawing-room to be thrown away. seven o'clock came, but did not bring dick, and sarah was tortured with melancholy thoughts as to whether he had decided he would not see her till she had made her peace with her father. at last she was obliged to give up all idea of his coming, as it was now ten o'clock, and very miserable were her feelings when she crept into bed and sobbed herself to sleep. at the end of the week sarah, who generally distributed the servants' letters, was much surprised at finding one for herself. now, everybody likes to receive letters from their friends, and for sarah, who had never had many, the excitement was great; in fact, she quite forgot all about her father's sudden marriage and dick's departure, as well as the week's misery, and, getting into a corner by herself, she opened the letter and began to read, and this is what she read-- "my dear sarah, "i am afraid you must be very angry with me for not having turned up on sunday, but on friday night master told me he wanted me to pack up everything as we were to go on saturday by the night mail to scotland, so i really could not get a minute to go and see you. i hope this will find you well as it leaves me, and happier than when i saw you last. i am very happy here, and it is a beautiful place, but a long way off from you. write to me soon, as i will also to you. "your affectionate friend, "dick." sarah was very much relieved by the contents of this letter, and decided that she would go and see her father as soon as she could. this opportunity soon occurred, and sarah found him and her stepmother having their supper together. mr. brown looked rather sheepishly at his daughter, not quite knowing in what frame of mind she intended to make this visit, but he soon saw that she really was doing her best to set matters straight again. mrs. brown offered her some tea, which sarah gladly accepted, and they all three talked cheerfully about future plans and past events, not touching, however, on the two chief changes in the family. at last she left them alone together, and the door had hardly closed behind her when sarah was on her knees by her father's chair, asking him to forgive and forget all the unkind speeches she had made about his marriage. mr. brown was delighted at the reconciliation, as he loved his daughter most dearly, and they spent one of the happiest hours together they had ever passed. sarah went with a light heart back to her work, feeling that certainly peace was better than strife, and wondering how she had managed to keep up the disturbance for so long. many weeks elapsed with no noteworthy events, and sarah felt quite happy and established in her situation, knowing that she was earning enough money to prevent her from being any sort of burden to her father or stepmother. lady james was at this time rather delicate, having had a bad attack of rheumatic fever, from which she had, however, almost recovered. one day there was to be a large dinner-party in the house, and edith, sarah's friend, the housemaid, was going to look over the staircase at all the smart dresses, and had promised to tell sarah, who could not be spared, all about them. eight o'clock arrived, and edith ran upstairs to watch the ladies come, and go down to dinner. she had never seen so many grand-looking people, and her heart was filled with longing desire to possess only one dress half as beautiful as the ones she saw. there was her mistress looking lovely in deep pink satin, her wonderful hair crowned by a tiara of diamonds and pearls. when the dining-room door had shut them off from edith's eyes, she went downstairs into the drawing-room, and, putting all thoughts of dresses and diamonds out of her head, busied herself in smoothing the covers, shaking up the cushions, and putting chairs and sofas straight again. when her work was over, she joined the others downstairs, not at all objecting to taste some of the dishes which came down from the dinner party. at half-past eleven all the visitors had left, and sarah was lazily sitting down chatting away to the other servants, who all felt that they deserved a little rest after such a busy evening. at last sarah and edith took up their candles to go to bed, leaving the others still talking. on the way sarah heard sir alfred and lady james going upstairs to their rooms, so she told edith she was going to have one look at her beautiful mistress, and edith had better come too, so they went up by the back staircase and peeped through the swing door. sir alfred was behind his wife, when suddenly edith gave a loud cry, and rushed downstairs again before sarah had time to see what had happened. sir alfred flung open the door and demanded an explanation of this singular conduct, when again a cry was heard, and this time it was clearly that of "fire." sir alfred, grasping the situation in a minute, bade his wife fly down to the bedroom, off the drawing-room, rouse their two boys, who slept there, and tell the women-servants to leave the house instantly, as he already judged the fire to be of considerable dimensions. he, meanwhile, would rush upstairs to fetch charlie, who slept in the nursery. sir alfred very soon found this to be utterly impossible, as when he opened the door he was met by volumes of smoke, and found the nursery to be one mass of flames. in a minute all was confusion, men-servants rushing about trying to save what valuables they could from the bedrooms, which were still untouched. the inmates were now assembled in front of the house, gazing horror-struck at the flames, as they illumined the darkness and filled the upper windows with their glare. of course the whole neighbourhood was roused, and the wildest excitement prevailed. the policemen were shouting directions, which were as far as possible obeyed, and the suspense was at last broken by the cry of, "out of the way; here come the fire engines." the horses dashed up, panting and foaming, and all was instantly discipline and order, the walls in a minute were swarming with firemen, and water was flooding the street. but who can describe the feelings of sir alfred, who dared not tell his wife of his unsuccessful attempt to rescue charlie. hardly master of his senses, he rushed madly from room to room in the vain hopes of discovering the child, until with difficulty, for the whole staircase was now rapidly becoming one mass of flames, he escaped into the street. suddenly there was a universal murmur, and a voice shouted out, "hold on, miss. don't look down; we'll get you." these words were addressed to sarah, who had suddenly appeared on the drawing-room balcony, with charlie peacefully sleeping in her arms. suddenly he awoke and began to cry, but poor sarah was in no state of mind to comfort him. what ages it seemed! how slowly help came towards her, and how very heavy charlie was getting! her brain seemed reeling, and her thoughts surged up, reproaching her for many a thing she had never thought twice about. she uttered a prayer for help, and clenched her teeth, determined to hold out till relief came; and relief came but slowly. at last, when she felt it impossible to hold this heavy burden any longer, a man's voice called out to her, "let him down, miss; it's all right now." but sarah would not let charlie out of her arms, fearing the effects which the awful sight of the flames might have on his already highly excitable brain; so she clutched him tighter, and the only thing to be done was to lift them over the balcony down together. the crowd--for where is there ever a greater crowd than near a fire?--cheered loudly; but sarah had fainted away, and never heard how heartily it sympathized. sir alfred, who had gazed up horror-struck at the brave girl, was jealously holding the boy in his arms, evidently looking for the marks of fire which he was certain must be upon him. charlie was, however, quite unhurt, and after giving him to a friend to hold, he knelt down by sarah, who was still insensible, and began trying to restore her. a neighbour offered to take her into their house, and gratefully accepting this kindness, sir alfred and a fireman carried her indoors. the fire was, by now, gradually getting under control, and it only remained to house the inmates, who, having fortunately not gone to bed, were still in their everyday clothes, lady james and her little one being the only exceptions. everybody was anxious to do their best for the james family, who were great favourites with all who knew them, and, by half-past one, all were settled somewhere for the night. now we must go back to the origin of the fire. master charlie, "baby charlie," as he was called, being the youngest, had determined to have a little fun; so, after dinner was served, and his nurse was safely downstairs at her supper, he got out of bed, lit a candle, and began reading a book his father had just given him, which was very exciting. curiously enough he came to a part of the book where there had also been a dinner-party, and the children of the house had gone down to dessert. charlie began thinking it was rather hard luck he had not been allowed to see something of the party, and he wondered in his little brain whether he could not manage it, so he put the candle and the book on the floor near the table, as he knew he was doing wrong, and did not want them to be seen, and crept stealthily downstairs. he found to his surprise that the drawing-room door was open, and the room itself was empty, as sir alfred and lady james, whose guests had just left, were playing a game of billiards in the billiard-room, so as he had no idea how late, or how early it was, he went behind a screen near the balcony window and sat down to wait. but it was in reality about eleven, all the ladies had left, and the servants were very busy downstairs. as it was long past charlie's bedtime he fell soundly asleep. now, the nurse, who had only been a short time in lady james's family, was most unscrupulous, and when she came down for her supper, she found it so much more amusing than sitting alone in the nursery, that, trusting charlie was sound asleep, she remained downstairs chatting quite happily with the servants. the fire had now been smouldering some time, and had been caused by the candle falling out of the candlestick on to the open book, which blazed up in a few minutes, and quickly set the tablecloth alight. edith and sarah were the first to go upstairs and to discover the flames. sarah at once thought of the stone staircase which led up to charlie's room, and which could not catch fire; but she had scarcely reached the top floor, when she saw the walls of the night nursery fall in, and, through a rift in the flames, saw, to her horror, that charlie's bed was empty. thinking that the child had got frightened by the flames, and had probably strayed into some of the lower rooms, she searched carefully into every cupboard and corner of the bedrooms and dressing-rooms. but all this took a long time, and the flames were gaining rapidly upon her. sarah soon remembered that the stone staircase ended on the drawing-room floor, being continued in wood, which had already caught fire from the flames of the front staircase. she was still searching frantically in lady james's boudoir, which was next to the drawing-room, for charlie, when she saw, to her horror, that all exit from downstairs was now impossible. she bethought herself of the drawing-room balcony, which was of stone, and in opening the window which led on to it, she saw, to her mingled horror and relief, the form of little charlie peacefully sleeping behind the big screen. her thankfulness can better be imagined than described, and seizing the child in her arms she ran out, thankful to get in the air and to leave the suffocating rooms, now filled with smoke, behind her. poor sarah was very ill for a week, but in reality it was more the shock which had upset her than the actual burns, although she had several rather bad ones on her arms. however, after these had been carefully dressed with lint and croton oil, she felt fairly like herself again. poor lady james had suffered from the disaster terribly, and was obliged to go abroad for her health, which the doctor feared would only with great difficulty be re-established; so one day sir alfred sent for sarah to come to his study, and when she had arrived, he began by telling her how unutterably grateful they were to her, and little charlie, who was close at hand, thanked her also in his pretty childish manner. sir alfred then went on to say how sorry they all were to lose her, but as it was impossible to take her abroad with them she must look out for another place. here poor sarah, who had been very happy in their service, completely broke down. sir alfred soothed her as best he could, and assured her that their gratitude was much too great ever to allow them to forget her. he also gave her a purse with fifty pounds in it, forty of which he begged her to put at once into the savings bank, and he also promised to add one pound to it every christmas. sarah was surprised and greatly overcome at this great generosity and gratitude, saying that anybody else would have done the same in her place. she said good-bye to her mistress, whom she felt very sorry to see looking so ill, took a still sadder leave of her fellow-servants, and went for a few days to her father's home. she soon received a letter from lady james telling her that she had a friend who was going to ireland, and being badly in want of a kitchen-maid had promised to take sarah if she did not mind going so far off. of course sarah was only too delighted to go anywhere, not liking to be idle longer than was necessary, and really she had been so happy in her experience of service that she was quite anxious to begin work again. she went to see mrs. sinclair, who was a bright fashionable lady, but very unlike lady james. she quite approved of sarah, not really troubling herself much as to her character or abilities, so it was decided that they should start in two days. sarah wrote a long letter to dick, telling him all about her adventures and forthcoming journey; but, not knowing what her address would be, she was unable to say where he should write to her. the two days passed quickly, and sarah went to mrs. sinclair's london house to make acquaintance with her fellow-servants, with whom she was to go over to ireland immediately. she had not travelled much by train before, so the whole sensation was new to her, and when they arrived in the evening at fleetwood, her excitement was very great. the luggage was all put on board, together with the young lady's bicycle, and she had a little time to look about her. the sea was very rough, and sarah, who had never been on it before, thought the waves looked mountains high. sailors were rushing to and fro, and when sarah heard the funnel blow out its signal of departure, she did not quite understand what had occurred or what was going to happen; but she soon felt the steamer rolling and pitching, and, in spite of the other servants trying to persuade her to go and lie down, sarah stayed on deck much too excited to think of feeling ill. she sat down under cover, and presently one of the sailors came up to her. he looked very odd to her eyes, all done up in his oil-skins and huge boots, but he also looked so very jolly that she thought he must be nice. he asked her if she would like a rug; and sarah, who was beginning to feel very cold, accepted his offer gladly. away he staggered, for by this time the moon looked as if she was playing hide and seek with the ship, now looking full at sarah and then shyly hiding her round face again. back came the sailor quickly with a nice warm rug, and after having tucked sarah up all round in it, he sat down and began to talk to her. now, she did not quite like this, but as he had been so kind she could not exactly tell him to go, so they talked away for a good long time, and sarah began telling mike, as she found out his name to be, all about her first place, and how she was going to ireland to begin life in another situation. mike was very interested, and now became so friendly with her that she at last said she must go below, as she was beginning to feel rather ill. mike would not believe this, and tried hard to prevent her; but sarah was a very determined little person and would have her own way, so she went downstairs to join the other servants, but they were all suffering so much that she was obliged to look at a paper and not talk. at last they arrived at belfast, and sarah was very glad, as she thought the cabin so stuffy, and mike having been so tiresome, sarah had not liked to go up on deck again, the consequence being that her head was aching violently. after landing, they all went to the northern counties hotel, where a good breakfast was ordered, consisting of fresh herrings, coffee, eggs, fadge and honey. sarah, who sat next the window, could hardly take her eyes off the street, filled as it was with a motley crowd of small fish carts, ragged newspaper boys, and factory girls hurrying to their work, with their bright shawls pinned carelessly over their heads, and their short skirts and bare feet all looking very different to any london crowd she had ever seen. soon the time arrived to start for ballycastle, which was their destination, and after two hours' journey by train they arrived. the luggage was left at the station, where it would be well guarded till called for, and the servants all got up on outside jaunting cars, which were waiting for them. sarah thought these cars looked very odd, as there was a kind of long box in the middle and two seats on either side, which, if you were a novice, were apt to jog you off. she mounted with some difficulty, and held on very tight. they drove at a very great pace, and, as sarah thought, very recklessly round the corners. after a time, however, she quite enjoyed the motion, and was much surprised to see all the children with their feet quite bare, generally driving a fat pig or two; and when she, by chance, looked into the cabins and saw pigs and fowls happily making themselves quite at home, her astonishment knew no bounds, but on asking the other servants, she was told this was quite usual, and nobody thought it even extraordinary. they passed a great many bogs on their way, and sarah had no idea what these were till she was told, and even then she thought they looked very dull and dirty, and did not understand how people could use the peat, which was piled up in large stacks to keep it dry, in any way. at last they turned in at the avenue gate, and came up to a very pretty house which was covered with creepers, the lawn in front being bright with flower-beds, where masses of geraniums, begonias, mignonette, etc., were blooming, as flowers only can bloom on irish soil. behind the lawn was a long row of tall scarlet pokers, "tritomas," as the footman was very proud of calling them when he told sarah that in october he had counted as many as four or five thousand in bloom. the green fields and trees behind making a most beautiful background. of course, during the next few days there was a great deal to do, and sarah had not only her kitchen work, but was also asked to help the housemaid, who was a cheerful irish girl, whose peculiar brogue amused her very much. sarah's mistress was most of the time lying on a sofa in the drawing-room, as she still felt the effects of the journey from london, and her only daughter was bicycling all over the country visiting her various friends. any spare time that sarah had she spent in exploring the beautiful neighbourhood of ballycastle, which lies near the sea. several months passed, during which time sarah was very happy in her beautiful home; she wrote to dick every fortnight, and told him how she was getting on, and he answered her letters regularly. one day he wrote saying that he had a great piece of news to tell her, which was, that his master had given him a place as upper servant, and had also raised his wages. his letter was written in great spirits, and sarah only felt sorry she was not on the spot to tell him at once how delighted she felt. his letter went on to say that his master was thinking of paying some shooting visits in the north of ireland, and dick hoped they might meet, as he was to be valet for the occasion. sarah was greatly excited at this prospect, and could only relieve her feelings by taking a good walk along the headlands. sarah was one of those people who cannot do without sympathy, and she knew that great joy likes to be shared to make it complete, therefore she felt very sad at not being able to talk over every detail of this great excitement with dick, as a letter seemed to her quite inadequate for the occasion. mrs. and miss sinclair were going to pay a few visits in the country, and had told the housekeeper to give the servants a day's outing in belfast. after their departure the house was very quiet, and there was naturally not much work to do, but sarah felt that with such a beautiful garden and such perfect scenery, she could never be dull. one morning she went down to bathe, a thing she had never done before; at first she would only let the water ripple over her feet, then come up to her knees, which she thought very brave of her, but peggy, the housemaid, who was also there, laughed so heartily, that she ventured quite in, and enjoyed herself so much that she determined to repeat the operation whenever she had time. at last the housekeeper announced in a very grand manner that in two days the servants might go to belfast for their trip. they were all very much pleased, and the maids busied themselves in mending their dresses and putting new ribbons on their hats. they were determined to enjoy themselves, and knew that a smart appearance would greatly help this object. the day soon came, and at an early hour everybody was assembled in the hall waiting for the cars which mrs. sinclair had kindly ordered for them. this time sarah had no difficulty in seating herself, and enjoyed the drive in the fresh morning air and lovely sunshine very much. arrived at the station, they only just had time to take their tickets and jump into their places, when the train was off, they laughed a great deal, and were all very light-hearted when belfast was reached. at first they were not sure what they would do, but sarah unconsciously solved the difficulty by exclaiming, "oh, i _am_ hungry!" so they all trooped off for breakfast at an inexpensive hotel. mrs. sinclair had given the footman a letter to the manager of a flax mill, and they thought they would go there after they had finished their meal. the manager sent his foreman to show them over the mill, and sarah had as much as she could do to hear his explanation of the various processes used for spinning flax. the noise was terrible, and quite deafened sarah, who could not help feeling very thankful that she was not one of the poor factory girls, whose pallid faces predicted an early death. she said something about this to peggy, who told her that they seldom lived long, as the air being full of dust atoms, which they inhaled all day, gradually affected their lungs. sarah came away feeling very sad, but she had not much time to think, as she was again hurried on to some new sight. they spent a very happy day, and ended up with a good tea of scones, oat-cake, bread and butter and jam. at the station they still had half an hour to wait for the train, so they sat down on one of the benches and talked. suddenly sarah uttered a half cry, but on seeing peggy looking at her, she quickly gained her composure. near a train which had just arrived, stood two girls and a man. the man was very like dick, and as he half turned round, sarah saw that it was really he. one of the girls, who was very pretty, was talking to him with her hand on his arm, and sarah thought he looked at her very affectionately. they chatted and laughed for some little time till the guard came round for the tickets, then the pretty girl, to sarah's horror, gave dick a kiss which he seemed fully to expect, and she jumped into the train, waving her handkerchief repeatedly to him. dick and his companion now left the station, and, passing close to sarah, she heard her say, "my! how fond you two are of each other, she certainly is very pretty, just your style." sarah meanwhile was choking with rage, hardly believing her ears, and feeling beside herself with jealousy. in a few minutes she asked peggy to take a turn outside the station, as they still had ten minutes before their train left. sarah did not feel inclined to talk, and peggy, being irish, was only too glad to use this opportunity of letting her tongue run on. after they had gone some little distance they retraced their steps, when sarah suddenly saw dick and his friend, who had left the station by another way, coming towards them. he saw her some distance off, and quickened his steps, when, to his astonishment, sarah blankly looked at him, and, half bowing, passed over to the other side of the road. dick was dumb with surprise, and would have followed her, but seeing that she was determined to avoid him, he changed his mind. now, dick had no idea that sarah had been in the station, and could not imagine what had happened, but he expected some letter of explanation, and thought he would wait. sarah meanwhile had taken a corner seat in the train, and was tormenting herself with all sorts of uncomfortable thoughts. the return journey was very different for the whole party from the morning one, the others finding her very much of a wet blanket. arrived home, she felt as miserable as possible, and did not know what to do to get at the rights of the matter. meanwhile dick, who was very proud, determined to wait for sarah's explanation, and she had made up her mind to act in the same way, so the estrangement seemed likely to go on indefinitely. "oh, peggy," said sarah one day, "what a sweetly pretty dress you are making! when are you going to wear it? why, i shan't know you when you have it on." "oh," said peggy, "this is not for myself, it is for a great friend, and, as she is very pretty, sure i am making her a pretty dress for christmas." the gown in question was pale blue, trimmed with black ribbons, and the sleeves were all tucked, so sarah might well admire it. "well," she asked, "what is this beauty's name? do tell me." "no," said peggy, "i shan't; it's a secret, and you might tell, as i believe you know her brother." "oh, i don't know anybody," cried sarah, "as for a man, i only know one." "well, then," said peggy, "i'll tell you; it is maggie bream, and she is in service near belfast." "what!" cried sarah, "is her name bream?" "well, and why shouldn't it be? i suppose you've no objection?" "oh no; but tell me more about her. has she any sisters?" "no, not one, nor half a one; but she has lots and lots of brothers, and she often tells me she is right glad there are no more girls in the family, as they are none too well off as it is. of course, her eldest brother earns a power of money, as his master just thinks a heap of him; but there, he's engaged, so what's the use of him? he saves and stints just because he wants to marry soon." sarah was now all excitement, and could hardly command her voice to ask this wonderful brother's name, however, peggy volunteered it by saying-- "maggie has just met dick in belfast--in fact, they were there the same day that we were. maggie wrote to tell me yesterday. i'm right sorry i missed her, but her train went just before ours." peggy noticed (for who so sharp as peggy?) sarah's restlessness and her flushed face, and wanted to know what was the reason. "well," said sarah, "i am the girl dick's engaged to, and i have made a horrible mistake." peggy naturally wanted to know what the mistake was; but sarah would not tell her, as she now felt she had been very silly, and she did not want to be laughed at. sarah now thought the best thing she could do was to write to dick and tell him why she had behaved in such an extraordinary way at belfast. he was very glad to get this letter, as he had been thinking a great deal about her, trying to understand how he had offended her. he wrote off at once and asked if she could possibly get another outing, in order to arrange about their wedding, as he had now saved quite enough and would not wait any longer. sarah had to be patient till mrs. sinclair came back, and when her mistress heard why the day was wanted she gladly gave the required permission. sarah wrote to her former mistress telling her that her marriage would soon take place, and she would have to leave her present situation. lady james answered her letter most kindly, and said that she and sir alfred were thinking of returning to their scotch home, and offered her the place of lodge-keeper and dick that of butler. sarah was perfectly delighted, and not less so when she found in the envelope a present of ten pounds, with which to buy herself some nice wedding clothes. she then went up to mrs. sinclair and told her about the offer lady james had made them, and gave a month's notice, which she said she was really sorry to be obliged to do, but as dick had done the same to his master, she hoped mrs. sinclair would not blame her. she then went to belfast and told dick about all the plans suggested. he was quite delighted, and as he had already given his master a month's notice, felt no compunction in leaving. dick made her promise to marry him in a month, and they then went to see his sister, maggie, who was to be bridesmaid, and wear the wonderful dress. the month soon passed, and with peggie's help, sarah was able to make three new dresses, and various other things. mr. brown was very pleased to hear of his daughter's marriage, and was only sorry he was unable to be there himself, but he sent her six plated spoons and forks, and a small locket which her mother had left to her. the servants were all sorry to lose sarah, they gave her a silver tea-pot as a wedding gift, and saw her off at the station. dick and sarah met at the door of st. anne's church on this auspicious day. she was dressed in a blue alpaca gown, trimmed with white lace, and a hat to match. after the service was over, mr. and mrs. bream went away in a brougham dick had ordered for the occasion, and they had their wedding breakfast in the same hotel where sarah had spent part of that eventful day, when she and her fellow-servants had come to belfast for their holiday. they both had a very happy time and went straight across to england, where they were to spend a few days with sarah's father and his wife, till lady james arrived from abroad. mr. and mrs. brown met them at the door of her old home, her father having taken a holiday for the occasion. during the following week, dick and sarah were mostly out of the house, visiting the crystal palace, and many other places which sarah had never been able to see. when the week was over, they went together to see lady james, and finding that she wished them to begin work at once, they packed up their belongings and set off for scotland, where we will now leave them with many good wishes for a long and happy life. the end. the mysterious key and what it opened by l. m. alcott chapter i the prophecy _trevlyn lands and trevlyn gold, heir nor heiress e'er shall hold, undisturbed, till, spite of rust, truth is found in trevlyn dust._ "this is the third time i've found you poring over that old rhyme. what is the charm, richard? not its poetry i fancy." and the young wife laid a slender hand on the yellow, time-worn page where, in old english text, appeared the lines she laughed at. richard trevlyn looked up with a smile and threw by the book, as if annoyed at being discovered reading it. drawing his wife's hand through his own, he led her back to her couch, folded the soft shawls about her, and, sitting in a low chair beside her, said in a cheerful tone, though his eyes betrayed some hidden care, "my love, that book is a history of our family for centuries, and that old prophecy has never yet been fulfilled, except the 'heir and heiress' line. i am the last trevlyn, and as the time draws near when my child shall be born, i naturally think of his future, and hope he will enjoy his heritage in peace." "god grant it!" softly echoed lady trevlyn, adding, with a look askance at the old book, "i read that history once, and fancied it must be a romance, such dreadful things are recorded in it. is it all true, richard?" "yes, dear. i wish it was not. ours has been a wild, unhappy race till the last generation or two. the stormy nature came in with old sir ralph, the fierce norman knight, who killed his only son in a fit of wrath, by a blow with his steel gauntlet, because the boy's strong will would not yield to his." "yes, i remember, and his daughter clotilde held the castle during a siege, and married her cousin, count hugo. 'tis a warlike race, and i like it in spite of the mad deeds." "married her cousin! that has been the bane of our family in times past. being too proud to mate elsewhere, we have kept to ourselves till idiots and lunatics began to appear. my father was the first who broke the law among us, and i followed his example: choosing the freshest, sturdiest flower i could find to transplant into our exhausted soil." "i hope it will do you honor by blossoming bravely. i never forget that you took me from a very humble home, and have made me the happiest wife in england." "and i never forget that you, a girl of eighteen, consented to leave your hills and come to cheer the long-deserted house of an old man like me," returned her husband fondly. "nay, don't call yourself old, richard; you are only forty-five, the boldest, handsomest man in warwickshire. but lately you look worried; what is it? tell me, and let me advise or comfort you." "it is nothing, alice, except my natural anxiety for you--well, kingston, what do you want?" trevlyn's tender tones grew sharp as he addressed the entering servant, and the smile on his lips vanished, leaving them dry and white as he glanced at the card he handed him. an instant he stood staring at it, then asked, "is the man here?" "in the library, sir." "i'll come." flinging the card into the fire, he watched it turn to ashes before he spoke, with averted eyes: "only some annoying business, love; i shall soon be with you again. lie and rest till i come." with a hasty caress he left her, but as he passed a mirror, his wife saw an expression of intense excitement in his face. she said nothing, and lay motionless for several minutes evidently struggling with some strong impulse. "he is ill and anxious, but hides it from me; i have a right to know, and he'll forgive me when i prove that it does no harm." as she spoke to herself she rose, glided noiselessly through the hall, entered a small closet built in the thickness of the wall, and, bending to the keyhole of a narrow door, listened with a half-smile on her lips at the trespass she was committing. a murmur of voices met her ear. her husband spoke oftenest, and suddenly some word of his dashed the smile from her face as if with a blow. she started, shrank, and shivered, bending lower with set teeth, white cheeks, and panic-stricken heart. paler and paler grew her lips, wilder and wilder her eyes, fainter and fainter her breath, till, with a long sigh, a vain effort to save herself, she sank prone upon the threshold of the door, as if struck down by death. "mercy on us, my lady, are you ill?" cried hester, the maid, as her mistress glided into the room looking like a ghost, half an hour later. "i am faint and cold. help me to my bed, but do not disturb sir richard." a shiver crept over her as she spoke, and, casting a wild, woeful look about her, she laid her head upon the pillow like one who never cared to lift it up again. hester, a sharp-eyed, middle-aged woman, watched the pale creature for a moment, then left the room muttering, "something is wrong, and sir richard must know it. that black-bearded man came for no good, i'll warrant." at the door of the library she paused. no sound of voices came from within; a stifled groan was all she heard; and without waiting to knock she went in, fearing she knew not what. sir richard sat at his writing table pen in hand, but his face was hidden on his arm, and his whole attitude betrayed the presence of some overwhelming despair. "please, sir, my lady is ill. shall i send for anyone?" no answer. hester repeated her words, but sir richard never stirred. much alarmed, the woman raised his head, saw that he was unconscious, and rang for help. but richard trevlyn was past help, though he lingered for some hours. he spoke but once, murmuring faintly, "will alice come to say good-bye?" "bring her if she can come," said the physician. hester went, found her mistress lying as she left her, like a figure carved in stone. when she gave the message, lady trevlyn answered sternly, "tell him i will not come," and turned her face to the wall, with an expression which daunted the woman too much for another word. hester whispered the hard answer to the physician, fearing to utter it aloud, but sir richard heard it, and died with a despairing prayer for pardon on his lips. when day dawned sir richard lay in his shroud and his little daughter in her cradle, the one unwept, the other unwelcomed by the wife and mother, who, twelve hours before, had called herself the happiest woman in england. they thought her dying, and at her own command gave her the sealed letter bearing her address which her husband left behind him. she read it, laid it in her bosom, and, waking from the trance which seemed to have so strongly chilled and changed her, besought those about her with passionate earnestness to save her life. for two days she hovered on the brink of the grave, and nothing but the indomitable will to live saved her, the doctors said. on the third day she rallied wonderfully, and some purpose seemed to gift her with unnatural strength. evening came, and the house was very still, for all the sad bustle of preparation for sir richard's funeral was over, and he lay for the last night under his own roof. hester sat in the darkened chamber of her mistress, and no sound broke the hush but the low lullaby the nurse was singing to the fatherless baby in the adjoining room. lady trevlyn seemed to sleep, but suddenly put back the curtain, saying abruptly, "where does he lie?" "in the state chamber, my lady," replied hester, anxiously watching the feverish glitter of her mistress's eye, the flush on her cheek, and the unnatural calmness of her manner. "help me to go there; i must see him." "it would be your death, my lady. i beseech you, don't think of it," began the woman; but lady trevlyn seemed not to hear her, and something in the stern pallor of her face awed the woman into submission. wrapping the slight form of her mistress in a warm cloak, hester half-led, half-carried her to the state room, and left her on the threshold. "i must go in alone; fear nothing, but wait for me here," she said, and closed the door behind her. five minutes had not elapsed when she reappeared with no sign of grief on her rigid face. "take me to my bed and bring my jewel box," she said, with a shuddering sigh, as the faithful servant received her with an exclamation of thankfulness. when her orders had been obeyed, she drew from her bosom the portrait of sir richard which she always wore, and, removing the ivory oval from the gold case, she locked the former in a tiny drawer of the casket, replaced the empty locket in her breast, and bade hester give the jewels to watson, her lawyer, who would see them put in a safe place till the child was grown. "dear heart, my lady, you'll wear them yet, for you're too young to grieve all your days, even for so good a man as my blessed master. take comfort, and cheer up, for the dear child's sake if no more." "i shall never wear them again" was all the answer as lady trevlyn drew the curtains, as if to shut out hope. sir richard was buried and, the nine days' gossip over, the mystery of his death died for want of food, for the only person who could have explained it was in a state which forbade all allusion to that tragic day. for a year lady trevlyn's reason was in danger. a long fever left her so weak in mind and body that there was little hope of recovery, and her days were passed in a state of apathy sad to witness. she seemed to have forgotten everything, even the shock which had so sorely stricken her. the sight of her child failed to rouse her, and month after month slipped by, leaving no trace of their passage on her mind, and but slightly renovating her feeble body. who the stranger was, what his aim in coming, or why he never reappeared, no one discovered. the contents of the letter left by sir richard were unknown, for the paper had been destroyed by lady trevlyn and no clue could be got from her. sir richard had died of heart disease, the physicians said, though he might have lived years had no sudden shock assailed him. there were few relatives to make investigations, and friends soon forgot the sad young widow; so the years rolled on, and lillian the heiress grew from infancy to childhood in the shadow of this mystery. chapter ii paul "come, child, the dew is falling, and it is time we went in." "no, no, mamma is not rested yet, so i may run down to the spring if i like." and lillian, as willful as winsome, vanished among the tall ferns where deer couched and rabbits hid. hester leisurely followed, looking as unchanged as if a day instead of twelve years had passed since her arms received the little mistress, who now ruled her like a tyrant. she had taken but a few steps when the child came flying back, exclaiming in an excited tone, "oh, come quick! there's a man there, a dead man. i saw him and i'm frightened!" "nonsense, child, it's one of the keepers asleep, or some stroller who has no business here. take my hand and we'll see who it is." somewhat reassured, lillian led her nurse to one of the old oaks beside the path, and pointed to a figure lying half hidden in the fern. a slender, swarthy boy of sixteen, with curly black hair, dark brows, and thick lashes, a singularly stern mouth, and a general expression of strength and pride, which added character to his boyish face and dignified his poverty. his dress betrayed that, being dusty and threadbare, his shoes much worn, and his possessions contained in the little bundle on which he pillowed his head. he was sleeping like one quite spent with weariness, and never stirred, though hester bent away the ferns and examined him closely. "he's not dead, my deary; he's asleep, poor lad, worn out with his day's tramp, i dare say." "i'm glad he's alive, and i wish he'd wake up. he's a pretty boy, isn't he? see what nice hands he's got, and his hair is more curly than mine. make him open his eyes, hester," commanded the little lady, whose fear had given place to interest. "hush, he's stirring. i wonder how he got in, and what he wants," whispered hester. "i'll ask him," and before her nurse could arrest her, lillian drew a tall fern softly over the sleeper's face, laughing aloud as she did so. the boy woke at the sound, and without stirring lay looking up at the lovely little face bent over him, as if still in a dream. "_bella cara_," he said, in a musical voice. then, as the child drew back abashed at the glance of his large, bright eyes, he seemed to wake entirely and, springing to his feet, looked at hester with a quick, searching glance. something in his face and air caused the woman to soften her tone a little, as she said gravely, "did you wish to see any one at the hall?" "yes. is lady trevlyn here?" was the boy's answer, as he stood cap in hand, with the smile fading already from his face. "she is, but unless your business is very urgent you had better see parks, the keeper; we don't trouble my lady with trifles." "i've a note for her from colonel daventry; and as it is _not_ a trifle, i'll deliver it myself, if you please." hester hesitated an instant, but lillian cried out, "mamma is close by, come and see her," and led the way, beckoning as she ran. the lad followed with a composed air, and hester brought up the rear, taking notes as she went with a woman's keen eye. lady trevlyn, a beautiful, pale woman, delicate in health and melancholy in spirit, sat on a rustic seat with a book in her hand; not reading, but musing with an absent mind. as the child approached, she held out her hand to welcome her, but neither smiled nor spoke. "mamma, here is a--a person to see you," cried lillian, rather at a loss how to designate the stranger, whose height and gravity now awed her. "a note from colonel daventry, my lady," and with a bow the boy delivered the missive. scarcely glancing at him, she opened it and read: _my dear friend_, _the bearer of this, paul jex, has been with me some months and has served me well. i brought him from paris, but he is english born, and, though friendless, prefers to remain here, even after we leave, as we do in a week. when i last saw you you mentioned wanting a lad to help in the garden; paul is accustomed to that employment, though my wife used him as a sort of page in the house. hoping you may be able to give him shelter, i venture to send him. he is honest, capable, and trustworthy in all respects. pray try him, and oblige_, _yours sincerely_, _j. r. daventry_ "the place is still vacant, and i shall be very glad to give it to you, if you incline to take it," said lady trevlyn, lifting her eyes from the note and scanning the boy's face. "i do, madam," he answered respectfully. "the colonel says you are english," added the lady, in a tone of surprise. the boy smiled, showing a faultless set of teeth, as he replied, "i am, my lady, though just now i may not look it, being much tanned and very dusty. my father was an englishman, but i've lived abroad a good deal since he died, and got foreign ways, perhaps." as he spoke without any accent, and looked full in her face with a pair of honest blue eyes under the dark lashes, lady trevlyn's momentary doubt vanished. "your age, paul?" "sixteen, my lady." "you understand gardening?" "yes, my lady." "and what else?" "i can break horses, serve at table, do errands, read aloud, ride after a young lady as groom, illuminate on parchment, train flowers, and make myself useful in any way." the tone, half modest, half eager, in which the boy spoke, as well as the odd list of his accomplishments, brought a smile to lady trevlyn's lips, and the general air of the lad prepossessed her. "i want lillian to ride soon, and roger is rather old for an escort to such a little horsewoman. don't you think we might try paul?" she said, turning to hester. the woman gravely eyed the lad from head to foot, and shook her head, but an imploring little gesture and a glance of the handsome eyes softened her heart in spite of herself. "yes, my lady, if he does well about the place, and parks thinks he's steady enough, we might try it by-and-by." lillian clapped her hands and, drawing nearer, exclaimed confidingly, as she looked up at her new groom, "i know he'll do, mamma. i like him very much, and i hope you'll let him train my pony for me. will you, paul?" "yes." as he spoke very low and hastily, the boy looked away from the eager little face before him, and a sudden flush of color crossed his dark cheek. hester saw it and said within herself, "that boy has good blood in his veins. he's no clodhopper's son, i can tell by his hands and feet, his air and walk. poor lad, it's hard for him, i'll warrant, but he's not too proud for honest work, and i like that." "you may stay, paul, and we will try you for a month. hester, take him to parks and see that he is made comfortable. tomorrow we will see what he can do. come, darling, i am rested now." as she spoke, lady trevlyn dismissed the boy with a gracious gesture and led her little daughter away. paul stood watching her, as if forgetful of his companion, till she said, rather tartly, "young man, you'd better have thanked my lady while she was here than stare after her now it's too late. if you want to see parks, you'd best come, for i'm going." "is that the family tomb yonder, where you found me asleep?" was the unexpected reply to her speech, as the boy quietly followed her, not at all daunted by her manner. "yes, and that reminds me to ask how you got in, and why you were napping there, instead of doing your errand properly?" "i leaped the fence and stopped to rest before presenting myself, miss hester" was the cool answer, accompanied by a short laugh as he confessed his trespass. "you look as if you'd had a long walk; where are you from?" "london." "bless the boy! it's fifty miles away." "so my shoes show; but it's a pleasant trip in summer time." "but why did you walk, child! had you no money?" "plenty, but not for wasting on coaches, when my own stout legs could carry me. i took a two days' holiday and saved my money for better things." "i like that," said hester, with an approving nod. "you'll get on, my lad, if that's your way, and i'll lend a hand, for laziness is my abomination, and one sees plenty nowadays." "thank you. that's friendly, and i'll prove that i am grateful. please tell me, is my lady ill?" "always delicate since sir richard died." "how long ago was that?" "ten years or more." "are there no young gentlemen in the family?" "no, miss lillian is an only child, and a sweet one, bless her!" "a proud little lady, i should say." "and well she may be, for there's no better blood in england than the trevlyns, and she's heiress to a noble fortune." "is that the trevlyn coat of arms?" asked the boy abruptly, pointing to a stone falcon with the motto me and mine carved over the gate through which they were passing. "yes. why do you ask?" "mere curiosity; i know something of heraldry and often paint these things for my own pleasure. one learns odd amusements abroad," he added, seeing an expression of surprise on the woman's face. "you'll have little time for such matters here. come in and report yourself to the keeper, and if you'll take my advice ask no questions of him, for you'll get no answers." "i seldom ask questions of men, as they are not fond of gossip." and the boy nodded with a smile of mischievous significance as he entered the keeper's lodge. a sharp lad and a saucy, if he likes. i'll keep my eye on him, for my lady takes no more thought of such things than a child, and lillian cares for nothing but her own will. he has a taking way with him, though, and knows how to flatter. it's well he does, poor lad, for life's a hard matter to a friendless soul like him. as she thought these thoughts hester went on to the house, leaving paul to win the good graces of the keeper, which he speedily did by assuming an utterly different manner from that he had worn with the woman. that night, when the boy was alone in his own room, he wrote a long letter in italian describing the events of the day, enclosed a sketch of the falcon and motto, directed it to "father cosmo carmela, genoa," and lay down to sleep, muttering, with a grim look and a heavy sigh, "so far so well; i'll not let my heart be softened by pity, or my purpose change till my promise is kept. pretty child, i wish i had never seen her!" chapter iii secret service in a week paul was a favorite with the household; even prudent hester felt the charm of his presence, and owned that lillian was happier for a young companion in her walks. hitherto the child had led a solitary life, with no playmates of her own age, such being the will of my lady; therefore she welcomed paul as a new and delightful amusement, considering him her private property and soon transferring his duties from the garden to the house. satisfied of his merits, my lady yielded to lillian's demands, and paul was installed as page to the young lady. always respectful and obedient, he never forgot his place, yet seemed unconsciously to influence all who approached him, and win the goodwill of everyone. my lady showed unusual interest in the lad, and lillian openly displayed her admiration for his accomplishments and her affection for her devoted young servitor. hester was much flattered by the confidence he reposed in her, for to her alone did he tell his story, and of her alone asked advice and comfort in his various small straits. it was as she suspected: paul was a gentleman's son, but misfortune had robbed him of home, friends, and parents, and thrown him upon the world to shift for himself. this sad story touched the woman's heart, and the boy's manly spirit won respect. she had lost a son years ago, and her empty heart yearned over the motherless lad. ashamed to confess the tender feeling, she wore her usual severe manner to him in public, but in private softened wonderfully and enjoyed the boy's regard heartily. "paul, come in. i want to speak with you a moment," said my lady, from the long window of the library to the boy who was training vines outside. dropping his tools and pulling off his hat, paul obeyed, looking a little anxious, for the month of trial expired that day. lady trevlyn saw and answered the look with a gracious smile. "have no fears. you are to stay if you will, for lillian is happy and i am satisfied with you." "thank you, my lady." and an odd glance of mingled pride and pain shone in the boy's downcast eyes. "that is settled, then. now let me say what i called you in for. you spoke of being able to illuminate on parchment. can you restore this old book for me?" she put into his hand the ancient volume sir richard had been reading the day he died. it had lain neglected in a damp nook for years till my lady discovered it, and, sad as were the associations connected with it, she desired to preserve it for the sake of the weird prophecy if nothing else. paul examined it, and as he turned it to and fro in his hands it opened at the page oftenest read by its late master. his eye kindled as he looked, and with a quick gesture he turned as if toward the light, in truth to hide the flash of triumph that passed across his face. carefully controlling his voice, he answered in a moment, as he looked up, quite composed, "yes, my lady, i can retouch the faded colors on these margins and darken the pale ink of the old english text. i like the work, and will gladly do it if you like." "do it, then, but be very careful of the book while in your hands. provide what is needful, and name your own price for the work," said his mistress. "nay, my lady, i am already paid--" "how so?" she asked, surprised. paul had spoken hastily, and for an instant looked embarrassed, but answered with a sudden flush on his dark cheeks, "you have been kind to me, and i am glad to show my, gratitude in any way, my lady." "let that pass, my boy. do this little service for me and we will see about the recompense afterward." and with a smile lady trevlyn left him to begin his work. the moment the door closed behind her a total change passed over paul. he shook his clenched hand after her with a gesture of menace, then tossed up the old book and caught it with an exclamation of delight, as he reopened it at the worn page and reread the inexplicable verse. "another proof, another proof! the work goes bravely on, father cosmo; and boy as i am, i'll keep my word in spite of everything," he muttered. "what is that you'll keep, lad?" said a voice behind him. "i'll keep my word to my lady, and do my best to restore this book, mrs. hester," he answered, quickly recovering himself. "ah, that's the last book poor master read. i hid it away, but my lady found it in spite of me," said hester, with a doleful sigh. "did he die suddenly, then?" asked the boy. "dear heart, yes; i found him dying in this room with the ink scarce dry on the letter he left for my lady. a mysterious business and a sad one." "tell me about it. i like sad stories, and i already feel as if i belonged to the family, a loyal retainer as in the old times. while you dust the books and i rub the mold off this old cover, tell me the tale, please, mrs. hester." she shook her head, but yielded to the persuasive look and tone of the boy, telling the story more fully than she intended, for she loved talking and had come to regard paul as her own, almost. "and the letter? what was in it?" asked the boy, as she paused at the catastrophe. "no one ever knew but my lady." "she destroyed it, then?" "i thought so, till a long time afterward, one of the lawyers came pestering me with questions, and made me ask her. she was ill at the time, but answered with a look i shall never forget, 'no, it's not burnt, but no one shall ever see it.' i dared ask no more, but i fancy she has it safe somewhere and if it's ever needed she'll bring it out. it was only some private matters, i fancy." "and the stranger?" "oh, he vanished as oddly as he came, and has never been found. a strange story, lad. keep silent, and let it rest." "no fear of my tattling," and the boy smiled curiously to himself as he bent over the book, polishing the brassbound cover. "what are you doing with that pretty white wax?" asked lillian the next day, as she came upon paul in a quiet corner of the garden and found him absorbed in some mysterious occupation. with a quick gesture he destroyed his work, and, banishing a momentary expression of annoyance, he answered in his accustomed tone as he began to work anew, "i am molding a little deer for you, miss lillian. see, here is a rabbit already done, and i'll soon have a stag also." "it's very pretty! how many nice things you can do, and how kind you are to think of my liking something new. was this wax what you went to get this morning when you rode away so early?" asked the child. "yes, miss lillian. i was ordered to exercise your pony and i made him useful as well. would you like to try this? it's very easy." lillian was charmed, and for several days wax modeling was her favorite play. then she tired of it, and paul invented a new amusement, smiling his inexplicable smile as he threw away the broken toys of wax. "you are getting pale and thin, keeping such late hours, paul. go to bed, boy, go to bed, and get your sleep early," said hester a week afterward, with a motherly air, as paul passed her one morning. "and how do you know i don't go to bed?" he asked, wheeling about. "my lady has been restless lately, and i sit up with her till she sleeps. as i go to my room, i see your lamp burning, and last night i got as far as your door, meaning to speak to you, but didn't, thinking you'd take it amiss. but really you are the worse for late hours, child." "i shall soon finish restoring the book, and then i'll sleep. i hope i don't disturb you. i have to grind my colors, and often make more noise than i mean to." paul fixed his eyes sharply on the woman as he spoke, but she seemed unconscious of it, and turned to go on, saying indifferently, "oh, that's the odd sound, is it? no, it doesn't trouble me, so grind away, and make an end of it as soon as may be." an anxious fold in the boy's forehead smoothed itself away as he left her, saying to himself with a sigh of relief, "a narrow escape; it's well i keep the door locked." the boy's light burned no more after that, and hester was content till a new worry came to trouble her. on her way to her room late one night, she saw a tall shadow flit down one of the side corridors that branched from the main one. for a moment she was startled, but, being a woman of courage, she followed noiselessly, till the shadow seemed to vanish in the gloom of the great hall. "if the house ever owned a ghost i'd say that's it, but it never did, so i suspect some deviltry. i'll step to paul. he's not asleep, i dare say. he's a brave and a sensible lad, and with him i'll quietly search the house." away she went, more nervous than she would own, and tapped at the boy's door. no one answered, and, seeing that it was ajar, hester whisked in so hurriedly that her candle went out. with an impatient exclamation at her carelessness she glided to the bed, drew the curtain, and put forth her hand to touch the sleeper. the bed was empty. a disagreeable thrill shot through her, as she assured herself of the fact by groping along the narrow bed. standing in the shadow of the curtain, she stared about the dusky room, in which objects were visible by the light of a new moon. "lord bless me, what is the boy about! i do believe it was him i saw in the--" she got no further in her mental exclamation for the sound of light approaching footsteps neared her. slipping around the bed she waited in the shadow, and a moment after paul appeared, looking pale and ghostly, with dark, disheveled hair, wide-open eyes, and a cloak thrown over his shoulders. without a pause he flung it off, laid himself in bed, and seemed to sleep at once. "paul! paul!" whispered hester, shaking him, after a pause of astonishment at the whole proceeding. "hey, what is it?" and he sat up, looking drowsily about him. "come, come, no tricks, boy. what are you doing, trailing about the house at this hour and in such trim?" "why, hester, is it you?" he exclaimed with a laugh, as he shook off her grip and looked up at her in surprise. "yes, and well it is me. if it had been any of those silly girls, the house would have been roused by this time. what mischief is afoot that you leave your bed and play ghost in this wild fashion?" "leave my bed! why, my good soul, i haven't stirred, but have been dreaming with all my might these two hours. what do you mean, hester?" she told him as she relit her lamp, and stood eyeing him sharply the while. when she finished he was silent a minute, then said, looking half vexed and half ashamed, "i see how it is, and i'm glad you alone have found me out. i walk in my sleep sometimes, hester, that's the truth. i thought i'd got over it, but it's come back, you see, and i'm sorry for it. don't be troubled. i never do any mischief or come to any harm. i just take a quiet promenade and march back to bed again. did i frighten you?" "just a trifle, but it's nothing. poor lad, you'll have to have a bedfellow or be locked up; it's dangerous to go roaming about in this way," said hester anxiously. "it won't last long, for i'll get more tired and then i shall sleep sounder. don't tell anyone, please, else they'll laugh at me, and that's not pleasant. i don't mind your knowing for you seem almost like a mother, and i thank you for it with all my heart." he held out his hand with the look that was irresistible to hester. remembering only that he was a motherless boy, she stroked the curly hair off his forehead, and kissed him, with the thought of her own son warm at her heart. "good night, dear. i'll say nothing, but give you something that will ensure quiet sleep hereafter." with that she left him, but would have been annoyed could she have seen the convulsion of boyish merriment which took possession of him when alone, for he laughed till the tears ran down his cheeks. chapter iv vanished he's a handsome lad, and one any woman might be proud to call her son," said hester to bedford, the stately butler, as they lingered at the hall door one autumn morning to watch their young lady's departure on her daily ride. "you are right, mrs. hester, he's a fine lad, and yet he seems above his place, though he does look the very picture of a lady's groom," replied bedford approvingly. so he did, as he stood holding the white pony of his little mistress, for the boy gave an air to whatever he wore and looked like a gentleman even in his livery. the dark-blue coat with silver buttons, the silver band about his hat, his white-topped boots and bright spurs, spotless gloves, and tightly drawn belt were all in perfect order, all becoming, and his handsome, dark face caused many a susceptible maid to blush and simper as they passed him. "gentleman paul," as the servants called him, was rather lofty and reserved among his mates, but they liked him nonetheless, for hester had dropped hints of his story and quite a little romance had sprung up about him. he stood leaning against the docile creature, sunk in thought, and quite unconscious of the watchers and whisperers close by. but as lillian appeared he woke up, attended to his duties like a well-trained groom, and lingered over his task as if he liked it. down the avenue he rode behind her, but as they turned into a shady lane lillian beckoned, saying, in the imperious tone habitual to her, "ride near me. i wish to talk." paul obeyed, and amused her with the chat she liked till they reached a hazel copse; here he drew rein, and, leaping down, gathered a handful of ripe nuts for her. "how nice. let us rest a minute here, and while i eat a few, please pull some of those flowers for mamma. she likes a wild nosegay better than any i can bring her from the garden." lillian ate her nuts till paul came to her with a hatful of late flowers and, standing by her, held the impromptu basket while she made up a bouquet to suit her taste. "you shall have a posy, too; i like you to wear one in your buttonhole as the ladies' grooms do in the park," said the child, settling a scarlet poppy in the blue coat. "thanks, miss lillian, i'll wear your colors with all my heart, especially today, for it is my birthday." and paul looked up at the blooming little face with unusual softness in his keen blue eyes. "is it? why, then, you're seventeen; almost a man, aren't you?" "yes, thank heaven," muttered the boy, half to himself. "i wish i was as old. i shan't be in my teens till autumn. i must give you something, paul, because i like you very much, and you are always doing kind things for me. what shall it be?" and the child held out her hand with a cordial look and gesture that touched the boy. with one of the foreign fashions which sometimes appeared when he forgot himself, he kissed the small hand, saying impulsively, "my dear little mistress, i want nothing but your goodwill--and your forgiveness," he added, under his breath. "you have that already, paul, and i shall find something to add to it. but what is that?" and she laid hold of a little locket which had slipped into sight as paul bent forward in his salute. he thrust it back, coloring so deeply that the child observed it, and exclaimed, with a mischievous laugh, "it is your sweetheart, paul. i heard bessy, my maid, tell hester she was sure you had one because you took no notice of them. let me see it. is she pretty?" "very pretty," answered the boy, without showing the picture. "do you like her very much?" questioned lillian, getting interested in the little romance. "very much," and paul's black eyelashes fell. "would you die for her, as they say in the old songs?" asked the girl, melodramatically. "yes, miss lillian, or live for her, which is harder." "dear me, how very nice it must be to have anyone care for one so much," said the child innocently. "i wonder if anybody ever will for me?" "_love comes to all soon or late, and maketh gay or sad; for every bird will find its mate, and every lass a lad,_" sang paul, quoting one of hester's songs, and looking relieved that lillian's thoughts had strayed from him. but he was mistaken. "shall you marry this sweetheart of yours someday?" asked lillian, turning to him with a curious yet wistful look. "perhaps." "you look as if there was no 'perhaps' about it," said the child, quick to read the kindling of the eye and the change in the voice that accompanied the boy's reply. "she is very young and i must wait, and while i wait many things may happen to part us." "is she a lady?" "yes, a wellborn, lovely little lady, and i'll marry her if i live." paul spoke with a look of decision, and a proud lift of the head that contrasted curiously with the badge of servitude he wore. lillian felt this, and asked, with a sudden shyness coming over her, "but you are a gentleman, and so no one will mind even if you are not rich." "how do you know what i am?" he asked quickly. "i heard hester tell the housekeeper that you were not what you seemed, and one day she hoped you'd get your right place again. i asked mamma about it, and she said she would not let me be with you so much if you were not a fit companion for me. i was not to speak of it, but she means to be your friend and help you by-and-by." "does she?" and the boy laughed an odd, short laugh that jarred on lillian's ear and made her say reprovingly, "you are proud, i know, but you'll let us help you because we like to do it, and i have no brother to share my money with." "would you like one, or a sister?" asked paul, looking straight into her face with his piercing eyes. "yes, indeed! i long for someone to be with me and love me, as mamma can't." "would you be willing to share everything with another person--perhaps have to give them a great many things you like and now have all to yourself?" "i think i should. i'm selfish, i know, because everyone pets and spoils me, but if i loved a person dearly i'd give up anything to them. indeed i would, paul, pray believe me." she spoke earnestly, and leaned on his shoulder as if to enforce her words. the boy's arm stole around the little figure in the saddle, and a beautiful bright smile broke over his face as he answered warmly, "i do believe it, dear, and it makes me happy to hear you say so. don't be afraid, i'm your equal, but i'll not forget that you are my little mistress till i can change from groom to gentleman." he added the last sentence as he withdrew his arm, for lillian had shrunk a little and blushed with surprise, not anger, at this first breach of respect on the part of her companion. both were silent for a moment, paul looking down and lillian busy with her nosegay. she spoke first, assuming an air of satisfaction as she surveyed her work. "that will please mamma, i'm sure, and make her quite forget my naughty prank of yesterday. do you know i offended her dreadfully by peeping into the gold case she wears on her neck? she was asleep and i was sitting by her. in her sleep she pulled it out and said something about a letter and papa. i wanted to see papa's face, for i never did, because the big picture of him is gone from the gallery where the others are, so i peeped into the case when she let it drop and was so disappointed to find nothing but a key." "a key! what sort of a key?" cried paul in an eager tone. "oh, a little silver one like the key of my piano, or the black cabinet. she woke and was very angry to find me meddling." "what did it belong to?" asked paul. "her treasure box, she said, but i don't know where or what that is, and i dare not ask any more, for she forbade my speaking to her about it. poor mamma! i'm always troubling her in some way or other." with a penitent sigh, lillian tied up her flowers and handed them to paul to carry. as she did so, the change in his face struck her. "how grim and old you look," she exclaimed. "have i said anything that troubles you?" "no, miss lillian. i'm only thinking." "then i wish you wouldn't think, for you get a great wrinkle in your forehead, your eyes grow almost black, and your mouth looks fierce. you are a very odd person, paul; one minute as gay as any boy, and the next as grave and stern as a man with a deal of work to do." "i _have_ got a deal of work to do, so no wonder i look old and grim." "what work, paul?" "to make my fortune and win my lady." when paul spoke in that tone and wore that look, lillian felt as if they had changed places, and he was the master and she the servant. she wondered over this in her childish mind, but proud and willful as she was, she liked it, and obeyed him with unusual meekness when he suggested that it was time to return. as he rode silently beside her, she stole covert glances at him from under her wide hat brim, and studied his unconscious face as she had never done before. his lips moved now and then but uttered no audible sound, his black brows were knit, and once his hand went to his breast as if he thought of the little sweetheart whose picture lay there. he's got a trouble. i wish he'd tell me and let me help him if i can. i'll make him show me that miniature someday, for i'm interested in that girl, thought lillian with a pensive sigh. as he held his hand for her little foot in dismounting her at the hall door, paul seemed to have shaken off his grave mood, for he looked up and smiled at her with his blithest expression. but lillian appeared to be the thoughtful one now and with an air of dignity, very pretty and becoming, thanked her young squire in a stately manner and swept into the house, looking tall and womanly in her flowing skirts. paul laughed as he glanced after her and, flinging himself onto his horse, rode away to the stables at a reckless pace, as if to work off some emotion for which he could find no other vent. "here's a letter for you, lad, all the way from some place in italy. who do you know there?" said bedford, as the boy came back. with a hasty "thank you," paul caught the letter and darted away to his own room, there to tear it open and, after reading a single line, to drop into a chair as if he had received a sudden blow. growing paler and paler he read on, and when the letter fell from his hands he exclaimed, in a tone of despair, "how could he die at such a time!" for an hour the boy sat thinking intently, with locked door, curtained window, and several papers strewn before him. letters, memoranda, plans, drawings, and bits of parchment, all of which he took from a small locked portfolio always worn about him. over these he pored with a face in which hope, despondency, resolve, and regret alternated rapidly. taking the locket out he examined a ring which lay in one side, and the childish face which smiled on him from the other. his eyes filled as he locked and put it by, saying tenderly, "dear little heart! i'll not forget or desert her whatever happens. time must help me, and to time i must leave my work. one more attempt and then i'm off." * * * * * "i'll go to bed now, hester; but while you get my things ready i'll take a turn in the corridor. the air will refresh me." as she spoke, lady trevlyn drew her wrapper about her and paced softly down the long hall lighted only by fitful gleams of moonlight and the ruddy glow of the fire. at the far end was the state chamber, never used now, and never visited except by hester, who occasionally went in to dust and air it, and my lady, who always passed the anniversary of sir richard's death alone there. the gallery was very dark, and she seldom went farther than the last window in her restless walks, but as she now approached she was startled to see a streak of yellow light under the door. she kept the key herself and neither she nor hester had been there that day. a cold shiver passed over her for, as she looked, the shadow of a foot darkened the light for a moment and vanished as if someone had noiselessly passed. obeying a sudden impulse, my lady sprang forward and tried to open the door. it was locked, but as her hand turned the silver knob a sound as if a drawer softly closed met her ear. she stooped to the keyhole but it was dark, a key evidently being in the lock. she drew back and flew to her room, snatched the key from her dressing table, and, bidding hester follow, returned to the hall. "what is it, my lady?" cried the woman, alarmed at the agitation of her mistress. "a light, a sound, a shadow in the state chamber. come quick!" cried lady trevlyn, adding, as she pointed to the door, "there, there, the light shines underneath. do you see it?" "no, my lady, it's dark," returned hester. it was, but never pausing my lady thrust in the key, and to her surprise it turned, the door flew open, and the dim, still room was before them. hester boldly entered, and while her mistress slowly followed, she searched the room, looking behind the tall screen by the hearth, up the wide chimney, in the great wardrobe, and under the ebony cabinet, where all the relics of sir richard were kept. nothing appeared, not even a mouse, and hester turned to my lady with an air of relief. but her mistress pointed to the bed shrouded in dark velvet hangings, and whispered breathlessly, "you forgot to look there." hester had not forgotten, but in spite of her courage and good sense she shrank a little from looking at the spot where she had last seen her master's dead face. she believed the light and sound to be phantoms of my lady's distempered fancy, and searched merely to satisfy her. the mystery of sir richard's death still haunted the minds of all who remembered it, and even hester felt a superstitious dread of that room. with a nervous laugh she looked under the bed and, drawing back the heavy curtains, said soothingly, "you see, my lady, there's nothing there." but the words died on her lips, for, as the pale glimmer of the candle pierced the gloom of that funeral couch, both saw a face upon the pillow: a pale face framed in dark hair and beard, with closed eyes and the stony look the dead wear. a loud, long shriek that roused the house broke from lady trevlyn as she fell senseless at the bedside, and dropping both curtain and candle hester caught up her mistress and fled from the haunted room, locking the door behind her. in a moment a dozen servants were about them, and into their astonished ears hester poured her story while vainly trying to restore her lady. great was the dismay and intense the unwillingness of anyone to obey when hester ordered the men to search the room again, for she was the first to regain her self-possession. "where's paul? he's the heart of a man, boy though he is," she said angrily as the men hung back. "he's not here. lord! maybe it was him a-playing tricks, though it ain't like him," cried bessy, lillian's little maid. "no, it can't be him, for i locked him in myself. he walks in his sleep sometimes, and i was afraid he'd startle my lady. let him sleep; this would only excite him and set him to marching again. follow me, bedford and james, i'm not afraid of ghosts or rogues." with a face that belied her words hester led the way to the awful room, and flinging back the curtain resolutely looked in. the bed was empty, but on the pillow was plainly visible the mark of a head and a single scarlet stain, as of blood. at that sight hester turned pale and caught the butler's arm, whispering with a shudder, "do you remember the night we put him in his coffin, the drop of blood that fell from his white lips? sir richard has been here." "good lord, ma'am, don't say that! we can never rest in our beds if such things are to happen," gasped bedford, backing to the door. "it's no use to look, we've found all we shall find so go your ways and tell no one of this," said the woman in a gloomy tone, and, having assured herself that the windows were fast, hester locked the room and ordered everyone but bedford and the housekeeper to bed. "do you sit outside my lady's door till morning," she said to the butler, "and you, mrs. price, help me to tend my poor lady, for if i'm not mistaken this night's work will bring on the old trouble." morning came, and with it a new alarm; for, though his door was fast locked and no foothold for even a sparrow outside the window, paul's room was empty, and the boy nowhere to be found. chapter v a hero four years had passed, and lillian was fast blooming into a lovely woman: proud and willful as ever, but very charming, and already a belle in the little world where she still reigned a queen. owing to her mother's ill health, she was allowed more freedom than is usually permitted to an english girl of her age; and, during the season, often went into company with a friend of lady trevlyn's who was chaperoning two young daughters of her own. to the world lillian seemed a gay, free-hearted girl; and no one, not even her mother, knew how well she remembered and how much she missed the lost paul. no tidings of him had ever come, and no trace of him was found after his flight. nothing was missed, he went without his wages, and no reason could be divined for his departure except the foreign letter. bedford remembered it, but forgot what postmark it bore, for he had only been able to decipher "italy." my lady made many inquiries and often spoke of him; but when month after month passed and no news came, she gave him up, and on lillian's account feigned to forget him. contrary to hester's fear, she did not seem the worse for the nocturnal fright, but evidently connected the strange visitor with paul, or, after a day or two of nervous exhaustion, returned to her usual state of health. hester had her own misgivings, but, being forbidden to allude to the subject, she held her peace, after emphatically declaring that paul would yet appear to set her mind at rest. "lillian, lillian, i've such news for you! come and hear a charming little romance, and prepare to see the hero of it!" cried maud churchill, rushing into her friend's pretty boudoir one day in the height of the season. lillian lay on a couch, rather languid after a ball, and listlessly begged maud to tell her story, for she was dying to be amused. "well my, dear, just listen and you'll be as enthusiastic as i am," cried maud. and throwing her bonnet on one chair, her parasol on another, and her gloves anywhere, she settled herself on the couch and began: "you remember reading in the papers, some time ago, that fine account of the young man who took part in the italian revolution and did that heroic thing with the bombshell?" "yes, what of him?" asked lillian, sitting up. "he is my hero, and we are to see him tonight." "go on, go on! tell all, and tell it quickly," she cried. "you know the officers were sitting somewhere, holding a council, while the city (i forget the name) was being bombarded, and how a shell came into the midst of them, how they sat paralyzed, expecting it to burst, and how this young man caught it up and ran out with it, risking his own life to save theirs?" "yes, yes, i remember!" and lillian's listless face kindled at the recollection. "well, an englishman who was there was so charmed by the act that, finding the young man was poor and an orphan, he adopted him. mr. talbot was old, and lonely, and rich, and when he died, a year after, he left his name and fortune to this paolo." "i'm glad, i'm glad!" cried lillian, clapping her hands with a joyful face. "how romantic and charming it is!" "isn't it? but, my dear creature, the most romantic part is to come. young talbot served in the war, and then came to england to take possession of his property. it's somewhere down in kent, a fine place and good income, all his; and he deserves it. mamma heard a deal about him from mrs. langdon, who knew old talbot and has seen the young man. of course all the girls are wild to behold him, for he is very handsome and accomplished, and a gentleman by birth. but the dreadful part is that he is already betrothed to a lovely greek girl, who came over at the same time, and is living in london with a companion; quite elegantly, mrs. langdon says, for she called and was charmed. this girl has been seen by some of our gentlemen friends, and they already rave about the 'fair helene,' for that's her name." here maud was forced to stop for breath, and lillian had a chance to question her. "how old is she?" "about eighteen or nineteen, they say." "very pretty?" "ravishing, regularly greek and divine, fred raleigh says." "when is she to be married?" "don't know; when talbot gets settled, i fancy." "and he? is he as charming as she?" "quite, i'm told. he's just of age, and is, in appearance as in everything else, a hero of romance." "how came your mother to secure him for tonight?" "mrs. langdon is dying to make a lion of him, and begged to bring him. he is very indifferent on such things and seems intent on his own affairs. is grave and old for his years, and doesn't seem to care much for pleasure and admiration, as most men would after a youth like his, for he has had a hard time, i believe. for a wonder, he consented to come when mrs. langdon asked him, and i flew off at once to tell you and secure you for tonight." "a thousand thanks. i meant to rest, for mamma frets about my being so gay; but she won't object to a quiet evening with you. what shall we wear?" and here the conversation branched off on the all-absorbing topic of dress. when lillian joined her friend that evening, the hero had already arrived, and, stepping into a recess, she waited to catch a glimpse of him. maud was called away, and she was alone when the crowd about the inner room thinned and permitted young talbot to be seen. well for lillian that no one observed her at that moment, for she grew pale and sank into a chair, exclaiming below her breath, "it is paul--_my_ paul!" she recognized him instantly, in spite of increased height, a dark moustache, and martial bearing. it was paul, older, graver, handsomer, but still "her paul," as she called him, with a flush of pride and delight as she watched him, and felt that of all there she knew him best and loved him most. for the childish affection still existed, and this discovery added a tinge of romance that made it doubly dangerous as well as doubly pleasant. will he know me? she thought, glancing at a mirror which reflected a slender figure with bright hair, white arms, and brilliant eyes; a graceful little head, proudly carried, and a sweet mouth, just then very charming, as it smiled till pearly teeth shone between the ruddy lips. i'm glad i'm not ugly, and i hope he'll like me, she thought, as she smoothed the golden ripples on her forehead, settled her sash, and shook out the folds of her airy dress in a flutter of girlish excitement. "i'll pretend not to know him, when we meet, and see what he will do," she said, with a wicked sense of power; for being forewarned she was forearmed, and, fearing no betrayal of surprise on her own part, was eager to enjoy any of which he might be guilty. leaving her nook, she joined a group of young friends and held herself prepared for the meeting. presently she saw maud and mrs. langdon approaching, evidently intent on presenting the hero to the heiress. "mr. talbot, miss trevlyn," said the lady. and looking up with a well-assumed air of indifference, lillian returned the gentleman's bow with her eyes fixed full upon his face. not a feature of that face changed, and so severely unconscious of any recognition was it that the girl was bewildered. for a moment she fancied she had been mistaken in his identity, and a pang of disappointment troubled her; but as he moved a chair for maud, she saw on the one ungloved hand a little scar which she remembered well, for he received it in saving her from a dangerous fall. at the sight all the happy past rose before her, and if her telltale eyes had not been averted they would have betrayed her. a sudden flush of maidenly shame dyed her cheek as she remembered that last ride, and the childish confidences then interchanged. this helen was the little sweetheart whose picture he wore, and now, in spite of all obstacles, he had won both fortune and ladylove. the sound of his voice recalled her thoughts, and glancing up she met the deep eyes fixed on her with the same steady look they used to wear. he had addressed her, but what he said she knew not, beyond a vague idea that it was some slight allusion to the music going on in the next room. with a smile which would serve for an answer to almost any remark, she hastily plunged into conversation with a composure that did her credit in the eyes of her friends, who stood in awe of the young hero, for all were but just out. "mr. talbot hardly needs an introduction here, for his name is well-known among us, though this is perhaps his first visit to england?" she said, flattering herself that this artful speech would entrap him into the reply she wanted. with a slight frown, as if the allusion to his adventure rather annoyed him, and a smile that puzzled all but lillian, he answered very simply, "it is not my first visit to this hospitable island. i was here a few years ago, for a short time, and left with regret." "then you have old friends here?" and lillian watched him as she spoke. "i had. they had doubtless forgotten me now," he said, with a sudden shadow marring the tranquillity of his face. "why doubt them? if they were true friends, they will not forget." the words were uttered impulsively, almost warmly, but talbot made no response, except a polite inclination and an abrupt change in the conversation. "that remains to be proved. do you sing, miss trevlyn?" "a little." and lillian's tone was both cold and proud. "a great deal, and very charmingly," added maud, who took pride in her friend's gifts both of voice and beauty. "come, dear, there are so few of us you will sing, i know. mamma desired me to ask you when edith had done." to her surprise lillian complied, and allowed talbot to lead her to the instrument. still hoping to win some sign of recognition from him, the girl chose an air he taught her and sang it with a spirit and skill that surprised the listeners who possessed no key to her mood. at the last verse her voice suddenly faltered, but talbot took up the song and carried her safely through it with his well-tuned voice. "you know the air then?" she said in a low tone, as a hum of commendation followed the music. "all italians sing it, though few do it like yourself," he answered quietly, restoring the fan he had held while standing beside her. provoking boy! why won't he know me? thought lillian. and her tone was almost petulant as she refused to sing again. talbot offered his arm and led her to a seat, behind which stood a little statuette of a child holding a fawn by a daisy chain. "pretty, isn't it?" she said, as he paused to look at it instead of taking the chair before her. "i used to enjoy modeling tiny deer and hinds in wax, as well as making daisy chains. is sculpture among the many accomplishments which rumor tells us you possess?" "no. those who, like me, have their own fortunes to mold find time for little else," he answered gravely, still examining the marble group. lillian broke her fan with an angry flirt, for she was tired of her trial, and wished she had openly greeted him at the beginning; feeling now how pleasant it would have been to sit chatting of old times, while her friends dared hardly address him at all. she was on the point of calling him by his former name, when the remembrance of what he had been arrested the words on her lips. he was proud; would he not dread to have it known that, in his days of adversity, he had been a servant? for if she betrayed her knowledge of his past, she would be forced to tell where and how that knowledge was gained. no, better wait till they met alone, she thought; he would thank her for her delicacy, and she could easily explain her motive. he evidently wished to seem a stranger, for once she caught a gleam of the old, mirthful mischief in his eye, as she glanced up unexpectedly. he did remember her, she was sure, yet was trying her, perhaps, as she tried him. well, she would stand the test and enjoy the joke by-and-by. with this fancy in her head she assumed a gracious air and chatted away in her most charming style, feeling both gay and excited, so anxious was she to please, and so glad to recover her early friend. a naughty whim seized her as her eye fell on a portfolio of classical engravings which someone had left in disorder on a table near her. tossing them over she asked his opinion of several, and then handed him one in which helen of troy was represented as giving her hand to the irresistible paris. "do you think her worth so much bloodshed, and deserving so much praise?" she asked, vainly trying to conceal the significant smile that would break loose on her lips and sparkle in her eyes. talbot laughed the short, boyish laugh so familiar to her ears, as he glanced from the picture to the arch questioner, and answered in a tone that made her heart beat with a nameless pain and pleasure, so full of suppressed ardor was it: "yes! 'all for love or the world well lost' is a saying i heartily agree to. la belle helene is my favorite heroine, and i regard paris as the most enviable of men." "i should like to see her." the wish broke from lillian involuntarily, and she was too much confused to turn it off by any general expression of interest in the classical lady. "you may sometime," answered talbot, with an air of amusement; adding, as if to relieve her, "i have a poetical belief that all the lovely women of history or romance will meet, and know, and love each other in some charming hereafter." "but i'm no heroine and no beauty, so i shall never enter your poetical paradise," said lillian, with a pretty affectation of regret. "some women are beauties without knowing it, and the heroines of romances never given to the world. i think you and helen will yet meet, miss trevlyn." as he spoke, mrs. langdon beckoned, and he left her pondering over his last words, and conscious of a secret satisfaction in his implied promise that she should see his betrothed. "how do you like him?" whispered maud, slipping into the empty chair. "very well," was the composed reply; for lillian enjoyed her little mystery too much to spoil it yet. "what did you say to him? i longed to hear, for you seemed to enjoy yourselves very much, but i didn't like to be a marplot." lillian repeated a part of the conversation, and maud professed to be consumed with jealousy at the impression her friend had evidently made. "it is folly to try to win the hero, for he is already won, you know," answered lillian, shutting the cover on the pictured helen with a sudden motion as if glad to extinguish her. "oh dear, no; mrs. langdon just told mamma that she was mistaken about their being engaged; for she asked him and he shook his head, saying helen was his ward." "but that is absurd, for he's only a boy himself. it's very odd, isn't it? never mind, i shall soon know all about it." "how?" cried maud, amazed at lillian's assured manner. "wait a day or two and, i'll tell you a romance in return for yours. your mother beckons to me, so i know hester has come. good night. i've had a charming time." and with this tantalizing adieu, lillian slipped away. hester was waiting in the carriage, but as lillian appeared, talbot put aside the footman and handed her in, saying very low, in the well-remembered tone: "good night, my little mistress." chapter vi fair helen to no one but her mother and hester did lillian confide the discovery she had made. none of the former servants but old bedford remained with them, and till paul chose to renew the old friendship it was best to remain silent. great was the surprise and delight of our lady and hester at the good fortune of their protege, and many the conjectures as to how he would explain his hasty flight. "you will go and see him, won't you, mamma, or at least inquire about him?" said lillian, eager to assure the wanderer of a welcome, for those few words of his had satisfied her entirely. "no, dear, it is for him to seek us, and till he does, i shall make no sign. he knows where we are, and if he chooses he can renew the acquaintance so strangely broken off. be patient, and above all things remember, lillian, that you are no longer a child," replied my lady, rather disturbed by her daughter's enthusiastic praises of paul. "i wish i was, for then i might act as i feel, and not be afraid of shocking the proprieties." and lillian went to bed to dream of her hero. for three days she stayed at home, expecting paul, but he did not come, and she went out for her usual ride in the park, hoping to meet him. an elderly groom now rode behind her, and she surveyed him with extreme disgust, as she remembered the handsome lad who had once filled that place. nowhere did paul appear, but in the ladies' mile she passed an elegant brougham in which sat a very lovely girl and a mild old lady. "that is talbot's fiancee," said maud churchill, who had joined her. "isn't she beautiful?" "not at all--yes, very," was lillian's somewhat peculiar reply, for jealousy and truth had a conflict just then. "he's so perfectly absorbed and devoted that i am sure that story is true, so adieu to our hopes," laughed maud. "did you have any? good-bye, i must go." and lillian rode home at a pace which caused the stout groom great distress. "mamma, i've seen paul's betrothed!" she cried, running into her mother's boudoir. "and i have seen paul himself," replied my lady, with a warning look, for there he stood, with half-extended hand, as if waiting to be acknowledged. lillian forgot her embarrassment in her pleasure, and made him an elaborate curtsy, saying, with a half-merry, half-reproachful glance, "mr. talbot is welcome in whatever guise he appears." "i choose to appear as paul, then, and offer you a seat, miss lillian," he said, assuming as much of his boyish manner as he could. lillian took it and tried to feel at ease, but the difference between the lad she remembered and the man she now saw was too great to be forgotten. "now tell us your adventures, and why you vanished away so mysteriously four years ago," she said, with a touch of the childish imperiousness in her voice, though her frank eyes fell before his. "i was about to do so when you appeared with news concerning my cousin," he began. "your cousin!" exclaimed lillian. "yes, helen's mother and my own were sisters. both married englishmen, both died young, leaving us to care for each other. we were like a brother and sister, and always together till i left her to serve colonel daventry. the death of the old priest to whom i entrusted her recalled me to genoa, for i was then her only guardian. i meant to have taken leave of you, my lady, properly, but the consequences of that foolish trick of mine frightened me away in the most unmannerly fashion." "ah, it was you, then, in the state chamber; i always thought so," and lady trevlyn drew a long breath of relief. "yes, i heard it whispered among the servants that the room was haunted, and i felt a wish to prove the truth of the story and my own courage. hester locked me in, for fear of my sleepwalking; but i lowered myself by a rope and then climbed in at the closet window of the state chamber. when you came, my lady, i thought it was hester, and slipped into the bed, meaning to give her a fright in return for her turning the key on me. but when your cry showed me what i had done, i was filled with remorse, and escaped as quickly and quietly as possible. i should have asked pardon before; i do now, most humbly, my lady, for it was sacrilege to play pranks _there_." during the first part of his story paul's manner had been frank and composed, but in telling the latter part, his demeanor underwent a curious change. he fixed his eyes on the ground and spoke as if repeating a lesson, while his color varied, and a half-proud, half-submissive expression replaced the former candid one. lillian observed this, and it disturbed her, but my lady took it for shame at his boyish freak and received his confession kindly, granting a free pardon and expressing sincere pleasure at his amended fortunes. as he listened, lillian saw him clench his hand hard and knit his brows, assuming the grim look she had often seen, as if trying to steel himself against some importunate emotion or rebellious thought. "yes, half my work is done, and i have a home, thanks to my generous benefactor, and i hope to enjoy it well and wisely," he said in a grave tone, as if the fortune had not yet brought him his heart's desire. "and when is the other half of the work to be accomplished, paul? that depends on your cousin, perhaps." and lady trevlyn regarded him with a gleam of womanly curiosity in her melancholy eyes. "it does, but not in the way you fancy, my lady. whatever helen may be, she is not my fiancee yet, miss lillian." and the shadow lifted as he laughed, looking at the young lady, who was decidedly abashed, in spite of a sense of relief caused by his words. "i merely accepted the world's report," she said, affecting a nonchalant air. "the world is a liar, as you will find in time" was his abrupt reply. "i hope to see this beautiful cousin, paul. will she receive us as old friends of yours?" "thanks, not yet, my lady. she is still too much a stranger here to enjoy new faces, even kind ones. i have promised perfect rest and freedom for a time, but you shall be the first whom she receives." again lillian detected the secret disquiet which possessed him, and her curiosity was roused. it piqued her that this helen felt no desire to meet her and chose to seclude herself, as if regardless of the interest and admiration she excited. "i _will_ see her in spite of her refusal, for i only caught a glimpse in the park. something is wrong, and i'll discover it, for it evidently worries paul, and perhaps i can help him." as this purpose sprang up in the warm but willful heart of the girl, she regained her spirits and was her most charming self while the young man stayed. they talked of many things in a pleasant, confidential manner, though when lillian recalled that hour, she was surprised to find how little paul had really told them of his past life or future plans. it was agreed among them to say nothing of their former relations, except to old bedford, who was discretion itself, but to appear to the world as new-made friends--thus avoiding unpleasant and unnecessary explanations which would only excite gossip. my lady asked him to dine, but he had business out of town and declined, taking his leave with a lingering look, which made lillian steal away to study her face in the mirror and wonder if she looked her best, for in paul's eyes she had read undisguised admiration. lady trevlyn went to her room to rest, leaving the girl free to ride, drive, or amuse herself as she liked. as if fearing her courage would fail if she delayed, lillian ordered the carriage, and, bidding hester mount guard over her, she drove away to st. john's wood. "now, hester, don't lecture or be prim when i tell you that we are going on a frolic," she began, after getting the old woman into an amiable mood by every winning wile she could devise. "i think you'll like it, and if it's found out i'll take the blame. there is some mystery about paul's cousin, and i'm going to find it out." "bless you, child, how?" "she lives alone here, is seldom seen, and won't go anywhere or receive anyone. that's not natural in a pretty girl. paul won't talk about her, and, though he's fond of her, he always looks grave and grim when i ask questions. that's provoking, and i won't hear it. maud is engaged to raleigh, you know; well, he confided to her that he and a friend had found out where helen was, had gone to the next villa, which is empty, and under pretense of looking at it got a peep at the girl in her garden. i'm going to do the same." "and what am _i_ to do?" asked hester, secretly relishing the prank, for she was dying with curiosity to behold paul's cousin. "you are to do the talking with the old woman, and give me a chance to look. now say you will, and i'll behave myself like an angel in return." hester yielded, after a few discreet scruples, and when they reached laburnum lodge played her part so well that lillian soon managed to stray away into one of the upper rooms which overlooked the neighboring garden. helen was there, and with eager eyes the girl scrutinized her. she was very beautiful, in the classical style; as fair and finely molded as a statue, with magnificent dark hair and eyes, and possessed of that perfect grace which is as effective as beauty. she was alone, and when first seen was bending over a flower which she caressed and seemed to examine with great interest as she stood a long time motionless before it. then she began to pace slowly around and around the little grass plot, her hands hanging loosely clasped before her, and her eyes fixed on vacancy as if absorbed in thought. but as the first effect of her beauty passed away, lillian found something peculiar about her. it was not the somewhat foreign dress and ornaments she wore; it was in her face, her movements, and the tone of her voice, for as she walked she sang a low, monotonous song, as if unconsciously. lillian watched her keenly, marking the aimless motions of the little hands, the apathy of the lovely face, and the mirthless accent of the voice; but most of all the vacant fixture of the great dark eyes. around and around she went, with an elastic step and a mechanical regularity wearisome to witness. what is the matter with her? thought lillian anxiously, as this painful impression increased with every scrutiny of the unconscious girl. so abashed was she that hester's call was unheard, and hester was unseen as she came and stood beside her. both looked a moment, and as they looked an old lady came from the house and led helen in, still murmuring her monotonous song and moving her hands as if to catch and hold the sunshine. "poor dear, poor dear. no wonder paul turns sad and won't talk of her, and that she don't see anyone," sighed hester pitifully. "what is it? i see, but don't understand," whispered lillian. "she's an innocent, deary, an idiot, though that's a hard word for a pretty creature like her." "how terrible! come away, hester, and never breathe to anyone what we have seen." and with a shudder and sense of pain and pity lying heavy at her heart, she hurried away, feeling doubly guilty in the discovery of this affliction. the thought of it haunted her continually; the memory of the lonely girl gave her no peace; and a consciousness of deceit burdened her unspeakably, especially in paul's presence. this lasted for a week, then lillian resolved to confess, hoping that when he found she knew the truth he would let her share his cross and help to lighten it. waiting her opportunity, she seized a moment when her mother was absent, and with her usual frankness spoke out impetuously. "paul, i've done wrong, and i can have no peace till i am pardoned. i have seen helen." "where, when, and how?" he asked, looking disturbed and yet relieved. she told him rapidly, and as she ended she looked up at him with her sweet face, so full of pity, shame, and grief it would have been impossible to deny her anything. "can you forgive me for discovering this affliction?" "i think i could forgive you a far greater fault, lillian," he answered, in a tone that said many things. "but deceit is so mean, so dishonorable and contemptible, how can you so easily pardon it in me?" she asked, quite overcome by this forgiveness, granted without any reproach. "then you would find it hard to pardon such a thing in another?" he said, with the expression that always puzzled her. "yes, it would be hard; but in those i loved, i could forgive much for love's sake." with a sudden gesture he took her hand saying, impulsively, "how little changed you are! do you remember that last ride of ours nearly five years ago?" "yes, paul," she answered, with averted eyes. "and what we talked of?" "a part of that childish gossip i remember well." "which part?" "the pretty little romance you told me." and lillian looked up now, longing to ask if helen's childhood had been blighted like her youth. paul dropped her hand as if he, read her thoughts, and his own hand went involuntarily toward his breast, betraying that the locket still hung there. "what did i say?" he asked, smiling at her sudden shyness. "you vowed you'd win and wed your fair little lady-love if you lived." "and so i will," he cried, with sudden fire in his eyes. "what, marry her?" "aye, that i will." "oh paul, will you tie yourself for life to a--" the word died on her lips, but a gesture of repugnance finished the speech. "a what?" he demanded, excitedly. "an innocent, one bereft of reason," stammered lillian, entirely forgetting herself in her interest for him. "of whom do you speak?" asked paul, looking utterly bewildered, "of poor helen." "good heavens, who told you that base lie?" and his voice deepened with indignant pain. "i saw her, you did not deny her affliction; hester said so, and i believed it. have i wronged her, paul?" "yes, cruelly. she is blind, but no idiot, thank god." there was such earnestness in his voice, such reproach in his words, and such ardor in his eye, that lillian's pride gave way, and with a broken entreaty for pardon, she covered up her face, weeping the bitterest tears she ever shed. for in that moment, and the sharp pang it brought her, she felt how much she loved paul and how hard it was to lose him. the childish affection had blossomed into a woman's passion, and in a few short weeks had passed through many phases of jealousy, hope, despair, and self-delusion. the joy she felt on seeing him again, the pride she took in him, the disgust helen caused her, the relief she had not dared to own even to herself, when she fancied fate had put an insurmountable barrier between paul and his cousin, the despair at finding it only a fancy, and the anguish of hearing him declare his unshaken purpose to marry his first love--all these conflicting emotions had led to this hard moment, and now self-control deserted her in her need. in spite of her efforts the passionate tears would have their way, though paul soothed her with assurances of entire forgiveness, promises of helen's friendship, and every gentle device he could imagine. she commanded herself at last by a strong effort, murmuring eagerly as she shrank from the hand that put back her fallen hair, and the face so full of tender sympathy bending over her: "i am so grieved and ashamed at what i have said and done. i shall never dare to see helen. forgive me, and forget this folly. i'm sad and heavyhearted just now; it's the anniversary of papa's death, and mamma always suffers so much at such times that i get nervous." "it is your birthday also. i remembered it, and ventured to bring a little token in return for the one you gave me long ago. this is a talisman, and tomorrow i will tell you the legend concerning it. wear it for my sake, and god bless you, dear." the last words were whispered hurriedly; lillian saw the glitter of an antique ring, felt the touch of bearded lips on her hand, and paul was gone. but as he left the house he set his teeth, exclaiming low to himself, "yes, tomorrow there shall be an end of this! we must risk everything and abide the consequences now. i'll have no more torment for any of us." chapter vii the secret key "is lady trevlyn at home, bedford?" asked paul, as he presented himself at an early hour next day, wearing the keen, stern expression which made him look ten years older than he was. "no, sir, my lady and miss lillian went down to the hall last night." "no ill news, i hope?" and the young man's eye kindled as if he felt a crisis at hand. "not that i heard, sir. miss lillian took one of her sudden whims and would have gone alone, if my lady hadn't given in much against her will, this being a time when she is better away from the place." "did they leave no message for me?" "yes, sir. will you step in and read the note at your ease. we are in sad confusion, but this room is in order." leading the way to lillian's boudoir, the man presented the note and retired. a few hasty lines from my lady, regretting the necessity of this abrupt departure, yet giving no reason for it, hoping they might meet next season, but making no allusion to seeing him at the hall, desiring lillian's thanks and regards, but closing with no hint of helen, except compliments. paul smiled as he threw it into the fire, saying to himself, "poor lady, she thinks she has escaped the danger by flying, and lillian tries to hide her trouble from me. tender little heart! i'll comfort it without delay." he sat looking about the dainty room still full of tokens of her presence. the piano stood open with a song he liked upon the rack; a bit of embroidery, whose progress he had often watched, lay in her basket with the little thimble near it; there was a strew of papers on the writing table, torn notes, scraps of drawing, and ball cards; a pearl-colored glove lay on the floor; and in the grate the faded flowers he had brought two days before. as his eye roved to and fro, he seemed to enjoy some happy dream, broken too soon by the sound of servants shutting up the house. he arose but lingered near the table, as if longing to search for some forgotten hint of himself. "no, there has been enough lock picking and stealthy work; i'll do no more for her sake. this theft will harm no one and tell no tales." and snatching up the glove, paul departed. "helen, the time has come. are you ready?" he asked, entering her room an hour later. "i am ready." and rising, she stretched her hand to him with a proud expression, contrasting painfully with her helpless gesture. "they have gone to the hall, and we must follow. it is useless to wait longer; we gain nothing by it, and the claim must stand on such proof as we have, or fall for want of that one link. i am tired of disguise. i want to be myself and enjoy what i have won, unless i lose it all." "paul, whatever happens, remember we cling together and share good or evil fortune as we always have done. i am a burden, but i cannot live without you, for you are my world. do not desert me." she groped her way to him and clung to his strong arm as if it was her only stay. paul drew her close, saying wistfully, as he caressed the beautiful sightless face leaning on his shoulder, "_mia cara_, would it break your heart, if at the last hour i gave up all and let the word remain unspoken? my courage fails me, and in spite of the hard past i would gladly leave them in peace." "no, no, you shall not give it up!" cried helen almost fiercely, while the slumbering fire of her southern nature flashed into her face. "you have waited so long, worked so hard, suffered so much, you must not lose your reward. you promised, and you must keep the promise." "but it is so beautiful, so noble to forgive, and return a blessing for a curse. let us bury the old feud, and right the old wrong in a new way. those two are so blameless, it is cruel to visit the sins of the dead on their innocent heads. my lady has suffered enough already, and lillian is so young, so happy, so unfit to meet a storm like this. oh, helen, mercy is more divine than justice." something moved paul deeply, and helen seemed about to yield, when the name of lillian wrought a subtle change in her. the color died out of her face, her black eyes burned with a gloomy fire, and her voice was relentless as she answered, while her frail hands held him fast, "i will not let you give it up. we are as innocent as they; we have suffered more; and we deserve our rights, for we have no sin to expiate. go on, paul, and forget the sentimental folly that unmans you." something in her words seemed to sting or wound him. his face darkened, and he put her away, saying briefly, "let it be so then. in an hour we must go." on the evening of the same day, lady trevlyn and her daughter sat together in the octagon room at the hall. twilight was falling and candles were not yet brought, but a cheery fire blazed in the wide chimney, filling the apartment with a ruddy glow, turning lillian's bright hair to gold and lending a tinge of color to my lady's pallid cheeks. the girl sat on a low lounging chair before the fire, her head on her hand, her eyes on the red embers, her thoughts--where? my lady lay on her couch, a little in the shadow, regarding her daughter with an anxious air, for over the young face a somber change had passed which filled her with disquiet. "you are out of spirits, love," she said at last, breaking the long silence, as lillian gave an unconscious sigh and leaned wearily into the depths of her chair. "yes, mamma, a little." "what is it? are you ill?" "no, mamma; i think london gaiety is rather too much for me. i'm too young for it, as you often say, and i've found it out." "then it is only weariness that makes you so pale and grave, and so bent on coming back here?" lillian was the soul of truth, and with a moment's hesitation answered slowly, "not that alone, mamma. i'm worried about other things. don't ask me what, please." "but i must ask. tell me, child, what things? have you seen any one? had letters, or been annoyed in any way about--anything?" my lady spoke with sudden energy and rose on her arm, eyeing the girl with unmistakable suspicion and excitement. "no, mamma, it's only a foolish trouble of my own," answered lillian, with a glance of surprise and a shamefaced look as the words reluctantly left her lips. "ah, a love trouble, nothing more? thank god for that!" and my lady sank back as if a load was off her mind. "tell me all, my darling; there is no confidante like a mother." "you are very kind, and perhaps you can cure my folly if i tell it, and yet i am ashamed," murmured the girl. then yielding to an irresistible impulse to ask help and sympathy, she added, in an almost inaudible tone, "i came away to escape from paul." "because he loves you, lillian?" asked my lady, with a frown and a half smile. "because he does _not_ love me, mamma." and the poor girl hid her burning cheeks in her hands, as if overwhelmed with maidenly shame at the implied confession of her own affection. "my child, how is this? i cannot but be glad that he does _not_ love you; yet it fills me with grief to see that this pains you. he is not a mate for you, lillian. remember this, and forget the transient regard that has sprung up from that early intimacy of yours." "he is wellborn, and now my equal in fortune, and oh, so much my superior in all gifts of mind and heart," sighed the girl, still with hidden face, for tears were dropping through her slender fingers. "it may be, but there is a mystery about him; and i have a vague dislike to him in spite of all that has passed. but, darling, are you sure he does not care for you? i fancied i read a different story in his face, and when you begged to leave town so suddenly, i believed that you had seen this also, and kindly wished to spare him any pain." "it was to spare myself. oh, mamma, he loves helen, and will marry her although she is blind. he told me this, with a look i could not doubt, and so i came away to hide my sorrow," sobbed poor lillian in despair. lady trevlyn went to her and, laying the bright head on her motherly bosom, said soothingly as she caressed it, "my little girl, it is too soon for you to know these troubles, and i am punished for yielding to your entreaties for a peep at the gay world. it is now too late to spare you this; you have had your wish and must pay its price, dear. but, lillian, call pride to aid you, and conquer this fruitless love. it cannot be very deep as yet, for you have known paul, the man, too short a time to be hopelessly enamored. remember, there are others, better, braver, more worthy of you; that life is long, and full of pleasure yet untried." "have no fears for me, mamma. i'll not disgrace you or myself by any sentimental folly. i do love paul, but i can conquer it, and i will. give me a little time, and you shall see me quite myself again." lillian lifted her head with an air of proud resolve that satisfied her mother, and with a grateful kiss stole away to ease her full heart alone. as she disappeared lady trevlyn drew a long breath and, clasping her hands with a gesture of thanksgiving, murmured to herself in an accent of relief, "only a love sorrow! i feared it was some new terror like the old one. seventeen years of silence, seventeen years of secret dread and remorse for me," she said, pacing the room with tightly locked hands and eyes full of unspeakable anguish. "oh, richard, richard! i forgave you long ago, and surely i have expiated my innocent offense by these years of suffering! for her sake i did it, and for her sake i still keep dumb. god knows i ask nothing for myself but rest and oblivion by your side." half an hour later, paul stood at the hall door. it was ajar, for the family had returned unexpectedly, as was evident from the open doors and empty halls. entering unseen, he ascended to the room my lady usually occupied. the fire burned low, lillian's chair was empty, and my lady lay asleep, as if lulled by the sighing winds without and the deep silence that reigned within. paul stood regarding her with a great pity softening his face as he marked the sunken eyes, pallid cheeks, locks too early gray, and restless lips muttering in dreams. "i wish i could spare her this," he sighed, stooping to wake her with a word. but he did not speak, for, suddenly clutching the chain about her neck, she seemed to struggle with some invisible foe and beat it off, muttering audibly as she clenched her thin hands on the golden case. paul leaned and listened as if the first word had turned him to stone, till the paroxysm had passed, and with a heavy sigh my lady sank into a calmer sleep. then, with a quick glance over his shoulder, paul skillfully opened the locket, drew out the silver key, replaced it with one from the piano close by, and stole from the house noiselessly as he had entered it. that night, in the darkest hour before the dawn, a figure went gliding through the shadowy park to its most solitary corner. here stood the tomb of the trevlyns, and here the figure paused. a dull spark of light woke in its hand, there was a clank of bars, the creak of rusty hinges, then light and figure both seemed swallowed up. standing in the tomb where the air was close and heavy, the pale glimmer of the lantern showed piles of moldering coffins in the niches, and everywhere lay tokens of decay and death. the man drew his hat lower over his eyes, pulled the muffler closer about his mouth, and surveyed the spot with an undaunted aspect, though the beating of his heart was heard in the deep silence. nearest the door stood a long casket covered with black velvet and richly decorated with silver ornaments, tarnished now. the trevlyns had been a stalwart race, and the last sleeper brought there had evidently been of goodly stature, for the modern coffin was as ponderous as the great oaken beds where lay the bones of generations. lifting the lantern, the intruder brushed the dust from the shield-shaped plate, read the name richard trevlyn and a date, and, as if satisfied, placed a key in the lock, half-raised the lid, and, averting his head that he might not see the ruin seventeen long years had made, he laid his hand on the dead breast and from the folded shroud drew a mildewed paper. one glance sufficed, the casket was relocked, the door rebarred, the light extinguished, and the man vanished like a ghost in the darkness of the wild october night. chapter viii which? "a gentleman, my lady." taking a card from the silver salver on which the servant offered it, lady trevlyn read, "paul talbot," and below the name these penciled words, "i beseech you to see me." lillian stood beside her and saw the line. their eyes met, and in the girl's face was such a sudden glow of hope, and love, and longing, that the mother could not doubt or disappoint her wish. "i will see him," she said. "oh, mamma, how kind you are!" cried the girl with a passionate embrace, adding breathlessly, "he did not ask for me. i cannot see him yet. i'll hide in the alcove, and can appear or run away as i like when we know why he comes." they were in the library, for, knowing lillian's fondness for the room which held no dark memories for her, my lady conquered her dislike and often sat there. as she spoke, the girl glided into the deep recess of a bay window and drew the heavy curtains just as paul's step sounded at the door. hiding her agitation with a woman's skill, my lady rose with outstretched hand to welcome him. he bowed but did not take the hand, saying, in a voice of grave respect in which was audible an undertone of strong emotion, "pardon me, lady trevlyn. hear what i have to say; and then if you offer me your hand, i shall gratefully receive it." she glanced at him, and saw that he was very pale, that his eye glittered with suppressed excitement, and his whole manner was that of a man who had nerved himself up to the performance of a difficult but intensely interesting task. fancying these signs of agitation only natural in a young lover coming to woo, my lady smiled, reseated herself, and calmly answered, "i will listen patiently. speak freely, paul, and remember i am an old friend." "i wish i could forget it. then my task would be easier," he murmured in a voice of mingled regret and resolution, as he leaned on a tall chair opposite and wiped his damp forehead, with a look of such deep compassion that her heart sank with a nameless fear. "i must tell you a long story, and ask your forgiveness for the offenses i committed against you when a boy. a mistaken sense of duty guided me, and i obeyed it blindly. now i see my error and regret it," he said earnestly. "go on," replied my lady, while the vague dread grew stronger, and she braced her nerves as for some approaching shock. she forgot lillian, forgot everything but the strange aspect of the man before her, and the words to which she listened like a statue. still standing pale and steady, paul spoke rapidly, while his eyes were full of mingled sternness, pity, and remorse. "twenty years ago, an english gentleman met a friend in a little italian town, where he had married a beautiful wife. the wife had a sister as lovely as herself, and the young man, during that brief stay, loved and married her--in a very private manner, lest his father should disinherit him. a few months passed, and the englishman was called home to take possession of his title and estates, the father being dead. he went alone, promising to send for the wife when all was ready. he told no one of his marriage, meaning to surprise his english friends by producing the lovely woman unexpectedly. he had been in england but a short time when he received a letter from the old priest of the italian town, saying the cholera had swept through it, carrying off half its inhabitants, his wife and friend among others. this blow prostrated the young man, and when he recovered he hid his grief, shut himself up in his country house, and tried to forget. accident threw in his way another lovely woman, and he married again. before the first year was out, the friend whom he supposed was dead appeared, and told him that his wife still lived, and had borne him a child. in the terror and confusion of the plague, the priest had mistaken one sister for the other, as the elder did die." "yes, yes, i know; go on!" gasped my lady, with white lips, and eyes that never left the narrator's face. "this friend had met with misfortune after flying from the doomed village with the surviving sister. they had waited long for letters, had written, and, when no answer came, had been delayed by illness and poverty from reaching england. at this time the child was born, and the friend, urged by the wife and his own interest, came here, learned that sir richard was married, and hurried to him in much distress. we can imagine the grief and horror of the unhappy man. in that interview the friend promised to leave all to sir richard, to preserve the secret till some means of relief could be found; and with this promise he returned, to guard and comfort the forsaken wife. sir richard wrote the truth to lady trevlyn, meaning to kill himself, as the only way of escape from the terrible situation between two women, both so beloved, both so innocently wronged. the pistol lay ready, but death came without its aid, and sir richard was spared the sin of suicide." paul paused for breath, but lady trevlyn motioned him to go on, still sitting rigid and white as the marble image near her. "the friend only lived to reach home and tell the story. it killed the wife, and she died, imploring the old priest to see her child righted and its father's name secured to it. he promised; but he was poor, the child was a frail baby, and he waited. years passed, and when the child was old enough to ask for its parents and demand its due, the proofs of the marriage were lost, and nothing remained but a ring, a bit of writing, and the name. the priest was very old, had neither friends, money, nor proofs to help him; but i was strong and hopeful, and though a mere boy i resolved to do the work. i made my way to england, to trevlyn hall, and by various stratagems (among which, i am ashamed to say, were false keys and feigned sleepwalking) i collected many proofs, but nothing which would satisfy a court, for no one but you knew where sir richard's confession was. i searched every nook and corner of the hall, but in vain, and began to despair, when news of the death of father cosmo recalled me to italy; for helen was left to my care then. the old man had faithfully recorded the facts and left witnesses to prove the truth of his story; but for four years i never used it, never made any effort to secure the title or estates." "why not?" breathed my lady in a faint whisper, as hope suddenly revived. "because i was grateful," and for the first time paul's voice faltered. "i was a stranger, and you took me in. i never could forget that, nor tie many kindnesses bestowed upon the friendless boy. this afflicted me, even while i was acting a false part, and when i was away my heart failed me. but helen gave me no peace; for my sake, she urged me to keep the vow made to that poor mother, and threatened to tell the story herself. talbot's benefaction left me no excuse for delaying longer, and i came to finish the hardest task i can ever undertake. i feared that a long dispute would follow any appeal to law, and meant to appeal first to you, but fate befriended me, and the last proof was found." "found! where?" cried lady trevlyn, springing up aghast. "in sir richard's coffin, where you hid it, not daring to destroy, yet fearing to keep it." "who has betrayed me?" and her eye glanced wildly about the room, as if she feared to see some spectral accuser. "your own lips, my lady. last night i came to speak of this. you lay asleep, and in some troubled dream spoke of the paper, safe in its writer's keeping, and your strange treasure here, the key of which you guarded day and night. i divined the truth. remembering hester's stories, i took the key from your helpless hand, found the paper on sir richard's dead breast, and now demand that you confess your part in this tragedy." "i do, i do! i confess, i yield, i relinquish everything, and ask pity only for my child." lady trevlyn fell upon her knees before him, with a submissive gesture, but imploring eyes, for, amid the wreck of womanly pride and worldly fortune, the mother's heart still clung to its idol. "who should pity her, if not i? god knows i would have spared her this blow if i could; but helen would not keep silent, and i was driven to finish what i had begun. tell lillian this, and do not let her hate me." as paul spoke, tenderly, eagerly, the curtain parted, and lillian appeared, trembling with the excitement of that interview, but conscious of only one emotion as she threw herself into his arms, crying in a tone of passionate delight, "brother! brother! now i may love you!" paul held her close, and for a moment forgot everything but the joy of that moment. lillian spoke first, looking up through tears of tenderness, her little hand laid caressingly against his cheek, as she whispered with sudden bloom in her own, "now i know why i loved you so well, and now i can see you marry helen without breaking my heart. oh, paul, you are still mine, and i care for nothing else." "but, lillian, i am not your brother." "then, in heaven's name, who are you?" she cried, tearing herself from his arms. "your lover, dear!" "who, then, is the heir?" demanded lady trevlyn, springing up, as lillian turned to seek shelter with her mother. "i am." helen spoke, and helen stood on the threshold of the door, with a hard, haughty look upon her beautiful face. "you told your story badly, paul," she said, in a bitter tone. "you forgot me, forgot my affliction, my loneliness, my wrongs, and the natural desire of a child to clear her mother's honor and claim her father's name. i am sir richard's eldest daughter. i can prove my birth, and i demand my right with his own words to sustain me." she paused, but no one spoke; and with a slight tremor in her proud voice, she added, "paul has done the work; he shall have the reward. i only want my father's name. title and fortune are nothing to one like me. i coveted and claimed them that i might give them to you, paul, my one friend, always, so tender and so true." "i'll have none of it," he answered, almost fiercely. "i have kept my promise, and am free. you chose to claim your own, although i offered all i had to buy your silence. it is yours by right--take it, and enjoy it if you can. i'll have no reward for work like this." he turned from her with a look that would have stricken her to the heart could she have seen it. she felt it, and it seemed to augment some secret anguish, for she pressed her hands against her bosom with an expression of deep suffering, exclaiming passionately, "yes, i _will_ keep it, since i am to lose all else. i am tired of pity. power is sweet, and i will use it. go, paul, and be happy if you can, with a nameless wife, and the world's compassion or contempt to sting your pride." "oh, lillian, where shall we go? this is no longer our home, but who will receive us now?" cried lady trevlyn, in a tone of despair, for her spirit was utterly broken by the thought of the shame and sorrow in store for this beloved and innocent child. "i will." and paul's face shone with a love and loyalty they could not doubt. "my lady, you gave me a home when i was homeless; now let me pay my debt. lillian, i have loved you from the time when, a romantic boy, i wore your little picture in my breast, and vowed to win you if i lived. i dared not speak before, but now, when other hearts may be shut against you, mine stands wide open to welcome you. come, both. let me protect and cherish you, and so atone for the sorrow i have brought you." it was impossible to resist the sincere urgency of his voice, the tender reverence of his manner, as he took the two forlorn yet innocent creatures into the shelter of his strength and love. they clung to him instinctively, feeling that there still remained to them one staunch friend whom adversity could not estrange. an eloquent silence fell upon the room, broken only by sobs, grateful whispers, and the voiceless vows that lovers plight with eyes, and hands, and tender lips. helen was forgotten, till lillian, whose elastic spirit threw off sorrow as a flower sheds the rain, looked up to thank paul, with smiles as well as tears, and saw the lonely figure in the shadow. her attitude was full of pathetic significance; she still stood on the threshold, for no one had welcomed her, and in the strange room she knew not where to go; her hands were clasped before her face, as if those sightless eyes had seen the joy she could not share, and at her feet lay the time-stained paper that gave her a barren title, but no love. had lillian known how sharp a conflict between passion and pride, jealousy and generosity, was going on in that young heart, she could not have spoken in a tone of truer pity or sincerer goodwill than that in which she softly said, "poor girl! we must not forget her, for, with all her wealth, she is poor compared to us. we both had one father, and should love each other in spite of this misfortune. helen, may i call you sister?" "not yet. wait till i deserve it." as if that sweet voice had kindled an answering spark of nobleness in her own heart, helen's face changed beautifully, as she tore the paper to shreds, saying in a glad, impetuous tone, while the white flakes fluttered from her hands, "i, too, can be generous. i, too, can forgive. i bury the sad past. see! i yield my claim, i destroy my proofs, i promise eternal silence, and keep 'paul's cousin' for my only title. yes, you are happy, for you love one another!" she cried, with a sudden passion of tears. "oh, forgive me, pity me, and take me in, for i am all alone and in the dark!" there could be but one reply to an appeal like that, and they gave it, as they welcomed her with words that sealed a household league of mutual secrecy and sacrifice. they _were_ happy, for the world never knew the hidden tie that bound them so faithfully together, never learned how well the old prophecy had been fulfilled, or guessed what a tragedy of life and death the silver key unlocked. the builders by the same author ancient law, the the battle-ground, the the deliverance, the the freeman and other poems, the the life and gabriella miller of old church, the the romance of a plain man, the the virginia voice of the people, the the wheel of life the builders by ellen glasgow [illustration: colophon] garden city new york doubleday, page & company copyright, , by doubleday, page & company all rights reserved, including that of translation into foreign languages, including the scandinavian contents book first appearances chapter page i. caroline ii. the time iii. briarlay iv. angelica v. the first night vi. letty vii. caroline makes discoveries viii. blackburn ix. angelica's charity x. other discoveries xi. the sacred cult xii. the world's view of an unfortunate marriage xiii. indirect influence book second realities i. in blackburn's library ii. readjustments iii. man's woman iv. the martyr v. the choice vi. angelica's triumph vii. courage viii. the cedars ix. the years ahead x. the light on the road xi. the letter xii. the vision book first appearances the builders chapter i caroline the train was late that day, and when the old leather mail pouch was brought in, dripping wet, by jonas, the negro driver, mrs. meade put down the muffler she was knitting, and received it reluctantly. "at least there aren't any bills at this time of the month," she observed, with the manner of one who has been designed by providence to repel disaster. while she unbuckled the clammy straps, her full, round face, which was still fresh and pretty in spite of her seventy years, shone like an auspicious moon in the dusky glow of the fire. since wood was scarce, and this particular strip of southside virginia grew poorer with each year's harvest, the only fire at the cedars was the one in "the chamber," as mrs. meade's bedroom was called. it was a big, shabby room, combining, as successfully as its owner, an aspect of gaiety with a conspicuous absence of comforts. there were no curtains at the windows, and the rugs, made from threadbare carpets, had faded to indeterminate patterns; but the cracked mahogany belonged to a good period, and if the colours had worn dim, they were harmonious and restful. the house, though scarred, still held to its high standards. the spirit of the place was the spirit of generous poverty, of cheerful fortitude. the three girls on the hearthrug, knitting busily for the war relief association, were so much alike in colouring, shape, and feature, that it was difficult at a casual glance to distinguish maud, who was almost, if not quite, a beauty, from margaret and diana, who were merely pretty and intelligent. they were all natural, kind-hearted girls, who had been trained from infancy to make the best of things and to laugh when they were hurt. from the days when they had played with ears of corn instead of dolls, they had acquired ingenuity and philosophy. for mrs. meade, who derived her scant income from a plantation cultivated "on shares" by negro tenants, had brought up her girls to take life gaily, and to rely on their own resourcefulness rather than on fortuitous events. "here is a nice fat letter for caroline, and it looks as if it weren't an advertisement." with one plump hand she held out the letter, while she handed the dripping mail bag to jonas. "bring some wood for the fire, jonas, and be sure to shut the door after you." "dar ain' no mo' wood, ole miss." for an instant mrs. meade stopped to think. "well, the garden fence is falling down by the smoke-house. split up some of the rails. here is your letter, caroline." a woman's figure, outlined against the rocking branches of an old cedar beyond the window, turned slowly toward the group on the hearthrug. in caroline's movements, while she lingered there for a moment, there was something gallant and free and spirited, which was a part of the world outside and the swaying boughs. though she was older than the three girls by the fire, she was young with an illusive and indestructible grace of the soul. at thirty-two, in spite of the stern sweetness about her thin red lips, and the defiant courage which flashed now and then from the shadowy pallor of her face, one felt that the flame and ardour of her glance flowed not from inward peace, but from an unconquerable and adventurous spirit. against the grey rain her face seemed the face of some swiftly changing idea, so expressive of an intangible beauty was the delicate curve of the cheek and the broad, clear forehead beneath the dark hair, which grew low in a "widow's peak" above the arched eyebrows and the vivid blue of the eyes. if there was austerity in the lines of her mouth, her eyes showed gaiety, humour, and tenderness. long ago, before the wreck of her happiness, her father, who had a taste for the striking in comparisons, had said that caroline's eyes were like bluebirds flying. the letter could wait. she was not interested in letters now, rarely as they came to her. it was, she knew, only the call to a patient, and after nearly eight years of nursing, she had learned that nothing varied the monotonous personalities of patients. they were all alike, united in their dreadful pathos by the condition of illness--and as a mere matter of excitement there was little to choose between diphtheria and pneumonia. yet if it were a call, of course she would go, and her brief vacation would be over. turning away from the firelight, she deferred as long as possible the descent from her thoughts to the inevitable bondage of the actuality. beyond the window, veiled in rain, she could see the pale quivering leaves of the aspens on the lawn, and the bend in the cedar avenue, which led to the big white gate and the private road that ran through the farm until it joined the turnpike at the crossroads. ever since she was born, it seemed to her, for almost thirty-two years, she had watched like this for something that might come up that long empty road. even in the years that she had spent away, she had felt that her soul waited there, tense and expectant, overlooking the bend in the avenue and the white gate, and then the road over which "the something different," if it came at all, must come at last to the cedars. nothing, not change, not work, not travel, could detach the invisible tendrils of her life from the eager, brooding spirit of the girl who had once watched there at the window. she had been watching--watching--she remembered, when the letter that broke her heart had come in the old mail pouch, up the road beyond, and through the gate, and on into the shadows and stillness of the avenue. that was how the blow had come to her, without warning, while she waited full of hope and expectancy and the ardent sweetness of dreams. "my poor child, your heart is broken!" her mother had cried through her tears, and the girl, with the letter still in her hands, had faced her defiantly. "yes, but my head and my hands are whole," she had replied with a laugh. then, while the ruins of her happiness lay at her feet, she began rebuilding her house of life with her head and her hands. she would accept failure on its own terms, completely, exultantly, and by the very audacity of her acceptance, she would change defeat into victory. she would make something out of nothing; she would wring peace, not from joy, but from the heart of an incredible cruelty; she would build with courage, not with gladness, but she would build her house toward the stars. "there must be something one can live on besides love," she thought, "or half the world would go famished." "come and read your letter, caroline," called maud, as she reached the end of a row. "there isn't anything for the rest of us." "i am so afraid it is a call, dear," said mrs. meade; and then, as caroline left the window and passed into the firelight, the old lady found herself thinking a little vaguely, "poor child, the hard work is beginning to show in her face--but she has never been the same since that unfortunate experience. i sometimes wonder why a just providence lets such things happen." aloud she added, while her beaming face clouded slightly, "i hope and pray that it isn't anything catching." as caroline bent over the letter, the three younger girls put down their knitting and drew closer, while their charming faces, brown, flushed, and sparkling, appeared to catch and hold the glow of the flames. they were so unlike caroline, that she might have been mistaken, by a stranger, for a woman of a different race. while she bent there in the firelight, her slender figure, in its cambric blouse and skirt of faded blue serge, flowed in a single lovely curve from her drooping dark head to her narrow feet in their worn russet shoes. "it is from an old friend of yours, mother," she said presently, "mrs. colfax." "lucy colfax! why, what on earth is she writing to you about? i hope there isn't anything wrong with her." "read it aloud, caroline," said diana. "mother, this fire will go out before jonas can fix it." "he has to split the wood, dear. look out on the back porch and see if you can find some chips. they'll be nice and dry." mrs. meade spoke with authority, for beneath her cheerful smile there was the heart of a fighter, and like all good fighters, she fought best when she was driven against the wall. "now, caroline, i am listening." "she wants me to take a case. it sounds queer, but i'll read you what she says. 'dear caroline'--she calls me 'caroline.'" "that's natural, dear. we were like sisters, and perhaps she took a fancy to you the time she met you in richmond. it would be just like her to want to do something for you." the sprightly old lady, who was constitutionally incapable of seeing any prospect in subdued colours, was already weaving a brilliant tapestry of caroline's future. "'dear caroline: "'my cousin, angelica blackburn, has asked me to recommend a trained nurse for her little girl, who is delicate, and i am wondering if you would care to take the case. she particularly wishes a self-reliant and capable person, and doctor boland tells me you have inherited your mother's sweet and unselfish nature (i don't see how he knows. everybody is unselfish in a sick-room. one has to be.)'" "well, i'm sure you have a lovely nature," replied mrs. meade tenderly. "i was telling the girls only yesterday that you never seemed to think of yourself a minute." in her own mind she added, "any other girl would have been embittered by that unfortunate experience" (the phrase covered caroline's blighted romance) "and it shows how much character she has that she was able to go on just as if nothing had happened. i sometimes think a sense of humour does as much for you as religion." "'i remember my poor father used to say,'" caroline read on smoothly, "'that in hard dollars and cents carrie warwick's disposition was worth a fortune.'" "that's very sweet of lucy," murmured mrs. meade deprecatingly. "'as you are the daughter of my old friend, i feel i ought not to let you take the case without giving you all the particulars. i don't know whether or not you ever heard of david blackburn--but your mother will remember his wife, for she was a fitzhugh, the daughter of champ fitzhugh, who married bessie ludwell.'" "of course i remember bessie. she was my bosom friend at miss braxton's school in petersburg." "let me go on, mother darling. if you interrupt me so often i'll never get to the interesting part." "very well, go on, my dear, but it does seem just like providence. when the flour gave out in the barrel last night, i knew something would happen." for mrs. meade had begun life with the shining certainty that "something wonderful" would happen to her in the future, and since she was now old and the miracle had never occurred, she had transferred her hopes to her children. her optimism was so elastic that it stretched over a generation without breaking. "'mrs. blackburn--angelica fitzhugh, she was--though her name is really anna jeannette, and they called her angelica as a child because she looked so like an angel--well, mrs. blackburn is the cousin i spoke of, whose little girl is so delicate.' she is all tangled up, isn't she, mother?" "lucy always wrote like that," said mrs. meade. "as a girl she was a scatterbrain." "'i do not know exactly what is wrong with the child,'" caroline resumed patiently, "'but as long as you may go into the family, i think i ought to tell you that i have heard it whispered that her father injured her in a fit of temper when she was small.'" "how horrible!" exclaimed diana. "caroline, you couldn't go there!" "'she has never been able to play with other children, and doctor boland thinks she has some serious trouble of the spine. i should not call her a disagreeable child, or hard to manage, just delicate and rather whining--at least she is whenever i see her, which is not often. her mother is one of the loveliest creatures on earth, and i can imagine no greater privilege than living in the house with her. she is far from strong, but she seems never to think of her health, and all her time is devoted to doing good. doctor boland was telling me yesterday that he had positively forbidden her undertaking any more charitable work. he says her nerves are sensitive, and that if she does not stop and rest she will break down sooner or later. i cannot help feeling--though of course i did not say this to him--that her unhappy marriage is the cause of her ill health and her nervousness. she was married very young, and they were so desperately poor that it was a choice between marriage and school teaching. i cannot blame anybody for not wanting to teach school, especially if they have as poor a head for arithmetic as i have, but if i had been angelica, i should have taught until the day of my death before i should have married david blackburn. if she had not been so young it would be hard to find an excuse for her. of course he has an immense fortune, and he comes of a good old family in southside virginia--your mother will remember his father--but when you have said that, you have said all there is to his credit. the family became so poor after the war that the boy had to go to work while he was scarcely more than a child, and i believe the only education he has ever had was the little his mother taught him, and what he managed to pick up at night after the day's work was over. in spite of his birth he has had neither the training nor the advantages of a gentleman, and nothing proves this so conclusively as the fact that, though he was brought up a democrat, he voted the republican ticket at the last two presidential elections. there is something black in a man, my dear old father used to say, who goes over to the negroes---- '" "of course lucy belongs to the old school," said mrs. meade. "she talks just as her father used to--but i cannot see any harm in a man's voting as he thinks right." "'i am telling you all this, my dear caroline, in order that you may know exactly what the position is. the salary will be good, just what you make in other cases, and i am sure that angelica will be kindness itself to you. as for david blackburn, i scarcely think he will annoy you. he treats his wife abominably, i hear, but you can keep out of his way, and it is not likely that he will be openly rude to you when you meet. the papers just now are full of him because, after going over to the republicans, he does not seem satisfied with their ways. "'give my fondest love to your mother, and tell her how thankful i am that she and i are not obliged to live through a second war. one is enough for any woman, and i know she will agree with me--especially if she could read some of the letters my daughter writes from france. i feel every hour i live how thankful we ought to be to a kind providence for giving us a president who has kept us out of this war. robert says if there were not any other reason to vote for mr. wilson, that would be enough--and with mr. hughes in the white house who knows but we should be in the midst of it all very soon. david blackburn is making fiery speeches about the duty of america's going in, but some men can never have enough of a fight, and i am sure the president knows what is best for us, and will do what he thinks is right. "'be sure to telegraph me if you can come, and i will meet your train in angelica's car. "'your affectionate friend, lucy colfax. "'i forgot to tell you that doctor boland says i am prejudiced against david blackburn, but i do not think i am. i tell only what i hear, for the stories are all over richmond.'" as caroline finished the letter she raised her head with a laugh. "it sounds like a good place, and as for bluebeard--well, he can't kill me. i don't happen to be his wife." her figure, with its look of relaxed energy, of delicate yet inflexible strength, straightened swiftly, while her humorous smile played like an edge of light over her features. the old lady, watching her closely, remembered the way caroline's dead father had laughed in his youth. "she is as like him as a girl could be," she thought, with her eyes on her daughter's wide white brow, which had always seemed to her a shade too strong and thoughtful for a woman. only the softly curving line of hair and the large radiant eyes kept the forehead from being almost masculine. "she might be as pretty as maud if only she had more colour and her brow and chin were as soft as her eyes. her mouth isn't full and red like maud's, and her nose isn't nearly so straight, but the girls' father used to say that the best nose after all is a nose that nobody remembers." smiling vaguely at the recollection, mrs. meade readjusted her mental processes with an effort, and took up her work. "i hope lucy is prejudiced against him," she observed brightly. "you know her father was once governor of virginia, and she can't stand anybody who doesn't support the democratic party." "but she says he treats his wife abominably, and that it's all over richmond!" exclaimed maud indignantly. before this challenge mrs. meade quailed. "if she is prejudiced about one thing, she may be about others," she protested helplessly. "well, he can't hurt me," remarked caroline with firmness. "people can't hurt you unless you let them." nothing, she felt, in an uncertain world was more certain than this--no man could ever hurt her again. she knew life now; she had acquired experience; she had learned philosophy; and no man, not even bluebeard himself, could ever hurt her again. "there was something about him in the paper this morning," said margaret, the serious and silent one of the family. "i didn't read it, but i am sure that i saw his name in the headlines. it was about an independent movement in politics." "well, i'm not afraid of independent movements," rejoined caroline gaily, "and i'm not like mrs. colfax--for i don't care what he does to the democratic party." "i hate to have you go there, my dear," mrs. meade's voice shook a little, "but, of course, you must do what you think right." she remembered the empty flour barrel, and the falling fence rails, and the habit of a merciful providence that invariably came to her aid at the eleventh hour. perhaps, after all, there was a design working through it, she reflected, as she recovered her sprightliness, and providence had arranged the case to meet her necessities. "it seems disagreeable, but one never knows," she added aloud. "it isn't the first time i've had a disagreeable case, mother. one can't nurse seven years and see only the pleasant side of people and things." "yes, i know, my child, i know. you have had so much experience." she felt quite helpless before the fact of her daughter's experience. "only if he really does ill treat his wife, and you have to see it----" "if i see it, perhaps i can stop it. i suppose even bluebeard might have been stopped if anybody had gone about it with spirit. it won't be my first sudden conversion." her eyes were still laughing, but her mouth was stern, and between the arched black eyebrows three resolute little lines had appeared. before her "unfortunate experience," mrs. meade thought sadly, there had been no grimness in caroline's humour. "you have a wonderful way of bringing out the good in people, caroline. your uncle clarence was telling me last sunday that he believed you could get the best out of anybody." "then granting that bluebeard has a best, i'd better begin to dig for it as soon as i get there." "i am glad you can take it like that. if you weren't so capable, so resourceful, i'd never be easy about you a minute, but you are too intelligent to let yourself get into difficulties that you can't find a way out of." the old lady brightened as quickly as she had saddened. after all, if caroline had been merely an ordinary girl she could never have turned to nursing so soon after the wreck of her happiness. "if a man had broken my heart when i was a girl, i believe i should have died of it," she told herself. "certainly, i should never have been able to hold up my head and go on laughing like that. i suppose it was pride that kept her up, but it is queer the way that pride affects people so differently. now a generation ago pride would not have made a girl laugh and take up work. it would have killed her." and there flashed through her thoughts, with the sanguine irrelevance of her habit of mind, "what i have never understood is how any man could go off with a little yellow-haired simpleton like that after knowing caroline. yet, i suppose, as clarence said, if she hadn't been a simpleton, it would have been that much worse." "well, i'm going," said caroline so briskly that her mother and sisters looked at her in surprise. "jonas will have to saddle billy and take the telegram to the station, and then you can stop knitting and help me finish those caps. this is my war and i'm going to fight it through to the end." she went out with the telegram, and a little later when she came back and turned again to the window, mrs. meade saw that her eyes were shining. after all, it looked sometimes as if caroline really liked a battle. always when things went wrong or appeared disastrous, this shining light came to her eyes. outside an eddying wind was driving the rain in gusts up the avenue, and the old cedar dashed its boughs, with a brushing sound, against the blurred window panes. as caroline stood there she remembered that her father had loved the cedar, and there drifted into her thoughts the words he had spoken to her shortly before his death. "i haven't much to leave you, daughter, but i leave you one good thing--courage. never forget that it isn't the victory that matters, it is the fight." she heard mrs. meade telling jonas, who was starting to the station, that he must haul a load of wood from pine hill when the rain was over, and while she listened, it seemed to her that she had never really known her mother until this instant--that she had never understood her simple greatness. "she has fought every minute," she thought, "she has had a hard life, and yet no one would know it. it has not kept her from being sweet and gay and interested in every one else. even now in that calico dress, with an apron on, she looks as if she were brimming with happiness." out of the wreck of life, out of poverty and sacrifice and drudgery, she realized that her mother had stood for something fine and clear and permanent--for an ideal order. she had never muddled things under the surface; she had kept in touch with realities; she had looked always through the changing tissue of experience to the solid structure of life. like the old house she had held through all vicissitudes to her high standards. then her thoughts left her mother, and she faced the unknown future with the defiant courage she had won from disillusionment. "if we were not so poor i'd go to france," she reflected, "but how could they possibly do without the hundred dollars a month i can earn?" no, whatever happened she must stick to her task, and her task was keeping the roof from falling in over her mother and the girls. after a month's rest at the cedars, she would start again on the round of uninspiring patients and tedious monotony. the place mrs. colfax offered her seemed to her uninteresting and even sordid, and yet she knew that nothing better awaited her. she hated darkness and mystery, and the house into which she was going appeared to her to be both dark and mysterious. she was sure of her own strength; she had tested her courage and her endurance, and she was not afraid; yet for some vague and inexplicable reason she shrank from the position she had accepted. mrs. colfax's picture of the situation she thought tinged with melodrama, and her honest and lucid intelligence despised the melodramatic. they might all have been on the stage--the good wife, the brutal husband, and the delicate child; they seemed to her as unrelated to actual life as the sombre ghost that stalked through hamlet. "angelica! it is a lovely name," she mused, seizing upon the one charming thing in mrs. colfax's description, "i wonder what she is like?" fair, graceful, suffering, she saw this unknown woman against the background of the unhappy home, in an atmosphere of mystery and darkness. "she must be weak," she thought. "if she were not weak, she would not let him hurt her." and she longed to pour some of her own strength of will, her own independence and determination and philosophy, into the imaginary figure of mrs. blackburn. "it may be that i can help her. if i can only help her a little, it will all be worth while." she tried presently to think of other things--of the caps she must finish, of the uniforms she had intended to make during her vacation, of the piece of white lawn she must cut up into kerchiefs, of the mending she would ask the girls to do for her before they went to bed. there was so much to occupy her time and her thoughts in the one evening that was left to her--yet, do what she would--look where she pleased--the sweet veiled image of mrs. blackburn floated to her through the twilight, up the long, dim road and round the bend in the avenue--as if this stranger with the lovely name were the "something different" she had waited for in the past. by a miracle of imagination she had transferred this single character into actual experience. the sense of mystery was still there, but the unreality had vanished. it was incredible the way a woman whose face she had never seen had entered into her life. "why, she is more real than anything," she thought in surprise. "she is more real even than the war." for the war had not touched her. she stood secure, enclosed, protected from disaster, in her little green corner of southside virginia. her personal life had not been overpowered and submerged in the current of impersonal forces. the age of small things still surrounded her--but the quiver and vibration of great movements, of a world in dissolution, the subdued, insistent undercurrent of new spiritual energies in action--these were reaching her, with the ebb and flow of psychological processes, as they were reaching the virginia in which she lived. the world was changing--changing--while she went toward it. chapter ii the time at midnight, when she was alone in her room, caroline's mind passed from an intense personal realization of the blackburns to a broader conception of the time in which she was living--the time which this generation had helped to create, and which, like some monster of the imagination, was now devouring its happiness. she thought of her father--a man of intellectual abilities who had spent his life out of touch with his environment, in an uncongenial employment. young as she was when he died, she had been for years the solitary confidant of his mind, for he also, like these strangers into whose lives she was about to enter, had been the victim of the illimitable and inscrutable forces which shape the thought of an age. he had been different from his generation, and because he had been different, it had destroyed him. yet his single idea had outlived the multitudinous actions and reactions that surrounded him. he saw not to-day, but to-morrow; and though he was of another mettle from this blackburn of whom she had been reading, he appeared now in her fancy to take a place beside him in the vivid life of the age. the lamp was smoking, and after lowering the wick, she sat gazing into the darkness beyond the loosened shutters, which rattled when the wind shook them. * * * * * it was in the early autumn of nineteen hundred and sixteen, the moment in history when america, hesitating on the verge of war, discovered that it was no longer an anglo-saxon nation; that, in spite of its language and literature, its shell of customs and traditions, a new race had been created out of a complicated mass of diverse interacting sympathies, prejudices, attractions, and repulsions. confronted now with problems demanding a definite expression of the national will, it became evident that the pioneer stock had undergone profound modifications, and that from a mingling of many strains had been born an emphatic american spirit, with aspirations essentially different from those of the races from which its lifeblood was drawn. in the arrogant vigour of youth this spirit resented any disposition on the part of its kindred to dictate or even influence its policy or its purpose. for two years europe had been at war. the outbreak of the struggle had come as a distant thunderbolt to a nation unaccustomed to threatening armies, and ignorant of the triumphant menace of military ideals; and stunned by a calamity which it had believed impossible, america had been inclined at first to condemn indiscriminately those who had permitted the disaster for apparently insignificant causes. there was sympathy with belgium because it had been destroyed; with france because it had been invaded; and with england because it had worked sincerely in the interests of peace; but as early as the autumn of nineteen hundred and sixteen this sympathy was little more than uncrystallized sentiment. to the people the problem was irrelevant and disguised in words. for a century they had been taught that their geographical isolation was indestructible, and that european history concerned them only after it had been successfully transmuted into literature. the effect of these political illusions had been accentuated by the immediate demands upon the thoughts and energies of the nation, by the adventure of conquering a rich and undeveloped continent, and by the gradual adjustment of complex institutions to a rapidly expanding social and economic life. secure in its remoteness, the country had grown careless in its diplomacy. commerce was felt to be vital, but foreign relations were cheerfully left to the president, with the assumption that he was acting under the special guidance of providence, on those memorable occasions when he acted at all. with the sinking of the _lusitania_, the spirit of the country had flamed into a passionate demand for redress or war. then the indignation had been gradually allayed by diplomatic phrases and bewildering technicalities; and the masses of the people, busy with an extravagant war prosperity, resigned international matters into the hands of the government, while, with an uneasy conscience but genuine american optimism, they continued actively to hope for the best. to an aërial philosopher the government of the hour might have appeared a composite image of the time--sentimental, evasive of realities, idealistic in speech, and materialistic in purpose and action. dominated by a single strong intellect, it was composed mainly of men who were without knowledge of world questions or experience in world affairs. at the moment war was gathering, yet the demand for preparation was either ignored or ridiculed as hysteria. as the national elections approached both parties avoided the direct issue, and sought by compromise and concession to secure the support of the non-american groups. while the country waited for leadership, the leaders hesitated in the midst of conflicting currents of public sentiment, and endeavoured to win popularity through an irresolute policy of opportunism. to virginians, who thought politically in terms of a party, the great question was resolved into a personal problem. where the president led they would follow. from the beginning there had been many americans who looked beneath the shifting surface of events, and beheld in this war a challenge to the principles which are the foundation-stones of western civilization. they realized that this was a war not of men, not of materials, but of ideals--of ideals which are deeper than nationality since they are the common heritage of the human race. they saw that the ideals assailed were the basis of american institutions, and that if they should be overthrown the american republic could not endure. as in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries the problems of european civilization were fought out in the forests of america, so to-day, they felt, the future of america would be decided on the battlefields of europe. the cause was the cause of humanity, therefore it was america's war. and now as the elections drew nearer, these clearer thinkers stood apart and watched the grotesque political spectacle, with its unctuous promises of "peace and prosperity," in the midst of world tragedy. though the struggle would be close, it was already evident that the sentiment of the country was drifting, not so much toward the policies of the administration, as away from the invectives of the opposite party. since neither party stood for principle, nor had the courage to declare fearlessly for the maintenance of american rights, there was a measure of comfort in the reflection that, though the purposes of the government were not wholly approved, they were at least partly known. by the early autumn the campaign had passed through a fog of generalization and settled into a sham battle of personal and sectional issues, while in europe the skies grew darker, and the events of the coming year gathered like vultures before the approaching storm. and always, while america waited and watched, the forces that mould the destinies of men and of nations, were moving, profound, obscure, and impenetrable, beneath the surface of life. * * * * * caroline's lamp flickered and went out, while her thoughts rushed back to the shelter of the house. the room was in darkness, but beyond the shutters, where the wind swept in gusts, the clouds had scattered, and a few stars were shining. chapter iii briarlay in the train caroline sat straight and still, with her eyes on the landscape, which unrolled out of the golden web of the distance. now and then, when her gaze shifted, she could see the pale oval of her face glimmering unsteadily in the window-pane, like a light that is going out slowly. even in the glass, where her eyes were mere pools of darkness, her mouth looked sad and stern, as if it had closed over some tragic and for ever unutterable secret. it was only when one saw her eyes--those eyes which under the arch of her brows and hair made one think of bluebirds flying--it was only when their colour and radiance lighted her features, that her face melted to tenderness. while she sat there she thought of a hundred things, yet never once did she think of herself or her own interests as the centre around which her imagination revolved. if life had repressed and denied her, it had trained her mental processes into lucid and orderly habits. unlike most women, she had learned to think impersonally, and to think in relations. her spirit might beat its wings against the bars of the cage, but she knew that it would never again rise, with a dart of ecstasy, to test its freedom and its flight in the sky. she had had her day of joy. it was short, and it had left only sadness, yet because she had once had it, even for so brief a time, she might be disillusioned, but she could not feel wholly defrauded. through that dead emotion she had reached, for an instant, the heart of life; she had throbbed with its rapture; she had felt, known, and suffered. and in confronting the illusions of life, she had found the realities. because she had learned that thought, not emotion, is the only permanent basis of happiness, she had been able to found her house on a rock. it was worth a good deal of pain to discover that neither desire nor disappointment is among the eternal verities of experience. to-day, as on many other days since she had passed through her training in the hospital, she was leaving home, after a vacation in which she had thought of herself scarcely a minute, for the kind of service in which she would not have time to think of herself at all. work had been the solution of her problem, the immediate restorative; and she knew that it had helped her through the anguish, and--worse than anguish--through the bleakness of her tragedy, as nothing else could have done. "i will not sit down and think of myself," she had said over and over in those first bitter days, and in the years since then, while she was passionately rebuilding her universe, she had kept true to her resolve. she had been active always; she had never brooded among the romantic ruins of the past. if her inner life had grown indifferent, cold, and a little hard, her external sympathies had remained warm, clear, and glowing. the comfort she had denied herself, she had given abundantly to others; the strength she had not wasted in brooding, she had spent freely in a passion of service and pity. in her face there was the beauty and sweetness of a fervent, though disciplined, spirit. "i am so sorry to leave them," she thought, with her eyes on the amber, crimson, and purple of the forest. "mother is no longer young. she needs all the help i can give her, and the girls have so few pleasures. i wish there was something more i could do for them. i would work my fingers to the bone to give them a little happiness." and there floated before her, against the background of the forest, a still yet swiftly fleeting vision, of the fire-lit room, with the girls gathered, knitting, on the hearthrug, and her mother turning to look at her with the good and gentle expression that shone always in her face. beyond the window the rain fell; the cedar brushed its boughs against the panes with a sound like that of ghostly fingers; on the roof above she heard the measured dropping of acorns. in the flickering light the old mahogany gleamed with a bronze and gold lustre, and the high white bed, under its fringed marseilles coverlet, stood, like an embodiment of peace and sleep, in the corner. "it looks so happy, so sheltered," she thought, "and yet--" she was going to add, "and yet unhappiness came up the road, from a great distance, and found me there----" but she shattered the vague idea before it formed in her mind. at the station mrs. colfax was waiting, and though caroline had seen her only once, ten years ago, she recognized her by a bird-like, pecking manner she had never forgotten. as the ruin of a famous beauty the old lady was not without historic distinction. though she was now shrunken and withered, and strung with quaint gold chains, which rattled with echoes of an earlier period, she still retained the gracious social art of the "sixties." her eyes, hollowed under thin grey eyebrows, were black and piercing, and her small aristocratic features looked mashed, as if life had dealt them too hard a blow. "my dear child, i should have known you anywhere, so, you see, i haven't yet lost my memory. it was years ago that i met you, wasn't it?" a man in livery--she discovered afterwards that he was the blackburn's footman--took her bag, and caroline helped mrs. colfax out of the station and into the big limousine at the door. "it was so good of you to meet me," she said, for it was all she could think of, and to the last she had been haunted by the fear that mr. blackburn might decide to come for her. "good of me? why, i wanted to come." as she watched caroline's face, the old lady was thinking shrewdly, "she isn't so pretty as she used to be. i doubt if many men would think twice about her--but she has a lovely expression. i never saw a more spiritual face." once safely started she rambled on while the car shot into franklin street, and ran straight ahead in the direction of monument avenue. "i always meant to meet you, and just as soon as your telegram came, i 'phoned angelica about the car. she wanted to come down herself, but the doctor makes her lie down two hours every afternoon. do you see that new office building at the corner? your mother and i went to school on that spot before we boarded at miss braxton's in petersburg. at that time this part of franklin street was very fashionable, but everything has moved west, and everybody who can afford it is building in the country. it isn't like your mother's day at all. new people have taken possession of the town, and anybody who has money can get into society now. we are coming to monument avenue. all the houses are brand new, but it is nothing to the country outside. the blackburns' place just off the river road is the finest house anywhere about richmond, they tell me. he built it the year before his marriage, and i remember an artist, who came down to lecture before the woman's club, saying to me that briarlay was like its owner--everything big in it was good and everything little in it was bad. i don't know much about such things, but he poked fun at the fireplaces--said they were gothic or italian--i can't remember which--and that the house, of course, is colonial." a fit of coughing stopped her, and while she dived into her black silk bag for a handkerchief, caroline asked curiously, "has mr. blackburn so much money?" "oh, yes, i suppose he is the richest man we have here. he owns the large steel works down by the river, and he discovered some new cheap process, they say, which brought him a fortune. i remember hearing this, but i haven't much of a head for such matters. just now he is having a good deal of trouble with his men, and i'm sure it serves him right for deserting the ways of his father, and going over to the republicans. charles takes up for him because david has always stood by him in business, but of course out of respect for father's memory he couldn't openly sympathize with his disloyalty." "does anybody follow him, or is he all alone?" inquired caroline, less from active interest in the question than from the desire to keep the old lady animated. "you'll have to ask charles, and he will be delighted to answer. in this new-fangled idea about breaking the solid south--did you ever hear such stuff and nonsense?--i believe he has had a very bad influence over a number of young men. then, of late, he has been talking extravagantly about its being our duty to go into this war--as if we had any business mixing ourselves up in other people's quarrels--and that appeals to a lot of fire-eaters and fight-lovers. of course, a man as rich as david blackburn will always have a trail of sycophants and addlepates at his heels. what i say is that if providence had intended us to be in this war, we shouldn't have been given a president wise and strong enough to keep us out of it. if mr. wilson is elected for a second term--and my brother charles says there isn't a doubt of it--it will be because the country feels that he has kept us out of war. there was a long editorial in the paper this morning warning us that, if mr. hughes is elected, we shall be fighting germany within two months. then think of all the destruction and the dreadful high taxes that would follow----" "but i thought there was a great deal of war spirit here? at home we work all the time for the allies." "oh, there is, there is. angelica is president or chairman of two or three societies for helping the wounded, and they even made me head of something--i never can remember the name of it--but it has to do with belgian orphans. everybody wants to help, but that is different from going into the actual fighting, you know, and people are very much divided. a few, like david blackburn, wanted us to declare war the day after the lusitania was destroyed, but most of us feel--especially the wiser heads--that the president knows more about it than any one else----" "i suppose he does," admitted caroline, and she added while she looked at the appointments of the car, "what a beautiful car!" she sighed gently, for she was thinking of the rotting fence rails and the leaking roof at the cedars. how far she could make a few thousand dollars go in repairing the house and the out-buildings! if only the leaks could be mended, and the roof reshingled over the wings! if only they could hire a younger man to help poor old jones, who was growing decrepit! "this car is angelica's," said the old lady, "and everything she has is wonderful. as soon as she was married she began to re-decorate briarlay from garret to cellar. when david first made his money, he went about buying everything he laid eyes on, and she gave whole wagon-loads of furniture to her relatives. there are people who insist that angelica overdoes things in her way as much as her husband does in his--both were poor when they grew up--but i maintain that her taste is perfect--simply perfect. it is all very well for my daughter lucy, who has studied interior decoration in new york, to turn up her nose at walls hung with silk in a country house, but to my mind that pink silk in angelica's parlours is the most beautiful thing she could have, and i reckon i've as good a right to my ideas as lucy has to hers. after all, as i tell her, it is only a question of taste." it was a mild, bright afternoon in october, and as the car turned into the river road, the country spread softly, in undulations of green, gold, and bronze, to the deep blue edge of the horizon. the valley lay in shadow, while above it shreds of violet mist drifted slowly against the golden ball of the sun. near at hand the trees were touched with flame, but, as they went on, the brilliant leaves melted gradually into the multi-coloured blend of the distance. "mrs. blackburn must be so beautiful," said caroline presently. as she approached briarlay--the house of darkness and mystery that she had seen in her imagination--she felt that the appeal of this unknown woman deepened in vividness and pathos, that it rushed to meet her and enveloped her with the intensity and sweetness of a perfume. it was as if the name angelica were not a sound, but a thing composed of colour and fragrance--sky-blue like a cloud and as sweet-scented as lilies. "she was the most beautiful girl who ever came out in richmond," replied mrs. colfax. "the family was so poor that her mother couldn't do anything for her--she didn't even have a coming-out party--but with a girl like that nothing matters. david blackburn saw her at some reception, and lost his head completely. i won't say his heart because i've never believed that he had one. of course he was far and away the best chance she was ever likely to have down here, for it wasn't as if they could have sent her to the white sulphur. they couldn't afford anything, and they were even educating angelica to be a teacher. what she would have done if david blackburn hadn't come along when he did, i cannot imagine--though, as i wrote you, i'd have taught school to my dying day before i'd have married him." "but didn't she care anything for him?" asked caroline, for it was incredible to her that such a woman should have sold herself. mrs. colfax sniffed at her smelling-salts. "of course i haven't the right to an opinion," she rejoined, after a pause, "but as i always reply to charles when he tells me i am talking too much, 'well, i can't help having eyes.' i remember as well as if it were yesterday the way angelica looked when she told me of her engagement. 'i have decided to marry david blackburn, cousin lucy,' she said, and then she added, just as if the words were wrung out of her, 'i loathe the thought of teaching!' it doesn't sound a bit like angelica, but those were her very words. and now, my dear, tell me something about your mother. does she still keep up her wonderful spirits?" after this she asked so many questions that caroline was still answering them when the car turned out of the road and sped up a long, narrow lane, which was thickly carpeted with amber leaves. at the end of the lane, the vista broadened into an ample sweep of lawn surrounding a red brick house with white columns and low wings half hidden in virginia creeper. it was a beautiful house--so beautiful that caroline held her breath in surprise. under the october sky, in the midst of clustering elms, which shed a rain of small bronze leaves down on the bright grass and the dark evergreens, the house appeared to capture and imprison the mellow light of the sunset. it was so still, except for a curving flight of swallows over the roof, and the elm leaves, which fell slowly and steadily in the soft air, that the gleaming windows, the red walls, and the white columns, borrowed, for a moment, the visionary aspect of a place seen in a dream. "there is a formal garden at the back, full of box-borders and cypresses--only they are really red cedars," said mrs. colfax. "from the terrace there is a good view of the river, and lower down angelica has made an old-fashioned garden, with grass walks and rose arbours and mixed flower beds. i never saw such canterbury bells as she had last summer." as they entered the circular drive, a touring car passed them slowly on the way out, and a man leaned forward and bowed to mrs. colfax. from her casual glance caroline received an impression of a strong, sunburned face, with heavy brows and dark hair going a little grey on the temples. "what searching eyes that man has," she observed carelessly, and added immediately, "you know him?" "why, that was david blackburn. i forgot you had never seen him." "he isn't at all what i expected him to be." while caroline spoke she felt an inexplicable sense of disappointment. she scarcely knew what she had expected; yet she realized that he was different from some vague image she had had in her mind. "his face looked so set i'm afraid he has been quarrelling with angelica," said the old lady. "poor child, i feel so distressed." they had reached the house, and as they were about to alight, the door opened, and a girl in a riding habit, with two airedale terriers at her heels, strolled out on the porch. at sight of mrs. colfax, she came quickly forward, and held out her hand. she had a splendid figure, which the riding habit showed to advantage, and though her face was plain, her expression was pleasant and attractive. without the harsh collar and the severe arrangement of her hair, which was braided and tied up with a black ribbon, caroline imagined that she might be handsome. mrs. colfax greeted her as "miss blackburn" and explained immediately that she lived at briarlay with her brother. "she is a great lover of dogs," added the old lady, "and it is a pity that angelica doesn't like to have them about." "oh, they don't mind, they're such jolly beggars," replied the girl in a cheerful, slangy manner, "and besides they get all they want of me. i'm so sorry you didn't come in time for tea. now i'm just starting for a ride with alan." while she was speaking a man on horseback turned from the lane into the drive, and caroline saw her face change and brighten until it became almost pretty. "there he is now!" she exclaimed, and then she called out impulsively, "oh, alan, i've waited for ever!" he shouted back some words in a gay voice, but caroline did not catch them, and before he dismounted, mrs. colfax led her through the open door into the hall. "that's alan wythe," said the old lady in a whisper, and she resumed a moment later when they stood within the pink silk walls of angelica's drawing-room, "mary has been engaged to him for a year, and i never in my life saw a girl so much in love. i suppose it's natural enough--he's charming--but in my day young ladies were more reserved. and now we'll go straight upstairs to angelica. she is sure to be lying down at this hour." as they passed through the wide hall, and up the beautiful colonial staircase, caroline felt that the luxury of the place bewildered her. though the house, except in size, was not unlike country homes she had seen in southside virginia, there was nothing in her memory, unless she summoned back stray recollections of photographs in sunday newspapers, that could compare with the decoration of the drawing-room. "it is beautiful, but there is too much of it," she thought, for her eyes, accustomed to bare surfaces and the formal purity of sheraton and chippendale, were beginning to discriminate. "i want you to notice everything when you have time," said mrs. colfax. "i tell angelica that it is a liberal education just to come inside of this house." "it would take weeks to see it," responded caroline; and then, as she moved toward a long mirror in the hall upstairs, it seemed to her that her reflection, in her severe blue serge suit, with the little round blue hat diana had trimmed, looked as grotesquely out of place as if she had been one of the slender sheraton chairs at the cedars. "if i appear a lady i suppose it is as much as i can hope for," she thought, "and besides nobody will notice me." the humour leaped to her eyes, while mrs. colfax, watching her with a side-long glance, reflected that carrie warwick's daughter had distinction. her grace was not merely the grace of a slender body with flowing lines; it was the grace of word, of glance, of smile, of gesture, that indefinable and intangible quality which is shed by a lovely soul as fragrance is shed by a flower. "even if she lives to be as old as i am, she will still keep her poise and her charm of appearance," thought the old lady, "she will never lose it because it isn't a matter of feature--it isn't dependent on outward beauty. years ago she was prettier than she is to-day, but she wasn't nearly so distinguished." aloud she said presently, "your hair grows in such a nice line on your forehead, my dear, just like your mother's. i remember we always made her brush hers straight back as you do, so she could show her 'widow's peak' in the centre. but yours is much darker, isn't it?" "yes, it is almost black. mother's was the loveliest shade of chestnut. i have a lock of it in an old breast-pin." a door at the end of the hall opened, and a thin woman, in rusty black alpaca, came to meet them. "that's the housekeeper--matty timberlake, the very salt of the earth," whispered mrs. colfax. "she is angelica's cousin." when the housekeeper reached them, she stooped and kissed mrs. colfax before she spoke to caroline. she was a long, narrow, neuralgic woman, with near-sighted eyes, thin grey hair which hung in wisps on her forehead, and a look which seemed to complain always that she was poor and dependent and nobody noticed her. "angelica is lying down," she said, "but she would like to speak to miss meade before i take her to her room." caroline's heart gave a bound. "at last i shall see her," she thought, while she followed mrs. timberlake down the hall and across the threshold of angelica's room. the influence that she had felt first in the twilight at the cedars and again in the drive out from richmond, welcomed her like a caress. her first impression was one of blue and ivory and gold. there was a bed, painted in garlands, with a scalloped canopy of blue silk; and caroline, who was accustomed to mahogany testers or the little iron beds in the hospital, was conscious of a thrill of delight as she looked at it. then her eyes fell on the white bear-skin rug before the fire, and from the rug they passed to the couch on which mrs. blackburn was lying. the woman and the room harmonized so perfectly that one might almost have mistaken angelica for a piece of hand-painted furniture. at first she appeared all blue silk and pale gold hair and small delicate features. then she sat up and held out her hand, and caroline saw that she looked not only human, but really tired and frail. there were faint shadows under her eyes, which were like grey velvet, and her hair, parted softly in golden wings over her forehead, showed several barely perceptible creases between her eyebrows. she was so thin that the bones of her face and neck were visible beneath the exquisite texture of her flesh, yet the modelling was as perfect as if her head and shoulders had been chiselled in marble. "you are caroline meade," she said sweetly. "i am so glad you have come." "i am glad, too. i wanted to come." the vibrant voice, full of warmth and sympathy, trembled with pleasure. for once the reality was fairer than the dream; the woman before her was lovelier than the veiled figure of caroline's imagination. it was one of those unforgettable moments when the mind pauses, with a sensation of delight and expectancy, on the edge of a new emotion, of an undiscovered country. this was not only something beautiful and rare; it was different from anything that had ever happened to her before; it was a part of the romantic mystery that surrounded the unknown. and it wasn't only that mrs. blackburn was so lovely! more than her beauty, the sweetness of her look, the appeal of her delicacy, of her feminine weakness, went straight to the heart. it was as if her nature reached out, with clinging tendrils, seeking support. she was like a fragile white flower that could not live without warmth and sunshine. "the other nurse leaves in the morning," mrs. blackburn was saying in her gentle voice, which carried the merest note of complaint, as if she cherished at heart some secret yet ineradicable grievance against destiny, "so you have come at the right moment to save me from anxiety. i am worried about letty. you can understand that she is never out of my thoughts." "yes, i can understand, and i hope she will like me." "she will love you from the first minute, for she is really an affectionate child, if one knows how to take her. oh, miss meade, you have taken a load off my shoulders! you look so kind and so competent, and i feel that i can rely on you. i am not strong, you know, and the doctor won't let me be much with letty. he says the anxiety is too wearing, though, if i had my way, i should never think of myself." "but you must," said caroline quietly. she felt that the child's illness and the terrible cause of it were wrecking mrs. blackburn's health as well as her happiness. "of course, i must try to take care of myself because in the end it will be so much better for letty." as she answered, angelica slipped her feet into a pair of embroidered blue silk _mules_, and rising slowly from her lace pillows, stood up on the white rug in front of the fire. though she was not tall, her extraordinary slenderness gave her the effect of height and the enchanting lines of one of botticelli's graces. "with you in the house i feel that everything will be easier," she added, after a minute in which she gazed down at the new nurse with a thoughtful, appraising look. "it will be as easy as i can make it. i will do everything that i can." the words were not spoken lightly, for the opportunity of service had brought a glow to caroline's heart, and she felt that her reply was more than a promise to do her best--that it was a vow of dedication from which only the future could release her. she had given her pledge of loyalty, and mrs. blackburn had accepted it. from this instant the bond between them assumed the nature and the obligation of a covenant. a smile quivered and died on angelica's lips, while the pathos in her expression drew the other to her as if there were a visible wound to be healed. "you will be a blessing. i can tell that when i look at you," she murmured; and her speech sounded almost empty after the overflowing sympathy of the silence. to caroline it was a relief when the housekeeper called to her from the doorway, and then led her upstairs to a bedroom in the third storey. it was a delightful room overlooking the circular drive, and for a minute they stood gazing down on the lawn and the evergreens. "everything is so lovely!" exclaimed caroline presently. one could rest here, she thought, even with hard work and the constant strain, which she foresaw, on her sympathies. "yes, it is pretty," answered the housekeeper. already mrs. timberlake had proved that, though she might be the salt of the earth, she was a taciturn and depressing companion--a stranded wreck left over from too voluble a generation of women. "and i never saw any one lovelier than mrs. blackburn," said caroline, "she looks like an angel." "well, i reckon there is mighty little you can say against angelica's looks unless your taste runs to a trifle more flesh," responded mrs. timberlake drily. "she ought to be happy," pursued caroline, with a feeling that was almost one of resentment. "anyone as beautiful as that ought to be happy." mrs. timberlake turned slowly toward her, and caroline was aware of a spasmodic stiffening of her figure, as if she were nerving herself for an outburst. when the explosion came, however, it was in the nature of an anti-climax. "i expect you are going to be very useful to her," she said; and in answer to a hurried summons at the door, she made one of her nervous gestures, and went out into the hall. "it would be perfect," thought caroline, "if i didn't have to meet mr. blackburn"; and she concluded, with a flash of her mother's unquenchable optimism, "well, perhaps i shan't see him to-night!" the sun had set, and almost imperceptibly the afterglow had dissolved into the twilight. outside, the lawn and the evergreens were in shadow; but from the house a misty circle of light fell on the drive, and on a narrow strip of turf, from which each separate blade of grass emerged with exaggerated distinctness as if it were illuminated. within this circle, with its mysterious penumbra, human life also seemed exaggerated by the luminous haze which divided it from the partial shadow of the evening. the house stood enclosed in light as in a garden; and beyond it, where the obscurity began, there was the space and silence of the universe. while she stood there, she felt, with a certainty more profound than a mere mental conviction, that this lighted house contained, for her, all the joy and tragedy of human experience; that her life would be interwoven with these other lives as closely as branches of trees in a forest. the appeal of mrs. blackburn had stirred her heart and intensified her perceptions. from the bleakness of the last seven years, she had awakened with revived emotions. "it is just my fancy," she thought, "but i feel as if something wonderful had really happened--as if life were beginning all over again to-night." the words were still in her mind, when a child's laugh rang out from a window below, and the figure of a man passed from the outlying obscurity across the illuminated grass. though he moved so hurriedly out of the light, she caught the suggestion of a smile; and she had a singular feeling that he was the same man, and yet not the same man, that she had seen in the motor. "i do hope i shan't have to meet him to-night," she repeated at the very instant that a knock fell on her door, and an old coloured woman came in to bring a message from mrs. blackburn. she was a benevolent looking, aristocratic negress, with a fine, glossy skin as brown as a chestnut, and traces of indian blood in her high cheekbones. a white handkerchief was bound over her head like a turban, and her black bombazine dress hung in full, stately folds from her narrow waist line. for a minute, before delivering her message, she peered gravely at caroline by the dim light of the window. "ain't you miss carrie warwick's chile, honey? you ax 'er ef'n she's done forgot de fitzhugh chillun's mammy? i riz all er de fitzhugh chillun." "then you must be mammy riah? mother used to tell me about you when i was a little girl. you told stories just like bible ones." "dat's me, honey, en i sutney is glad ter see you. de chillun dey wuz al'ays pesterin' me 'bout dose bible stories jes' exactly de way letty wuz doin' dis ve'y mawnin'." "tell me something about the little girl. is she really ill?" asked caroline; and it occurred to her, as she put the question, that it was strange nobody had mentioned the child's malady. here again the darkness and mystery of the house she had imagined--that house which was so unlike briarlay--reacted on her mind. the old negress chuckled softly. "naw'm, she ain' sick, dat's jes' some er miss angy's foolishness. dar ain' nuttin' in de worl' de matter wid letty 'cep'n de way dey's brung 'er up. you cyarn' raise a colt ez ef'n hit wuz a rabbit, en dar ain' no use'n tryin'." then she remembered her message. "miss angy sez she sutney would be erbleeged ter you ef'n you 'ould come erlong down ter dinner wid de res' un um. miss molly waver's done 'phone she cyarn' come, en dar ain' nobody else in de house ez kin set in her place." for an instant caroline hesitated. "if i go down, i'll have to meet mr. blackburn," she said under her breath. a gleam of humour shot into the old woman's eyes. "marse david! go 'way f'om yer, chile, whut you skeered er marse david fur?" she rejoined. "he ain' gwine ter hu't you." chapter iv angelica at a quarter of eight o'clock, when caroline was waiting to be called, mrs. timberlake came in to ask if she might fasten her dress. "oh, you're all hooked and ready," she remarked. "i suppose nurses learn to be punctual." "they have to be, so much depends on it." "well, you look sweet. i've brought you a red rose from the table. it will lighten up that black dress a little." "i don't often go to dinner parties," said caroline while she pinned on the rose. "will there be many people?" there was no shyness in her voice or manner; and it seemed to mrs. timberlake that the black gown, with its straight, slim skirt, which had not quite gone out of fashion, made her appear taller and more dignified. her hair, brushed smoothly back from her forehead, gave to her clear profile the look of some delicate etching. there was a faint flush in her cheeks, and her eyes were richer and bluer than they had looked in the afternoon. she was a woman, not a girl, and her charm was the charm not of ignorance, but of intelligence, wisdom, and energy. "only twelve," answered the housekeeper, "sometimes we have as many as twenty." there was an expression of pain in her eyes, due to chronic neuralgia, and while she spoke she pressed her fingers to her temples. "is mr. wythe coming?" asked caroline. "he always comes. it is so hard to find unattached men that the same ones get invited over and over. then there are mr. and mrs. chalmers. they are from new york and the dinner is given to them--and the ashburtons and robert colfax and his wife--who was daisy carter--she is very good looking but a little flighty--and mr. peyton, old mrs. colfax's brother." "i know--'brother charles'--but who are the ashburtons?" "colonel ashburton is very amusing. he is on mr. blackburn's side in politics, and they are great friends. his wife is dull, but she means well, and she is useful on committees because she is a good worker and never knows when she is put upon. well, it's time for you to go down, i reckon. i just ran up from the pantry to see if i could help you." a minute later, when caroline left her room, mary blackburn joined her, and the two went downstairs together. mary was wearing a lovely gown of amber silk, and she looked so handsome that caroline scarcely recognized her. her black hair, piled on the crown of her head, gave her, in spite of her modern dash and frankness, a striking resemblance to one of the old portraits at the cedars. she was in high spirits, for the ride with alan had left her glowing with happiness. "we'd better hustle. they are waiting for us," she said. "i was late getting in, so i tossed on the first dress i could find." then she ran downstairs, and caroline, following her more slowly, found herself presently shaking hands with the dreaded david blackburn. he was so quiet and unassuming that only when he had taken her hand and had asked her a few conventional questions about her trip, did she realize that she was actually speaking to him. in evening clothes, surrounded by the pink silk walls of angelica's drawing-room, his face looked firmer and harder than it had appeared in the motor; but even in this extravagant setting, he impressed her as more carefully dressed and groomed than the average virginian of her acquaintance. she saw now that he was younger than she had at first thought; he couldn't, she surmised, be much over forty. there were deep lines in his forehead; his features had settled into the granite-like immobility that is acquired only through grim and resolute struggle; and his dark, carefully brushed hair showed a silvery gloss on the temples--yet these things, she realized, were the marks of battles, not of years. what struck her most was the quickness with which the touch of arrogance in his expression melted before the engaging frankness of his smile. "i'm glad you've come. i hope you will get on with letty," he said; and then, as he turned away, the vision of angelica, in white chiffon and pearls, floated toward her from a group by the fireplace. "colonel ashburton is an old friend of your mother's, miss meade. he took her to her first cotillion, and he is eager to meet her daughter." there followed swift introductions to the ashburtons, the chalmers, and the colfaxes; and not until caroline was going into the dining-room on the arm of mrs. colfax's "brother charles," was she able to distinguish between the stranger from new york, who looked lean and wiry and strenuous, and the white-haired old gentleman who had taken her mother to the cotillion. she was not confused; and yet her one vivid impression was of angelica, with her pale madonna head, her soft grey eyes under thick lashes, and her lovely figure in draperies of chiffon that flowed and rippled about her. though the house was an inappropriate setting for david blackburn, it was, for all its newness and ornate accessories, the perfect frame for his wife's beauty. she reminded caroline of the allegorical figure of spring in one of the tapestries on the dining-room walls--only she was so much softer, so much more ethereal, as if the floral image had come to life and been endowed with a soul. it was the rare quality of mrs. blackburn's beauty that in looking at her one thought first of her spirit--of the sweetness and goodness which informed and animated her features. the appeal she made was the appeal of an innocent and beautiful creature who is unhappy. against the background of an unfortunate marriage, she moved with the resigned and exalted step of a christian martyr. sitting silently between the flippant "brother charles" and the imposing colonel ashburton, who was still talking of her mother, caroline tried to follow the conversation while she studied the faces and the dresses of the women. mrs. chalmers, who was large and handsome in a superb gown of green velvet, appeared heavy and indifferent, and mrs. ashburton, an over-earnest middle-aged woman, with a classic profile and a look of impersonal yet hungry philanthropy, was so detached that she seemed, when she spoke, to be addressing an invisible audience. in spite of her regular features and her flawless complexion, she was as devoid of charm as an organized charity. on her right sat allan wythe, a clean-cut, good-looking chap, with romantic eyes and the air of a sportsman. though caroline had heard that he wrote plays, she thought that he needed only a gun and a dog to complete his appearance. "he is the only good-looking man here," she concluded. "some people might think mr. blackburn good-looking, but i suppose i know too much about him." and she remembered that her father had said a man's character always showed in his mouth. next to alan there was mrs. robert colfax--a beautiful spanish-looking creature, straight as a young poplar, and as full of silvery lights and shadows. she had no sooner sat down than she began to ask angelica, with an agreeable though flighty animation, if she had seen somebody since he had come back from his wedding trip? for the next quarter of an hour they kept up an excited interchange of gossip, while mr. chalmers listened with polite attention, and caroline tried in vain to discover who the unknown person was, and why his wedding trip should interest anybody so profoundly. "well, i never thought he'd get another wife after his last misadventure," rippled mrs. colfax, "but they tell me he had only to wink an eyelash. i declare i don't know a more discouraging spectacle than the men that some women will marry." at the other end of the table, mrs. blackburn was talking in a low voice to mr. chalmers, and the broken clauses of her conversation were punctuated by the laughter of the irrepressible daisy, who was never silent. though angelica was not brilliant, though she never said anything clever enough for one to remember, she had what her friends called "a sweet way of talking," and a flattering habit, when she was with a man, of ending every sentence with a question. "i'm sure i don't see how we are to keep out of this war, do you, mr. chalmers?" or "i think the simplest way to raise money would be by some tableaux, don't you, colonel ashburton?"; and still a little later there floated to caroline, "i tell mary she rides too much. don't you think it is a pity for a woman to spend half her life in the saddle? of course if she hasn't anything else to do--but in this age, don't you feel, there are so many opportunities of service?" "oh, when it comes to that," protested mrs. colfax, in the tone of airy banter she affected, "there are many more of us trying to serve than there are opportunities of service. i was telling mother only the other day that i couldn't see a single war charity because the vice-presidents are so thick." a lull fell on the table, and for the first time caroline heard blackburn's voice. mrs. chalmers was asking him about the house, and he was responding with a smile that made his face almost young and sanguine. his mouth, when he was not on guard, was sensitive and even emotional, and his eyes lost the sharpness that cut through whatever they looked at. "why, yes, i built it before my marriage," he was saying. "dodson drew the plans. you know dodson?" mrs. chalmers nodded. "he has done some good things in new york. and this lovely furniture," she was plainly working hard to draw him out. "where did you find it?" he met the question lightly. "oh, i had a lot of stuff here that angelica got rid of." from the other end of the table mrs. blackburn's voice floated plaintively, "there isn't a piece of it left," she said. "it made the house look exactly like an italian hotel." the remark struck caroline as so unfortunate that she turned, with a start of surprise, to glance at her hostess. could it be that mrs. blackburn was without tact? could it be that she did not realize the awkwardness of her interruption? yet a single glance at angelica was sufficient to answer these questions. a woman who looked like that couldn't be lacking in social instinct. it must have been a casual slip, nothing more. she was probably tired--hadn't old mrs. colfax said that she was delicate?--and she did not perceive the effect of her words. glancing again in blackburn's direction, caroline saw that his features had hardened, and that the hand on the tablecloth was breaking a piece of bread into crumbs. the change in his manner was so sudden that caroline understood, even before she saw the twitching of his eyebrows, and the gesture of irritation with which he pushed the bread crumbs away, that, in spite of his reserve and his coldness, he was a bundle of over-sensitive nerves. "he was behaving really well," she thought. "it is a pity that she irritated him." though she disliked blackburn, she was just enough to admit that he had started well with mrs. chalmers. of course, no one expected him to appear brilliant in society. a man who had had no education except the little his mother had taught him, and who had devoted his life to making a fortune, was almost as much debarred from social success as a woman who knew only trained nursing. yet, in spite of these defects, she realized that he appeared to advantage at his own table. there was something about him--some latent suggestion of force--which distinguished him from every other man in the room. he looked--she couldn't quite define the difference--as if he could do things. the recollection of his stand in politics came to her while she watched him, and turning to mr. peyton, who was a trifle more human than colonel ashburton, she asked: "what is this new movement mr. blackburn is so much interested in? i've seen a great deal about it in the papers." there was a bluff, kind way about charles peyton, and she liked the natural heartiness of the laugh with which he answered. "you've seen a great deal more than you've read, young lady, i'll warrant. no, it isn't exactly a new movement, because somebody in the north got ahead of him--you may always count on a yankee butting in just before you--but he is organizing the independent voters in virginia, if that's what you mean. at least he thinks he is, though even way down here i've a suspicion that those yankees have been meddling. between you and me, miss meade, it is all humbug--pure humbug. haven't we got one party already, and doesn't that one have a hard enough time looking after the negroes? why do we want to go and start up trouble just after we've got things all nicely settled? why does david want to stir up a hornet's nest among the negroes, i'd like to know?" on the other side of caroline, colonel ashburton became suddenly audible. "ask that rip van winkle, miss meade, if he was asleep while we made a new constitution and eliminated the vote of the negroes? you can't argue with these stand-patters, you know, because they never read the signs of the times." "well, there isn't a better way of proving it's all humbug than by asking two questions," declared the jovial charles--a plethoric, unwieldy old man, with a bald head, and a figure that was continually brimming over his waistcoat. "what i want to know, billy ashburton, is just this--wasn't your father as good a man as you are, and wasn't the democratic party good enough for your father? i put the same to you, miss meade, wasn't the democratic party good enough for your father?" "ah, you're driven to your last trench," observed the colonel, with genial irony, while caroline replied slowly: "yes, it was good enough for father, but i remember he used to be very fond of quoting some lines from pope about 'principles changing with the times.' i suppose the questions are different from what they were in his day." "i'd like to see any questions the democrats aren't able to handle," persisted charles. "they always have handled them to my satisfaction, and i reckon they always will, in spite of blackburn and ashburton." "i wish blackburn could talk to you, miss meade," said colonel ashburton. "he doesn't care much for personalities. he has less small talk than any man i know, but he speaks well if you get him started on ideas. by-the-way, he is the man who won me over. i used to be as strongly prejudiced against any fresh departure in virginia politics as our friend charles there, but blackburn got hold of me, and convinced me, as he has convinced a great many others, against my will. he proved to me that the old forms are worn out--that they can't do the work any longer. you see, blackburn is an idealist. he sees straight through the sham to the truth quicker than any man i've ever known----" "an idealist!" exclaimed caroline, and mentally she added, "is it possible for a man to have two characters? to have a public character that gives the lie to his private one?" "yes, i think you might call him that, though, like you, i rather shy at the word. but it fits blackburn, somehow, for he is literally on fire with ideas. i always say that he ought to have lived in the glorious days when the republic was founded. he belongs to the pure breed of american." "but i understood from the papers that it was just the other way--that he was--that he was----" "i know, my child, i know." he smiled indulgently, for she looked very charming with the flush in her cheeks, and after thirty years of happy companionship with an impeccable character, he preferred at dinner a little amiable weakness in a woman. "you have seen in the papers that he is a traitor to the faith of his fathers. you have even heard this asserted by the logical charles on your right." she lifted her eyes, and to his disappointment he discovered that earnestness, not embarrassment, had brought the colour to her cheeks. "but i thought that this new movement was directed at the democratic party--that it was attempting to undo all that had been accomplished in the last fifty years. it seems the wrong way, but of course there must be a right way toward better things." for a minute he looked at her in silence; then he said again gently, "i wish blackburn could talk to you." since she had come by her ideas honestly, not merely borrowed them from charles colfax, it seemed only chivalrous to treat them with the consideration he accorded always to the fair and the frail. she shook her head. the last thing she wanted was to have mr. blackburn talk to her. "i thought all old-fashioned virginians opposed this movement," she added after a pause. "not that i am very old-fashioned. you remember my father, and so you will know that his daughter is not afraid of opinions." "yes, i remember him, and i understand that his child could not be afraid either of opinions or armies." she smiled up at him, and he saw that her eyes, which had been a little sad, were charged with light. while he watched her he wondered if her quietness were merely a professional habit of reserve which she wore like a uniform. was the warmth and fervour which he read now in her face a glimpse of the soul which life had hidden beneath the dignity of her manner? "but blackburn isn't an agitator," he resumed after a moment. "he has got hold of the right idea--the new application of eternal principles. if we could send him to washington he would do good work." "to washington?" she looked at him inquiringly. "you mean to the senate? not in the place of colonel acton?" "ah, that touches you! you wouldn't like to see the 'odysseus of democracy' dispossessed?" laughter sparkled in her eyes, and he realized that she was more girlish than he had thought her a minute ago. after all, she had humour, and it was a favourite saying of his that ideas without humour were as bad as bread without yeast. "only for another ajax," she retorted merrily. "i prefer the strong to the wise. but does mr. blackburn want the senatorship?" "perhaps not, but he might be made to take it. there is a rising tide in virginia." "is it strong enough to overturn the old prejudices?" "not yet--not yet, but it is strengthening every hour." his tone had lost its gallantry and grown serious. "the war in europe has taught us a lesson. we aren't satisfied any longer, the best thought isn't satisfied, with the old clutter and muddle of ideas and sentiments. we begin to see that what we need in politics is not commemorative gestures, but constructive patriotism." as he finished, caroline became aware again that blackburn was speaking, and that for the first time mrs. chalmers looked animated and interested. "why, that has occurred to me," he was saying with an earnestness that swept away his reserve. "but, you see, it is impossible to do anything in the south with the republican party. the memories are too black. we must think in new terms." "and you believe that the south is ready for another party? has the hour struck?" "can't you hear it?" he looked up as he spoke. "the war abroad has liberated us from the old sectional bondage. it has brought the world nearer, and the time is ripe for the national spirit. the demand now is for men. we need men who will construct ideas, not copy them. we need men strong enough to break up the solid south and the solid north, and pour them together into the common life of the nation. we want a patriotism that will overflow party lines, and put the good of the country before the good of a section. the old phrases, the old gestures, are childish to-day because we have outgrown them----" he stopped abruptly, his face so enkindled that caroline would not have known it, and an instant later the voice of mrs. blackburn was heard saying sweetly but firmly, "david, i am afraid that mrs. chalmers is not used to your melodramatic way of talking." in the hush that followed it seemed as if a harsh light had fallen over blackburn's features. a moment before caroline had seen him inspired and exalted by feeling--the vehicle of the ideas that possessed him--and now, in the sharp flash of angelica's irony, he appeared insincere and theatrical--the claptrap politician in motley. "it is a pity she spoke just when she did," thought caroline, "but i suppose she sees through him so clearly that she can't help herself. she doesn't want him to mislead the rest of us." blackburn's guard was up again, and though he made no reply, his brow paled slowly and his hand--the nervous, restless hand of the emotional type--played with the bread crumbs. "yes, it is a pity," repeated caroline to herself. "it makes things very uncomfortable." it was evident to her that mrs. blackburn watched her husband every instant--that she was waiting all the time to rectify his mistakes, to put him in the right again. then, swiftly as an arrow, there flashed through caroline's mind, "only poor, lovely creature, she achieves exactly the opposite result. she is so nervous she can't see that she puts him always in the wrong. she makes matters worse instead of better every time." from this moment the dinner dragged on heavily to its awkward end. blackburn had withdrawn into his shell; mrs. chalmers looked depressed and bored; while the giddy voice of mrs. colfax sounded as empty as the twitter of a sparrow. it was as if a blight had fallen over them, and in this blight angelica made charming, futile attempts to keep up the conversation. she had tried so hard, her eyes, very gentle and pensive, seemed to say, and all her efforts were wasted. suddenly, in the dull silence, mrs. colfax began asking, in her flightiest manner, about angelica's family. for at least five minutes she had vacillated in her own mind between the weather and roane fitzhugh, who, for obvious reasons, was not a promising topic; and now at last, since the weather was too perfect for comment, she recklessly decided to introduce the unsavoury roane. "we haven't seen your brother recently, angelica. what do you hear from him?" for an instant mrs. blackburn's eyes rested with mute reproach on her husband. then she said clearly and slowly, "he has been away all summer, but we hope he is coming next week. david," she added suddenly in a louder tone, "i was just telling daisy how glad we are that roane is going to spend the autumn at briarlay." it was at that instant, just as mrs. blackburn, smiling amiably on her husband, was about to rise from the table, that the astounding, the incredible thing happened, for blackburn looked up quickly, and replied in a harsh, emphatic manner, "he is not coming to briarlay. you know that we cannot have him here." then before a word was uttered, before mrs. colfax had time to twitter cheerfully above the awkwardness, mrs. blackburn rose from her chair, and the women trailed slowly after her out of the dining-room. as caroline went, she felt that her heart was bursting with sympathy for angelica and indignation against her husband. "how in the world shall i ever speak to him after this?" she thought. "how shall i ever stay under the same roof with him?" and glancing pityingly to where mrs. blackburn's flower-like head drooped against the rosy shade of a lamp, she realized that angelica never looked so lovely as she did when she was hurt. chapter v the first night when the last guest had gone, caroline went upstairs to her room, and sitting down before the little ivory and gold desk, began a letter to her mother. for years, ever since her first night in the hospital, she had poured out her heart after the day's work and the day's self-control and restraint were over. it was a relief to be free sometimes, to break through the discipline of her profession, to live and love for oneself, not for others. the house was very still--only from the darkness outside, where the wind had risen, a few yellow leaves fluttered in through the window. * * * * * i am here, at last, dearest mother, and i have been longing to tell you about it. first of all, i had a good trip, my train was exactly on time, and mrs. colfax met me in the most beautiful car i ever saw, and brought me out to briarlay. she was very nice and kind, but she looks ever so much older than you do, and i cannot help feeling that, in spite of the loss of so many children and father's dreadful disappointments, your life has been happier than hers. as i get older, and see more of the world--and heaven knows i have seen anything but the best of it these last seven or eight years--i understand better and better that happiness is something you have to find deep down in yourself, not in other people or outside things. it shines through sometimes just as yours does and lights up the world around and the dark places, but it never, _never_ comes from them--of this i am very sure. i wish i could describe this house to you, but i cannot--i simply cannot, the words will not come to me. it is big and beautiful, but i think it is too full of wonderful things--there are rooms that make me feel as if i were in a museum because of the tapestries and crowded rugs and french furniture. i like english mahogany so much better, but that may be just because i am used to it. i suppose it is natural that mrs. blackburn should prefer surroundings that are opulent and florid, since they make her look like a lovely flower in a greenhouse. she is even more beautiful than i thought she would be, and she does not seem the least bit snobbish or spoiled or arrogant. i have always said, you remember, that nursing has taught me not to rely on mere impressions whether they are first or last ones--but i have never in my life met any one who attracted me so strongly in the beginning. it is years since i have felt my sympathy so completely drawn out by a stranger. i feel that i would do anything in the world that i could for her; and though i cannot write frankly about what i have observed here, i believe that she needs help and understanding as much as any one i ever saw. the situation seems worse even than we were led to expect. of course i have seen only the surface so far, but my heart has been wrung for her ever since i have been in the house, and this evening there was a very painful scene at the dinner table. i shall not write any more about it, though i imagine it will be spread all over richmond by young mrs. colfax. about mr. blackburn i have not quite made up my mind. i do not doubt that everything mrs. colfax wrote us is true, and i know if i stay on here that i shall make no attempt to conceal from him how much i dislike him. that will be no secret. i simply could not pretend even to him that i was not heart and soul on the side of his wife. it is so perfectly dreadful when one has to take sides with a husband or wife, isn't it? when i think how wonderful a marriage like yours and father's can be, it makes me feel sorry and ashamed for human nature as i see it here. but you cannot become a nurse and keep many illusions about love. the thing that remains after years of such work is no illusion at all--but the clear knowledge of the reality. a nurse sees the best and the worst of humanity--and the very best of it is the love that some people keep to the end. as for this marriage, there is not a person in richmond, nor a servant in the house, who does not know that it is an unhappy one. mrs. blackburn cannot be at fault--one has only to look at her to realize that she is too gentle and sweet to hurt any one--and yet i discovered to-night that she does not know how to treat him, that she says the wrong thing so often without meaning to, and that unconsciously she irritates him whenever she speaks. it is impossible to blame her, for she must have suffered a great many things that no one knows of, and i suppose her nerves are not always under control. but nothing could be more unfortunate than her manner to him at times. strange to say (i do not understand why) some people appear to admire him tremendously. i went down to dinner to-night because one of the guests did not come, and colonel ashburton--he said he used to know you--talked in the most extravagant fashion about mr. blackburn's abilities. the air here is heavy with politics because of the elections, and i tried to listen as closely as i could. i thought how intensely interested father would have been in the discussion. as far as i can understand mr. blackburn's way of thinking is not unlike father's, and but for his behaviour to his wife, this would give me a sympathetic feeling for him. i forgot to tell you that he looked very well to-night--not in the least rough or common. his face is not ugly, only he wears his hair brushed straight back, and this makes his features look sterner than they really are. his eyes are the keenest i ever saw--grey, i think, and yet, funny as it sounds, there are times when they are almost pathetic--and his smile is very nice and reminds me in a way of father's. this may have been why i thought of father all the time i was at dinner--this and the political talk which went on as long as we were at the table. well, i started to tell you about the elections, and i know you are thinking i shall never go on. it seems that mr. blackburn intends to vote for hughes--though i heard him tell mr. chalmers that if he lived in the north he should probably vote with the democrats. voting for a man, he feels, is not nearly so important as voting against a section--at least this is what i gathered. there was a great deal said about the war, but nobody, except mrs. colfax's brother charles, who does not count, seemed to think there was the faintest chance of our being in it. mr. chalmers told me afterwards that if wilson should be re-elected, it would be mainly because of the slogan "he kept us out of war." as far as i could discover mr. chalmers stands firmly by the president, but i heard mr. blackburn tell colonel ashburton that what he hoped for now was conduct so flagrant, on germany's part, that the public conscience would demand a more vigorous policy. by the way, mr. chalmers said that the feeling was so strong in new york that he expected the state to go to the republicans because there was a general impression that to vote with them meant to vote for war. of course, he added, this was mere german propaganda--but that was only another way of saying he did not agree with it. opinions change every hour, and just as soon as a new one begins to be popular, people forget all that they believed just as ardently a few weeks before. don't you remember how complacent we were about our splendid isolation and our pluperfect pacifism and our being "too proud to fight" such a very short while ago? well, nobody remembers now the way we crowed over europe and patted one another on the back, and congratulated ourselves because we could stand aside and wait until history showed who was right. that is over and gone now, and "i didn't raise my boy to be a soldier" has joined the dust of all the other rag-time. if the slow coach of history ever does come up with us, it may find us in the thick of the fight after all, and not waiting by the roadside. mr. chalmers believes that if the president is re-elected, and can get the country behind him, the government will declare that a state of war exists--but mr. blackburn, on the other hand, is convinced that both wilson and hughes are pledged to fulfil their promises of "peace and prosperity." he insists that there was more war spirit over the whole country the week after the _lusitania_ was sunk, than there has ever been since, and that we were as ready to fight then as we shall be after the elections. it is like being in the midst of electric currents to sit still and listen to these men argue. can you imagine anything more unlike father's day when all virginians, except those whom nobody knew, thought exactly alike? now, though the vote is solid still, and the great majority accepts the policies of the democrats as uncritically as it accepts scripture, opinions about secondary issues vary as much as they do anywhere else. there are some who regard the president as greater than george washington--and others who say that the moment is great, not the man. mr. colfax believes that he is a generation ahead of his country, and colonel ashburton believes just as strongly that he is a generation behind it--that it is a case where a wave of destiny is sweeping a man on to greatness. i suppose here again we shall have to wait until history shows who is right. i have not seen the little girl yet--her name is letty. they have to be careful not to excite her in the evening, and the other nurse is still with her. now i must go to bed. your devoted child, caroline. * * * * * she had finished her letter and glanced at her watch on the bureau--it was one o'clock--when a cry or moan reached her from the darkness and silence of the house, and a few minutes afterwards there came the sound of running footsteps on the stairs, and a hasty knock fell on her door. "miss meade, will you please come as quickly as you can?" opening the door, she met the frightened face of a maid. "what has happened? is mrs. blackburn ill?" "i don't know. she hasn't undressed and she is too ill to speak. i left her on the couch, and ran upstairs to call you." they were already in the hall, and while they hurried to the staircase, caroline asked a few questions in a whisper. "is there any medicine that she is accustomed to take?" "i give her ammonia sometimes, but to-night it didn't do any good." "does she faint often?" "i'm not sure. she has these attacks, but only after--after----" the woman paused in confusion, and before she could recover herself, caroline had opened the door and walked swiftly to the prostrate figure, in white chiffon, on the couch in front of the fire. bending over she felt angelica's pulse and lowered her head, with its loosened amber hair, on the pillows. "your pulse is good. do you feel better now?" she asked tenderly, for, in spite of the quiet competence of her professional attitude, her heart was aching with pity. "i was sure i could count on your sympathy." as she answered, mrs. blackburn stretched out her hands until they rested on caroline's arm. "has mary gone out of the room?" "your maid? yes, she has just gone. what can i do for you?" even in the midst of the emotional crisis, angelica's manner had not lost a trace of its charming self-possession, its rather colourless sweetness. her grey eyes, drenched in tears which left no redness on the firm white lids, were as devoid of passion as the eyes of a child. "i cannot tell you--i cannot tell any one," she said after a moment, not in answer to the other's question, but with a plaintive murmur. then she began to cry very gently, while she clung to caroline with her lovely hands which were as soft and fragrant as flowers. "i think i know without your telling me," responded caroline soothingly. "let me help you." all her years of nursing had not enabled her to watch suffering, especially the suffering of helpless things, without a pang of longing to comfort. she was on her knees now by the couch, her smooth dark head bending over angelica's disarranged fair one, her grave, compassionate face gazing down on the other's delicate features, which were softened, not disfigured, by tears. "the worst is about roane--my brother," began angelica slowly. "he came here to-night, but they--" she lingered over the word, "sent him away before i could talk to him. he is downstairs now on the terrace because he is not allowed to come into the house--my brother. i must get this cheque to him, but i do not like to ask one of the servants----" "you wish me to take it to him?" caroline released herself from the clinging hands, and rose quickly to her feet. here at last was a definite call to action. "oh, miss meade, if you would!" already angelica's eyes were dry. "i will go at once. is the cheque written?" "i carried it down with me, but i could not get a chance to give it to roane. poor boy," she added in a low rather than a soft tone, "poor boy, after all, he is more sinned against than sinning!" drawing the cheque from under the lace pillows, she gave it into caroline's hand with a gesture of relief. "go through the dining-room to the terrace, and you will find him outside by the windows. tell him that i will see him as soon as i can, and ask him please not to trouble me again." she had rung for her maid while she was speaking, and when the woman appeared, she rose and waited, with a yawn, for her dress to be unfastened. then suddenly, as if she had forgotten something, she gave caroline a smile full of beauty and pathos. "thank you a thousand tunes, dear miss meade," she exclaimed gratefully. it was dark downstairs, except for a nebulous glow from the hall above and a thin reddish line that ran beneath the closed door of the library. not until she reached the dining-room did caroline dare turn on the electric light, and as soon as she did so, the terrace and the garden appeared by contrast to be plunged in blackness. when she opened one of the long french windows, and stepped out on the brick terrace, her eyes became gradually accustomed to the starlight, and she discerned presently the shrouded outlines of the juniper trees and a marble fountain which emerged like a ghost from the quivering spray of water. as she went quickly down the steps to the lower terrace, she felt as much alone in her surroundings as if the house and mrs. blackburn had receded into a dream. overhead there was the silvery glitter of stars, and before her she divined the simplicity and peace of an autumn garden, where the wind scattered the faint scent of flowers that were already beginning to drop and decay. when she approached the fountain, the figure of a man detached itself from the vague shape of an evergreen, and came toward her. "well, i've waited awhile, haven't i?" he began airily, and the next instant exclaimed with scarcely a change of tone, "who are you? did anna jeannette send you?" "i am letty's new nurse--miss meade." "what! a spirit yet a woman too!" his voice was full of charm. "mrs. blackburn sent me with this." as she held out the cheque, he took it with a gesture that was almost hungry. "she asked me to say that she would see you very soon, and to beg you not to trouble her again." "does she imagine that i do it for pleasure!" he placed the cheque in his pocket book. "she cannot suppose that i came here to-night for the sake of a row." though he was unusually tall, he carried his height with the ease of an invincible dignity and self-possession; and she had already discerned that his sister's pathos had no part in the tempestuous ardour and gaiety of his nature. "she didn't tell me," answered caroline coldly. "there is nothing else, is there?" her features were like marble beneath the silken dusk of her hair which was faintly outlined against the cloudier darkness. "there is a great deal--since you ask me." "nothing, i mean, that i may say to your sister?" "you may say to her that i thank her for her message--and her messenger." he was about to add something more, when caroline turned away from him and moved, without haste, as if she were unaware that he followed her, up the shallow steps of the terrace. when she reached the window, she passed swiftly, like a dissolving shadow, from the darkness into the light of the room. nothing had been said that she found herself able to resent, and yet, in some indefinable way, roane's manner had offended her. "for a trained nurse you are entirely too particular," she said to herself, smiling, as she put out the light and went through the wide doorway into the hall. "you have still a good deal of haughtiness to overcome, miss meade, if you expect every man to treat you as if you wore side curls and a crinoline." the hall, when she entered it, was very dim, but as she approached the door of the library, it opened, and blackburn stood waiting for her on the threshold. behind him the room was illuminated, and she saw the rich sheen of leather bindings and the glow of firelight on the old persian rug by the hearth. "you have been out, miss meade?" "yes, i have been out." as she threw back her head, the light was full on her face while his was in shadow. "do you need anything?" "nothing, thank you." for an instant their eyes met, and in that single glance, charged with an implacable accusation, she made angelica's cause her own. grave, remote, dispassionate, her condemnation was as impersonal as a judgment of the invisible powers. "that is all, then, good-night," he said. "good-night." while he watched her, she turned as disdainfully as she had turned from roane, and ascended the stairs. chapter vi letty in the breakfast room next morning, caroline found the little girl in charge of miss miller, the nurse who was leaving that day. letty was a fragile, undeveloped child of seven years, with the dark hair and eyes of her father, and the old, rather elfish look of children who have been ill from the cradle. her soft, fine hair hung straight to her shoulders, and framed her serious little face, which was charming in spite of its unhealthy pallor. caroline had questioned miss miller about the child's malady, and she had been reassured by the other nurse's optimistic view of the case. "we think she may outgrow the trouble, that's why we are so careful about all the rules she lives by. the doctor watches her closely, and she isn't a difficult child to manage. if you once gain her confidence you can do anything with her, but first of all you must make her believe in you." "was she always so delicate?" "i believe she was born this way. she is stunted physically, though she is so precocious mentally. she talks exactly like an old person sometimes. the things she says would make you laugh if it wasn't so pathetic to know that a child thinks them." yes, it was pathetic, caroline felt, while she watched letty cross the room to her father, who was standing before one of the french windows. as she lifted her face gravely, blackburn bent over and kissed her. "i'm taking a new kind of medicine, father." he smiled down on her. "then perhaps you will eat a new kind of breakfast." "and i've got a new nurse," added letty before she turned away and came over to caroline. "i'm so glad you wear a uniform," she said in her composed manner. "i think uniforms are much nicer than dresses like aunt matty's." mrs. timberlake looked up from the coffee urn with a smile that was like a facial contortion. "anything might be better than my dresses, letty." "but you ought to get something pretty," said the child quickly, for her thoughts came in flashes. "if you wore a uniform you might look happy, too. are all nurses happy, miss miller?" "we try to be, dear," answered miss miller, a stout, placid person, while she settled the little girl in her chair. "it makes things so much easier." blackburn, who had been looking out on the terrace and the formal garden, turned and bowed stiffly as he came to the table. it was evident that he was not in a talkative mood, and as caroline returned his greeting with the briefest acknowledgment, she congratulated herself that she did not have to make conversation for him. mary had not come in from her ride, and since mrs. timberlake used language only under the direct pressure of necessity, the sound of letty's unembarrassed childish treble rippled placidly over the constrained silence of her elders. "can you see the garden?" asked the child presently. "i don't mean the box garden, i mean the real garden where the flowers are?" caroline was helping herself to oatmeal, and raising her eyes from the dish, she glanced through the window which gave on the brick terrace. beyond the marble fountain and a dark cluster of junipers there was an arch of box, which framed the lower garden and a narrow view of the river. "that's where my garden is, down there," letty was saying. "i made it all by myself--didn't i, miss miller?--and my verbenas did better than mother's last summer. would you like to have a garden, father?" she inquired suddenly, turning to blackburn, who was looking over the morning paper while he waited for his coffee. "it wouldn't be a bit more trouble for me to take care of two than one. i'll make yours just like mine if you want me to." blackburn put down his paper. "well, i believe i should like one," he replied gravely, "if you are sure you have time for it. but aren't there a great many more important things you ought to do?" "oh, it doesn't take so much time," returned the child eagerly, "i work all i can, but the doctor won't let me do much. i'll make yours close to mine, so there won't be far to go with the water. i have to carry it in a very little watering-pot because they won't let me lift a big one." a smile quivered for an instant on her father's lips, and caroline saw his face change and soften as it had done the evening before. it was queer, she thought, that he should have such a sensitive mouth. she had imagined that a man of that character would have coarse lips and a brutal expression. "now, it's odd, but i've always had a fancy for a garden of that sort," he responded, "if you think you can manage two of them without over-taxing yourself. i don't want to put you to additional trouble, you know. after all, that's just what i hire peter for, isn't it?" while the child was assuring him that peter had neither the time nor the talent for miniature gardening, miss miller remarked pleasantly, as if she were visited by a brilliant idea, "you ought to make one for your mother also, letty." "oh, mother doesn't want one," returned the child: "the big ones are hers, aren't they, father?" then, as blackburn had unfolded his paper again, she added to caroline, with one of the mature utterances miss miller had called pathetic, "when you have big things you don't care for little things, do you?" as they were finishing breakfast, mary blackburn dashed in from the terrace, with the airedale terriers at her heels. "i was afraid you'd have gone before i got back, david," she said, tossing her riding-crop and gloves on a chair, and coming over to the table. "patrick, put the dogs out, and tell peter to give them their breakfast." then turning back to her brother, she resumed carelessly, "that man stopped me again--that foreman you discharged from the works." blackburn's brow darkened. "ridley? i told him not to come on the place. is he hanging about?" "i met him in the lane. he asked me to bring a message to you. it seems he wants awfully to be reinstated. he is out of work; and he doesn't want to go north for a job." "it's a pity he didn't think of that sooner. he has made more trouble in the plant than any ten men i've ever had. it isn't his fault that there's not a strike on now." "i know," said mary, "but i couldn't refuse to hear him. there's alan now," she added. "ask him about it." she looked up, her face flushing with pride and happiness, as alan wythe opened the window. there was something free and noble in her candour. all the little coquetries and vanities of women appeared to shrivel in the white blaze of her sincerity. "so you've been held up by ridley," remarked blackburn, as the young man seated himself between mary and mrs. timberlake. "did he tell you just what political capital he expects to make out of my discharging him? it isn't the first time he has tried blackmail." alan was replying to mrs. timberlake's question about his coffee--she never remembered, caroline discovered later, just how much sugar one liked--and there was a pause before he turned to blackburn and answered: "i haven't a doubt that he means to make trouble sooner or later--he has some pull, hasn't he?--but at the moment he is more interested in getting his job back. he talked a lot about his family--tried to make mary ask you to take him on again----" blackburn laughed, not unpleasantly, but with a curious bluntness and finality, as if he were closing a door on some mental passage. "well, you may tell him," he rejoined, "that i wouldn't take him back if all the women in creation asked me." alan received this with his usual ease and flippancy. "the fellow appears to have got the wrong impression. he told me that mrs. blackburn was taking an interest in his case, and had promised to speak to you." "he told you that?" said blackburn, and stopped abruptly. for a minute alan looked almost disconcerted. in his riding clothes he was handsomer and more sportsmanlike than he had been the evening before, and caroline told herself that she could understand why mary blackburn had fallen so deeply in love with him. what she couldn't understand--what puzzled her every instant--was the obvious fact that alan had fallen quite as deeply in love with mary. of course the girl was fine and sensible and high-spirited--any one could see that--but she appeared just the opposite of everything that alan would have sought in a woman. she was neither pretty nor feminine; and alan's type was the one of all others to which the pretty and feminine would make its appeal. "he must love her for her soul," thought caroline. "he must see how splendid she is at heart, and this has won him." in a few minutes blackburn left the table, while letty caught caroline's hand and drew her through the window out on the terrace. the landscape, beyond the three gardens, was golden with october sunlight, and over the box maze and the variegated mist of late blooming flowers, they could see the river and the wooded slopes that folded softly into the sparkling edge of the horizon. it was one of those autumn days when the only movement of the world seems to be the slow fall of the leaves, and the quivering of gauzy-winged insects above the flower-beds. perfect as the weather was, there was a touch of melancholy in its brightness that made caroline homesick for the cedars. "it is hard to be where nobody cares for you," she thought. "where nothing you feel or think matters to anybody." then her stronger nature reasserted itself, and she brushed the light cloud away. "after all, life is mine as much as theirs. the battle is mine, and i will fight it. it is just as important that i should be a good nurse as it is that mrs. blackburn should be beautiful and charming and live in a house that is like fairyland." letty called to her, and running down the brick steps from the terrace, the two began a gentle game of hide-and-seek in the garden. the delighted laughter of the child rang out presently from the rose-arbours and the winding paths; and while caroline passed in and out of the junipers and the young yew-trees, she forgot the loneliness she had felt on the terrace. "i'll not worry about it any more," she thought, pursuing letty beyond the marble fountain, where a laughing cupid shot a broken arrow toward the sun. "mother used to say that all the worry in the world would never keep a weasel out of the hen-house." then, as she twisted and doubled about a tall cluster of junipers, she ran directly across the shadow of blackburn. as her feet came to a halt the smile died on her lips, and the reserve she had worn since she reached briarlay fell like a veil over her gaiety. while she put up her hand to straighten her cap, all the dislike she felt for him showed in her look. only the light in her eyes, and the blown strands of hair under her cap, belied her dignity and her silence. "miss meade, i wanted to tell you that the doctor will come about noon. i have asked him to give you directions." "very well." against the dark junipers, in her white uniform, she looked like a statue except for her parted lips and accusing eyes. "letty seems bright to-day, but you must not let her tire herself." "i am very careful. we play as gently as possible." "will you take her to town? i'll send the car back for you." for an instant she hesitated. "mrs. blackburn has not told me what she wishes." he nodded. "letty uses my car in the afternoon. it will be here at three o'clock." in the sunlight, with his hat off, he looked tanned and ruddy, and she saw that there was the power in his face which belongs to expression--to thought and purpose--rather than to feature. his dark hair, combed straight back from his forehead, made his head appear distinctive and massive, like the relief of a warrior on some ancient coin, and his eyes, beneath slightly beetling brows, were the colour of the sea in a storm. though his height was not over six feet, he seemed to her, while he stood there beside the marble fountain, the largest and strongest man she had ever seen. "i know he isn't big, and yet he appears so," she thought: "i suppose it is because he is so muscular." and immediately she added to herself, "i can understand everything about him except his mouth--but his mouth doesn't belong in his face. it is the mouth of a poet. i wonder he doesn't wear a moustache just to hide the way it changes." "i shall be ready at three o'clock," she said. "mrs. colfax asked me to bring letty to play with her children." "she will enjoy that," he answered, "if they are not rough." then, as he moved away, he observed indifferently, "it is wonderful weather." as he went back to the house letty clung to him, and lifting her in his arms, he carried her to the terrace and round the corner where the car waited. for the time at least the play was spoiled, and caroline, still wearing her professional manner, stood watching for letty to come back to her. "i could never like him if i saw him every day for years," she was thinking, when one of the french windows of the dining-room opened, and mary blackburn came down the steps into the garden. "i am so glad to find you alone," she said frankly, "i want to speak to you--and your white dress looks so nice against those evergreens." "it's a pity i have to change it then, but i am going to take letty to town after luncheon. the doctor wants her to be with other children." "i know. she is an odd little thing, isn't she? i sometimes think that she is older and wiser than any one in the house." her tone changed abruptly. "i want to explain to you about last night, miss meade. david seemed so dreadfully rude, didn't he?" caroline gazed back at her in silence while a flush stained her cheeks. after all, what could she answer? she couldn't and wouldn't deny that mr. blackburn had been inexcusably rude to his wife at his own table. "it is so hard to explain when one doesn't know everything," pursued mary, with her unfaltering candour. "if you had ever seen roane fitzhugh, you would understand better than i can make you that david is right. it is quite impossible to have roane in the house. he drinks, and when he was here last summer, he was hardly ever sober. he was rude to everyone. he insulted me." "so that was why----" began caroline impulsively, and checked herself. "yes, that was why. david told him that he must never come back again." "and mrs. blackburn did not understand." mary did not reply, and glancing at her after a moment, caroline saw that she was gazing thoughtfully at a red and gold leaf, which turned slowly in the air as it detached itself from the stem of a maple. "if you want to get the best view of the river you ought to go down to the end of the lower garden," she said carelessly before she went back into the house. in the afternoon, when caroline took letty to mrs. colfax's, a flickering light was shed on the cause of mary's reticence. "oh, miss meade, wasn't it perfectly awful last evening?" began the young woman as soon as the children were safely out of hearing in the yard. "i feel so sorry for angelica!" even in a southern woman her impulsiveness appeared excessive, and when caroline came to know her better, she discovered that daisy colfax was usually described by her friends as "kind-hearted, but painfully indiscreet." "it was my first dinner party at briarlay. as far as i know they may all end that way," responded caroline lightly. "of course i know that you feel you oughtn't to talk," replied mrs. colfax persuasively, "but you needn't be afraid of saying just what you think to me. i know that i have the reputation of letting out everything that comes into my mind--and i do love to gossip--but i shouldn't dream of repeating anything that is told me in confidence." her wonderful dusky eyes, as vague and innocent as a child's, swept caroline's face before they wandered, with their look of indirection and uncertainty, to her mother-in-law, who was knitting by the window. before her marriage daisy had been the acknowledged beauty of three seasons, and now, the mother of two children and as lovely as ever, she managed to reconcile successfully a talent for housekeeping with a taste for diversion. she was never still except when she listened to gossip, and before caroline had been six weeks in richmond, she had learned that the name of mrs. robert colfax would head the list of every dance, ball, and charity of the winter. "if you ask me what i think," observed the old lady tartly, with a watchful eye on the children, who were playing ring-around-the-rosy in the yard. "it is that david blackburn ought to have been spanked and put to bed." "well, of course, angelica had been teasing him about his political views," returned her daughter-in-law. "you know how she hates it all, but she didn't mean actually to irritate him--merely to keep him from appearing so badly. it is as plain as the nose on your face that she doesn't know how to manage him." they were sitting in the library, and every now and then the younger woman would take up the receiver of the telephone, and have a giddy little chat about the marketing or a motor trip she was planning. "but all i've got to say," she added, turning from one of these breathless colloquies, "is that if you have to manage a man, you'd better try to get rid of him." "well, i'd like to see anybody but a bear-tamer manage david blackburn," retorted the old lady. "with angelica's sensitive nature she ought never to have married a man who has to be tamed. she never dares take her eyes off him, poor thing, for fear he'll make some sort of break." "i wonder," began caroline, and hesitated an instant. "i wonder if it wouldn't be better just to let him make his breaks and not notice them? of course, i know how trying it must be for her--she is so lovely and gentle that it wrings your heart to see him rude to her--but it makes every little thing appear big when you call everybody's attention to it. i don't know much about dinner parties," she concluded with a desire to be perfectly fair even to a man she despised, "but i couldn't see that he was doing anything wrong last night. he was getting on very well with mrs. chalmers, who was interested in politics----" she broke off and asked abruptly, "is mrs. blackburn's brother really so dreadful?" "i've often wondered," said the younger mrs. colfax, "if roane fitzhugh is as bad as people say he is?" "well, he has always been very polite to me," commented the old lady. "though brother charles says that you cannot judge a man's morals by his manners. was alan wythe there last night?" "yes, i sat by him," answered daisy. "i wish that old uncle of his in chicago would let him marry mary." this innocent remark aroused caroline's scorn. "to think of a man's having to ask his uncle whom he shall marry!" she exclaimed indignantly. "you wouldn't say that, my dear," replied old mrs. colfax, "if you knew alan. he is a charming fellow, but the sort of talented ne'er-do-well who can do anything but make a living. he has an uncle in chicago who is said to be worth millions--one of the richest men, i've heard, in the west--but he will probably leave his fortune to charity. as it is he doles out a pittance to alan--not nearly enough for him to marry on." "isn't it strange," said caroline, "that the nice people never seem to have enough money and the disagreeable ones seem to have a great deal too much? but i despise a man," she added sweepingly, "who hasn't enough spirit to go out into the world and fight." the old lady's needles clicked sharply as she returned to her work. "i've always said that if the good lord would look after my money troubles, i could take care of the others. now, if angelica's people had not been so poor she would have been spared this dreadful marriage. as it is, i am sure, the poor thing makes the best of it--i don't want you to think that i am saying a word against angelica--but when a woman runs about after so many outside interests, it is pretty sure to mean that she is unhappy at home." "it's a pity," said the younger woman musingly, "that so many of her interests seem to cross david's business. look at this ridley matter, for instance--of course everyone says that angelica is trying to make up for her husband's injustice by supporting the family until the man gets back to work. it's perfectly splendid of her, i know. there isn't a living soul who admires angelica more than i do, but with all the needy families in town, it does seem that she might just as well have selected some other to look after." the old lady, having dropped some stitches, went industriously to work to pick them up. "for all we know," she observed piously, "it may be god's way of punishing david." chapter vii caroline makes discoveries at four o'clock daisy colfax rushed off to a committee meeting at briarlay ("something very important, though i can't remember just which one it is"), and an hour later caroline followed her in blackburn's car, with letty lying fast asleep in her arms. "i am going to do all i can to make it easier for mrs. blackburn," she thought. "i don't care how rude he is to me if he will only spare her. i am stronger than she is, and i can bear it better." already it seemed to her that this beautiful unhappy woman filled a place in her life, that she would be willing to make any sacrifice, to suffer any humiliation, if she could only help her. suddenly letty stirred and put up a thin little hand. "i like you, miss meade," she said drowsily. "i like you because you are pretty and you laugh. mammy says mother never laughs, that she only smiles. why is that?" "i suppose she doesn't think things funny, darling." "when father laughs out loud she tells him to stop. she says it hurts her." "well, she isn't strong, you know. she is easily hurt." "i am not strong either, but i like to laugh," said the child in her quaint manner. "mammy says there isn't anybody's laugh so pretty as yours. it sounds like music." "then i must laugh a great deal for you, letty, and the more we laugh together the happier we'll be, shan't we?" as the car turned into the lane, where the sunlight fell in splinters over the yellow leaves, a man in working clothes appeared suddenly from under the trees. for an instant he seemed on the point of stopping them; then lowering the hand he had raised, he bowed hurriedly, and passed on at a brisk walk toward the road. "his name is ridley, i know him," said letty. "mother took me with her one day when she went to see his children. he has six children, and one is a baby. they let me hold it, but i like a doll better because dolls don't wriggle." then, as the motor raced up the drive and stopped in front of the porch, she sat up and threw off the fur robe. "there are going to be cream puffs for tea, and mammy said i might have one. do you think mother will mind if i go into the drawing-room? she is having a meeting." "i don't know, dear. is it a very important meeting?" "it must be," replied letty, "or mother wouldn't have it. everything she has is important." as the door opened, she inquired of the servant, "moses, do you think this is a very important meeting?" moses, a young light-coloured negro, answered solemnly, "hit looks dat ar way ter me, miss letty, caze patrick's jes' done fotched up de las' plate uv puffs. dose puffs wuz gwine jes' as fast ez you kin count de las' time i tuck a look at um, en de ladies dey wuz all a-settin' roun' in va' yous attitudes en eatin' um up like dey tasted moughty good." "then i'm going in," said the child promptly. "you come with me, miss meade. mother won't mind half so much if you are with me." and grasping caroline's hand she led the way to the drawing-room. "i hope they have left one," she whispered anxiously, "but meetings always seem to make people so hungry." in the back drawing-room, where empty cups and plates were scattered about on little tables, angelica was sitting in a pink and gold chair that vaguely resembled a throne. she wore a street gown of blue velvet, and beneath a little hat of dark fur, her hair folded softly on her temples. at the first glance caroline could see that she was tired and nervous, and her pensive eyes seemed to plead with the gaily chattering women about her. "of course, if you really think it will help the cause," she was saying deprecatingly; then as letty entered, she broke off and held out her arms. "did you have a good time, darling?" the child went slowly forward, shaking hands politely with the guests while her steady gaze, so like her father's, sought the tea table. "may i have a puff and a tart too, mother?" she asked as she curtseyed to mrs. ashburton. "no, only one, dear, but you may choose." "then i'll choose a puff because it is bigger." she was a good child, and when the tart was forbidden her, she turned her back on the plate with a determined gesture. "i saw the man, mother--the one with the baby. he was in the lane." "i know, dear. he came to ask your father to take him back in the works. perhaps if you were to go into the library and ask him very gently, he would do it. it is the case i was telling you about, a most distressing one," explained angelica to mrs. ashburton. "of course david must have reason on his side or he wouldn't take the stand that he does. i suppose the man does drink and stir up trouble, but we women have to think of so much besides mere justice. we have to keep close to the human part that men are so apt to overlook." there was a writing tablet on her knee, and while she spoke, she leaned earnestly forward, and made a few straggling notes with a yellow pencil which was blunt at the point. even her efficiency--and as a chairman she was almost as efficient as mrs. ashburton--was clothed in sweetness. as she sat there, holding the blunt pencil in her delicate, blue-veined hand, she appeared to be bracing herself, with a tremendous effort of will, for some inexorable demand of duty. the tired droop of her figure, the shadow under her eyes, the pathetic little lines that quivered about her mouth--these things, as well as the story of her loveless marriage, awakened caroline's pity. "she bears it so beautifully," she thought, with a rush of generous emotion. "i have never seen any one so brave and noble. i believe she never thinks of herself for a minute." "i always feel," observed mrs. ashburton, in her logical way which was trying at times, "that a man ought to be allowed to attend to his own business." a pretty woman, with a sandwich in her hand, turned from the tea table and remarked lightly, "heaven knows it is the last privilege of which i wish to deprive him!" her name was mallow, and she was a new-comer of uncertain origin, who had recently built a huge house, after the italian style, on the three chopt road. she was very rich, very smart, very dashing, and though her ancestry was dubious, both her house and her hospitality were authentic. alan had once said of her that she kept her figure by climbing over every charity in town; but alan's wit was notoriously malicious. "in a case like this, don't you think, dear mrs. ashburton, that a woman owes a duty to humanity?" asked angelica, who liked to talk in general terms of the particular instance. "miss meade, i am sure, will agree with me. it is so important to look after the children." "but there are so many children one might look after," replied caroline gravely; then feeling that she had not responded generously to angelica's appeal, she added, "i think it is splendid of you, perfectly splendid to feel the way that you do." "that is so sweet of you," murmured angelica gratefully, while mrs. aylett, a lovely woman, with a face like a magnolia flower and a typically southern voice, said gently, "i, for one, have always found angelica's unselfishness an inspiration. with her delicate health, it is simply marvellous the amount of good she is able to do. i can never understand how she manages to think of so many things at the same moment." she also held a pencil in her gloved hand, and wrote earnestly, in illegible figures, on the back of a torn envelope. "of course, we feel that!" exclaimed the other six or eight women in an admiring chorus. "that is why we are begging her to be in these tableaux." it was a high-minded, unselfish group, except for mrs. mallow, who was hungry, and daisy colfax, who displayed now and then an inclination to giddiness. not until caroline had been a few minutes in the room did she discover that the committee had assembled to arrange an entertainment for the benefit of the red cross. though mrs. blackburn was zealous as an organizer, she confined her activities entirely to charitable associations and disapproved passionately of women who "interfered" as she expressed it "with public matters." she was disposed by nature to vague views and long perspectives, and instinctively preferred, except when she was correcting an injustice of her husband's, to right the wrongs in foreign countries. "don't you think she would make an adorable peace?" asked mrs. aylett of caroline. "i really haven't time for it," said angelica gravely, "but as you say, milly dear, the cause is everything, and then david always likes me to take part in public affairs." a look of understanding rippled like a beam of light over the faces of the women, and caroline realized without being told that mrs. blackburn was overtaxing her strength in deference to her husband's wishes. "i suppose like most persons who haven't always had things he is mad about society." "i've eaten it all up, mother," said letty in a wistful voice. "it tasted very good." "did it, darling? well, now i want you to go and ask your father about poor ridley and his little children. you must ask him very sweetly, and perhaps he won't refuse. you would like to do that, wouldn't you?" "may i take miss meade with me?" "yes, she may go with you. there, now, run away, dear. mother is so busy helping the soldiers she hasn't time to talk to you." "why are you always so busy, mother?" "she is so busy because she is doing good every minute of her life," said mrs. aylett. "you have an angel for a mother, letty." the child turned to her with sudden interest. "is father an angel too?" she inquired. a little laugh, strangled abruptly in a cough, broke from daisy colfax, while mrs. mallow hastily swallowed a cake before she buried her flushed face in her handkerchief. only mrs. aylett, without losing her composure, remarked admiringly, "that's a pretty dress you have on, letty." "now run away, dear," urged angelica in a pleading tone, and the child, who had been stroking her mother's velvet sleeve, moved obediently to the door before she looked back and asked, "aren't you coming too, miss meade?" "yes, i'm coming too," answered caroline, and while she spoke she felt that she had never before needed so thoroughly the discipline of the hospital. as she put her arm about letty's shoulders, and crossed the hall to blackburn's library, she hoped passionately that he would not be in the room. then letty called out "father!" in a clear treble, and almost immediately the door opened, and blackburn stood on the threshold. "do you want to come in?" he asked. "i've got a stack of work ahead, but there is always time for a talk with you." he turned back into the room, holding letty by the hand, and as caroline followed silently, she noticed that he seemed abstracted and worried, and that his face, when he glanced round at her, looked white and tired. the red-brown flush of the morning had faded, and he appeared much older. "won't you sit down," he asked, and then he threw himself into a chair, and added cheerfully, "what is it, daughter? have you a secret to tell me?" against the rich brown of the walls his head stood out, clear and fine, and something in its poise, and in the backward sweep of his hair, gave caroline an impression of strength and swiftness as of a runner who is straining toward an inaccessible goal. for the first time since she had come to briarlay he seemed natural and at ease in his surroundings--in the midst of the old books, the old furniture, the old speckled engravings--and she understood suddenly why colonel ashburton had called him an idealist. with the hardness gone from his eyes and the restraint from his thin-lipped, nervous mouth, he looked, as the colonel had said of him, "on fire with ideas." he had evidently been at work, and the fervour of his mood was still visible in his face. "father, won't you please give ridley his work again?" said the child. "i don't want his little children to be hungry." as she stood there at his knee, with her hands on his sleeve and her eyes lifted to his, she was so much like him in every feature that caroline found herself vaguely wondering where the mother's part in her began. there was nothing of angelica's softness in that intense little face, with its look of premature knowledge. bending over he lifted her to his knee, and asked patiently, "if i tell you why i can't take him back, letty, will you try to understand?" she nodded gravely. "i don't want the baby to be hungry." for a moment he gazed over her head through the long windows that opened on the terrace. the sun was just going down, and beyond the cluster of junipers the sky was turning slowly to orange. "miss meade," he said abruptly, looking for the first time in caroline's face, "would you respect a man who did a thing he believed to be unjust because someone he loved had asked him to?" for an instant the swiftness of the question--the very frankness and simplicity of it--took caroline's breath away. she was sitting straight and still in a big leather chair, and she seemed to his eyes a different creature from the woman he had watched in the garden that morning. her hair was smooth now under her severe little hat, her face was composed and stern, and for the moment her look of radiant energy was veiled by the quiet capability of her professional manner. "i suppose not," she answered fearlessly, "if one is quite sure that the thing is unjust." "in this case i haven't a doubt. the man is a firebrand in the works. he drinks, and breeds lawlessness. there are men in jail now who would be at work but for him, and they also have families. if i take him back there are people who would say i do it for a political reason." "does that matter? it seems to me nothing matters except to be right." he smiled, and she wondered how she could have thought that he looked older. "yes, if i am right, nothing else matters, and i know that i am right." then looking down at letty, he said more slowly, "my child, i know another family of little children without a father. wouldn't you just as soon go to see these children?" "is there a baby? a very small baby?" "yes, there is a baby. i am sending the elder children to school, and one of the girls is old enough to learn stenography. the father was a good man and a faithful worker. when he died he asked me to look after his family." "then why doesn't mrs. blackburn know about them?" slipped from caroline's lips. "why hasn't any one told her?" the next instant she regretted the question, but before she could speak again blackburn answered quietly, "she is not strong, and already she has more on her than she should have undertaken." "her sympathy is so wonderful!" almost in spite of her will, against her instinct for reticence where she distrusted, against the severe code of her professional training, she began by taking mrs. blackburn's side in the household. "yes, she is wonderful." his tone was conventional, yet if he had adored his wife he could scarcely have said more to a stranger. there was a knock at the door, and mammy riah inquired querulously through the crack, "whar you, letty? ain't you comin' ter git yo' supper?" "i'm here, i'm coming," responded letty. as she slid hurriedly from her father's knees, she paused long enough to whisper in his ear, "father, what shall i tell mother when she asks me?" "tell her, letty, that i cannot do it because it would not be fair." "because it would not be fair," repeated the child obediently as she reached for caroline's hand. "miss meade is going to have supper with me, father. we are going to play that it is a party and let all the dolls come, and she will have bread and milk just as i do." "will she?" said blackburn, with a smile. "then i'd think she'd be hungry before bed-time." though he spoke pleasantly, caroline was aware that his thoughts had wandered from them, and that he was as indifferent to her presence as he was to the faint lemon-coloured light streaming in at the window. it occurred to her suddenly that he had never really looked at her, and that if they were to meet by accident in the road he would not recognize her. she had never seen any one with so impersonal a manner--so encased and armoured in reserve--and she began to wonder what he was like under that impenetrable surface? "i should like to hear him speak," she thought, "to know what he thinks and feels about the things he cares for--about politics and public questions." he stood up as she rose, and for a minute before letty drew her from the room, he smiled down on the child. "if i were miss meade, i'd demand more than bread and milk at your party, letty." then he turned away, and sat down again at his writing table. an hour or two later, when letty's supper was over, angelica came in to say good-night before she went out to dinner. she was wearing an evening wrap of turquoise velvet and ermine, and a band of diamonds encircled the golden wings on her temples. her eyes shone like stars, and there was a misty brightness in her face that made her loveliness almost unearthly. the fatigue of the afternoon had vanished, and she looked as young and fresh as a girl. "i hope you are comfortable, miss meade," she said, with the manner of considerate gentleness which had won caroline from the first. "i told fanny to move you into the little room next to letty's." "yes, i am quite comfortable. i like to sleep where she can call me." the child was undressing, and as her mother bent over her, she put up her bare little arms to embrace her. "you smell so sweet, mother, just like lilacs." "do i, darling? there, don't hug me so tight or you'll rumple my hair. did you ask your father about ridley?" "he won't do it. he says he won't do it because it wouldn't be fair." as letty repeated the message she looked questioningly into mrs. blackburn's face. "why wouldn't it be fair, mother?" "he will have to tell you, dear, i can't." drawing back from the child's arms, she arranged the ermine collar over her shoulders. "we must do all we can to help them, letty. now, kiss me very gently, and try to sleep well." she went out, leaving a faint delicious trail of lilacs in the air, and while caroline watched mammy riah slip the night-gown over letty's shoulders, her thoughts followed angelica down the circular drive, through the lane, and on the road to the city. she was fascinated, yet there was something deeper and finer than fascination in the emotion mrs. blackburn awakened. there was tenderness in it and there was romance; but most of all there was sympathy. in caroline's narrow and colourless life, so rich in character, so barren of incident, this sympathy was unfolding like some rare and exquisite blossom. "did you ever see any one in your life look so lovely?" she asked enthusiastically of mammy riah. the old woman was braiding letty's hair into a tight little plait, which she rolled over at the end and tied up with a blue ribbon. "i wan' bawn yestiddy, en i reckon i'se done seen er hull pa'cel un um," she replied. "miss angy's de patte'n uv whut 'er ma wuz befo' 'er. dar ain' never been a fitzhugh yit dat wan't ez purty ez a pictur w'en dey wuz young, en miss angy she is jes' like all de res' un um. but she ain' been riz right, dat's de gospel trufe, en i reckon ole miss knows hit now way up yonder in de kingdom come. dey hed a w'ite nuss to nuss 'er de same ez dey's got for letty heah, en dar ain' never been a w'ite nuss yit ez could raise a chile right, nairy a one un um." "but i thought you nursed all the fitzhughs? why did they have a white nurse for mrs. blackburn?" "dy wuz projeckin', honey, like dey is projeckin' now wid dis yer chile. atter i done nuss five er dem chillun ole miss begun ter git sort er flighty in her haid, en ter go plum 'stracted about sto' physick en real doctahs. stop yo' foolishness dis minute, letty. you git spang out er dat baid befo' i mek you, en say yo' pray'rs. yas'm, hit's de gospel trufe, i'se tellin' you," she concluded as letty jumped obediently out of bed and prepared to kneel down on the rug. "ef'n dey hed lemme raise miss angy de fambly wouldn't hev run ter seed de way hit did atter old marster died, en dar 'ouldn't be dese yer low-lifeted doin's now wid marse david." later in the night, lying awake and restless in the little room next to letty's, caroline recalled the old woman's comment. though she had passionately taken angelica's side, it was impossible for her to deny that both mrs. timberlake and mammy riah appeared to lean sympathetically at least in the direction of blackburn. there was nothing definite--nothing particularly suggestive even--to which she could point; yet, in spite of her prejudice, in spite of the sinister stories which circulated so freely in richmond, she was obliged to admit that the two women who knew angelica best--the dependent relative and the old negress--did not espouse her cause so ardently as did the adoring committee. "the things they say must be true. such dreadful stories could never have gotten out unless something or somebody had started them. it is impossible to look in mrs. blackburn's face and not see that she is a lovely character, and that she is very unhappy." then a reassuring thought occurred to her, for she remembered that her mother used to say that a negro mammy always took the side of the father in any discussion. "it must be the same thing here with mrs. timberlake and mammy riah. they are so close to mrs. blackburn that they can't see how lovely she is. it is like staying too long in the room with an exquisite perfume. one becomes at last not only indifferent, but insensible to its sweetness." closing her eyes, she resolutely put the question away, while she lived over again, in all its varied excitement, her first day at briarlay. the strangeness of her surroundings kept her awake, and it seemed to her, as she went over the last twenty-four hours, that she was years older than she had been when she left the cedars. simply meeting mrs. blackburn, she told herself again, was a glorious adventure; it was like seeing and speaking to one of the heroines in the dingy old volumes in her father's library. and the thought that she could really serve her, that she could understand and sympathize where mrs. timberlake and mammy riah failed, that she could, by her strength and devotion, lift a share of the burden from angelica's shoulders--the thought of these things shed an illumination over the bare road of the future. she would do good, she resolved, and in doing good, she would find happiness. the clock struck eleven; she heard the sound of the returning motor; and then, with her mind filled with visions of usefulness, she dropped off to sleep. it might have been a minute later, it might have been hours, when she was awakened by letty's voice screaming in terror. jumping out of bed, caroline slipped into the wrapper of blue flannel diana had made for her, and touching the electric button, flooded the nursery with light. sitting very erect, with wide-open vacant eyes, and outstretched arms, letty was uttering breathless, distracted shrieks. her face was frozen into a mask, and the bones of her thin little body quivered through the cambric of her night-gown. as the shadows leaped out on the walls, which were covered with garlands of pink and blue flowers, she shuddered and crouched back under the blankets. "i am here, letty! i am here, darling!" cried caroline, kneeling beside the bed, and at the same instant the door opened, and mammy riah, half dressed, and without wig or turban, came in muttering, "i'se coming, honey! i'se coming, my lamb!" without noticing them, the child cried out in a loud, clear voice, "where is father? i want father to hold me! i want my father!" then the terror swept over her again like some invisible enemy, and her cries became broken and inarticulate. "is she often like this?" asked caroline of the old woman. "i can't hold her. i am afraid she will have a convulsion." with her arms about letty, who moaned and shivered in her grasp, she added, "letty, darling, shall i send for your mother?" "dar ain' but one thing dat'll quiet dis chile," said the old negress, "en dat is marse david. i'se gwine atter marse david." she hobbled out in her lint slippers, while the girl held letty closer, and murmured a hundred soothing words in her ear. "you may have father and mother too," she said, "you may have everyone, dear, if only you won't be frightened." "i don't want everyone. i want father," cried the child, with a storm of sobs. "i want father because i am afraid. i want him to keep me from being afraid." then, as the door opened, and blackburn came into the room, she held out her arms, and said in a whisper, like the moan of a small hurt animal, "i thought you had gone away, father, and i was afraid of the dark." without speaking, blackburn crossed the room, and dropping into a chair by the bed, laid his arm across the child's shoulders. at his touch her cries changed into shivering sobs which grew gradually fainter, and slipping back on the pillows, she looked with intent, searching eyes in his face. "you haven't gone away, father?" "no, i haven't gone anywhere. you were dreaming." clasping his hand, she laid her cheek on it, and nestled under the cover. "i am afraid to go to sleep because i dream such ugly dreams." "dreams can't hurt you, letty. no matter how ugly they are, they are only dreams." his voice was low and firm, and at the first sound of it the pain and fear faded from letty's face. "were you asleep, father?" "no, i was at work. i am writing a speech. it is twelve o'clock, but i had not gone to bed." he spoke quite reasonably as if she were a grown person, and caroline asked herself if this explained his power over the child. there was no hint of stooping, no pretense of childish words or phrases. he looked very tired and deep lines showed in his face, but there was an inexhaustible patience in his manner. for the first time she thought of him as a man who carried a burden. his very shadow, which loomed large and black on the flowered wall paper, appeared, while she watched it, to bend beneath the pressure of an invisible weight. "has mother come in?" asked letty in a still whisper. "yes, she has gone to bed. you must not wake your mother." "i'll try not to," answered the child, and a minute afterwards she said with a yawn, "i feel sleepy now, father. i'd like to go to sleep, if you'll sit by me." he laughed. "i'll sit by you, if you'll let miss meade and mammy riah go to bed." as if his laugh had driven the last terror from her mind, letty made a soft, breathless sound of astonishment. "miss meade has got on a wrapper," she said, "and her hair is plaited just like mine only there isn't any ribbon. mammy riah, do you think my hair would stay plaited like that if it wasn't tied?" the old woman grunted. "ef'n you don' shet yo' mouf, i'se gwine ter send marse david straight down agin whar he b'longs." "well, i'll go to sleep," replied letty, in her docile way; and a minute later, she fell asleep with her cheek on her father's hand. for a quarter of an hour longer blackburn sat there without stirring, while caroline put out the high lights and turned on the shaded lamp by the bed. then, releasing himself gently, he stood up and said in a whisper, "i think she is all right now." his back was to the lamp, and caroline saw his face by the dim flicker of the waning fire. "i shall stay with her," she responded in the same tone. "it is not necessary. after an attack like this she sleeps all night from exhaustion. she seems fast asleep, but if you have trouble again send for me." he moved softly to the door, and as caroline looked after him, she found herself asking resentfully, "i wonder why letty cried for her father?" chapter viii blackburn a week later, on an afternoon when the october sunshine sparkled like wine beneath a sky that was the colour of day-flowers, caroline sat on the terrace waiting for mrs. blackburn to return from a rehearsal. in the morning angelica had promised letty a drive if she were good, and as soon as luncheon was over the child had put on a new hat and coat of blue velvet, and had come downstairs to listen for the sound of the motor. with a little white fur muff in her hands, she was now marching sedately round the fountain, while she counted her circuits aloud in a clear, monotonous voice. under the velvet hat she was looking almost pretty, and as caroline gazed at her she seemed to catch fleeting glimpses of angelica in the serious little face. "i believe she is going to be really lovely when she grows up. it is a pity she hasn't her mother's colouring, but she gets more like her every day." leaning over, she called in a low, admonishing tone, "letty, don't go too near the fountain. you will get your coat splashed." obedient as she always was, letty drew away from the water, and caroline turned to pick up the knitting she had laid aside while she waited. angelica had promised a dozen mufflers to the war relief association, and since it made her nervous to knit, she gracefully left the work for others to do. now, while caroline's needles clicked busily, and the ball of yarn unwound in her lap, her eyes wandered from the dying beauty of the garden to the wreaths of smoke that hung over the fringed edge of the river. on the opposite side, beyond the glittering band of the water, low grey-green hills melted like shadows into the violet haze of the distance. a roving fragrance of wood-smoke was in the air, and from the brown and russet sweep of the fields rose the chanting of innumerable insects. all the noise and movement of life seemed hushed and waiting while nature drifted slowly into the long sleep of winter. so vivid yet so evanescent was the light on the meadows that caroline stopped her work, lest a stir or a sound might dissolve the perfect hour into darkness. growing suddenly tired of play, letty came to caroline's side and leaned on her shoulder. the child's hat had slipped back, and while she nestled there she sank gradually into the pensive drowsiness of the afternoon. "do you think she has forgotten to come for us?" "no, dear, it is early yet. it can't be much after three o'clock." up through the golden-rod and life-everlasting, along the winding pathway across the fields, alan and mary were strolling slowly toward the lower garden. "they are so happy," mused caroline. "i wonder if she is ever afraid that she may lose him? he doesn't look as if he could be constant." suddenly one of the nearest french windows opened, and the scent of cigar smoke floated out from the library. a moment later she heard the words, "let's get a bit of air," and blackburn, followed by two callers, came out on the terrace. while the three stood gazing across the garden to the river, she recognized one of the callers as colonel ashburton, but the other was a stranger--a tall, slender man, with crisp iron-grey hair and thin, austere features. afterwards she learned that he was joseph sloane of new york, a man of wide political vision, and a recognized force in the industrial life of america. he had a high, dome-like forehead, which vaguely reminded caroline of a tower, and a mouth so tightly locked that it looked as if nothing less rigid than a fact had ever escaped it. yet his voice, when it came, was rich and beautifully modulated. "it is a good view," he remarked indifferently, and then looking at blackburn, as if he were resuming a conversation that had been broken off, he said earnestly, "a few years ago i should have thought it a sheer impossibility, but i believe now that there is a chance of our winning." "with the chance strengthening every hour," observed colonel ashburton, and as he turned his back to the view, his mild and innocent gaze fell on caroline's figure. "it is good to see you, miss meade," he said gallantly, with a bow in which his blue eyes and silvery hair seemed to mingle. "i hope the sound of politics will not frighten you?" caroline looked up with a smile from her knitting. "not at all. i was brought up in the midst of discussions. but are we in the way?" the colonel's gallantry was not without romantic flavour. "it is your eden, and we are the intruders," he answered softly. it was a pity, thought caroline, while she looked at him over letty's head, that a velvet manner like that had almost vanished from the world. it went with plumes and lace ruffles and stainless swords. "i am going to drive, father," called letty, "if mother ever comes." "that's good." blackburn smiled as he responded, and then moving a step or two nearer the garden, drew several deep wicker chairs into the sunshine. for a few minutes after they had seated themselves, the men gazed in silence at the hazy hills on the horizon, and it seemed to caroline that blackburn was drawing strength and inspiration from the radiant, familiar scene. "i have never wanted anything like this," he said at last, speaking very slowly, as if he weighed each separate word before it was uttered. "not for yourself, but for the country," replied the colonel in his musical voice, which sounded always as if it were pitched to arouse sleeping enthusiasm. he had once been in congress, and the habit of oratorical phrasing had never entirely left him. "do you know, blackburn, i sometimes think that you are one of the few statesmen we have left. the others are mixtures of so many ingredients--ambition, prejudice, fanaticism, self-interest--everything but the thought of the country, and the things for which the country should stand. it's the difference, i suppose, between a patriot and a politician." "it is not that i am less selfish," blackburn laughed with embarrassment as he answered, "but perhaps i have had a harder time than the others, and have learned something they haven't. i've seen how little material things or their acquisition matter in life. after all, the idea is the only thing that really counts--an idea big enough to lift a man out of his personal boundaries, big enough to absorb and possess him completely. a man's country may do this, but not a man's self, nor the mere business of living." as he paused, though his head was turned in caroline's direction, she had a queer impression that he was looking beyond her at some glowing vision that was imperceptible to the others. she knew that he was oblivious of her presence, and that, if he saw her at all, she was scarcely more to him than an image painted on air. the golden light of the afternoon enveloped his figure, yet she realized that the illumination in his face was not due to the shifting rays of the sun. she did not like him--the aversion she felt was too strong for her to judge him tolerantly--but she was obliged to admit that his straight, firm figure, with its look of arrested energy, of controlled power, made colonel ashburton and the stranger from the north appear almost commonplace. even his rough brown clothes possessed a distinction apart from the cut of his tailor; and though it was impossible for her to define the quality which seemed to make him stand alone, to put him in a class by himself, she was beginning to discern that his gift of personality, of intellectual dominance, was a kind of undeveloped genius. "he ought to have been a writer or a statesman," she thought, while she looked at his roughened hair, which would never lie flat, at his smoky grey eyes, and his thin, almost colourless lips. it was a face that grew on her as she watched it, a face, she realized, that one must study to understand, not attempt to read by erring flashes of insight. she remembered that colonel ashburton had told her that blackburn had no small talk, but that he spoke well if he were once started on a current of ideas. "it is true. he speaks just as if he had thought it all out years ago," she said to herself while she listened, "just as if every sentence, every word almost, was crystallized." she felt a mild curiosity about his political convictions--a desire to know what he really believed, and why his opinions had aroused the opposition of men like charles peyton and robert colfax. "i used to believe, not long ago, that these things counted supremely," blackburn said presently, with his eyes on the river--those intense grey eyes which seemed always searching for something. "i held as firmly as any man by the gospel of achievement--by the mad scramble to acquire things. i had never had them, and what a man hasn't had, he generally wants. perhaps i travelled the historic road through materialism to idealism, the road america is following this very hour while we are talking. i am not saying that it isn't all for the best, you know. you may call me an optimist, i suppose, down beneath the eternal muddle of things; but i feel that the ambition to acquire is good only as a process, and not as a permanent condition or the ultimate end of life. i haven't a doubt that the frantic struggle in america to amass things, to make great fortunes, has led to discoveries of incalculable benefit to mankind, and has given a splendid impetus to the development of our country. we wanted things so passionately that we were obliged to create them in order to satisfy our desires. this spirit, this single phase of development, is still serving a purpose. we have watched it open the earth, build railroads, establish industries, cut highways over mountains, turn deserts into populous cities; and through these things lay the foundation of the finer and larger social order--the greater national life. we are fond of speaking of the men who have made this possible as money-grubbers or rank materialists. some of them were, perhaps, but not the guiding spirits, the real builders. no man can do great constructive work who is not seeking to express an imperishable idea in material substance. no man can build for to-morrow who builds only with bricks and mortar." he leaned forward to flick the ashes from his cigar, while the sunshine sprinkling through the junipers deepened the rapt and eager look in his face. "it all comes back to this--the whole problem of life," he pursued after a moment. "it all comes back to the builders. we are--with apologies for the platitude--a nation of idealists. it is our ability to believe in the incredible, to dream great dreams, not our practical efficiency, that has held our body politic together. because we build in the sky, i believe we are building to last----" "but our mistakes, our follies, our insanities----?" as blackburn paused the voice of colonel ashburton fell like music on the stillness. "even our fairest dreams--the dream of individual freedom--what has become of it? show me the man who is free among us to-day?" with his bowed white head, his blanched aristocratic features, and his general air of having been crushed and sweetened by adversity, he reminded caroline of one of the perpetual mourners, beside the weeping willow and the classic tomb, on the memorial brooch her great-grandmother used to wear. "i believe you are wrong," replied blackburn slowly, "for, in spite of the voice of the demagogue, america is a land of individual men, not of classes, and the whole theory of the american state rests upon the rights and obligations of the citizen. if the american republic survives, it will be because it is founded upon the level of conscience--not upon the peaks of inspiration. we have no sovereign mind, no governing class, no body of men with artificial privileges and special obligations. every american carries in his person the essential elements of the state, and is entrusted with its duties. to this extent at least, colonel, your man is free." "free to sink, or to swim with the current?" blackburn smiled as he answered. "well, i suppose your pessimism is natural. in colonel ashburton, sloane, you behold a sorrowful survivor of the age of heroes. by jove, there were giants in those days!" then he grew serious again, and went on rapidly, with the earnest yet impersonal note in his voice: "of course, we know that as long as a people is striving for its civil rights, for equality of right before the law, there is a definite objective goal. now, in theory at least, these things have been attained, and we are confronted to-day with the more difficult task of adjusting the interests, without impairing the rights, of the individual man. the tangled skeins of social and economic justice must be unravelled before we can weave them into the fabric of life." "and for the next fifty years this is our business," said sloane, speaking suddenly in the rich, strong voice which seemed to strike with unerring blows at the root of the question. "yes, this is our business for the next fifty years. i believe with you, sloane, that this may be done. i believe that this work will be accomplished when, and only when, the citizen recognizes that he is the state, and is charged with the duties and the obligations of the state to his fellowmen. to reach this end we must overthrow class prejudice, and realize that justice to all alike is the cornerstone of democracy. we must put aside sectional feeling and create a national ideal by merging the state into the nation. we must learn to look beyond the material prosperity of america and discern her true destiny as the champion of the oppressed, the giver of light. it is for us to do this. after all, we are america, you and i and ashburton and the man who works in my garden. when all is said, a nation is only an organized crowd, and can rise no higher, or sink no lower, than its source--the spirit of the men who compose it. as a man thinketh in his heart so his country will be." for a moment there was silence, and then sloane said sharply: "there is one thing that always puzzles me in you southerners, and that is the apparent conflict between the way you think and the way you act, or to put it a trifle more accurately, between your political vision and your habit of voting. you see i am a practical man, an inveterate believer in the fact as the clinching argument in any question, and i confess that i have failed so far to reconcile your theory with your conduct. you are nationalists and idealists in theory, you virginians, yet by your votes you maintain the solid south, as you call it, as if it were not a part of the american republic. you cherish and support this heresy regardless of political issues, and often in defiance of your genuine convictions. i like you virginians. your history fascinates me like some brilliantly woven tapestry; but i can never understand how this people, whose heroic qualities helped to create the union, can remain separated, at least in act, from american purposes and ideals. you give the lie to your great statesmen; you shatter their splendid dream for the sake of a paradox. your one political party battens on the very life of the south--since you preserve its independence in spite of representatives whom you oppose, and, not infrequently, in spite even of principles that you reject. however broad may be our interpretation of recent events, as long as this heresy prevails, the people of the south cannot hope to recover their historic place in the councils of the nation. and this condition," he concluded abruptly, "retards the development of our future. a short while ago--so short a while, indeed, as the year --the security of the nation was endangered by the obsession of a solid and unbreakable south. this danger passed yesterday, but who knows when it may come again?" as he finished, blackburn leaned eagerly forward as if he were bracing himself to meet an antagonist. to the man whose inner life is compacted of ideas, the mental surgery of the man of facts must always appear superficial--a mere trick of technique. a new light seemed to have fallen over him, and, through some penetrating sympathy, caroline understood that he lived in a white blaze not of feeling, but of thought. it was a passion of the mind instead of the heart, and she wondered if he had ever loved angelica as he loved this fugitive, impersonal image of service? "i sometimes doubt," he said gravely, "if a man can ever understand a country unless he was born in it--unless its sun and dust have entered into his being." "and yet we southerners, even old-fashioned ones like myself, see these evils as clearly as you northerners," interposed colonel ashburton while blackburn hesitated. "the difference between us is simply that you discern the evils only, and we go deep enough to strike the root of the trouble. if you want really to understand us, sloane, study the motive forces in english and american history, especially the overpowering influence of racial instinct, and the effect of an injustice on the mind of the anglo-saxon." with the colonel's voice the old sense of familiarity pervaded caroline's memory like a perfume, and she seemed to be living again through one of her father's political discussions at the cedars--only the carefully enunciated phrases of sloane and blackburn were more convincing than the ringing, colloquial tones of the country orators. as she listened she told herself that these men were modern and constructive while her father and his group of confederate soldiers had been stationary and antiquated. they had stood like crumbling landmarks of history, while blackburn and his associates were building the political structure of the future. "of course i admit," sloane was saying frankly, "that mistakes were made in the confusion that followed the civil war. nobody regrets these things more than the intelligent men of the north; but all this is past; a new generation is springing up; and none of us desires now to put your house in order, or force any government upon you. the north is perfectly willing to keep its hands off your domestic affairs, and to leave the race problem to you, or to anybody else who possesses the ability to solve it. it seems to me, therefore, that the time has come to put these things behind us, and to recognize that we are, and have been, at least since , a nation. there are serious problems before us to-day, and the successful solution of these demands unity of thought and purpose." there was a slight ironic twist to his smile as he finished, and he sat perfectly still, with the burned-out cigar in his hand, watching blackburn with a look that was at once sympathetic and merciless. "colonel ashburton has pointed out the only way," rejoined blackburn drily. "you must use the past as a commentary before you can hope clearly to interpret the present." "that is exactly what i am trying to do." the irony had vanished, and a note of solemnity had passed into sloane's voice. "i am honestly trying to understand the source of the trouble, to discover how it may be removed. i see in the solid south not a local question, but a great national danger. there is no sanctity in a political party; it is merely an instrument to accomplish the ends of government through the will of the people. i realize how men may follow one party or another under certain conditions; but no party can always be right, and i cannot understand how a people, jealous of its freedom, intensely patriotic in spirit, can remain through two generations in bondage to one political idea, whether that idea be right or wrong. this seems to me to be beyond mere politics, to rise to the dignity of a national problem. i feel that it requires the best thought of the country for its adjustment. it is because we need your help that i am speaking so frankly. if we go into this war--and there are times when it seems to me that it will be impossible for us to keep out of it--it must be a baptism of fire from which we should emerge clean, whole, and united." "ashburton is fond of telling me," said blackburn slowly, "that i live too much in the next century, yet it does not seem to me unreasonable to believe that the chief end of civilization is the development of the citizen, and of a national life as deeply rooted in personal consciousness as the life of the family. the ideal citizen, after all, is merely a man in whom the patriotic nerve has become as sensitive as the property nerve--a man who brings his country in touch with his actual life, who places the public welfare above his private aims and ambitions. it is because i believe the southern character is rich in the material for such development that i entered this fight two years ago. as you know i am not a democrat. i have broken away from the party, and recently, i have voted the republican ticket at presidential elections----" "this is why i am here to-day," continued sloane. "i am here because we need your help, because we see an opportunity for you to aid in the great work ahead of us. with a nation the power to survive rests in the whole, not in the parts, and america will not become america until she has obliterated the sections." blackburn was gazing at the hills on the horizon, while there flickered and waned in his face a look that was almost prophetic. "well, of course i agree with you," he said in a voice which was so detached and contemplative that it seemed to flow from the autumnal stillness, "but before you can obliterate the sections, the north as well as the south must cease to be sectional--especially must the north, which has so long regarded its control of the federal government as a proprietary right, cease to exclude the south from participation in national affairs and movements. before you can obliterate the sections, you must, above all, understand why the solidarity of the south exists as a political issue--you must probe beneath the tissue of facts to the very bone and fibre of history. truth is sometimes an inconvenient thing, but experience has found nothing better to build on. first of all--for we must clear the ground--first of all, you must remember that we virginians are anglo-saxons, and that we share the sporting spirit which is ready to fight for a principle, and to accept the result whether it wins or loses. when the war was over--to dig no deeper than the greatest fact in our past--when the war was over we virginians, and the people of the south, submitted, like true sportsmen, to the logic of events. we had been beaten on the principle that we had no right to secede from the union, and therefore were still a part of the union. we accepted this principle, and were ready to resume our duties and discharge our obligations; but this was not to be permitted without the harsh provisions of the reconstruction acts. then followed what is perhaps the darkest period in american history, and one of the darkest periods in the history of the english-speaking race----" "i admit all this," interrupted sloane quickly, "and yet i cannot understand----" "you must understand before we work together," replied blackburn stubbornly. "i shall make you understand if it takes me all night and part of to-morrow. politics, after all, is not merely a store of mechanical energy; even a politician is a man first and an automaton afterwards. you can't separate the way a man votes from the way he feels; and the way he feels has its source in the secret springs of his character, in the principles his parents revered, in the victories, the shames, the sufferings and the evasions of history. until you realize that the south is human, you will never understand why it is solid. people are ruled not by intellect, but by feeling; and in a democracy mental expediency is no match for emotional necessity. virginia proved this philosophical truth when she went into the war--when she was forced, through ties of blood and kinship, into defending the institution of slavery because it was strangely associated with the principle of self-government--and she proved it yet again when she began slowly to rebuild the shattered walls of her commonwealth." for a moment he was silent, and colonel ashburton said softly with the manner of one who pours oil on troubled waters with an unsteady hand, "i remember those years more clearly than i remember last month or even yesterday." his voice trailed into silence, and blackburn went on rapidly, without noticing the interruption: "the conditions of the reconstruction period were worse than war, and for those conditions you must remember that the south has always held the republican party responsible. not content with the difficulties which would inevitably result from the liberation of an alien population among a people who had lost all in war, and were compelled to adjust themselves to new economic and social conditions, the federal government, under the influence of intemperate leaders, conferred upon the negroes full rights of citizenship, while it denied these rights to a large proportion of the white population--the former masters. state and local governments were under the control of the most ignorant classes, generally foreign adventurers who were exploiting the political power of the negroes. the south was overwhelmed with debts created for the private gain of these adventurers; the offices of local governments were filled either by alien white men or by negroes; and negro justices of the peace, negro legislators, and even negro members of congress were elected. my own county was represented in the legislature of virginia by a negro who had formerly belonged to my father." "all this sounds now like the ancient history of another continent," remarked sloane with anxious haste, "fifty years can change the purpose of a people or a party!" "often in the past," resumed blackburn, "men who have taken part in revolutions or rebellions have lost their lives as the punishment of failure; but there are wrongs worse than death, and one of these is to subject a free and independent people to the rule of a servile race; to force women and children to seek protection from magistrates who had once been their slaves. the republican party was then in control, and its leaders resisted every effort of the south to re-establish the supremacy of the white race, and to reassert the principles of self-government. we had the civil rights act, and the federal election laws, with federal supervisors of elections to prevent the white people from voting and to give the vote to the negroes. even when thirty years had passed, and the south had gained control of its local governments, the republicans attempted to pass an election law which would have perpetuated negro dominance. you have only to stop and think for a minute, and you will understand that conditions such as i have suggested are the source of that national menace you are trying now to remove." "it is all true, but it is the truth of yesterday," rejoined sloane eagerly. "if we have made mistakes in the past, we wish the more heartily to do right in the present. what can prove this more clearly than the fact that i am here to ask your help in organizing the independent vote in virginia? there is a future for the man who can lead the new political forces." the sun was dropping slowly in the direction of the wooded slopes on the opposite shore; the violet mist on the river had become suddenly luminous; and the long black shadows of the junipers were slanting over the grass walks in the garden. in the lower meadows the chanting rose so softly that it seemed rather a breath than a sound; and this breath, which was the faint quivering stir of october, stole at last into the amber light on the terrace. "if i had not known this," answered blackburn, and again there flickered into his face the look of prophecy and vision which seemed to place him in a separate world from sloane and colonel ashburton, "i should have spoken less frankly. as you say the past is past, and we cannot solve future problems by brooding upon wrongs that are over. the suffrage is, after all, held in trust for the good of the present and the future; and for this reason, since virginia limited her suffrage to a point that made the negro vote a negligible factor, i have felt that the solid south is, if possible, more harmful to the southern people than it is to the nation. this political solidarity prevents constructive thought and retards development. it places the southern states in the control of one political machine; and the aim of this machine must inevitably be self-perpetuation. offices are bestowed on men who are willing to submit to these methods; and freedom of discussion is necessarily discouraged by the dominant party. in the end a governing class is created, and this class, like all political cliques, secures its privileges by raising small men to high public places, and thereby obstructs, if it does not entirely suppress, independent thought and action. i can imagine no more dangerous condition for any people under a republican form of government, and for this reason, i regard the liberation of the south from this political tyranny as the imperative duty of every loyal southerner. as you know, i am an independent in politics, and if i have voted with the republicans, it is only because i saw no other means of breaking the solidarity of the south. yet--and i may as well be as frank at the end as i was at the beginning of our discussion, i doubt the ability of the republican party to win the support of the southern people. the day will come, i believe, when another party will be organized, national in its origin and its purposes; and through this new party, which will absorb the best men from both the republican and the democratic organizations, i hope to see america welded into a nation. in the meantime, and only until this end is clearly in sight," he added earnestly, "i am ready to help you by any effort, by any personal sacrifice. i believe in america not with my mind only, but with my heart--and if the name america means anything, it must mean that we stand for the principle of self-government whatever may be the form. this principle is now in danger throughout the world, and just as a man must meet his responsibilities and discharge his obligations regardless of consequences, so a nation cannot shirk its duties in a time of international peril. we have now reached the cross-roads--we stand waiting where the upward and the downward paths come together. i am willing to cast aside all advantage, to take any step, to face misunderstanding and criticism, if i can only help my people to catch the broader vision of american opportunity and american destiny----" the words were still in the air, when there was a gentle flutter of pink silk curtains, and angelica came out, flushed and lovely, from a successful rehearsal. an afternoon paper was in her hand, and her eyes were bright and wistful, as if she were trying to understand how any one could have hurt her. "letty, dear, i am waiting!" she called; and then, as her gaze fell on sloane, she went toward him with outstretched hand and a charming manner of welcome. "oh, mr. sloane, how very nice to see you in richmond!" the next instant she added seriously, "david, have you seen the paper? you can't imagine what dreadful things they are saying about you." "well, they can call him nothing worse than a traitor," retorted colonel ashburton lightly before blackburn could answer. "surely, the word traitor ought to have lost its harshness to southern ears!" "but robert colfax must have written it!" though she was smiling it was not because the colonel's rejoinder had seemed amusing to her. "i know i am interrupting," she said after a moment. "it will be so nice if you will dine with us, mr. sloane--only you must promise me not to encourage david's political ideas. i couldn't bear to be married to a politician." as she stood there against a white column, she looked as faultless and as evanescent as the sunbeams, and for the first time sloane's face lost its coldness and austerity. "i think your husband could never be a politician," he answered gently, "though he may be a statesman." chapter ix angelica's charity as the car turned into the lane it passed alan and mary, and mrs. blackburn ordered the chauffeur to stop while she leaned out of the window and waited, with her vague, shimmering look, for the lovers to approach. "i wanted to ask you, mr. wythe, about that article in the paper this morning," she began. "do you think it will do david any real harm?" her voice was low and troubled, and she gazed into alan's face with eyes that seemed to be pleading for mercy. "well, i hardly think it will help him if he wants an office," replied alan, reddening under her gaze. "i suppose everything is fair in politics, but it does seem a little underhand of colfax doesn't it? a man has a right to expect a certain amount of consideration from his friends." for the first time since she had known him, caroline felt that alan's nimble wit was limping slightly. in place of his usual light-hearted manner, he appeared uncomfortable and embarrassed, and though his eyes never left angelica's face, they rested there with a look which it was impossible to define. admiration, surprise, pleasure, and a fleeting glimpse of something like dread or fear--all these things caroline seemed to read in that enigmatical glance. could it be that he was comparing angelica with mary, and that, for the moment at least, mary's lack of feminine charm, was estranging him? he looked splendidly vigorous with the flush in his cheeks and a glow in his red-brown eyes--just the man, caroline fancied, with whom any woman might fall in love. "but don't you think," asked angelica hesitatingly, as if she dared not trust so frail a thing as her own judgment, "that it may be a matter of principle with robert? of course i know that david feels that he is right, and there can't be a bit of truth in what people say about the way he runs his works, but, after all, isn't he really harming the south by trying to injure the democratic party? we all feel, of course, that it is so important not to do anything to discredit the democrats, and with robert i suppose there is a great deal of sentiment mixed with it all because his grandfather did so much for virginia. oh, if david could only find some other ambition--something that wouldn't make him appear disloyal and ungrateful! i can't tell you how it distresses me to see him estrange his best friends as he does. i can't feel in my heart that any political honour is worth it!" there was a flute-like quality in her voice, which was singularly lacking in the deeper and richer tones of passion, like the imperfect chords of some thin, sweet music. though angelica had the pensive eyes and the drooping profile of an early italian madonna, her voice, in spite of its lightness and delicacy, was without softness. at first it had come as a surprise to caroline, and even now, after three weeks at briarlay, she was aware of a nervous expectancy whenever mrs. blackburn opened her lips--of a furtive hope that the hard, cold tones might melt in the heat of some ardent impulse. "it isn't ambition with david," said mary, speaking bluntly, and with an arrogant conviction. "he doesn't care a rap for any political honour, and he is doing this because he believes it to be his duty. his country is more to him, i think, than any living creature could be, even a friend." "well, as far as that goes, he has made more friends by his stand than he has lost," observed alan, with unnatural diffidence. "i shouldn't let that worry me a minute, mrs. blackburn. david is a big man, and his influence grows every hour. the young blood is flowing toward him." "oh, but don't you see that this hurts me most of all?" responded angelica. "i wouldn't for the world say this outside, but you are david's friend and almost one of the family, and i know you will understand me." she lifted her eyes to his face--those large, shining eyes as soft as a dove's breast--and after a moment in which he gazed at her without speaking, alan answered gently, "yes, i understand you." "it would grieve me if you didn't because i feel that i can trust you." "yes, you can trust me--absolutely." he looked at mary as he spoke, and she smiled back at him with serene and joyous confidence. "that is just what i tell mary," resumed angelica. "you are so trustworthy that it is a comfort to talk to you, and then we both feel, don't we, dear?" she inquired turning to the girl, "that your wonderful knowledge of human nature makes your judgment of such value." alan laughed, though his eyes sparkled with pleasure. "i don't know about that," he replied, "though my opinion, whatever it may be worth, is at your service." "that is why i am speaking so frankly because i feel that you can help me. if you could only make david see his mistake--if you could only persuade him to give up this idea. it can't be right to overturn all the sacred things of the past--to discredit the principles we virginians have believed in for fifty years. surely you agree with me that it is a deplorable error of judgment?" as she became more flattering and appealing, alan recovered his gay insouciance. "if you want a candid answer, mrs. blackburn," he replied gallantly, "there isn't an ambition, much less a principle on earth, for which i would disagree with you." angelica smiled archly, and she was always at her loveliest when her face was illumined by the glow and colour of her smile. was it possible, caroline wondered while she watched her, that so simple a thing as the play of expression--as the parting of the lips, the raising of the eyebrows--could make a face look as if the light of heaven had fallen over it? "if you get impertinent, i'll make mary punish you!" exclaimed angelica reproachfully; and a minute later the car passed on, while she playfully shook her finger from the window. "how very handsome he is," said caroline as she looked back in the lane. "i didn't know that a man could be so good-looking." angelica was settling herself comfortably under the robe. "yes, he is quite unusual," she returned, and added after a pause, "if his uncle ever dies, and they say he is getting very feeble, alan will inherit one of the largest fortunes in chicago." "i'm so glad. that's nice for miss blackburn." "it's nice for mary--yes." her tone rather than her words, which were merely conventional, made caroline glance at her quickly; but angelica's features were like some faultless ivory mask. for the first time it struck the girl that even a beautiful face could appear vacant in repose. "where are we going now, mother?" asked letty, who had been good and quiet during the long wait in the lane. "to the ridleys', dear. i've brought a basket." there was a moment's delay while she gave a few directions to the footman, and then, as letty snuggled closely against caroline's arm, the car went on rapidly toward the city. the ridleys lived in a small frame house in pine street; and when the car stopped before the door, where a number of freshly washed children were skipping rope on the pavement, angelica alighted and held out her hand to letty. "do you want to come in with me, letty?" "i'd rather watch these children skip, mother. miss meade, may i have a skipping-rope?" behind them the footman stood waiting with a covered basket, and for an instant, while mrs. blackburn looked down on it, a shadow of irritation rippled across her face. "take that up to the second floor, john, and ask mrs. ridley if she got the yarn i sent for the socks?" then, changing her mind as john disappeared into the narrow hall, from which a smell of cabbage floated, she added firmly, "we won't stay a minute, letty, but you and miss meade must come up with me. i always feel," she explained to caroline, "that it does the child good to visit the poor, and contrast her own lot with that of others. young minds are so impressionable, and we never know when the turning-point comes in a life." grasping letty's hand she stepped over the skipping-rope, which the children had lowered in awe to the pavement. "letty has a cold. i'm afraid she oughtn't to go in," said caroline hastily, while the child, rescued in the last extremity, threw a grateful glance at her. "you really think so? well, perhaps next time. ah, there is mr. ridley now! we can speak to him without seeing his wife to-day." instinctively, before she realized the significance of her action, she had drawn slightly aside. a tall man, with a blotched, irascible face and a wad of tobacco in his mouth, lurched out on the porch, and stopped short at the sight of his visitors. he appeared surly and unattractive, and in her first revulsion, caroline was conscious of a sudden sympathy with blackburn's point of view. "he may be right, after all," she admitted to herself. "kind as mrs. blackburn is, she evidently doesn't know much about people. i suppose i shouldn't have known anything either if i hadn't been through the hospital." "i am glad to see you down, mr. ridley," said angelica graciously. "i hope you are quite well again and that you have found the right kind of work." "yes, 'm, i'm well, all right, but there ain't much doing now except down at the works, and you know the way mr. blackburn treats me whenever i go down there." he was making an effort to be ingratiating, and while he talked his appearance seemed to change and grow less repelling. the surliness left his face, his figure straightened from the lurching walk, and he even looked a shade cleaner. "it is wonderful the power she has over people," reflected the girl. "i suppose it comes just from being so kind and lovely." "you mustn't give up hope," mrs. blackburn replied encouragingly. "we never know at what moment some good thing may turn up. it is a pity there isn't more work of the kind in richmond." "well, you see, ma'am, mr. blackburn has cornered the whole lot. that's the way capital treats labour whenever it gets the chance." his face assumed an argumentative expression. "to be sure, mr. blackburn didn't start so very high himself, but that don't seem to make any difference, and the minute a man gets to the top, he tries to stop everybody else that's below him. if he hadn't had the luck to discover that cheap new way to make steel, i reckon he wouldn't be very far over my head to-day. it was all accident, that's what i tell the men down at the works, and luck ain't nothing but accident when you come to look at it." mrs. blackburn frowned slightly. it was plain that she did not care to diminish the space between blackburn and his workmen, and ridley's contemptuous tone was not entirely to her liking. she wanted to stoop, not to stand on a level with the objects of her charity. "the war abroad has opened so many opportunities," she observed, amiably but vaguely. "it's shut down a sight more than it's opened," rejoined ridley, who possessed the advantage of knowing something of what he was talking about. "all the works except the steel and munition plants are laying off men every hour. it's easy enough on men like mr. blackburn, but it's hard on us poor ones, and it don't make it any easier to be sending all of this good stuff out of the country. let the folks in europe look after themselves, that's what i say. there are hungry mouths enough right here in this country without raising the price of everything we eat by shipping the crops over the water. i tell you i'll vote for any man, i don't care what he calls himself, who will introduce a bill to stop sending our provisions to the folks over yonder who are fighting when they ought to be working----." "but surely we must do our best to help the starving women and children of europe. it wouldn't be human, it wouldn't be christian----" angelica paused and threw an appealing glance in the direction of caroline, who shook her head scornfully and looked away to the children on the pavement. why did she stoop to argue with the man? couldn't she see that he was merely the cheapest sort of malcontent? "the first thing you know we'll be dragged into this here war ourselves," pursued ridley, rolling the wad of tobacco in his mouth, "and it's the men like mr. blackburn that will be doing it. there's a lot of fellows down at the works that talk just as he does, but that's because they think they know which side their bread is buttered on! some of 'em will tell you the boss is the best friend they have on earth; but they are talking through their hats when they say so. as for me, i reckon i've got my wits about me, and as long as i have they ain't going to make me vote for nobody except the man who puts the full dinner pail before any darn squabble over the water. i ain't got anything against you, ma'am, but mr. blackburn ain't treated me white, and if my turn ever comes, i'm going to get even with him as sure as my name is james ridley." "i think we'd better go," said caroline sternly. she had suspected from the first that ridley had been drinking, and his rambling abuse was beginning to make her angry. it seemed not only foolish, but wicked to make a martyr of such a man. "yes, we must go," assented mrs. blackburn uneasily. "i won't see mrs. ridley to-day," she added. "tell her to let me know when she has finished the socks, and i will send for them. i am giving her some knitting to do for the war relief." "all right, she may do what she pleases as long as she's paid for it," rejoined ridley with a grin. "i ain't interfering." then, as the procession moved to the car, with the footman and the empty basket making a dignified rear-guard, he added apologetically, "i hope you won't bear me a grudge for my plain speaking, ma'am?" "oh, no, for i am sure you are honest," replied mrs. blackburn, with the manner of affable royalty. at last, to caroline's inexpressible relief, they drove away amid the eager stares of the children that crowded the long straight street. "i always wonder how they manage to bring up such large families," remarked angelica as she gazed with distant benignity out of the window. "oh, i quite forgot. i must speak to mrs. macy about some pillow cases. john, we will stop at mrs. macy's in the next block." in a dark back room just beyond the next corner, they found an elderly woman hemstitching yards of fine thread cambric ruffling. as they entered, she pinned the narrow strip of lawn over her knee, and looked up without rising. she had a square, stolid face, which had settled into the heavy placidity that comes to those who expect nothing. her thin white hair was parted and brushed back from her sunken temples, and her eyes, between chronically reddened lids, gazed at her visitors with a look of passive endurance. "my hip is bad to-day," she explained. "i hope you won't mind my not getting up." she spoke in a flat, colourless voice, as if she had passed beyond the sphere of life in which either surprises or disappointments are possible. suffering had moulded her thought into the plastic impersonal substance of philosophy. "oh, don't think of moving, mrs. macy," returned angelica kindly. "i stopped by to bring you the lace edging you needed, and to ask if you have finished any of the little pillow slips? now, that your son is able to get back to work, you ought to have plenty of spare time for hemstitching." "yes, there's plenty of time," replied mrs. macy, without animation, "but it's slow work, and hard on weak eyes, even with spectacles. you like it done so fine that i have to take twice the trouble with the stitches, and i was just thinking of asking you if you couldn't pay me twenty cents instead of fifteen a yard? it's hard to make out now, with every mouthful you eat getting dearer all the time, and though tom is a good son, he's got a large family to look after, and his eldest girl has been ailing of late, and had to have the doctor before she could keep on at school." a queer look had crept into angelica's face--the prudent and guarded expression of a financier who suspects that he is about to be over-matched, that, if he is not cautious, something will be got from him for nothing. for the instant her features lost their softness, and became sharp and almost ugly, while there flashed through caroline's mind the amazing thought, "i believe she is stingy! yet how could she be when she spends such a fortune on clothes?" then the cautious look passed as swiftly as it had come, and mrs. blackburn stooped over the rocking-chair, and gathered the roll of thread cambric into her gloved hands. "i can have it done anywhere for fifteen cents a yard," she said slowly. "well, i know, ma'am, that used to be the price, but they tell me this sort of work is going up like everything else. when you think i used to pay eight and ten cents a pound for middling, and yesterday they asked me twenty-six cents at the store. flour is getting so high we can barely afford it, and even corn meal gets dearer every day. if the war in europe goes on, they say there won't be enough food left in america to keep us alive. it ain't that i'm complaining, mrs. blackburn, i know it's a hard world on us poor folks, and i ain't saying that anybody's to blame for it, but it did cross my mind, while i was thinking over these things a minute ago, that you might see your way to pay me a little more for the hemstitching." while she talked she went on patiently turning the hem with her blunted thumb, and as she finished, she raised her head for the first time and gazed stoically, not into angelica's face, but at a twisted ailantus tree which grew by the board fence of the backyard.' "i am glad you look at things so sensibly, mrs. macy," observed angelica cheerfully. she had dropped the ruffling to the floor, and as she straightened herself, she recovered her poise and amiability. "one hears so many complaints now among working people, and at a time like this, when the country is approaching a crisis, it is so important"--this was a favourite phrase with her, and she accented it firmly--"it is so important that all classes should stand together and work for the common good. i am sure i try to do my bit. there is scarcely an hour when i am not trying to help, but i do feel that the well-to-do classes should not be expected to make all the sacrifices. the working people must do their part, and with the suffering in europe, and the great need of money for charities, it doesn't seem quite fair, does it, for you to ask more than you've been getting? it isn't as if fifteen cents a yard wasn't a good price. i can easily get it done elsewhere for that, but i thought you really needed the work." "i do," said mrs. macy, with a kind of dry terror. "it's all i've got to live on." "then i'm sure you ought to be thankful to get it and not complain because it isn't exactly what you would like. all of us, mrs. macy, have to put up with things that we wish were different. if you would only stop to think of the suffering in belgium, you would feel grateful instead of dissatisfied with your lot. why, i can't sleep at night because my mind is so full of the misery in the world." "i reckon you're right," mrs. macy replied humbly, and she appeared completely convinced by the argument. "it's awful enough the wretchedness over there, and tom and i have tried to help the little we could. we can't give much, but he has left off his pipe for a month in order to send what he spent in tobacco, and i've managed to do some knitting the last thing at night and the first in the morning. i couldn't stint on food because there wasn't any to spare, so i said to myself, 'well, i reckon there's one thing you can give and that's sleep.' so mrs. miller, she lets me have the yarn, and i manage to go to bed an hour later and get up an hour sooner. when you've got to my age, the thing you can spare best is sleep." "you're right, and i'm glad you take that rational view." mrs. blackburn's manner was kind and considerate. "every gift is better that includes sacrifice, don't you feel? tell your son that i think it is fine his giving up tobacco. he has his old place at the works, hasn't he?" "i wrote straight to mr. blackburn, ma'am, and he made the foreman hold it for him. heaven only knows how we'd have managed but for your husband. he ain't the sort that talks unless he is on the platform, but i don't believe he ever forgets to be just when the chance comes to him. there are some folks that call him a hard man, but tom says it ain't hardness, but justice, and i reckon tom knows. tom says the boss hasn't any use for idlers and drunkards, but he's fair enough to the ones who stand by him and do their work--and all the stuff they are putting in the papers about trouble down at the works ain't anything on earth but a political game." "well, we must go," said mrs. blackburn, who had been growing visibly restless. on her way to the door she paused for an instant and asked, "your son is something of a politician himself, isn't he, mrs. macy?" "yes, 'm, tom has a good deal to do with the federation of labour, and in that way he comes more or less into politics. he has a lot of good hard sense if i do say it, and i reckon there ain't anybody that stands better with the workers than he does." "of course he is a democrat?" "well, he always used to be, ma'am, but of late i've noticed that he seems to be thinking the way mr. blackburn does. it wouldn't surprise me if he voted with him when the time came, and the way tom votes," she added proudly, "a good many others will vote, too. he says just as mr. blackburn does that the new times take new leaders--that's one of tom's sayings--and that both the democratic and republican parties ain't big enough for these days. tom says they are both hitched tight, like two mules, to the past." by this time angelica had reached the door, and as she passed out, with letty's hand in hers, she glanced back and remarked, "i should think the working people would be grateful to any party that keeps them out of the war." mrs. macy looked up from her needle. "well, war is bad," she observed shortly, "but i've lived through one, and i ain't saying that i haven't seen things that are worse." the air was fresh and bracing after the close room, and a little later, as they turned into franklin street, angelica leaned out of the window as if she were drinking deep draughts of sunlight. "the poor are so unintelligent," she observed when she had drawn in her head again. "they seem never able to think with any connection. the war has been going on for a long time now, and yet they haven't learned that it is any concern of theirs." letty had begun coughing, and caroline drew her closer while she asked anxiously, "do you think it is wise to take a child into close houses?" "well, i meant to stay only a moment, but i thought mrs. macy would never stop talking. do you feel badly, darling? come closer to mother." "oh, no, i'm well," answered the child. "it is just my throat that tickles." then her tone changed, and as they stopped at the corner of the park, she cried out with pleasure, "isn't that uncle roane over there? uncle roane, do you see us?" a handsome, rather dissipated looking young man, with a mop of curly light hair and insolent blue eyes, glanced round at the call, and came quickly to the car, which waited under the elms by the sidewalk. the street was gay with flying motors, and long bars of sunshine slanted across the grass of the park, where groups of negro nurses gossiped drowsily beside empty perambulators. "why, anna jeannette!" exclaimed the young man, with genial mockery. "this is a pleasure which i thought your worthy bluebeard had forbidden me!" "get in, and i'll take you for a little drive. this is miss meade. you met her that night at briarlay." "the angel in the house! i remember." he smiled boldly into caroline's face. "well, letty, i'd like to trade my luck for yours. look at your poor uncle, and tell me honestly if i am not the one who needs to be nursed. lend her to me?" "i can't lend you miss meade, uncle roane," replied the child seriously, "because she plays with me; but if you really need somebody, i reckon i can let you have mammy riah for a little while." roane laughed while he bent over and pinched letty's cheek. that he had a bad reputation, caroline was aware, and though she was obliged to admit that he looked as if he deserved it, she could not deny that he possessed the peculiar charm which one of the old novels at the cedars described as "the most dangerous attribute of a rake." "i could never like him, yet i can understand how some women might fall in love with him," she thought. "no, i decline, with thanks, your generous offer," roane was saying. "if i cannot be nursed by an angel, i will not be nursed by a witch." beneath his insolent, admiring gaze a lovely colour flooded caroline's cheeks. in the daylight his manner seemed to her more offensive than ever, and her impulsive recognition of his charm was followed by an instantaneous recoil. "i don't like witches," said letty. "do you think miss meade is an angel, uncle roane?" "from first impressions," retorted roane flippantly, "i should say that she might be." as caroline turned away indignantly, angelica leaned over and gently patted her hand. "you mustn't mind him, my dear, that's just roane's way," she explained. "but i do mind," replied caroline, with spirit. "i think he is very impertinent." "think anything you please, only think of me," rejoined roane, with a gallant air. "you bad boy!" protested angelica. "can't you see that miss meade is provoked with you?" "no woman, anna jeannette, is provoked by a sincere and humble admiration. are you ignorant of the feminine heart?" "if you won't behave yourself, roane, you must get out of the car. and for heaven's sake, stop calling me by that name!" "my dear sister, i thought it was yours." "it is not the one i'm known by." she was clearly annoyed. "by the way, have you got your costume for the tableaux? you were so outrageous at mrs. miller's the other night that if they could find anybody else, i believe that they would refuse to let you take part. why are you so dreadful, roane?" "they require me, not my virtue, sister. go over the list of young men in your set, and tell me if there is another saint george of england among them?" his air of mocking pride was so comic that a smile curved caroline's lips, while angelica commented seriously, "well, you aren't nearly so good-looking as you used to be, and if you go on drinking much longer, you will be a perfect fright." "how she blights my honourable ambition!" exclaimed roane to caroline. "even the cherished career of a tableau favourite is forbidden me." "mother is going to be peace," said letty, with her stately manner of making conversation, "and she will look just like an angel. her dress has come all the way from new york, uncle roane, and they sent a wreath of leaves to go on her head. if i don't get sick, miss meade is going to take me to see her friday night." "well, if i am brother to peace, letty, i must be good. miss meade, how do you like richmond?" "i love it," answered caroline, relieved by his abrupt change of tone. "the people are so nice. there is mrs. colfax now. isn't she beautiful?" they were running into monument avenue, and daisy colfax had just waved to them from a passing car. "yes, i proposed to her twice," replied roane, gazing after daisy's rose-coloured veil which streamed gaily behind her. "but she could not see her way, unfortunately, to accept me. i am not sure, between you and me, that she didn't go farther and fare worse with old robert. i might have broken her heart, but i should never have bored her. speaking of robert, anna jeannette, was he really the author of that slashing editorial in the _free-press_?" "everybody thinks he wrote it, but it doesn't sound a bit like him. wasn't it dreadful, roane?" "oh, well, nothing is fair in politics, but the plum," he returned. "by the way, is it true about blackburn's vaulting ambition, or is it just newspaper stuff?" "of course i know nothing positively, roane, for david never talks to me about his affairs; but he seems to get more and more distracted about politics every day that he lives. i shouldn't like to have it repeated, yet i can't help the feeling that there is a great deal of truth in what the article says about his disloyalty to the south." "well, i shouldn't lose any sleep over that if i were you. no man ever took a step forward on this earth that he didn't move away from something that the rest of the world thought he ought to have stood by. there isn't much love lost between your husband and me, but it isn't a political difference that divides us. he has the bad taste not to admire my character." "i know you never feel seriously about these things," said angelica sadly, "but i always remember how ardently dear father loved the democratic party. he used to say that he could forgive a thief sooner than a traitor." "great scott! what is there left to be a traitor to?" demanded roane, disrespectfully. "a political machine that grinds out jobs isn't a particularly patriotic institution. i am not taking sides with blackburn, my dear sister, only i'd be darned before i'd have acted the part of your precious colfax. it may be good politics, but it's pretty bad sport, i should think. it isn't playing the game." "i suppose robert feels that things are really going too far," observed angelica feebly, for her arguments always moved in a circle. "he believes so strongly, you know, in the necessity of keeping the south solid. of course he may not really have attacked david," she added quickly. "there are other editors." "i am sure there is not one bit of truth in that article," said caroline suddenly, and her voice trembled with resentment. "i know mr. blackburn doesn't oppress his men because we've just been talking with the mother of a man who works in his plant. as for the rest, i was listening to him this afternoon, and i believe he is right." her eyes were glowing as she finished, and her elusive beauty--the beauty of spirit, not of flesh--gave her features the rare and noble grace of a marble diana. her earnestness had suddenly lifted her above them. though she was only a dark, slender woman, with a gallant heart, she seemed to roane as remote and royal as a goddess. he liked the waving line of hair on her clear forehead, where the light gathered in a benediction; he liked her firm red lips, with their ever-changing play of expression, and he liked above all the lovely lines of her figure, which was at once so strong and so light, so feminine and so spirited. it was the beauty of character, he told himself, and, by jove, in a woman, he liked character! "well, he has a splendid champion, lucky dog!" he exclaimed, with his eyes on her face. for an instant caroline wavered as angelica's gaze, full of pained surprise, turned toward her; then gathering her courage, she raised her lashes and met roane's admiring stare with a candid and resolute look. "no, it is not that," she said, "but i can't bear to see people unjust to any one." "you are right," ejaculated roane impulsively, and he added beneath his breath, "by george, i hope you'll stand up for me like that when i am knocked." chapter x other discoveries in the morning letty awoke with a sore throat, and before night she had developed a cold which spent itself in paroxysms of coughing. "oh, miss meade, make me well before friday," she begged, as caroline undressed her. "isn't friday almost here now?" "in three days, dear. you must hurry and get over this cold." "do you think i am going to be well, mammy?" they were in the nursery at letty's bedtime, and mammy riah was heating a cup of camphorated oil over the fire. "you jes' wait twel i git dish yer' red flan'l on yo' chist, en hit's gwinter breck up yo' cough toreckly," replied mammy riah reassuringly. "i'se done soused hit right good in dis hot ile." "i'll do anything you want. i'll swallow it right down if it will make me well." "dar ain't nuttin dat'll breck up a cole quick'n hot ile," said the old woman, "lessen hit's a hot w'iskey toddy." "well, you can't give her that," interposed caroline quickly, "if she isn't better in the morning i'm going to send for doctor boland. i've done everything i could think of. now, jump into bed letty, dear, and let me cover you up warm before i open the window. i am going to sleep on the couch in the corner." "hit pears to me like you en marse david is done gone clean 'stracted 'bout fresh a'r," grumbled mammy riah, as she drew a strip of red flannel out of the oil. "dar ain' nuttin in de worl' de matter wid dis chile but all dis night a'r you's done been lettin' in on 'er w'ile she wuz sleepin'. huh! i knows jes ez much about night a'r ez enny er yo' reel doctahs, en i ain' got er bit er use fur hit, i ain't. hit's a woner to me you all ain' done kilt 'er betweenst you, you and marse david en miss angy, 'en yo' reel doctah. ef'n you ax me, i 'ud let down all dem winders, en stuff up de chinks wid rags twel letty was peart enuff ter be outer dat baid." the danger in night air had been a source of contention ever since the first frost of the season, and though science had at last carried its point, caroline felt that the victory had cost her both the respect and the affection of the old negress. "i ain' never riz noner my chillun on night a'r," she muttered rebelliously, while she brought the soaked flannel over to letty's bed. "i hope it will cure me," said the child eagerly, and she added after a moment in which mammy riah zealously applied the oil and covered her with blankets, "do you think i'd better have all the night air shut out as she says, miss meade?" "no, darling," answered caroline firmly. "fresh air will cure you quicker than anything else." but, in spite of the camphorated oil and the wide-open windows, letty was much worse in the morning. her face was flushed with fever, and she refused her breakfast, when mammy riah brought it, because as she said, "everything hurt her." even her passionate interest in the tableaux had evaporated, and she lay, inert and speechless, in her little bed, while her eyes followed caroline wistfully about the room. "i telephoned for doctor boland the first thing," said caroline to the old woman, "and now i am going to speak to mrs. blackburn. will you sit with letty while i run down for a cup of coffee?" "ef'n i wuz you, i wouldn't wake miss angy," replied the negress. "hit'll mek 'er sick jes ez sho' ez you live. you'd better run along down en speak ter marse david." "i'll tell him at breakfast, but oughtn't letty's mother to know how anxious i am?" "she's gwine ter know soon enuff," responded mammy riah, "but dey don' low none un us ter rouse 'er twell she's hed 'er sleep out. miss angy is one er dem nervous sort, en she gits 'stracted moughty easy." in the dining-room, which was flooded with sunshine, caroline found the housekeeper and blackburn, who had apparently finished his breakfast, and was glancing over a newspaper. there was a pile of half-opened letters by his plate, and his face wore the look of animation which she associated with either politics or business. "i couldn't leave letty until mammy riah came," she explained in an apologetic tone. "her cold is so much worse that i've telephoned for the doctor." at this blackburn folded the paper and pushed back his chair. "how long has she had it?" he inquired anxiously. "i thought she wasn't well yesterday." there was the tender, protecting sound in his voice that always came with the mention of letty. "she hasn't been herself for several days, but this morning she seems suddenly worse. i am afraid it may be pneumonia." "have you said anything to angelica?" asked mrs. timberlake, and her tone struck caroline as strained and non-committal. "mammy riah wouldn't let me wake her. i am going to her room as soon as her bell rings." "well, she's awake. i've just sent up her breakfast." the housekeeper spoke briskly. "she has to be in town for some rehearsals." blackburn had gone out, and caroline sat alone at the table while she hastily swallowed a cup of coffee. it was a serene and cloudless day, and the view of the river had never looked so lovely as it did through the falling leaves and over the russet sweep of autumn grasses. october brooded with golden wings over the distance. "i had noticed that letty had a sort of hacking cough for three days," said mrs. timberlake from the window, "but i didn't think it would amount to anything serious." "yes, i tried to cure it, and last night mammy riah doctored her. the child is so delicate that the slightest ailment is dangerous. it seems strange that she should be so frail. mr. blackburn looks strong, and his wife was always well until recently, wasn't she?" for a moment mrs. timberlake stared through the window at a sparrow which was perched on the topmost branch of a juniper. "i never saw any one hate to have a child as much as angelica did," she said presently in her dry tones. "she carried on like a crazy woman about it. some women are like that, you know." "yes, i know, but she is devoted to letty now." the housekeeper did not reply, and her face grew greyer and harsher than ever. "no one could be sweeter than she is with her," said caroline, after a moment in which she tried to pierce mentally the armour of mrs. timberlake's reserve. "she isn't always so silent," she thought. "i hear her talking by the hour to mammy riah, but it is just as if she were afraid of letting out something if she opened her lips. i wonder if she is really so prejudiced against mrs. blackburn that she can't talk of her?" though caroline's admiration for angelica had waned a little on closer acquaintance, she still thought her kind and beautiful, except in her incomprehensible attitude to the old sewing woman in pine street. the recollection of that scene, which she had found it impossible to banish entirely, was a sting in her memory; and as she recalled it now, her attitude toward angelica changed insensibly from that of an advocate to a judge. "oh, angelica is sweet enough," said the housekeeper suddenly, with a rasping sound, as if the words scraped her throat as she uttered them, "if you don't get in her way." then facing caroline squarely, she added in the same tone, "i'm not saying anything against angelica, miss meade. our grandmothers were sisters, and i am not the sort to turn against my own blood kin, but you'll hear a heap of stories about the way things go on in this house, and i want you to take it from me in the beginning that there are a plenty of worse husbands than david blackburn. he isn't as meek as moses, but he's been a good friend to me, and if i wanted a helping hand, i reckon i'd go to him now a sight quicker than i would to angelica, though she's my kin and he isn't." rising hurriedly, as she finished, she gave a curt little laugh and exclaimed, "well, there's one thing david and i have in common. we're both so mortal shutmouthed because when we once begin to talk, we always let the cat out of the bag. now, if you're through, you can go straight upstairs and have a word with angelica before she begins to dress." she went over to the sideboard, and began counting the silver aloud, while caroline pushed back her chair, and ran impatiently upstairs to mrs. blackburn's room. at her knock the maid, mary, opened the door, and beyond her angelica's voice said plaintively, "oh, miss meade, mary tells me that letty's cold is very bad. i am so anxious about her." a breakfast tray was before her, and while she looked down at the china coffee service, which was exquisitely thin and fragile, she broke off a piece of toast, and buttered it carefully, with the precise attention she devoted to the smallest of her personal needs. it seemed to caroline that she had never appeared so beautiful as she did against the lace pillows, in her little cap and dressing sack of sky-blue silk. "i came to tell you," said caroline. "she complains of pain whenever she moves, and i'm afraid, unless something is done at once, it may turn into pneumonia." "well, i'm coming immediately, just as soon as i've had my coffee. i woke up with such a headache that i don't dare to stir until i've eaten. you have sent for the doctor, of course?" "i telephoned very early, but i suppose he won't be here until after his office hours." having eaten the piece of toast, angelica drank her coffee, and motioned to mary to remove the tray from her knees. "i'll get up at once," she said. "mary, give me my slippers. you told me so suddenly that i haven't yet got over the shock." she looked distressed and frightened, and a little later, when she followed caroline into the nursery and stooped over letty's bed, her attitude was that of an early italian madonna. the passion of motherhood seemed to pervade her whole yearning body, curving the soft lines to an ineffable beauty. "letty, darling, are you better?" the child opened her eyes and stared, without smiling, in her mother's face. "yes, i am better," she answered in a panting voice, "but i wish it didn't hurt so." "the doctor is coming. he will give you some medicine to cure it." "mammy says that it is the night air that makes me sick, but father says that hasn't anything to do with it." from the fire which she was tending, mammy riah looked up moodily. "huh! i reckon marse david cyarn' teach me nuttin' 'bout raisin chillun," she muttered under her breath. "ask the doctor. he will tell you," answered angelica. "do you think it is warm enough in here, miss meade?" "yes, i am careful about the temperature." almost unconsciously caroline had assumed her professional manner, and as she stood there in her white uniform beside letty's bed, she looked so capable and authoritative that even mammy riah was cowed, though she still grumbled in a deep whisper. "of course you know best," said angelica, with the relief she always felt whenever any one removed a responsibility from her shoulders, or assumed a duty which naturally belonged to her. "has she fallen asleep so quickly?" "no, it's stupor. she has a very high fever." "i don't like that blue look about her mouth, and her breathing is so rapid. do you think she is seriously ill, miss meade?" angelica had withdrawn from the bed, and as she asked the question, she lowered her voice until her words were almost inaudible. her eyes were soft and anxious under the drooping lace edge of her cap. "i don't like her pulse," caroline also spoke in a whisper, with an anxious glance at the bed, though letty seemed oblivious of their presence in the room. "i am just getting ready to sponge her with alcohol. that may lower her temperature." for a moment mrs. blackburn wavered between the bed and the door. "i wish i didn't have to go to town," she said nervously. "if it were for anything else except these tableaux i shouldn't think of it. but in a cause like this, when there is so much suffering to be relieved, i feel that one ought not to let personal anxieties interfere. don't you think i am right, miss meade?" "i haven't thought about it," replied caroline with her usual directness. "but i am sure you are the best judge of what you ought to do." "i have the most important part, you see, and if i were to withdraw, it would be such a disappointment to the committee. there isn't any one else they could get at the last moment." "i suppose not. there is really nothing that you can do here." "that is what i thought." angelica's tone was one of relief. "of course if i were needed about anything it would be different; but you are better able than i am to decide what ought to be done. i always feel so helpless," she added sadly, "when there is illness in the house." with the relinquishment of responsibility, she appeared to grow almost cheerful. if she had suddenly heard that letty was much better, or had discovered, after harrowing uncertainty, the best and surest treatment for pneumonia, her face would probably have worn just such a relieved and grateful expression. in one vivid instant, with a single piercing flash of insight, the other woman seemed to look straight through that soft feminine body to mrs. blackburn's thin and colourless soul. "i know what she is now--she is thin," said caroline to herself. "she is thin all through, and i shall never feel the same about her again. she doesn't want trouble, she doesn't want responsibility because it makes her uncomfortable--that is why she turns letty over to me. she is beautiful, and she is sweet when nothing disturbs her, but i believe she is selfish underneath all that softness and sweetness which costs her so little." and she concluded with a merciless judgment, "that is why she wasn't kind to that poor old woman in pine street. it would have cost her something, and she can't bear to pay. she wants to get everything for nothing." the iron in her soul hardened suddenly, for she knew that this moment of revelation had shattered for her the romance of briarlay. she might still be fascinated by mrs. blackburn; she might still pity her and long to help her; she might still blame blackburn bitterly for his hardness--but she could never again wholly sympathize with angelica. "there isn't anything in the world that you can do," she repeated gravely. "i knew you'd say that, and it is so good of you to reassure me." mrs. blackburn smiled from the threshold. "now, i must dress, or i shall be late for the rehearsal. if the doctor comes while i am away, please ask him if he thinks another nurse is necessary. david tells me he telephoned for an extra one for night duty; but, dear miss meade, i feel so much better satisfied when i know that letty is in your charge every minute." "oh, she is in my charge. even if the other nurse comes, i shall still sleep in the room next to her." "you are so splendid!" for an instant angelica shone on her from the hall. then the door closed behind her, and an hour afterwards, as caroline sat by letty's bed, with her hand on her pulse, she heard the motor start down the drive and turn rapidly into the lane. at one o'clock the doctor came, and he was still there a quarter of an hour later, when mrs. blackburn rustled, with an anxious face, into the room. she wore a suit of grey cloth, and, with her stole and muff of silver fox, and her soft little hat of grey velvet, she made caroline think of one of the aspen trees, in a high wind, on the lawn at the cedars. she was all delicate, quivering gleams of silver, and even her golden hair looked dim and shadowy, under a grey veil, as if it were seen through a mist. "oh, doctor, she isn't really so ill, is she?" her eyes implored him to spare her, and while she questioned him, she flung the stole of silver fox away from her throat, as if the weight of the furs oppressed her. "well, you mustn't be too anxious. we are doing all we can, you know. in a day or two, i hope, we'll have got her over the worst." he was a young man, the son of mrs. colfax's friend, old doctor boland, and all his eager youth seemed to start from his eyes while he gazed at angelica. "beauty like that is a power," thought caroline almost resentfully. "it hides everything--even vacancy." all the men she had seen with mrs. blackburn, except her husband, had gazed at her with this worshipful and protecting look; and, as she watched it shine now in doctor boland's eyes, she wondered cynically why david blackburn alone should be lacking in this particular kind of chivalry. "he is the only man who looks at her as if she were a human being, not an angel," she reflected. "i wonder if he used to do it once, and if he has stopped because he has seen deeper than any of the others?" "then it isn't really pneumonia?" asked angelica. he hesitated, still trying to answer the appeal in her eyes, and to spare her the truth if it were possible. "it looks now as if it might be, mrs. blackburn, but children pick up so quickly, you know." he reached out his arm as he answered, and led her to the couch in one corner. "have you some aromatic ammonia at hand, miss meade? i think you might give mrs. blackburn a few drops of it." caroline measured the drops from a bottle on the table by letty's bed. "perhaps she had better lie down," she suggested. "yes, i think i'll go to my room," answered angelica, rising from the couch, as she lifted a grateful face to the young doctor. "a shock always upsets me, and ever since mary told me how ill letty was, i have felt as if i couldn't breathe." she looked really unhappy, and as caroline met her eyes, she reproached herself for her harsh criticism of the morning. after all, angelica couldn't help being herself. after all, she wasn't responsible for her limited intelligence and her coldness of nature! perhaps she felt more in her heart than she was able to express, in spite of her perfect profile and her wonderful eyes. "even her selfishness may be due to her bringing up, and the way everyone has always spoiled her," pursued the girl, with a swift reaction from her severe judgment. when angelica had gone out, doctor boland came over to the bed, and stood gazing thoughtfully down on the child, who stirred restlessly and stared up at him with bright, glassy eyes. it was plain to caroline that he was more disturbed than he had admitted; and his grave young features looked old and drawn while he stood there in silence. he was a thickset man, with an ugly, intelligent face and alert, nearsighted eyes behind enormous glasses with tortoise-shell rims. "if we can manage to keep her temperature down," he said, and added as if he were pursuing his original train of thought, "mrs. blackburn is unusually sensitive." "she is not very strong." "for that reason it is better not to alarm her unnecessarily. i suppose mr. blackburn can always be reached?" "oh, yes, i have his telephone number. he asked me to call him up as soon as i had seen you." after this he gave a few professional directions, and left abruptly with the remark, "i'll look in early to-morrow. there is really nothing we can do except keep up the treatment and have as much fresh air as possible in the room. if all goes well, i hope she will have pulled through the worst by friday--and if i were you," he hesitated and a flush rose to his sandy hair, "i should be careful how i broke any bad news to mrs. blackburn." he went out, closing the door cautiously, as if he feared to make any sound in the house, while caroline sat down to wonder what it was about angelica that made every man, even the doctor, so anxious to spare her? "i believe his chief concern about poor letty is that this illness disturbs her mother," she mused, without understanding. "well, i hope his prophecy will come true, and that the worst will be over by friday. if she isn't, it will be a blow to the entertainment committee." but when friday came, the child was so much worse that the doctor, when he hurried out before his office hours, looked old and grey with anxiety. at eleven o'clock blackburn sent his car back to the garage, and came up, with a book which he did not open, to sit in letty's room. as he entered, angelica rose from the couch on which she had been lying, and laid her hand on his arm. "i am so glad you have come, david. it makes me better satisfied to have you in the house." "i am not going to the works. mayfield is coming to take down some letters, and i shall be here all day." "it is a comfort to know that. i couldn't close my eyes last night, so if you are going to be here, i think i'll try to rest a few minutes." she was pale and tired, and for the first time since she had been in the house, caroline discerned a shade of sympathy in the glances they interchanged. "what a beautiful thing it would be if letty's illness brought them together," she thought, with a wave of happiness in the midst of her apprehension. she had read of men and women who were miraculously ennobled in the crucial moments of life, and her vivid fancy was already weaving a romantic ending to the estrangement of the blackburns. after all, more improbable things had happened, she told herself in one of her mother's favourite phrases. at five o'clock, when doctor boland came, blackburn had gone down to his library, and caroline, who had just slipped into a fresh uniform, was alone in the room. her eyes were unnaturally large and dark; but she looked cool and composed, and her vitality scarcely felt the strain of the three sleepless nights. though the second nurse came on duty at six o'clock, caroline had been too restless and wakeful to stay in her room, and had spent the nights on the couch by the nursery window. "if we can manage to keep up her strength through the night----" the doctor had already looked over the chart, and he held it now in his hand while he waited for a response. "there is a fighting chance, isn't there?" his face was very grave, though his voice still maintained its professional cheerfulness. "with a child there is always a chance, and if she pulls through the night----" "i shall keep my eyes on her every minute." as she spoke she moved back to letty's bed, while the doctor went out with an abrupt nod and the words, "mr. blackburn wishes me to spend the night here. i'll be back after dinner." the door had hardly closed after him, when it opened again noiselessly, and mrs. timberlake thrust her head through the crack. as she peered into the room, with her long sallow face and her look of mutely inviting disaster, there flashed through caroline's mind the recollection of one of her father's freckled engravings of "hecuba gazing over the ruins of troy." "i've brought you a cup of tea. couldn't you manage to drink it?" "yes, i'd like it." there was something touching in the way mrs. timberlake seemed to include her in the distress of the family--to assume that her relation to letty was not merely the professional one of a nurse to a patient. stepping cautiously, as if she were in reality treading on ruins, the housekeeper crossed the room and placed the tray on the table at the bedside. while she leaned over to pour out the tea, she murmured in a rasping whisper, "mammy riah is crying so i wouldn't let her come in. can letty hear us?" "no, she is in a stupor. she has been moaning a good deal, but she is too weak to keep it up. i've just given her some medicine." her gaze went back to the child, who stirred and gave a short panting sob. in her small transparent face, which was flushed with fever, the blue circle about the mouth seemed to start out suddenly like the mark of a blow. she lay very straight and slim under the cover, as if she had shrunken to half her size since her illness, and her soft, fine hair, drawn smoothly back from her waxen forehead, clung as flat and close as a cap. "i'd scarcely know her," murmured the housekeeper, with a catch in her throat. "if she passes the crisis she will pick up quickly. i've seen children as ill as this who were playing about the room a few days afterwards." caroline tried to speak brightly, but in spite of her efforts, there was a note of awe in her voice. "is it really as grave as we fear, miss meade?" caroline met the question frankly. "it is very grave, mrs. timberlake, but with a child, as the doctor told me a minute ago, there is always hope of a sudden change for the better." "have you said anything to angelica?" "she was in here a little while ago, just before the doctor's visit, but i tried not to alarm her. she is so easily made ill." the windows were wide open, and mrs. timberlake went over to the nearest one, and stood gazing out on the lawn and the half-bared elms. a light wind was blowing, and while she stood there, she shivered and drew the knitted purple cape she wore closer about her shoulders. beyond the interlacing boughs the sunlight streamed in a golden shower on the grass, which was still bright and green, and now and then a few sparkling drops were scattered through the broad windows, and rippled over the blanket on letty's bed. "it is hard to get used to these new-fangled ways," observed the housekeeper presently as she moved back to the fire. "in my days we'd have thought a hot room and plenty of whiskey toddy the best things for pneumonia." "the doctor told me to keep the windows wide open." "i heard him say so, but don't you think you had better put on a wrap? it feels chilly." "oh, no, i'm quite warm." caroline finished the cup of tea as she spoke and gave back the tray. "that did me good. i needed it." "i thought so." from the tone in which the words were uttered caroline understood that the housekeeper was gaining time. "are you sure you oughtn't to say something to angelica?" "say something? you mean tell her how ill letty is? why, the doctor gave me my instructions. he said positively that i was not to alarm mrs. blackburn." "i don't think he understood. he doesn't know that she still expects to be in the tableaux to-night." for an instant caroline stared back at her without a word; then she said in an incredulous whisper, "oh, she wouldn't--she couldn't!" "she feels it to be her duty--her sacred duty, she has just told me so. you see, i don't think she in the least realizes. she seems confident that letty is better." "how can she be? she was in here less than an hour ago." "and she said nothing about to-night?" "not a word. i had forgotten about the tableaux, but, of course, i shouldn't have mentioned them. i tried to be cheerful, to keep up her spirit--but she must have seen. she couldn't help seeing." the housekeeper's lips twitched, and she moistened them nervously. "if you knew angelica as well as i do," she answered flatly, "you'd realize that she can help seeing anything on earth except the thing she wants to see." "then you must tell her," rejoined caroline positively. "someone must tell her." "i couldn't." mrs. timberlake was as emphatic as caroline. "and what's more she wouldn't believe me if i did. she'd pretend it was some of my crankiness. you just wait till you try to convince angelica of something she doesn't want to believe." "i'll tell her if you think i ought to--or perhaps it would be better to go straight to mr. blackburn?" mrs. timberlake coughed. "well, i reckon if anybody can convince her, david can," she retorted. "he doesn't mince matters." "the night nurse comes on at six o'clock, and just as soon as she gets here i'll go downstairs to mr. blackburn. that will be time enough, won't it?" "oh, yes, she isn't going until half-past seven. i came to you because i heard her order the car." when she had gone caroline turned back to her watch; but her heart was beating so rapidly that for a moment she confused it with letty's feverish breathing. she reproached herself bitterly for not speaking frankly to mrs. blackburn, for trying to spare her; and yet, recalling the last interview, she scarcely knew what she could have said. "it seemed too cruel to tell her that letty might not live through the night," she thought. "it seemed too cruel--but wasn't that just what mrs. timberlake meant when she said that mr. blackburn 'wouldn't mince matters?'" the night nurse was five minutes late, and during these minutes, the suspense, the responsibility, became almost unbearable. it was as if the whole burden of angelica's ignorance, of her apparent heartlessness, rested on caroline's shoulders. "if she had gone i could never have forgiven myself," she was thinking when miss webster, the nurse, entered with her brisk, ingratiating manner. "i stopped to speak to mrs. blackburn," she explained. "she tells me letty is better." her fine plain face, from which a wealth of burnished red hair was brushed severely back, beamed with interest and sympathy. though she had been nursing private cases for ten years, she had not lost the energy and enthusiasm of a pupil nurse in the hospital. her tall, erect figure, with its tightly confined hips, bent back, like a steel spring, whenever she stooped over the child. caroline shook her head without replying, for letty had opened her eyes and was gazing vacantly at the ceiling. "do you want anything, darling? miss webster is going to sit with you a minute while i run downstairs to speak to father." but the child had closed her eyes again, and it was impossible to tell whether or not the words had penetrated the stupor in which she had been lying for the last two or three hours. a few moments later, as caroline descended the staircase and crossed the hall to blackburn's library, the memory of letty's look floated between her and the object of her errand. "if mrs. blackburn could see that she would know," she told herself while she raised her hand to the panel of the door. "she couldn't help knowing." at the knock blackburn called to her to enter, and when she pushed the door open and crossed the threshold, she saw that he was standing by the window, looking out at the afterglow. beyond the terrace and the dark spires of the junipers, the autumn fields were changing from brown to purple under the flower-like pink of the sky. somewhere in the distance one of the airedale terriers was whining softly. as soon as he caught sight of her, blackburn crossed the floor with a rapid stride, and stood waiting for her to speak. though he did not open his lips, she saw his face grow white, and the corners of his mouth contract suddenly as if a tight cord were drawn. for the first time she noticed that he had a way of narrowing his eyes when he stared fixedly. "there hasn't been any change, mr. blackburn. i wish to speak to you about something else." from the sharp breath that he drew, she could measure the unutterable relief that swept over him. "you say there hasn't been any change?" "not since morning. she is, of course, very ill, but with a child," she had repeated the phrase so often that it seemed to have lost its meaning, "the crisis sometimes comes very quickly. if we can manage to keep up her strength for the next twenty-four hours, i believe the worst will be over." his figure, as he stood there in the dim light, was impressed with a new vividness on her mind, and it was as he looked at this moment that she always remembered him. "do you wish anything?" he asked. "is everything being done that is possible?" "everything. the doctor is coming to spend the night, and i shall sit up with miss webster." "but don't you need rest? can you go without sleep and not lose your strength?" she shook her head. "i couldn't sleep until she is better." a look of gratitude leaped to his eyes, and she became aware, through some subtle wave of perception, that for the first time, she had assumed a definite image in his thoughts. "thank you," he answered simply, but his tone was full of suppressed feeling. while he looked at her the old prejudice, the old suspicion and resentment faded from her face, and she gazed back at him with trusting and friendly eyes. though she was pale and tired, and there were lines of worry and sleeplessness in her forehead, she appeared to him the incarnation of helpfulness. the spirit of goodness and gentleness shone in her smile, and ennobled her slight womanly figure, which drooped a little in its trim uniform. she looked as if she would fight to the death, would wear herself to a shadow, for any one she loved, or for any cause in which she believed. "i came to ask you," she said very quietly, "if it would not be better to tell mrs. blackburn the truth about letty?" he started in amazement. "but she knows, doesn't she?" "she doesn't know everything. she thinks letty is better. miss webster has been talking to her." "and you think she ought to be warned?" her question had evidently puzzled him. "i think it is unfair to leave her in ignorance. she does not in the least realize letty's condition. mrs. timberlake tells me she heard her order the car for half-past seven." "order the car?" he seemed to be groping through a fog of uncertainty. if only heaven had granted intuition to men, thought caroline impatiently, how much time might be saved! "to go to the tableaux. you know the tableaux are to-night." "yes, i had forgotten." his tone changed and grew positive. "of course she must be told. i will tell her." "that is all." she turned away as she spoke, and laid her hand on the knob of the door. "mrs. timberlake and i both felt that i ought to speak to you." "i am glad you did." he had opened the door for her, and following her a step or two into the hall, he added gratefully, "i can never thank you enough." without replying, she hurried to the staircase, and ran up the steps to the second storey. when she reached the door of the nursery, she glanced round before entering, and saw that blackburn had already come upstairs and was on his way to angelica's room. while she watched, she saw him knock, and then open the door and cross the threshold with his rapid step. miss webster was sitting by letty's bed, and after a look at the child, caroline threw herself on the couch and closed her eyes in the hope that she might fall asleep. though she was profoundly relieved by her conversation with blackburn, she was still anxious about angelica, and impatient to hear how she had borne the shock. as the time dragged on, with the interminable passage of the minutes in a sickroom, she found it impossible to lie there in silence any longer, and rising from the couch, she glanced at the clock before going to her room to wash her hands and straighten her hair for dinner. it was exactly half-past seven, and a few minutes later, when she had finished her simple preparations, and was passing the window on her way to the hall, she heard the sound of a motor in the circular drive. "i suppose they forgot to tell john," she thought, "or can it be the doctor so soon?" the hall was empty when she entered it; but before she had reached the head of the stairs, a door opened and shut in the left wing, and the housekeeper joined her. at the bend in the staircase, beneath a copy of the sistine madonna, which had been crowded out of the drawing-room, the elder woman stopped and laid a detaining hand on caroline's arm. even through the starched sleeve her grasp felt dry and feverish. "miss meade, did you get a chance to speak to david?" "why, yes, i spoke to him. i went straight down as soon as miss webster came on duty." "did he say he would tell angelica?" "he came up at once to tell her. i saw him go into her room." mrs. timberlake glanced helplessly up at the sistine madonna. "well, i don't know what he could have said," she answered, "for angelica has gone. that was her motor you heard leaving the door." chapter xi the sacred cult when caroline looked back upon it afterwards, she remembered that dinner as the most depressing meal of her life. while she ate her food, with the dutiful determination of the trained nurse who realizes that she is obliged to keep up her strength, her gaze wandered for diversion to the soft blues and pinks on the wall. the tapestries were so fresh that she wondered if they were modern. more than ever the airy figure of spring, floating in primrose-coloured draperies through a flowery grove, reminded her of angelica. there was the same beauty of line, the same look of sweetness and grace, the same amber hair softly parted under a wreath of pale grey-green leaves. the very vagueness of the features, which left all except the pensive outline to the imagination, seemed to increase rather than diminish this resemblance. "have you ever noticed how much that figure is like mrs. blackburn?" she asked, turning to the housekeeper, for the silence was beginning to embarrass her. mary was away and neither blackburn nor mrs. timberlake had uttered a word during the four short courses, which patrick served as noiselessly as if he were eluding an enemy. mrs. timberlake lifted her eyes to the wall. "yes, it's the living image of her, if you stand far enough off. i reckon that's why she bought it." blackburn, who was helping himself to coffee, glanced up to remark, "i forgot to take sugar, patrick," and when the tray was brought back, he selected a lump of sugar and broke it evenly in half. if he had heard the question, there was no hint of it in his manner. having finished a pear she had been forcing herself to eat, caroline looked inquiringly from blackburn to mrs. timberlake. if only somebody would speak! if only mary, with her breezy chatter, would suddenly return from new york! from a long mirror over the sideboard caroline's reflection, very pale, very grave, stared back at her like a face seen in a fog. "i look like a ghost," she thought. "no wonder they won't speak to me. after all, they are silent because they can think of nothing to say." unlike in everything else, it occurred to her that blackburn and the housekeeper had acquired, through dissimilar experiences, the same relentless sincerity of mind. they might be blunt, but they were undeniably honest; and contrasted with the false values and the useless accessories of the house, this honesty impressed her as entirely admirable. the brooding anxiety in blackburn's face did not change even when he smiled at her, and then rose and stood waiting while she passed before him out of the dining-room. it wasn't, she realized, that he was deliberately inconsiderate or careless in manner; it was merely that the idea of pretending had never occurred to him. the thought was in her mind, when he spoke her name abruptly, and she turned to find that he had followed her to the staircase. "miss meade, i have to see a man on business for a half hour. i shall be in the library. if there is any change, will you send for me?" she bowed. "yes, i shall be with letty all the time." "as soon as baker goes, i'll come up. i asked the doctor to spend the night." "he said he couldn't get here before ten or eleven, but to telephone if we needed him," broke in mrs. timberlake. "mammy riah has gone to the nursery, miss meade. is there any reason why she shouldn't stay?" "none in the world." as caroline turned away and ascended the stairs, she remembered that there had been no question of angelica. "i wish i could understand. i wish i knew what it means," she said to herself in perplexity. she felt smothered by the uncertainty, the coldness, the reserve of the people about her. everybody seemed to speak with tight lips, as if in fear lest something might escape that would help to clear away the obscurity. it was all so different from the cedars, where every thought, every joy, every grief, was lived in a common centre of experience. when she opened the nursery door, mammy riah glanced up from the fire, where she was crouching over the low fender. "i'se mortal feared, honey," she muttered, while she held out her wrinkled palms to the blaze. she had flung a shawl of crimson wool over her shoulders, and the splash of barbaric colour, with her high indian cheek bones and the low crooning sound of her voice, gave her a resemblance to some oriental crooked image of destiny. as the wind rocked the elms on the lawn, she shivered, and rolled her glittering eyes in the direction of letty's bed. "don't give up, mammy riah," said caroline consolingly. "you have nursed children through worse illnesses than this." "yas'm, i know i is, but dar wan' noner dese yer signs dat i see now." the flames leaped up suddenly, illuminating her stooping figure in the brilliant shawl with an intense and sinister glow. "i ain't sayin' nuttin'. naw'm, i ain' lettin' on dat i'se seen whut i'se seen; but dar's somebody done thowed a spell on dis place jes ez sho' ez you live. dar wuz a ring out yonder on de grass de fust thing dis mawnin', en de fros' ain' never so much ez teched it. naw, honey, de fros' hit ain' never come a nigh hit. patrick he seed hit, too, but he ain' let on nuttin' about hit needer, dough de misery is done cotched him in bofe er his feet." "you don't really think we're conjured, mammy?" mammy riah cast a secretive glance over her shoulder, and the dramatic instinct of her race awoke in every fibre of her body as she made a vague, mournful gesture over the ashes. "i 'members, honey, i 'members," she muttered ominously. though caroline had been familiar with such superstitions from infancy, there was a vividness in these mysteries and invocations which excited her imagination. she knew, as she assured herself, that there "wasn't anything in it"; yet, in spite of her reason, the image of the old woman muttering her incantations over the fire, haunted her like a prophetic vision of evil. turning away she went over to letty's bed, and laid her small, cool fingers on the child's pulse. "has there been any change?" miss webster shook her head. "she hasn't stirred." "i don't like her pulse." "it seemed a little stronger after the last medicine, but it was getting more rapid a minute ago. that old woman has been talking a lot of heathen nonsense," she added in a whisper. "she says she found a conjure ball at the front door this morning. i am from the middle west, and it sounds dreadfully uncanny to me." "i know. she thinks we are conjured. that's just their way. don't notice her." "well, i hope she isn't going to sit up all night with me." then, as mammy riah glanced suspiciously round, and began shaking her head until the shadows danced like witches, miss webster added in a more distinct tone, "is mrs. blackburn still hopeful? she is so sweet that i've quite lost my heart to her." "she wasn't at dinner," answered caroline, and going back to the fire, she sat down in a chintz-covered chair, with deep arms, and shaded her eyes from the flames. in some incomprehensible way mammy riah and blackburn and angelica, all seemed to hover in spirit round the glowing hearth. she was still sitting there, and her hand had not dropped from her eyes, when blackburn came in and crossed the floor to a chair at the foot of letty's bed. after a whispered word or two with miss webster, he opened a book he had brought with him, and held it under the night lamp on the candle-stand. when a quarter of an hour had passed caroline noticed that he had not turned a page, and that he appeared to be reading and re-reading the same paragraph, with the dogged determination which was his general attitude toward adversity. his face was worn and lined, and there were heavy shadows under his eyes; but he gave her still the impression of a man who could not be conquered by events. "there is something in him, some vein of iron, that you can't break, you can't even bend," she thought. she remembered that her father had once told her that after the worst had happened you began to take things easier; and this casual recollection seemed to give her a fresh understanding of blackburn. "father knew life," she thought, "i wonder what he would have seen in all this? i wonder how he would have liked mr. blackburn and his political theories?" the profile outlined darkly against the shade of the night lamp, held her gaze in spite of the effort she made, now and then, to avert it. it was a strong face, and seen in this light, with the guard of coldness dropped, it was a noble one. thought and feeling and idealism were there, and the serenity, not of the philosopher, but of the soldier. he had fought hard, she saw, and some deep instinct told her that he had conquered. a phrase read somewhere long ago returned to her as clearly as if it were spoken aloud. "he had triumphed over himself." that was the meaning of his look. that was the thought for which she had been groping. he had triumphed over himself. she started up quickly, and ran with noiseless steps to the bed, for letty had opened her eyes and cried out. "is she awake?" asked blackburn, and closing his book, he moved nearer. caroline's hand was on letty's pulse, and she replied without looking at him, "she is getting restless. miss webster, is it time for the medicine?" "it is not quite half-past ten. that must be the doctor now at the door." rising hurriedly, blackburn went out into the hall, and when he came back, doctor boland was with him. as caroline left the bedside and went to the chair by the fire, she heard blackburn ask sharply, "what does the change mean, doctor?" and doctor boland's soothing response, "wait a while. wait a while." then he stooped to make an examination, while miss webster prepared a stimulant, and letty moaned aloud as if she were frightened. a clock outside was just striking eleven when the doctor said in a subdued tone, too low to be natural, yet too clear to be a whisper, "her pulse is getting weaker." he bent over the bed, and as caroline stood up, she saw letty's face as if it were in a dream--the flat, soft hair, the waxen forehead, the hard, bright eyes, and the bluish circle about the small, quivering mouth. then she crossed the floor like a white shadow, and in a little while the room sank back into stillness. only the dropping of the ashes, and the low crooning of mammy riah, disturbed the almost unendurable silence. for the first hour, while she sat there, caroline felt that the discipline of her training had deserted her, and that she wanted to scream. then gradually the stillness absorbed her, and there swept over her in waves a curious feeling of lightness and buoyancy, as if her mind had detached itself from her body, and had become a part of the very pulse and rhythm of the life that surrounded her. she had always lived vividly, with the complete reaction to the moment of a vital and sensitive nature; and she became aware presently that her senses were responsive to every external impression of the room and the night. she heard the wind in the elms, the whispering of the flames, the muttering of mammy riah, the short, fretful moans that came from letty's bed; and all these things seemed a part, not of the world outside, but of her own inner consciousness. even the few pale stars shining through the window, and the brooding look of the room, with its flickering firelight and its motionless figures, appeared thin and unsubstantial as if they possessed no objective reality. and out of this vagueness and evanescence of the things that surrounded her, there stole over her a certainty, as wild and untenable as a superstition of mammy riah's, that there was a meaning in the smallest incident of the night, and that she was approaching one of the cross-roads of life. a coal dropped on the hearth; she looked up with a start, and found blackburn's eyes upon her. "miss meade, have you the time? my watch has run down." she glanced at the little clock on the mantelpiece. "it is exactly one o'clock." "thank you." his gaze passed away from her, and she leaned back in her chair, while the sense of strangeness and unreality vanished as quickly as it had come. the old negress was mending the fire with kindling wood, and every now and then she paused and shook her head darkly at the flames. "i ain' sayin' nuttin', but i knows, honey," she repeated. "hadn't you better go to bed, mammy riah?" asked caroline pityingly. "naw'm, i 'ouldn't better git to baid. i'se got ter watch." "there isn't anything that you can do, and i'll call you, if there is a change." but the old woman shook her head stubbornly. "i'se got ter watch, honey," she replied. "dat's one er dem ole squitch-owls out dar now. ain't he hollerin' jes like he knows sump'n?" her mind was plainly wandering, and seeing that persuasion was useless, caroline left her to her crooning grief, and went over to letty's bed. as she passed the door, it opened without sound, as if it were pushed by a ghost, and mrs. timberlake looked in with the question, "is she any better, doctor?" the doctor raised his head and glanced round at her. "she is no better," he answered. "her pulse gets worse all the time." unconsciously, while they spoke, they had drawn together around letty's bed, and stooping over, caroline listened with a rapidly beating heart, to the child's breathing. then, dropping on her knees, she laid her arms about the pillow, as if she would hold the fragile little body to life with all her strength. she was kneeling there, it seemed to her hours later, when the door swung wide on its hinges, and angelica, in her white robes, with the wreath of leaves on her hair, paused on the threshold like some luca della robbia angel. her golden hair made a light on her temples; her eyes were deep and starry with triumph; and a glow hung about her that was like the rosy incandescence of the stage. for a minute she stood there; then, flushed, crowned, radiant, she swept into the room. blackburn had not lifted his head; there was no sign in his stooping figure that he heard her when she cried out. "is letty really so ill? is she worse, doctor boland?" the doctor moved a step from the bed, and reached out a protecting hand. "she has been getting weaker." "i'd sit down and wait, if i were you, angelica," said mrs. timberlake, pushing forward a chair. "there isn't anything else that you can do now." but, without noticing her, angelica had dropped to her knees at caroline's side. a cry that was half a sob burst from her lips, and lifting her head, she demanded with passionate reproach and regret, "why did nobody tell me? oh, why did he let me go?" the words seemed driven from her against her will, and when she had uttered them, she fell forward across the foot of the bed, with her bare arms outstretched before her. the doctor bent over her, and instinctively, as he did so, he glanced up at blackburn, who stood, white and silent, looking down on his wife with inscrutable eyes. he uttered no word of defence, he made no movement to help her, and caroline felt suddenly that the sympathy around him had rushed back like an eddying wave to angelica. "if he would only speak, if he would only defend himself," she thought almost angrily. without turning, she knew that angelica was led to the couch by the window, and she heard mrs. timberlake say in unemotional tones, "i reckon we'd better give her a dose of ammonia." the voices were silent, and except for mrs. blackburn's sobs and letty's rapid breathing, there was no sound in the room. suddenly from somewhere outside there floated the plaintive whining of the dog that caroline had heard in the afternoon. "he must be missing mary," she found herself thinking, while mammy riah murmured uneasily from the hearth, "hit's a bad sign, w'en a dawg howls in de daid er night." the hours dragged on like eternity, and without moving, without stirring or lifting her eyes, caroline knelt there, pouring her strength into the life of the unconscious child. every thought, every feeling, every throbbing nerve, was concentrated upon this solitary consuming purpose--"letty must live." science had done all it could; it remained now for hope and courage to fight the losing fight to the end. "i will never give up," she said sternly under her breath, "i will never give up." if hope and courage could save, if it were possible for the human will to snatch the victory from death, she felt, deep down in the passionate depths of her heart, that, while she watched over her, letty could not die. and then gradually, while she prayed, a change as light as a shadow stole over the face of the child. the little features grew less waxen, the glittering eyes melted to a dewy warmth, and it seemed that the blue circles faded slowly, and even the close brown hair looked less dull and lifeless. as the minutes passed, caroline held her breath in torture, lest the faintest sound, the slightest movement, might check the invisible beneficent current. at last, when the change had come, she rose from her knees, and with her hand on letty's pulse, looked up at blackburn. "the crisis is past. her hand is moist, and her pulse is better," she said. he started up, and meeting her joyous eyes, stood for an instant perfectly motionless, with his gaze on her face. "thank god!" he exclaimed in a whisper. as he turned away and went out of the door, caroline glanced over her shoulder, and saw that there was a glimmer of dawn at the window. chapter xii the world's view of an unfortunate marriage on a cloudy morning in december, caroline ran against daisy colfax as she came out of a milliner's shop in broad street. "oh, miss meade, i've been dying to see you and hear news of letty!" exclaimed the young woman in her vivacious manner. she was wearing a hat of royal purple, with a sweeping wing which intensified the brilliant dusk of her hair and eyes. "she is quite well again, though of course we are very careful. i came in to look for some small artificial flowers for a doll's hat. we are dressing a doll." "it must have been a dreadful strain, and cousin matty timberlake told mother she didn't know what they would have done without you. i think it is wonderful the way you keep looking so well." "oh, the work is easy," responded caroline gravely. "i am sure you are a perfect blessing to them all, especially to poor angelica," pursued daisy, in her rippling, shallow voice. then, in the very centre of the crowded street, regardless of the pedestrians streaming by on either side of her, she added on a higher note: "have you heard what everybody is saying about the way david blackburn behaved? robert insists he doesn't believe a word of it; but then robert never believes anything except the bible, so i told him i was going to ask you the very first chance i got. there isn't a bit of use trying to find out anything from cousin matty timberlake because she is so awfully close-mouthed, and i said to robert only this morning that i was perfectly sure you would understand why i wanted to know. it isn't just gossip. i am not repeating a thing that i oughtn't to; but the stories are all over town, and if they aren't true, i want to be in a position to deny them." "what are the stories?" asked caroline, and she continued immediately, before she was submerged again in the bubbling stream of daisy's narrative, "of course it isn't likely that i can help you. this is the first time i have been in town since letty's illness." "but that is exactly why you ought to know." as daisy leaned nearer her purple wing brushed caroline's face. "it is all over richmond, miss meade," her voice rang out with fluting sweetness, "that david blackburn kept letty's condition from angelica because he was so crazy about her being in those tableaux. they say he simply _made_ her go, and that she never knew the child was in danger until she got back in the night. mrs. mallow declares she heard it straight from an intimate friend of the family, and somebody, who asked me not to mention her name, told me she knew positively that doctor boland hadn't any use in the world for david blackburn. she said, of course, he hadn't said anything outright, but she could tell just by the way he looked. everybody is talking about it, and i said to robert at breakfast that i knew you could tell exactly what happened because we heard from cousin matty that you never left letty's room." "but why should mr. blackburn have wanted her to go? why should he care?" though daisy's sprightly story had confused her a little, caroline gathered vaguely that somebody had been talking too much, and she resolved that she would not contribute a single word to the gossip. "oh, he has always been wild about angelica's being admired. don't you remember hearing her say at that committee meeting at briarlay that her husband liked her to take part in public affairs? i happen to know that he has almost forced her to go into things time and again when doctor boland has tried to restrain her. mother thinks that is really why he married angelica, because he was so ambitious, and he believed her beauty and charm would help him in the world. i suppose it must have been a blow to him to find that she couldn't tolerate his views--for she is the most loyal soul on earth--and there are a great many people who think that he voted with the republicans in the hope of an office, and that he got mad when he didn't get one and turned independent----" the flood of words was checked for a moment, while the chauffeur came to ask for a direction, and in the pause caroline remarked crisply, "i don't believe one word--not one single word of these stories." "you mean you think he didn't make her go?" "i know he didn't. i'm perfectly positive." "you can't believe that angelica really knew letty was so ill?" her tone was frankly incredulous. "of course i can't answer that. i don't know anything about what she thought; but i am certain that if she didn't understand, it wasn't mr. blackburn's fault." afterwards, when she recalled it, her indignant defence of david blackburn amused her. why should she care what people said of him? "but they say she didn't know. mrs. mallow told me she heard from someone who was there that angelica turned on her husband when she came in and asked him why he had kept it from her?" the hopelessness of her cause aroused caroline's fighting blood, and she remembered that her father used to say the best battles of the war were fought after defeat. strange how often his philosophy and experience of life came back to inspirit her! "well, perhaps she didn't understand, but mr. blackburn wasn't to blame. i am sure of it," she answered firmly. mrs. colfax looked at her sharply. "do you like david blackburn?" she inquired without malice. caroline flushed. "i neither like nor dislike him," she retorted courageously, and wondered how long it would take the remark to circulate over richmond. mrs. colfax was pretty, amiable, and amusing; but she was one of those light and restless women, as clear as running water, on whose sparkling memories scandals float like straws. nothing ever sank to the depths--or perhaps there were no depths in the luminous shoals of her nature. "well, the reason i asked," daisy had become ingratiating, "is that you talk exactly like cousin matty." "do i?" caroline laughed. "mrs. timberlake is a very sensible woman." "yes, mother insists that she is as sharp as a needle, even if it is so hard to get anything out of her. oh, i've kept you an age--and, good heavens, it is long past my appointment at the dentist's! i can't tell you how glad i am that i met you, and you may be sure that whenever i hear these things repeated, i am going to say that you don't believe one single word of them. it is splendid of you to stand up for what you think, and that reminds me of the nice things i heard roane fitzhugh saying about you at the mallow's the other night. he simply raved over you. i couldn't make him talk about anything else." "i don't like to be disagreeable, but what he thinks doesn't interest me in the least," rejoined caroline coldly. daisy laughed delightedly. "now, that's too bad, because i believe he is falling in love with you. he told me he went motoring with you and angelica almost every afternoon. take my word for it, miss meade, roane isn't half so black as he is painted, and he's just the sort that would settle down when he met the right woman. good-bye again! i have enjoyed so much my little chat with you." she rushed off to her car, while caroline turned quickly into a cross street, and hastened to meet angelica at the office of a new doctor, who was treating her throat. a few drops of rain were falling, and ahead of her, when she reached franklin street, the city, with its church spires and leafless trees, emerged indistinctly out of the mist. here the long street was almost deserted, except for a blind negro beggar, whose stick tapped the pavement behind her, and a white and liver-coloured setter nosing adventurously in the gutter. then, in the middle of the block, she saw angelica's car waiting, and a minute later, to her disgust, she discerned the face of roane fitzhugh at the window. as she recognized him, the anger that mrs. colfax's casual words had aroused, blazed up in her without warning; and she told herself that she would leave briarlay before she would allow herself to be gossiped about with a man she detested. while she approached, roane opened the door and jumped out. "come inside and wait, miss meade," he said. "anna jeannette is still interviewing old skull and cross-bones." "i'd rather wait in the office, thank you." she swept past him with dignity, but before she reached the steps of the doctor's house, he had overtaken her. "oh, i say, don't crush a chap! haven't you seen enough of me yet to discover that i am really as harmless as i look? you don't honestly think me a rotter, do you?" "i don't think about you." "the unkindest cut of all! now, if you only knew it, your thinking of me would do a precious lot of good. by the way, how is my niece?" "very well. you'd scarcely know she'd been ill." "and she didn't see the tableaux, after all, poor kid. well, anna jeannette was a stunner. i suppose you saw her picture in the papers. the washington _examiner_ spoke of her as the most beautiful woman in virginia. that takes old black, i bet!" caroline had ascended the steps, and as she was about to touch the bell, the door opened quickly, and angelica appeared, lowering a net veil which was covered with a large spiral pattern. she looked slightly perturbed, and when she saw roane a frown drew her delicate eyebrows together. her colour had faded, leaving a sallow tone to her skin, which was of the fine, rose-leaf texture that withers early. "i can't take you to-day, roane," she remarked hastily. "we must go straight back to briarlay. miss meade came in to do some shopping for letty." "you'll have to take me as far as monument avenue." he was as ready as ever. "it is a long way, anna jeannette. i cannot walk, to crawl i am ashamed." "well, get in, and please try to behave yourself." "if behaviour is all that you expect, i shall try to satisfy you. the truth is i'm dead broke, and being broke always makes a christian of me. i feel as blue as old black." "oh, roane, stop joking!" her sweetness was growing prickly. "you don't realize that when you run on like this people think you are serious. i have just heard some silly talk about miss meade and you, and it came from nothing in the world except your habit of saying everything that comes into your mind." "in the first place, my dear anna, nothing that you hear of miss meade could be silly, and in the second place, i've never spoken her name except when i was serious." "well, you ought to be more careful how you talk to daisy colfax. she repeats everything in the world that she hears." he laughed shortly. "you'd say that if you'd heard the hot shot she gave me last night about you and blackburn. look here, anna jeannette, hadn't you better call a halt on the thing?" she flushed indignantly. "i haven't the slightest idea what you are talking about." "oh, it's all rot, i know, but how the deuce does such tittle-tattle get started? i beg your pardon, miss meade, i am addressing you not as a woman, but as a fount of justice and equity, and in the presence of anna jeannette, i ask you frankly if you don't think it's a bit rough on old black? we had our quarrel, and i assure you that i have no intention of voting with him; but when it comes to knifing a man in the back, then i must beg the adorable daisy to excuse me. it takes a woman to do that--and, by jove, old black may be a bit of a heavyweight, but he is neither a coward nor a liar." "i think you are right," responded caroline, and it was the first time that she had ever agreed with an opinion of roane's. "i wish i knew what you are talking about," said angelica wearily, "roane, do you get out here?" "i do, with regret." as he glanced back from the pavement, his face, except for the droop of the well-cut lips and the alcoholic puffs under the gay blue eyes, might have been a thicker and grosser copy of angelica's. "will you take me to-morrow?" mrs. blackburn shook her head. "i am obliged to go to a meeting." he appeared to catch at the idea. "then perhaps miss meade and letty may take pity on me?" a worried look sharpened angelica's features, but before she could reply, caroline answered quickly, "we are not going without mrs. blackburn. letty and i would just as soon walk." "ah, you walk, do you? then we may meet some day in the road." though he spoke jestingly, there was an undercurrent of seriousness in his voice. "we don't walk in the road, and we like to go by ourselves. we are studying nature." as she responded she raised her eyes, and swept his face with a careless and indifferent glance. "take your hand from the door, roane," said mrs. blackburn, "and the next time you see daisy colfax, please remember what i told you." the car started while she was speaking, and a minute later, as roane's figure passed out of sight, she observed playfully, "you mustn't let that bad brother of mine annoy you, miss meade. he doesn't mean all that he says." "i am sure that he doesn't mean anything," returned caroline with a smile, "but, if you don't mind, i'd rather not go to drive with him again." the look of sharpness and worry disappeared from angelica's face. "it is such a comfort, the way you take things," she remarked. "one can always count on your intelligence." "i shouldn't have thought that it required intelligence to see through your brother," retorted caroline gaily. "any old common sense might do it!" "can you understand," angelica gazed at her as if she were probing her soul, "what his attraction is for women?" "no, i can't. i hope you don't mind my speaking the truth?" "not in the least." angelica was unusually responsive. "but you couldn't imagine how many women have been in love with him. it isn't any secret that daisy colfax was wild about him the year she came out. the family broke it up because roane was so dissipated, but everybody knows she still cared for roane when she married robert." "she seems happy now with mr. colfax." "well, i don't mean that she isn't. there are some women who can settle down with almost any man, and though i am very fond of dear daisy, there isn't any use pretending that she hasn't a shallow nature. still there are people, you know, who say that she isn't really as satisfied as she tries to make you believe, and that her rushing about as much as she does is a sign that she regrets her marriage. i am sure, whatever she feels or doesn't feel, that she is the love of poor roane's life." it was not angelica's habit to gossip, and while she ran on smoothly, reciting her irrelevant detail as if it were poetry, caroline became aware that there was a serious motive beneath her apparent flippancy. "i suppose she is trying to warn me away from roane," she thought scornfully, "as if there were any need of it!" after this they were both silent until the car turned into the drive and stopped before the white columns. the happiness caroline had once felt in the mere presence of angelica had long ago faded, though she still thought her lovely and charming, and kind enough if one were careful not to cross her desires. she did not judge her harshly for her absence on the night of letty's illness, partly because letty had recovered, and partly because she was convinced that there had been an unfortunate misunderstanding--that blackburn had failed to speak as plainly as he ought to have done. "of course he thought he did," she had decided, in a generous effort to clear everybody from blame, "but the fact remains that there was a mistake--that mrs. blackburn did not take it just as he meant it." this, in the circumstances, was the best she felt that anybody could do. if neither blackburn nor angelica was to blame, then surely she must shift the responsibility to that flimsy abstraction she defined as "the way things happen in life." upstairs in the nursery they broke in upon a flutter of joyous excitement. mary had just returned after a month's absence, and letty was busily arranging a doll's tea party in honour of her aunt's arrival. the child looked pale and thin, but she had on a new white dress, and had tied a blue bow on her hair, which was combed primly back from her forehead. mammy riah had drawn the nursery table in front of the fire, and she was now placing a row of white and blue cups, and some plates of sponge cake and thinly sliced bread and butter, on the embroidered cloth she had borrowed from mrs. timberlake. the dignified old negress, in her full-waisted dress of black bombazine and her spotless white turban, was so unlike the demented figure that had crouched by the hearth on the night of letty's illness, that, if caroline had been less familiar with the impressionable mind of the negro, she would not have recognized her. "so i'm back," said mary, looking at them with her kind, frank glance, as they entered. she was still in her travelling clothes, and caroline thought she had never seen her so handsome as she was in the smartly cut suit of brown homespun. "letty is going to give me a party, only she must hurry, for if i don't get on a horse soon i'll forget how to sit in the saddle. well, angelica, i hear you were the whole show in the tableaux," she pursued in her nice, slangy manner, which was so perfectly in character with her boyish face and her straight, loose-limbed figure. "your picture was in at least six magazines, though, i must say, they made you look a little too spectral for my taste. how are you feeling? you are just a trifle run down, aren't you?" "of course letty's illness was a great strain," replied angelica. "one never realizes how such shocks tell until they are over." "poor lamb! look here, letty, who is coming to this feast of joy? do you mind if i bolt in the midst of it?" "father's coming and aunt matty," replied the child. "i couldn't have anybody else because mammy thought mother wouldn't like me to ask john. i like john, and he's white anyway." "oh, the footman! well, as long as you haven't invited him, i suppose there'll be only home folks. i needn't stand on formality with your father and cousin matty." "and there's mother--you'll come, won't you, mother?--and miss meade," added letty. "yes, i'll come," responded angelica. "i'm dying for my tea, dear, isn't it ready?" "may i pour it for you? i'll be very careful, and i know just how you like it." "yes, you may pour it, but let mammy riah help you. here's your father now, and cousin matty." "hallo, david!" mary's voice rang out clearly. "you look just a bit seedy, don't you? letty's illness seems to have knocked out everybody except the youngster herself. even miss meade looks as if she'd been giving too much medicine." then she turned to embrace mrs. timberlake, while blackburn crossed the room and sat down near the fireplace. "well, daughter, it isn't a birthday, is it?" letty, with her head bent sideways, and her small mouth screwed up very tight, was pouring angelica's tea with the aid of mammy riah. "you mustn't talk to me while i am pouring, father," she answered seriously. "i am so afraid i shall spill it, and mother can't bear to have it spilt." "all right. i'll talk to your aunt mary. any news, mary?" "yes, there's news, david. alan is coming in for his own, and it looks as if his own were enough for us." "you mean the old man in chicago----?" "he died last week, just as he was celebrating his ninetieth birthday. at ninety one couldn't reasonably have asked for very much more, do you think?" "and is alan his heir?" "his one and only. to be sure he wrote a will a few weeks ago and left every cent of it--i can't begin to remember the millions--to some missionary society, but fortunately he had neglected or forgotten to sign it. so alan gets the whole thing, bless his heart, and he's out there now in chicago having legal bouts with a dozen or more lawyers." for the first time angelica spoke. "is it true that alan will be one of the richest men in the west?" she asked slowly. "thank you, letty, darling, my tea is exactly right." "if he gets it all, and he is going to unless another will and a missionary society come to light. my dear angelica, when you see me a year hence," she continued whimsically, "you won't recognize your dependent sister. alan says he is going to give me a string of pearls even finer than yours." she spoke jestingly, yet as caroline watched angelica's face, it occurred to her that mary was not always tactful. the girl ought to have known by this time that angelica had no sense of humour and could not bear to be teased. "it's funny, isn't it, the way life works out?" said mrs. timberlake. "to think of mary's having more things than angelica! it doesn't seem natural, somehow." "no, it doesn't," assented mary, in her habitual tone of boyish chaffing. "but as far as the 'things' go, angelica needn't begin to worry. give me alan and a good horse, and she may have all the pearls that ever came out of the ocean." "i read an account in some magazine of the jewels old mrs. wythe left," remarked angelica thoughtfully. "she owned the finest emeralds in america." her reflections, whatever they were, brought the thin, cold look to her features. "can you imagine me wearing the finest emeralds in america?" demanded mary. "there's a comfort for you, at any rate, in the thought that they wouldn't be becoming to you. green isn't your colour, my dear, and white stones are really the only ones that suit you. now, i am so big and bold that i could carry off rubies." her laughing tone changed suddenly, "why, angelica, what is the matter? have you a headache?" "i feel very tired. the truth is i haven't quite got over the strain of letty's illness. when does alan come back, dear? i suppose you won't put off the wedding much longer? mother used to say that a long engagement meant an unhappy marriage." "alan gets back next week, i hope, and as for the wedding--well, we haven't talked it over, but i imagine we'll settle on the early summer--june probably. it's a pity it has to be so quiet, or i might have miss meade for a bridesmaid. she'd make an adorable bridesmaid in an orchid-coloured gown and a flower hat, wouldn't she, cousin matty?" "i'd rather dress you in your veil and orange blossoms," laughed caroline. "diana or i have pinned on almost every wedding veil of the last five years in southside virginia." "oh, is aunt mary really going to be married at last?" asked letty, with carefully subdued excitement, "and may i go to church? i do hope i shan't have to miss it as i did mother's tableau," she added wistfully. "you shan't miss it, dearie," said mary, "not if i have to be married up here in the nursery." angelica had risen, and she stooped now to pick up her furs which she had dropped. "your tea was lovely, letty dear," she said gently, "but i'm so tired that i think i'll go and lie down until dinner." "you must pick up before alan gets back," remarked mary lightly. "he thinks you the most beautiful woman in the world, you know." "he does? how very sweet of him!" exclaimed angelica, turning in the doorway, and throwing an animated glance back into the room. her face, which had been wan and listless an instant before, was now glowing, while her rare, lovely smile irradiated her features. when she had gone, mary went to change into her riding clothes, and caroline slipped away to take off her hat. a few minutes later, she came back with some brown yarn in her hand, and found that blackburn was still sitting in the big chintz-covered chair by the hearth. letty had dragged a footstool to the rug, and she was leaning against her father's knee while he questioned her about the stories in her reader. "i know miss meade can tell you," said the child as caroline entered. "miss meade, do you remember the story about the little girl who got lost and went to live with the fairies? is it in my reader? father, what is the difference between an angel and a fairy? mrs. aylett says that mother is an angel. is she a fairy too?" "you'd think she was sometimes to look at her," replied blackburn, smiling. "well, if mother is an angel, why aren't you one? i asked mrs. aylett that, but she didn't tell me." "you could scarcely blame her," laughed blackburn. "it is a hard question." "i asked miss meade, too, but she didn't tell me either." "now, i should have thought better of miss meade." as blackburn lifted his face, it looked young and boyish. "is it possible that she is capable of an evasion?" "what does that word mean, father?" "it means everything, my daughter, that miss meade is not." "you oughtn't to tease the child, david," said mrs. timberlake. "she is so easily excited." caroline and the old lady had both unfolded their knitting; and the clicking of their needles made a cheerful undercurrent to the conversation. the room looked homelike and pleasant in the firelight, and leaning back in his chair, blackburn gazed with half-closed eyes at the two women and the child outlined against the shimmering glow of the flames. "you are like the fates," he said presently after a silence in which letty sank drowsily against him. "do you never put down your knitting?" "well, angelica promised so many, and it makes her nervous to hear the needles," rejoined mrs. timberlake. "it is evidently soothing to you and miss meade." "the difference, i reckon, is that we don't stop to think whether it is or not." mrs. timberlake was always curt when she approached the subject of angelica. "i've noticed that when you can't afford nerves, you don't seem to have them." "that's considerate of nature, to say the least." his voice had borrowed the chaffing tone of mary's. as if in response to his words, mrs. timberlake rolled up the half-finished muffler, thrust her long knitting needles through the mesh, and leaned forward until she met blackburn's eyes. "david," she said in a low, harsh voice, "there is something i want to ask you, and miss meade might as well hear it. is letty asleep?" "she is dozing, but speak guardedly. this daughter of mine is a keen one." "well, she won't understand what i am talking about. did you or did you not think that you had spoken plainly to angelica that evening?" he looked at her through narrowed lids. "what does she say?" "she says she didn't understand. it is all over town that she didn't know letty's condition was serious." "then why do you ask me? if she didn't understand, i must have blundered in the telling. that's the only possible answer to your question." he rose as he spoke, and lifting letty from the footstool, placed her gently between the deep arms of the chair. "isn't there anything that you can say, david?" "no, that seems to be the trouble. there isn't anything that i can say." already he was on his way to the door, and as he glanced back, caroline noticed that, in spite of his tenderness with the child, his face looked sad and stern. "there's a man waiting for me downstairs," he added, "but i'll see you both later. wake letty before long or she won't sleep to-night." then he went out quickly, while mrs. timberlake turned to take up her knitting. "if i didn't know that david blackburn had plenty of sense about some things," she remarked grimly while she drew the needle from the roll, "i'd be tempted to believe that he was a perfect fool." chapter xiii indirect influence in january a heavy snow fell, and letty, who had begun to cough again, was kept indoors for a week. after the morning lessons were over, mammy riah amused the child, while caroline put on her hat and coat, and went for a brisk walk down the lane to the road. once or twice mary joined her, but since alan's return caroline saw the girl less and less, and no one else in the house appeared to have the spirit for exercise. blackburn she met only at breakfast and luncheon, and since christmas he seemed to have become completely engrossed in his plans. after the talk she had heard on the terrace, his figure slowly emerged out of the mist of perplexity in her mind. he was no longer the obscure protagonist of a vague political unrest, for the old dishonourable bond which had linked him, in her imagination, to the southern republicans of her father's day, was broken forever. she was intelligent enough to grasp the difference between the forces of reaction and development; and she understood now that blackburn had worked out a definite theory--that his thinking had crystallized into a constructive social philosophy. "he knows the south, he understands it," she thought. "he sees it, not made, but becoming. that is the whole difference between him and father. father was as patriotic as mr. blackburn, but father's patriotism clung to the past--it was grateful and commemorative--and mr. blackburn's strives toward the future, for it is active and creative. father believed that the south was separate from the union, like one of the sacred old graveyards, with bricked-up walls, in the midst of cornfields, while the younger man, also believing it to be sacred, is convinced that it must be absorbed into the nation--that its traditions and ideals must go to enrich the common soil of america." already she was beginning insensibly to associate blackburn with the great group of early virginians, with the men in whom love of country was a vital and living thing, the men who laid the foundation and planned the structure of the american republic. "do you think mr. blackburn feels as strongly as he talks?" she asked mrs. timberlake one afternoon when they were standing together by the nursery window. it had been snowing hard, and caroline, in an old coat with a fur cap on her head, was about to start for a walk. mrs. timberlake was staring intently through her spectacles at one of the snow-laden evergreens on the lawn. a covering of powdery white wrapped the drive and the landscape, and, now and then, when the wind rattled the ice-coated branches of the elms, there was a sharp crackling noise as of breaking boughs. "i reckon he does," she replied after a pause, "though i can't see to save my life what he expects to get out of it." "do you think it is ambition with him? it seems to me, since i heard him talk, that he really believes he has a message, that he can serve his country. until i met him," caroline added, half humorously, "i had begun to feel that the men of to-day loved their country only for what they could get out of it." "well, i expect david is as disinterested as anybody else," observed mrs. timberlake drily, "but that seems to me all the more reason why he'd better let things jog along as they are, and not try to upset them. but there isn't any use talking. david sets more store by those ideas of his than he does by any living thing in the world, unless it's letty. they are his life, and i declare i sometimes think he feels about them as he used to feel about angelica before he married her--the sort of thing you never expect to see outside of poetry." she had long ago lost her reserve in caroline's presence, and the effect of what she called "bottling up" for so many years, gave a crispness and roundness to her thoughts which was a refreshing contrast to angelica's mental vagueness. "i can understand it," said caroline, "i mean i can understand a man's wanting to have some part in moulding the thought of his time. father used to be like that. only it was virginia, not america, that he cared for. he wanted to help steer virginia over the rapids, he used to say. i was brought up in the midst of politics. that's the reason it sounded so natural to me when mr. blackburn was talking." letty, who had been playing with her dolls on the hearthrug, deserted them abruptly, and ran over to the window. "oh, miss meade, do you think i am going to be well for aunt mary's wedding?" "why, of course you are. this is only january, darling, and the wedding won't be till june." "and is that a very long time?" "months and months. the roses will be blooming, and you will have forgotten all about your cold." "well, i hope i shan't miss that too," murmured the child, going gravely back to her dolls. "i never heard anything like the way that child runs on," said mrs. timberlake, turning away from the window. "are you really going out in this cold? there doesn't seem a bit of sense in getting chilled to the bone unless you are obliged to." "oh, i like it. it does me good." "you've stopped motoring with angelica, haven't you?" "yes, we haven't been for several weeks. for one thing the weather has been so bad." "i got an idea it was because of roane fitzhugh," said the old lady, in her tart way. "i hope you won't think i am interfering, but i'm old and you're young, and so you won't mind my giving you a little wholesome advice. if i were you, my dear, i shouldn't pay a bit of attention to anything that roane says to me." "but i don't. i never have," rejoined caroline indignantly. "how on earth could you have got such an idea?" a look of mystification flickered over mrs. timberlake's face. "well, i am sure i don't mean any harm, my child," she responded soothingly. "i didn't think you would mind a word of warning from an old woman, and i know that roane can have a very taking way when he wants to." "i think he's hateful--perfectly hateful," replied caroline. then, drawing on her heavy gloves, she shook her head with a laugh as she started to the door. "if that's all you have to worry about, you may rest easy," she tossed back gaily. "letty, darling, when i come in i'll tell you all about my adventures and the bears i meet in the lane." the terrace and the garden were veiled in white, and the only sound in the intense frozen stillness was the crackling of elm boughs as the wind rocked them. a heavy cloud was hanging low in the west, and beneath it a flock of crows flew slowly in blue-black curves over the white fields. for a minute or two caroline stood watching them, and, while she paused there, a clear silver light streamed suddenly in rays over the hills, and the snow-covered world looked as if it were imprisoned in crystal. every frosted branch, every delicate spiral on the evergreens, was intensified and illuminated. then the wind swept up with a rush of sound from the river, and it was as if the shining landscape had found a melodious voice--as if it were singing. the frozen fountain and the white trees and the half buried shrubs under the mounds of snow, joined in presently like harps in a heavenly choir. "i suppose it is only the wind," she thought, "but it is just as if nature were praising god with music and prayer." in the lane the trees were silvered, and little darting shadows, like violet birds, chased one another down the long white vista to the open road. walking was difficult on the slippery ground, and caroline went carefully, stopping now and then to look up into the swinging boughs overhead, or to follow the elusive flight of the shadows. when she reached the end of the lane, she paused, before turning, to watch a big motor car that was ploughing through the heavy snowdrifts. a moment later the car stopped just in front of her, a man jumped out into a mound of snow, and she found herself reluctantly shaking hands with roane fitzhugh. "tom benton was taking me into town," he explained, "but as soon as i saw you, i told him he'd have to go on alone. so this is where you walk? lucky trees." "i was just turning." as she spoke she moved back into the lane. "it is a pity you got out." "oh, somebody else will come along presently. i'm in no sort of hurry." his face was flushed and mottled, and she suspected, from the excited look in his eyes, that he had been drinking. even with her first impulse of recoil, she felt the pity of his wasted and ruined charm. with his straight fine features, so like angelica's, his conquering blue eyes, and his thick fair hair, he was like the figure of a knight in some early flemish painting. "it's jolly meeting you this way," he said, a trifle thickly. "by jove, you look stunning--simply stunning." "please don't come with me. i'd rather go back alone," she returned, with chill politeness. "your sister went into richmond an hour ago. i think she is at a reception mrs. colfax is giving." "well, i didn't come to see anna jeannette." he spoke this time with exaggerated care as if he were pronouncing a foreign language. "don't hurry, miss meade. i'm not a tiger. i shan't eat you. are you afraid?" "of you?" she glanced at him scornfully. "how could you hurt me?" "how indeed? but if not of me, of yourself? i've seen women afraid of themselves, and they hurried just as you are doing." unconsciously her steps slackened. "i am not afraid of myself, and if i were, i shouldn't run away." "you mean you'd stay and fight it out?" "i mean i'd stay and get the better of the fear, or what caused it. i couldn't bear to be afraid." his careless gaze became suddenly intense, and before the red sparks that glimmered in his eyes, she drew hastily to the other side of the lane. a wave of physical disgust, so acute that it was like nausea, swept over her. even in the hospital the sight of a drunken man always affected her like this, and now it was much worse because the brute--she thought of him indignantly as "the brute"--was actually trying to make love to her--to her, caroline meade! "then if you aren't afraid of me, why do you avoid me?" he demanded. at this she stopped short in order to face him squarely. "since you wish to know," she replied slowly, "i avoid you because i don't like the kind of man you are." he lowered his eyes for an instant, and when he raised them they were earnest and pleading. "then make me the kind of man you like. you can if you try. you could do anything with me if you cared--you are so good." "i don't care." a temptation to laugh seized her, but she checked it, and spoke gravely. the relations between men and women, which had seemed as natural and harmonious as the interdependence of the planets, had become jangled and discordant. something had broken out in her universe which threatened to upset its equilibrium. "i don't doubt that there are a number of good women who would undertake your regeneration, but i like my work better," she added distantly. she was sure now that he had been drinking, and, as he came nearer and the smell of whiskey reached her, she quickened her steps almost into a run over the frozen ground. some deep instinct told her that at her first movement of flight he would touch her, and she thought quite calmly, with the clearness and precision of mind she had acquired in the hospital, that if he were to touch her she would certainly strike him. she was not frightened--her nerves were too robust for fear--but she was consumed with a still, cold rage, which made even the icy branches feel warm as they brushed her cheek. "now, you are running again, miss meade. why won't you be kind to me? can't you see that i am mad about you? ever since the first day i saw you, you've been in my thoughts every minute. honestly you could make a man out of me, if you'd only be a little bit human. i'll do anything you wish. i'll be anything you please, if you'll only like me." for a moment she thought he was going to break down and cry, and she wondered, with professional concern, if a little snow on his forehead would bring him to his senses. this was evidently the way he had talked to mary when blackburn ordered him out of the house. "i wish you would go back," she said in a tone she used to delirious patients in the hospital. "we are almost at the house, and mr. blackburn wouldn't like your coming to briarlay." "well, the old chap's in town, isn't he?" "it is time for him to come home. he may be here any moment." though she tried to reason the question with him, she was conscious of a vague, uneasy suspicion that they were rapidly approaching the state where reasoning would be as futile as flight. then she remembered hearing somewhere that a drunken man would fall down if he attempted to run, and she considered for an instant making an open dash for the house. "i'll go, if you'll let me come back to-morrow. i'm not a bad fellow, miss meade." a sob choked him. "i've got a really good heart--ask anna jeannette if i haven't----" "i don't care whether you are bad or not. i don't want to know anything about you. only go away. nothing that you can do will make me like you," she threw out unwisely under the spur of anger. "women never think that they can cajole or bully a person into caring--only men imagine they have the power to do that, and it's all wrong because they can't, and they never have. bullying doesn't do a bit more good than whining, so please stop that, too. i don't like you because i don't respect you, and nothing you can say or do will have the slightest effect unless you were to make yourself into an entirely different sort of man--a man i didn't despise." her words pelted him like stones, and while he stood there, blinking foolishly beneath the shower, she realized that he had not taken in a single sentence she had uttered. he looked stunned but obstinate, and a curious dusky redness was beating like a pulse in his forehead. "you can't fight me," he muttered huskily. "don't fight me." "i am not fighting you. i am asking you to go away." "i told you i'd go, if you'd let me come back to-morrow." "of course i shan't. how dare you ask me such a thing? can't you see how you disgust me?" as she spoke she made a swift movement toward the turn in the lane, and the next minute, while her feet slipped on the ice, she felt roane's arms about her, and knew that he was struggling frantically to kiss her lips. for years no man had kissed her, and as she fought wildly to escape, she was possessed not by terror, but by a blind and primitive fury. civilization dropped away from her, and she might have been the first woman struggling against attack in the depths of some tropic jungle. "i'd like to kill you," she thought, and freeing one arm, she raised her hand and struck him between the eyes. "i wonder why some woman hasn't killed him before this? i believe i am stronger than he is." the blow was not a soft one, and his arms fell away from her, while he shook his head as if to prevent a rush of blood to the brain. "you hurt me--i believe you wanted to hurt me," he muttered in a tone of pained and incredulous surprise. then recovering his balance with difficulty, he added reproachfully, "i didn't know you could hit like that. i thought you were more womanly. i thought you were more womanly," he repeated sorrowfully, while he put his hand to his head, and then gazed at it, as if he expected to find blood on his fingers. "now, perhaps you'll go," said caroline quietly. while the words were on her lips, she became aware that a shadow had fallen over the snow at her side, and glancing round, she saw blackburn standing motionless in the lane. her first impression was that he seemed enormous as he stood there, with his hands hanging at his sides, and the look of sternness and immobility in his face. his eyelids were half closed with the trick he had when he was gazing intently, and the angry light seemed to have changed his eyes from grey to hazel. "i am sorry to interrupt you," he said in a voice that had a dangerous quietness, "but i think roane is scarcely in a fit state for a walk." "i'd like to know why i am not?" demanded roane, sobered and resentful. "i'm not drunk. who says i am drunk?" "well, if you aren't, you ought to be." then the anger which blackburn had kept down rushed into his voice. "you had better go!" roane had stopped blinking, and while the redness ebbed from his forehead, he stood staring helplessly not at blackburn, but at caroline. "i'll go," he said at last, "if miss meade will say that she forgives me." but there was little of the sister of mercy in caroline's heart. she had been grossly affronted, and anger devoured her like a flame. her blue eyes shone, her face flushed and paled with emotion, and, for the moment, under the white trees, in the midst of the frosted world, her elusive beauty became vivid and dazzling. "i shall not forgive you, and i hope i shall never see you again," she retorted. "you'd better go, roane," repeated blackburn quietly, and as caroline hurried toward the house, he overtook her with a rapid step, and said in a troubled voice, "it is partly my fault, miss meade. i have intended to warn you." "to warn me?" her voice was crisp with anger. "i felt that you did not understand." "understand what?" she looked at him with puzzled eyes. "i may be incredibly stupid, but i don't understand now." for an instant he hesitated, and she watched a deeper flush rise in his face. "in a way you are under my protection," he said at last, "and for this reason i have meant to warn you against roane fitzhugh--against the danger of these meetings." "these meetings?" light burst on her while she stared on him. "is it possible that you think this was a meeting? do you dream that i have been seeing roane fitzhugh of my own accord? have you dared to think such a thing? to imagine that i wanted to see him--that i came out to meet him?" the note of scorn ended in a sob while she buried her face in her hands, and stood trembling with shame and anger before him. "but i understood. i was told----" he was stammering awkwardly. "isn't it true that you felt an interest--that you were trying to help him?" at this her rage swept back again, and dropping her hands, she lifted her swimming eyes to his face. "how dare you think such a thing of me?" "i am sorry." he was still groping in darkness. "you mean you did not know he was coming to-day?" "of course i didn't know. do you think i should have come out if i had known?" "and you have never met him before? never expected to meet him?" "oh, what are you saying? why can't you speak plainly?" a shiver ran through her. "i understood that you liked him." after her passionate outburst his voice sounded strangely cold and detached. "and that i came out to meet him?" "i was afraid that you met him outside because i had forbidden him to come to briarlay. i wanted to explain to you--to protect you----" "but i don't need your protection." she had thrown back her head, and her shining eyes met his bravely. her face had grown pale, but her lips were crimson, and her voice was soft and rich. "i don't need your protection, and after what you have thought of me, i can't stay here any longer. i can't----" as her words stopped, checked by the feeling of helplessness that swept her courage away, he said very gently, "but there isn't any reason---- why, i haven't meant to hurt you. i'm a bit rough, perhaps, but i'd as soon think of hurting letty. no, don't run away until i've said a word to you. let's be reasonable, if there has been a misunderstanding. come, now, suppose we talk it out as man to man." his tone had softened, but in her resentment she barely noticed the change. "no, i'd rather not. there isn't anything to say," she answered hurriedly. then, as she was about to run into the house, she paused and added, "only--only how could you?" he said something in reply, but before it reached her, she had darted up the steps and into the hall. she felt bruised and stiff, as if she had fallen and hurt herself, and the one thought in her mind was the dread of meeting one of the household--of encountering mary or mrs. timberlake, before she had put on her uniform and her professional manner. it seemed impossible to her that she should stay on at briarlay, and yet what excuse could she give angelica for leaving so suddenly? angelica, she surmised, would not look tolerantly upon any change that made her uncomfortable. the dazzling light of the sunset was still in caroline's eyes, and, for the first moment or two after she entered the house, she could distinguish only a misty blur from the open doors of the drawing-room. then the familiar objects started out of the gloom, and she discerned the gilt frame and the softly blended dusk of the sistine madonna over the turn in the staircase. as she reached the floor above, her heart, which had been beating wildly, grew gradually quiet, and she found herself thinking lucidly, "i must go away. i must go away at once--to-night." then the mist of obscurity floated up to envelop the thought. "but what does it mean? could there be any possible reason?" the nursery door was open, and she was about to steal by noiselessly, when mrs. timberlake's long, thin shadow stretched, with a vaguely menacing air, over the threshold. "i wanted to speak to you, my dear. why, what is the matter?" as the housekeeper came out into the hall, she raised her spectacles to her forehead, and peered nervously into caroline's face. "has anybody hurt your feelings?" "i am going away. i can't stay." though caroline spoke clearly and firmly, her lips were trembling, and the marks of tears were still visible under her indignant eyes, which looked large and brilliant, like the eyes of a startled child. "you are going away? what on earth is the reason? has anything happened?" then lowering her voice, she murmured cautiously, "come into my room a minute. letty is playing and won't miss you." putting her lean arm about caroline's shoulders, she led her gently down the hall and to her room in the west wing. not until she had forced her into an easy chair by the radiator, and turned back to close the door carefully, did she say in an urgent tone, "now, my dear, you needn't be afraid to tell me. i am very fond of you--i feel almost as if you were my own child--and i want to help you if you will let me." "there isn't anything except--except there has been a misunderstanding----" caroline looked up miserably from the big chair, with her lips working pathetically. all the spirit had gone out of her. "mr. blackburn seems to have got the idea that i care for roane fitzhugh--that i even went out to meet him." mrs. timberlake, whose philosophy was constructed of the bare bones of experience, stared out of the window with an expression that made her appear less a woman than a cynical point of view. her profile grew sharper and flatter until it gave the effect of being pasted on the glimmering pane. "well, i reckon david didn't make that up in his own mind," she observed with a caustic emphasis. "i met him--i mean roane fitzhugh to-day. of course it was by accident, but he had been drinking and behaved outrageously, and then mr. blackburn found us together," pursued caroline slowly, "and--and he said things that made me see what he thought. he told me that he believed i liked that dreadful man--that i came out by appointment----" "but don't you like him, my dear?" the housekeeper had turned from the sunset and taken up her knitting. "of course i don't. why in the world--how in the world----" "and david told you that he thought so?" the old lady looked up sharply. "he said he understood that i liked him--roane fitzhugh. i didn't know what he meant. he was obliged to explain." after all, the tangle appeared to be without beginning and without end. she realized that she was hopelessly caught in the mesh of it. "well, i thought so, too," said mrs. timberlake, leaning forward and speaking in a thin, sharp voice that pricked like a needle. "you thought so? but how could you?" caroline stretched out her hand with an imploring gesture. "why, i've never seen him alone until to-day--never." "and yet david believed that you were meeting him?" "that is what he said. it sounds incredible, doesn't it?" for a few minutes mrs. timberlake knitted grimly, while the expression, "i know i am a poor creature, but all the same i have feelings" seemed to leap out of her face. when at last she spoke it was to make a remark which sounded strangely irrelevant. "i've had a hard time," she said bluntly, "and i've stood things, but i'm not one to turn against my own blood kin just because they haven't treated me right." then, after another and a longer pause, she added, as if the words were wrung out of her, "if i didn't feel that i ought to help you i'd never say one single word, but you're so trusting, and you'd never see through things unless somebody warned you." "see through things? you mean i'd never understand how mr. blackburn got that impression?" mrs. timberlake twisted the yarn with a jerk over her little finger. "my dear, david never got that idea out of his own head," she repeated emphatically. "somebody put it there as sure as you were born, and though i've nothing in the world but my own opinion to go on, i'm willing to bet a good deal that it was angelica." "but she couldn't have. she knew better. there couldn't have been any reason." "when you are as old as i am, you will stop looking for reasons in the way people act. in the first place, there generally aren't any, and in the second place, when reasons are there, they don't show up on the surface." "but she knew i couldn't bear him." "if you'd liked him, she wouldn't have done it. she'd have been trying too hard to keep you apart." "you mean, then, that she did it just to hurt me?" lifting her slate-coloured eyes, the old lady brushed a wisp of hair back from her forehead. "i don't believe angelica ever did a thing in her life just to hurt anybody," she answered slowly. "then you wouldn't think for an instant----" "no, i shouldn't think for an instant that she did it just for that. there was some other motive. i don't reckon angelica would ever do you any harm," she concluded with a charitable intonation, "unless there was something she wanted to gain by it." from her manner she might have been making a point in angelica's favour. "but even then? what could she possibly gain?" "well, i expect david found out that roane had been here--that he had been motoring with you--and angelica was obliged to find some excuse. you see, responsibility is one of the things angelica can't stand, and whoever happens to be about when it is forced on her, usually bears it. sometimes, you know, when she throws it off like that, it chances to light by accident just in the proper place. the strangest thing about angelica, and i can never get used to it, is the way she so often turns out to be right. look at the way it all happened in letty's illness. now, angelica always stuck out that letty wouldn't die, and, as it turned out, she didn't. i declare, it looks, somehow, as if not only people, but circumstances as well, played straight into her hands." "you mean she told him that about me just to spare herself?" caroline's voice was angry and incredulous. "that's how it was, i reckon. i don't believe she would have done it for anything else on earth. you see, my dear, she was brought up that way--most american girls are when they are as pretty as angelica--and the way you're raised seems to become a habit with you. at home the others always sacrificed themselves for her, until she got into the habit of thinking that she was the centre of the universe, and that the world owed her whatever she took a fancy for. even as a girl, roane used to say that her feelings were just inclinations, and i expect that's been true of her ever since. she can want things worse than anybody i've ever seen, but apart from wanting, i reckon she's about as cold as a fish at heart. it may sound mean of me to say it, but i've known cousin abby to sit up at night and sew her eyes out, so the girl might have a new dress for a party, and all the time angelica not saying a word to prevent it. there never was a better mother than cousin abby, and i've always thought it was being so good that killed her." "but even now i can't understand," said caroline thoughtfully. "i felt that she really liked me." "oh, she likes you well enough." mrs. timberlake was counting some dropped stitches. "she wasn't thinking about you a minute. i doubt if she ever in her life thought as long as that about anybody except herself. the curious part is," she supplemented presently, "that considering how shallow she is, so few people ever seem to see through her. it took david five years, and then he had to be married to her, to find out what i could have told him in ten minutes. most of it is the way she looks, i expect. it is so hard for a man to understand that every woman who parts her hair in the middle isn't a madonna." "i knew she was hard and cold," confessed caroline sadly, "but i thought she was good. i never dreamed she could be bad at heart." mrs. timberlake shook her head. "she isn't bad, my dear, that's where you make a mistake. i believe she'd let herself be burned at the stake before she'd overstep a convention. when it comes to that," she commented with acrid philosophy, "i reckon all the bad women on earth could never do as much harm as some good ones--the sort of good ones that destroy everything human and natural that comes near them. we can look out for the bad ones--but i've come to believe that there's a certain kind of virtue that's no better than poison. it poisons everything it touches because all the humanity has passed out of it, just like one of those lovely poisonous flowers that spring up now and then in a swamp. nothing that's made of flesh and blood could live by it, and yet it flourishes as if it were as harmless as a lily. i know i'm saying what i oughtn't to, but i saw you were getting hurt, and i wanted to spare you. it isn't that angelica is wicked, you know, i wouldn't have you believe that for a minute. she is sincere as far as her light goes, and if i hadn't seen david's life destroyed through and through, i suppose i shouldn't feel anything like so bitterly. but i've watched all his trust in things and his generous impulses--there was never a man who started life with finer impulses than david--wither up, one after one, just as if they were blighted." the sunset had faded slowly, and while caroline sat there in the big chair, gazing out on the wintry garden, it seemed to her that the advancing twilight had become so thick that it stifled her. then immediately she realized that it was not the twilight, but the obscurity in her own mind, that oppressed and enveloped her with these heavy yet intangible shadows. her last illusion had perished, and she could not breathe because the smoke of its destruction filled the air. at the moment it seemed to her that life could never be exactly what it was before--that the glow and magic of some mysterious enchantment had vanished. even the garden, with its frozen vegetation and its forlorn skeletons of summer shrubs emerging from mounds of snow, appeared to have undergone a sinister transformation from the ideal back to the actuality. this was the way she had felt years ago, on that autumn day at the cedars. "and he never defended himself--never once," she said after a silence. "he never will, that's not his way," rejoined mrs. timberlake. "she knows he never will, and i sometimes think that makes matters worse." as caroline brooded over this, her face cleared until the light and animation returned. "i know him better," she murmured presently, "but everything else has become suddenly crooked." "i've thought that at times before i stopped trying to straighten out things." mrs. timberlake had put down the muffler, and while she spoke, she smoothed it slowly and carefully over her knee. in the wan light her face borrowed a remote and visionary look, like a face gazing down through the thin, cold air of the heights. she had passed beyond mutable things, this look seemed to say, and had attained at last the bleak security of mind that is never disappointed because it expects nothing. "i reckon that's why i got into the habit of keeping my mouth shut, just because i was worrying myself sick all the time thinking how different things ought to be." a chill and wintry cheerfulness flickered across the arid surface of her manner. "but i don't now. i know there isn't any use, and i get a good deal of pleasure just out of seeing what will happen. now, you take david and angelica. i'm wondering all the time how it will turn out. david is a big man, but even if angelica isn't smart, she's quick enough about getting anything she wants, and i believe she is beginning to want something she hasn't got." "when i came i didn't like mr. blackburn." though the barriers of the old lady's reserve had fallen, caroline was struggling still against an instinct of loyalty. "well, i didn't like him once." mrs. timberlake had risen, and was looking down with her pitiful, tormented smile. "it took me a long time to find out the truth, and i want to spare you all i suffered while i was finding it out. i sometimes think that nobody's experience is worth a row of pins to any one else, but all the same i am trying to help you by telling you what i know. david has his faults. i'm not saying that he is a saint; but he has been the best friend i ever had, and i'm going to stand up for him, angelica or no angelica. there are some men, my poor father used to say, that never really show what they are because they get caught by life and twisted out of shape, and i reckon david is one of these. father said, though i don't like heathen terms, that it was the fate of a man like david always to appear in the wrong and yet always to be in the right. that's a queer way of putting it, but father was a great scholar--he translated the "iliad" before he was thirty--and i reckon he knew what he was talking about. life was against those men, he told me once, but god was for them, and they never failed to win in the end." with the last words she faltered and broke off abruptly. "i have been talking a great deal more than i ought to, but when once i begin i never know when to stop. angelica must have come home long ago." bending over she laid her cheek against caroline's hair. "you won't think of going away now, will you?" surprised and touched by the awkward caress, caroline looked up gratefully. "no, i shan't think of going away now." book second realities chapter i in blackburn's library the fire was burning low, and after blackburn had thrown a fresh log on the andirons, he sat down in one of the big leather chairs by the hearth, and watched the flames as they leaped singing up the brick chimney. it was midnight--the clock in the hall was just striking--and a few minutes before, angelica had gone languidly upstairs, after their belated return from a dinner in town. the drive home had been long and dreary, and he could still see the winter landscape, sketched in vivid outlines of black and white, under a pale moon that was riding high in the heavens. road, fields, and houses, showed as clearly as a pen and ink drawing, and against this stark background his thoughts stood out with an abrupt and startling precision, as if they had detached themselves, one by one, from the naked forms on the horizon. there was no chance of sleep, for the sense of isolation, which had attacked him like physical pain while he drove home with angelica, seemed to make his chaotic memories the only living things in a chill and colourless universe. though it was midnight, he had work to do before he went up to bed--for he had not yet given his final answer to sloane. already blackburn had made his decision. already he had worked out in his own mind the phrases of the letter; yet, before turning to his writing-table, he lingered a moment in order to weigh more carefully the cost of his resolve. it was not an age when political altruism was either mentally convincing or morally expedient, and the quality of his patriotism would be estimated in the public mind, he was aware, by the numbers of his majority. sloane, he was sure, had been sounding him as a possible candidate in some future political venture--yet, while he sat there, it was not of sloane that he was thinking. slowly the depression and bitterness gathered to a single image, and looked out upon him from the pure reticence of angelica's features. it was as if his adverse destiny--that destiny of splendid purpose and frustrated effort--had assumed for an instant the human form through which it had wrought its work of destruction. "well, after all, why should i decline? it is what i have always wanted to do, and i am right." the room was very still, and in this stillness the light quivered in pools on the brown rugs and the brown walls and the old yellowed engravings. from the high bookshelves, which lined the walls, the friendly covers of books shone down on him, with the genial responsiveness that creeps into the aspect of familiar inanimate things. over the mantelpiece hung the one oil painting in the room, a portrait of his mother as a girl, by an unknown painter, who drew badly, but had a genuine feeling for colour. the face was small and heart-shaped, like some delicately tinted flower that has only half opened. the hair lay in bands of twilight on either side of the grave forehead, and framed the large, wistful eyes, which had a flower-like softness that made him think of black pansies. though the mouth was pink and faintly smiling, it seemed to him to express an infinite pathos. it was impossible for him to believe that his mother--the woman with the pallid cameo-like profile and the saintly brow under the thin dark hair--had ever faced life with that touching, expectant smile. there had been a strong soul in that fragile body, but her courage, which was invincible, had never seemed to him the courage of happiness. she had accepted life with the fortitude of the christian, not the joy of the pagan; and her piety was associated in his mind with long summer sundays, with old hymns played softly, with bare spotless rooms, and with many roses in scattered alabaster vases. her intellect, like her character, he recalled as a curious blending of sweetness and strength. if the speculative side of her mind had ever existed, life had long ago hushed it, for her capacity for acquiescence--for unquestioning submission to the will of god--was like the glory of martyrdom. yet, within her narrow field, the field in which religion reigned as a beneficent shade, she had thought deeply, and it seemed to blackburn that she had never thought harshly. her sympathy was as wide as her charity, and both covered the universe. so exquisitely balanced, so finely tempered, was her judgment of life, that after all these years, for she had died while he was still a boy, he remembered her as one whose understanding of the human heart approached the divine. "she always wanted me to do something like this," he thought, "to look forward--to stand for the future. i remember...." * * * * * from the light and warmth of the room there streamed the sunshine and fragrance of an old summer. after a hot day the sun was growing faint over the garden, and the long, slim shadows on the grass were so pale that they quivered between light and darkness, like the gauzy wings of gigantic dragon flies. against a flushed sky a few bats were wheeling. up from the sun-steeped lawn, which was never mown, drifted the mingled scents of sheepmint and box; and this unforgotten smell pervaded the garden and the lane and the porch at the back of the house, where he had stopped, before bringing home the cows, to exchange a word with his mother. the lattice door was open, and she stood there, in her black dress, with the cool, dim hall behind her. "mother," he said, "i have been reading about william wallace. when i grow up, i want to fight kings." she smiled, and her smile was like one of the slow, sad hymns they sang on sunday afternoons. "when you grow up there may be no kings left to fight, dear." "will they be dead, mother?" "they may be. one never knows, my son." all the romance faded suddenly out of the world. "well, if there are any left," he answered resolutely, "i am going to fight them." he could still see her face, thin and sad, and like the closed white flowers he found sometimes growing in hollows where the sun never shone. only her eyes, large and velvet black, seemed glowing with hope. "there are only three things worth fighting for, my son," she said, "your love, your faith, and your country. nothing else matters." "father fought for his country, didn't he?" "your father fought for all three." she waited a moment, and then went on more slowly in a voice that sounded as if she were reciting a prayer, "this is what you must never forget, my boy, that you are your father's son, and that he gave his all for the cause he believed in, and counted it fair service." the scene vanished like one of the dissolving views of a magic lantern, and there rose before him a later summer, and another imperishable memory of his boyhood.... * * * * * it was an afternoon in september--one of those mellow afternoons when the light is spun like a golden web between earth and sky, and the grey dust of summer flowers rises as an incense to autumn. the harvest was gathered; the apples were reddening in the orchard; and along the rail fence by the roadside, sumach and virginia creeper were burning slowly, like a flame that smoulders in the windless blue of the weather. somewhere, very far away, a single partridge was calling, and nearer home, from the golden-rod and life-ever-lasting, rose the slow humming of bees. he lay in the sun-warmed grass, with his bare feet buried in sheepmint. on the long benches, from which the green paint had rubbed off, some old men were sitting, and among them, a small coloured maid, in a dress of pink calico, was serving blackberry wine and plates of the pale yellow cake his mother made every saturday. one of the men was his uncle, a crippled soldier, with long grey hair and shining eyes that held the rapt and consecrated vision of those who have looked through death to immortality. his crutch lay on the grass at his feet, and while he sipped his wine, he said gravely: "a new generation is springing up, david's generation, and this must give, not the south alone, but the whole nation, a leader." at the words the boy looked up quickly, his eyes gleaming, "what must the leader be like, uncle?" the old soldier hesitated an instant. "he must, first of all, my boy, be predestined. no man whom god has not appointed can lead other men right." "and how will he know if god has appointed him?" "he will know by this--that he cannot swerve in his purpose. the man whom god has appointed sees his road straight before him, and he does not glance back or aside." his voice rose louder, over the murmur of the bees, as if it were chanting, "if the woods are filled with dangers, he does not know because he sees only his road. if the bridges have fallen, he does not know because he sees only his road. if the rivers are impassable, he does not know because he sees only his road. from the journey's beginning to its end, he sees only his road...." * * * * * a log, charred through the middle, broke suddenly, scattering a shower of sparks. the multitudinous impressions of his boyhood had gathered into these two memories of summer, and of that earlier generation which had sacrificed all for a belief. it was like a mosaic in his mind, a mosaic in which heroic figures waited, amid a jewelled landscape, for the leader whom god had appointed. the room darkened while he sat there, and from outside he heard the crackling of frost and the ceaseless rustle of wind in the junipers. on the hearthrug, across the glimmering circle of the fire, he watched those old years flock back again, in all the fantastic motley of half-forgotten recollections. he saw the long frozen winters of his childhood, when he had waked at dawn to do the day's work of the farm before he started out to trudge five miles to the little country school, where the stove always smoked and the windows were never opened. before this his mother had taught him his lessons, and his happiest memories were those of the hours when he sat by her side, with an antiquated geography on his knees, and watched her long slender fingers point the way to countries of absurd boundaries and unpronounceable names. she had taught him all he knew--knowledge weak in science, but rich in the invisible graces of mind and heart--and afterwards, in the uninspired method of the little school, he had first learned to distrust the kind of education with which the modern man begins the battle of life. homespun in place of velvet, stark facts instead of the texture of romance! the mornings when, swinging his hoe, he had led his chattering band of little negroes into the cornfields, had been closer to the throbbing pulse of experience. when he was fourteen the break had come, and his life had divided. his mother had died suddenly; the old place had been sold for a song; and the boy had come up to richmond to make his way in a world which was too indifferent to be actually hostile. at first he had gone to work in a tobacco factory, reading after hours as long as the impoverished widow with whom he lived would let the gas burn in his room. always he had meant to "get on"; always he had felt the controlling hand of his destiny. even in those years of unformed motives and misdirected energies, he had been searching--searching. the present had never been more than a brief approach to the future. he had looked always for something truer, sounder, deeper, than the actuality that enmeshed him. suddenly, while he sat there confronting the phantom he had once called himself, he was visited by a rush of thought which seemed to sweep on wings through his brain. yet the moment afterwards, when he tried to seize and hold the vision that darted so gloriously out of the shining distance, he found that it had already dissolved into a sensation, an apprehension, too finely spun of light and shadow to be imprisoned in words. it was as if some incalculable discovery, some luminous revelation, had brushed him for an instant as it sped onward into the world. once or twice in the past such a gleaming moment had just touched him, leaving him with this vague sense of loss, of something missing, of an infinitely precious opportunity which had escaped him. yet invariably it had been followed by some imperative call to action. "i wonder what it means now," he thought, "i suppose the truth is that i have missed things again." the inspiration no longer seemed to exist outside of his own mind; but under the clustering memories, he felt presently a harder and firmer consciousness of his own purpose, just as in his boyhood, he would sometimes, in ploughing, strike a rock half buried beneath the frail bloom of the meadows. it was the sense of reality so strong, so solid, that it brought him up, almost with a jerk of pain, from the iridescent cobwebs of his fancy; and this reality, he understood after a minute, was an acute perception of the great war that men were fighting on the other side of the world. his knowledge of these terrible and splendid issues had broken through the perishable surface of thought. the illusion vanished like the bloom of the meadows; what remained was the bare rocky structure of truth. he had not meant to think of this now. he had left the evening free for his work--for the decision which must be made sooner or later; yet, through some mysterious trend of thought, every personal choice of his life seemed to become a part of the impersonal choice of humanity. the infinite issues had absorbed the finite intentions. every decision was a ripple in the world battle between the powers of good and evil, of light and darkness. and he understood suddenly that the great abstractions for which men lay down their lives are one and indivisible--that there was not a corner of the earth where this fight for liberty could not be fought. "i can fight here as well as over there," he thought, "if i am only big enough." now that his mind had got down to solid facts, to steady thinking, it worked quickly and clearly. it would be a hard fight, with all the odds against him, and yet the very difficulties appealed to him. out of the dense fog of political theories, out of the noise and confusion of the babel of many tongues, he could discern the dim framework of a purer social order. the foundation of the republic was sound, he believed, only the eyes of the builders had failed, the hands of the builders had trembled. that the ideal democracy was not a dream, but an unattained reality, he had never doubted. the failure lay not in the plan, but in the achievement. there was obliquity of vision, there was even blindness, for the human mind was still afflicted by the ancient error which had brought the autocracies of the past to destruction. men and nations had still to learn that in order to preserve liberty it must first be surrendered--that there is no spiritual growth except through sacrifice. but it must be surrendered only to a broader, an ever-growing conception of what liberty means. as in the sun-warmed grass on those sunday afternoons, he still dreamed of america leading the nations. the great virginians of the past had been virginians first; the great virginians of the future would be americans. the urgent need in america, as he saw it, was for unity; and the first step toward this unity, the obliteration of sectional boundaries. in this, he felt, virginia must lead the states. as she had once yielded her land to the nation, she must now yield her spirit. she must point the way by act, not by theory; she must vote right as well as think right. "and to vote right," he said presently, thinking aloud, "we must first live right. people speak of a man's vote as if it were an act apart from the other acts of his life--as if they could detach it from his universal conceptions. there was a grain of truth in uncle carter's saying that he could tell by the way a man voted whether or not he believed in the immortality of the soul." it was uncle carter, he remembered, who had described the chronic malady of american life as a disease of manner that had passed from the skin into the body politic. "take my word for it," the old soldier had said, "there is no such thing as sound morals without sound manners, for manners are only the outer coating--the skin, if you like--of morals. without unselfish consideration for others there can be no morality, and if you have unselfish consideration in your heart, you will have good manners though you haven't a coat on your back. order and sanity and precision, and all the other qualities we need most in this republic, are only the outward forms of unselfish consideration for others, and patriotism, in spite of its plumed attire, is only that on a larger scale. after all, your country is merely a tremendous abstraction of your neighbour." well, perhaps the old chap had been talking sense half the time when people smiled at his words! rising from his chair, he pushed back the last waning ember, and stood gazing down on the ashes. "i will do my best," he said slowly. "i will fight to the last ditch for the things i believe in--for cleaner politics, for constructive patriotism, and for a fairer democracy. these are the big issues, and the little ends will flow from them." as he finished, the clock in the hall struck twice and stopped, and at the same instant the door of the library opened slowly, and, to his amazement, he saw mary standing beyond the threshold. she carried a candle in her hand, and by the wavering light, he saw that she was very pale and that her eyes were red as if she had been weeping. "the lights were out. i thought you had gone upstairs," she said, with a catch in her voice. "do you want anything?" "no, i couldn't sleep, so i came for a book." with a hurried movement, she came over to the table and caught up a book without glancing at the title. "are you ill?" he asked. "is anything the matter?" "no, nothing. i am well, only i couldn't sleep." "there is no trouble about alan, is there? have you quarrelled?" "oh, no, we haven't quarrelled." she was plainly impatient at his questioning. "alan is all right. really, it is nothing." though his affection for her was deep and strong, they had never learned to be demonstrative with each other, perhaps because they had been separated so much in childhood and early youth. it was almost with a hesitating gesture that he put out his hand now and touched her hair. "my dear, you know you can trust me." "yes, i know." the words broke from her with a sob, and turning hastily away, she ran out of the room and back up the stairs. chapter ii readjustments in letty's nursery the next afternoon, blackburn came at last to know caroline without the barrier of her professional manner. the child was playing happily with her paper dolls in one corner, and while she marched them back and forth along a miniature road of blocks, she sang under her breath a little song she had made. oh, my, i'd like to fly very high in the sky, just you and i. "i am very cold," said blackburn, as he entered. "mammy riah has promised me a cup of tea if i am good." "you are always good, father," replied letty politely, but she did not rise from the floor. "i'm sorry i can't stop, but mrs. brown is just taking her little girl to the hospital. if i were to get up the poor little thing might die on the way." "that must not happen. perhaps miss meade will entertain me?" "i will do my best." caroline turned from her writing and took up a half-finished sock. "if you had come an hour earlier you might have seen some of mrs. blackburn's lovely clothes. she was showing us the dress she is going to wear to dinner to-night." "you like pretty clothes." it was a careless effort to make conversation, but as he dropped into the armchair on the hearthrug, his face softened. there was a faint scent of violets in the air from a half-faded little bunch in caroline's lap. she met the question frankly. "on other people." "do you like nothing for yourself? you are so impersonal that i sometimes wonder if you possess a soul of your own." "oh, i like a great many things." mammy riah had brought tea, and caroline put down her knitting and drew up to the wicker table. "i like books for instance. at the cedars we used to read every evening. father read aloud to us as long as he lived." "yet i never see you reading?" "not here." as she shook her head, the firelight touched her close, dark hair, which shone like satin against the starched band of her cap. almost as white as her cap seemed her wide forehead, with the intense black eyebrows above the radiant blue of her eyes. "you see i want to finish these socks." "i thought you were doing a muffler?" "oh, that's gone to france long ago! this is a fresh lot mrs. blackburn has promised, and mrs. timberlake and i are working night and day to get them finished in time. we can't do the large kind of work that mrs. blackburn does," she added, "so we have to make up with our little bit. mrs. timberlake says we are hewers of wood and drawers of water." "you are always busy," he said, smiling. "i believe you would be busy if you were put into solitary confinement." to his surprise a look of pain quivered about her mouth, and he noticed, for the first time, that it was the mouth of a woman who had suffered. "it is the best way of not thinking----" she ended with a laugh, and he felt that, in spite of her kindness and her capability, she was as elusive as thistle-down. "i can knit a little, father," broke in letty, looking up from her dolls. "miss meade is teaching me to knit a muffler--only it gets narrower all the time. i'm afraid the soldiers won't want it." "then give it to me. i want it." "if i give it to you, you might go to fight, and get killed." as the child turned again to her dolls, he said slowly to caroline, "i can't imagine how she picks up ideas like that. someone must have talked about the war before her." "she heard mrs. blackburn talking about it once in the car. she must have caught words without our noticing it." his face darkened. "one has to be careful." "yes, i try to remember." he was quick to observe that she was taking the blame from angelica, and again he received an impression that she was mentally evading him. her soul was closed like a flower; yet now and then, through her reserve and gravity, he felt a charm that was as sweet and fresh as a perfume. she was looking tired and pale, he thought, and he wondered how her still features could have kindled into the beauty he had seen in them on that snowy afternoon. it had never occurred to him before, accustomed as he was to the formal loveliness of angelica, that the same woman could be both plain and beautiful, both colourless and vivid. this was perplexing him, when she clasped her hands over her knitting, and said with the manner of quiet confidence that he had grown to expect in her, "i have always meant to tell you, mr. blackburn, that i listened to everything you said that day on the terrace--that afternoon when you were talking to colonel ashburton and mr. sloane. i didn't mean to listen, but i found myself doing it." "well, i hope you are not any the worse for it, and i am sure you are not any the better." "there is something else i want to tell you." her pale cheeks flushed faintly, and a liquid fire shone in her eyes. "i think you are right. i agree with every word that you said." "traitor! what would your grandmother have thought of you? as a matter of fact i have forgotten almost all that i said, but i can safely assume that it was heretical. i think none of us intended to start that discussion. we launched into it before we knew where we were going." her mind was on his first sentence, and she appeared to miss his closing words. "i can't answer for my grandmother, but father would have agreed with you. he used to say that the state was an institution for the making of citizens." "and he talked to you about such things?" it had never occurred to him that a woman could become companionable on intellectual grounds, yet while she sat there facing him, with the light on her brow and lips, and her look of distinction and remoteness as of one who has in some way been set apart from personal joy or sorrow, he realized that she was as utterly detached as sloane had been when he discoursed on the functions of government. "oh, we talked and talked on sunday afternoons, a few neighbours, old soldiers mostly, and father and i. i wonder why political arguments still make me think of bees humming?" he laughed with a zest she had never heard in his voice before. "and the smell of sheepmint and box!" "i remember--and blackberry wine in blue glasses?" "no, they were red, and there was cake cut in thin slices with icing on the top of it." "doesn't it bring it all back again?" "it brings back the happiest time of my life to me. you never got up at dawn to turn the cows out to pasture, and brought them home in the evening, riding the calf?" "no, but i've cooked breakfast by candlelight." "you've never led a band of little darkeys across a cornfield at sunrise?" "but i've canned a whole patch of tomatoes." "i know you've never tasted the delight of stolen fishing in the creek under the willows?" her reserve had dropped from her like a mask. she looked up with a laugh that was pure music. "it is hard to believe that you ever went without things." "oh, things!" he made a gesture of indifference. "if you mean money--well, it may surprise you to know that it has no value for me to-day except as a means to an end." "to how many ends?" she asked mockingly. "the honest truth is that it wouldn't cost me a pang to give up briarlay, every stock and stone, and go back to the southside to dig for a living. i made it all by accident, and i may lose it all just as easily. it looks now, since the war began, as if i were losing some of it very rapidly. but have you ever noticed that people are very apt to keep the things they don't care about--that they can't shake them off? now, what i've always wanted was the chance to do some work that counted--an opportunity for service that would help the men who come after me. as a boy i used to dream of this. in those days i preferred william wallace to monte cristo." "the opportunity may come now." "if we go into this war--and, by god, we must go into it!--that might be. i'd give ten--no, twenty years of my life for the chance. life! we speak of giving life, but what is life except the means of giving something infinitely better and finer? as if anything mattered but the opportunity to speak the thought in one's brain, to sing it, to build it in stone. there is a little piece of america deep down in me, and when i die i want to leave it somewhere above ground, embodied in the national consciousness. when this blessed republic leaves the mud behind, and goes marching, clean and whole, down the ages, i want this little piece of myself to go marching with it." so she had discovered the real blackburn, the dreamer under the clay! this was the man mrs. timberlake had described to her--the man whose fate it was to appear always in the wrong and to be always in the right. and, womanlike, she wondered if this passion of the mind had drawn its strength and colour from the earlier wasted passion of his heart? would he love america so much if he loved angelica more? as she drew nearer to the man's nature, she was able to surmise how terrible must have been the ruin that angelica had wrought in his soul. that he had once loved her with all the force and swiftness of his character, caroline understood as perfectly as she had come to understand that he now loved her no longer. "if i can cast a shadow of the america in my mind into the sum total of american thought, i shall feel that life has been worth while," he was saying. "the only way to create a democracy,--and i see the immense future outlines of this country as the actual, not the imaginary democracy,--after all, the only way to create a thing is to think it. an act of faith isn't merely a mental process; it is a creative force that the mind releases into the world. germany made war, not by invading belgium, but by thinking war for forty years; and, in the same way, by thinking in terms of social justice, we may end by making a true democracy." he paused abruptly, with the glow of enthusiasm in his face, and then added slowly, in a voice that sounded curiously restrained and distant, "i must have been boring you abominably. it has been so long since i let myself go like this that i'd forgotten where i was and to whom i was talking." it was true, she realized, without resentment; he had forgotten that she was present. since she had little vanity, she was not hurt. it was only one of those delicious morsels that life continually offered to one's sense of humour. "i am not quite so dull, perhaps, as you think me," she responded pleasantly. after all, though intelligence was sometimes out of place, she had discovered that pleasantness was always a serviceable quality. at this he rose from his chair, laughing. "you must not, by the way, get a wrong impression of me. i have been talking as if money did not count, and yet there was a time when i'd willingly have given twenty years of my life for it. money meant to me power--the kind of power one could grasp by striving and sacrifice. why, i've walked the streets of richmond with five cents in my pocket, and the dream of uncounted millions in my brain. when my luck turned, and it turned quickly as luck runs, i thought for a year or two that i'd got the thing that i wanted----" "and you found out that you hadn't?" "oh, yes, i found out that i hadn't," he rejoined drily, as he moved toward the door, "and i've been making discoveries like that ever since. to-day i might tell you that work, not wealth, brings happiness, but i've been wrong often enough before, and who knows that i am not wrong about this." it was the tone of bitterness she had learned to watch for whenever she talked with him--the tone that she recognized as the subtle flavour of angelica's influence. "now i'll find mary," he added, "and ask her if she saw the doctor this morning. the reading i heard as i came up, i suppose was for her benefit?" "i don't know," replied caroline, wondering if she ought to keep him from interrupting a play of alan's. "i think mr. wythe had promised to read something to mrs. blackburn." "oh, well, mary must be about, and i'll find her. she couldn't sleep last night and i thought her looking fagged." "yes, she hasn't been well. mrs. timberlake has tried to persuade her to take a tonic." for a minute he hesitated. "there hasn't been any trouble, i hope. anything i could straighten out?" he looked curiously young and embarrassed as he put the question. "nothing that i know of. i think she feels a little nervous and let-down, that's all." the hesitation had gone now from his manner, and he appeared relieved and cheerful. "i had forgotten that you aren't the keeper of the soul as well as the body. it's amazing the way you manage letty. she is happier than i have ever seen her." then, as the child got up from her play and came over to him, he asked tenderly, "aren't you happy, darling?" "yes, i'm happy, father," answered letty, slowly and gravely, "but i wish mother was happy too. she was crying this morning, and so was aunt mary." a wine-dark flush stained blackburn's face, while the arms that had been about to lift letty from the floor, dropped suddenly to his sides. the pleasure his praise had brought to caroline faded as she watched him, and she felt vaguely disturbed and apprehensive. was there something, after all, that she did not understand? was there a deeper closet and a grimmer skeleton at briarlay than the one she had discovered? "if your mother isn't happy, letty, you must try to make her so," he answered presently in a low voice. "i do try, father, i try dreadfully hard, and so does miss meade. but i think she wants something she hasn't got," she added in a whisper, "i think she wants something so very badly that it hurts her." "and does your aunt mary want something too?" though he spoke jestingly, the red flush was still in his face. letty put up her arms and drew his ear down to her lips. "oh, no, aunt mary cries just because mother does." "well, we'll see what we can do about it," he responded, as he turned away and went out of the door. listening attentively, caroline heard his steps pass down the hall, descend the stairs, and stop before the door of the front drawing-room. "i wonder if mr. wythe is still reading," she thought; and then she went back to her unfinished letter, while letty returned cheerfully to her play in the corner. * * * * * this is an ugly blot, mother dear, but mr. blackburn came in so suddenly that he startled me, and i almost upset my inkstand. he stayed quite a long time, and talked more than he had ever done to me before--mostly about politics. i have changed my opinion of him since i came here. when i first knew him i thought him wooden and hard, but the more i see of him the better i like him, and i am sure that everything we heard about him was wrong. he has an unfortunate manner at times, and he is very nervous and irritable, and little things upset him unless he keeps a tight grip on himself; but i believe that he is really kind-hearted and sincere in what he says. one thing i am positive about--there was not a word of truth in the things mrs. colfax wrote me before i came here. he simply adores letty, and whatever trouble there may be between him and his wife, i do not believe that it is entirely his fault. mrs. timberlake says he was desperately in love with her when he married her, and i can tell, just by watching them together, how terribly she must have made him suffer. of course, i should not say this to any one else, but i tell you everything--i have to tell you--and i know you will not read a single word of this to the girls. i used to hope that letty's illness would bring them together--wouldn't that have been just the way things happen in books?--but everybody blamed him because she went to the tableaux, and, as far as i can see, she lets people think what is false, without lifting a finger to correct them. it is such a pity that she isn't as fine as we once thought her--for she looks so much like an angel that it is hard not to believe that she is good, no matter what she does. if you haven't lived in the house with her, it is impossible to see through her, and even now i am convinced that if she chose to take the trouble, she could twist everyone of us, even mr. blackburn, round her little finger. you remember i wrote you that mr. wythe did not like her? well, she has chosen to be sweet to him of late, and now he is simply crazy about her. he reads her all his plays, and she is just as nice and sympathetic as she can be about his work. i sometimes wish miss blackburn would not be quite so frank and sharp in her criticism. i have heard her snap him up once or twice about something he wrote, and i am sure she hurt his feelings. one afternoon, when i took letty down to the drawing-room to show a new dress to her mother, he was reading, and he went straight on, while we were there, and finished his play. i liked it very much, and so did mrs. blackburn, but miss blackburn really showed some temper because he would not change a line when she asked him to. it was such a pity she was unreasonable because it made her look plain and unattractive, and mrs. blackburn was too lovely for words. she had on a dress of grey crêpe exactly the colour of her eyes, and her hair looked softer and more golden than ever. it is the kind of hair one never has very much of--as fine and soft as maud's--but it is the most beautiful colour and texture i ever saw. well, i thought that miss blackburn was right when she said the line was all out of character with the speaker; but mrs. blackburn did not agree with us, and when mr. wythe appealed to her, she said it was just perfect as it was, and that he must not dream of changing it. then he said he was going to let it stand, and miss blackburn was so angry that she almost burst into tears. i suppose it hurt her to see how much more he valued the other's opinion; but it would be better if she could learn to hide her feelings. and all the time mrs. blackburn lay back in her chair, in her dove grey dress, and just smiled like a saint. you would have thought she pitied her sister-in-law, she looked at her so sweetly when she said, "mary, dear, we mustn't let you persuade him to ruin it." you know i really began to ask myself if i had not been unjust to her in thinking that she could be a little bit mean. then i remembered that poor old woman in pine street--i wrote you about her last autumn--and i knew she was being sweet because there was something she wanted to gain by it. i don't know what it is she wants, nor why she is wasting so much time on mr. wythe; but it is exactly as if she had bloomed out in the last month like a white rose. she takes more trouble about her clothes, and there is the loveliest glow--there isn't any word but bloom that describes it--about her skin and hair and eyes. she looks years younger than she did when i came here. i wanted to write you about mr. blackburn, but his wife is so much more fascinating. even if you do not like her, you are obliged to think about her, and even if you do not admire her, you are obliged to look at her when she is in the room. she says very little--and as she never says anything clever, i suppose this is fortunate--but somehow she just manages to draw everything to her. i suppose it is personality, but you always say that personality depends on mind and heart, and i am sure her attraction has nothing to do with either of these. it is strange, isn't it, but the whole time mr. blackburn was in here talking to me, i kept wondering if she had ever cared for him? mrs. timberlake says that she never did even when she married him, and that now she is irritated because he is having a good many financial difficulties, and they interfere with her plans. but mr. blackburn seems to worry very little about money. i believe his friends think that some day he may run for the senate--forlorn hope blackburn, colonel ashburton calls him, though he says that he has a larger following among the independent voters than anybody suspects. i shouldn't imagine there was the faintest chance of his election--for he has anything but an ingratiating manner with people; and so much in a political candidate depends upon a manner. you remember all the dreadful speeches that were flung about in the last presidential elections. well, mr. sloane, who was down here from new york the other day, said he really thought the result might have been different if the campaign speakers had had better manners. it seems funny that such a little thing should decide a great question, doesn't it? i suppose, when the time comes for us to go into this war or stay out of it, the decision will rest upon something so small that it will never get into history, not even between the lines. you remember that remark of turgot's--that dear father loved to quote: "the greatest evils in life have their rise from things too small to be attended to." after hearing mr. blackburn talk, i am convinced that he is perfectly honest in everything he says. as far as i can gather he believes, just as we do, that men should go into politics in order to give, not to gain, and he feels that they will give freely of themselves only to something they love, or to some ideal that is like a religion to them. he says the great need is to love america--that we have not loved, we have merely exploited, and he thinks that as long as the sections remain distinct from the nation, and each man thinks first of his own place, the nation will be exploited for the sake of the sections. he says, too, and this sounds like father, that the south is just as much the nation as the north or the west, and that it is the duty of the south to do her share in the building of the future. i know this is put badly, but you will understand what i mean. now, i really must stop. oh, i forgot to tell you that mrs. blackburn wants to know if you could find time to do some knitting for her? she says she will furnish all the wool you need, and she hopes you will make socks instead of mufflers. i told her you knitted the most beautiful socks. i am always thinking of you and wondering about the cedars. your loving, caroline. it looks very much as if we were going to fight, doesn't it? has the president been waiting for the country, or the country for the president? chapter iii man's woman from the second drawing-room, where angelica had tea every afternoon, there drifted the fragrance of burning cedar, and as blackburn walked quickly toward the glow of the fire, he saw his wife in her favourite chair with deep wings, and alan wythe stretched languidly on the white fur rug at her feet. mary was not there. she had evidently just finished tea, for her riding-crop lay on a chair by the door; but when blackburn called her name, alan stopped his reading and replied in his pleasant voice, "i think she has gone out to the stable. william came to tell her that one of the horses had a cough." "then i'll find her. she seems out of sorts, and i'm trying to make her see the doctor." "i am sorry for that." laying aside the book, alan sprang to his feet, and stood gazing anxiously into the other's face. "she always appears so strong that one comes to take her fitness as a matter of course." "yes, i never saw her look badly until the last day or two. have you noticed it, angelica?" without replying to his question, angelica rested her head against the pink velvet cushion, and turned a gentle, uncomprehending stare on his face. it was her most disconcerting expression, for in the soft blankness and immobility of her look, he read a rebuke which she was either too amiable or too well-bred to utter. he wondered what he had done that was wrong, and, in the very instant of wondering, he felt himself grow confused and angry and aggressive. this was always the effect of her stare and her silence--for nature had provided her with an invincible weapon in her mere lack of volubility--and when she used it as deliberately as she did now, she could, without speaking a syllable, goad him to the very limit of his endurance. it was as if her delicate hands played on his nerves and evoked an emotional discord. "have you noticed that mary is not well?" he asked sharply, and while he spoke, he became aware that alan's face had lost its friendliness. "no, i had not noticed it." her voice dropped as softly as liquid honey from her lips. "i thought her looking very well and cheerful at tea." she spoke without movement or gesture; but the patient and resigned droop of her figure, the sad grey eyes, and the hurt quiver of her eyelashes, implied the reproach she had been too gentle to put into words. the contrast with her meekness made him appear rough and harsh; yet the knowledge of this, instead of softening him, only increased his sense of humiliation and bitterness. "perhaps, then, there is no need of my speaking to her?" he said. "it might please her." she was sympathetic now about mary. "i am sure that she would like to know how anxious you are." for the first time since he had entered the room she was smiling, and this slow, rare smile threw a golden radiance over her features. he thought, as caroline had done several afternoons ago, that her beauty, which had grown a little dim and pale during the autumn, had come back with an april colour and freshness. not only her hair and eyes, but the ivory tint of her skin seemed to shine with a new lustre, as if from some hidden fire that was burning within. for a minute the old appeal to his senses returned, and he felt again the beat and quiver of his pulses which her presence used to arouse. then his mind won the victory, and the emotion faded to ashes before its warmth had passed to his heart. "i'll go and find her," he said again, with the awkwardness he always showed when he was with her. her smile vanished, and she leaned forward with an entreating gesture, which flowed through all the slender, exquisite lines of her body. instinctively he knew that she had not finished with him yet; that she was not ready to let him go until he had served some inscrutable purpose which she had had in view from the beginning. his mind was not trained to recognize subtleties of intention or thought; and while he waited for her to reveal herself, he began wondering what she could possibly want with him now? clearly it was all part of some intricate scheme; yet it appeared incredible to his blunter perceptions that she should exhaust the resources of her intelligence merely for the empty satisfaction of impressing mary's lover. "david," she began in a pleading tone, "aren't you going to have tea with me?" "i had it upstairs." he was baffled and at bay before an attack which he could not understand. "in the nursery?" her voice trembled slightly. "yes, in the nursery." as if she had ever expected or desired him to interrupt her amusements! "was cousin matty up there?" though he was still unable to define her motive, his ears detected the faint note of suspense that ruffled the thin, clear quality of her voice. "no, only letty and miss meade." a tremor crossed her face, as if he had struck her; then she said, not reproachfully, but with a pathetic air of self-effacement and humility, "miss meade is very intelligent. i am so glad you have found someone you like to talk to. i know i am dull about politics." and her eyes added wistfully, "it isn't my fault that i am not so clever." "yes, she is intelligent," he answered drily; and then, still mystified and dully resentful because he could not understand, he turned and went out as abruptly as he had entered. while his footsteps passed through the long front drawing-room and across the hall, angelica remained motionless, with her head bent a little sadly, as if she were listening to the echo of some half-forgotten sorrow. then, sighing gently, she looked from alan into the fire, and reluctantly back at alan again. she seemed impulsively, against her will and her conscience, to turn to him for understanding and sympathy; and at the sight of her unspoken appeal, he threw himself on the rug at her feet, and exclaimed in a strangled voice, "you are unhappy!" with these three words, into which he seemed to put infinity, he had broken down the walls of reticence that divide human souls from each other. she was unhappy! before this one torrential discovery all the restraints of habit and tradition, of conscience and honour, vanished like the imperfect structures of man in the rage of the hurricane. she shivered, and looked at him with a long frightened gaze. there was no rebellion, there was only a passive sadness in her face. she was too weak, her eyes said, to contend with unhappiness. some stronger hands than hers must snatch her from her doom if she were to be rescued. "how can i be happy?" the words were wrung slowly from her lips. "you see how it is?" "yes, i see." he honestly imagined that he did. "i see it all, and it makes me desperate. it is unbelievable that any one should make you suffer." she shook her head and answered in a whisper, "it is partly my fault. whatever happens, i always try to remember that, and be just. the first mistake may have been mine." "yours?" he exclaimed passionately, and then dropping his face into his hands, "if only i were not powerless to protect you!" for a moment, after his smothered cry, she said nothing. then, with an exquisite gesture of renunciation, she put the world and its temptations away from her. "we are both powerless," she responded firmly, "and now you must read me the rest of your play, or i shall be obliged to send you home." blackburn, meanwhile, had stopped outside on his way to the stable, and stood looking across the garden for some faint prospect of a clearer to-morrow. overhead the winter sky was dull and leaden; but in the west a thin silver line edged the horizon, and his gaze hung on this thread of light, as if it were prophetic not only of sunshine, but of happiness. already he was blaming himself for the scene with angelica; already he was resolving to make a stronger effort at reconciliation and understanding, to win her back in spite of herself, to be patient, sympathetic, and generous, rather than just, in his judgment of her. in his more philosophical moments he beheld her less as the vehicle of personal disenchantment, than as the unfortunate victim of a false system, of a ruinous upbringing. she had been taught to grasp until grasping had become not so much a habit of gesture, as a reflex movement of soul--an involuntary reaction to the nerve stimulus of her surroundings. though he had learned that the sight of any object she did not own immediately awoke in her the instinct of possession, he still told himself, in hours of tolerance, that this weakness of nature was the result of early poverty and lack of mental discipline, and that disappointment with material things would develop her character as inevitably as it would destroy her physical charm. so far, he was obliged to admit, she had risen superior to any disillusionment from possession, with the ironic exception of that brief moment when she had possessed his adoration; yet, in spite of innumerable failures, it was characteristic of the man that he should cling stubbornly to his belief in some secret inherent virtue in her nature, as he had clung, when love failed him, to the frail sentiments of habit and association. the richness of her beauty had blinded him for so long to the poverty of her heart, that, even to-day, bruised and humiliated as he was, he found himself suddenly hoping that she might some day change miraculously into the woman he had believed her to be. the old half-forgotten yearning for her swept over him while he thought of her, the yearning to kneel at her feet, to kiss her hands, to lift his eyes and see her bending like an angel above him. and in his thoughts she came back to him, not as she was in reality, but as he longed for her to be. with one of those delusive impersonations of memory, which torment the heart after the mind has rejected them, she came back to him with her hands outstretched to bless, not to grasp, and a look of goodness and love in her face. he remembered his first meeting with her--the close, over-heated rooms, the empty faces, the loud, triumphant music; and then suddenly she had bloomed there, like a white flower, in the midst of all that was ineffectual and meaningless. one minute he had been lonely, tired, depressed, and the next he was rested and happy and full of wild, startled dreams of the future. she had been girlish and shy and just a little aloof--all the feminine graces adorned her--and he had surrendered in the traditional masculine way. afterwards he discovered that she had intended from the first instant to marry him; but on that evening he had seen only her faint, reluctant flight from his rising emotion. she had played the game so well; she had used the ancient decoy so cleverly, that it had taken years to tear the veil of illusion from the bare structure of method. for he knew now that she had been methodical, that she had been utterly unemotional; and that her angelic virtue had been mere thinness of temperament. never for a moment had she been real, never had she been natural; and he admitted, in the passing mood of confession, that if she had once been natural--as natural as the woman upstairs--the chances were that she would never have won him. manlike, he would have turned from the blade-straight nature to pursue the beckoning angel of the faint reluctance. if she had stooped but for an instant, if she had given him so much as the touch of her fingers, she might have lost him. life, not instinct, had taught him the beauty of sincerity in woman, the grace of generosity. in his youth, it was woman as mystery, woman as destroyer, to whom he had surrendered. descending the steps from the terrace, he walked slowly along the brick way to the stable, where he found mary giving medicine to her favourite horse. "briar rose has a bad cough, david." he asked a few questions, and then, when the dose was administered, they turned together, and strolled back through the garden. mary looked cross and anxious, and he could tell by the way she spoke in short jerks that her nerves were not steady. her tone of chaffing had lost its ease, and the effort she made to appear flippant seemed to hurt her. "are you all right again, mary?" "quite all right. why shouldn't i be?" "there's no reason that i know of," he replied seriously. "have you decided when you will be married?" she winced as if he had touched a nerve. "no, we haven't decided." for a minute she walked on quickly, then looking up with a defiant smile, she said, "i am not sure that we are ever going to be married." so the trouble was out at last! he breathed heavily, overcome by some indefinable dread. after all, why should mary's words have disturbed him so deeply? the chances were, he told himself, that it was nothing more than the usual lovers' quarrel. "my dear, alan is a good fellow. don't let anything make trouble between you." "oh, i know he is a good fellow--only--only i am not sure we--we should be happy together. i don't care about books, and he doesn't care any longer for horses----" "as if these things mattered! you've got the fundamental thing, haven't you?" "the fundamental thing?" she was deliberately evading him--she, the straightforward mary! "i mean, of course, that you care for each other." at this she broke down, and threw out her hands with a gesture of despair. "i don't know. i used to think so, but i don't know any longer," she answered, and fled from him into the house. as he looked after her he felt the obscure doubt struggling again in his mind, and with it there returned the minor problem of his financial difficulties, and the conversation he must sooner or later have with angelica. nothing in his acquaintance with angelica had surprised him more than the discovery that, except in the embellishment of her own attractions, she could be not only prudent, but stingy. even her extravagance--if a habit of spending that exacted an adequate return for every dollar could be called extravagance--was cautious and cold like her temperament, as if nature had decreed that she should possess no single attribute of soul in abundance. no impulse had ever swept her away, not even the impulse to grasp. she had always calculated, always schemed with her mind, not her senses, always moved slowly and deliberately toward her purpose. she would never speak the truth, he knew, just as she would never over-step a convention, because truthfulness and unconventionality would have interfered equally with the success of her designs. life had become for her only a pedestal which supported an image; and this image, as unlike the actual angelica as a christmas angel is unlike a human being, was reflected, in all its tinselled glory, in the minds of her neighbours. before the world she would be always blameless, wronged, and forgiving. he knew these things with his mind, yet there were moments even now when his heart still desired her. an hour later, when he entered her sitting-room, he found her, in a blue robe, on the sofa in front of the fire. of late he had noticed that she seldom lay down in the afternoon, and as she was not a woman of moods, he was surprised that she had broken so easily through a habit which had become as fixed as a religious observance. "it doesn't look as if you had had much rest to-day," he said, as he entered. she looked up with an expression that struck him as incongruously triumphant. though at another time he would have accepted this as an auspicious omen, he wondered now, after the episode of the afternoon, if she were merely gathering her forces for a fresh attack. he shrank from approaching her on the subject of economy, because experience had taught him that her first idea of saving would be to cut down the wages of the servants; and he had a disturbing recollection that she had met his last suggestion that they should reduce expenses with a reminder that it was unnecessary to employ a trained nurse to look after letty. when she wanted to strike hardest, she invariably struck through the child. though she was not clever, she had been sharp enough to discover the chink in his armour. "did you find mary?" she asked. "yes, she seems out of sorts. what is the trouble between her and alan?" "is there any trouble?" she appeared surprised. "i fear so. she told me she was not sure that they were going to be married." "did she say that?" "she said it, but she may not have meant it. i cannot understand." angelica pondered his words. "well, i've noticed lately that she wasn't very nice to him." "but she was wildly in love with him. she cannot have changed so suddenly." "why not?" she raised her eyebrows slightly. "people do change, don't they?" "not when they are like mary." with a gesture of perplexity, he put the subject away from him. "what i really came to tell you isn't very much better," he said. "of late, since the war began, things have been going rather badly with me. i dare say i'll manage to pull up sooner or later, but every interest in which i am heavily involved has been more or less affected by the condition of the country. if we should go into this war----" she looked up sharply. "don't you think we can manage to keep out of it?" "to keep out of it?" even now there were moments when she astonished him. for the first time in months her impatience got the better of her. "oh, i know, of course, that you would like us to fight germany; but it seems to me that if you stopped to think of all the suffering it would mean----" "i do stop to think." "then there isn't any use talking!" "not about that; but considering the uncertainty of the immediate future, don't you think we might try, in some way, to cut down a bit?" turning away from him, she gazed thoughtfully into the fire. "if it is really necessary----?" "it may become necessary at any moment." at this she looked straight up at him. "well, since letty is so much better, i am sure that there is no need for us to keep a trained nurse for her." she had aimed squarely, and he flinched at the blow. "but the child is so happy." "she would be just as happy with any one else." "no other nurse has ever done so much for her. why, she has been like a different child since miss meade came to her." while he spoke he became aware that she was looking at him as she had looked in the drawing-room. "then you refuse positively to let me send miss meade away?" "i refuse positively, once and for all." her blank, uncomprehending stare followed him as he turned and went out of the room. chapter iv the martyr a fortnight later light was thrown on blackburn's perplexity by a shrewd question from mrs. timberlake. for days he had been groping in darkness, and now, in one instant, it seemed to him that his discovery leaped out in a veritable blaze of electricity. how could he have gone on in ignorance? how could he have stumbled, with unseeing eyes, over the heart of the problem? "david," said the housekeeper bluntly, "don't you think that this thing has been going on long enough?" they were in the library, and before putting the question, she had closed the door and even glanced suspiciously at the windows. "this thing?" he looked up from his newspaper, with the vague idea that she was about to discourse upon our diplomatic correspondence with germany. "i am not talking about the president's notes." her voice had grown rasping. "he may write as many as he pleases, if they will make the germans behave themselves without our having to go to war. what i mean is the way mary is eating her heart out. haven't you noticed it?" "i have been worried about her for some time." he laid the paper down on the desk. "but i haven't been able to discover what is the matter." "if you had asked me two months ago, i could have told you it was about that young fool alan." "about wythe? why, i thought she and wythe were particularly devoted." if he were sparring for time, there was no hint of it in his manner. it really looked, the housekeeper told herself grimly, as if he had not seen the thing that was directly before his eyes until she had pointed it out to him. "they were," she answered tartly, "at one time." "well, what is the trouble now? a lovers' quarrel?" it was a guiding principle with mrs. timberlake that when her conscience drove her she never looked at her road; and true to this intemperate practice, she plunged now straight ahead. "the trouble is that alan has been making a fool of himself over angelica." it was the first time that she had implied the faintest criticism of his wife, and as soon as she had uttered the words, her courage evaporated, and she relapsed into her attitude of caustic reticence. even her figure, in its rusty black, looked shrunken and huddled. "so that is it!" his voice was careless and indifferent. "you mean he has been flattered because she has let him read his plays to her?" "he hasn't known when to stop. if something isn't done, he will go on reading them for ever." "well, if angelica enjoys them?" "but it makes mary very unhappy. can't you see that she is breaking her heart over it?" "angelica doesn't know." he might have been stating a fact about one of the belligerent nations. "oh, of course." she grasped at the impersonal note, but it escaped her. "if she only knew, she could so easily stop it." "so you think if someone were to mention it?" "that is why i came to you. i thought you might manage to drop a word that would let angelica see how much it is hurting mary. she wouldn't want to hurt mary just for the sake of a little amusement. the plays can't be so very important, or they would be on the stage, wouldn't they?" "could you tell her, do you think?" it was the first time he had ever attempted to evade a disagreeable duty, and the question surprised her. "angelica wouldn't listen to a word i said. she'd just think i'd made it up, and i reckon it does look like a tempest in a teapot." he met this gravely. "well, it is natural that she shouldn't take a thing like that seriously." "yes, it's natural." she conceded the point ungrudgingly. "i believe angelica would die before she would do anything really wrong." if he accepted this in silence, it was not because the tribute to angelica's character appeared to him to constitute an unanswerable argument. during the weeks when he had been groping his way to firmer ground, he had passed beyond the mental boundaries in which angelica and her standards wore any longer the aspect of truth. he knew them to be not only artificial, but false; and mrs. timberlake's praise was scarcely more than a hollow echo from the world that he had left. that angelica, who would lie and cheat for an advantage, could be held, through mere coldness of nature, to be above "doing anything really wrong," was a fallacy which had once deluded his heart, but failed now to convince his intelligence. once he had believed in the sacred myth of her virtue; now, brought close against the deeper realities, he saw that her virtue was only a negation, and that true goodness must be, above all things, an affirmation of spirit. "i'll see what i can do," he said, and wondered why the words had not worn threadbare. "you mean you'll speak to angelica?" her relief rasped his nerves. "yes, i'll speak to angelica." "don't you think it would be better to talk first to mary?" before replying, he thought over this carefully. "perhaps it would be better. will you tell her that i'd like to see her immediately?" she nodded and went out quickly, and it seemed to him that the door had barely closed before it opened again, and mary came in with a brave step and a manner of unnatural alertness and buoyancy. "david, do you really think we are going to have war?" it was an awkward evasion, but she had not learned either to evade or equivocate gracefully. "i think we are about to break off diplomatic relations----" "and that means war, doesn't it?" "who knows?" he made a gesture of impatience. "you are trying to climb up on the knees of the gods." "i want to go," she replied breathlessly, "whether we have war or not, i want to go to france. will you help me?" "of course i will help you." "i mean will you give me money?" "i will give you anything i've got. it isn't so much as it used to be." "it will be enough for me. i want to go at once--next week--to-morrow." he looked at her attentively, his grave, lucid eyes ranging thoughtfully over her strong, plain face, which had grown pale and haggard, over her boyish figure, which had grown thin and wasted. "mary," he said suddenly, "what is the trouble? is it an honest desire for service or is it--the open door?" for a minute she looked at him with frightened eyes; then breaking down utterly, she buried her face in her hands and turned from him. "oh, david, i must get away! i cannot live unless i get away!" "from briarlay?" "from briarlay, but most of all--oh, most of all," she brought this out with passion, "from alan!" "then you no longer care for him?" instead of answering his question, she dashed the tears from her eyes, and threw back her head with a gesture that reminded him of the old boyish mary. "will you let me go, david?" "not until you have told me the truth." "but what is the truth?" she cried out, with sudden anger. "do you suppose i am the kind of woman to talk of a man's being 'taken away,' as if he were a loaf of bread to be handed from one woman to another? if he had ever been what i believed him, do you imagine that any one could have 'taken' him? is there any man on earth who could have taken me from alan?" "what has made the trouble, mary?" he put the question very slowly, as if he were weighing every word that he uttered. she flung the pretense aside as bravely as she had dashed the tears from her eyes. "of course i have known all along that she was only flirting--that she was only playing the game----" "then you think that the young fool has been taking angelica too seriously?" at this her anger flashed out again. "seriously enough to make me break my engagement!" "all because he likes to read his plays to her?" "all because he imagines her to be misunderstood and unhappy and ill-treated. oh, david, will you never wake up? how much longer are you going to walk about the world in your sleep? no one has said a breath against angelica--no one ever will--she isn't that kind. but unless you wish alan to be ruined, you must send him away." "isn't she the one to send him away?" "then go to her. go to her now, and tell her that she must do it to-day." "yes, i will tell her that." even while he spoke the words which would have once wrung his heart, he was visited by that strange flashing sense of unreality, of the insignificance and transitoriness of angelica's existence. like mrs. timberlake's antiquated standards of virtue, she belonged to a world which might vanish while he watched it and leave him still surrounded by the substantial structure of life. "then tell her now. i hear her in the hall," said mary brusquely, as she turned away. "it is not likely that she will come in here," he answered, but the words were scarcely spoken before angelica's silvery tones floated to them. "david, may i come in? i have news for you." an instant later, as mary went out, with her air of arrogant sincerity, a triumphant figure in grey velvet passed her in the doorway. "i saw robert and cousin charles a moment ago, and they told me that we had really broken off relations with germany----" she had not meant to linger over the news, but while she was speaking, he crossed the room and closed the door gently behind her. "don't you think now we have done all that is necessary?" she demanded triumphantly. "cousin charles says we have vindicated our honour at last." blackburn smiled slightly. the sense of unreality, which had been vague and fugitive a moment before, rolled over and enveloped him. "it is rather like refusing to bow to a man who has murdered one's wife." a frown clouded her face. "oh, i know all you men are hoping for war, even alan, and you would think an artist would see things differently." "do you think alan is hoping for it?" "aren't you every one except cousin charles? robert told me just now that virginia is beginning to boil over. he believes the country will force the president's hand. oh, i wonder if the world will ever be sane and safe again?" he was watching her so closely that he appeared to be drinking in the sound of her voice and the sight of her loveliness; yet never for an instant did he lose the feeling that she was as ephemeral as a tinted cloud or a perfume. "angelica," he said abruptly, "mary has just told me that she has broken her engagement to alan." tiny sparks leaped to her eyes. "well, i suppose they wouldn't have been happy together----" "do you know why she did it?" "do i know why?" she looked at him inquiringly. "how could i know? she has not told me." "has alan said anything to you about it?" "why, yes, he told me that she had broken it." "and did he tell you why?" she was becoming irritated by the cross examination. "no, why should he tell me? it is their affair, isn't it? now, if that is all, i must go. alan has brought the first act of a new play, and he wants my opinion." the finishing thrust was like her, for she could be bold enough when she was sure of her weapons. even now, though he knew her selfishness, it was incredible to him that she should be capable of destroying mary's happiness when she could gain nothing by doing it. of course if there were some advantage---- "alan can wait," he said bluntly. "angelica, can't you see that this has gone too far, this nonsense of alan's?" "this nonsense?" she raised her eyebrows. "do you call his plays nonsense?" "i call his plays humbug. what must stop is his folly about you. when mary goes, you must send him away." her smile was like the sharp edge of a knife. "so it is alan now? it was poor roane only yesterday." "it is poor roane to-day as much as it ever was. but alan must stop coming here." "and why, if i may ask?" "you cannot have understood, or you would have stopped it." "i should have stopped what?" he met her squarely. "alan's infatuation--for he is infatuated, isn't he?" "do you mean with me?" her indignant surprise almost convinced him of her ignorance. "who has told you that?" she was holding a muff of silver fox, and she gazed down at it, stroking the fur gently, while she waited for him to answer. he noticed that her long slender fingers--she had the hand as well as the figure of one of botticelli's graces--were perfectly steady. "that was the reason that mary broke her engagement," he responded. "did she tell you that?" "yes, she told me. she said she knew that you had not meant it--that alan had lost his head----" her voice broke in suddenly with a gasp of outraged amazement. "and you ask me to send alan away because you are jealous? you ask me this--after--after----" her attitude of indignant virtue was so impressive that, for a moment, he found himself wondering if he had wronged her--if he had actually misunderstood and neglected her? "you must see for yourself, angelica, that this cannot go on." "you dare to turn on me like this!" she cried out so clearly that he started and looked at the door in apprehension. "you dare to accuse me of ruining mary's happiness--after all i have suffered--after all i have stood from you----" as her voice rose in its piercing sweetness, it occurred to him for the first time that she might wish to be overheard, that she might be making this scene less for his personal benefit than for its effect upon an invisible audience. it was the only time he had ever known her to sacrifice her inherent fastidiousness, and descend to vulgar methods of warfare, and he was keen enough to infer that the prize must be tremendous to compensate for so evident a humiliation. "i accuse you of nothing," he said, lowering his tone in the effort to reduce hers to a conversational level. "for your own sake, i ask you to be careful." but he had unchained the lightning, and it flashed out to destroy him. "you dare to say this to me--you who refused to send miss meade away though i begged you to----" "to send miss meade away?" the attack was so unexpected that he wavered before it. "what has miss meade to do with it?" "you refused to send her away. you positively refused when i asked you." "yes, i refused. but miss meade is letty's nurse. what has she to do with mary and alan?" "oh, are you still trying to deceive me?" for an instant he thought she was going to burst into tears. "you knew you were spending too much time in the nursery--that you went when cousin matty was not there--alan heard you admit it--you knew that i wanted to stop it, and you refused--you insisted----" but his anger had overpowered him now, and he caught her arm roughly in a passionate desire to silence the hideous sound of her words, to thrust back the horror that she was spreading on the air--out into the world and the daylight. "stop, angelica, or----" suddenly, without warning, she shrieked aloud, a shriek that seemed to his ears to pierce, not only the ceiling, but the very roof of the house. as he stood there, still helplessly holding her arm, which had grown limp in his grasp, he became aware that the door opened quickly and alan came into the room. "i heard a cry--i thought----" angelica's eyes were closed, but at the sound of alan's voice, she raised her lids and looked at him with a frightened and pleading gaze. "i cried out. i am sorry," she said meekly. without glancing at blackburn, she straightened herself, and walked, with short, wavering steps, out of the room. for a minute the two men faced each other in silence; then alan made an impetuous gesture of indignation and followed angelica. chapter v the choice "looks as if we were going to war, blackburn." it was the beginning of april, and robert colfax had stopped on the steps of his club. "it has looked that way for the last thirty-two months." "well, beware the anger--or isn't it the fury?--of the patient man. it has to come at last. we've been growling too long not to spring--and my only regret is that, as long as we're going to war, we didn't go soon enough to get into the fight. i'd like to have had a chance at potting a german. every man in town is feeling like that to-day." "you think it will be over before we get an army to france?" "i haven't a doubt of it. it will be nothing more than a paper war to a finish." a good many virginians were thinking that way. blackburn was not sure that he hadn't thought that way himself for the last two or three months. everywhere he heard regrets that it was too late to have a share in the actual whipping of germany--that we were only going to fight a decorous and inglorious war on paper. suddenly, in a night, as it were, the war spirit in virginia had flared out. there was not the emotional blaze--the flaming heat--older men said--of the confederacy; but there was an ever-burning, insistent determination to destroy the roots of this evil black flower of prussian autocracy. there was no hatred of austria--little even of turkey. the prussian spirit was the foe of america and of the world; and it was against the prussian spirit that the militant soul of virginia was springing to arms. men who had talked peace a few months before--who had commended the nation that was "too proud to fight," who had voted for the president because of the slogan "he kept us out of war"--had now swung round dramatically with the _volte-face_ of the government. the president had at last committed himself to a war policy, and all over the world americans were awaiting the great word from congress. in an hour personal interests had dissolved into an impersonal passion of service. in an hour opposing currents of thought had flowed into a single dominant purpose, and the president, who had once stood for a party, stood now for america. for, in a broader vision, the spirit of virginia was the spirit of all america. there were many, it is true, who had not, in the current phrase, begun to realize what war would mean to them; there were many who still doubted, or were indifferent, because the battle had not been fought at their doorstep; but as a whole the country stood determined, quiet, armed in righteousness, and waited for the great word from congress. and over the whole country, from north to south, from east to west, the one question never asked was, "what will america get out of it when it is over?" "by jove, if we do get into any actual fighting, i mean to go," said robert, "i am not yet thirty." blackburn looked at him enviously. "it's rotten on us middle-aged fellows. isn't there a hole of some sort a man of forty-three can stop up?" "of course they've come to more than that in england." "we may come to it here if the war keeps up--but that isn't likely." "no, that isn't likely unless congress dies talking. why, for god's sake, can't we strangle the pacifists for once? nobody would grieve for them." "oh, if liberty isn't for fools, it isn't liberty. i suppose the supreme test of our civilization, is that we let people go on talking when we don't agree with them." it was, in reality, only a few days that congress was taking to define and emphasize the president's policy, but these days were interminable to a nation that waited. talk was ruining the country, people said. thirty-two months of talking were enough even for an american congress. it was as much as a man's reputation was worth to vote against the war; it was more than it was worth to give his reasons for so voting. there was tension everywhere, yet there was a strange muffled quiet--the quiet before the storm. "we are too late for the fun," said robert. "germany will back down as soon as she sees we are in earnest." this was what every one was saying, and blackburn heard it again when he left colfax and went into the club. "the pity is we shan't have time to get a man over to france. it's all up to the navy." "the british navy, you mean? where'd we be now but for the british navy?" "well, thank god, the note writing is over!" there was determination enough; but the older men were right--there was none of the flame and ardour of secession days. the war was realized vaguely as a principle rather than as a fact. it was the difference between fighting for abstract justice and knocking down a man in hot blood because he has affronted one's wife. the will to strike was all there, only one did not see red when one delivered the blow. righteous indignation, not personal rage, was in the mind of america. "we aren't mad yet," remarked an old confederate soldier to blackburn. "just wait till they get us as mad as we were at manassas, and we'll show the germans!" "you mean wait until they drop bombs on new york instead of london?" "good lord, no. just wait until our boys have seen, not read, about the things they are doing." so there were a few who expected an american army to reach france before the end of the war. "never mind about taxes. we must whip the huns, and we can afford to pay the bills!" for here as elsewhere the one question never asked was, "what are we going to get out of it?" prosperity was after all a secondary interest. underneath was the permanent idealism of the american mind. when blackburn reached briarlay, he found letty and caroline walking under the budding trees in the lane, and stopping his car, he got out and strolled slowly back with them to the house. the shimmer and fragrance of spring was in the air, and on the ground crowds of golden crocuses were unfolding. "father, will you go to war if uncle roane does?" asked letty, as she slipped her hand into blackburn's and looked up, with her thoughtful child's eyes, into his face. "uncle roane says he is going to whip the germans for me." "i'll go, if they'll take me, letty. your uncle roane is ten years younger than i am." at the moment the war appeared to him, as it had appeared to mary, as the open door--the way of escape from an intolerable situation; but he put this idea resolutely out of his mind. there was a moral cowardice in using impersonal issues as an excuse for the evasion of personal responsibility. "but you could fight better than he could, father." "i am inclined to agree with you. perhaps the government will think that way soon." "alan is going, too. mother begged him not to, but he said he just had to go. mammy riah says the feeling is in his bones, and he can't help it. when a feeling gets into your bones you have to do what it tells you." "it looks as if mammy riah knew something about it." "but if you go and alan goes and uncle roane goes, what will become of mother?" "you will have to take care of her, letty, you and miss meade." caroline, who had been walking in silence on the other side of the road, turned her head at the words. she was wearing a blue serge suit and a close-fitting hat of blue straw, and her eyes were as fresh and spring-like as the april sky. "there is no doubt about war, is there?" she asked. "it may come at any hour. whether it will mean an american army in france or not, no one can say; but we shall have to furnish munitions, if not men, as fast as we can turn them out." "mr. peyton said this morning it would be impossible to send men because we hadn't the ships." blackburn laughed. "then, if necessary, we will do the impossible." it was the voice of america. everywhere at that hour men were saying, "we will do the impossible." "i should like to go," said caroline. "i should like above all things to go." they had stopped in the road, and still holding letty's hand, he looked over her head at caroline's face. "miss meade, will you make me a promise?" clear and radiant and earnest, her eyes held his gaze. "unconditionally?" "no, the conditions i leave to you. will you promise?" "i will promise." she had not lowered her eyes, and he had not looked away from her. her face was pale, and in the fading sunlight he could see the little blue veins on her temples and the look of stern sweetness that sorrow had chiselled about her mouth. more than ever it seemed to him the face of a strong and fervent spirit rather than the face of a woman. so elusive was her beauty that he could say of no single feature, except her eyes, "her charm lies here--or here----" yet the impression she gave him was one of magical loveliness. there was, he thought, a touch of the divine in her smile, as if her look drew its radiance from an inexhaustible source. "will you promise me," he said, "that whatever happens, as long as it is possible, you will stay with letty?" she waited a moment before she answered him, and he knew from her face that his words had touched the depths of her heart. "i promise you that for letty's sake i will do the impossible," she answered. she gave him her hand, and he clasped it over the head of the child. it was one of those rare moments of perfect understanding and sympathy--of a mental harmony beside which all emotional rapture appears trivial and commonplace. he was aware of no appeal to his senses--life had taught him the futility of all purely physical charm--and the hand that touched caroline's was as gentle and as firm as it had been when it rested on letty's head. here was a woman who had met life and conquered it, who could be trusted, he felt, to fight to the death to keep her spirit inviolate. "only one thing will take me away from letty," she said. "if we send an army and the country calls me." "that one thing is the only thing?" "the only thing unless," she laughed as if she were suggesting an incredible event, "unless you or mrs. blackburn should send me away!" to her surprise the ridiculous jest confused him. "take care of letty," he responded quickly; and then, as they reached the porch, he dropped the child's hand, and went up the steps and into the house. in the library, by one of the windows which looked out on the terrace and the sunset, colonel ashburton was reading the afternoon paper, and as blackburn entered, he rose and came over to the fireplace. "i was a little ahead of you, so i made myself at home, as you see," he observed, with his manner of antiquated formality. in the dim light his hair made a silvery halo above his blanched features, and it occurred to blackburn that he had never seen him look quite so distinguished and detached from his age. "if i'd known you were coming, i should have arranged to get here earlier." "i didn't know it myself until it was too late to telephone you at the works." there was an unnatural constraint in his voice, and from the moment of his entrance, blackburn had surmised that the colonel's visit was not a casual one. the war news might have brought him; but it was not likely that he would have found the war news either disconcerting or embarrassing. "the news is good, isn't it?" inquired blackburn, a little stiffly, because he could think of nothing else to say. "first rate. there isn't a doubt but we'll whip the germans before autumn. it wasn't about the war, however, that i came." "there is something else then?" before he replied colonel ashburton looked up gravely at the portrait of blackburn's mother which hung over the mantelpiece. "very like her, very like her," he remarked. "she was a few years older than i--but i'm getting on now--i'm getting on. that's the worst of being born between great issues. i was too young for the last war--just managed to be in one big battle before lee surrendered--and i'm too old for this one. a peace colonel doesn't amount to much, does he?" then he looked sharply at blackburn. "david," he asked in a curiously inanimate voice, "have you heard the things people are saying about you?" "i have heard nothing except what has been said to my face." "then i may assume that the worst is still to be told you?" "you may safely assume that, i think." again the colonel's eyes were lifted to the portrait of blackburn's mother. "there must be an answer to a thing like this, david," he said slowly. "there must be something that you can say." "tell me what is said." shaking the silvery hair from his forehead, the older man still gazed upward, as if he were interrogating the portrait--as if he were seeking guidance from the imperishable youth of the painted figure. serene and soft as black pansies, the eyes of the picture looked down on him from a face that reminded him of a white roseleaf. "it is said"--he hesitated as if the words hurt him--"that your wife accuses you of cruelty. i don't know how the stories started, but i have waited until they reached a point where i felt that they must be stopped--or answered. for the sake of your future--of your work--you must say something, david." while he listened blackburn had walked slowly to the window, gazing out on the afterglow, where some soft clouds, like clusters of lilacs, hung low above the dark brown edge of the horizon. for a moment, after the voice ceased, he still stood there in silence. then wheeling abruptly, he came back to the hearth where the colonel was waiting. "is that all?" he asked. the colonel made a gesture of despair. "it is rumoured that your wife is about to leave you." blackburn looked at him intently. "if it is only a rumour----" "but a man's reputation may be destroyed by a rumour." "is there anything else?" as he spoke it was evident to the other that his thoughts were not on his words. "i am your oldest friend. i was the friend of your mother--i believe in your vision--in your power of leadership. for the sake of the ideas we both try to serve, i have come to you--hating--dreading my task----" he stopped, his voice quivering as if from an emotion that defied his control, and in the silence that followed, blackburn said quietly, "i thank you." "it is said--how this started no one knows, and i suppose it does not matter--that your wife called in the doctor to treat a bruise on her arm, and that she admitted to him that it came from a blow. daisy colfax was present, and it appears that she told the story, without malice, but indiscreetly, i gathered----" as he paused there were beads of perspiration on his forehead, and his lip trembled slightly. it had been a difficult task, but, thank god, he told himself, he had been able to see it through. to his surprise, blackburn's face had not changed. it still wore the look of immobility which seemed to the other to express nothing--and everything. "you must let me make some answer to these charges, david. the time has come when you must speak." for a moment longer blackburn was silent. then he said slowly, "what good will it do?" "but the lie, unless it is given back, will destroy not only you, but your cause. it will be used by your enemies. it will injure irretrievably the work you are trying to do. in the end it will drive you out of public life in virginia." "if you only knew how differently i am coming to think of these things," said blackburn presently, and he added after a pause, "if i cannot bear misunderstanding, how could i bear defeat?--for work like mine must lead to temporary defeat----" "not defeat like this--not defeat that leaves your name tarnished." for the first time blackburn's face showed emotion. "and you think that a public quarrel would clear it?" he asked bitterly. "but surely, without that, there could be a denial----" "there can be no other denial. there is but one way to meet a lie, and that way i cannot take." "then things must go on, as they are, to the--end?" "i cannot stop them by talking. if it rests with me, they must go on." "at the cost of your career? of your power for usefulness? of your obligations to your country?" turning his head, blackburn looked away from him to the window, which had been left open. from the outside there floated suddenly the faint, provocative scent of spring--of nature which was renewing itself in the earth and the trees. "a career isn't as big a thing at forty-three as it is at twenty," he answered, with a touch of irony. "my power for usefulness must stand on its merits alone, and my chief obligation to my country, as i see it, is to preserve the integrity of my honour. we hear a great deal to-day about the personal not counting any longer; yet the fact remains that the one enduring corner-stone of the state is the personal rectitude of its citizens. you cannot build upon any other foundation, and build soundly. i may be wrong--i often am--but i must do what i believe to be right, let the consequences be what they will." now that he had left the emotional issue behind him, the immobility had passed from his manner, and his thoughts were beginning to come with the abundance and richness that the colonel associated with his public speeches. already he had put the question of his marriage aside, as a fact which had been accepted and dismissed from his mind. "in these last few years--or months rather--i have begun to see things differently," he resumed, with an animation and intensity that contrasted strangely with his former constraint and dumbness. "i can't explain how it is, but this war has knocked a big hole in reality. we can look deeper into things than any generation before us, and the deeper we look, the more we become aware of the outer darkness in which we have been groping. i am groping now, i confess it, but i am groping for light." "it will leave a changed world when it is over," assented the colonel, and he spoke the platitude with an accent of relief, as if he had just turned away from a sight that distressed him. "more changed, i believe, for us older ones than for the young who have done the actual fighting. i should like to write a book about that--the effect of the war on the minds of the non-combatants. the fighters have been too busy to think, and it is thought, after all, not action, that leaves the more permanent record. life will spring again over the battle-fields, but the ideas born of the war will control the future destinies of mankind." "i am beginning to see," pursued blackburn, as if he had not heard him, "that there is something far bigger than the beliefs we were working for. because we had got beyond the sections to the country, you and i, we thought we were emancipated from the bondage of prejudice. the chief end of the citizen appeared to us to be the glory of the nation, but i see now--i am just beginning to see--that there is a greater spirit than the spirit of nationality. you can't live through a world war, even with an ocean between--and distance, by the way, may give us all the better perspective, and enable americans to take a wider view than is possible to those who are directly in the path of the hurricane--you can't live through a world war, and continue to think in terms of geographical boundaries. to think about it at all, one must think in universal relations." he hesitated an instant, and then went on more rapidly, "after all, we cannot beat germany by armies alone, we must beat her by thought. for two generations she has thought wrong, and it is only by thinking right--by forcing her to think right--that we can conquer her. the victory belongs to the nation that engraves its ideas indelibly upon the civilization of the future." leaning back in the shadows, colonel ashburton gazed at him with a perplexed and questioning look. was it possible that he had never understood him--that he did not understand him to-day? he had come to speak of an open scandal, of a name that might be irretrievably tarnished--and blackburn had turned it aside by talking about universal relations! chapter vi angelica's triumph caroline wrote a few nights later: dearest mother: so it has come at last, and we really and truly are at war. there is not so much excitement as you would have thought--i suppose because we have waited so long--but everybody has hung out flags--and letty and i have just helped peter put a big beautiful one over briarlay. mrs. blackburn is working so hard over the red cross that we have barely seen her for days, and mary has already gone to new york on her way to france. she is going to work there with one of the war charities, and i think it will be the best thing on earth for her, for any one can see that she has been very unhappy. mr. wythe wants to go into the army, but for some reason he has hesitated about volunteering. i think mrs. blackburn opposes it very strongly, and this is keeping him back. there is a new feeling in the air, though. the world is rushing on--somewhere--somewhere, and we are rushing with it. for days i have wanted to write you about a curious thing, but i have waited hoping that i might have been mistaken about it. you remember how very sweet mrs. blackburn was to me when i first came here. well, for the last month she has changed utterly in her manner. i cannot think of any way in which i could have offended her--though i have racked my brain over it--but she appears to avoid me whenever it is possible, and on the occasions when we are obliged to meet, she does not speak to me unless it is necessary. of course there are things i am obliged to ask her about letty; but this is usually done through the servants, and mrs. blackburn never comes into the nursery. sometimes she sends for letty to come to her, but mammy riah always takes her and brings her back again. i asked mrs. timberlake if she thought i could have done anything mrs. blackburn did not like, and if i had better go to her and demand an explanation. that seems to me the only sensible and straightforward way, but mrs. timberlake does not think it would do any good. she is as much mystified about it as i am, and so is mammy riah. nobody understands, and the whole thing has worried me more than i can ever tell you. if it wasn't for letty, and a promise i made to mr. blackburn not to leave her, i should be tempted to give up the place at the end of the week. it is cowardly to let one's self be vanquished by things like that, especially at a time when the whole world needs every particle of courage that human beings can create; but it is just like fighting an intangible enemy, and not knowing at what moment one may be saying or doing the wrong thing. not a word has been spoken to me that was rude or unkind, yet the very air i breathe is full of something that keeps me apprehensive and anxious all the time. when i am with mr. blackburn or mrs. timberlake, i tell myself that it is all just my imagination, and that i am getting too nervous to be a good nurse; and then, when i pass mrs. blackburn in the hall and she pretends not to see me, the distrust and suspicion come back again. i hate to worry you about this--for a long time i wouldn't mention it in my letters--but i feel to-night that i cannot go on without telling you about it. last night after dinner--when mrs. blackburn is at home mrs. timberlake and i dine in the breakfast-room--i went to look for letty, and found that she had slipped into the drawing-room, where mrs. blackburn and mr. wythe were engaged in their perpetual reading. the child is very fond of mr. wythe--he has a charming way with her--and when i went in, she was asking him if he were really going to war? before answering her he looked for a long time at mrs. blackburn, and then as letty repeated her question, he said, "don't you think i ought to go, letty?" "what is the war about, alan?" asked the child, and he replied, "they call it a war for democracy." then, of course, letty inquired immediately, "what is democracy?" at this alan burst out laughing, "you've got me there, socrates," he retorted, "go inquire of your father." "but father says it is a war to end war," letty replied, and her next question was, "but if you want to fight, why do you want to end war?" she is the keenest thing for her years you can imagine. i had to explain it all to her when i got her upstairs. well, what i started to tell you was that all the time mrs. blackburn said nothing, but kept looking from alan to the child, with that wistful and plaintive expression which makes her the very image of a grieving madonna. she never spoke a word, but i could tell all the time that she was trying to gain something, that she was using every bit of her charm and her pathos for some purpose i could not discover. in a little while she took letty from alan and gave her over to me, and as we went out, i heard alan say to her, "i would give anything on earth to keep you from being hurt any more." of course i shouldn't repeat this to any one else, but he must have known that i couldn't help hearing it. mr. blackburn has been very kind to me, and i know that he would do anything for letty's happiness. he is so impersonal that i sometimes feel that he knows ideas, but not men and women. it is hard for him to break through the wall he has built round himself, but after you once discover what he really is, you are obliged to admit that he is fine and absolutely to be trusted. in a way he is different from any one i have ever known--more sincere and genuine. i can't make what i mean very clear, but you will understand. for the last week i have scarcely seen him for a minute--i suppose he is absorbed in war matters--but before that he used to come in and have tea with letty, and we had some long interesting talks. the child is devoted to him, and you know she loves above all things to set her little table in the nursery, and give tea and bread and butter to whoever happens to come in. mrs. colfax used to drop in very often, and so did mary when she was here; but mrs. blackburn always promises to come, and then is too busy, or forgets all about it, and i have to make excuses for her to letty. i feel sorry for letty because she is lonely, and has no child companions, and i do everything i can to make her friendly with grown people, and to put a little wholesome pleasure into her life. a delicate child is really a very serious problem in many ways besides physical ones. letty has not naturally a cheerful disposition, though she flies off at times into a perfect gale of high spirits. for the last week i can see that she has missed her father, and she is continually asking me where he is. now i must tell you something i have not mentioned to any one except mrs. timberlake, and i spoke of it to her only because she asked me a direct question. something very unfortunate occurred here last winter, and mrs. timberlake told me yesterday that everybody in richmond has been talking about it. as long as it is known so generally--and it appears that young mrs. colfax was the one to let it out--there can't be any harm in my writing frankly to you. i haven't the faintest idea how it all started, but one morning--it must have been two months ago--mrs. blackburn showed young mrs. colfax a bruise on her arm, and she either told her or let her think that it had come from a blow. of course mrs. colfax inferred that mr. blackburn had struck his wife, and, without waiting a minute, she rushed straight out and repeated this to everybody she met. she is so amazingly indiscreet, without meaning the least harm in the world, that you might as well print a thing in the newspaper as tell it to her. no one knows how much she made up and how much mrs. blackburn actually told her; but the town has been fairly ringing, mrs. timberlake says, with the scandal. people even say that he has been so cruel to her that the servants heard her cry out in his study one afternoon, and that alan wythe, who was waiting in the drawing-room, ran in and interfered. it is all a dreadful lie, of course--you know this without my telling you--but mrs. timberlake and i cannot understand what began it, or why mrs. blackburn deliberately allowed daisy colfax to repeat such a falsehood. colonel ashburton told mrs. timberlake that the stories had already done incalculable harm to mr. blackburn's reputation, and that his political enemies were beginning to use them. you will understand better than any one else how much this distresses me, not only because i have grown to like and admire mr. blackburn, but for letty's sake also. as the child grows up this disagreement between her parents will make such a difference in her life. i cannot tell you how i long to be back at the cedars, now that spring is there and all the lilacs will so soon be in bloom. when i shut my eyes i can see you and the girls in the "chamber," and i can almost hear you talking about the war. i am not quite sure that i approve of maud's becoming a nurse. it is a hard life, and all her beauty will be wasted in the drudgery. diana's idea of going to france with the y. m. c. a. sounds much better, but most of all i like margaret's plan of canning vegetables next summer for the market. if she can manage to get an extra man to help jonas with the garden--how would nathan's son abraham do?--i believe she will make a great success of it. i am so glad that you are planting large crops this year. the question of labour is serious, i know, but letting out so much of the land "on shares" has never seemed to turn out very well. it must be almost eleven o'clock, and i have written on and on without thinking. late as it is, i am obliged to run out to peter's cottage by the stable and give his wife, mandy, a hypodermic at eleven o'clock. she was taken very ill this morning, and if she isn't better to-morrow the doctor will take her to the hospital. i promised him i would see her the last thing to-night, and telephone him if she is any worse. she is so weak that we are giving her all the stimulants that we can. i sometimes wish that i could stop being a trained nurse for a time, and just break loose and be natural. i'd like to run out bareheaded in a storm, or have hysterics, or swear like uncle george. dearest love, caroline. * * * * * when caroline reached the cottage, she found mandy in a paroxysm of pain, and after giving the medicine, she waited until the woman had fallen asleep. it was late when she went back to the house, and as she crossed the garden on her way to the terrace, where she had left one of the french windows open, she lingered for a minute to breathe in the delicious roving scents of the spring night. something sweet and soft and wild in the april air awoke in her the restlessness which the spring always brought; and she found herself wishing again that she could cast aside the professional training of the last eight or nine years, and become the girl she had been at the cedars before love had broken her heart. "i am just as young as i was then--only i am so much wiser," she thought, "and it is wisdom--it is knowing life that has caged me and made me a prisoner. i am not an actor, i am only a spectator now, and yet i believe that i could break away again if the desire came--if life really called me. perhaps, it's the spring that makes me restless--i could never, even at the cedars, smell budding things without wanting to wander--but to-night there is a kind of wildness in everything. i am tired of being caged. i want to be free to follow--follow--whatever is calling me. i wonder why the pipes of pan always begin again in the spring?" enchantingly fair and soft, beneath a silver mist that floated like a breath of dawn from the river, the garden melted into the fields and the fields into the quivering edge of the horizon. in the air there was a faint whispering of gauzy wings, and, now and then, as the breeze stirred the veil of the landscape, little pools of greenish light flickered like glow worms in the hollows. "i hate to go in, but i suppose i must," thought caroline, as she went up the steps. "fortunately roane is off after his commission, so they can't accuse me of coming out to meet him." for the first time she noticed that the lights were out in the house, and when she tried the window she had left open, she found that someone--probably patrick--had fastened it. "i ought to have told them i was going out," she thought. "i suppose the servants are all in bed, and if i go to the front and ring, i shall waken everybody." then, as she passed along the terrace, she saw that the light still glimmered beneath the curtains of the library, where blackburn was working late, and stopping before the window, she knocked twice on the panes. at her second knock, she heard a chair pushed back inside and rapid steps cross the floor. an instant later the window was unbolted, and she saw blackburn standing there against the lighted interior, with a look of surprise and inquiry, which she discerned even though his face was in shadow. he did not speak, and she said hurriedly as she entered, "i hated to disturb you, but they had locked me out." "you have been out?" it was the question he had put to her on her first night in the house. "peter's wife has been ill, and i promised the doctor to give her a hypodermic at eleven o'clock. it must be midnight now. they kept me some time at the cottage." he glanced at the clock. "yes, it is after twelve. we are working you overtime." she had crossed the room quickly on her way to the door, when he called her name, and she stopped and turned to look at him. "miss meade, i have wanted to ask you something about letty when she was not with us." "i know," she responded, with ready sympathy. "it isn't easy to talk before her without letting her catch on." "you feel that she is better?" "much better. she has improved every day in the last month or two." "you think now that she may get well in time? there seems to you a chance that she may grow up well and normal?" "with care i think there is every hope that she will. the doctor is greatly encouraged about her. in this age no physical malady, especially in a child, is regarded as hopeless, and i believe, if we keep up the treatment she is having, she may outgrow the spinal weakness that has always seemed to us so serious." for a moment he was silent. "whatever improvement there may be is due to you," he said presently, in a voice that was vibrant with feeling. "i cannot put my gratitude into words, but you have made me your debtor for life." "i have done my best," she replied gravely, "and it has made me happy to do it." "i recognize that. the beauty of it has been that i recognized that from the beginning. you have given yourself utterly and ungrudgingly to save my child. before you came she was misunderstood always, she was melancholy and brooding and self-centred, and you have put the only brightness in her life that has ever been there. all the time she becomes more like other children, more cheerful and natural." "i felt from the first that she needed companionship and diversion. she won my heart immediately, for she is a very lovable child, and if i have done anything over and above my task, it has been because i loved letty." his look softened indescribably, but all he said was, "if i go away, i shall feel that i am leaving her in the best possible care." "you expect to go away?" "i have offered my services, and the government may call on me. i hope there is some work that i can do." "everyone feels that way, i think. i feel that way myself, but as long as i can, i shall stay with letty. it is so hard sometimes to recognize one's real duty. if the call comes, i suppose i shall have to go to france, but i shan't go just because i want to, as long as the child needs me as much as she does now. mother says the duty that never stays at home is seldom to be trusted." "i know you will do right," he answered gravely. "i cannot imagine that you could ever waver in that. for myself the obligation seems now imperative, yet i have asked myself again and again if my reasons for wishing to go are as----" he broke off in amazement, and glanced, with a startled gesture, at the door, for it was opening very slowly, and, as the crack widened, there appeared the lovely disarranged head of angelica. she was wearing a kimono of sky-blue silk, which she had thrown on hastily over her nightgown, and beneath the embroidered folds, caroline caught a glimpse of bare feet in blue slippers. in the hall beyond there was the staring face of the maid, and at the foot of the stairs, the figure of mammy riah emerged, like a menacing spirit, out of the shadow. "i heard mammy riah asking for miss meade. she was not in her room," began angelica in her clear, colourless voice. "we were anxious about her--but i did not know--i did not dream----" she drew her breath sharply, and then added in a louder and firmer tone, "miss meade, i must ask you to leave the house in the morning." in an instant a cold breath blowing over caroline seemed to turn her living figure into a snow image. her face was as white as the band of her cap, but her eyes blazed like blue flames, and her voice, when it issued from her frozen lips, was stronger and steadier than angelica's. "i cannot leave too soon for my comfort," she answered haughtily. "mr. blackburn, if you will order the car, i shall be ready in an hour----" though she saw scarlet as she spoke, she would have swept by angelica with the pride and the outraged dignity of an insulted empress. "you shall not go," said blackburn, and she saw him put out his arm, as if he would keep the two women apart. "i would not stay," replied caroline, looking not at him, but straight into angelica's eyes. "i would not stay if she went on her knees to me. i will not stay even for letty----" "do you know what you have done?" demanded blackburn, in a quivering voice, of his wife. "do you know that you are ruining your child's future--your child's chance----" then, as if words were futile to convey his meaning, he stopped, and looked at her as a man looks at the thing that has destroyed him. "for letty's sake i shut my eyes as long as i could," said angelica, and of the three, she appeared the only one who spoke in sorrow and regret, not in anger. "after to-night i can deceive myself no longer. i can deceive the servants no longer----" her kimono was embroidered in a lavish design of cranes and water-lilies; and while caroline gazed at it, she felt that the vivid splashes of yellow and blue and purple were emblazoned indelibly on her memory. years afterwards--to the very end of her life--the sight of a piece of japanese embroidery was followed by an icy sickness of the heart, and a vision of angelica's amber head against the background of the dimly lighted hall and the curious faces of the maid and mammy riah. "you shall not----" said blackburn, and his face was like the face of a man who has died in a moment of horror. "you shall not dare do this thing----" he was still keeping caroline back with his outstretched hand, and while she looked at him, she forgot her own anger in a rush of pity for the humiliation which showed in every quiver of his features, in every line of his figure. it was a torture, she knew, which would leave its mark on him for ever. "you shall not dare----" he repeated, as if the words he sought would not come to him. beneath his gaze angelica paled slowly. her greatest victories had always been achieved through her dumbness; and the instinct which had guided her infallibly in the past did not fail her in this moment, which must have appeared to her as the decisive hour of her destiny. there was but one way in which she could triumph, and this way she chose, not deliberately, but in obedience to some deep design which had its source in the secret motive-power of her nature. the colour of her skin faded to ivory, her long, slender limbs trembled and wavered, and the pathos of her look was intensified into the image of tragedy. "i tried so hard not to see----" she began, and the next instant she gave a little gasping sob and dropped, like a broken flower, at his feet. for a second caroline looked down on her in silence. then, without stooping, without speaking, she drew her skirt aside, and went out of the room and up the stairs. her scorn was the scorn of the strong who is defeated for the weak who is victorious. chapter vii courage when she reached her room, caroline took off her cap and uniform and laid them smoothly away in her trunk. then she began packing with deliberate care, while her thoughts whirled as wildly as autumn leaves in a storm. outwardly her training still controlled her; but beneath her quiet gestures, her calm and orderly movements, she felt that the veneer of civilization had been stripped from the primitive woman. it was as if she had lived years in the few minutes since she had left angelica lying, lovely and unconscious, on the floor of the library. she was taking her clothes out of the closet when there was a low knock at her door, and mammy riah peered inquiringly into the room. "marse david tole me ter come," she said. "is you gwine away, honey?" before she replied, caroline crossed the floor and closed the door of the nursery. "i am going home on the earliest train in the morning. will you be sure to order the car?" the old woman came in and took the clothes out of caroline's hands. "you set right down, en wait twell i git thoo wid dis yer packin'. marse david, he tole me ter look atter you de same ez i look atter letty, en i'se gwine ter do whut he tells me." she looked a thousand years old as she stood there beside the shaded electric light on the bureau; but her dark and wrinkled face contained infinite understanding and compassion. at the moment, in the midst of caroline's terrible loneliness, mammy riah appeared almost beautiful. "i have to move about, mammy, i can't sit still. you were there. you saw it all." "i seed hit comin' befo' den, honey, i seed hit comin'." "but you knew i'd gone out to see mandy? you knew she was suffering?" "yas'm, i knows all dat, but i knows a heap mo'n dat, too." "you saw mrs. blackburn? you heard?----" "i 'uz right dar all de time. i 'uz right dar at de foot er de steers." "do you know why? can you imagine why she should have done it?" mammy riah wrinkled her brow, which was the colour and texture of stained parchment. "i'se moughty ole, and i'se moughty sharp, chile, but i cyarn' see thoo a fog. i ain' sayin' nuttin' agin miss angy, caze she wuz oner de fitzhugh chillun, ef'n a wi'te nuss did riz 'er. naw'm, i ain' sayin' nuttin 't'all agin 'er--but my eyes dey is done got so po' dat i cyarn' mek out whar she's a-gwine en whut she's a-fishin' fur." "i suppose she was trying to make me leave. but why couldn't she have come out and said so?" "go 'way f'om yer, chile! ain't you knowed miss angy better'n dat? she is jes' erbleeged ter be meally-mouthed en two-faced, caze she wuz brung up dat ar way. all de chillun dat w'ite nuss riz wuz sorter puny en pigeon-breasted inside en out, en miss angy she wuz jes' like de res' un um. she ain' never come right spang out en axed fur whut she gits, en she ain' never gwine ter do hit. naw'm, dat she ain't. she is a-gwine ter look put upon, en meek ez moses, en jes like butter wouldn't melt in 'er mouf, ef'n hit kills 'er. i'se done knowed 'er all 'er lifetime, en i ain' never seed 'er breck loose, nairy oncet. ole miss use'n ter say w'en she wuz live, dat miss angy's temper wuz so slow en poky, she'd git ter woner sometimes ef'n she reely hed a speck er one." "that must be why everybody thinks her a martyr," said caroline sternly. "even to-night she didn't lose her temper. you saw her faint away at my feet?" a shiver shook her figure, as the vision of the scene rushed before her; and bending down, with a dress still in her arms, the old woman patted and soothed her as if she had been a child. "dar now, dar now," she murmured softly. then, raising her head, with sudden suspicion, she said in a sharp whisper, "dat warn' no sho' nuff faintin'. she wuz jes' ez peart ez she could be w'en she flopped down dar on de flo'." "i didn't touch her. i wouldn't have touched her if she had been dying!" declared caroline passionately. mammy riah chuckled. "you is git ter be a reel spit-fire, honey." "i'm not a spit-fire, but i'm so angry that i see red." "cose you is, cose you is, but dat ain' no way ter git erlong in dis worl', perticular wid men folks. you ain' never seed miss angy git ez mad ez fire wid nobody, is you? dar now! i low you ain' never seed hit. you ain' never seed 'er git all in a swivet 'bout nuttin? ain't she al'ays jes' ez sof ez silk, no matter whut happen? dat's de bes' way ter git erlong, honey, you lissen ter me. de mo' open en above boa'd you is, de mo' you is gwine ter see de thing you is atter begin ter shy away f'om you. dar's miss matty timberlake now! ain't she de sort dat ain' got no sof' soap about 'er, en don't she look jes egzactly ez ef'n de buzzards hed picked 'er? naw'm, you teck en watch miss angy, en she's gwine ter sho' you sump'n. she ain' never let on ter nobody, she ain't. dar ain' nobody gwine ter know whut she's a-fishin' fur twell she's done cotched hit." there was an exasperated pride in her manner, as if she respected, even while she condemned, the success of angelica's method. "yas, lawd! i'se knowed all de fitzhughs f'om way back, en i ain' knowed nairy one un um dat could beat miss angy w'en hit comes ter gettin' whut she wants--in perticular ef'n hit belongst ter somebody else. i'se seed 'er wid 'er pa, en i'se seed 'er wid marse david, en dey warn' no mo' den chillun by de time she got thoo wid um. is you ever seed a man, no matter how big he think hisself, dat warn' ready ter flop right down ez' weak ez water, ez soon as she set 'er een on 'im? i'se watched 'er wid marse david way back yonder, befo' he begunst his cotin', en w'en i see 'er sidle up ter 'im, lookin ez sweet ez honey, en pertendin' dat she ain' made up 'er min' yit wedder she is mos' pleased wid 'im er feared un 'im, den i knows hit wuz all up wid 'im, ef'n he warn't ez sharp ez a needle. do you reckon she 'ould ever hev cotched marse david ef'n he'd a knowed whut 't'wuz she wuz atter? naw'm, dat she 'ouldn't, caze men folks dey ain' made dat ar way. deys erbleeged ter be doin' whut dey think you don't want 'um ter do, jes' like chillun, er dey cyarn' git enny spice outer doin' hit. dat's de reason de 'ooman dey mos' often breecks dere necks tryin' ter git is de v'ey las' one dat deys gwinter want ter keep atter deys got 'er. a she fox is a long sight better in de bushes den she is in de kennel; but men folks dey ain' never gwine ter fin' dat out twell she's done bitten um." while she rambled on, she had been busily folding the clothes and packing them into the trunk, and pausing now in her work, she peered into caroline's face. "you look jes' egzactly ez ef'n you'd seed a ha'nt, honey," she said. "git in de baid, en try ter go right straight ter sleep, w'ile i git thoo dis yer packin' in a jiffy." aching in every nerve, caroline undressed and threw herself into bed. the hardest day of nursing had never left her like this--had never exhausted her so utterly in body and mind. she felt as if she had been beaten with rocks; and beneath the sore, bruised feeling of her limbs there was the old half-forgotten quiver of humiliation, which brought back to her the vision of that autumn morning at the cedars--of the deep blue of the sky, the shivering leaves of the aspens, and the long straight road drifting through light and shadow into other roads that led on somewhere--somewhere. could she never forget? was she for ever chained to an inescapable memory? "is you 'bleeged ter go?" inquired the old woman, stopping again in her packing. "yes, i'm obliged to go. i wouldn't stay now if they went down on their knees to me." "you ain't mad wid marse david, is you?" "no, i'm not angry with mr. blackburn. he has been very kind to me, and i am sorry to leave letty." for the first time the thought of the child occurred to her. incredible as it seemed she had actually forgotten her charge. "she sutney is gwine ter miss you." "i think she will, poor little letty. i wonder what they will make of her?" closing her eyes wearily, she turned her face to the wall, and lay thinking of the future. "i will not be beaten," she resolved passionately. "i will not let them hurt me." some old words she had said long ago at the cedars came back to her, and she repeated them over and over, "people cannot hurt you unless you let them. they cannot hurt you unless you submit--unless you deliver your soul into their hands--and i will never submit. life is mine as much as theirs. the battle is mine, and i will fight it." she remembered her first night at briarlay, when she had watched the light from the house streaming out into the darkness, and had felt that strange forewarning of the nerves, that exhilarating sense of approaching destiny, that spring-like revival of her thoughts and emotions. how wonderful mrs. blackburn had appeared then! how ardently she might have loved her! for an instant the veiled figure of her imagination floated before her, and she was tormented by the pang that follows not death, but disillusionment. "i never harmed her. i would have died for her in the beginning. why should she have done it?" opening her eyes she stared up at the wall beside her bed, where mammy riah's shadow hovered like some grotesque bird of prey. "did you order the car, mammy riah?" "yas'm, i tole john jes' like you axed me. now, i'se done got de las' one er dese things packed, en i'se gwine ter let you git some sleep." she put out the light while she spoke, and then went out softly, leaving the room in darkness. "_why should she have done it? why should she have done it?_" asked caroline over and over, until the words became a refrain that beat slowly, with a rhythmic rise and fall, in her thoughts: "_why should she have done it?_ i thought her so good and beautiful. i would have worked my fingers to the bone for her if she had only been kind to me. _why should she have done it?_ i should always have taken her part against mr. blackburn, against mrs. timberlake, against mammy riah. it would have been so easy for her to have kept my love and admiration. it would have cost her nothing. _why should she have done it?_ there is nothing she can gain by this, and it isn't like her to do a cruel thing unless there is something she can gain. she likes people to admire her and believe in her. that is why she has taken so much trouble to appear right before the world, and to make mr. blackburn appear wrong. admiration is the breath of life to her, and--and--oh, why _should she have done it_? i must go to sleep. i must put it out of my mind. if i don't put it out of my mind, i shall go mad before morning. i ought to be glad to leave briarlay. i ought to want to go, but i do not. i do not want to go. i feel as if i were tearing my heart to pieces. i cannot bear the thought of never seeing the place again--of never seeing letty again. _why should she have done it?_----" in the morning, when she was putting on her hat, mrs. timberlake came in with a breakfast tray in her hands. "sit down, and try to eat something, caroline. i thought you would rather have a cup of coffee up here." caroline shook her head. "i couldn't touch a morsel in this house. i feel as if it would choke me." "but you will be sick before you get home. just drink a swallow or two." taking the cup from her, caroline began drinking it so hurriedly that the hot coffee burned her lips. "yes, you are right," she said presently. "i cannot fight unless i keep up my strength, and i will fight to the bitter end. i will not let her hurt me. i am poor and unknown, and i work for my living, but the world is mine as much as hers, and i will not give in. i will not let life conquer me." "you aren't blaming david, are you, dear?" "oh, no, i am not blaming mr. blackburn. he couldn't have helped it." her heart gave a single throb while she spoke; and it seemed to her that, in the midst of the anguish and humiliation, something within her soul, which had been frozen for years, thawed suddenly and grew warm again. it was just as if a statue had come to life, as if what had been marble yesterday had been blown upon by a breath of the divine, and changed into flesh. for eight years she had been dead, and now, in an instant, she was born anew, and had entered afresh into her lost heritage of joy and pain. mrs. timberlake, gazing at her through dulled eyes, was struck by the intensity of feeling that glowed in her pale face and in the burning blue of her eyes. "i didn't know she could look like that," thought the housekeeper. "i didn't know she had so much heart." aloud she said quietly, "david and i are going to the train with you. that is why i put on my bonnet." "is mr. blackburn obliged to go with us?" caroline's voice was almost toneless, but there was a look of wonder and awe in her face, as of one who is standing on the edge of some undiscovered country, of some virgin wilderness. the light that fell on her was the light of that celestial hemisphere where mrs. timberlake had never walked. "he wishes to go," answered the older woman, and she added with an after-thought, "it will look better." "as if it mattered how things look? i'd rather not see him again, but, after all, it makes no difference." "it wasn't his fault, caroline." "no, it wasn't his fault. he has always been good to me." "if anything, it has been harder on him than on you. it is only a few hours of your life, but it is the whole of his. she has spoiled his life from the first, and now she has ruined his career forever. even before this, colonel ashburton told me that all that talk last winter had destroyed david's future. he said he might have achieved almost anything if he had had half a chance, but that he regarded him now merely as a brilliant failure. angelica went to work deliberately to ruin him." "but why?" demanded caroline passionately. "what was there she could gain by it?" mrs. timberlake blinked at the sunlight. "for the first time in my life," she confessed, "i don't know what she is up to. i can't, to save my life, see what she has got in her mind." "she can't be doing it just to pose as an ill-treated wife? the world is on her side already. there isn't a person outside of this house who doesn't look upon her as a saint and martyr." "i know there isn't. that is what puzzles me. i declare, if it didn't sound so far-fetched, i'd be almost tempted to believe that she was trying to get that young fool for good." "mr. wythe? but what would she do with him? she is married already, and you know perfectly well that she wouldn't do anything that the world calls really wrong." "she'd be burned at the stake first. well, i give it up. i've raked my brain trying to find some reason at the bottom of it, but it isn't any use, and i've had to give it up in the end. then, last night after david told me about that scene downstairs--he waked me up to tell me--it suddenly crossed my mind just like that--" she snapped her fingers--"that perhaps she's sharper than we've ever given her credit for being. i don't say it's the truth, because i don't know any more than a babe unborn whether it is or not; but the idea did cross my mind that maybe she felt if she could prove david really cruel and faithless to her--if she could make up a case so strong that people's sympathy would support her no matter what she did--then she might manage to get what she wanted without having to give up anything in return. you know angelica could never bear to give up anything. she has got closets and closets filled with old clothes, which she'd never think of wearing, but just couldn't bear to give away----" "you mean----?" the blackness of the abyss struck caroline speechless. "i don't wonder that you can't take it in. i couldn't at first. it seems so unlike anything that could ever happen in virginia." "it would be so--" caroline hesitated for a word--"so incredibly common." "of course you feel that way about it, and so would angelica's mother. i reckon she would turn in her grave at the bare thought of her daughter's even thinking of a divorce." "you mean she would sacrifice me like this? she would not only ruin her husband, she would try to destroy me, though i've never harmed her?" "that hasn't got anything in the world to do with it. she isn't thinking of you, and she isn't thinking of alan. she is thinking about what she wants. it is surprising how badly you can want a thing even when you have neither feeling nor imagination. angelica isn't any more in love with that young ass than i am; but she wants him just as much as if she were over head and ears in love. there is one thing, however, you may count on--she is going to get him if she can, and she is going to persuade herself and everybody else, except you and david and me, that she is doing her duty when she goes after her inclinations. i don't reckon there was ever anybody stronger on the idea of duty than angelica," she concluded in a tone of acrid admiration. "of course, she will always stand right before the world," assented caroline, "i know that." "well, it takes some sense to manage it, you must admit?" "i wish i'd never come here. i wish i'd never seen briarlay," cried caroline, in an outburst of anger. "there is the car at the door. we'd better go." "won't you tell letty good-bye?" for the first time tears rushed to caroline's eyes. "no, i'd rather not. give her my love after i'm gone." in the hall blackburn was waiting for them, and caroline's first thought, as she glanced at him, was that he had aged ten years since the evening before. a rush of pity for him, not for herself, choked her to silence while she put her hand into his, which felt as cold as ice when she touched it. in that moment she forgot the wrong that she had suffered, she forgot her wounded pride, her anguish and humiliation, and remembered only that he had been hurt far more deeply. "i hope you slept," he said awkwardly, and she answered, "very little. is the car waiting?" then, as he turned to go down the steps, she brushed quickly past him, and entered the car after mrs. timberlake. she felt that her heart was breaking, and she could think of no words to utter. there were trivial things, she knew, that might be said, casual sounds that might relieve the strain of the silence; but she could not remember what they were, and where her thoughts had whirled so wildly all night long, there was now only a terrible vacancy, round which sinister fears moved but into which nothing entered. a strange oppressive dumbness, a paralysis of the will, seized her. if her life had depended on it, she felt that she should have been powerless to put two words together with an intelligible meaning. blackburn got into the car, and a moment later they started round the circular drive, and turned into the lane. "did john put in the bag?" inquired mrs. timberlake nervously. "yes, it is in front." as he replied, blackburn turned slightly, and the sunshine falling aslant the boughs of the maples, illumined his face for an instant before the car sped on into the shadows. in that minute it seemed to caroline that she could never forget the misery in his eyes, or the look of grimness and determination the night had graven about his mouth. every line in his forehead, every thread of grey in his dark hair, would remain in her memory for ever. "he looked so much younger when i came here," she thought. "these last months have cost him his youth and his happiness." "i am so glad you have a good day for your trip," said mrs. timberlake, and almost to her surprise caroline heard her own voice replying distinctly, "yes, it is a beautiful day." "will you telegraph your mother from the station?" "she wouldn't get it. there is no telephone, and we send only once a day for the mail." "then she won't be expecting you?" "no, she won't be expecting me." at this blackburn turned. "what can we do, miss meade, to help you?" again she seemed to herself to answer with her lips before she had selected the words, "nothing, thank you. there is absolutely nothing that you can do." the soft wind had loosened a lock of hair under her veil, and putting up her hand, she pushed it back into place. rain had fallen in the night, and the morning was fresh and fine, with a sky of cloudless turquoise blue. the young green leaves by the roadside shone with a sparkling lustre, while every object in the landscape appeared to quiver and glisten in the spring sunlight. "i shall never see it again--i shall never see it again." suddenly, without warning, caroline's thoughts came flocking back as riotously as they had done through the long, sleepless night. the external world at which she looked became a part of the intense inner world of her mind; and the mental vacancy was crowded in an instant with a vivid multitude of figures. every thought, every sensation, every image of the imagination and of memory, seemed to glitter with a wonderful light and freshness, as the objects in the landscape glittered when the april sunshine streamed over them. "yes, i am leaving it forever. i shall never see it again, but why should i care so much? why does it make me so unhappy, as if it were tearing the heart out of my breast? life is always that--leaving things forever, and giving up what you would rather keep. i have left places i cared for before, and yet i have never felt like this, not even when i came away for the first time from the cedars. every minute i am going farther and farther away. we are in the city now; flags are shining, too, in the sun. i have never seen so many flags--as if flags alone meant war! war! why, i had almost forgotten the war! and yet it is the most tremendous thing that has ever been on the earth, and nothing else really matters--neither briarlay, nor mrs. blackburn, nor my life, nor mr. blackburn's, nor anything that happened last night. it was all so little--as little as the thing mrs. blackburn is trying to get, the thing she calls happiness. it is as little as the thing i have lost--as little as my aching heart----" "do you know," said mrs. timberlake, "i had not realized that we were at war--but look at the flags!" her lustreless eyes were lifted, with a kind of ecstasy, in the sunlight, and then as no one answered, she added softly, "it makes one stop and think." "i must try to remember the war," caroline was telling herself. "if i remember the war, perhaps i shall forget the ache in my heart. the larger pain will obliterate the smaller. if i can only forget myself----" but, in spite of the effort of will, she could not feel the war as keenly as she felt the parting from something which seemed more vital to her than her life. "we are at war," she thought, and immediately, "i shall never see it again--i shall never see it again." the car stopped at the station, and a minute afterwards she followed mrs. timberlake across the pavement and through the door, which blackburn held open. as she entered, he said quickly, "i will get your ticket and meet you at the gate." "has john got the bag?" asked mrs. timberlake, glancing back. "yes, he is coming." caroline was looking after blackburn, and while she did so, she was conscious of a wish that she had spoken to him in the car while she still had the opportunity. "i might at least have been kinder," she thought regretfully, "i might have shown him that i realized it was not his fault--that he was not to blame for anything from the beginning----" a tall countryman, carrying a basket of vegetables, knocked against her, and when she turned to look back again, blackburn had disappeared. "it is too late now. i shall never see him again." the station was crowded; there was a confused rumble of sounds, punctuated by the shrill cries of a baby, in a blue crocheted hood, that was struggling to escape from the arms of a nervous-looking mother. in front of mrs. timberlake, who peered straight ahead at the gate, there was a heavy man, with a grey beard, and beside him a small anxious-eyed woman, who listened, with distracted attention, to the emphatic sentences he was uttering. "why doesn't he stop talking and let us go on," thought caroline. "what difference does it make if the whole world is going to ruin?" even now, if she could only go faster, there might be time for a few words with blackburn before the train started. if only she might tell him that she was not ungrateful--that she understood, and would be his friend always. a hundred things that she wanted to say flashed through her mind, and these things appeared so urgent that she wondered how she could have forgotten them on the long drive from briarlay. "i must tell him. it is the only chance i shall ever have," she kept saying over and over; but when at last she heard his voice, and saw him awaiting them in the crowd, she could recall none of the words that had rushed to her lips the moment before. "it is the only chance i shall ever have," she repeated, though the phrase meant nothing to her any longer. "i tell you it's the farmers that pay for everything, and they are going to pay for the war," declared the grey-bearded man, in a harsh, polemical voice, and the anxious-eyed woman threw a frightened glance over her shoulder, as if the remark had been treasonable. mrs. timberlake had already passed through the gate, and was walking, with a hurried, nervous air, down the long platform. as she followed at blackburn's side, it seemed to caroline that she should feel like this if she were going to execution instead of back to the cedars. she longed with all her heart to utter the regret that pervaded her thoughts, to speak some profound and memorable words that would separate this moment from every other moment that would come in the future--yet she went on in silence toward the waiting train, where the passengers were already crowding into the cars. at the step mrs. timberlake kissed her, and then drew back, wiping her reddened lids. "good-bye, my dear, i shall write to you." "good-bye. i can never forget how kind you have been to me." raising her eyes, she saw blackburn looking down on her, and with an effort to be casual and cheerful, she held out her hand, while a voice from somewhere within her brain kept repeating, "you must say something now that he will remember. it is the last chance you will ever have in your life." "good-bye." her eyes were smiling. "your chair is sixteen. good-bye." it was over; she was on the platform, and the passengers were pushing her into the car. she had lost her last chance, and she had lost it smiling. "it doesn't matter," she whispered. "i am glad to be going home--and life cannot hurt you unless you let it." the smile was still on her lips, but the eyes with which she sought out her chair were wet with tears. chapter viii the cedars no one met her at the little country station, and leaving her bag for old jonas, she started out alone to walk the two miles to the cedars. straight ahead the long, empty road trailed beneath the fresh young foliage of the woods, the little curled red velvet leaves of the oaks shining through the sea-green mist of the hickories and beeches; and she felt that within her soul there was only a continuation of this long, straight emptiness that led on to nothing. overhead flocks of small fleecy clouds, as white as swans-down, drifted across the changeable april sky, while the breeze, passing through the thick woods, stirred the delicate flower-like shadows on the moist ground. "spring is so sad," she thought. "i never understood before how much sadder spring is than autumn." this sadness of budding things, of renewing life, of fugitive scents and ephemeral colours, had become poignantly real. "it makes me want something different--something i have never had; and that is the sharpest desire on earth--the desire for a happiness that hasn't a name." a minute afterwards she concluded resolutely, "that is weakness, and i will not be weak. one must either conquer or be conquered by life--and i will not be conquered. anybody can be miserable, but it takes courage to be happy. it takes courage and determination and intelligence to get the best out of whatever happens, and the only way to begin is to begin by getting the best out of yourself. now i might have been hurt, but i am not because i won't let myself be. i might be unhappy, but i am not because my life is my own, and i can make of it anything that i choose." then suddenly she heard an inner voice saying from a great distance, "it is my last chance. i shall never see him again." with the words her memory was illuminated by a flame; and in the burning light she saw clearly the meaning of everything that had happened--of her sorrow, her dumbness, her longing to speak some splendid and memorable word at the last. it was not to briarlay, it was not even to letty, that her thoughts had clung at the moment of parting. she had wanted david blackburn to remember because it was the separation from him, she knew now, that would make her unhappy. unconsciously, before she had suspected the truth, he had become an inseparable part of her world; unconsciously she had let the very roots of her life entwine themselves about the thought of him. standing there in the deserted road, beneath the changeable blue of the sky, she turned to fight this secret and pitiless enemy. "i will not let it conquer me. i will conquer, as i have conquered worse things than this. i believed myself dead because i had once been disappointed. i believed myself secure because i had once been stabbed to the heart. this is the punishment for my pride--this humiliation and bitterness and longing from which i shall never be free." an unyielding cord stretched from her heart back to briarlay, drawing stronger and tighter with every step of the distance. it would always be there. the pain would not lessen with time. the flame of memory would grow brighter, not paler, with the days, months, and years. the april wind, soft, provocative, sweet-scented, blew in her face as she looked back; and down the long road, between the rose and green of the woods, an unbroken chain of memories stretched toward her. she saw blackburn as he had appeared on that first night at briarlay, standing in the door of his library when she came in from the terrace; she saw him in letty's room at midnight, sitting beside the night lamp on the candle-stand, with the book, which he did not read, open before him; she saw him in the day nursery, his face enkindled with tenderness; she saw him in the midst of the snowy landscape, when there had been rage in his look at the half-drunken roane; and she saw him, most clearly of all, as he looked facing, on that last night, the hour that would leave its mark on him for ever. it was as if this chain of memories, beginning in the vague sunshine and shadow of the distance, grew more distinct, more vivid, as it approached, until at last the images of her mind gathered, like actual presences, in the road before her. she could not escape them, she knew. they were as inevitable as regret, and would follow her through the bitter years ahead, as they had followed her through the hours since she had left him. she must stand her ground, and fight for peace as valiantly as she had ever fought in the past. "i cannot escape it," she said, as she turned to go on, "i must accept it and use it because that is the only way. mine is only one among millions of aching hearts, and all this pain must leave the world either better or worse than it was--all this pain will be used on the side either of light or of darkness. even sorrow may stand in the end for the world's happiness, just as the tragedy of this war may make a greater peace in the future. if i can only keep this thought, i shall conquer--war may bring peace, and pain may bring joy--in the end." beyond the white gate, the old aspens glimmered silver green in the sunlight, and, half-hidden in a dusky cloud of cedars, she saw the red chimneys and the dormer-windows of the house. home at last! and home was good however she came to it. with a smile she drew out the bar, and after replacing it, went on with an energetic and resolute step. the door was open, and looking through the hall, she saw her mother crossing the back porch, with a yellow bowl of freshly churned butter in her hands. mrs meade had grown older in the last six months, and she limped slightly from rheumatism; but her expression of sprightly cheerfulness had not changed, and her full pink face was still pretty. there was something strangely touching in the sight of her active figure, which was beginning at last to stoop, and in her brisk, springy step, which appeared to ignore, without disguising, the limp in her walk. never, it seemed to caroline, had she seen her so closely--with so penetrating a flash of understanding and insight. bare and hard as life had been, she had cast light, not shadow, around her; she had stood always on the side of the world's happiness. "mother, dear, i've come home to see you!" cried caroline gaily. the old lady turned with a cry. "why, caroline, what on earth?" she exclaimed, and carefully set down the bowl she was carrying. the next instant caroline was in her arms, laughing and crying together. "oh, mother, i wanted to see you, so i came home!" "is anything wrong, dear?" "nothing that cannot be made right. nothing in the world that cannot be made right." drawing her out on the porch, mrs. meade gazed earnestly into her face. "you are a little pale. have you been ill, caroline?" "i never had much colour, you know, but i am perfectly well." "and happy, darling?" the dear features, on which time was beginning to trace tender lines of anxiety, beamed on her daughter, with the invincible optimism that life had granted in place of bodily ease. as the wind stirred the silvery hair, caroline noticed that it had grown a little thinner, though it was still as fine and light as spun flax. for the first time she realized that her mother possessed the beauty which is permanent and indestructible--the beauty of a fervent and dominant soul. age could soften, but it could not destroy, the charm that was independent of physical change. caroline smiled brightly. "happy to be with you, precious mother." "maud is in the hospital, you know, and diana is in new york getting ready to sail. only margaret is left with me, and she hasn't been a bit well this winter. she is working hard over her garden." "yes, you wrote me. while i am here, i will help her. i want to work very hard." "can you stay long now? it will be such a comfort to have you. home never seems just right when one of you is away, and now there will be three. you knew old docia was sick, didn't you? we have had to put her daughter perzelia in the kitchen, and she is only a field hand. the cooking isn't very good, but you won't mind. i always make the coffee and the batter bread." "you know i shan't mind, but i must go back to work in a week or two. somebody must keep the dear old roof mended." mrs. meade laughed, and the sound was like music. "it has been leaking all winter." then she added, while the laugh died on her lips, "have you left briarlay for good?" "yes, for good. i shall never go back." "but you seemed so happy there?" "i shall be still happier somewhere else--for i am going to be happy, mother, wherever i am." though she smiled as she answered, her eyes left her mother's face, and sought the road, where the long procession of the aspens shivered like gray-green ghosts in the wind. "i am so glad, dear, but there hasn't been anything to hurt you, has there? i hope mr. blackburn hasn't been disagreeable." "oh, no, he has been very kind. i cannot begin to tell you how kind he has been." her voice trembled for an instant, and then went on brightly, "and so has mrs. timberlake. at first i didn't like her. i thought she was what docia calls 'ficy,' but afterwards, as i wrote you so often, she turned out to be very nice and human. first impressions aren't always reliable. if they were life would be easier, and there wouldn't be so many disappointments--but do you know the most valuable lesson i've learned this winter? well, it is not to trust my first impression--of a cat. the next time old jonas brings me a lot of kittens and asks me what i think of them, i'm going to answer, 'i can't tell, jonas, until i discover their hidden qualities.' it's the hidden qualities that make or mar life, and yet we accept or reject people because of something on the surface--something that doesn't really matter at all." she was gay enough; her voice was steady; her laugh sounded natural; the upward sweep of the black brows was as charming as ever; and the old sunny glance was searching the distance. there was nothing that mrs. meade could point to and say "this is different"; yet the change was there, and the mother felt, with the infallible instinct of love, that the daughter who had come home to her was not the caroline who had left the cedars six months ago. "she is keeping something from me," thought mrs. meade. "for the first time in her life she is keeping something from me." "now i must take off my hat and go to work," said caroline, eagerly, and she added under her breath, "it will rest me to work." the fragrance of spring was in the air, and through the fortnight that she stayed at the cedars, it seemed to her that this inescapable sweetness became a reminder and a torture--a reminder of the beauty and the evanescence of youth, a torture to all the sensitive nerves of her imagination, which conjured up delusive visions of happiness. in the beginning she had thought that work would be her salvation, as it had been when she was younger, that every day, every week, would soften the pain, until at last it would melt into the shadows of memory, and cease to trouble her life. but as the days went by, she realized that this emotion differed from that earlier one as maturity differs from adolescence--not in weakness, but in the sharper pang of its regret. hour by hour, the image of blackburn grew clearer, not dimmer, in her mind; day by day, the moments that she had spent with him appeared to draw closer instead of retreating farther away. because he had never been to the cedars she had believed that she could escape the sharper recollections while she was here; yet she found now that every object at which she looked--the house, the road, the fields, the garden, even the lilacs blooming beneath her window--she found now that all these dear familiar things were attended by a thronging multitude of associations. the place that he had never known was saturated with his presence. "if i could only forget him," she thought. "caring wouldn't matter so much, if i could only stop thinking." but, through some perversity of will, the very effort that she made to forget him served merely to strengthen the power of remembrance--as if the energy of mind were condensed into some clear and sparkling medium which preserved and intensified the thought of him. after hours of work, in which she had buried the memories of briarlay, they would awake more ardently as soon as she raised her head and released her hands from her task. the resolution which had carried her through her first tragedy failed her utterly now, for this was a situation, she found, where resolution appeared not to count. and the bitterest part was that when she looked back now on those last months at briarlay, she saw them, not as they were in reality, filled with minor cares and innumerable prosaic anxieties, but irradiated by the rosy light her imagination had enkindled about them. she had not known then that she was happy; but it seemed to her now that, if she could only recover the past, if she could only walk up the drive again and enter the house and see blackburn and letty, it would mean perfect and unalterable happiness. at night she would dream sometimes of the outside of the house and the drive and the elms, which she saw always shedding their bronze leaves in the autumn; but she never got nearer than the white columns, and the front door remained closed when she rang the bell, and even beat vainly on the knocker. these dreams invariably left her exhausted and in a panic of terror, as if she had seen the door of happiness close in her face. the day afterwards her regret would become almost unendurable, and her longing, which drowned every other interest or emotion, would overwhelm her, like a great flood which had swept away the natural boundaries of existence, and submerged alike the valleys and the peaks of her consciousness. everything was deluged by it; everything surrendered to the torrent--even the past. because she had once been hurt so deeply, she had believed that she could never be hurt in the same way again; but she discovered presently that what she had suffered yesterday had only taught her how to suffer more intensely to-day. nothing had helped her--not blighted love, not disillusionment, not philosophy. all these had been swept like straws on the torrent from which she could not escape. the days were long, but the nights were far longer, for, with the first fall of the darkness, her imagination was set free. while she was working with margaret in the garden, or the kitchen, she could keep her mind on the object before her--she could plant or weed until her body ached from fatigue, and the soft air and the smell of earth and of lilacs, became intermingled. but it was worse in the slow, slow evenings, when the three of them sat and talked, with an interminable airy chatter, before the wood-fire, or round the lamp, which still smoked. then she would run on gaily, talking always against time, longing for the hour that would release her from the presence of the beings she loved best, while some memory of blackburn glimmered in the fire, or in the old portraits, or through the windows, which looked, uncurtained, out on the stars. there were moments even when some quiver of expression on her mother's face or on margaret's, some gleam of laughter or trick of gesture, would remind her of him. then she would ask herself if it were possible that she had loved him before she had ever seen him, and afterwards at briarlay, when she had believed herself to be so indifferent? and sitting close to her mother and sister, divided from them by an idea which was more impregnable than any physical barrier, she began to feel gradually that her soul was still left there in the house which her mind inhabited so persistently--that her real life, her vital and perpetual being, still went on there in the past, and that here, in the present, beside these dear ones, who loved her so tenderly, there was only a continuous moving shadow of herself. "but how do i know that these aren't the shadows of mother and of margaret?" she would demand, startled out of her reverie. at the end of a fortnight a letter came from mrs. timberlake, and she read it on the kitchen porch, where perzelia, the field hand, was singing in a high falsetto, as she bent over the wash-tub. "_we is jew-els--pre-cious--jew-els in--his--c-r-ow-n!_" sang perzelia shrilly, and changing suddenly from hymn to sermon, "yas, lawd, i tells de worl'. i tells de worl' dat ef'n dat nigger 'oman don' stop 'er lies on me, i'se gwine ter cut 'er heart out. i'se gwine ter kill 'er jes' de same ez i 'ould a rat. yas, lawd, i tells 'er dat. '_we is jew-els--pre-cious--jew-els in his c-r-o-w-n._'" mrs. timberlake wrote in her fine italian hand: * * * * * my dear caroline, i have thought of you very often, and wanted to write to you, but ever since you left we have been rather upset, and i have been too busy to settle down to pen and paper. for several weeks after you went away letty was not a bit well. nobody knew what was the matter with her, and doctor boland's medicine did not do her any good. she just seemed to peak and pine, and i said all along it was nothing in the world except missing you that made her sick. now she is beginning to pick up as children will if you do not worry them too much, and i hope she will soon get her colour back and look as natural as she did while you were here. we have a new trained nurse--a miss bradley, from somewhere up in the shenandoah valley, but she is very plain and uninteresting, and, between you and me, i believe she bores letty to death. i never see the child that she does not ask me, "when is miss meade coming back?" we were very anxious to have a word from you after you went away. however, i reckon you felt as if you did not care to write, and i am sure i do not blame you. i suppose you have heard all the gossip that has been going on here--somebody must have written you, for somebody always does write when there is anything unpleasant to say. you know, of course, that angelica left david the very day you went away, and the town has been fairly ringing with all sorts of dreadful scandals. people believe he was cruel to her, and that she bore his ill-treatment just as long as she could before leaving his house. only you and i and mammy riah will ever know what really happened, and nobody would believe us if we were to come out and tell under oath--which, of course, we can never do. i cannot make out exactly what angelica means to do, but she has gone somewhere out west, and i reckon she intends to get a divorce and marry alan, if he ever comes back from the war. you may not have heard that he has gone into the army, and i expect he will be among the very first to be sent to france. roane is going, too. you cannot imagine how handsome he is in his uniform. he has not touched a drop since we went to war, and i declare he looks exactly like a picture of a crusader of the middle ages, which proves how deceptive the best appearances are. david has not changed a particle through it all. you remember how taciturn he always was, and how he never let anybody even mention angelica's name to him? well, it is just the same now, and he is, if possible, more tight-lipped than ever. nobody knows how he feels, or what he thinks of her behaviour--not even colonel ashburton, and you know what close and devoted friends they are. the colonel told me that once, when he first saw how things were going, he tried to open the subject, and that he could never forget how blackburn turned him off by talking about something that was way up in the air and had nothing to do with the subject. i am sure david has been cut to the heart, but he will never speak out, and everybody will believe that angelica has been perfectly right in everything she has done. if it goes on long enough, she will even believe it herself, and that, i reckon, is the reason she is so strong, and always manages to appear sinned against instead of sinning. nothing can shake her conviction that whatever she wants she ought to have. well, my dear, i must stop now and see about dinner. the house is so lonely, though, as far as i can tell, letty hardly misses her mother at all, and this makes it so provoking when people like daisy colfax cry over the child in the street, and carry on about, "poor dear angelica, who is so heartbroken." that is the way daisy goes on whenever i see her, and it is what they are saying all over richmond. they seem to think that david is just keeping letty out of spite, and i cannot make them believe that angelica does not want her, and is glad to be relieved of the responsibility. when i say this they put it down as one of my peculiarities--like blinking eyes, or the habit of stuttering when i get excited. give my love to your mother, though i reckon she has forgotten old matty timberlake, and do drop me a line to let me hear how you are. your affectionate friend, matty timberlake. letty sends her dearest, dearest, dearest love. * * * * * when she had finished the letter, caroline looked over the lilacs by the kitchen porch and the broken well-house, to the road beneath the aspens, which still led somewhere--somewhere--to the unattainable. at one corner of the porch perzelia was singing again, and the sound mingled with the words that mrs. timberlake had written. "_we is jew-els, pre-cious jew-els in his c-r-o-w-n._" a fever of restlessness seized caroline while she listened. the letter, instead of quieting her, had merely sharpened the edge of her longing, and she was filled with hunger for more definite news. in an hour the cedars had become intolerable to her. she felt that she could not endure another day of empty waiting--of waiting without hope--of the monotonous round of trivial details that led to nothing, of the perpetual, interminable effort to drug feeling with fatigue, to thrust the secondary interests and the things that did not matter into the foreground of her life. "he has never wasted a regret on me," she thought. "he never cared for a minute. i was nothing to him except a friend, a woman who could be trusted." the confession was like the twist of a knife in her heart; and springing to her feet, she picked up the letter she had dropped, and ran into the house. "i must go back to work, mother darling," she said. "the money i saved is all gone, and i must go back to work." chapter ix the years ahead toward the close of an afternoon in november, caroline was walking from the hospital to a boarding-house in grace street, where she was spending a few days between cases. all summer she had nursed in richmond; and now that the autumn, for which she had longed, had at last come, she was beginning to feel the strain of hard work and sleepless nights. though she still wore her air of slightly defiant courage, a close observer would have noticed the softer depths in her eyes, the little lines in her face, and the note of sadness that quivered now and then in her ready laughter. it was with an effort now that she moved with her energetic and buoyant step, for her limbs ached, and a permanent weariness pervaded her body. a high wind was blowing, and from the scattered trees on the block, a few brown and wrinkled leaves were torn roughly, and then whirled in a cloud of dust up the street. the block ahead was deserted, except for an aged negro wheeling a handcart full of yellow chrysanthemums, but as caroline approached the crossing, daisy colfax came suddenly from the corner of a church, and hesitated an instant before speaking. the last time that caroline had seen her, old mrs. colfax had been in the car, and they had not spoken; but now that daisy was alone, she pounced upon her with the manner of an affectionate and playful kitten. "oh, i didn't know you at first, miss meade! you are so much thinner. what have you been doing?" she held out her hand, diffusing life, love, joy, with the warmth of her southern charm; and while caroline stood there, holding the soft, gloved hand in her own, a dart of envy pierced the armour of her suffering and her philosophy. how handsome daisy looked! how happy! her hat of the royal purple she favoured made her black hair gleam like velvet; her sealskin coat, with its enormous collar of ermine, wrapped her luxuriously from head to foot; her brilliant complexion had the glow of a peach that is just ready to drop. she also had had an unfortunate romance somewhere in the past; she had married a man whom she did not love; yet she shone, she scintillated, with the genuine lustre of happiness. never had the superior advantages of a shallow nature appeared so incontestable. "i saw you go by yesterday, miss meade, and i said to myself that i was going to stop and speak to you the first chance i got. i took such a fancy to you when you were out at briarlay, and i want to tell you right now that i never believed there was anything queer in your going away like that so early in the morning, without saying a word to anybody. at first people didn't understand why you did it, and, of course, you know that somebody tried to start gossip; but as soon as mrs. timberlake told me your sister was ill, i went straight about telling everybody i saw. you were the last woman on earth, i always said, to want anything like a flirtation with a man, married or single, and i knew you used to sympathize _so_ with angelica. i shall never forget the way you looked at david blackburn the night you came there, when he was so dreadfully rude to her at the table. i told mother afterwards that if a look could have killed, he would have fallen dead on the spot." she paused an instant, adjusted a loosened pin in her lace veil, and glided on smoothly again without a perceptible change in her voice, "poor, dear angelica! all our hearts are broken over her. i never knew david blackburn well, but i always despised him from the beginning. a man who will sit through a whole dinner without opening his mouth, as i've known him to do, is capable of anything. that's what i always say when robert tells me i am prejudiced. i am really not in the least prejudiced, but i just can't abide him, and there's no use trying to make me pretend that i can. even if he hadn't ruined angelica's life, i should feel almost as strongly about him. everybody says that she is going to get a divorce for cruelty, though one of the most prominent lawyers in town--i don't like to mention his name, but you would know it in a minute--told me that she could get it on _any_ grounds that she chose. angelica has such delicacy of feeling that she went out west, where you don't have to make everything so dreadfully public, and drag in all kinds of disgraceful evidence--but they say that david blackburn neglected her from the very first, and that he has had affairs with other women for years and years. he must have selected those nobody had ever heard of, or he couldn't have kept it all so secret, and that only proves, as i said to robert, that his tastes were always low----" "why do people like to believe these things?" demanded caroline resentfully. "why don't they try to find out the truth?" "well, how in the world are they going to find out any more than they are told? i said that to mrs. ashburton--you know they stand up for mr. blackburn through thick and thin--but even they can't find a word to say against angelica, except that she isn't sincere, and that she doesn't really care about letty. there isn't a word of truth in that, and nobody would believe it who had seen angelica after she told letty good-bye. she was heartbroken--simply heartbroken. her face was the loveliest thing i ever looked at, and, as alan wythe said to me the next day--it was the very afternoon before he went off to camp--there was the soul of motherhood in it. i thought that such a beautiful way of putting it, for it suited angelica perfectly. didn't you always feel that she was full of soul?" "i wonder how letty is getting on?" asked caroline, in the pause. "have you heard anything of her?" "oh, she is all right, i think. they have a nurse there who is looking after her until they find a good governess. she must miss her mother terribly, but she doesn't show it a bit. i must say she always seemed to me to be a child of very little feeling. if i go away for a week, my children cry their eyes out, and letty has lost her mother, and no one would ever know it to watch her." "she is a reserved child, but i am sure she has feeling," said caroline. "of course you know her better than i do, and, anyhow, you couldn't expect a child not to show the effects of the kind of home life she has had. i tell robert that our first duty in life is to provide the memory of a happy home for our children. it means so much when you're grown, don't you think, to look back on a pleasant childhood? as for letty she might as well be an orphan now that david blackburn has gone to france----" "to france?" for a minute it seemed to caroline that claws were tearing her heart, and the dull ache which she had felt for months changed into a sharp and unendurable pain. then the grey sky and grey street and grey dust intermingled, and went round and round in a circle. "you hadn't heard? why, he went last week, or it may be that he is going next week--i can't remember which. robert didn't know exactly what he was to do--some kind of constructive work, he said, for the government. i never get things straight, but all i know is that everything seems to be for the government now. i declare, i never worked so hard in my life as i have done in the last six or eight months, and robert has been in washington simply slaving his head off for a dollar a year. it does one good, i suppose. mr. courtland preached a beautiful sermon last sunday about it, and i never realized before how wonderfully we have all grown in spirit since the war began. i said to mrs. mallow, as i came out, that it was so comforting to feel that we had been developing all the time without knowing it, or having to bother about it. of course, we did know that we had been very uncomfortable, but that isn't quite the same, and now i can stand giving up things so much better when i realize that i am getting them all back, even if it's just spiritually. don't you think that is a lovely way to feel about it?" "i must go," said caroline breathlessly. her pulses were hammering in her ears, and she could scarcely hear what daisy was saying. "well, good-bye. i am so glad to have seen you. are you going to france like everybody else?" "i hope so. i have offered my services." "then you are just as wild about war work as i am. i'd give anything on earth to go over with the y. m. c. a., and i tell robert that the only thing that keeps me back is the children." she floated on to her car at the corner, while caroline crossed the street, and walked slowly in the direction of the boarding-house. "it can make no possible difference to me. why should i care?" she asked herself. yet the clutch of pain had not relaxed in her heart, and it seemed to her that all the life and colour had gone out of the town. he was not here. he was across the world. until this instant she had not realized how much it meant to her that he should be in the same city, even though she never saw him. she reached the house, opened the drab iron gate, went up the short brick walk between withered weeds, and rang the bell beside the inhospitable door, from which the sallow paint was peeling in streaks. at the third ring, a frowzy coloured maid, in a soiled apron, which she was still frantically tying, opened the door; and when she saw caroline, a sympathetic grin widened her mouth. "you is done hed a caller, en he lef' his name over dar on de table. i axed 'im ef'n he wouldn't set down en res' his hat, but he jes' shuck his haid en walked right spang out agin." entering the hall, caroline picked up the card, and passed into the shabby living-room, which was empty during the afternoon hours. in the centre of the hideous room, with its damaged victorian furniture, its open stove, its sentimental engravings, and its piles of magazines long out of date--in the midst of the surroundings of a contented and tasteless period, she stared down, with incredulous eyes, at the bit of paper she was holding. so he had been there. he had come at the last moment, probably on his last day in richmond, and she had missed him! life had accorded her one other opportunity, and, with the relentless perversity of her fate, she had lost it by an accident, by a quarter of an hour, by a chance meeting with daisy! it was her destiny to have the things that she desired held within reach, to watch them approach until she could almost touch them, to see them clearly and vividly for a minute, and then to have them withdrawn through some conspiracy of external events. "i didn't ask much," she thought, "only to see him once more--only the chance to let him see that i can still hold my head high and meet the future with courage." in an instant she felt that the utter futility and emptiness of the summer, of every day that she had passed since she left briarlay, enveloped and smothered her with the thickness of ashes. "it is not fair," she cried, in rebellion, "i have had a hard life. i asked so little. it is not fair." going over to the window, she put the cheap curtains aside, and looked out into the street, as if searching the pavement for his vanishing figure. nothing there except emptiness! nothing except the wind and falling leaves and grey dust and the footsteps of a passer-by at the corner. it was like her life, that long, deserted street, filled with dead leaves and the restless sound of things that went by a little way off. for a minute the idea stayed with her. then, raising her head, with a smile, she looked up at the bare trees and the sombre sky over the housetops. "life cannot hurt you unless you let it," she repeated. "i will not let it. i will conquer, if it kills me." and, so inexplicable are the processes of the soul, the resolution arising in her thoughts became interfused not only with her point of view, but with the bleak external world at which she was looking. the will to fight endowed her with the physical power of fighting; the thought created the fact; and she knew that as long as she believed herself to be unconquered, she was unconquerable. the moment of weakness had served its purpose--for the reaction had taught her that destiny lies within, not without; that the raw material of existence does not differ; and that our individual lives depend, not upon things as they are in themselves, but upon the thought with which we have modified or enriched them. "i will not be a coward. i will not let the world cheat me of happiness," she resolved; and the next instant, as she lowered her eyes from the sky, she saw david blackburn looking up at her from the gate. for a moment she felt that life stopped in its courses, and then began again, joyously, exuberantly, drenched with colour and sweetness. she had asked so little. she had asked only to see him again--only the chance to show him that she could be brave--and he stood here at the gate! he was still her friend, that was enough. it was enough to have him stand there and look up at her with his grave, questioning eyes. turning quickly away from the window, she ran out of the house and down the brick walk to the gate. "i thought i had missed you," she said, her eyes shining with happiness. "it is my last day in richmond. i wanted to say good-bye." he had touched her hand with the briefest greeting; but in his face she read his gladness at seeing her; and she felt suddenly that everything had been made right, that he would understand without words, that there was nothing she could add to the joy of the meeting. it was friendship, not love, she knew; and yet, at the moment, friendship was all that she asked--friendship satisfied her heart, and filled the universe with a miraculous beauty. after the torment of the last six months, peace had descended upon her abundantly, ineffably, out of the heavens. all the longing to explain faded now into the knowledge that explanation was futile, and when she spoke again it was to say none of the things with which she had burdened her mind. "how is letty?" she asked, "i think of her so often." "she is very well, but she misses you. will you walk a little way? we can talk better in the street." "yes, the house will soon be full of boarders." weariness had left her. she felt strong, gay, instinct with energy. as she moved up the deserted street, through the autumn dust, laughter rippled on her lips, and the old buoyant grace flowed in her walk. it was only friendship, she told herself, and yet she asked nothing more. she had been born again; she had come to life in a moment. and everything at which she looked appeared to have come to life also. the heavy clouds; the long, ugly street, with the monotonous footsteps of the few passers-by; the wind blowing the dried leaves in swirls and eddies over the brick pavement; the smell of autumn which lingered in the air and the dust--all these things seemed not dead, but as living as spring. the inner radiance had streamed forth to brighten the outward greyness; the april bloom of her spirit was spreading over the earth. "this is my hour," her heart told her. "out of the whole of life i have this single short hour of happiness. i must pour into it everything that is mine, every memory of joy i shall ever have in the future. i must make it so perfect that it will shed a glow over all the drab years ahead. it is only friendship. he has never thought of me except as a friend--but i must make the memory of friendship more beautiful than the memory of love." he looked at her in the twilight, and she felt that peace enveloped her with his glance. "tell me about yourself," he said gently. "what has life done to you?" "everything, and nothing." her voice was light and cheerful. "i have worked hard all summer, and i am hoping to go to france if the war lasts----" "all of us hope that. it is amazing the way the war has gripped us to the soul. everything else becomes meaningless. the hold it has taken on me is so strong that i feel as if i were there already in part, as if only the shell of my body were left over here out of danger." he paused and looked at her closely. "i can talk to you of the things i think--impersonal things. the rest you must understand--you will understand?" her heart rose on wings like a bird. "talk to me of anything," she answered, "i shall understand." "no one, except my mother, has ever understood so completely. i shall always, whatever happens, look back on our talks at briarlay as the most helpful, the most beautiful of my life." her glance was veiled with joy as she smiled up at him. this was more than she had ever demanded even in dreams. it was the bread of life in abundance, and she felt that she could live on it through all the barren years of the future. to have the best in her recognized, to be judged, not by a momentary impulse, but by a permanent ideal--this was what she had craved, and this was accorded her. "for the time i can see nothing but the war," he was saying in a changed voice. "the ground has been cut from under my feet. i am groping through a ruined world toward some kind of light, some kind of certainty. the things i believed in have failed me--and even the things i thought have undergone modifications. i can find but one steadfast resolve in the midst of this fog of disappointment, and that is to help fight this war to a finish. my personal life has become of no consequence. it has been absorbed into the national will, i suppose. it has become a part of america's determination to win the war, let it cost what it may." the old light of vision and prophecy had come back to his face while she watched it; and she realized, with a rush of mental sympathy, that his ideas were still dynamic--that they possessed the vital energy of creative and constructive forces. "talk to me of your work--your life," she said, and she thought exultantly, "if i cannot hold him back, i can follow him. i, too, can build my home on ideas." "you know what i have always felt about my country," he said slowly. "you know that i have always hoped to be of some lasting service in building a better state. as a boy i used to dream of it, and in later years, in spite of disappointments--of almost unbearable disappointments and failures--the dream has come back more vividly. for a time i believed that i could work here, as well as away, for the future of america--for the genuine democracy that is founded not on force, but on freedom. for a little while this seemed to me to be possible. then i was pushed back again from the ranks of the fighters--i became again merely a spectator of life--until the war called me to action. as long as the war lasts it will hold me. when that is over there will be fresh fields and newer problems, and i may be useful." "it is constructive work, not fighting now, isn't it?" "it is the machinery of war--but, after all, what does it matter if it only helps to win?" "and afterwards? when it is over?" his eyes grew very gentle. "if i could only see into the future! words may come to me some day, and i may answer you--but not now--not yet. i know nothing to-day except that there is work for my hand, and i must do it. trust me for the rest. you do trust me?" there was a glory in her face as she answered, "to do right always. until death--and beyond." "if we have trust, we have everything," he said, and a note of sadness had crept into his voice. "life has taught me that without it the rest is only ashes." "i am glad for your sake that you can go," she replied. "it would be harder here." the man's part was his, and though she would not have had it otherwise, she understood that the man's part would be the easier. he would go away; he would do his work; his life would be crowded to the brim with incident, with practical interests; and, though she could trust him not to forget, she knew that he would not remember as she remembered in the place where she had known him. "the work will be worth doing," he answered, "even if the record is soon lost. it will mean little in the way of ambition, but i think that ambition scarcely counts with me now. what i am seeking is an opportunity for impersonal service--a wider field in which to burn up my energy." his voice softened, and she felt, for the first time, that he was talking impersonally because he was afraid of the danger that lay in the silence and the twilight--that he was speaking in casual phrases because the real thought, the true words, were unutterable. she was sure now, she was confident; and the knowledge gave her strength to look with clear eyes on the parting--and afterwards---- he began to talk of his work, while they turned and walked slowly back to the boarding-house. "i will write to you," he said, "but remember i shall write only of what i think. i shall write the kind of letters that i should write to a man." "it all interests me," she answered. "your thought is a part of you--it is yourself." "it is the only self i dare follow for the present, and even that changes day by day. i see so many things now, if not differently--well, at least in an altered perspective. it is like travelling on a dark road, as soon as one danger is past, others spring up out of the obscurity. the war has cast a new light on every belief, on every conviction that i thought i possessed. the values of life are changing hourly--they are in a process of readjustment. facts that appeared so steadfast, so clear, to my vision a year ago, are now out of focus. i go on, for i always sought truth, not consistency, but i go on blindly. i am trying to feel the road since i cannot see it. i am searching the distance for some glimmer of dawn--for some light i can travel by. i know, of course, that our first task is winning the war, that until the war is won there can be no security for ideas or mankind, that unless the war is won, there can be no freedom for either individual or national development." as they reached the gate, he broke off, and held out his hand. "but i meant to write you all this. it is the only thing i can write you. you will see letty sometimes?" "whenever i can. mrs. timberlake will bring her to see me." "and you will think of yourself? you will keep well?" he held her hand; her eyes were on his; and though she heard his questions and her answers, she felt that both questions and answers were as trivial as the autumn dust at her feet. what mattered was the look in his eyes, which was like a cord drawing her spirit nearer and nearer. she knew now that he loved her; but she knew it through some finer and purer medium of perception than either speech or touch. if he had said nothing in their walk together, if he had parted from her in silence, she would have understood as perfectly as she understood now. in that moment, while her hand was in his and her radiant look on his face, the pain and tragedy of the last months, the doubt, the humiliation, the haunting perplexity and suspense, the self-distrust and the bitterer distrust of life--all these things, which had so tormented her heart, were swept away by a tide of serene and ineffable peace. she was not conscious of joy. the confidence that pervaded her spirit was as far above joy as it was above pain or distress. what she felt with the profoundest conviction was that she could never really be unhappy again in the future--that she had had all of life in a moment, and that she could face whatever came with patience and fortitude. "stand fast, little friend," he said, "and trust me." then, without waiting for her reply, he turned from her and walked away through the twilight. chapter x the light on the road when caroline entered the house, the sound of clinking plates and rattling knives told her that the boarders had already assembled at supper; and it surprised her to discover that she was hungry for the first time in months. happiness had made everything different, even her appetite for the commonplace fare mrs. dandridge provided. it was just as if an intense physical pain had suddenly ceased to throb, and the relief exhilarated her nerves, and made her eager for the ordinary details which had been so irksome a few hours before. life was no longer distorted and abnormal. her pride and courage had come back to her; and she understood at last that it was not the unfulfilment of love, but the doubt of its reality, that had poisoned her thoughts. since she knew that it was real, she could bear any absence, any pain. the knowledge that genuine love had been hers for an hour, that she had not been cheated out of her heritage, that she had not given gold for sand, as she had done as a girl--the knowledge of these things was the chain of light that would bind together all the dull years before her. already, though her pulses were still beating rapturously, she found that the personal values were gradually assuming their right position and importance in her outlook. there were greater matters, there were more significant facts in the world to-day than her own particular joy or sorrow. she must meet life, and she must meet it with serenity and fortitude. she must help where the immediate need was, without thought of the sacrifice, without thought even of her own suffering. how often in the past eight years had she told herself, "love is the greatest good in the world, but it is not the only good. there are lives filled to overflowing in which love has no place." now she realized that her love must be kept like some jewel in a secret casket, which was always there, always hidden and guarded, yet seldom brought out into the daylight and opened. "i must think of it only for a few minutes of the day," she said, "only when i am off duty, and it will not interfere with my work." and she resolved that she would keep this pledge with all the strength of her will. she would live life whole, not in parts. without taking off her hat, she went into the dining-room, and tried to slip unnoticed into her chair at a small table in one corner. the other seats were already occupied, and a pretty, vivacious girl she had known at the hospital, looked up and remarked, "you look so well, miss meade. have you been for a walk?" "yes, i've been for a walk. that is why i am late." down the centre of the room, beneath the flickering gas chandelier and the fly-specked ceiling, there was a long, narrow table, and at the head of it, mrs. dandridge presided with an air as royal as if she were gracing a banquet. she was a stately, white-haired woman, who had once been beautiful and was still impressive--for adversity, which had reduced her circumstances and destroyed her comfort, had failed to penetrate the majestic armour of her manner. in the midst of drudgery and turmoil and disaster, she had preserved her mental poise as some persons are able to preserve their equilibrium in a rocking boat. nothing disturbed her; she was as superior to accidents as she was to inefficiency or incompetence. her meals were never served at the hour; the food was badly cooked; the table was seldom tidy; and yet her house was always crowded, and there was an unimpeachable tradition that she had never received a complaint from a boarder. as she sat now at the head of her unappetizing table, eating her lukewarm potato soup as if it were terrapin, she appeared gracious, charming, supported by the romantic legends of her beauty and her aristocratic descent. if life had defeated her, it was one of those defeats which the philosopher has pronounced more triumphant than victories. "i spent the afternoon at the red cross rooms," she remarked, regal, serene, and impoverished. "that is why supper was a little late to-night. since i can give nothing else, i feel that it is my duty to give my time. i even ask myself sometimes if i have a moral right to anything we can send over to france?" inadvertently, or through some instinct of tact which was either divine or diabolical, she had touched a responsive cord in the heart of every man or woman at the table. there was no motive beyond impulsive sympathy in the words, for she was as incapable of deliberate design as she was of systematic economy; but her natural kindliness appeared to serve her now more effectively than any machiavellian subtlety could have done. the discontented and dejected look vanished from the faces about her; the distinguished widow, with two sons in the army, stopped frowning at the potato soup; the hungry but polite young man, who travelled for a clothing house, put down the war bread he was in the act of passing; and the studious-looking teacher across the table lost the critical air with which she had been regarding the coloured waitress. as caroline watched the change, she asked herself if the war, which was only a phrase to these people a few months ago, had become at last a reality? "we are in it now, body and soul," she thought, "we are in it just as france and england have been in it from the beginning. it is our war as much as theirs because it has touched our hearts. it has done what nothing has been able to do before--it has made us one people." into these different faces at mrs. dandridge's table, a single idea had passed suddenly, vitalizing and ennobling both the bright and the dull features--the idea of willing sacrifice. something greater than selfish needs or desires had swept them out of themselves on a wave of moral passion that, for the moment, exalted them like a religious conversion. what had happened, caroline knew, was that the patriotism in one of the most patriotic nations on earth had been stirred to the depths. the talk she heard was the kind that was going on everywhere. she had listened to it day after day, as it echoed and re-echoed from the boarding-houses, the hospitals, and the streets--and through the long, bitter months, when coal was scarce and heatless and meatless days kept the blood down, she was aware of it, as of a persistent undercurrent of cheerful noise. there were no complaints, but there were many jests, and the characteristic virginian habit of meeting a difficult situation with a joke, covered the fuel administration with ridicule. for weeks ice lay on the pavements, a famine in coal threatened; and as the winter went by, bread, instead of growing better, became steadily worse. but, after all, people said, these discomforts and denials were so small compared to the colossal sacrifices of europe. things were done badly, but what really counted was that they were done. beneath the waste and extravagance and incompetence, a tremendous spirit was moving; and out of the general aspect of bureaucratic shiftlessness, america was gathering her strength. in the future, as inevitably as history develops from a fact into a fable, the waste would be exalted into liberality, the shiftlessness into efficiency. for it is the law of our life that the means pass, and the end remains, that the act decays, but the spirit has immortality. for the next six months, when the calls were many and nurses were few, caroline kept her jewel in the secret casket. she did not think of herself, because to think of herself was the beginning of weakness, and she had resolved long ago to be strong. when all was said, the final result of her life depended simply on whether she overcame obstacles or succumbed to them. it was not the event, she knew, that coloured one's mental atmosphere; it was the point of view from which one approached it. "it is just as easy to grow narrow and bitter over an unfulfilled love as it is to be happy and cheerful," she thought, "and whether it is easy or not, i am not going to let myself grow narrow and bitter. of course, i might have had more, but, then, i might have had so much less--i might not have had that one hour--or his friendship. i am going to be thankful that i have had so much, and i am going to stop thinking about it at all. i may feel all i want to deep down in my soul, but i must stop thinking. when the whole country is giving up something, i can at least give up selfish regret." the winter passed, filled with work, and not unhappily, for time that is filled with work is seldom unhappy. from blackburn she had heard nothing, though in april a paragraph in the newspaper told her that angelica was about to sue for a divorce in some western state; and daisy colfax, whom she met one day in the waiting-room of the hospital, breezily confirmed the vague announcement. "there really wasn't anything else that she could do, you know. we were all expecting it. poor angelica, she must have had to overcome all her feelings before she could make up her mind to take a step that was so public. her delicacy is the most beautiful thing about her--except, as robert always insists, the wonderful way she has of bringing out the best in people." as the irony of this was obviously unconscious, caroline responded merely with a smile; but that same afternoon, when mrs. timberlake paid one of her rare visits, she repeated daisy's remark. "do you suppose she really believes what she says?" "of course she doesn't. things don't stop long enough in her mind to get either believed or disbelieved. they just sift straight through without her knowing that they are there." they were in the ugly little green-papered room at the hospital, and caroline was holding letty tight in her arms, while she interpolated cryptic phrases into the animated talk. "oh, miss meade, if you would only come back! do you think you will come back when mother and father get home again? i wrote to father the other day, but i had to write in pencil, and i'm so afraid it will all fade out when it goes over the ocean. will it get wet, do you think?" "i am sure it won't, dear, and he will be so glad to hear from you. what did you tell him?" "i told him how cold it was last winter, and that i couldn't write before because doing all the doctor told me took up every single minute, and i had had to leave off my lessons, and that the new nurse made them very dull, anyhow. then i said that i wanted you to come back, and that i hadn't been nearly so strong since you went away." she was looking pale, and after a few moments, caroline sent her, with a pot of flowers, into an adjoining room. "i don't like letty's colour," she said anxiously to the housekeeper, in the child's absence. "she is looking very badly. it is the hard winter, i reckon, but i am not a bit easy about her. she hasn't picked up after the last cold, and we don't seem able to keep her interested. children are so easily bored when they are kept indoors, and letty more easily than most, for she has such a quick mind. i declare i never lived through such a winter--at least not since i was a child in the civil war, and of course that was a thousand times worse. but we couldn't keep briarlay warm, even the few rooms that we lived in. it was just like being in prison--and a cold one at that! i can't help wishing that david would come home, for i feel all the time as if anything might happen. i reckon the winter put my nerves on edge; but the war seems to drag on so slowly, and everybody has begun to talk in such a pessimistic way. it may sound un-christian, but i sometimes feel as if i could hardly keep my hands off the germans. i get so impatient of the way things are going, i'd like to get over in france, and kill a few of them myself. it does look, somehow, as if the lord had forgotten that vengeance belongs to him." "doctor boland told me yesterday that he thought it would last at least five years longer." "then it will outlast us, that's all i've got to say." she cleared her throat, and added with tart irrelevancy, "i had a letter from angelica a few weeks ago." "is it true? what the paper said?" "there wasn't a word about it in the letter. she wrote because she wanted me to send her some summer clothes she had left here, and then she asked me to let her know about letty. she said she had been operated on in chicago a month ago, and that she was just out of the hospital, and feeling like the wreck of herself. everybody told her, she added, how badly she looked, and the letter sounded as if she were very much depressed and out of sorts." "do you think she may really have cared for mr. wythe?" mrs. timberlake shook her head. "it wasn't that, my dear. she just couldn't bear to think of mary's having more than she had. if she had ever liked david, it might have been easier for her to stand it, but she never liked him even when she married him; and though a marriage may sometimes manage very well without love, i've yet to see one that could get along without liking." she rose as letty came back from her errand, and a minute or two later, caroline tucked the child in the car, and stood watching while it started for briarlay. the air was mild and fragrant, for after the hard, cold winter, spring had returned with a profusion of flowers. in the earth, on the trees, and in the hearts of men and women, april was bringing warmth, hope, and a restoration of life. the will to be, to live, and to struggle, was released, with the flowing sap, from the long imprisonment of winter. in the city yards the very grass appeared to shoot up joyously into the light, and the scent of hyacinths was like the perfume of happiness. the afternoon was as soft as a day in summer, and this softness was reflected in the faces of the people who walked slowly, filled with an unknown hope, through the warm sunshine. "love is the greatest good in the world, but it is not the only good," repeated caroline, wondering who had first said the words. it was then, as she turned back to enter the hospital, that the postman put some letters into her hand, and looking down, she saw that one was from blackburn. chapter xi the letter for the rest of the afternoon she carried the letter hidden in her uniform, where, from time to time, she could pause in her task, and put her hand reassuringly on the edge of the envelope. not until evening, when she had left her patient and was back in her room, did she unfold the pages, and begin slowly to read what he had written. the first sentences, as she had expected, were stiff and constrained--she had known that until he could speak freely he would speak no word of love to her--but, as soon as he had passed from the note of feeling to the discussion of impersonal issues, he wrote as earnestly and spontaneously as he had talked to sloane on that october afternoon at briarlay. another woman, she realized, might have been disappointed; but the ironic past had taught her that emotion, far from being the only bond with a man like blackburn, was perhaps the least enduring of the ties that held them together. his love, if it ever came to her, would be the flower, not of transient passion, but of the profound intellectual sympathy which had first drawn their minds, not their hearts, to each other. both had passed through the earlier fires of racial impulse; both had been scorched, not warmed by the flames; and both had learned that the only permanent love is the love that is rooted as deeply in thought as in desire. * * * * * in france. my dear caroline: i have tried to write to you many times, but always something has held me back--some obscure feeling that words would not help things or make them easier, and that your friendship could be trusted to understand all that i was obliged to leave to the silence. you will see how badly i have put this, even though i have rewritten the beginning of this letter several times. but it is just as if i were mentally tongue-tied. i can think of nothing to say that it does not seem better to leave unsaid. then i remembered that when we parted i told you i should write of what i thought, not of what i felt, and this makes it simpler. when i relax my mental grip, the drift of things whirls like a snow-storm across my mind, and i grow confused and bewildered---- in the last year i have thought a great deal about the questions before us. i have tried to look at them from a distance and on the outside, as well as from a closer point of view. i have done my best to winnow my convictions from the ephemeral chaff of opinions; and though i am groping still, i am beginning to see more clearly the road we must travel, if we are ever to come out of the jungle of speculation into the open field of political certainty. behind us--behind america, for it is of my own country that i am thinking--the way is strewn with experiments that have met failure, with the bones of political adventurers who have died tilting at the windmill of opportunity. for myself, i see now that, though some of my theories have survived, many of them have been modified or annulled by the war. two years ago you heard me tell sloane that our most urgent need was of unity--the obliteration of sectional lines. i still feel this need, but i feel it now as a necessary part of a far greater unity, of the obliteration of world boundaries of understanding and sympathy. this brings us to the vital question before us as a people--the development of the individual citizen within the democracy, of the national life within the international. here is the problem that america must solve for the nations, for only america, with her larger views and opportunities, can solve it. for the next generation or two this will be our work, and our chance of lasting service. our republic must stand as the great example of the future, as the morning star that heralds the coming of a new day. it is the cause for which our young men have died. with their lives they have secured our democracy, and the only reward that is worthy of them is a social order as fair as their loyalty and their sacrifice. and so we approach our great problem--individuality within democracy, the national order within the world order. already the sectional lines, which once constituted an almost insurmountable obstacle, have been partly dissolved in the common service and sacrifice. already america is changing from a mass of divergent groups, from a gathering of alien races, into a single people, one and indivisible in form and spirit. the war has forged us into a positive entity, and this entity we must preserve as far as may be compatible with the development of individual purpose and character. here, i confess, lies the danger; here is the political precipice over which the governments of the past have almost inevitably plunged to destruction. and it is just here, i see now, in the weakest spot of the body politic, that the south, and the individualism of the south, may become, not a national incubus, but the salvation of our republic. the spirit that fought to the death fifty years ago for the sovereignty of the states, may act to-day as a needed check upon the opposing principle of centralization in government, the abnormal growth of federal power; and in the end may become, like the stone which the builders rejected, the very head of the corner. as i look forward to-day, the great hope for america appears to be the interfusion of the northern belief in solidarity with the ardent southern faith in personal independence and responsibility. in this blending of ideals alone, i see the larger spirit that may redeem nationality from despotism. i am writing as the thoughts rush through my mind, with no effort to clarify or co-ordinate my ideas. from childhood my country has been both an ideal and a passion with me; and at this hour, when it is facing new dangers, new temptations, and new occasions for sacrifice, i feel that it is the duty of every man who is born with the love of a soil in his heart and brain, to cast his will and his vision into the general plan of the future. to see america avoid alike the pitfall of arbitrary power and the morass of visionary socialism; to see her lead the nations, not in the path of selfish conquest, but, with sanity and prudence, toward the promised land of justice and liberty--this is a dream worth living for, and worth dying for, god knows, if the need should ever arise. the form of government which will yield us this ideal union of individualism with nationalism, i confess, lies still uninvented or undiscovered. autocracies have failed, and democracies have been merely uncompleted experiments. the republics of the past have served mainly as stepping-stones to firmer autocracies or oligarchies. socialism as a state of mind, as a rule of conduct, as an expression of pity for the disinherited of the earth--socialism as the embodiment of the humane idea, is wholly admirable. so far as it is an attempt to establish the reign of moral ideas, to apply to the community the command of christ, 'therefore all things whatsoever ye would that men should do to you, do ye even so to them;' so far as it expresses the obscure longing in the human heart for justice and right in the relations of mankind--so far as it embodies the instincts of compassion and sympathy, it must win the approval of every man who has looked deeply into human affairs. the evil of socialism lies not in these things; nor does it rest in the impracticability of its theory--in the generous injustice of "robbing the rich to pay the poor." the evil of it consists in the fact that it would lend itself in practice even more readily than democracy, to the formation of that outer crust of officialism which destroys the blood and fibre of a nation. socialism obeying the law of christ might be a perfect system--but, then, so would despotism, or democracy, or any other form of government man has invented. but all theories, however exalted, must filter down, in application, through the brackish stream of average human nature. the state cannot rest upon a theory, any more than it can derive its true life from the empty husks of authority. the republic of man, like the kingdom of god, is within, or it is nowhere. to-day, alone among the nations, the american republic stands as the solitary example of a state that came into being, not through the predatory impulse of mankind, but, like its constitution, as an act of intellectual creation. in this sense alone it did not grow, it was made; in this sense it was founded, not upon force, but upon moral ideas, upon everlasting and unchanging principles. it sprang to life in the sunrise of liberty, with its gaze on the future--on the long day of promise. it is the heir of all the ages of political experiment; and yet from the past, it has learned little except the things that it must avoid. there was never a people that began so gloriously, that started with such high hearts and clear eyes toward an ideal social contract. since then we have wandered far into the desert. we have followed mirage after mirage. we have listened to the voice of the false prophet and the demagogue. yet our republic is still firm, embedded, as in a rock, in the moral sense of its citizens. for a democracy, my reason tells me, there can be no other basis. when the state seeks other authority than the conscience of its citizens, it ceases to be a democracy, and becomes either an oligarchy or a bureaucracy. then the empty forms of hereditary right, or established officialdom, usurp the sovereignty of moral ideas, and the state decays gradually because the reservoir of its life has run dry. for our republic, standing as it does between hidden precipices, the immediate future is full of darkness. we have shown the giant's strength, and we must resist the temptation to use it like a giant. when the war is won, we shall face the vital and imminent danger, the danger that is not material, but spiritual--for what shall it profit a nation, if it shall gain the whole world, and lose its own soul? in a time of danger arbitrary power wears always a benevolent aspect; and since man first went of his own will into bondage, there has never been absolutism on earth that has not masqueraded in the doctrine of divine origin--whether it be by the custom of kingship, or by the voice of the people. war, which is an abnormal growth on the commonwealth, may require abnormal treatment; but history shows that it is easier to surrender rights in war than it is to recover them in peace, and a temporary good has too often developed into a permanent evil. the freedom of the seas will be a poor substitute for the inalienable rights of the individual american. a league of nations cannot insure these; it is doubtful even if it can insure peace on earth and good will toward men. men can hate as bitterly and fight as fiercely within a league as outside of one. we shall go forth, when victory is won, to enlighten the world with liberty and with far-seeing statesmanship; but just as the far-sighted physical vision perceives distant objects more clearly than near ones, there is, also, a world vision of duty which overlooks immediate obligations while it discerns universal responsibilities. in this mental view the present is invariably sacrificed to the future, the personal rights to the general security. yet to the more normal faculty of vision, it would appear that the perfect whole must result from the perfect parts; and that only by preserving our individual liberties can we make a league of free nations. international treaties are important, but national morality is vital--for the treaty that is not confirmed by the national honour is only a document. and now, after a year's thinking, i have come back to the conviction from which i started--that the only substantial groundwork of a republic is the conscience of its citizens. the future of our democracy rests not in the halls of congress, but in the cradle; and to build for permanency, we must build, not on theory, but on personal rectitude. we hear a great deal said now, and said unthinkingly, about the personal values not counting in a war that is fought for world freedom. yet there was never an age, and i say this with certainty, in which personality was of such supreme significance as it is to-day. for this, after all, is the end to which my thinking has brought me--nationalism is nothing, internationalism is nothing, unless it is an expression of individual aspirations and ideals--for the end of both nationalism and internationalism is the ultimate return to racial character. cultivate the personal will to righteousness, teach the citizen that he is the state, and the general good may take care of itself. and so our first duty appears to be, not national expansion, but the development of moral fibre. before we teach other nations to stand alone, we must learn to walk straight; before we sow the seeds of the future, we must prepare our own ground for planting. national greatness is a flower that has often flourished over a sewer of class oppression and official corruption; and the past teaches us that republics, as well as autocracies, may be founded on slavery and buttressed by inequalities. as i look ahead now, i see that we may win freedom for smaller nations, and yet lose our own liberties to a federal power that is supported by a civilian army of office-holders. for power is never more relentless in exercise than when it has transformed the oppressed of yesterday into the oppressors of to-day; and it is well to remember that democracy means not merely the tyranny of the many instead of the few; it means equal obligations and responsibilities as well as equal rights and opportunities. if we have failed to reach this ideal, it has been because the individual american has grasped at opportunity while he evaded responsibility; and the remedy for the failure lies not in a change of institutions, but in a change of heart. we must realize that america is a faith as well as a fact--that it is, for many, a divine hypothesis. we must realize that it means the forward-looking spirit, the fearless attitude of mind, the belief in the future, the romantic optimism of youth, the will to dare and the nerve to achieve the improbable. this is america, and this is our best and greatest gift to the world--and to the league of free nations. with the end of the war the danger will be threatening; and we must meet it as we met the feebler menace of prussian militarism--but we must meet it and conquer it with intangible weapons. no nation has ever fought for a greater cause; no nation has ever fought more unselfishly; and no nation has ever drawn its sword in so idealistic a spirit. we have entered this war while our hearts were full, while the high and solemn mood was upon us. if we keep to this mood, if we seek in victory the immaterial, not the material advantage, if our only reward is the opportunity for world service, and our only conquered territory the provinces of the free spirit--if we keep fast to this ideal, and embody its meaning in our national life and actions, then we may save the smaller nations because we have first saved our republic. for, if it is a day of peril, it is also a day of glory. the seal of blood is upon us, but it is the prophetic mark of the future, and it has sealed us for the union of justice with liberty. we have given our dead as a pledge of the greater america--the america of invisible boundaries. there is but one monument that we can build in remembrance, and that monument is a nobler republic. if we lose the inspiration of the ideal, if we turn aside from the steady light of democracy to pursue the _ignis fatuus_ of imperialistic enterprise or aggression, then our dead will have died in vain, and we shall leave our building unfinished. for those who build on the dead must build for immortality. physical boundaries cannot contain them; but in the soul of the people, if we make room for them, they will live on forever, and in the spirit we may still have part and place with them. and because the collective soul of the race is only the sum total of individual souls, i can discern no way to true national greatness except through the cultivation of citizenship. experience has proved that there can be no stability either of law or league unless it is sustained by the moral necessity of mankind; and, for this reason, i feel that our first international agreement should be the agreement on a world standard of honour--on a rule of ethical principles in public as well as in private relations. i confess that a paternalism that enfeebles the character appears to me scarcely less destructive than a license that intoxicates. between the two lies the golden mean of power with charity, of enlightened individualism, of christian principles, not applied on the surface, but embodied in the very structure of civilization. though i am not a religious man in the orthodox meaning, the last year has taught me that the world's hope lies not in treaties, but in the law of christ that ye love one another. this splendid dream of the perfectibility of human nature may not have led us very far in the past, but at least it has never once led us wrong. there are ideas that flash by like comets, bearing a trail of light; and such an idea is that of world peace and brotherhood. only those whose eyes are on the heavens behold it; yet these few may become the great adventurers of the spirit, the prophets and seers of the new age for mankind. there has never been a great invention that did not begin as a dream, just as there has never been a great truth that did not begin as a heresy. and, if we look back over history, we find that the sublime moments with men and with nations, are those in which they break free from the anchorage of the past, and set sail toward the unknown seas, on a new spiritual voyage of discovery. it is thus that i would see america, not as schoolmistress or common scold to the nations, but as chosen leader by example, rather than by authority. i would see her, when this crisis is safely past, keeping still to her onward vision, and her high and solemn mood of service and sacrifice; and it is in the spirit of humility, not of pride, that i would have her stretch the hand of friendship alike to the great and the little peoples. she has had no wiser leaders than the founders of this republic, and i would see her return, as far as she can return, to the lonely freedom in which they left her. i would see her enter no world covenant except one that is sustained not by physical force, but by the moral law; and i would, above all, see her follow her own great destiny with free hands and unbandaged eyes. for her true mission is not that of universal pedagogue--her true mission is to prove to the incredulous powers the reality of her own political ideals--to make democracy, not a sublime postulate, but a self-evident truth. i have written as words came to me, knowing that i could write to you freely and frankly, as i could to no one else, of the life of the mind. your friendship i can trust always, in any circumstances; and it is only by thinking impersonally that i can escape the tyranny of personal things. i have not written of my surroundings over here, because i could tell you only what you have read in hundreds of letters--in hundreds of magazines. it is all alike. one and all, we see the same sights. war is not the fine and splendid thing some of us at home believe it to be. there is dirt and cruelty and injustice in france, as well as glory and heroism. i have seen the good and the evil of the battlefields, just as i have seen the good and the evil of peace, and i have learned that the romance of war depends as much upon the thickness of the atmosphere as upon the square miles of the distance. it is pretty prosaic at close range; yet at the very worst of it, i have seen flashes of an almost inconceivable beauty. for it brings one up against the reality, and the reality is not matter, but spirit. i am trying to do the best work of my life, and i am doing it just for my country. god bless you. david blackburn. chapter xii the vision at the end of june, caroline learned from the papers that blackburn had returned to briarlay; and the same day she heard through daisy colfax that alan wythe had been killed in france. "i feel so sorry for poor angelica," said the young woman mournfully. "they were always such devoted friends. but, of course, it is splendid to think that he was a hero, and i know that is the way angelica will look at it." at the moment, though caroline had liked alan, the thing that impressed her most was the way in which the whole world shared in the conspiracy to protect angelica from the consequences of her own acts. evidently no hint of scandal had ever touched her friendship for alan. "i am sorry," said caroline, "i always liked him." "oh, everybody did! you know that mr. blackburn has come home?" "yes, i saw it in the paper." "and cousin matty tells me that you are going away to camp?" "i have just had my call, and i am leaving next week. i hope it means france very soon, but of course no one knows." "well, be sure to take a great deal more than they tell you to. i know a nurse who said she almost froze the first winter. do you really have to wear woollen stockings? i should think they would make your flesh creep." she passed on, blooming and lovely, and caroline, with her bundle of woollen stockings under her arm, left the shop, and turned down a side street on her way to mrs. dandridge's. she was glad of the call, and yet--and yet--she had hoped deep down in her heart, a hope unspoken and unacknowledged, that she should see david again before she left richmond. a moment would be enough--only it might be for the last time, and she felt that she must see him. in the last two months she had thought of him very little. her work had engrossed her, and the hope of going to france had exhilarated her like wine through all the long days of drudgery. she had grown to expect so little of life that every pleasure was magnified into a blessing, and she found, in looking back, that an accumulation of agreeable incidents had provided her with a measure of happiness. underneath it all was the knowledge of blackburn, though love had come at last to take the place of a creed that one believes in, but seldom remembers. yet she still kept the jewel in the casket, and it was only when she stopped now and then to reflect on her life, that she realized how long it had lain in its secret corner where the light of day never shone. as she approached the boarding-house she saw a car by the sidewalk, and a minute afterwards, mrs. timberlake turned away from the door, and came down to the gate. "oh, caroline, i was afraid i had missed you! are you going very soon?" "not until next week." did the housekeeper hear, she wondered, the wild throbbing of her heart? "i came to see if you could come out for the night? letty has been ailing for several days, and the doctor says she has a touch of fever. miss bradley is ill in bed, and we can't get a nurse anywhere until to-morrow. of course mammy riah and i can manage, but david and i would both feel so much easier if you would come." "of course, i'll come. i'll get my bag in a minute. it is already packed." without waiting for mrs. timberlake's reply, she ran into the house, and came out with the suitcase in her hands. "tell me about letty. is her temperature high?" "it has been all day, but you know how it is with children, as i told david this morning. you heard that david was back?" "i saw it in the paper." "he came very unexpectedly. of course he couldn't cable about the boat, and the telegram he sent from new york didn't get to me until after he was in the house. he is looking badly, but i am sure it isn't the work. i believe other things have been worrying him." the car had passed out of grace street, and was running in the direction of monument avenue. as they went on, caroline remembered the april morning when she had come in this same car down the familiar street, where flags were flying so gaily. it seemed a hundred years ago--not one year, but a hundred! life was the same, and yet not the same, since the very heart of it was altered. the same sky shone, deeply blue, overhead; the same sun illuminated the houses; the same flags were flying; the same persons passed under the glittering green of the leaves. it was all just as it had been on that april morning--and yet how different! "i suppose he is anxious about letty?" she said. "even before that i noticed how much he had changed. it was only when he was telling me about roane that he looked a bit like himself. my dear, can you believe that roane has really turned into a hero?" "no, i cannot. it must have been a long turning." she was talking only to make sound. how could it matter to her what roane had turned into? "he's been fighting with the french, and david says he's won every decoration they have to give. he is doing splendid things, like saving lives under fire, and once he even saved a red cross dog at the risk of his life. david says it's the way he makes a jest of it that the french like--as if he were doing it for amusement. that's like roane fitzhugh, isn't it? what do you suppose david meant when he said that beneath it all was a profound disillusionment?" "i don't know, but i never denied that roane had a sense of humour." "you never liked him, and neither did david. he says now that roane isn't really any more of a hero than he always was, but that he has found a background where his single virtue is more conspicuous than his collective vices. i believe he is the only human being i ever knew david to be unjust to." caroline laughed. "there are some virtues it is simply impossible to believe in. whenever i hear of roane fitzhugh--even when i hear things like this--i always remember that he kissed me when he was drunk." "he hasn't touched a drop since the war. david says he is getting all the excitement he wants in other ways." "and i suppose when the war is over he'll have to get it again from drink." it didn't make any difference whether he was a hero or not, she told herself, she should always feel that way about him. after all, he was probably not the first hero who had given a woman good cause to despise him. "oh, i hope not!" unlike caroline, the housekeeper had always had a weakness for roane, though she disapproved of his habits. but a good man, she often said to herself in excuse, might have bad habits, just as a bad man might have good ones. the lord would have to find something else to judge people by at the day of reckoning. "he is the only man i've ever known who could see through angelica," she concluded after a pause. "he began early. she always got everything he wanted when they were children. i've heard him say so." "well, i wrote to him about her the other day. did i tell you i'd heard from cousin fanny baylor, who has been with her in chicago?" "no, you didn't tell me. how long ago was it?" "it couldn't have been more than three weeks. she wrote me that angelica was only the wreck of herself, and that the operation was really much more serious than we had ever been told. the doctor said there was no hope of any permanent cure, though she might linger on, as an invalid, for a good many years." "and does she know? mrs. blackburn, i mean?" "they wouldn't tell her. cousin fanny said the doctors and nurses had all been so careful to keep it from her, and that the surgeon who operated said he could not strike hope out of angelica's heart by telling her. angelica has shown the most beautiful spirit, she wrote, and everybody in the hospital thought her perfectly lovely. she left there some months ago, and, of course, she believed that she was going to get well in time. it's funny, isn't it, that the doctor who is attending her now should be so crazy about her? cousin fanny says he is one of the most distinguished men in chicago, but it sounds to me very much as if he were the sort of fool that alan wythe was." "could the war have changed her? perhaps she is different now since alan wythe was killed?" mrs. timberlake met this with a sound that was between a sniff and a snort. "i expect it's only in books that war, or anything else, makes people over in a minute like that. in real life women like angelica don't get converted, or if they do, it doesn't last overnight. you can't raise a thunderstorm in a soap bubble. no, angelica will go on until she dies being exactly what she has always been, and people will go on until she dies and afterwards, believing that she is different. i reckon it would take more than a world war, it would take a universal cataclysm, to change angelica." for a time they drove on in silence, and when the housekeeper spoke again it was in a less positive tone. "it wouldn't surprise me if she was sorry now that she ever left david." caroline started. "do you mean she would want to come back?" "it wouldn't surprise me," mrs. timberlake repeated firmly. "then she didn't get the divorce?" "no, she didn't get it, and there wouldn't be any use in her beginning all over again, now that alan is dead. if she is really as ill as they say, i reckon she'd be more comfortable at briarlay--even if that doctor out yonder is crazy about her." "well, she could find one here who would be just as crazy." there was an accent of bitterness in caroline's voice. "oh, yes, she wouldn't have to worry about that. the only thing that would seem to stand in her way is david, and i don't know that she has ever paid much attention to him." "not even as an obstacle. but how can she come back if he doesn't want her?" it really appeared a problem to caroline. "oh, she'll make him want her--or try to----" "do you think she can?" mrs. timberlake pondered the question. "no, i don't believe that she can, but she can make him feel sorry for her, and with david that would be half the battle." "that and letty, i suppose." "yes, she has been writing to letty very often, and her letters are so sweet that the child has begun to ask when she is coming home. you know how easily children forget?" caroline sighed under her breath. "oh, i know--but, even then, how could mr. blackburn?" "he wouldn't forget. if he thought it was right, he would do it if it killed him, but he would remember till his dying day. that's how david is made. he is like a rock about his duty, and i sometimes think feelings don't count with him at all." "yet he did love her once." "yes, he loved her once--and, of course," she amended suddenly, reverting to the traditional formula, "nobody believes that angelica ever did anything really wrong." for the rest of the long drive they sat in silence; and it seemed to caroline, while the car turned into the lane and ran the last half mile to the house, that time had stopped and she was back again in the october afternoon when she had first come to briarlay. it was no longer a hundred years ago. in the midst of the june foliage--the soft green of the leaves, the emerald green of the grass, the dark olive green of the junipers--in the midst of the wonderful brightness and richness of summer--she was enveloped, as if by a drifting fragrance, in the atmosphere of that day in autumn. it came to life not as a memory, but as a moment that existed, outside of time, in eternity. it was here, around, within, and above her, a fact like any other fact; yet she perceived it, not through her senses, but through an intuitive recognition to which she could not give a name. under the summer sky she saw again the elm leaves falling slowly; she approached again the red walls in the glimmer of sunset; and she felt again the divine certainty that the house contained for her the whole measure of human experience. then the car stopped; the door opened; and the scene faded like the vision of a clairvoyant. imagination, nothing more! she had stepped from the dream into the actuality, and out of the actuality she heard mrs. timberlake's dry tones remarking that david had not come home from the office. "let me go to letty. i should like to see letty at once," said caroline. "then run straight upstairs to the night nursery. i know she will be almost out of her head with joy." moses had opened the front door, and as caroline entered, she glanced quickly about her, trying to discover if there had been any changes. but the house was unaltered. it was like a greenhouse from which the rarest blossom had been removed, leaving still a subtle and penetrating perfume. all the profusion of detail, the dubious taste, the warmth of colour, and the lavishness of decoration, were still there. from the drawing-room she caught the sheen of pink silk, and she imagined for an instant that angelica's fair head drooped, like a golden lily, among the surroundings she had chosen. there was a lack of discrimination, she saw now even more plainly than on that first afternoon, but there was an abundance of dramatic effect. one might imagine one's self in any character--even the character of an angel--with a background like that! as she drew near to the nursery door she heard letty's voice exclaiming excitedly, "there's miss meade, mammy, i hear miss meade coming!" then mammy riah opened the door, and the next minute the child was stretching out her arms and crying with pleasure. "i asked father to send for you," she said, "i told him you could make me well faster than miss bradley." she appeared to caroline to have grown unnaturally tall and thin, like the picture of alice in wonderland they used to laugh over together. her face was curiously transparent and "peaked," as mrs. timberlake had said, and the flush of fever could not disguise the waxen look of the skin. in her straight little nightgown, which was fastened close at the throat, and with the big blue bow on the top of her smooth brown head, she looked so wistful and pathetic that she brought a lump to caroline's throat. was it any wonder that blackburn was anxious when she gazed up at him like that? "i want to hurry up and get well, miss meade," she began, "because it makes father so unhappy when i am sick. it really hurts father dreadfully." "but you're getting well. there isn't much the matter, is there, mammy?" "she'd be jes ez peart ez i is, ef'n miss matty 'ould quit pokin' physic down 'er thoat. dar ain' nuttin' else in de worl' de matter wid 'er. whut you reckon miss matty know about hit? ain't she done been teckin' physic day in en day out sence befo' de flood, en ain't she all squinched up, en jes ez yaller ez a punkin, now?" "i don't mind the medicine if it will make me well," said the child. "and you take what the doctor gives you too?" "oh, yes, i take that too. between them," she added with a sigh, "there is a great deal to take." "it is because you are growing so fast. you are a big girl now." letty laughed. "father doesn't want me to get much taller. he doesn't want me to be tall when i'm grown up--but i can't help it, if it keeps up. do you think i've grown any since the last time i measured, mammy riah?" "naw, honey, dat you ain't. you ain' growed a winch." "she means an inch," said letty. "some people can't understand her. even father can't sometimes, but i always can." then drawing caroline down on the bed, she began stroking her arm with a soft caressing touch. "do you suppose mother will come back now that you have?" she asked. "when you are here she wouldn't have so much trouble. she used to say that you took trouble off her." "perhaps she will. you would like to see her, darling?" the child thought earnestly for a moment. "i'd like to see her," she answered, "she is so pretty." "it would make you happier if she came back?" a smile, which was like the wise smile of an old person, flickered over letty's features. "wasn't it funny?" she said. "father asked me that this morning." a tremor shook caroline's heart. "and what did you tell him?" "i told him i'd like her to come back if she wanted to very badly. it hurts mother so not to do what she wants to do. it makes her cry." "she says she wants to come back?" "i think she wants to see me. her letters are very sad. they sound as if she wanted to see me very much, don't they mammy? somebody has to read them to me because i can read only plain writing. how long will it be, miss meade, before i can read any kind, even the sort where the letters all look just alike and go right into one another?" "soon, dear. you are getting on beautifully. now i'll run into my room, and put on my uniform. you like me in uniform, don't you?" "i like you any way," answered letty politely. "you always look so fresh, just like a sparkling shower, cousin daisy says. she means the sort of shower you have in summer when the sun shines on the rain." going into her room, caroline bathed her face in cold water, and brushed her hair until it rolled in a shining curve back from her forehead. she was just slipping into her uniform when there was a knock at the door, and mrs. timberlake said, without looking in, "david has come home, and he has asked for you. will you go down to the library?" "in one minute. i am ready." her voice was clear and firm; but, as she left the room and passed slowly down the staircase, by the copy of the sistine madonna, by the ivory walls of the hall and the pink walls of the drawing-room, she understood how the women felt who rode in the tumbril to the guillotine. it was the hardest hour of her life, and she must summon all the courage of her spirit to meet it. then she remembered her father's saying, that after the worst had happened, one began to take things easier, and an infusion of strength flowed from her mind into her heart and her limbs. if the worst was before her now, in a little while it would be over--in a little while she could pass on to hospital wards, and the sounds of the battlefield, and the external horrors that would release her from the torment of personal things. the door of the library was open, and blackburn stood in the faint sunshine by the window--in the very spot where he had stood on the night when she had gone to tell him that angelica had ordered her car to go to the tableaux. as she entered, he crossed the room and held her hand for an instant; then, turning together, they passed through the window, and out on the brick terrace. all the way down the stairs she had wondered what she should say to him in the beginning; but now, while they stood there in the golden light, high above the june splendour of the rose garden, she said only, "oh, how lovely it is! how lovely!" he was looking at her closely. "you are working too hard. your eyes are tired." "i must go on working. what is there in the world except work?" though she tried to speak brightly, there was a ripple of sadness in her voice. her eyes were on the garden, and it seemed to her that it blazed suddenly with an intolerable beauty--a beauty that hurt her quivering senses like sound. all the magic loveliness of the roses, all the reflected wonder and light and colour of the sunset, appeared to mingle and crash through her brain, like the violent crescendo of some triumphant music. she had not wanted colour; she had attuned her life to grey days and quiet backgrounds, and the stark forms of things that were without warmth or life. but beauty, she felt, was unendurable--beauty was what she had not reckoned with in her world. "you are going to france?" he asked. "i am leaving for camp next week. that means france, i hope." "until the end of the war?" "until the end--or as long as i hold out. i shall not give up." for the first time she had turned to look at him, and as she raised her lashes a veil of dry, scorching pain gathered before her eyes. he looked older, he looked changed, and, as mrs. timberlake had said, he looked as if he had suffered. the energy, the force which had always seemed to her dynamic, was still there in his keen brown face, in his muscular figure; only when he smiled did she notice that the youth in his eyes had passed into bitterness--not the bitterness of ineffectual rebellion, but the bitterness that accepts life on its own terms, and conquers. "when i parted from you last autumn," he said suddenly, "i was full of hope. i could look ahead with confidence, and with happiness. i felt, in a way, that the worst was over for both of us--that the future would be better and richer. i never looked forward to life with more trust than i did then," he added, as if the memory of the past were forcing the words out of him. "and i, also," she answered, with her sincere and earnest gaze on his face, "i believed, and i hoped." he looked away from her over the red and white roses. "it is different now. i can see nothing for myself--nothing for my own life. where hope was there is only emptiness." the sunset was reflected in the shining light of her eyes. "life can never be empty for me while i have your friendship and can think of you." by the glow in his face she knew that her words had moved him; yet he spoke, after a moment, as if he had not heard them. "it is only fair that you should know the truth," he said slowly and gravely, "that you should know that i have cared for you, and cared, i think, in the way you would wish me to. nothing in my life has been more genuine than this feeling. i have tested it in the last year, and i know that it is as real as myself. you have been not only an emotion in my heart--you have been a thought in my mind--every minute--through everything----" he stopped, and still without turning his eyes on her, went on more rapidly, "as a lover i might always have been a failure. there have been so many other things. life has had a way of crowding out emotion to make room for other problems and responsibilities. i am telling you this now because we are parting--perhaps for a time, perhaps for ever. the end no one can see----" beyond the rose garden, in one of the pointed red cedars down in the meadow, a thrush was singing; and it seemed to her, while she listened, that the song was in her own heart as well as in the bird's--that it was pouring from her soul in a rapture of wonder and delight. "i can never be unhappy again," she answered. "the memory of this will be enough. i can never be unhappy again." from the cedar, which rose olive black against the golden disc of the sun, the bird sang of hope and love and the happiness that is longer than grief. "the end no one can see," he said, and--it may have been only because of the singing bird in her heart--she felt that the roughness of pain had passed out of his voice. then, before she could reply, he asked hurriedly, "has letty spoken to you of her mother?" "yes, she talked of her the little while that i saw her." "you think the child would be happier if she were here?" for an instant she hesitated. "i think," she replied at last, "that it would be fairer to the child--especially when she is older." "her mother writes to her." "yes. i think letty feels that she wishes to come home." the bird had stopped singing. lonely, silent, still as the coming night, the cedar rose in a darkening spire against the afterglow. "for us there can be no possible life together," he added presently. "we should be strangers as we have been for years. she writes me that she has been ill--that there was a serious operation----" "have the doctors told her the truth?" "i think not. she knows only that she does not regain her strength, that she still suffers pain at times. because of this it may be easier." "you mean easier because you pity her? that i can understand. pity makes anything possible." "i am sorry for her, yes--but pity would not be strong enough to make me let her come back. there is something else." "there is the child." "the child, of course. letty's wish would mean a great deal, but i doubt if that would be strong enough. there is still something else." "i know," she said, "you feel that it is right--that you must do it because of that." he shook his head. "i have tried to be honest. it is that, and yet it is not that alone. i wonder if i can make you understand?" "has there ever been a time when i did not understand?" "god bless you, no. and i feel that you will understand now--that you alone--you only among the people who know me, will really understand." for a time he was silent, and when at last he went on, it was in a voice from which all emotion had faded: "pity might move me, but pity could not drive me to do a thing that will ruin my life--while it lasts. letty's good would weigh more with me; but can i be sure--can you, or any one else, be sure that it is really for letty's good? the doubt in this could so easily be turned into an excuse--an evasion. no, the reason that brings me to it is larger, broader, deeper, and more impersonal than any of these. it is an idea rather than a fact. if i do it, it will be not because of anything that has happened at briarlay; it will be because of things that have happened in france. it will be because of my year of loneliness and thought, and because of the spirit of sacrifice that surrounded me. if one's ideal, if one's country--if the national life, is worth dying for--then surely it is worth living for. if it deserves the sacrifice of all the youth of the world--then surely it deserves every other sacrifice. our young men have died for liberty, and the least that we older ones can do is to make that liberty a thing for which a man may lay down his life unashamed." the emotion had returned now; and she felt, when he went on again, that she was listening to the throbbing heart of the man. "the young have given their future for the sake of a belief," he said slowly, "for the belief that civilization is better than barbarism, that humanity is better than savagery, that democracy has something finer and nobler to give mankind than has autocracy. they died believing in america, and america, unless she is false to her dead, must keep that faith untarnished. if she lowers her standards of personal responsibility, if she turns liberty into lawlessness, if she makes herself unworthy of that ultimate sacrifice--the sacrifice of her best--then spiritual, if not physical, defeat must await her. the responsibility is yours and mine. it belongs to the individual american, and it cannot be laid on the peace table, or turned over to the president. there was never a leader yet that was great enough to make a great nation." as he paused, she lifted her eyes, and looked into his without answering. it was the unseen that guided him, she knew. it would be always the unseen. that was the law of his nature, and she would accept it now, and in the future. "i understand," she said, simply, after a moment. "it is because you understand," he answered, "because i can trust you to understand, that i am speaking to you like this, from my heart. my dear, this was what i meant when i wrote you that nationality is nothing for personality is everything. our democracy is in the making. it is an experiment, not an achievement; and it will depend, not on the size of its navy, but on the character of its citizens, whether or not it becomes a failure. there must be unselfish patriotism; there must be sacrifice for the general good--a willing, instead of a forced, sacrifice. there must be these things, and there must be, also, the feeling that the laws are not for the particular case, but for the abstract class, not for the one, but for the many--that a democracy which has been consecrated by sacrifice must not stoop, either in its citizens, or in its government, to the pursuit of selfish ends. all this must be a matter of personal choice rather than of necessity. i have seen death faced with gladness for a great cause, and, though i am not always strong enough to keep the vision, i have learned that life may be faced, if not with gladness, at least with courage and patience, for a great ideal----" his voice broke off suddenly, and they were both silent. the sun had gone down long ago, and it seemed to caroline that the approaching twilight was flooded with memories. she was ready for the sacrifice; she could meet the future; and at the moment she felt that, because of the hour she had just lived, the future would not be empty. whatever it might bring, she knew that she could face it with serenity--that she was not afraid of life, that she would live it in the whole, not in the part--in its pain as well as in its joy, in its denial as well as in its fulfilment, in its emptiness as well as in its abundance. the great thing was that she should not fall short of what he expected of her, that she should be strong when he needed strength. she looked up at him, hesitating before she answered; and while she hesitated, there was the sound of hurrying footsteps in the library, and mrs. timberlake came through the room to the terrace. "david," she called in a startled voice. "did you know that angelica was coming back?" he answered without turning. "yes, i knew it." "she is here now--in the hall. did you expect her so soon?" "not so soon. she telegraphed me last night." "mrs. mallow met her at the hot springs yesterday, and told her that letty was ill. that brought her down. she has been at the hot springs for several weeks." blackburn had grown white; but, without speaking, he turned away from the terrace, and walked through the library to the hall. near the door angelica was leaning on the arm of a nurse, and as he approached, she broke away from the support, and took a single step forward. "oh, david, i want my child! you cannot keep me away from my child!" she was pale and worn, her face was transparent and drawn, and there were hollows under the grey velvet of her eyes; but she was still lovely--she was still unconquerable. the enchanting lines had not altered. though her colour had been blotted out, as if by the single stroke of a brush, the radiance of her expression was unchanged, and when she smiled her face looked again as if the light of heaven had fallen over it. never, not even in the days of her summer splendour, had caroline felt so strongly the invincible power of her charm and her pathos. "no, i cannot keep you away from her," blackburn answered gently, and at his words angelica moved toward the staircase. "help me, cousin matty. take me to her." abandoning the nurse, she caught mrs. timberlake's arm, clinging to her with all her strength, while the two ascended the stairs together. blackburn turned back into the library, and, for a moment, caroline was left alone with the stranger. "have you known mrs. blackburn long?" asked the other nurse, "she must have been so very beautiful." "for some time. yes, she was beautiful." "of course, she is lovely still. it is the kind of face that nothing could make ugly--but i keep wondering what she was like before she was so dreadfully thin. you can tell just to look at her what a sad life she has had, though she bears it so wonderfully, and there isn't a word of bitterness in anything that she says. i never knew a lovelier nature." she passed up the stairs after the others, her arms filled with angelica's wraps, and her plain young face enkindled with sympathy and compassion. clearly angelica had found another worshipper and disciple. alone in the hall, caroline looked through the library to the pale glimmer of the terrace where blackburn was standing. he was gazing away from her to the rose garden, which was faintly powdered with the silver of dusk; and while she stood there, with her answer to him still unuttered, it seemed to her that, beyond the meadows and the river, light was shining on the far horizon. the end [illustration: colophon] the country life press garden city, n. y. the lady of the forest. a story for girls. by l. t. meade author of "the little princess of tower hill," "a sweet girl graduate," "the palace beautiful," "polly," "a world of girls," etc., etc. "tyde what may betyde, lovel shall dwell at avonsyde." illustrated edition. a. l. burt company, publishers, new york. contents chapter i.--fair little maids. chapter ii.--making terms. chapter iii.--preparing for the heir chapter iv.--a spartan boy. chapter v.--in the forest. chapter vi.--the tower bedroom. chapter vii.--"betyde what may." chapter viii.--the sacred cupboard. chapter ix.--a trysting-place. chapter x.--proofs. chapter xi.--the lady who came with a gift. chapter xii.--lost in the new forest. chapter xiii.--one more secret. chapter xiv.--the australians. chapter xv.--was he acting? chapter xvi.--lost. chapter xvii.--looking for the tankard. chapter xviii.--the marmadukes. chapter xix.--a tender heart. chapter xx.--punished. chapter xxi.--what the heir ought to be. chapter xxii.--right is right. chapter xxiii.--forest life. chapter xxiv.--a great alarm. chapter xxv.--a dream with a meaning. chapter xxvi.--love versus gold. chapter xxvii.--two mothers. chapter xxviii.--the lady who came with a gift. the lady of the forest. "tyde what may betyde lovel shall dwell at avonsyde." chapter i.--fair little maids. "and then," said rachel, throwing up her hands and raising her eyebrows--"and then, when they got into the heart of the forest itself, just where the shade was greenest and the trees thickest, they saw the lady coming to meet them. she, too, was all in green, and she came on and on, and----" "hush, rachel!" exclaimed kitty; "here comes aunt grizel." the girls, aged respectively twelve and nine, were seated, one on a rustic stile, the other on the grass at her feet; a background of splendid forest trees threw their slight and childish figures into strong relief. rachel's hat was tossed on the ground and kitty's parasol lay unopened by her side. the sun was sending slanting rays through the trees, and some of these rays fell on kitty's bright hair and lit up rachel's dark little gypsy face. "aunt grizel is coming," said kitty, and immediately she put on a proper and demure expression. rachel, drawn up short in the midst of a very exciting narrative, looked slightly defiant and began to whistle in a boyish manner. aunt griselda was seen approaching down a long straight avenue overshadowed by forest trees of beech and oak; she held her parasol well up, and her face was further protected from any passing gleams of sunlight by a large poke-bonnet. she was a slender old lady, with a graceful and dignified appearance. aunt griselda would have compelled respect from any one, and as she approached the two girls they both started to their feet and ran to meet her. "your music-master has been waiting for you for half an hour, rachel. kitty, i am going into the forest; you can come with me if you choose." rachel did not attempt to offer any excuse for being late; with an expressive glance at kitty she walked off soberly to the house, and the younger girl, picking up her hat, followed aunt griselda, sighing slightly as she did so. kitty was an affectionate child, the kind of child who likes everybody, and she would have tolerated aunt griselda--who was not particularly affectionate nor particularly sympathetic--if she had not disturbed her just at the moment when she was listening with breathless interest to a wonderful romance. kitty adored fairy tales, and rachel had a great gift in that direction. she was very fond of prefacing her stories with some such words as the following: "understand now, kitty, that this fairy story is absolutely true; the fairy was seen by our great-great-grandmother;" or "our great-uncle jonas declares that he saw that brownie himself as he was going through the forest in the dusk;" then kitty's pretty blue eyes would open wide and she would lose herself in an enchanted world. it was very trying to be brought back to the ordinary everyday earth by aunt griselda, and on the present occasion the little girl felt unusually annoyed. miss griselda lovel, or "aunt grizel" as her nieces called her, was a taciturn old lady, and by no means remarked kitty's silence. there were many little paths through the forest, and the two soon found themselves in comparative night. miss lovel walked quickly, and kitty almost panted as she kept up with her. her head was so full of rachel's fairy tale that at last some unexpected words burst from her lips. they were passing under a splendid forest tree, when kitty suddenly clutched aunt grizel's thin hand. "aunt grizel--is it--is it about here that the lady lives?" "what lady, child?" asked miss lovel. "oh, you know--the lady of the forest." aunt grizel dropped kitty's hand and laughed. "what a foolish little girl you are, kitty! who has been putting such nonsense into your head? see, my dear, i will wait for you here; run down this straight path to the eyres' cottage, and bring mrs. eyre back with you--i want to speak to her. i have had a letter, my dear, and your little cousin philip lovel is coming to avonsyde to-morrow." * * * * * avonsyde was one of the oldest places in the country; it was not particularly large, nor were its owners remarkable for wealth, or prowess, or deeds of daring, neither were the men of the house specially clever. it was indeed darkly hinted at that the largest portion of brains was as a rule bestowed upon the female side of the house. but on the score of antiquity no country seat could at all approach avonsyde. it was a delightful old place, homelike and bright; there were one or two acres of flower-garden not too tidily kept, and abounding in all kinds of old-fashioned and sweet-smelling flowers; the house had a broad frontage, its windows were small, and it possessed all the charming irregularities of a family dwelling-place which has been added to piece by piece. at one end was a tower, gray and hoary with the weight of centuries; at the further end were modern wings with large reception-rooms, and even some attempts at modern luxury and modern ornamentation. there were two avenues to the place: one the celebrated straight avenue, which must have been cut at some long-ago period directly out of the neighboring forest, for the trees which arched it over were giant forest oaks and beeches. this avenue was the pride of the place, and shown as a matter of course to all visitors. the other avenue, and the one most in use, was winding and straggling; it led straight up to the old-fashioned stone porch which guarded the entrance, and enshrined in the most protective and cozy manner the principal doors to the house. avonsyde had belonged to the lovels for eight hundred years. they were not a rich family and they had undergone many misfortunes; the property now belonged to the younger branch; for a couple of hundred years ago a very irate and fiery squire lovel had disinherited his eldest son and had bestowed all his fair lands and the old place upon a younger son. from that moment matters had not gone well with the family; the younger son who inherited the property which should have been his brother's made an unfortunate marriage, had sickly children, many of whom died, and not being himself either too strong-minded or in any sense overwise, had sustained severe money losses, and for the first time within the memory of man some of the avonsyde lands had to be sold. from the date of the disinheritance of the elder branch the family never regained either their wealth or prestige; generation after generation the lovels dwindled in strength and became less and less able to cope with their sturdier neighbors. the last squire of avonsyde had one sickly son and two daughters; the son married, but died before his father, leaving no son to inherit the old place. this son had also, in the family's estimation, married beneath him, and during the squire's lifetime his daughters were afraid even to mention the names of two bonny little lasses who were pining away their babyhood and early youth in poky london lodgings, and who would have been all the better for the fresh breezes which blew so genially round avonsyde. after the death of his son squire lovel became very morose and disagreeable. he pretended not to grieve for his son, but he also lost all interest in life. one by one the old pleasures in which he used to delight were given up, his health gave way rapidly, and at last the end drew near. there came a day when squire lovel felt so ill that he sent first of all for the family doctor and then for the family solicitor. he occupied the doctor's attention for about ten minutes, but he was closeted with the lawyer for two or three hours. at the end of that time he sent for his daughters and made some strong statements to them. "grizel," he said, addressing the elder miss lovel, "dr. maddon has just informed me that i am not long for this world." "dr. maddon is fond of exaggerating matters," said miss grizel in a voice which she meant to be soothing; "neither katharine nor i think you very ill, father, and--and----" the squire raised his eyebrows impatiently. "we won't discuss the question of whether maddon is a wise man or a silly one, griselda," he said. "i know myself that i am ill. i am not only ill, i am weak, and arguing with regard to a foregone conclusion is wearisome. i have much to talk to you and katharine about, so will you sit down quietly and listen to me?" miss griselda was a cold-mannered and perhaps cold-natured woman. miss katharine, on the contrary, was extremely tender-hearted; she looked appealingly at her old father's withered face; but she had always been submissive, and she now followed her elder sister's lead and sat down quietly on the nearest chair. "we will certainly not worry you with needless words, father," said miss griselda gently. "you have doubtless many directions to give us about the property; your instructions shall of course be carried out to the best of my ability. katharine, too, although she is not the strongest-minded of mortals, will no doubt, from a sense of filial affection, also respect your wishes." "i am glad the new poultry-yard is complete," here half-sobbed miss katharine, "and that valuable new breed of birds arrived yesterday; and i--i----" "try to stop talking, both of you," suddenly exclaimed the squire. "i am dying, and avonsyde is without an heir. griselda, will you oblige me by going down to the library and bringing up out of the book-case marked d that old diary of my great-grandfather's, in which are entered the particulars of the quarrel?" miss katharine looked in an awe-struck and startled way at her sister. miss griselda rose at once and, with a bunch of keys in her hand, went downstairs. the moment she had left the room miss katharine got up timidly and, with a certain pathos, stooped down and kissed the old man's swollen hand. the little action was done so simply and naturally that the fierce old face relaxed, and for an instant the wrinkled hand touched miss katharine's gray head. "yes, kitty, i know you love me; but i hate the feminine weakness of tears. ah, kitty, you were a fair enough looking maid once, but time has faded and changed you; you are younger than grizel, but you have worn far worse." miss katharine did not say a word, but hastily resumed her seat; and when miss lovel returned with the vellum-bound diary, she had not an idea that her younger sister had ever moved. sitting down by her father, she opened the musty old volume and read aloud certain passages which, written in fierce heat at the time, disclosed a painful family scene. angry words, bitter recriminations, the sense of injustice on one side, the thirst for revenge on the other, were faithfully portrayed by the dead-and-gone chronicler. the squire's lips moved in unspoken accompaniment to the words which his daughter read aloud, and miss katharine bent eagerly forward in order not to lose a syllable. "i am dying, and there is no male heir to avonsyde," said the squire at last. "griselda and katharine, i wish to state here distinctly that my great-great-grandfather made a mistake when he turned the boy rupert from the old place. valentine should have refused to inherit; it is doubtless because of valentine's weakness and his father's spirit of revenge that i die to-day without male issue to inherit avonsyde." "heaping recriminations on the dead won't help matters now," said miss griselda in a sententious voice. as she spoke she closed the diary, clasped it and locked it, and miss katharine, starting to her feet, said: "there are the children in london, your grandchildren, father, and our nearest of kin." the squire favored his younger daughter with a withering look, and even miss griselda started at what were very bold words. "those children," said the squire--"girls, both of them, sickly, weakly, with valentine's miserable pink-and-white delicacy and their low born mother's vulgarity; i said i would never see them, and i surely do not wish to hear about them now. griselda, there is now one plain and manifest duty before you--i lay it as my dying charge on you and katharine. i leave the search which you are to institute as your mission in life. while you both live avonsyde is yours, but you must search the world over if necessary for rupert lovel's descendants; and when you discover them you are to elect a bonny stalwart boy of the house as your heir. no matter whether he is eldest or youngest, whether he is in a high position or a low position in the social scale, provided he is a lineal descendant of the rupert lovel who was disinherited in , and provided also he is strong and upright and well-featured, with muscle and backbone and manliness in him, you are to appoint him your heir, and you are to bequeath to him the old house, and the old lands, and all the money you can save by simple and abstemious living. i have written it down in my will, and you are tied firmly, both of you, and cannot depart from my instructions; but i wished to talk over matters with you, for katharine there is slow to take in a thing, and you, grizel, are prejudiced and rancorous in your temper, and i wish you both clearly to understand that the law binds you to search for my heir, and this, if you want to inherit a shilling from me during your lifetime, you must do. remember, however, and bear ever strongly in mind, that if, when you find the family, the elder son is weakly and the younger son is strong, it is to the sturdy boy that the property is to go; and hark you yet again, griselda and katharine, that the property is not to go to the father if he is alive, but to the young boy, and the boy is to be educated to take up his rightful position. a strong lad, a manly and stalwart lad, mind you; for avonsyde has almost ceased to exist, owing to sickly and effeminate heirs, since the time when my great-great-grandfather quarreled with his son, rupert lovel, and gave the old place to that weakly stripling valentine. i am a descendant of valentine myself, but, 'pon my word, i rue the day." "your directions shall be obeyed to the letter," said miss griselda; but miss katharine interrupted her. "and we--we have only a life-interest in the property, father?" she inquired in a quavering voice. the old squire looked up into his younger daughter's face and laughed. "why, what more would you want, kitty? no longer young nor fair and with no thought of marrying--what is money to you after your death?" "i was thinking of the orphan children in london," continued miss katharine, with increasing firmness of manner and increasing trembling of voice. "they are very poor, and--and--they are valentine's children, and--and--you have never seen them, father." "and never mean to," snapped the squire. "griselda, i believe i have now given implicit directions. katharine, don't be silly. i don't mean to see those children and i won't be worried about them." at this moment the door behind the squire, which was very thick and made of solid oak, worn nearly black with age, was opened softly, and a clear voice exclaimed: "why, what a funny room! do come in, kitty. oh, what a beautiful room, and what a funny, queer old man!" miss griselda and miss katharine both turned round abruptly. miss griselda made a step toward the door to shut it against some unexpected and unwelcome intruder. the old man muttered: "that is a child's voice--one of the village urchins, no doubt." but before miss griselda could reach the door--in short, before any of the little party assembled in the dying squire's bedroom could do anything but utter disjointed exclamations, a child, holding a younger child by the hand, marched boldly and with the air of one perfectly at home into the chamber. "what a very nice room, and what funny ladies, and oh! what a queer, cross old man! don't be frightened, kitty, we'll walk right through. there's a door at the other end--maybe we'll find grandfather in the room beyond the door at that end." the squire's lower jaw quite dropped as the radiant little creatures came in and filled the room with an unlooked-for light and beauty. they were dressed picturesquely, and no one for an instant could mistake them for the village children. the eldest child might have been seven; she was tall and broad, with large limbs, a head crowned with a great wealth of tangly, fuzzy, nut-brown hair, eyes deeply set, very dark in color, a richly tinted dark little face, and an expression of animation which showed in the dancing eyes, in the dancing limbs, in the smiling, dimpled, confident mouth; her proud little head was well thrown back; her attitude was totally devoid of fear. the younger child was fair with a pink-and-white complexion, a quantity of golden, sunny hair, and eyes as blue as the sky; she could not have been more than four years old, and was round-limbed and dimpled like a baby. "who are you, my dears?" said miss katharine when she could speak. miss katharine was quite trembling, and she could not help smiling at the lovely little pair. squire lovel and miss grizel were still frowning, but miss katharine's voice was very gentle. "who are you, my dear little children?" she repeated, gaining courage and letting an affectionate inflection steal into her voice. "i'm kitty," said the younger child, putting her finger to her lip and looking askance at the elder girl, "and she--she's rachel." "you had better let me tell it, kitty," interrupted rachel. "please, we are going through the house--we want to see everything. kitty doesn't want to as badly as me, but she always does what i tell her. we are going straight on into the next room, for we want to find grandfather. i'm rachel lovel and this is kitty lovel. our papa used to live here when he was a little boy, and we want to find grandfather, please. oh, what a cross old man that is sitting in the chair!" while rachel was making her innocent and confident speech, miss katharine's face turned deadly pale; she was afraid even to glance at her father and sister. the poor lady felt nearly paralyzed, and was dimly wondering how she could get such audacious intruders out of the room. rachel having finished her speech remained silent for a quarter of a minute; then taking kitty's hand she said: "come along, kit, we may find grandfather in the other room. we'll go through the door at that end, and perhaps we'll come to grandfather at last." kitty heaved a little sigh of relief, and the two were preparing to scamper past the deep embrasure of the mullioned window, when a stern voice startled the little adventurers, and arresting them in their flight, caused them to wheel swiftly round. "come here," said squire lovel. he had never spoken more sternly; but the mites had not a bit of fear. they marched up to him boldly, and kitty laid her dimpled baby finger, with a look of inquiry, on his swollen old hand: "what a funny fat hand!" "what did you say you called yourself?" said the squire, lifting rachel's chin and peering into her dark face. "griselda and katharine, i'll thank you not to stand staring and gaping. what did you call yourself? what name did you say belonged to you, child? i'm hard of hearing; tell me again." "i'm rachel valentine lovel," repeated the child in a confident tone. "i was called after my mamma and after father--father's in heaven, and it makes my mother cry to say valentine, so i'm rachel; and this is kitty--her real name is katharine--katharine lovel. we have come in a dog-cart, and mother is downstairs, and we want to see all the house, and particularly the tower, and we want to see grandfather, and we want a bunch of grapes each." all the time rachel was speaking the squire kept regarding her more and more fiercely. when she said "my mother is downstairs," he even gave her a little push away. rachel was not at all appalled; she knit her own black brows and tried to imitate him. "i never saw such a cross old man; did you, kitty? please, old man, let us go now. we want to find grandfather." "perhaps it's a pain him got," said kitty, stroking the swollen hand tenderly. "mother says when i's got a pain i can't help looking cross." the fierce old eyes turned slowly from one lovely little speaker to the other; then the squire raised his head and spoke abruptly. "griselda and katharine, come here. have the goodness to tell me who this child resembles," pointing as he spoke to rachel. "look at her well, study her attentively, and don't both answer at once." there was not the slightest fear of miss katharine interrupting miss griselda on this occasion. she only favored dark-eyed little rachel with a passing glance; but her eyes, full of tears, rested long on the fair little baby face of kitty. "this child in all particulars resembles the portrait of our great-uncle rupert," said miss griselda, nodding at rachel as she did so. "the same eyes, the same lift of the eyebrows, and the same mouth." "and this one," continued the squire, turning his head and pointing to kitty--"this one, griselda? katharine, you need not speak." "this one," continued miss griselda, "has the weakness and effeminate beauty of my dead brother valentine." "kitty isn't weak," interrupted rachel; "she's as strong as possible. she only had croup once, and she never takes cold, and she only was ill for a little because she was very hungry. please, old man, stop staring so hard and let us go now. we want to find our grandfather." but instead of letting rachel go squire lovel stretched out his hand and drew her close to him. "sturdy limbs, dark face, breadth of figure," he muttered, "and you are my grandchild--the image of rupert; yes, the image of rupert lovel. i wish to god, child, you were a boy!" "your grandchild!" repeated rachel. "are you my grandfather? kitty, kitty, is this our grandfather?" "him's pain is better," said kitty. "i see a little laugh 'ginning to come round his mouth. him's not cross. let us kiss our grandfader, rachel." up went two rosy, dimpled pairs of lips to the withered old cheeks, and two lovely little pairs of arms were twined round squire lovel's neck. "we have found our grandfather," said rachel. "now let's go downstairs at once and bring mother up to see him." "no, no, stop that!" said the squire, suddenly disentangling himself from the pretty embrace. "griselda and katharine, this scene is too much for me. i should not be agitated--those children should not intrude on me. take care of them--take particular care of the one who is like rupert. take her away now; take them both away; and, hark you, do not let the mother near me. i'll have nothing to say to the mother; she is nothing to me. take the children out of the room and come back to me presently, both of you." chapter ii.--making terms. the moment the two little girls found themselves outside their grandfather's door they wrenched their little hands away from miss griselda's and miss katharine's, and with a gay laugh like two wild, untamed birds flew down the wide oak staircase and across the hall to a room where a woman, dressed very soberly, waited for them. she was sitting on the edge of a hard cane-bottomed chair, her veil was down, and her whole attitude was one of tense and nervous watchfulness. the children ran to her with little cries of rapture, climbed together on her knee, pulled up her veil, and nearly smothered her pale dark face with kisses. "mother, mother, mother, he was so cross!" "he had pain, mother, and him's eyes was wrinkled up so." "but, mother, we gave him a kiss, and he said i was strong and kitty was weak. we have not seen the tower yet, and we haven't got our grapes, and there are two old ladies, and we don't like them much, and we ran away from them--and--oh, here they are!" the children clung tightly to their mother, who struggled to her feet, pushed them aside with a gesture almost of despair, and came up at once to the two miss lovels. "i know this visit is unwarranted; i know it is considered an intrusion. the children's father was born here, but there is no welcome for them; nevertheless i have brought them. they are beautiful children--look at them. no fairer daughters of your house ever were born than these two. look at rachel; look at kitty. is it right they should be brought up with no comforts in a poor london lodging? rachel, kiss your aunts. kitty, little one, kiss your aunts and love them." rachel skipped up gayly to the two stiff old ladies, but kitty began at last to be influenced by the frowns which met her on all sides; she pouted, turned her baby face away, and buried it in her mother's lap. "look at them--are they not beautiful?" continued the mother. "is it fair that they should be cooped up in a london lodging when their father belonged to this place? i ask you both--you who are my husband's sisters; you who were children when he was a child, who used to play with him and kiss him, and learn your lessons out of the same book, and to sleep in the same nursery--is it fair?" "it is not fair," said miss katharine suddenly. she seemed carried quite out of herself; her eyes shone, and the pink of a long-gone beauty returned with a transient gleam to her faded cheek. "it is not fair," she repeated. "no, griselda, i am not afraid of you. i will say what is in my mind. valentine's face speaks to me again out of the baby face of that dear little child. what was rupert lovel to us that we should place a likeness to him before a likeness to our own dead brother? i say it is unfair that valentine's children should have neither part nor lot in his old home. i, for one, am willing to welcome them to avonsyde." miss griselda had always a most placid face; she now said in her calmest tones: "there is no need to excite yourself, katharine. i too think the children have a claim on us. an arrangement can easily be made about the children--their mother is the difficulty." the face of the plainly dressed young woman could scarcely grow any paler. she gave a quick, very quick glance at handsome little rachel, who stood with her head thrown back and her eyes eagerly watching each movement of the excited group around her; then the mother's hand touched kitty's golden head with a very faint caressing touch, and then she spoke: "i have come to make terms. i knew i should be considered an obstacle, but that is a mistake. i will be none. i am willing--i am willing to obliterate myself. i would talk to you and make terms, but i would make them alone--i mean i would rather not make them in the presence of the children." "i will take the children," said miss katharine eagerly; "they want to see the house; i will take them round. they want grapes; i will take them to the vineries." "oh, yes, we want grapes," said rachel in an excited voice; "we want lots of grapes--don't we, kitty?" "yes; lots," answered kitty, turning her flushed little face once more to view. she had been hiding it for the last few minutes against her mother's black dress. "that is my father's bell," said miss griselda suddenly. "i must hurry to him. i will see you presently, mrs. lovel; and, katharine, you too must be present at our interview. i must ask mrs. martin to take the children round the place." miss griselda opened the thick oak door of the squire's bedroom and went in. her face was changed in expression and her usual self-possession had to a certain extent deserted her. "what an age you have been away, grizel," said the old man testily. "you might have known that i'd want you. did i not tell you to take the children out of the room and to come back to me presently? did you not hear me when i said, 'come back to me presently?' oh, i see how things are!" continued the irate old man, with a burst of fury. "i am weak and ill now and my commands are nothing--my wishes are not of the slightest consequence. i know how it will be when i'm gone. you and katharine promise faithfully to obey me now, but you'll forget your promises when i'm gone. even you, griselda, who have always had the character of being strong-minded, will think nothing of your given word when i'm in my grave." "you're tired, father," said miss griselda, "and the unexpected intrusion of the children has excited you. let me pour you out a dose of your restorative medicine. here, drink this; now you will feel better." the old squire's hand shook so much that he could not hold the glass which miss griselda tendered to him; but she held it herself to his lips, and when he had drained off its contents he grew a shade calmer. "one of those children is very like rupert lovel," he murmured. "a strong girl, with a bold, fine face. you never would have supposed that that weak stripling valentine would have had a child of that build, would you, grizel?" "no, father. but the little girl has a likeness to her mother, and it is about the mother i have now come to speak to you. oh, come now, you must try and listen to me. you must not get over-excited, and you must not begin to talk absolute rubbish about my disobeying your wishes; for you have positively got to settle something about valentine's children." "i said i'd have nothing to say to them." "very likely; but you said so before you saw them. having seen them, it is absolutely impossible for you to turn valentine's orphan children from the doors. their mother cannot support them, and she has brought them to us and we must not turn them away. i may as well tell you plainly that i will never consent to the children being sent away from avonsyde. i won't wait to disobey you until you are dead in that matter. i shall do so at once, and quite openly, for i could never have another easy night on my pillow if i thought valentine's children were starving." "who wants them to starve?" grumbled the squire. but miss griselda's firm words had an effect, and he lowered his chin on his chest and looked gloomily straight before him. "the mother has come here to make terms," said miss griselda. "now what shall they be?" "at least she shall not sleep under my roof! a low girl--no match for valentine! if i said it once i repeat it fifty times. i will never look on that woman's face, grizel!" "i don't want you to, father. i agree with you that she had better go. now let me tell you, in as few words as i can, what i intend to propose to katharine and to mrs. lovel, with your sanction, presently. the children must stay at avonsyde. if the heir is never found, well and good; they are provided for. if, on the other hand, the heir turns up, they are, according to the present conditions of your will, absolutely penniless. now i don't choose this. valentine's children must be provided for under any emergency, and you must make a fresh codicil to your will." "i will not!" "father, you must. valentine was your own son; these children are your rightful and legitimate heirs. i am heart and soul with you in your wish to find the lawful descendant of rupert lovel--i promise to devote my life to this search; but valentine's children must not go penniless. you must make a codicil to your will providing comfortably for them in case the lawful heir turns up." "how can i? the doctor says i have not many hours to live." "long enough for that, no doubt. we cannot, unfortunately, send for mr. baring from london, but i will send a man on horseback to southampton, and mr. terry, the barings' country partner, will be here in two or three hours." "i tell you i have only a few hours to live," repeated the squire, sinking his head lower on his chest and looking daggers at his daughter. "long enough for that," she repeated. she rose from her seat and went across the room to ring the bell. when the servant entered the room she gave some very clear and emphatic directions, and then desiring the nurse who waited on her father to be summoned, she left the room. her interview had scarcely been a peaceable one, and as she went downstairs her usually calm expression was considerably disturbed. "i can make terms with the mother now," she murmured. "but i am not going even to tell my father what they are." and she went downstairs. floating in through the open window came the sound of gay, childish mirth, and looking out she saw the little strangers dancing and laughing and chatting merrily to old mrs. martin, the housekeeper, as she took them round the grounds. then miss griselda went downstairs, and she and miss katharine had their interview with the grave, quiet young mother, who had come, as she said, to make terms. no one heard what they said to her nor what she said to them; no one knew what arrangements were arrived at between the three; no one guessed either then or long years afterward what the terms were. when the somewhat protracted interview had come to an end, the young mother left miss griselda's study with her veil drawn tightly over her face. if her eyes were red and her lips trembled, no one noticed those signs of grief through her thick crape veil. miss griselda offered her food, and miss katharine wanted to take her hand and wring it with a kindly pressure; but she shook her head at the one and drew back proudly from the other's proffered hand-shake. the dog-cart was waiting at a side entrance, and she got into it and drove away. nor did she once look back as she drove down the long straight avenue under the shade of the old forest trees. that night squire lovel said a word or two to his daughters. "so you have kept the children?" "we have kept the children," repeated miss griselda tersely. "it is nothing to me. i have made that codicil to my will. you have had your way in that." "you have done justice, father--you will die happier," replied miss griselda. "have you made arrangements with the mother?" questioned the squire. "the mother will not trouble us; we have arranged with her," answered the elder miss lovel. "we have made arrangements with her," echoed miss katharine, and here she bent her head and gave vent to a little choking sob. the squire was very restless all night, and several times the words "kitty" and "valentine" escaped his lips. the end was near and the poor old brain was wandering. toward morning he was left alone for a few moments with miss katharine. "father," she said suddenly, kneeling by his bedside, clasping his hand, and looking at him imploringly, "father, you would bid us be kind to valentine's children?" "valentine's children?" repeated the old man. "ay, ay, kitty. my head wanders. are they valentine's children or rupert's children?--the rupert who should have inherited avonsyde. somebody's children were here to-day, but i cannot remember whether they belonged to valentine or rupert." "father, they belong to valentine--to your son valentine. you are dying. may i bring them to you, and will you bless them before you go?" the old squire looked up at his daughter with dim and fading eyes. she did not wait to listen for any assent from his lips, but flying from the room, returned presently with two rosy, cherub-like creatures. "kiss your grandfather, kitty; his pain is bad. kiss him tenderly, dear little child." kitty pursed up her full red lips and gave the required salute solemnly. "now, rachel, kiss your grandfather; he is very ill." rachel too raised herself on tiptoe, and bending forward touched the old man's lips lightly with her own. "rupert's child," he murmured; "ay, ay, just like rupert." shortly afterward he died. chapter iii.--preparing for the heir "i wonder, rachel," said kitty, "i wonder when the heir will be found." rachel had curled herself up in a luxurious arm-chair, was devouring a new story-book, and was in consequence displeased with kitty for her question. "let me read, kitty. in half an hour i have to go to my drill, and then practicing, and then learning those tiresome lessons. i don't care if an heir is never found; do let me read!" "there's another one coming to-morrow," continued kitty in a by no means abashed voice; "his name is philip and his mother is coming with him. i heard aunt grizel telling mrs. eyre all about it, and, rachel--oh, rachel, do listen! they are to sleep in the bedroom directly under aunt katharine's and aunt grizel's room in the tower." this last piece of information was sufficiently interesting to rachel to make her fling down her book with an impetuous gesture. "what a tiresome kitty you are. i never can read when you come into the room. i was in a most exciting part, but never mind. my half-hour of quiet will be gone in no time. i had better keep the book until i can steal away into the forest and read it in peace." "but isn't it exciting," pursued kitty, "to think that they are going to sleep in the tower bedroom?" "and his name is philip!" repeated rachel, "philip is the name of this one--the last was guy, and the one before was ferdinand, and the one before that was augustus. i want an heir to come of the name of zerubbabel. i like zerubbabel, and it's uncommon. what a pity this one's name is philip!" "oh, he's not the real heir," said little kitty, shaking her head solemnly; "he's only another make-believe; but it's rather exciting his mother coming too and the tower room being prepared. rachel, aren't you almost certain that when the real, true heir comes his name will be rupert? why, of course it must be rupert--mustn't it, rachel?" "i don't know and i don't care," answered rachel, tumbling out of her luxurious chair and shaking back her dark, untidy locks. "how old is philip, kitty? poor philip, i wish him joy of the place! he'll find it dull enough, and he'll find aunt grizel very tiresome and aunt katharine very sweet, but very stupid, and he'll wish he wasn't the heir a thousand times in the twenty-four hours. how old is he, kitty-cat? just tell me quickly, for i must go." "he's eight years old," replied kitty in a very interested tone; "that's another thing that's exciting--his being so near to my age. aunt grizel says that he'll be a sort of a companion for me. i do hope he'll be a nice little boy." "i don't care anything at all about him," said rachel; "he may be the heir or he may not. i'm not in the least interested. i don't see anything exciting in the fact of a stupid little boy coming to avonsyde with his mother; it's a slow place and he'll have a slow life, and there's nothing to interest me about it." "oh, rachel, i never could guess that you found avonsyde slow. if you do, why do you laugh so merrily and why do you look so gay?" "i never said that i found avonsyde dull," answered rachel, turning round with a quick, flashing movement. "no place is slow or dull to me. but i'm not going to stay here; i'm going to school, and then afterward i'm going right round the world looking for mother. oh, that's my drill-sergeant's bell! what a worry he is! good-by, kitty-cat." rachel skipped out of the room, banging the door after her, and kitty climbed into her chair, and leaning back in it shut her pretty blue eyes. it was five years now since the children had come to avonsyde, and kitty had absolutely forgotten the dismal day of their arrival. she knew that she had a mother, for rachel reminded her of the fact; but she could recall no outline of her face. rachel not only spoke of her mother, but remembered her. vivid memories of a grave, sweet, sad face came to her at intervals, and when these memories visited the child longings came also. why had her mother gone away? why were kitty and she practically motherless? who were the wicked people who had divided this mother and these children? when these thoughts came rachel's dark little face would work with strong emotion; and if aunt griselda or aunt katharine happened to be near, she would feel tempted to answer them defiantly and to favor them with flashing, angry glances. "i miss my mother!" she would sob sometimes at night. "i wish--oh, how i wish i could give her a long, big, great kiss! well, never mind: when i am old enough i'll go all round the world looking for her, for i know she is not dead." these storms of grief did not come often, and on the whole the children had spent five very happy years at avonsyde. aunt grizel and aunt katharine had each in her own way been good to them--aunt grizel erring on the side of over-severity, aunt katharine on the side of over-indulgence. but the children had no fear in their natures, and were so bright and frank and charming that even aunt katharine's petting could not do them any harm. they were well taught and well cared for, and were universal favorites wherever they went--the extreme side of kitty being prone to over-tenderness; the extreme side of rachel to over-brusqueness and almost fierceness. miss griselda and miss katharine said very little about their affection for the children--very little either to the children themselves or to one another. they were reserved women and thought it undignified to speak of their feelings. neither rachel nor kitty was at all proud of being lovels of avonsyde; but miss griselda thought her position above that of a countess, and miss katharine supported her great honors with a meek little air of becoming pride. the old ladies' great object in life was to find the missing heir, and miss griselda had even once picked up sufficient courage to go to america, accompanied by the family lawyer and his wife, in search of him; but though many little boys came to avonsyde and many fathers and mothers sent in all kinds of extraordinary claims, the heir who could claim direct descent from rupert lovel, the strong and sturdy boy who was to bring back a fresh epoch of health and life and vigor to the old family tree, and not yet arrived. now, however, shortly after rachel's twelfth birthday and in the middle of a glorious summer, little philip lovel was expected. his mother was to bring him and he was to sleep in the tower room, which, as kitty said, was most exciting. miss griselda and miss katharine too were excited; and miss griselda said with an unusual burst of confidence to her younger sister: "if the boy turns out to be a true descendant of rupert's, and if he is blessed with good physical health, i shall feel a great load off my mind." miss katharine smiled in reply. "god grant the little boy may be the heir," she said; "but, griselda, i don't like the tone of the mother's letters." chapter iv.--a spartan boy. "philip?" "yes, mother." "you quite understand that you have got to be a very good little boy?" "oh, yes, mother, i understand." "it's a big, grand place--it's what is described as an ancient place, and dates back hundreds and hundreds of years, and you, you--why, what is the matter, philip?" "is it antediluvian?" asked philip, jumping up from his seat opposite his mother in the railway carriage. "oh, i do hope and trust it's antediluvian!" "how you do puzzle me with your queer words, philip. antediluvian!--that means before the flood. oh, no, avonsyde wasn't in existence before the flood; but still it is very old, and the ladies who live there are extremely grand people. you haven't been accustomed to living in a great ancient house, and you haven't been accustomed to the manner of such grand ancient ladies as the misses griselda and katharine lovel, and i do trust--i do hope you will behave properly." "hullo! there's a spider up in that window," interrupted the boy. "i must try to catch him. there! he has run into his hole. oh, mother, mother, look! there's a windmill! see, it's going round so fast! and, i say, isn't that a jolly river? i want to fish and to shoot when i get to the grand place. i don't care what else i do if only i have plenty of fishing and shooting." philip lovel's mother knit her brows. she was a tall, fashionably dressed woman, with a pale face, a somewhat peevish expression, and a habit of drawing her eyebrows together until they nearly met. "philip, you must attend to me," she said, drawing the little boy down to stand quietly by her side. "i have got you a whole trunkful of nice gentlemanly clothes, and i have spent a heap of money over you, and you must--yes, you must please the old ladies. why, phil, if this scheme fails we shall starve." "oh, don't, mother, don't!" said little phil, looking full up into his mother's face, and revealing as he did so two sensitive and beautiful brown eyes, the only redeeming features in a very plain little countenance. "don't cry, mother! i'll be a good boy, of course. now, may i go back and see if that spider has come out of his hole?" "no, philip, never mind the spider. i have you all to myself, and we shall be at avonsyde in less than an hour. i want to impress it upon you, so that you may keep it well in your memory what you are to do. now, are you listening to me, phil?" "i am trying to," answered philip. "i do hope, mother, you won't tell me too many things, for i never can remember anything for more than a minute at a time." philip smiled and looked up saucily, but mrs. lovel was far too much absorbed in what she was about to say to return his smiling glance. "philip, i trained you badly," she began. "you were let run wild; you were let do pretty much as you liked; you weren't at all particularly obedient. now, i don't at all want the miss lovels to find that out. you are never to tell how you helped betty with the cakes, and you are never to tell about polishing your own boots, and you are not to let out for a moment how you and i did our own gardening. if you speak of betty you must call her your nurse; and if you speak of jim, who was such a troublesome boy, you can mention him as the gardener, and not say that he was only twelve years old." "what a lot of lies i'm to tell," said philip, opening his eyes wider and wider. "go on, mother--what else am i to do?" mrs. lovel gave the little speaker a shake. "philip, what an exasperating child you are! of course you are not to be so wicked as to attempt to tell lies. oh, what a bad boy you are even to think of such a thing! i only want you to be a nice, gentlemanly little boy and not to speak of vulgar things, and of course it is very vulgar to allude to a maid-of-all-work like betty and to cleaning one's own boots; but as to lies--what do you mean, sir? oh, there, the train is slackening speed. we'll soon be at the station, and the carriage was to meet us. remember, philip, always be on your best behavior at avonsyde! don't speak unless you are spoken to, and always be on the lookout to please the old ladies. there are two little girls, i believe; but they are not of the slightest consequence. dear, dear, i feel quite trembling! i hope--i trust all will go well! philip, dear, you have not felt that pain in your side all day, have you?" "no, mother; i have not felt it for days. i am much better really." "i don't want you to speak of it, love. i am most anxious that the ladies should consider you a strong boy. the doctors say you are almost certain to get over the pain; and when the miss lovels appoint you their heir it will be time enough to mention it. if the pain comes on very badly you will keep it to yourself--won't you, phil? you won't groan or scream or anything of that sort; and you can always run up to my room and i can give you the drops. oh, phil, phil, if this scheme fails we shall simply starve!" philip, with his queer, old-fashioned face, looked full at his mother. "i'll be a spartan boy and bear the pain," he said. "i don't care a bit about being rich or having a big place; but i don't want you to starve, mother. oh, i say, there's that jolly little spider again!" when the london express halted at last at the small country station, philip was gazing in ecstasy at a marvelous complication of web and dust, at one or two entrapped flies, and at a very malicious but clever spider. his mother was shaking out her draperies, composing her features, and wondering--wondering hard how a very bold scheme would prosper. "jump down, phil. here we are!" she called to her boy. the child, an active, lithe little fellow, obeyed her. not a trace of anxiety could be discerned on his small face. in truth, he had forgotten avonsyde in the far more absorbing interest of the spider. * * * * * "i am glad to welcome you, mrs. lovel!" said miss griselda as she came forward to greet the new-comers. she was standing in the old hall, and the light from a western window of rich old stained glass fell in slanting hues on a very eager and interested group. behind miss griselda stood her shadow, miss katharine, and rachel's bold dark face and kitty's sunny one could be seen still further in the background. rachel pretended not to be the least interested in the arrival of the strangers, nevertheless her bright eyes looked singularly alert. kitty did not attempt to hide the very keen interest she took in the little boy who was so nearly her own age, and who was to be so greatly honored as to sleep in the tower room. miss griselda and miss katharine wore their richest black silks and some of their most valuable lace; for surely this was the real heir, and they intended to give him a befitting reception. the old housekeeper and one or two other servants might have been seen peeping in the distance; they were incredulous, but curious. mrs. lovel took in the whole scene at a glance; the aspect of affairs pleased her and her versatile spirits rose. she took philip's little hand in hers and led him up to miss griselda. "this," she said in a gentle and humble voice--"this is my little boy." "philip lovel," responded miss griselda, "look up at me, child--full in the face. ah! you have got the lovel eyes. how do you do, my dear? welcome to avonsyde!" "welcome to avonsyde!" repeated miss katharine, looking anxiously from the fashionably dressed mother to the precocious boy. "are you very tired, my dear? you look so pale." phil glanced from one old lady's face to the other. his mother felt herself shaking. she saw at once that he had forgotten their conversation in the train, and wondered what very malapropos remark he would make. phil had a habit of going off into little dreams and brown-studies. he looked inquiringly at miss katharine; then he gazed searchingly at miss griselda; then he shook himself and said abruptly: "i beg your pardon--what did you ask me?" "oh, phil, how rude!" interrupted mrs. lovel. "the ladies asked you if you were tired, love. tell them at once that you are not in the least so. pale children are so often considered delicate," continued mrs. lovel anxiously, "whereas they are quite acknowledged by many physicians to be stronger than the rosy ones. say you are not tired, phil, and thank miss katharine for taking an interest in your health." phil smiled. "i'm not tired," he said. "i had a pleasant journey. there was a spider in the carriage, and i saw a windmill. and oh! please, am i to call you auntie, or what?" "aunt katharine," interposed the lady. "aunt katharine, do you fish? and may i fish?" here kitty burst into a delighted chuckle of amusement, and going frankly up to phil took his hand. "i can fish," she said; "of course aunt katharine can't fish, but i can. i've got a rod, a nice little rod; and if you are not tired you may as well come and see it." "then i'm going out with my book," said rachel. "i'm going into the forest. perhaps i'll meet the lady there. good-by, kitty-cat; good-by, little boy." rachel disappeared through one door, kitty and phil through another, and mrs. lovel and the two old ladies of avonsyde were left to make acquaintance with one another. "come into the drawing-room," said miss griselda; "your little boy and the children will get on best alone. he is a muscular-looking little fellow, although singularly pale. where did you say he was born--in mexico?" "in mexico," replied mrs. lovel, repressing a sigh. "the true mexican lads are about the strongest in the world; but he of course is really of english parentage, although his father and his grandfather never saw england. yes, phil was born in mexico, but shortly afterward we moved into the american states, and before my husband died we had emigrated to australia. phil is a strong boy and has had the advantage of travel and constant change--that is why he is so wiry. the hot country in which he was born accounts for his pallor, but he is remarkably strong." mrs. lovel's words came out quickly and with the nervousness of one who was not very sure of a carefully prepared lesson. suspicious people would have doubted this anxious-looking woman on the spot, but neither miss griselda nor miss katharine was at all of a suspicious turn of mind. miss griselda said: "you have traveled over a great part of the habitable globe and we have remained--i and my sister and our immediate ancestors before us--in the privacy and shelter of avonsyde. to come here will be a great change for you and your boy." "a great rest--a great delight!" replied mrs. lovel, clasping her hands ecstatically. "oh, dear miss lovel, you don't know what it is to weary for a home as i have wearied." her words were genuine and tears stood in her pale blue eyes. miss griselda considered tears and raptures rather undignified; but miss katharine, who was very sympathetic, looked at the widow with new interest. "it is wonderfully interesting to feel that your little boy belongs to us," she said. "he seems a nice little fellow, very naïve and fresh. won't you sit in this comfortable chair? you can get such a nice view of the forest from here. and do you take cream and sugar in your tea?" "a very little cream and no sugar," replied mrs. lovel as she leaned back luxuriously in the proffered chair. "what a lovely view! and what a quaint, beautiful room. i remember my husband telling me that avonsyde belonged to his family for nearly eight hundred years, and that the house was almost as old as the property. is this room really eight hundred years old? it looks wonderfully quaint." "you happen to be in the most modern part of the house, mrs. lovel," replied miss griselda icily. "this drawing-room and all this wing were added by my grandfather, and this special room was first opened for the reception of company when my mother came here as a bride. the exact date of this room is a little over half a century. you shall see the older part of the house presently; this part is very painfully modern." mrs. lovel bowed and sipped her tea as comfortably as she could under the impression of being snubbed. "i have never been in a very old house before," she said. "you know in mexico, in the states, in australia, the houses must be modern." "may i ask if you have brought your pedigree?" inquired miss griselda. "yes, katharine, you need not look at me in such a surprised manner. we neither of us have an idea of troubling mrs. lovel to show it to us now--not indeed until she has rested; but it is absolutely necessary to trace philip's descent from rupert lovel at as early a date as possible. that being correctly ascertained and found to be indisputable, we must have him examined by some eminent physician; and if the medical man pronounces him to be an extremely strong boy our quest is ended, and you and i, katharine, can rest in peace. mrs. lovel, you look very tired. would you like to retire to your room? katharine, will you ring the bell, dear? we will ask newbolt to accompany mrs. lovel to her room and to attend on her. newbolt is our maid, mrs lovel, and quite a denizen of the forest; she can tell you all the local traditions." "thank you," said mrs. lovel. "yes, i shall be glad to lie down for a little. i do hope philip is not tiring himself--not that he is likely to; he is so strong. thank you, miss lovel, i will lie down for a little. yes, of course i brought the pedigree--and--and--a very quaint house; even the new part looks old to me!" mrs. lovel tripped out of the room, and the two old ladies looked at one another. "what do you think of her, katharine?" inquired miss griselda. "you are dying to speak, so let me hear your sentiments at once!" "i don't quite like her," said miss katharine. "she seems very tired and very nervous, and perhaps it is unfair and unkind to say anything about her until she is rested. i can't honestly say, however, that my first impression is favorable, and she may be much nicer when she is not so tired and not so nervous. i don't like her much at present, but i may afterward. what are your opinions, griselda?" "katharine," said miss griselda, "you are the most prosaic and long-winded person i know. you don't suppose for an instant that i am going to say what i think of mrs. lovel to-day. after all, it is the boy in whom we are interested. time alone can show whether these two are not another couple of impostors. now, i wonder where that child rachel has taken herself!" chapter v.--in the forest. kitty and philip ran off together hand in hand. they were about the same height, but kitty's fair, healthy, flushed face showed in strong contrast to phil's pallor, and her round and sturdy limbs gave promise of coming health and beauty; whereas phil's slight form only suggested possible illness, and to a watchful eye would have betokened a short life. but the boy was wiry and just now he was strongly excited. it was delightful to be in the real country and more than delightful to go out with kitty. "you are my cousin, aren't you?" said the little maid, favoring him with a full, direct glance. "i suppose so," he answered. "yes, i suppose so. i don't quite know." kitty stamped her foot. "don't say that!" she replied. "i hate people who are not quite sure about things. i want to have a real boy cousin to play with. two or three make-believes came here, but they went away again. of course we all found them out at once, and they went away. i do trust you are not another make-believe, philip. you're very pale and very thin, but i do hope what's of you is real." "oh, yes; what's of me is real enough," said phil, with a little sigh. "where are you going to take me, kitty? into the forest? i want to see the forest. i wonder will it be as fine as the forest where ru----i mean where a cousin of mine and i used to play?" "oh, have you another cousin besides me? how exciting!" "yes; but i don't want to talk about him. are we going into the forest?" "if you like. you see those trees over there? all that is forest; and then there is a bit of wild moorland, and then more trees; and there is a pine wood, with such a sweet smell. it's all quite close, and i see it every day. it isn't very exciting when you see it every day. your eyes need not shine like that. you had much better take things quietly, especially as you are such a very thin boy. aunt katharine says thin people should never get excited. she says it wears them out. well, if you must come into the forest i suppose you must; but would you not like something to eat first? i know what we are to have for tea. shall i tell you?" "yes," said phil; "tell me when we have got under the trees; tell me when i am looking up through the branches for the birds and the squirrels. you have not such gay birds as ours, for i watched yours when i was coming in the train from southampton; but oh! don't they sing!" "you are a very queer boy," said kitty. "birds and squirrels and forest trees, when you might be hearing about delicious frosted cake and jam rolly-polies. well, take my hand and let's run into the forest; let's get it over, if we must get it over. i'll take you down to the avon to fish to-morrow. i like fishing--don't you?" "yes," said phil. "i like nearly everything. do you fish with flies or bait?" "oh, with horrid bait! that is the worst of it; but i generally get robert--one of our grooms--to bait my lines." the children were now under the shade of the trees, and kitty, after running about until she was tired, climbed into one of the branches of a wide-spreading beech tree and rocked herself in a very contented manner backward and forward. phil was certainly a very queer little boy, but she was quite convinced he must be her real true cousin, that he was not a make-believe, that he would stay on at avonsyde as the heir, and that she would always have a companion of her own age to play with. "he will get tired of the forest by and by," she said to herself, "and then he will like best to play with me, and we can fish all day together. how jolly that will be! what a good thing it is that he is so nearly my own age, and that he is not older; for if he were he would go every where with rachel and be her friend. i should not like that at all," concluded the little girl, with a very selfish though natural sigh of satisfaction. presently phil--having wandered about to his heart's content, having ascertained the color of several birds which sang over his head, having treasured up the peculiar quality of their different notes, and having ascertained beyond all doubt that the english forest was quite the quaintest and most lovely place in the world--came back and climbed into the tree by kitty's side. "i'd like him to see it awfully," he said. "who, phil?" "i can't tell you--that's my secret. kitty, you'll never find that i shall get accustomed to the forest--i mean so accustomed that i shan't want to come here. oh, never, never! a place like this must always have something new to show you. kitty, can you imitate all the birds' notes yet?" "i can't imitate one of them," said kitty, with an impatient frown coming between her eyebrows. "but i know what i want to be doing, and i only wish you had the same want." "perhaps i have. what is it?" "oh, no, you haven't. you're just like the goody-goody, awfully learned boys of the story-book. i do wish you wouldn't go into raptures about stupid trees and birds and things!" phil's little pale face flushed. "rupert--i mean--i mean my dearest friend--a boy you know nothing about, kitty--never spoke about its being goody-goody to love things of this sort, and he is manly if you like. i can't help loving them. but what is your want, kitty?" "oh, to have my mouth crammed full of jam rolly-poly! i am so hungry!" "so am i too. let's run back to the house." when philip and kitty had gone off together for their first exploring expedition, when the two little strangers to one another had clasped hands and gone out through the open hall-door and down the shady lawns together, rachel had followed them for a few paces. she stood still shading her eyes with one hand as she gazed after their retreating figures; then whistling to an english terrier of the name of jupiter, she ran round to the stables and encountered one of the grooms. "robert, put the side-saddle on surefoot and come with me into the forest. it is a lovely evening, and i am going for a long ride." robert, a very young and rather sheepish groom, looked appealingly at the bright and pretty speaker. "my mother is ill, miss rachel, and peter do say as i may go home and see her. couldn't you ride another evening, missy?" "no, i'm going to ride to-night. i wish to and i'm going; but you need not come with me; it is quite unnecessary. i should like nothing so well as having a long ride on surefoot all alone." "but the ladies do say, miss rachel, as you are not to ride in the forest by yourself. oh, if you will go, missy, why, i must just put off seeing my poor mother until to-morrow." rachel stamped her foot impatiently. "nonsense, robert!" she said. "i am going to ride alone. i will explain matters to my aunts, so you need not be at all afraid. put the side-saddle on surefoot at once!" robert's conscience was easily appeased. he ran off and quickly returned with the rough little forest pony, and rachel, mounting, cantered off. she was an excellent rider and had not a scrap of fear in her nature. she entered the forest by the long straight avenue; and surefoot, delighted to feel his feet on the smooth, velvety sward, trotted along gayly. "now i am free!" said the girl. "how delightful it is to ride all by myself. i will go a long, long way this beautiful evening." it was a perfect summer's evening, and rachel was riding through scenery of exquisite beauty. birds sang blithely to her as she flew lightly over the ground; squirrels looked down at her from among the branches of the forest oaks; many wild flowers smiled up at her, and all nature seemed to sympathize with her gay youth and beauty. she was a romantic, impulsive child, and lived more or less in a world of her own imaginings. the forest was the happiest home in the world to rachel; avonsyde was well enough, but no place was like the forest itself. she had a strong impression that it was still peopled by fairies. she devoured all the legends that mrs. newbolt, her aunt's maid, and john eyre, one of the agisters of the forest, could impart to her. both these good people had a lurking belief in ghosts and fairies. eyre swore that he had many and many a time seen the treacherous little jack-o'-lanterns. he told horrible stories of strangers who were lured into bogs by these deceitful little sprites. but mrs. newbolt had a far more wonderful and exciting tale to tell than this; for she spoke of a lady who, all in green, flitted through the forest--a lady with a form of almost spiritual etherealness, and with such a lovely face that those who were fortunate enough to see her ever after retained on their own countenances a faint reflection of her rare beauty. rachel had heard of this forest lady almost from the first moment of her residence at avonsyde. she built many brilliant castles in the air about her, and she and kitty most earnestly desired to see her. of course they had never yet done so, but their belief in her was not a whit diminished, and they never went into the forest without having a dim kind of hope that they might behold the lady. newbolt said that she appeared to very few, but she admitted that on one or two occasions of great and special moment she had revealed herself to some fair dames of the house of lovel. she never appeared to two people together, and in consequence rachel always longed to go into the forest alone. she felt excited to-night, and she said to herself more than once, "i wonder if i shall see her. she comes on great occasions; surely this must be a great occasion if the long-looked-for heir has come to avonsyde. i do wonder if that little boy is the heir!" rachel rode on, quite forgetful of time; the rapid motion and the lovely evening raised her always versatile spirits. her cheeks glowed; her dark eyes shone; she tossed back her rebellious curly locks and laughed aloud once or twice out of pure happiness. she intended to go a long way, to penetrate further into the shades of the wonderful forest than she had ever done yet; but even she was unconscious how very far she was riding. it is easy to lose one's way in the new forest, and rachel, accustomed as she was to all that part which immediately surrounded avonsyde, presently found herself in a new country. she had left rufus' stone far behind and was now riding down a gentle descent, when something induced the adventurous little lady to consult her watch. the hour pointed to six o'clock. it would be light for a long time yet, for it was quite the middle of summer, and rachel reflected that as tea-time was past, and as she would certainly be well scolded when she returned, she might as well stay out a little longer. "'in for a penny, in for a pound!'" she said. "the aunties will be so angry with me, but i don't care; i mean to enjoy myself to-night. oh, what a tempting green bank, and what a carpet of bluebells just there to the right! i must get some. surefoot shall have a rest and a nibble at some of the grass, and i'll pick the flowers and sit on the bank for a little time." surefoot was very well pleased with this arrangement. he instantly, with unerring instinct, selected the juiciest and most succulent herbage which the place afforded, and was happy after his fashion. rachel picked bluebells until she had her hands full; then seating herself, she began to arrange them. she had found a small clearing in the forest, and her seat was on the twisted and gnarled roots of a giant oak tree. her feet were resting on a thick carpet of moss; immediately before her lay broken and undulating ground, clothed with the greenest grass, with the most perfect fronds of moss, and bestrewn with tiny silvery stems and bits of branches from the neighboring trees. a little further off was a great foreground of bracken, which completely clothed a very gentle ascent, and then the whole horizon was bounded by a semicircle of magnificent birch, oak, and beech. some cows were feeding in the distance--they wore bells, which tinkled merrily; the doves cooed and the birds sang; the softest of zephyrs played among the trees; the evening sun flickered slant-wise through the branches and lay in brightness on the greensward; and rachel, who was intensely sensitive to nature, clasped her hands in ecstasy. "oh, it is good of god to make such a beautiful world!" she said, speaking aloud in her enthusiasm; but just then something riveted rachel's attention. she sprang to her feet, forgot her bluebells, which fell in a shower around her, and in this fresh interest became utterly oblivious to the loveliness of the scene. a lady in a plain dark dress was walking slowly, very slowly, between the trees. she was coming toward rachel, but evidently had not seen her, for her eyes were fixed on the pages of an open book, and as she read her lips moved, as though she were learning something to repeat aloud. this part of the forest was so remote and solitary for it was miles away from any gentleman's seat, that rachel for a moment was startled. "who can she be?" was her first exclamation; her second was a delighted-- "oh, perhaps she is the lady of the forest!" then she exclaimed with vexation: "no, no, she cannot be. the lady always wears green and is almost transparent, and her face is so lovely. this lady is in dark clothes and she is reading and murmuring words to herself. she looks exactly as if she were learning a stupid lesson to say aloud. oh, i am disappointed! i had such a hope she might be the lady of the forest. i wonder where she can live; there's no house near this. oh, dear! oh, dear! she is coming this way; she will pass me. shall i speak to her? i almost think i will. she seems to have a nice face, although she is not very young and she is not very beautiful." the lady walked slowly on, her eyes still bent on her book, and so it happened that she never saw the radiant figure of pretty little rachel until she was opposite to her. her quiet, darkly fringed gray eyes were lifted then and surveyed the child first with astonishment; then with curiosity; then with very palpable agitation, wonder, and distress. rachel came a step nearer and was about to open her lips, when the lady abruptly closed her book, as abruptly turned on her heel, and walked rapidly, very rapidly, in the opposite direction away from the child. "oh, stop!" cried rachel. "i want to speak to you. who are you? it's very interesting meeting you here in the very midst of the forest! please don't walk away so fast! do tell me who you are! there, you are almost running, and i can't keep up with you! what a rude forest lady you are! well, i never knew any one so rude before!" the lady had indeed quickened her steps, and before rachel could reach her she had disappeared through a small green-covered porch into a tiny house, so clothed with innumerable creepers that at a distance it could scarcely be distinguished from the forest itself. rachel stood panting and indignant outside the door. she had forgotten surefoot; she had forgotten everything in the world but this rude lady who would not speak to her. rachel was a very passionate child, and in her first indignation she felt inclined to pull the bell and insist upon seeing and conversing with the strange, silent lady. before she could carry this idea into execution the door was opened and a neatly dressed elderly servant came out. "well, little miss, and what is your pleasure?" she said. "i want to see the lady," said rachel; "she is a very rude lady. i asked her some civil questions and she would not answer." the old servant laid her hand on rachel's arm and drew her a few steps away from the bowerlike house. "what is your name, little miss?" she said. "my name? rachel lovel, of course. don't you know? everybody knows me in the forest. i'm rachel lovel of avonsyde, and my pony's name is surefoot, and i have a sister called kitty." "well, missy," continued the old woman, "i have no reason at all to misdoubt your tale, but the forest is a big place, and even the grandest little ladies are not known when they stray too far from home. i have no doubt, missy, that you are miss lovel, and i have no doubt also that you have a kind heart, although you have a hasty tongue. now, you know, it was very rude of you to run after my lady when she didn't want to speak to you. my lady was much upset by your following her, and you have done great mischief by just being such a curious little body." "mischief, have i?" said rachel; then she laughed. "but that is quite impossible," she added, "for i never even touched the rude lady." "you may do mischief, miss lovel, by many means, and curiosity is one of the most spiteful of the vices. it's my opinion that more mischief can be laid to curiosity's door than to any other door. from eve down it was curiosity did the sin. now, missy, my lady is lonely and unhappy, and she don't want no one to know--no one in all the wide world--that she lives in this little wild forest house; and if you tell, if you ever tell that you have seen her, or that you know where she lives, why, you will break the heart of the sweetest and gentlest lady that ever lived." "i don't want to break any one's heart," said rachel, turning pale. "what very queer things you say. i don't want to break any one's heart. i think i'll go home now." "not until you have promised me first, miss lovel--not until you have promised me true and faithful." "oh, i'll only tell kitty and my aunties. i never care to talk to strangers about things. there's a new little boy come to avonsyde--a new little boy and his mother. of course i won't say anything to either of them, but i never keep secrets from kitty--never!" "very well, miss; then my lady will have to go away. she is very tired and not strong, and she has just settled down in this little house, where she wants to rest and to be near--to be in the forest; and if you tell those aunts of yours and your little sister--if you tell anybody in all the wide world--she will have to go away again. we must pack up to night and we will be off in the morning. we'll have to wander once more, and she'll be sad and ill and lonely; but of course you won't care." "what a cruel old woman you are!" said rachel. "of course i don't want anybody to be sad and lonely. i don't want to injure the forest lady, although i cannot make out why she should have to live so secret here. is she a wicked lady and has she committed a crime?" "wicked?" said the old woman, her eyes flashing. "ah, missy, that such words should drop from your lips, and about her! are the angels in heaven wicked? oh, my dear, good, brave lady! no, missy. she has to keep her secret, but it is because of a cruel sin and injustice done to her, not because of any wrong done by her. well, good-night, miss. i'll say no more. we must be off, we two, in the morning." "no, don't go!" called out rachel. "of course i won't tell. if she's such a dear, good lady, i'll respect her and love her and keep her secret; only i should like to see her and to know her name." "all in good time, my dear little missy. thank god, you will be faithful to this good and wronged lady." "yes, i'll be very faithful," said rachel. "not even to kitty will i breathe one word. and now i must really go home." "god bless you, dear little miss--eh, but you're a bonny child. and is the one you call kitty as fair to look at?" "as fair to look at?" laughed rachel. "why, i'm as brown as a nut and kitty is dazzling. kitty is pink and white, and if you only saw her hair! it's like threads of gold." "and the little gentleman, dear?--you spoke of a little gentleman as well. is he your brother, love?" "my brother?" laughed rachel. "i have no one but kitty. i have a mother living somewhere--she's lost, my mother is, and i'm going all round the world to look for her when i'm old enough; but i have no brother--i wish i had. philip lovel is a little new, strange boy who is going to be heir of avonsyde. he came to-day with his mother. i don't much like his mother. now good-night, old woman. i'll keep the good lady's secret most faithfully." rachel blew a kiss to the anxious-looking old servant, then ran gayly back to where she had left surefoot. in the excitement of the last half-hour she had quite forgotten her withered bluebells. mounting her pony, she galloped as fast as she could in the direction of avonsyde. it was very late when she got back, but, strange to say, the old aunts were so much interested in mrs. lovel and in mrs. lovel's boy that they forgot to scold her or to remark her absence. she longed intensely to tell kitty all about the thrilling and romantic adventure she had just gone through, but she was a loyal child, and having once passed her word, nothing would induce her to break it. kitty, too, was taken up with philip lovel, and rachel, finding she was not wanted, ran up to her bedroom and lost herself in the charms of a fairy tale. chapter vi.--the tower bedroom. avonsyde was a very old property. the fair lands had been bestowed by william rufus on a certain rupert lovel who was fortunate enough to earn the gratitude of this most tyrannical and capricious of monarchs. rupert lovel had laid the first stone of the present house and had lived there until his death. he was succeeded by many wild and lawless descendants. as time went on they added to the old house, and gained, whether wrongly or rightly no one could say, more of the forest lands as their own. avonsyde was a large property in the olden days, and the old squires ruled those under them by what was considered at that period the only safe and wholesome rule--that of terror. they were a proud, self-confident, headstrong race, very sure of one thing--that whatever happened avonsyde would never cease to be theirs. an old prophecy was handed down from father to son to this effect. it had been put into a couplet by a rhymer as great in his way as thomas of border celebrity: "tyde what may betyde, lovel shall dwell at avonsyde." these words were taken as the motto of the house, and could be deciphered in very quaint lettering just over the arch which supported a certain portion of the tower. the tower was almost if not quite seven hundred years old, and was another source of great pride and interest to the family. miss griselda and miss katharine could not have done little philip lovel a greater honor than when they arranged the tower bedroom for his reception. in their opinion, and in the opinion of every retainer of the family, they indeed showed respect to the child and the child's claim when they got this gloomy apartment into order for him and his mother; but when mrs. lovel, a timid and nervous woman, saw the room, she scarcely appreciated the honor conferred upon her and hers. avonsyde was a house which represented many periods; each addition was a little more comfortable than its predecessor. for instance, the new wing, with the beautiful drawing-rooms and spacious library, was all that was luxurious; the cozy bedrooms where rachel and kitty slept, with their thick walls and mullioned windows and deep old-fashioned cupboards, were both cheerful and convenient; but in the days when the tower was built ladies did without many things which are now considered essential, and mrs. lovel had to confess to herself that she did not like her room. in the first place, the tower rooms were completely isolated from the rest of the house; they were entered by a door at one side of the broad hall; this door was of oak of immense thickness, and when it was shut no sound from the tower could possibly penetrate to the rest of the house. at the other side of the oak door was a winding stone staircase, very much worn and hollowed out by the steps of many generations. the stairs wound up and up in the fashion of a corkscrew; they had no rail and were very steep, and the person who ascended, if at all timid, was very glad to lay hold of a slack rope which was loosely run through iron rings at intervals in the wall. after a great many of these steps had been climbed a very narrow stone landing was discovered; three or four steps had then to be gone down, and mrs. lovel found herself in an octagon-shaped room with a very low ceiling and very narrow windows. the furniture was not only old-fashioned, but shabby; the room was small; the bed was that monstrosity, a four-poster; the curtains of velvet were black and rusty with age and wear. in short, the one and only cheerful object which poor mrs. lovel found in the apartment was the little white bed in one corner which had been prepared for philip's reception. "dear, dear, what remarkably steep stairs; and what a small--i mean not a very large room! are all the bedrooms of avonsyde as small as this?" she continued, interrogating newbolt, who, starched and prim, but with a comely fresh face, stood beside her. "this is the tower bedroom, mem," answered the servant in a thin voice. "the heir has always slept in this room, and the ladies has the two over. that has always been the fashion at avonsyde--the heir has this room and the reigning ladies sleep overhead. this room is seven hundred years old, mem." mrs. lovel shivered. "very antiquated and interesting," she began, "but isn't it just a little cold and just a little gloomy? i thought the other part of the house so much more cheerful." newbolt raised her eyebrows and gazed at mrs. lovel as if she were talking the rankest heresy. "for them as don't value the antique there's rooms spacious and cheerful and abundantly furnished with modern vanities in the new part of the house," she replied. "miss rachel and miss kitty, for instance; their bedroom isn't built more than three hundred years--a big room enough and with a lot of sunlight, but terrible modern, and not to be made no 'count of at avonsyde; and then there are two new bedrooms over the drawing-rooms, where we put strangers. very large they are and quite flooded with sunlight; but of course for antiquity there are no rooms to be compared with this one and the two where the ladies sleep. i am sorry the room don't take your fancy, mem. i suppose, not being of the blood of the family, you can't appreciate it. shall i speak to the ladies on the subject?" "oh! by no means, my good creature," replied poor mrs. lovel in alarm. "the room of course is most interesting and wonderfully antiquated. i've never seen such a room. and do your ladies really sleep higher up than this? they must have wonderfully strong hearts to be able to mount any more of those steep--i mean curious stairs." newbolt did not deign to make any comment with regard to the sound condition of miss griselda's and miss katharine's physical hearts. she favored the new-comer with a not-too-appreciative glance, and having arranged matters as comfortably as she could for her in the dismal chamber, left her to the peace and the solitude of a most solitary room. the poor lady quite trembled when she found herself alone; the knowledge that the room was so old filled her with a kind of mysterious awe. after her experiences in the new world, she even considered the drawing-rooms at avonsyde by no means to be despised on the score of youth. those juvenile bedrooms of two hundred or three hundred years' standing where rachel and kitty reposed were, in mrs. level's opinion, hoary and weighted with age; but as to this tower-room, surely such an apartment should only be visited at noon on a sunny day and in the company of a large party! "i'm glad the old ladies do sleep overhead," she said to herself. "what truly awful attics theirs must be! i never saw such a terribly depressing room as this. i'm certain it is haunted; i'm convinced there must be a ghost here. if philip were not sleeping here i should certainly die. oh, dear! what a risk i am running for the sake of philip. much of this life would kill me! i find, too, that i am not very good at keeping in my feelings, and i'll have to act--act all the time i am here, and pretend i'm just in raptures with everything, when i am not. that dreadful newbolt saw through me about this room. oh, dear! i am a bad actor. well, at any rate i am a good mother to philip; it's a splendid chance for philip. but if he speaks about that pain in his side we are lost! poor phil! these steep stairs are extremely bad for him." there was plenty of daylight at present, and mrs. lovel could move about her ancient chamber without any undue fear of being overtaken by the terrors of the night. she took off her traveling bonnet and mantle, arranged her hair afresh before a mirror which caused her to squint and distorted every feature, and finally, being quite certain that she could never lie down and rest alone on that bed, was about to descend the stone stairs and to return to the more cheerful part of the house, when gay, quick footsteps, accompanied by childish laughter, were heard ascending, and philip, accompanied by kitty, bounded without any ceremony into the apartment. "oh, mother, things are so delightful here," began the little boy, "and kitty fishes nearly as well as rupert. and kitty has got a pony and i'm to have one; aunt grizel says so--one of the forest ponies, mother. do you know that the forest is full of ponies? and they are so rough and jolly. and there are squirrels in the forest--hundreds of squirrels--and all kinds of birds, and beetles and spiders, and ants and lizards! mother, the forest is such a lovely place! is this our bedroom, mother? what a jolly room! i say, wouldn't rupert like it just?" "if you're quick, phil," began kitty--"if you're very quick washing your hands and brushing your hair, we can go back through the armory--that's the next oldest part to the tower. i steal into the armory sometimes in the dusk, for i do so hope some of the chain-armor will rattle. do you believe in ghosts, phil? i do and so does rachel." "no, i'm not such a silly," replied phil. "mother, dear, how white you are! don't you like our jolly, jolly bedroom? oh! i do, and wouldn't rupert love to be here?" mrs. lovel's face had grown whiter and whiter. "phil," she said, "i must speak to you alone. kitty, your little cousin will meet you downstairs presently. oh, phil, my dear," continued the poor lady when kitty had succeeded in banging herself noisily and unwillingly out of the room--"phil, why, why will you spoil everything?" "spoil everything, mother?" "yes; you have spoken of rupert--you have spoken twice of rupert. oh, we had better go away again at once!" "dear rupert!" said little phil, with a sigh; "darling, brave rupert! mother, how i wish he was here!" "you will spoil everything," repeated the poor lady, wringing her hands in despair. "you know what rupert is--so strong and manly and beautiful as a picture; and you know what the will says--that the strong one, whether he be eldest or youngest, shall be heir. oh, phil, if those old ladies know about rupert we are lost!" phil had a most comical little face; a plain face decidedly--pale, with freckles, and a slightly upturned nose. to those who knew it well it had many charms. it was without doubt an expressive and speaking face; in the course of a few minutes it could look sad to pathos, or so brimful of mirth that to glance at it was to feel gay. the sad look now filled the beautiful brown eyes; the little mouth drooped; the boy went up and laid his head on his mother's shoulder. "do you know," he said, "i must say it, even though it hurts you. i want rupert to have everything. i love rupert very dearly, and i think it would be splendid for him to come here, and to own a lot of the wild ponies, and to fish in that funny little river which kitty calls the avon. rupert would let me live with him perhaps, and maybe he'd give me a pony, and i could find squirrels and spiders and ants in the forest--oh! and caterpillars; i expect there are splendid specimens of caterpillars here. mother, when my heart is full of rupert how can i help speaking about him?" mrs. lovel pressed her hand to her brow in a bewildered manner. "we must go away then, philip," she said. "as you love rupert so well, better even than your mother, we must go away. it was a pity you did not tell me something of this before now, for i have broken into my last--yes, my very last £ to come here. we have not enough money to take us back to australia and to rupert; still, we must go away, for the old ladies will look upon us as impostors, and i could not bear that for anything in the world." "it is not only rupert," continued phil; "it's gabrielle and peggy; and--and--mother, i can't help being fond of them; but, mother, i love you best!" "do you really, phil? better than that boy? i never could see anything in him. do you love me better than rupert, phil?" "yes, of course; you are my mother, and when father died he said i was always to love you and to do what you wanted. if you want avonsyde, i suppose you must have it some day when the old ladies die. i'll do my best not to talk about rupert, and i'll try to seem very strong, and i'll never, never tell about the pain in my side. give me a kiss, mother. you shan't starve nor be unhappy. oh! what an age we have been chattering here, and kitty is waiting for me, and i do so want to see the armory! i wonder if there are ghosts there? it sounds silly to believe in them; but kitty does, and she's a dear little girl, nearly as nice as gabrielle. good-by, mother; i'm off. i'll try to remember." chapter vii.--"betyde what may." in a handsomely furnished dining-room in a spacious and modern-looking house about three miles outside the city of melbourne, three children--two girls and a boy--were standing impatiently by a wide-open window. "gabrielle," said the boy, "have you any idea when the mails from england are due?" the boy was the taller of the three, splendidly made, with square shoulders, great breadth of chest, and head so set on the same shoulders that it gave to its young owner an almost regal appearance. the bright and bold dark eyes were full of fire; the expressive lines round the finely cut lips were both kindly and noble. "gabrielle, is that carlo riding past on jo-jo? if it is, perhaps he is bringing our letter-bag. father has gone to melbourne to-day; but he said if there were english letters he would send them out by carlo." "you are so impatient about england and english things, rupert," said little peggy, raising a face framed in by soft flaxen hair to her big brother. "oh, yes, i'll run to meet carlo, for of course you want me to, and i'll come back again if there's any news; and if there is not, why, i'll stay and play with my ravens, elijah and james grasper. elijah is beginning to speak so well and james grasper is improving. if carlo has no letters you need not expect me back, either of you." the little maid stepped quickly out of the open window, and ran fleet as the wind across a beautifully kept lawn and in the direction where a horse's quick steps were heard approaching. gabrielle was nearly as tall as her brother, with a stately bearing and a grave face. "if father does decide on taking you to europe, rupert, i wish to say now that i am quite willing to stay here with peggy. i don't want to go to school at melbourne. i would rather stay on here and housekeep, and keep things nice the way our mother would have liked. if peggy and i go away, belmont will have to be shut up and a great many of the servants dismissed, and that would be silly. i am thirteen now, and i think i am wise for my age. you will speak to father, won't you, rupert, and ask him to allow me to be mistress here while you are away." "if we are away," corrected rupert. "ah! here comes peggy, and the letter-bag, and doubtless a letter. what a good child you are, peggy white!" peggy dashed the letter-bag with some force through the open window. rupert caught it lightly in one hand, and detaching a small key from his watch-chain opened it. it only contained one letter, and this was directed to himself: "mr. rupert lovel, "belmont, "near melbourne, "victoria, "australia." "a letter from england!" said rupert. "and oh! gabrielle, what do you think? it is--yes, it is from our little cousin philip!" "let me see," said gabrielle, peeping over her brother's shoulder. "poor, dear little phil! read aloud what he says, rupert. i have often thought of him lately." rupert smiled, sat down on the broad window-ledge, and his sister, kneeling behind him, laid her hand affectionately on his shoulder. a little letter, written with considerable pains and difficulty, with rather shaky and blotted little fingers, and quite uncorrected, just, in short, as nature had prompted it to a small, eager, and affectionate mind, was then read aloud: "dear cousin rupert: you must please forgive the spelling and the bad writing, and the blots (oh! i made a big one now, but i have sopped it up). this letter is quite secret, so it won't be corrected, for mother doesn't know that i am writing. mother and i are in england, but she says i am not to tell you where we are. it isn't that mother isn't fond of you, but she has a reason, which is a great secret, for your not knowing where we are. the reason has something to do with me. it's something that i'm to have that i don't want and that i'd much rather you had. it's a beautiful thing, with spiders, and rivers, and caterpillars, and wild ponies, and ghosts, and rattling armor, and a tower of winding stairs. oh! i mustn't tell you any more, for perhaps you'd guess. you are never to have it, although i'd like you to. we are not very far from the sea, and we're going there to-morrow, and it is there i'll post this letter. now, i am quite determined that you and gabrielle and peggy shall know that i think of you always. mother and me, we are in a beautiful, grand place now--very grand--and most enormous old; and i have two little girls to play with, and i have got a pony, and a white pup, and i am taught by a tutor, and drilled by a drill-sergeant, and i fish and play cricket with kitty, only i can't play cricket much, because of my side; but, rupert, i want to say here, and i want you and peggy and gabrielle always and always to remember, that i'd rather be living with mother in our little cottage near belmont, with only betty as servant and with only jim to clean the boots and do the garden, for then i should be near you; and i love you, rupert, and gabrielle, and peggy, better than any one in the world except my mother. please tell peggy that i don't think much of the english spiders, but some of the caterpillars are nice; and please tell gabrielle that the english flowers smell very sweet, but they are not so bright or so big as ours, and the birds sing, oh! so beautiful, but they haven't got such gay dresses. good-by, rupert. do you shoot much? and do you ever think of me? and are you good to my little dog cato? "phil lovel. "p. s.--please, i'd like to hear from you, and as mother says you are not on no account to know where we are, will you write me a letter to the post-office at the town where this is posted? you will see the name of the town on the envelope, and please direct your letter: 'master phil lovel, 'post-office. 'to be called for.' "be sure you put 'to be called for' in big letters. "good-by again. love to everybody. phil." gabrielle and rupert read this very characteristic little epistle without comment. when they had finished it, rupert slipped it back into its envelope and gave it to his sister. "we must both write to the poor little chap," he said. "the postmark on the envelope is southampton. i suppose southampton, england, will find him." then he added after a pause: "i wonder what queer thing aunt bella is thinking about now?" "she always was the silliest person in the world," said gabrielle in a tone of strong contempt. "if she were my mother i shouldn't love her. i wonder how phil loves her. poor little phil! he always was a dear little fellow--not a bit like aunt bella, thank goodness!" rupert laughed. "why, gabrielle," he said, "you can have no observation; phil is the image of his mother. there is nothing at all belonging to his father about phil except his eyes." "and his nature," proceeded gabrielle, "and his dear, brave little soul. i am sure if trial came to him phil could be a hero. what matter that he has got aunt bella's uninteresting features? he has nothing more of her in him. oh, she always was a silly, mysterious person! just think of her not allowing phil to tell us where he is!" "my father says that there is method in aunt bella's silliness," continued rupert. "don't you remember how suddenly she sold her little house at the back of our garden, gabrielle, and how betty found her burning an english newspaper; and how queer and nervous and flurried she became all of a sudden; and then how she asked father to give her that £ he had of hers in the bank; and how she hurried off without saying good-by to one of us? we have not heard a word about her from that day until now, when phil's little letter has come." "she never even bid mother good-by," continued gabrielle in a pained voice. "mother always stood up for aunt bella. she never allowed us to laugh at her or to grumble at her funny, tiresome ways." "did mother allow us to laugh at any one?" continued rupert. "there was nothing at all remarkable in our mother being kind to poor aunt bella, for she was good to every one." "but there was something strange in aunt bella not bidding our mother good-by," pursued gabrielle, "for i think she was a little fond of mother, and mother was so weak and ill at the time. i saw tears in aunt bella's eyes once after mother had been talking to her. yes, her going away was certainly very queer; but i have no time to talk any more about it now. i must go to my work. rupert, shall we ride this afternoon? this is just the most perfect weather for riding before the great summer heat commences." "yes, we'll be in summer before we know where we are," said rupert; "it is the th of november to-day. i will ride with you at three o'clock, gabrielle--that is, if father is not back." the brother and sister left the room to pursue their different vocations, and a short time afterward an old servant, with a closely frilled cap tied with a ribbon under her chin, came into the room. she was the identical betty who had been mrs. lovel's maid-of-all-work, and who had now transferred her services to the young people at belmont. betty was old, wrinkled, and of irish birth, and sincerely attached to all the lovels. she came into the room under the pretext of looking for some needlework which gabrielle had mislaid, but her real object was to peer into the now open post-bag, and then to look suspiciously round the room. "i smell it in the air," she said, sniffing as she spoke. "as sure as i'm betty o'flanigan there's news of master phil in the air! was there a letter? oh, glory! to think as there might be a letter from my own little master, and me not to know. miss gabrielle's mighty close, and no mistake. well, i'll go and ask her bold outright if she has bad news of the darlint." betty could not find gabrielle's lost embroidery, and perceiving that the post-bag was absolutely empty, she pottered out of the room again and upstairs to where her young lady was making up some accounts in a pretty little boudoir which had belonged to her mother. "och, and never a bit of it can i see, miss gabrielle," said the old woman as she advanced into the room; and then she began sniffing the air again. "what are you making that funny noise for, betty?" said miss lovel, raising her eyes from a long column of figures. "i smell it in the air," said betty, sniffing in an oracular manner. "i dreamed of him three times last night, and that means tidings; and now i smell it in the air." "oh! you dreamed of little phil," said gabrielle in a kind tone. "yes, we have just had a letter. sit down there and i'll read it to you." betty squatted down instantly on the nearest hassock, and with her hands under her apron and her mouth wide open prepared herself not to lose a word. gabrielle read the letter from end to end, the old woman now and then interrupting her with such exclamations as "oh, glory! may the saints presarve him! well, listen to the likes of that!" at last gabrielle's voice ceased; then betty hobbled to her feet, and suddenly seizing the childish letter, not a word of which she could read, pressed it to her lips. "ah! miss gabrielle," she said, "that mother of his meant mischief. she meant mischief to you and yours, miss, and the sweet child has neither part nor lot in the matter. if i was you, miss gabrielle, i'd ferret out where mrs. lovel is hiding master phil. what business had she to get into such a way about a bit of an english newspaper, and to hurry off with the child all in a twinkling like, and to be that flustered and nervous? and oh! miss gabrielle, the fuss about her clothes; and 'did she look genteel in this?' and 'did she look quite the lady in that?' and then the way she went off, bidding good-by to no one but me. oh! she's after no good; mark my words for it." "but she can do us no harm, betty," said gabrielle. "neither my father nor rupert is likely to be injured by a weak kind of woman like aunt bella. i am sorry for little phil; but i think you are silly to talk as you do of aunt bella. now you may take the letter away with you and kiss it and love it as much as you like. here comes father; he is back earlier than usual from melbourne, and i must speak to him." mr. lovel, a tall, fine-looking man, with a strong likeness to both his son and daughter, now came hastily into the room. "i have indeed come back in a hurry, gabrielle," he said. "that advertisement has appeared in the papers again. i have had a long talk with our business friend, mr. davis, and the upshot of it is that rupert and i sail for europe on saturday. this is tuesday; so you will have your hands pretty full in making preparations for such a sudden move, my dear daughter." "is it the advertisement that appeared six months ago, father?" said gabrielle in an excited voice. "mother pointed it out to you then and you would take no notice of it." "these things are often put into newspapers simply as a kind of hoax, child," said the father, "and it all seemed so unlikely. however, although i appeared to take no notice, i was not unmindful of rupert's interests. i went to consult with davis, and davis promised to make inquiries in england. he came to me this morning with the result of his investigations and with this advertisement in the melbourne times. here it is; it is three months old, unfortunately. it appeared three months after the first advertisement, but davis did not trouble me with it until he had got news from england. the news came this morning. it is of a satisfactory character and to the effect that the last valentine lovel, of avonsyde, in the new forest, hampshire, died without leaving any male issue, and the present owners of the property are two unmarried ladies, neither of whom is young. now, gabrielle, you are a wise lass for your thirteen years, and as i have not your mother to consult with, i am willing to rely a little bit on your judgment. you read this, my daughter, and tell me what you make of it." as mr. lovel spoke he unfolded a sheet of the melbourne times, and pointing to a small paragraph in one of the advertisement columns which was strongly underscored with a blue pencil, he handed it to gabrielle. "read it aloud," he said. "they are strange words, but i should like to hear them again." gabrielle, in her clear and bright voice, read as follows: "lovel.--if any of the lineal descendants of rupert lovel, of avonsyde, new forest, hampshire, who left his home on the th august, , are now alive and will communicate with messrs. baring & baring, chancery lane, london, they will hear of something to their advantage. only heirs male in direct succession need apply." gabrielle paused. "read on," said her father. "the second part of the advertisement, or rather a second advertisement which immediately follows the first, is of more interest." gabrielle continued: "i, griselda lovel, and i, katharine lovel, of avonsyde, new forest, of the county of hampshire, england, do, according to our late father's will, earnestly seek an heir of the issue of one rupert lovel, who left avonsyde on the th august, , in consequence of a quarrel between himself and his father, the then owner of avonsyde. by reason of this quarrel rupert lovel was disinherited, and the property has continued until now in the younger branch. according to our late father's will, we, griselda and katharine lovel, wish to reëstablish the elder branch of the family, and offer to make a direct descendant of the said rupert lovel our heir, provided the said descendant be under fifteen years of age and of sound physical health. we refuse to receive letters or to see any claimant personally, but request to have all communications made to us through our solicitors, messrs. baring & baring, of chancery lane, london, e. c. "'tyde what may betyde, lovel shall dwell at avonsyde." gabrielle's cheeks flushed brightly as she read. "oh, father!" she exclaimed, raising her eyes to the face of the tall man who stood near her, "do you really believe a little bit in it at last? don't you remember how i used to pray of you to tell me traditions of the old english home when i was a little child, and how often you have repeated that old rhyme to me, and don't you know how mother used to treasure the tankard with the family crest and 'tyde what may' in those queer, quaint english characters on it? mother was quite excited when the first advertisement appeared, but you said we were not to talk or to think of it. rupert is the rightful heir--is he not, father? oh, how proud i shall be to think that the old place is to belong to him!" "i believe he is the rightful heir, gabrielle," said her father in a grave voice. "he is undoubtedly a lineal descendant of the rupert lovel who left avonsyde in , and he also fulfills the conditions of the old ladies' advertisement, for he is under fifteen and splendidly strong; but it is also a fact that i cannot find some very important letters which absolutely prove rupert's claim. i could swear that i left them in the old secretary in your mother's room, but they have vanished. davis, on the other hand, believes that i have given them to him, and will have a strict search instituted for them. the loss of the papers makes a flaw in my boy's claim; but i shall not delay to go to england on that account. davis will mail them to me as soon as ever they are recovered; and in the mean time, gabrielle, i will ask you to pack up the old tankard and give it to me to take to england. there is no doubt whatever that that tankard is the identical one which my forefather took with him when almost empty-handed he left avonsyde." "i will fetch it at once," said gabrielle. "mother kept it in the cupboard at the back of her bed. she always kept the tankard and our baptismal mugs and the diamonds you gave her when first you were married in that cupboard. i will fetch the tankard and have it cleaned, and i will pack it for you myself." gabrielle ran out of the room, returning in a few moments with a slightly battered old drinking-cup, much tarnished and of antique pattern. "here it is!" she exclaimed, "and betty shall clean it. is that you, betty? will you take this cup and polish it for me at once yourself? i have great news to give you when you come back." betty took the cup and turned it round and round with a dubious air. "it isn't worth much," she said; "but i'll clean it anyhow." "be careful of it, betty," called out gabrielle. "whatever you may think of it, you tiresome old woman, it is of great value to us, and particularly to your favorite, rupert." muttering to herself, betty hobbled downstairs, and gabrielle and her father continued their conversation. in about half an hour the old woman returned and presented the cup, burnished now to great brilliancy, to her young mistress. "i said it wasn't worth much," she repeated. "i misdoubt me if it's silver at all." gabrielle turned it round in her hand; then she uttered a dismayed exclamation. "father, do look! the crest is gone; the crest and the old motto, 'betyde what may,' have absolutely vanished. it is the same cup; yes, certainly it is the same, but where is the crest? and where is the motto?" mr. lovel took the old tankard into his hand and examined it narrowly. "it is not the same," he said then. "the shape is almost identical, but this is not my forefather's tankard. i believe betty is right, and this is not even silver; here is no crown mark. no letters, gabrielle, and no tankard! well, never mind; these are but trifles. rupert and i sail all the same for england and the old property on saturday." chapter viii.--the sacred cupboard. mr. lovel told gabrielle that the loss of the tankard and the letters were but trifles. his daughter, however, by no means believed him; she noticed the anxious look in his eyes and the little frown which came between his brows. "father's always like that when he's put out," she said. "father's a man who never yet lost his temper. he's much too big and too great and too grand to stoop to anything small of that kind, but, all the same, i know he's put out. he's a wonderful man for sticking out for the rights of things, and if he thinks rupert ought to inherit that old property in england he won't leave a stone unturned to get it for him. he would not fret; he would not think twice about it if it was not rupert's right; but as it is i know he is put out, and i know the loss of the tankard is not just a trifle. who could put a false tankard in the place of the real one? who could have done it? i know what i'll do. i'll go up to mother's room again and have a good look round." mrs. lovel was not a year dead, and gabrielle never entered the room which had known her loved presence and from which she had been carried away to her long rest without a feeling of pain. she was in many respects a matter-of-fact girl--not nearly as sensitive as rupert, who with all his strength had the tenderest heart; nor as little peggy, who kept away from mother's room and never spoke of her without tears filling her eyes. to enter mother's room seemed impossible to both rupert and peggy, but gabrielle found a certain sad pleasure in going there; and when she had shut the door now she looked around her with a little sigh. "i'll make it homelike, as if mother were here," she said to herself. "i'll make it homelike, and then sit by the open window and try and believe that mother is really asleep on that sofa, where she has lain for so many, many hours." her eyes brightened as this idea came to her, and she hastened to put it into execution. she drew up the window-blinds and opened the pretty bay-window, and let the soft delicious air of spring fill the apartment; then she took the white covers off the chairs and sofa, pulled the sofa forward into its accustomed position, and placed a couple of books on the little table which always stood by its side. these few touches transformed the large room; it lost its look of gloom and was once more bright and homelike. a wistaria in full bloom peeped in at the open window; the distant sounds of farm life were audible, and gabrielle heard peggy's little voice talking in endearing tones to the cross old ravens, elijah and grasper. she knelt by the open window and, pressing her cheeks on her hands, looked out. "oh, if only mother were on the sofa!" that was the cry which arose, almost to pain, in her lonely heart. "peggy and rupert and i have no mother, and now father and rupert are going to england and i shall have to do everything for peggy. peggy will lean on me; she always does--dear little peg! but i shall have no one." the thought of rupert's so speedily leaving her recalled the tankard to gabrielle's memory. she got up and unlocked the cupboard, which was situated at the back of her mother's bed. the cupboard was half-full of heterogeneous matter--some treasures, some rubbish; numbers of old photographs; numbers of childish and discarded books. some of the shelves were devoted to broken toys, to headless dolls, to playthings worthless in themselves, but treasured for memory's sake by the mother. tears filled gabrielle's eyes, but she dashed them away and was about to institute a systematic search, when rupert opened the door and came in. his ruddy, brightly colored, healthy face was pale; he did not see gabrielle, who was partly hidden by the large bedstead. he entered the room with soft, reverent footsteps, and walked across it as though afraid to make a sound. gabrielle started when she saw him; she knew that neither rupert nor peggy ever came to the room. what did this visit mean? why was that cloud on rupert's brow? from where she stood she could see without being seen, and for a moment or two she hesitated to make a sound or to let her brother know she was near him. he walked straight across the room to the open window, looked out as gabrielle had looked out, then turning to the sofa, laid one muscular brown hand with a reverent gesture on the pillow which his mother's head had pressed. the little home touches which gabrielle had given to the room were unnoticed by rupert, for he had never seen it in its shrouded and dismantled state. all his memories centered round that sofa with the flowering chintz cover; the little table; the small chair, which was usually occupied by a boy or girl as they looked into the face they loved and listened to the gentle words from the dearest of all lips. rupert made no moan as gabrielle had done, but he drew the little chair forward, and laying his head face downward on the pillow, gave vent to an inward supplication. the boy was strong physically and mentally, and the spiritual life which his mother had fostered had already become part of his being. he spoke it in no words, but he lived it in his upright young life. to do honor to his mother's memory, to reverence and love his mother's god, was his motto. gabrielle felt uncomfortable standing behind the bedstead. she coughed, made a slight movement, and rupert looked up, with wet eyelashes. "gabrielle!" he said, with a start of extreme surprise. "yes, rupert, i was in the room. i saw you come in. i was astonished, for i know you don't come here. i was so sorry to be in the way, and just at first i made no sound." "you are not a bit in the way," said rupert, standing up and smiling at her. "i came now because there are going to be immense changes, and--somehow i could not help myself. i--i--wanted mother to know." "yes," said gabrielle, going and standing by his side. "do you think she does know, rupert? do you think god tells her?" "i feel that she does," said rupert. "but i can't talk about mother, gabrielle; it is no use. what were you doing behind that bedstead?" he added in a lighter tone. "i was looking for the tankard." "what, the old avonsyde tankard? but of course it is there. it was always kept in what we used to call the sacred cupboard." "yes; but it is gone," said gabrielle. "it was there and it has vanished; and what is more wonderful, rupert, another tankard has been put in its place--a tankard something like it in shape, but not made of silver and without the old motto." "nonsense!" said rupert almost sharply. "we will both go and look in the cupboard, gabrielle. the real tankard may be pushed far back out of sight." "no; it is too large for that," said gabrielle. "but you shall come and see with your own eyes." she led the way, and the two began to explore the contents of the cupboard, the boy touching the sacred relics with almost more reverent fingers than the girl. the tankard, the real tankard, was certainly nowhere to be found. "father is put out about it," said gabrielle. "i know it by his eyes and by that firm way he compresses his lips together. he won't get into a passion--you know he never does--but he is greatly put out. he says the tankard forms important evidence, and that its being lost is very disastrous to your prospects." "my prospects?" said rupert. "then father is not quite sure about my being the lawful heir?" "oh, rupert, of course he is sure! but he must have evidence; he must prove your descent. rupert, dear, are you not delighted? are you not excited about all this?" "no, gabrielle. i shall never love avonsyde as i love belmont. it was here my mother lived and died." tears came into gabrielle's eyes. she was touched by rupert's rare allusion to his mother, but she also felt a sense of annoyance at what she termed his want of enthusiasm. "if i were the heir----" she began. "yes, gabrielle--if you were the heir?" "i should be--oh, i cannot explain it all! but how my heart would beat; how i should rejoice!" "i am glad too," said rupert; "but i am not excited. i shall like to see europe, however; and i will promise to write you long letters and tell you everything." chapter ix.--a trysting-place. rachel had a very restless fit on. she was a child full of impulses, with spirits wildly high one day and proportionately depressed the next; but the restlessness of her present condition did not resemble the capricious and ever-changing moods which usually visited her. the uneasy spirit which prevented her taking kindly to her lessons, which took the charm from her play-hours and the pleasure even from kitty's society, had lasted now for months; it had its date from a certain lovely summer's evening. had aunt griselda and aunt katharine known more about what their little niece did on that occasion, they might have attributed her altered mood to an over-long ride and to some physical weakness. but rachel was wonderfully strong; her cheeks bloomed; her dark eyes sparkled; and the old ladies were interested just now in some one whom they considered far more important than rachel. so the little girl neglected her lessons without getting into any very serious scrapes, and more than once rode alone into the forest on surefoot without being reprimanded. rachel would steal away from kitty and from little phil, and would imperiously order robert to saddle her pony and to ride with her just a very little way into the forest; but then the groom was not only allowed, but requested to turn off in another direction, and rachel would gallop as fast as possible past rufus' stone, and on as far as that lovely glade where she had sat and gathered bluebells in the summer. she always dismounted from surefoot here, and standing with her back to an old oak tree, waited with intense expectancy. she never went further than the oak tree; she never went down a narrow path which led to a certain cottage clothed completely in green; but she waited, with her hands clasped and her eyes fixed eagerly on the distant vista of forest trees. sometimes her eyes would sparkle, and she would clap her hands joyfully and run to meet a prim-looking old woman who came forward through the shades to meet her. sometimes she returned home without seeing anybody, and on these occasions she was apt to be morose--snappish to kitty, rude to mrs. lovel and phil, and, in short, disagreeable to every one, except perhaps her gentle aunt katharine. the old ladies would vaguely wonder what ailed the child, and miss griselda would hope she was not going to be famous for the lovel temper; but as their minds were very full of other things they did not really investigate matters. one frosty day about the middle of november, when phil and his mother had been quite four months at avonsyde, rachel started off earlier than usual for one of her long rides. the forest was full of a wonderful mystical sort of beauty at all times and seasons, and now, with the hoar-frost sparkling on the grass, with the sun shining brightly, and with many of the autumn tints still lingering on the trees, it seemed almost as delightful a place to rachel as when clothed in its full summer glory. the little brown-coated winter birds chirped cozily among the branches of the trees, and hundreds of squirrels in a wealth of winter furs bounded from bough to bough. rachel as usual dismissed her faithful attendant, robert, and galloping to her accustomed trysting-place, waited eagerly for what might befall. on this particular day she was not doomed to disappointment. the old servant was soon seen approaching. rachel ran to her, clasped her hands round her arm, and raising her lips to her face, kissed her affectionately. "ah, you are a good nancy to-day!" she exclaimed. "i was here on saturday and here on wednesday, and you never came. it was very unkind of you. i got so tired of standing by the oak tree and waiting. well, nancy, is the lady quite well to-day?" "middling, dearie; middling she ever is and will be until she claims her own again." "oh, you mysterious old woman! you are trying to make me desperately curious, but i don't believe there is anything in your talk. you worry me to keep a tremendous secret, and there's nothing in it, after all. oh, of course i'm keeping your secret; you needn't pretend to be so frightened. and when am i to see the lady of the forest, nancy?" "now, my dear, haven't i told you until i'm tired? you're to see her come your thirteenth birthday, love. the day you are thirteen you'll see her, and not an hour sooner." rachel stamped her foot angrily. "i shan't have a birthday till the beginning of may!" she said. "it's a shame; it's a perfect, perfect shame!" old nancy pushed back a rebellious curl from the child's bright head. "don't you fret, my pretty," she said tenderly. "the lady wants to see you a deal--a sight more than you want to see her. the lady has passed through many troubles, and not the least is the waiting to see your pretty face." rachel began eagerly to unbutton her habit, and taking from a little pocket just inside its lining a tiny bag, she pulled out a small ring and thrust it into nancy's hand. "there," she said, "that's the most precious thing i have, and i give it to her. it's all gold, and isn't that a beautiful pearl? i used to wear it on my finger when i wanted to be very grand, but i'd rather she had it. perhaps she won't feel so lonely when she wears it, for she will remember that it was given to her by a little girl who is so sorry for her, and who loves her--yes, isn't it queer?--although we have never met. you know, nancy," continued rachel, "i can quite sympathize with lonely people, for to a certain extent i know what it means. i miss my mother so very much. when i'm grown up, nancy, i'm going all round the wide world looking for her." "bless you, darling!" said old nancy. "yes, i'll give the ring and your pretty message. and now, love, tell me, how is the little gentleman getting on? have the old ladies made him their heir yet?" "not quite yet, nancy; but they like him--we all like him. he is a dear little boy, and aunt griselda and aunt katharine make such a fuss about him. do you know that a week ago i saw aunt griselda actually put her arms about his neck and kiss him! she kissed him three or four times. wasn't it wonderful? for she's such a cold person. i think people can't help being fond of little phil, though he's not exactly pretty. i heard aunt griselda and aunt katharine say that when they do really feel certain that he is the right heir they are going to have a great, tremendous party, and they will present him to every one as the heir of avonsyde, and then immediately afterward he is to be sent to a preparatory school for eton. oh, won't kitty cry when he goes away!" "do you make out that the ladies will soon come to a decision, miss rachel?" inquired the old servant in a dubious tone. "it's a wonderful important matter--choosing an heir. are they likely to settle it all in a hurry?" rachel laughed. "i don't know," she said. "phil has been with us for four months now; they haven't been in such a hurry. i do hope it will be soon, for i want the party. now, good-by, nancy; i'll come to see you before long again. be sure you give my ring to the lady of the forest." "one moment, missy," said old nancy, stretching out her hand and drawing the young girl back to her side. "one moment, miss rachel lovel; i'm fain to see that little boy. could you manage to bring him this way, missy? could you manage it without nobody finding out? is he the kind of little fellow who wouldn't tell if you asked him earnest, most earnest, not? i'd like to see him and the lady; but no matter, miss rachel, i misdoubt me that you could manage a clever thing like that." "oh, couldn't i?" said rachel, her eyes sparkling. "why, i'd like it of all things! i can easily coax phil to come here, for he's perfectly wild about squirrels and animals of all kinds, and i never saw such a lot of squirrels as there are in the oaks round here. phil has got a pony too, and he shall come for a ride with me, and robert of course can come to take care of us. oh, i'll manage it; but i didn't know you were such a curious woman, nancy." the sun was already showing signs of taking its departure, and rachel did not dare to prolong her interview another moment. chapter x.--proofs. mrs. lovel was becoming reconciled to her tower chamber. ghostly as it appeared, no ghosts had visited her there; on the contrary, she had slept soundly; and as the days wore on and she found the quiet, simple life at avonsyde soothing to her perturbed nerves and restoring vigor to her somewhat feeble frame, she came to the conclusion that the tower was a particularly healthy place to sleep in, and that some of the superabundant vigor which characterized miss griselda must be owing to the splendid air which night after night she inhaled in her lofty chamber. as soon as ever this idea took possession of mrs. lovel's mind, she would not have changed her ancient tower bedroom for the most modern and luxurious which avonsyde could offer. a thought--a pleasing thought--came ever and anon to the poor lady as she watched her boy's peaceful face when he lay asleep on his little white bed. "suppose the healthy air of the tower makes philip strong?" philip had been for some months at avonsyde, and no one yet had found out that he possessed any special delicacy. at first the pallor of his little face had been commented on; but people soon got accustomed to this, and the boy was so merry, so good-humored, so brave, that those who watched him would have found it difficult to associate any special weakness with such lithe and agile movements, with so gay a spirit, with so merry and ringing a laugh. miss griselda had begun by declaring, both in her sister's presence and also in that of philip's mother, that no decisive step could be taken until a doctor had thoroughly examined the boy; but of late she had ceased to speak of any doctor, and had nodded her head in an approving manner when phil had sung out to her from the tops of the tallest trees, or had galloped panting and laughing to her side on his rough forest pony. miss katharine said many times to her sister: "surely we need make no delay. there seems no doubt that the boy can absolutely trace his succession from rupert lovel. why should we waste money, griselda, in inserting that advertisement any more in the newspapers when we have found our heir?" miss lovel, however, was not to be unduly hurried in so momentous a matter. "we cannot be too careful, katharine. yes, we will insert the advertisement once or twice again. it was only yesterday i heard from mr. baring that some fresh claimants are writing to him through their lawyers. there is no hurry whatever, and we cannot be too careful." perhaps miss katharine took it rather too much as a matter of course that phil could trace his descent, without flaw, from the rupert lovel who had quarreled with his father long ago. she was so accustomed to hearing mrs. lovel say, "i have got all the proofs; i can trace the descent without a single break for you at any time," that she began to believe she had gone through the genealogical tree, and had seen with her own eyes that the child was the lineal descendant of the elder branch of her house. miss griselda was far sharper than her sister. miss griselda knew perfectly that phil's descent was not yet proved, but, unlike most old ladies in her position, she disliked genealogy. she said openly that it puzzled her, and on one occasion when mrs. lovel, in her half-timid, half-fretful voice, said, "shall i bring you the proofs of phil's descent now? are you at leisure to look into the matter to-day?" miss griselda replied somewhat sharply: "i hate genealogical trees. katharine can understand them, but i can't. i don't suppose, mrs. lovel, you would be so utterly devoid of all sense as to bring the boy here and to establish yourself in our house without having incontestable proofs that he is what you represent him to be. i take it for granted that phil is a direct descendant of rupert lovel, but i shall certainly not make him our heir until more competent eyes than mine examine your proofs. at present i am more interested in watching phil's health, for if he was fifty times descended from our ancestor and was weakly he should not inherit avonsyde. when i have quite made up my mind that your boy is strong i will ask mr. baring, our business man, to come to avonsyde and go into the proofs; then, all being satisfactory, the boy shall be announced as our heir, and we will of course undertake his maintenance and education from that moment." mrs. lovel breathed a slight sigh of relief. "having proclaimed phil as your heir, nothing would induce you to revoke your decision afterward?" she asked nervously. "certainly not. what a strange speech to make! the boy being strong, being the right age, and being an undoubted descendant of our house, what more could we want? rest assured, mrs. lovel, that when your boy is proclaimed heir of avonsyde, were fifty other claimants to come forward we should not even listen to their plea." a faint pink, born of intense gratification, colored mrs. level's pale cheeks. "i should like to be bold enough to ask you another question," she said. miss griselda smiled in a freezing manner. "ask me what you please," she answered. "you must forgive my saying that i have already observed how singularly restless and uncomfortable you are. i think i can guess what is the matter. you are intensely curious about us and our money. oh, no, i am not at all offended. pray ask what you want to know." mrs. lovel, though a timid, was a rather obtuse person, and she was not crushed by miss griselda's withering sarcasm. clearing her throat and pausing slightly before bringing out her words, she continued: "i have wondered--i could not help wondering--what you would do with your property if no heir turned up." this speech, which was as audacious as it was unexpected, caused miss lovel to raise her finely marked eyebrows with some scorn. "your question is indiscreet," she said; "but, as it happens, i do not mind answering it. did no true heir appear for avonsyde during our lifetime the place would be inherited by our nieces, rachel and kitty lovel; but they would only have a life-interest in the property, and would be solemnly bound over to continue our search for the missing heir." "rachel and kitty will, then, be disappointed when phil is announced as your representative," said mrs. lovel, rising with sudden alacrity to her feet. "thank you so much for your valuable information, miss lovel. you may be quite certain that i shall regard what you have been good enough to confide to me as absolutely confidential." "i have told you nothing that everybody doesn't know," answered miss griselda. "i never reveal secrets, and least of all to those who are not related to us. talk to any one you please about what i have said to you. as to my brother's children, i am thankful to say they have not yet attained an age when the absence or the presence of money is of the slightest moment to them. one word more, mrs. lovel, before we change our conversation. i have noticed without your telling me that you are extremely poor." mrs. lovel interrupted with a great sigh. "oh!" she said, throwing up her hands and speaking with marked emphasis, "i have known the sore pangs of poverty--of course, it has been genteel poverty. i could never forget phil's birth nor what i owed to my poor dear husband's position, and of course i made a great effort to descend to nothing menial; but, yes, i have been poor." "you need not excite yourself about the past. when phil's identity is established and his position assured, it is the intention of my sister and myself to settle upon you for your life an income of £ a year. pray don't thank me; we do it for our own sakes, as of course phil's mother has a certain position to keep up. we should recommend you to settle somewhere near your boy. what did you say? no, no; that cannot be. when everything is settled we must request you to remove to your own home." for mrs. lovel had interrupted with the almost incoherent words: "am i not to live at avonsyde always?" chapter xi.--the lady who came with a gift. rachel did not forget her promise to old nancy. she had never taken so much pains to cultivate phil's acquaintance as kitty had done. she had certainly joined in the almost universal chorus that he was a nice and lovable little boy, but she had not greatly troubled her head about his pursuits or his pleasures. she was too much taken up with the wonderful secret which she possessed with regard to the real existence of the lady of the forest. but now that the said lady seemed to wish to see phil, and now that she, rachel, had almost bound herself to bring phil to the trysting-place in the forest, she began to regard him with new interest. kitty and phil had long ere this established a world of their own--a world peopled by caterpillars of enormous size, by the most sagacious spiders that were ever known to exist, by beetles of rare brilliancy, by birds, by squirrels--in short, by the numerous creature-life of the great forest; and last, but not least, by the fairies and gnomes which were supposed to haunt its dells. kitty could tell many stories of forest adventures, of the wonderful and terrible bogs on which the luckless traveler alighted unawares, and from which, unless instant help arrived, he could never hope to extricate himself. she spoke about the malicious little jack-o'-lanterns which were supposed to allure the unwary into these destructive places, and phil, with a most vivid imagination of his own, loved to lie at her feet and embellish her tales with numerous inventions. the two children were scarcely ever apart, and doubtless one reason why rachel thought so much of her secret was because kitty was no longer her undivided companion. now, however, she must seek out kitty and phil, and enter into their pursuits and take a share in their interests if she hoped to induce phil to accompany her into the forest. accordingly one day, with a book in her hand, she sauntered out into a very sunny part of the grounds. phil, basking in the rays of the most brilliant sunshine, had thrown himself at the foot of an old sun-dial; kitty had climbed into the boughs of a small bare tree which stood near, and as usual the two were chatting eagerly. rachel, with her head full of the lady of the forest, came up, to hear kitty and phil discussing this very personage. "she's all in green," said kitty. "her dress is greener than the trees and her face is most beautiful, and her hair is gold and----" "no," interrupted rachel; "she's in gray; and her hair is not gold--it is dark." then she colored high and bit her lips with vexation, for she felt that in her eagerness she had given a clew to her dear real lady's identity. kitty raised her eyebrows in great surprise. "why, rachel," she said, "it was you who told me she was in green. how very queer and disagreeable of you to make her so ugly and uninteresting. people who wear gray are most uninteresting. you forget, rachel, our lady is in green--greener than the grass. i do wish you would tell phil all about her; you can describe her so much better than i can." "she has a face which is almost too lovely," continued rachel, taking up the cue on the instant and speaking with great animation. "she lives in the deepest shades of the forest, and she appears never, never, except to those who belong to the forest. those families who have belonged to the new forest for hundreds of years have seen her, but outsiders never do. when she does appear she comes with a gift in her hand. do you know what it is?" "no," said phil, raising himself on his elbow and looking with great intentness at rachel. "i know what i would wish her to give me--that is, if she ever came to see me; but of course i cannot possibly say what gifts she brings." "those who have seen her," said rachel, "catch just a shadow of the reflection of her lovely face, and they never lose it--never! some ladies of our house saw her, and their portraits are in our portrait-gallery, and they are much more beautiful than any of the other lovels. she does not give beauty of feature--it is of expression; and such a brightness shines from her. yes, her gift is the gift of beauty; and i do wish, and so does kitty, that we could see her." phil smiled a little scornfully. "is that all she gives?" he said. "that wouldn't be much to me. i mean if i saw her i know what i'd ask. i'd say, 'i am a boy, and beauty isn't of much use to a boy; so please give me instead--money!'" "oh, phil!" exclaimed both the little girls. "she wouldn't come to you," said kitty in a mournful tone. "she wouldn't look at any one so avaricious." "besides, phil," continued rachel, "when avonsyde is yours you'll be a rich man; and i don't think," she added, "that you are quite right when you say that beauty is of no use to a boy; for if you have the kind of beauty the lady gives, it is like a great power, and you can move people and turn them as you will; and of course you can use it for good, phil." "all right," said phil, "but i'd rather have money; for if i had money i'd give it to mother, and then i needn't be heir of avonsyde, and--and--oh, i mustn't say! kitty, i do wish we could go to southampton again soon. i want to go there on most particular business. do you think aunt grizel will take us before christmas?" "is it about the letter?" asked kitty. "but you couldn't have had an answer yet, phil. there is no use in your going to southampton before an answer can have arrived." "i suppose not," said phil in a gloomy voice. "it's a long, long time to wait, though." "what are you waiting for?" asked rachel. phil raised very mournful eyes to her face. "you have a look of him," he said. "oh, how i hate being heir of avonsyde! i wouldn't be it for all the world but for mother. kitty, shall we go into the forest and look for beetles?" "i'll come with you," said rachel. "you two are always together and i'm out in the cold, and i don't mean to be in the cold any longer. i may come with you both, may i not?" kitty smiled radiantly, phil linked his little brown hand inside rachel's arm, and the three set off. no little girl could make herself more fascinating than rachel when she pleased. she developed on the instant a most astonishing knowledge of beetles and spiders; she drew on her imagination for her facts, and deceived kitty, but not phil. phil was a born little naturalist, and in consequence he only favored his elder cousin with a shrewd and comical look, and did not trouble himself even to negative her daring assertions. seeing that she made no way in this direction, rachel started a theme about which she possessed abundant knowledge. the new forest had been more or less her nursery; she knew its haunts well; she knew where to look for the earliest primroses, the first violets, and also the very latest autumn flowers; she knew where the holly berries were reddest, where the robins had their nests, and where the squirrels were most abundant; and phil, recognizing the tone of true knowledge, listened first with respect, then with interest, then with enthusiasm. oh, yes, they must go to that dell; they must visit that sunny bank. before rachel and her sister and cousin came home that day they had planned an excursion which surely must give the mysterious lady of the forest that peep at phil which she so earnestly desired. rachel was sorry to be obliged to include kitty in the party, for kitty had not been asked to pass in review by old nancy. phil was the one whom nancy and the lady wished to see just once with their own eyes: phil, who was to be heir of avonsyde and who didn't like it. rachel went to bed quite jubilant, for she would have done anything to please the unknown lady who had won her capricious little heart. she did not guess that anything would occur to spoil her plans, and in consequence slept very peacefully. phil had been much excited by rachel's words. he was a very imaginative child, and though he did not believe in ghosts, yet he was certainly impressed by what both the little girls had told him of the lady of the forest. he quite believed in this lady, and did not care to inquire too closely whether she was fairy or mortal. she appeared at rare intervals to the sons and daughters of the house of lovel, and when she did she came with a gift. phil did not altogether believe that this lovely, graceful, and gracious lady would be so obdurate as only to bestow an unvalued gift of beauty. he thought that if he were lucky enough to see her he might so intercede with her that she would give him a bag of gold instead. he need keep no secrets from her, for if she was a fairy she must know them already; and he might tell her all about his difficulties, and how his small heart was torn with great love for rupert and great love for his mother. he might tell the lady of the forest how very little he cared for avonsyde, except as a possible future home for his gay and brave cousin rupert, and he might ask her to give him the bag of precious gold to satisfy his mother and keep her from starving. phil was dreadfully oppressed with all the secrets he had to keep. happy as he was at avonsyde, there were so many, many things he must not talk about. he must never mention rupert, nor gabrielle, nor peggy; he must never breathe the name of belmont nor say a word about his old nurse betty. all the delightful times he had spent with his australian cousins must be as though they had never been. he must not tell about the delicious hours he and betty had spent together in the little cottage behind the garden when his mother had been away in melbourne. he must not speak about the excursions that rupert had taken with him. a veil, a close veil, must be spread over all the past, and the worst of it was that he knew the reason why. his mother wanted him to get what rupert would have been so much more fitted for. well! well! he loved his mother and he could not break her heart, so he kept all these little longings and desires to himself, and only half let out his secrets a dozen times a day. on one point, however, he was firm and stanch as a little spartan: he never breathed a sigh nor uttered a groan which could be construed into even the semblance of physical pain. when he felt quite exhausted, so tired that it was an effort to move, he would spring up again at kitty's least word and, with the drops on his little brow, climb to the top of that straight, tall tree once more and hide his face at last in the friendly sheltering leaves until he got back his panting breath. the splendid air of avonsyde undoubtedly strengthened him, but the strain of always appearing bright and well was sometimes almost too much, and he wondered how long he could go on pretending to be quite the strongest little boy in the world. he fancied now how nice it would be to tell the kind lady of the forest how weak he really was; how his heart often beat almost to suffocation; what cruel pain came suddenly to stab and torture him. oh! he could show her plainly that money was the gift for him, and that rupert, who was so valiant, so strong, so splendid, was the only right heir to the old place. phil greatly enjoyed his tower bedroom. not a particle of the nervousness which made his mother uneasy assailed him. the only thing he did regret was that he could not sleep quite at the very top of the tower, in those attic rooms inhabited by miss griselda and miss katharine. when some of those bad attacks of pain and breathlessness assailed him, he liked, notwithstanding the exertion, to creep up and up those winding stone stairs, for he knew that when he got to the top and had attained his refuge he could really rest; he might throw off all the spartan and be a little human boy who could moan and sigh and even shed a few secret tears for the gallant rupert whom he loved. phil had got into a habit of not even telling his mother of those queer attacks of weakness and breathlessness which came over him. nothing annoyed and distressed her so much as to hear of them, and little phil was by degrees beginning to feel a sort of protective love toward the rather weak woman: their positions were being unconsciously reversed. mrs. lovel seldom came to the tower bedroom in the day-time. under the pretext that the stairs wearied her, she had begged to be allowed to have a dressing-room in a more modern part of the house, so phil could be quite alone and undisturbed when he chose to visit his room. one of miss griselda's excellent rules for children was that they must retire early to bed. phil, in australia, had sat up far later than was good for him, but now at avonsyde he and kitty were always expected to have entered the land of dreams not later than eight o'clock in the evening. mrs. lovel seldom came upstairs before midnight, and in consequence phil spent several hours alone every night in his quaint bedroom. he was often not at all sleepy, and on these occasions he would open one of the tiny deep-set windows, and look out into the night and listen to the hootings of some owls which had long ago made a home for themselves in a portion of the old tower. on other occasions he would amuse himself with one of kitty's story-books, or again he would arrange some very precious little collections of wild birds' eggs and other forest treasures. on this particular night, after rachel's and kitty's conversation, he was more than usually wakeful. he got into bed, for aunt griselda told him to be sure to undress and go to sleep as quickly as possible; but finding sleep very far away from his wakeful eyes he got up, and, after the fashion of a restless little boy, began to perambulate the room and to try to discover anything of interest to divert his attention. a very old horse-hair trunk of his mother's stood in one corner of the room; it had never been unpacked, for it was only supposed to contain books and some household treasures not immediately required by mrs. lovel. phil had once or twice coaxed his mother to unpack the old trunk, for among the books was his pet "robinson crusoe." there was also an old box of paints which rupert had given him, and a queer, old-fashioned cup, made of horn, which rupert and he always took with them when they went for a day's excursion into any of the neighboring forests. phil saw now, to his great delight, that the key was in the lock of the old trunk, and it occurred to him that he could pass an agreeable hour rummaging among its contents for his beloved "robinson crusoe" and his old horn cup. he accordingly set a candlestick on the floor, and opening the trunk knelt down by it and began to forage. he worked hard, and the exertion tired him and brought on an attack of breathlessness; but he was much interested in the sight of many old home treasures and had no idea how time was flying. he could not find either his "robinson crusoe" or his horn cup, but he came across another treasure wrapped up in an old piece of flannel which gave him intense delight. this was no other than a silver tankard of quaint device and very old-world pattern, with a coat of arms and the words "tyde what may" inscribed on one side. phil knew the tankard well, and raising it to his lips he kissed it tenderly. "why, this belongs to uncle rupert and to belmont!" he exclaimed. "the very same dear old tankard which gabrielle is so proud of. i've seen it dozens of times. well, i never thought uncle rupert would have given this dear old tankard to mother. how kind of him! i wonder mother never spoke of it. oh, dear, what stories gabrielle has told me about it! she used to call it a magical tankard and said it had a history. mother must have quite forgotten she had it in the old trunk. how delighted rachel and kitty will be when i show it to them to-morrow." phil was so excited over his discovery that he became instantly careless as to finding either his "robinson crusoe" or his horn cup, and pushing the rest of contents of the trunk back into their place and turning the lock, he crept into bed, carrying the beloved tankard with him. when his mother came upstairs presently she found the boy fast asleep, and little guessed what treasure he clasped in his arms. it is true that little phil had entered the land of dreams; it is also true that in that enchanted land he went through experiences so delightful, through adventures so thrilling, that when in the dull gray november morning he awoke to listen to his mother's monotonous breathing, he simply could do nothing but step out of bed and determine to follow his dreams if necessary to the end of the world. the light had scarcely come. he would dress himself hastily and, taking the enchanted tankard with him, go into the forest all alone, in the hopes of meeting the beautiful lady who came with a gift. chapter xii.--lost in the new forest. mrs. lovel slept very soundly, and phil did not disturb her when he opened the ponderous oak door of his bedroom, and clasping the tankard tightly in both hands went downstairs and out. it was very, very early, for phil had mistaken the shining of the moon for the first light of day. not a soul was up at avonsyde, but the little boy easily found a means of exit, and in a few moments was running quickly down the straight avenue which led into the forest. he was intensely happy and excited, for the fragrance of his delightful dreams was still surrounding him, and he felt confident that if he only ran far enough he must find that wonderful lady whose dress was greener than the trees and whose face was so radiantly beautiful. the morning was damp and gloomy, for the moon set very soon after phil started on his walk, and the sun had no idea of getting up for another couple of hours. the forest, which looked so pleasant and cheery by day, was now all that was dark and dismal; so of course the first thing that happened to poor little phil was completely to lose his way. he possessed a very high spirit, and such small disadvantages as stumbling in the dark and tearing himself with unseen briers, and altogether becoming a sadly chilled and damp little boy, could not quench the ardent hope which impelled him to go forward. he pushed on bravely, having a kind of confidence that the further he got from avonsyde the more likely he was to meet the lady. presently the darkness gave place to a gray, dim light, and then, in an incredibly short space of time, the little boy found himself surrounded by a delicious golden atmosphere. the sun climbed up into the heavens; the mist vanished; daylight and sunlight had come. phil took off his cap, and leaning against a tree laughed with pleasure. it wanted three weeks to christmas; but what a lovely morning, and how the sun glittered and sparkled on the frosty ground! some shy robin-redbreasts hopped about and twittered gleefully; the squirrels were intensely busy cracking their breakfast-nuts; and phil, raising his eyes to watch them, discovered that he was hungry. his hunger he could not gratify, but the thirst which also assailed him could be easily assuaged, for a brook babbled noisily not many feet away. phil ran to it, and dipping his tankard into the water took a long draught. he had not an idea where he was, but with the sun shining and the birds singing no part of the forest could be lonely, and he tripped on in gay spirits, hoping to see the lady with the green dress coming to meet him through the trees. he had listened to many stories about the forest lady from kitty. she appeared very, very seldom to any one, but when she did come she chose a solitary place and moment, for it was one of her unbroken rules never to reveal herself to two people together. phil, remembering this peculiarity of the beautiful lady, took care to avoid the high-road and to plunge deeper and deeper into the most shady recesses and the most infrequented paths. as he walked on, whether from exhaustion or from hunger, or from an under-current of strong excitement, he became really a little feverish; his heart beat a great deal too fast, and his imagination was roused to an abnormal extent. he knew that he had lost his way, but as the hours went on he became more and more convinced that he would find the lady, and of course when he saw her and looked in her face his troubles would be ended. he would pour out all his cares and all his longings into the ears of this wonderful being. she would soothe him; she would pity him; and, above all things, she would give him that golden store which would make his mother contented and happy. "perhaps she will carry me home too," thought little phil, "for though i am always making believe to be well, i am not really a strong boy, and i am very tired now." the hours went on, the daylight grew brighter, and then came an unexpected change. the sunny morning was treacherous, after all; dark clouds approached from the north; they covered the smiling and sunny sky, and then a cold rain which was half-sleet began to fall mercilessly. phil had of course not dreamed of providing himself with a great-coat, and though at first the trees supplied him with a certain amount of shelter, their branches, which were mostly bare, were soon drenched, and the little boy was wet through. he had climbed to the top of a rising knoll, and looking down through the driving rain he heard a stream brawling loudly about forty feet below. he fancied that if he got on lower ground he might find shelter, so he ran as quickly as he could in the direction of the hurrying water. oh, horror! what had happened to him? what was this? the ground shook under his little footsteps. when he tried to step either backward or forward he sank. phil caught his breath, laughed a little because he did not want to cry, and said aloud: "kitty is quite right; there are bogs in the forest, and i'm in one." he was a very brave child, and even his present desperate situation did not utterly daunt him. "now i'm in real danger," he said aloud. "in some ways it's rather nice to be in real danger. rupert and i used often to talk about it and wonder what we'd do, and rupert always said: 'phil, be sure when the time comes that you don't lose your presence of mind.' well, the time has come now, and i must try to be very cool. when i stay perfectly still i find that i don't sink--at least very little. oh, how tired i am! i wish some one would come. i wish the rain would stop. i know i'll fall presently, for i'm so fearfully tired. i wish the lady would come--i do wish she would! if she knew that i was in danger she might hurry to me--that is, if she's as kind and beautiful as kitty tells me she is. oh, dear! oh, dear! i know i shall fall soon. well, if i do i'm certain to sink into the bog, and--rupert will have avonsyde. oh, poor mother! how she will wonder where i've got to! now, i really don't want to sink in a bog even for rupert's sake, so i must keep my presence of mind and try to be as cheerful as possible. suppose i sing a little--that's much better than crying and will make as much noise in case any one is passing by." so phil raised a sweet and true little voice and tried to rival the robins. but a poor little half-starving boy stuck fast in a bog is so far a remarkable spectacle that the robins themselves, coming out after the shower to dry their feathers, looked at him in great wonder. he was a brave little boy and he sang sweetly, and they liked the music he made very well; but what was he doing there? perching themselves on the boughs of some low trees which grew near the brook, they glanced shyly at him out of their bright eyes, and then quite unknowingly performed a little mission for his rescue. they flew to meet a lady whom they knew well and from whose hand they often pecked crumbs, and they induced this lady to turn aside from her accustomed path and to follow them, as they hopped and flew in front of her; for the lady was suddenly reminded by the robins of some little birds at home for which she meant to gather a particular weed which grew near the bog. the rain was over, the sun was again shining brightly, when little phil, tired, sick unto death, raised his eyes and saw, with the sunlight behind her, a lady, graceful and gracious in appearance, coming down the path. he did not notice whether her dress was gray or green; he only knew that to him she looked radiant and lovely. "oh, you have been a long time coming, but please save me now!" he sobbed, and then he did tumble into the bog, for he suddenly fainted away. chapter xiii.--one more secret. when phil opened his eyes he was quite sure for several moments that all his best dreams were realized. he was in a very tiny parlor (he loved small rooms, for they reminded him of the cottage at the back of the garden); he was lying full length on an old-fashioned and deliciously soft sofa, and a lady with a tender and beautiful face was bending over him; the firelight flickered in a cozy little grate and the sunlight poured in through a latticed window. the whole room was a picture of comfort, and phil drew a deep sigh of happiness. "have you given mother the bag of gold? and are we back in the cottage at the back of the garden?" he murmured. "drink this, dear," said the quiet, grave voice, and then a cup of delicious hot milk was held to his little blue lips, and after he had taken several sips of the milk he was able to sit up and look round him. "you are the lady of the forest, aren't you? but where's your green dress?" "i am a lady who lives in the forest, my dear child. i am so glad i came down to that dreadful bog and rescued you. what is your name, my dear little boy?" "my name? i am phil lovel. do you know, it is so sad, but i am going to have avonsyde. i am the heir. i don't want it at all. it was principally about avonsyde i came out this morning to find you. yes, i had a great escape in the bog, but i felt almost sure that you would come to save me. it was very good of you. i am not a strong boy, and i don't suppose i could have stood up in that dreadful cold, damp bog much longer. although i'm not bad at bearing pain, yet the ache in my legs was getting quite terrible. well, it's all right now, and i'm so glad i've found you. are you very rich, lady of the forest? and may i tell you everything?" had phil not been absorbed in his own little remarks he might have noticed a curious change coming over the lady's face. for one brief instant her eyes seemed to blaze, her brows contracted as if with pain, and the band with which she held the restorative to phil's lips trembled. whatever emotion overcame her its effect was brief. when the boy, wondering at her silence, raised his eyes to look at her, it was only a sweet and quiet glance which met his. "i have heard of little philip lovel," she said. "i am glad to see you. i am glad i saved you from a terrible fate. if no one had come to your rescue you must eventually have sunk in that dreadful bog." "but i was quite sure you would come," answered phil. "do you know, i went out this morning expecting to meet you. betty and i have spoken of you so very, very often. we have made up lovely stories about you; but you have always been in green and your face dazzled. now you are not in green. you are in a dark, plain dress--as plain a dress as mother used to wear when we lived in the house behind the garden; and though you are beautiful--yes, i really think you are beautiful--you don't dazzle. well, i am glad i have met you. did you know that a little boy was wandering all over the forest looking for you to-day? and did you come out on purpose to meet him and to save him? oh, i trust, i do trust you have got the gift with you!" "i don't quite understand you, my dear little boy," said the lady. "no, i did not come to meet you. i simply took a walk between the showers. you are talking too much and too fast; you must be quiet now, and i will put this warm rug over you and you can try to sleep. when you are quite rested and warm, nancy, my servant, will take you back to avonsyde." phil was really feeling very tired; his limbs ached; his throat was dry and parched; he was only too glad to lie still on that soft sofa in that tiny room and not pretend to be anything but a sadly exhausted little boy. he even closed his eyes at the lady's bidding, but he soon opened them again, for he liked to watch her as she sat by the fire. no, she was scarcely dazzling, but phil could quite believe that she might be considered beautiful. her eyes were dark and gray; her hair was also dark, very soft, and very abundant; her mouth had an expression about it which phil seemed partly to know, which puzzled him, for he felt so sure that he had seen just such resolute and well cut lips in some one else. "it's rachel!" he said suddenly under his breath. "how very, very queer that rachel should have a look of the lady of the forest!" he half-roused himself to watch the face, which began more and more to remind him of rachel's. but as he looked there came a curious change over the lady's expressive face. the firm lips trembled; a look of agonized yearning and longing filled the pathetic gray eyes, and a few words said aloud with unspeakable sadness reached the little boy. "so kitty speaks of me--little, little kitty speaks of me." the lady covered her face with her hands, and phil, listening very attentively, thought he heard her sob. after this he really closed his eyes and went to sleep. when he awoke the winter's light had disappeared, the curtains were drawn across the little window, and a reading-lamp with a rose-colored shade made the center of the table look pretty. there was a cozy meal spread for two on the board, and when phil opened his eyes and came back to the world of reality, the lady was bending over the fire and making some crisp toast. "you have had a nice long sleep," she said in a cheerful voice. "now will you come to the table and have some tea? here is a fresh egg for you, which brownie, my dear speckled hen, laid while you were asleep. you feel much better, don't you? now you must make a very good tea, and when you have finished nancy will take you as far as rufus' stone, where i have asked a man with a chaise to meet her; he will drive you back to avonsyde in less than an hour." phil felt quite satisfied with these arrangements. he also discovered that he was very hungry; so he tumbled off the sofa, and with his light-brown hair very much tossed and his eyes shining, took his place at the tea-table. there he began to chatter, and did not at all know that the lady was leading him on to tell her as much as possible about rachel and kitty and about his life at avonsyde. he answered all her questions eagerly, for he had by no means got over his impression that she was really the lady whom he had come to seek. "i don't want avonsyde, you know," he said suddenly, speaking with great earnestness. "oh, please, if you are the lady of the forest and can give those who seek you a gift, let my gift be a bag of gold! i will take it back to mother in the chaise to-night, and then--and then--poor mother! my mother is very poor, lady, but when i give her your gold she will be rich, and then we can both go away from avonsyde." for a moment or two the lady with the sad gray eyes looked with wonder and perplexity at little phil--some alarm even was depicted on her face, but it suddenly cleared and lightened. she rose from her chair, and going up to the child stooped and kissed him. "you don't want avonsyde. then i am your friend, little phil lovel. here are three kisses--one for you, one for rachel, one for kitty. give my kisses as from yourself to the little girls. but i am not what you think me, phil. i am no supernatural lady who can give gifts or can dazzle with unusual beauty. i am just a plain woman who lives here most of the year and earns her bread with hard and daily labor. i cannot give money, for i have not got it. i can be your friend, however. not a powerful friend--certainly not; but no true friendship is to be lightly thrown away. why, my little man, how disappointed you look! are you really going to cry?" "oh, no, i won't cry!" said phil, but with a very suspicious break in his voice; "but i am so tired of all the secrets and of pretending to be strong and all that. if you are not the lady and have not got the bag of gold, mother and i will have to stay on at avonsyde, for mother is very poor and she would starve if we went away. you don't know what a dreadful weight it is on one's mind always to be keeping secrets." "i am very sorry, phil. as it happens i do know what a secret means. i am very sorry for you, more particularly as i am just going to add to your secrets. i want you to promise not to tell any one at avonsyde about my little house in the forest nor about me. i think you will keep my secret when i tell you that if it is known it will do me very grave injury." "i would not injure you," said phil, raising his sweet eyes to her face. "i do hate secrets and i find them dreadfully hard to keep, but one more won't greatly matter, only i do wish you were the real lady of the forest." when nancy came back to the little cottage after disposing of phil comfortably in the chaise and giving the driver a great many emphatic directions about him, she went straight into her lady's presence. she was a privileged old servant, and she did not dream of knocking at the door of the little sitting-room; no, she opened it boldly and came in, many words crowding to her lips. "this will upset her fine," she muttered under her breath. "oh, dear! oh, dear! i'll have to do a lot of talking to-night. i'm not one to say she gives way often, but when she do, why, she do, and that's the long and short of it." nancy opened the door noisily and entered the room with a world of purpose depicted on her honest, homely face. "now, ma'am," she began, "i have seen him off as snug and safe as possible, and the driver promises to deliver him sure as sure into his mother's arms within the hour. a pretty sort of a mother she must be to let a bit of a babe like that wander about since before the dawn and never find him yet. now, ma'am, you're not settling down to that needlework at this hour? oh, and you do look pale! why, mrs. lovel, what's the use of overdoing it?" the lady so addressed raised her sad eyes to the kindly pair looking down at her and said gently: "i am determined to be at least as brave as that brave little boy. he would not cry, although he longed to. i must either work or cry, so i choose to work. nancy, how many yards of the lace are now finished?" "ten, i should think," answered nancy, whose countenance expressed strong relief at the turn the conversation had taken. "i should say there was ten yards done, ma'am, but i will go upstairs and count them over if you like." "i wish you would. if there are ten yards upstairs there are nearly two here; that makes just the dozen. and you think it is quite the best lace i have made yet, nancy?" "oh, ma'am, beautiful is no word; and how your poor eyes stand the fine work passes my belief. but now, now, where's the hurry for to-night? why, your hands do shake terrible. let me make you a cup of cocoa and light a fire in your bedroom, and you go to bed nice and early, mrs. lovel." mrs. lovel threw down her work with a certain gesture of impatience. "i should lie awake all night," said mrs. lovel. "do you know, nancy, that the little boy spoke of kitty? he said my baby kitty often mentioned the lady of the forest--that he and she both did. at first i thought that he meant me and that kitty really spoke of her mother; but now i believe he was alluding to some imaginary forest lady." "the green forest lady," interposed nancy. "i don't say, ma'am, that she's altogether a fancy, though. there's them--yes, there's them whose words may be relied on who are said to have spoke with her." "well, no matter. i am finishing this lace to-night, nancy, because i mean to go to london to-morrow." "you, ma'am? oh, oh, and it ain't three months since you were there!" "yes, i must go. i want to see my husband's lawyers. nancy, this suspense is killing me!" "oh, my poor, dear, patient lady! but it ain't so many months now to wait. miss rachel's birthday comes in may." "nancy, the mother-hunger is driving me wild. if i could only see them both and kiss them once i should be satisfied." "you shall kiss them hundreds of times when may comes," answered the old servant. "and they are well and bonny and miss rachel loves you; and the little one, why, of course her heart will go out to you when you hold her in your arms again." "six years!" repeated the poor lady, clasping her hands, letting the lovely lace fall to the ground, and gazing into the glowing fire in the grate. "six years for a mother to starve! oh, nancy, how could good women be so cruel? i believe miss grizel and miss katharine are good. how could they be so cruel?" "old maids!" said nancy, with a little snort. "do you suppose, ma'am, that those old ladies know anything of the mother feel? well, mrs. lovel, the children are two bonny little lassies, and you have given up much for them. you did it for their good, ma'am--that they should have full and plenty and be provided for. you did it all out of real self-denial, ma'am." "i made up my mind the day kitty fainted for want of food," answered mrs. lovel. "i made up my mind and i never flinched; but oh! nancy, think of its being in vain! for, after all, that little boy is the true heir. he is a dear little fellow, and although i ought to hate him i can't. he is the true heir; and if so, you know, nancy, that my little girls come back to me. how have i really bettered them by giving them six years of luxury when, after all, they must return to my small life?" "and to the best of mothers," answered nancy. "and to two or three hundred pounds put by careful; and they hearty and bonny and miss rachel's education half-complete. no, ma'am, they are not worse off, but a deal better off for what you have done for them--that's if the worst comes. but how can you say that that little boy will have avonsyde? why, he hasn't no strength in him--not a bit. thin is no word for him, and he's as light as a feather, and so white! why, i carried him in my arms as far as the stone, and i didn't feel as if i had nothing in them. why, ma'am, all the country round knows that the ladies at avonsyde are looking out for a strong heir; they go direct against the will if they give the old place to a sickly one. no, ma'am, master phil lovel ain't the heir for avonsyde. and is it likely, ma'am, that the ladies would be putting advertisements in all the papers, foreign and otherwise, for the last five years and a half, and sending over special messengers to the other side of the globe, and never yet a strong, hearty, real heir turn up? why, of course, mrs. lovel, he ain't to be found, and that's why he don't come." mrs. lovel smiled faintly. "well, nancy," she said, "i must at least go to town to-morrow, and as that is the case i will take your advice and go up to my room now. no, i could not eat anything. good-night, dear nancy." when mrs. lovel left the little sitting-room nancy stayed behind to give it a good "redding-up" as she expressed it. with regard to sitting-rooms, and indeed all rooms arranged for human habitation, nancy was a strict disciplinarian; rigid order was her motto. chairs placed demurely in rows; a table placed exactly in the middle of the room; books arranged at symmetrical intervals round it; each ornament corresponding exactly to its fellow; blinds drawn to a certain level--these were her ideas of a nice cheerful apartment. could she have had her own choice with regard to carpets, she would have had them with a good dash of orange in them; her curtains should always be made of moreen and be of a bright cardinal tone. a tidy and a cheerful room was her delight; she shuddered at the tendencies, so-called artistic, of the present day. putting the little sitting-room in order now, her feet knocked against something which gave forth a metallic sound; stooping, she picked up from the floor phil's tankard. she examined it curiously and brought it to the light. the quaint motto inscribed on one of its sides--"tyde what may"--was well known to her as the motto of the house of lovel. "i know nothing about this old cup," she said to herself; "it may or may not be of value; but it looks old--uncommon old; and it has the family coat of arms and them outlandish, meaningless words on it. of course it was little master phil brought it in to-day and forgot all about it. well, well, it may mean something or it may not; but my name ain't nancy white if i don't set it by for the present and bide my time about returning it. ah, my dear, dear lady, it won't be nancy's fault if your bonny little girls don't get their own out of avonsyde!" chapter xiv.--the australians. messrs. baring & baring, the lawyers who transacted all the business matters for the misses lovel, were much worried about christmas-time with clients. the elder mr. baring was engaged with a gentleman who had come from the country to see him on special and urgent business, and in consequence his son, a bright-looking, intelligent man of thirty, was obliged to ask two gentlemen to wait in his anteroom or to call again, while he himself interviewed a sorrowful-looking lady who required immediate attention. the gentlemen decided to wait the younger mr. baring's leisure, and in consequence he was able to attend to his lady client without impatience. "the business which brings you to me just before christmas, mrs. lovel, must be of the utmost importance," he began. mrs. lovel raised her veil and a look of intense pain filled her eyes. "it is of importance to me," she said, "for it means--yes, i greatly fear it means that my six years of bitter sacrifice have come to nothing and the heir is found." mr. baring raised his eyebrows; he did not trouble to inquire to whom she had alluded. after a brief pause he said quietly: "there is no reason whatever for you to despair. at this present moment my father and i are absolutely aware of two claimants for the avonsyde heirship--only one can inherit the place and both may prove unsuitable. you know that the ladies will not bequeath their property to any one who cannot prove direct descent from the elder branch; also the heir must be strong and vigorous. up to the present neither my father nor i have seen any conclusive proof of direct succession. we are quite aware that a little boy of the name of lovel is at present on a visit at avonsyde, but we also know that the misses lovel will take no definite steps in the matter without our sanction. i would not fret beforehand, mrs. lovel. it seems tame and old-fashioned advice, but i should recommend you for your own sake to hope for the best." "i will do so," said mrs. lovel, rising to her feet. "i will do so, even though i can no longer buoy myself up with false dreams. i feel absolutely convinced that before rachel's birthday an heir will be found for the old place. let it be so--i shall not struggle. it may be best for my children to come back to me; it will certainly be best for me to have them with me again. i won't take up any more of your time this morning, mr. baring." "well, come again to-morrow morning. i have got some more work for you and of quite a profitable kind. by the way, the new claimants--they have just come from australia and i am to see them in a moment--are in a desperate taking about an old tankard which seems to have been a family heirloom and would go far to prove their descent. the tankard is lost; also a packet of valuable letters. you see, my dear madam, their claim, as it stands at present, is anything but complete." mrs. lovel said a few more words to mr. baring, and then promising to call on the morrow, left him. to effect her exit from the house she had to pass through the room where the australians were waiting. her interview had excited her; her pale face was slightly flushed; her veil was up. perhaps the slight color on those usually pale cheeks had brought back some of the old and long-forgotten girlish bloom. the winter's day was sunshiny, and as she walked through the waiting-room the intense light throwing her features into strong relief, so strongly and so vividly did that slight and rather worn figure stand out that a man who had been sitting quietly by started forward with an exclamation: "surely i am addressing rachel cunningdale?" the lady raised her eyes to the great, strong, bearded face. "you are rupert lovel," she answered quietly. "i am, and this is my boy. here, rupert, lad, this lady was once your mother's greatest friend. why, rachel, it is twenty years since we met. you were scarcely grown up and such a bright bit of a girl, and now----" "and now," answered mrs. lovel, "i have been a wife and a mother. i am now a widow and, i may say it, childless; and, rupert, the strangest part of all, my name too is lovel." "what a queer coincidence. well, i am delighted to meet you. where are you staying? my boy and i have just come over from australia, and your friend, my dear wife, she is gone, rachel. it was an awful blow; we won't speak of it. i should like to see more of you. where shall we meet?" mrs. lovel gave the address of the very humble lodgings which she occupied when in london. "the boy and i will look you up, then, this evening. i fear our time now belongs to the lawyer. good-by--good-by. i am delighted to have met you." mr. baring prided himself on being an astute reader of character, but even he was somewhat amazed when these fresh claimants for the avonsyde property occupied quite half an hour of his valuable time by asking him numerous and sundry questions with regard to that pale and somewhat insignificant client of his, mrs. lovel. mr. baring was a cautious man, and he let out as little as he could; but the lovels, both father and son, were furnished with at least a few clews to a very painful story. so excited and interested was rupert lovel, senior, that he even forgot the important business that had brought him all the way from australia, and the lawyer had himself gently to divert his client's thoughts into the necessary channel. finally the father and son left the barings' office a good deal perturbed and excited and with no very definite information to guide them. "look here, rupert, lad," said the elder lovel. "it's about the saddest thing in all the world, that poor soul depriving herself of her children and then hoping against hope that the heir won't turn up. why, of course, lad, you are the heir; not a doubt of that. poor rachel! and she was your mother's friend." "but we won't set up our claim until we are certain about everything--will we, father?" asked young lovel. "did you not hear mr. baring say that many false heirs had laid claim to avonsyde? the old ladies want some one who can prove his descent, and we have not got all the papers--have we, father?" "no. it is an extraordinary thing about those letters being lost, and also the old tankard. but they are safe to turn up. who could have stolen them? perhaps gabrielle has already written with news of their safety. we might have a cab now to the general post-office. i have no doubt a budget of letters awaits me there. why, rupert, what are you looking so melancholy about? the tankard and the letters may even now be found. what's the matter, lad? it doesn't do for a hearty young chap like you to wear such a dismal face. i tell you your claim is as good as established." "but i don't know that i want it to be established," said young rupert lovel. "it is not nice to think of breaking that lady's heart. i don't know what gabrielle would say to doing anything so cruel to our mother's friend." "tut, lad, what a lot of rubbish you talk! if you are the heir you are, and you can't shirk your responsibility, even if you don't quite like it. well, we'll have a long talk with rachel and get to the bottom of everything to-night." * * * * * "and now, rachel, you must just confide in me and make me your friend. oh, nonsense! were you not my wife's friend? and don't i remember you a bit of a bonny lass, as young, quite as young as rupert here? i have got two young daughters of my own, and don't you suppose i feel for a woman who is the mother of girls? you tell me your whole story, rachel. how is it that you, who have married a lovel of avonsyde, should be practically shut away from the house and unrecognized by the family? when i met you last in melbourne you looked free enough from cares, and your father was fairly well off. you were just starting for europe--don't you remember? now tell me your history from that day forward." "with the exception of my old servant, nancy, i have not given my confidence to any human being for years," answered mrs. lovel. then she paused. "yes, i will trust you, rupert, and my story can be told in a few words; but first satisfy me about one thing. when i was at mr. baring's to-day he told me that a fresh claimant had appeared on the scene for the avonsyde property. is your boy the claimant?" "he is, rachel. we will go into that presently." mrs. lovel sighed. "it is so hard not to welcome you," she said, "but you destroy my hopes. however, listen to my tale. i will just tell it to you as briefly as possible. shortly after we came to england my father died. he was not well off, as we supposed; he died heavily in debt and i was penniless. i was not sufficiently highly educated to earn my bread as a teacher--as a teacher i should have starved; but i had a taste for millinery and i got employment in a milliner's shop in a good part of london. i stayed in that shop for about a year. at the end of that time i married valentine lovel. we had very little money, but we were perfectly happy; and even though valentine's people refused to acknowledge me, their indifference during my dear husband's lifetime did not take an iota from my happiness. two babies were born, both little girls. i know valentine longed for a son, and often said that the birth of a boy would most probably lead to a reconciliation with his father. no son, however, arrived, and my dear husband died of consumption when my eldest little girl was five years old. i won't dwell on his death, nor on one or two agonized letters which he wrote to his hard old father. he died without one token of reconciliation coming to cheer him from avonsyde; and when i laid him in the grave i can only say that i think my heart had grown hard against all the world. "i had the children to live for, and it is literally true that i had no time to sit down and cry for valentine's loss. the little girls had a faithful nurse; her name was nancy white; she is with me still. she took care of my dear, beautiful babies while i earned money to put bread in all our mouths. i had literally not a penny in the world except what i could earn, for the allowance valentine had always received from his father was discontinued at his death. i went back to the shop where i had worked as a milliner before my marriage; there happened to be a vacancy, and they were good enough to take me back. of course we were fearfully poor and lived in wretched lodgings; but however much nancy and i denied ourselves, the children wanted for nothing. they were lovely children--uncommon. any one could see that they had come of a proud old race. the eldest girl was called after her father and me; she was not like valentine in appearance, neither did she resemble me. i am dark, but rachel's eyes were of the deepest, darkest brown; her hair was black as night and her complexion a deep, glowing rosy brown. she was a splendid creature; so large, so noble-looking--not like either of us; but with a look--yes, rupert, with a look of that boy of yours. kitty resembled her father and was a delicate, lovely, ethereal little creature; she was as fair as rachel was dark, but she was not strong, and i often feared she inherited some of valentine's delicacy. "for two years i worked for the children and supported them. for a year and a half all went fairly well. but then i caught cold; for a time i was ill--too ill to work--and my situation at the milliner's shop was quickly filled up. i had a watch and a few valuable rings and trinkets which valentine had given me. i sold them one by one and we lived on the little money they fetched. but the children were only half-fed, and one wretched day of a hot and stifling july kitty fainted away quietly in my arms. that decided me. i made up my mind on the spot. i had a diamond ring, the most valuable of all my jewels, and the one i cared for most, for valentine had given it me on our engagement. i took it out and sold it. i was fortunate; i got £ for it. i hurried off at once and bought material, and made up with nancy's help lovely and picturesque dresses for both the children. i believe i had a correct eye for color, and i dressed rachel in rich dark plush with lace, but kitty was all in white. when the clothes were complete i put them on, and nancy kissed the pets and fetched a cab for me, and we drove away to waterloo. i had so little money left that i could only afford third-class tickets, but i took them to lyndhurst road, and when we arrived there drove straight to avonsyde. the children were as excited and pleased as possible. they knew nothing of any coming parting, and were only anxious to see their grandfather and the house which their father had so often spoken to them about. they were children who had never been scolded; no harsh words had ever been addressed to them, consequently they knew nothing of fear. when they got into the lovely old place they were wild with delight. 'kitty,' said rachel, 'let us go and find our grandfather.' before i could restrain them they were off; but indeed i had no wish to hinder them, for i felt sure they would plead their own cause best. we had arrived at a critical moment, for that was the last day of the old squire's life. i saw his daughters--my sisters-in-law. we had a private interview and made terms with one another. these were the terms: the ladies of avonsyde would take my darlings and care for them and educate them, and be, as they expressed it, 'mothers' to them, on condition that i gave them up. i said i would not give them up absolutely. i told the ladies quite plainly why i brought them at all. i said it was out of no love or respect for the cruel grandfather who had disowned them; it was out of no love or respect for the sisters, who did not care what became of their brother's children: it was simply and entirely out of my great mother-love for the children themselves. i would rather part with them than see them starve or suffer. 'but,' i added, 'there are limits even to my self-denial. i will not give them up forever. name the term of years, but there must be a limit to the parting.' "then miss katharine, who seemed kinder-hearted than her sister, gave me one or two compassionate glances, and even said, 'poor thing!' once or twice under her breath. "i did not take the slightest notice of her. i repeated again, more distinctly: 'the parting must have a limit; name a term of years.' then the ladies decided that on rachel's thirteenth birthday--she was just seven then--i should come back to avonsyde, and if i so wished and my little girls so wished i should have one or both of them back again. the ladies told me at the same time of their father's will. they said that a most vigorous search was going to be commenced at once for an heir of the elder branch. at the same time they both stated their conviction that no such heir would be forthcoming, for they said that no trace or tidings had been heard of rupert lovel from the day, nearly two hundred years ago, when he left avonsyde. their conviction was that rupert had died without descendants. in that case, both the ladies said, the little girls must inherit the property; and miss griselda said further that she would try to make arrangements with her father to so alter his will that if no heir had been found on rachel's thirteenth birthday, valentine's children should have a life-interest in avonsyde. if, on the other hand, the heir was found before that date, they would also be provided for, although she did not mention how. "these arrangements satisfied me. they were the best terms i could make, and i went away without bidding either of my children good-by. i could bear a great deal, but that parting i could not have endured. i went back to london and to nancy, and in a week's time i heard from miss lovel. she told me that her father was dead, but that the necessary codicil had been added to the will, and that if no heir appeared before rachel's thirteenth birthday my children would have a life-interest in the place, and they themselves would be bound over to go on with the search. miss lovel further added that in any case the children should be educated and cared for in the best possible manner. "those were the entire contents of her letter. she sent me no message from my darlings, and from that hour to this i have never heard from her. from that hour, too, my terrible, terrible heart-hunger began. no one knows what i suffered, what i suffer for want of the children. were the sacrifice to be made again, i don't think i could go through it, and yet god only knows. for two or three years i made a very scanty livelihood; then i was fortunate enough to invent a certain showy-looking lace. i could make my own patterns and do it very quickly by hand. to my great surprise it took, and from that hour i have had more orders than i can execute. my wants are very few and i have even saved money: i have over £ put away. my dream of dreams is to have my children back with me--that is my selfish dream. of course it will be best for them to be rich and to have the old place, but in any case i will not consent to so absolute a separation as now exists between us. a year ago a gentleman and his wife who had been kind to me, although they knew nothing of my story, asked me if i would like to take charge of a little cottage of theirs in the new forest. it is a tiny place, apparently lost in underwood and bracken, which they themselves occupy for a fortnight or so in the course of the year. the temptation was too great. i accepted the offer, and since then i have lived, so to speak, on the threshold of the children's home. one day i saw rachel. well, i must not dwell on that. i did not speak to her. i fled from her, although she is my first-born child. it is now december. may will come by and by, and then the greatness of my trouble will be over." mrs. lovel paused. the australians, father and son, had listened with breathless interest to her words. "i don't want to take the property from your children," said young rupert, with passion. "after what you have said and suffered, i hate to be heir of avonsyde." "i forgot to mention," continued mrs. lovel, "that a little boy is now at avonsyde of the name of philip who is supposed to be the real heir. he is a little pale-faced boy with beautiful eyes and a very winning manner, and it is reported that the old ladies have both lost their hearts to him. i cannot say that i think he looks strong, but he is a dear little boy." "that must be our phil," said young rupert, speaking with great interest. "of course, father that explains his queer letter to me. poor dear little phil!" "just like his mother," growled the elder lovel. "a mischievous, interfering, muddle-headed woman, sure to put her foot in a thing and safe to make mischief. forgive me, rachel, but i feel strongly about this. has the boy got a mother with him?" "yes." "you are right then, rupert. it is your cousin phil. poor little chap! he has no voice in the matter, i am sure. what a meddlesome woman that mother of his is! well, rachel, my boy and i will say good-night now. these revelations have pained and bewildered me. i must sleep over all this news. don't leave london until you hear from me. i think you may trust me, and--god bless you!" chapter xv.--was he acting? "i can't help it, kitty; you really must not ask me. i'm a very much puzzled boy. i'm--i'm--kitty, did you ever have to pull yourself up short just when you wanted to say something most interesting? i'm always pulling myself up short, and i'm dreadfully, dreadfully tired of it." "it must be something like giving a sudden jerk to one of our ponies," said kitty. "i know--it must be a horrid feeling. does it set your teeth on edge, phil, and do you quite tremble with impatience?" "yes," said phil, throwing himself full length on the floor of the old armory, where he and kitty had ensconced themselves on a pouring wet day early in the month of february. "yes, kitty, if feeling very unpleasant all over means setting your teeth on edge, i do know it. i'm a little boy with lots of secrets, and i never can tell them, not to you nor to anybody at avonsyde--no, not to anybody. i'll get accustomed to it in time, but i don't like it, for naturally i'm the kind of boy who can't keep a secret.' "what a horrid man you'll grow up!" said kitty, eying her cousin with marked disapproval. "you'll be so reserved and cross-grained and disagreeable. you'll have been pulled up short so often that you'll look jerky. oh, dear me, phil, i wouldn't be you for a great deal!" "i wouldn't be myself if i could help it," said phil, with a sigh which he tried hard to smother. "oh, i say, kitty-cat, will you coax aunt grizel to take us into southampton soon? i am quite certain my letter must be waiting for me. you don't know, kitty, you can't possibly guess what a letter from his dearest friend means to a rather lonely kind of boy like me." "you had better ask aunt grizel yourself," answered kitty, with a little pout and a little frown. "she's so fond of you, phil, that she'll do it. she'll take you to southampton if you coax her and if you put on that funny kind of sad look in your eyes. it's the kind of look our spaniel puts on, and i never can say 'no' to him when he has it. i don't know how you do it, phil, nor why you do it; but you have a very sorry look in your eyes when you like. is it because you're always and always missing your dearest friend?" "it's partly that," answered phil. "oh, you don't know what he's like, kitty! he's most splendid. he has got such a grand figure, and he walks in such a manly way, and his eyes are as dark and wonderful-looking as rachel's, and--and--oh, kitty, was i telling you anything? please forget that i said anything at all; please don't remember on any account whatever that i have got a dearest friend!" "i think you are perfectly horrid!" said kitty, stamping her foot. "just the minute we begin talking about anything interesting you give one of those jerks, just as if you had a cruel rider on your back. i can't think what it all means. if you have a dearest friend, there's no harm in it; and if you had a betty to take care of you, there's no harm in that; and if you lived in a cottage in a plantation, that isn't a sin; and if you did go into the forest to meet the lady, and you didn't meet her, although you were nearly swallowed up by a bog, why--why--what's the matter, phil? how white you are!" "nothing," said phil, suddenly pressing his face down on the cushion against which he was lying--"nothing--kit--i--" he uttered one or two groans. "fetch me a little water, please!" the child's face had suddenly become livid. he clinched his hands and pressed them against his temples, and buried that poor little drawn, piteous face further and deeper into the soft cushion. at last the paroxysm of pain passed; he panted, raised himself slowly, and struggled to his feet. "kitty!" but kitty was gone. terrified, the little girl ran through the hall. the first person she met was mrs. lovel, who, dressed gracefully in a soft black silk, trimmed with lace, was walking languidly in the direction of the great drawing-room. "you had better come!" said kitty, rushing up to her and seizing her hand. "phil is very dreadfully ill. i think phil will die. he's in the armory. come at once!" without waiting for the lady's answer, little kitty turned on her heel and flew back the way she had come. phil had scarcely time to struggle to his feet, scarcely time to notice her absence, before she was back again at his side. putting her arms around his neck, she covered his face with passionate kisses. "phil, phil, i was so frightened about you! are you better? do say you are better. oh, i love you so much, and i won't be jealous, even if you have got a dearest friend!" phil could stand, but the sudden attack he had passed through was so sharp that words could scarcely come to his lips. kitty's embrace almost overpowered him, but he was so innately unselfish that he would not struggle to free himself, fearing to pain her. his mother's step was heard approaching. he made a great effort to stand upright and formed his little lips into a voiceless whistle. "why, phil, you have been overtiring yourself," said mrs. lovel. "oh, kitty, how you have exaggerated! phil does not look at all bad. i suppose you were both romping, and never ceased until you lost your breath; or you were having one of your pretense games, and phil thought he would frighten you by making out he was ill. ah, phil, phil, what an actor you are! now, my dear boy, i want you to come up to your bedroom with me. i want to consult you about one or two matters. fancy, kitty, a mother consulting her little boy! ought not phil to be proud? but he is really such a strong, brave little man that i cannot help leaning on him. it was really unkind of you to pretend that time, phil, and to give little kitty such a fright." phil's beautiful brown eyes were raised to his mother's face; then they glanced at kitty; then a smile--a very sorry smile kitty considered it--filled them, and giving his little thin hand to his mother, he walked out of the armory by her side. kitty lingered for a moment in the room which her companion had deserted; then she dashed away across the brightly lit hall, through several cozy and cheery apartments, until she came to a room brilliant with firelight and lamplight, where rachel lay at her ease in a deep arm-chair with a fairy story open on her knee. "phil is the best actor in all the world, rachel!" she exclaimed. "he turned as white as a sheet just now. he turned gray, and he groaned most awfully, and he wouldn't speak, and i thought he was dying, and i flew for some one, and i found mrs. lovel, and she came back to phil, and she laughed, and said there was nothing the matter, and that phil was only acting. isn't it wonderful, rachel, that phil can turn pale when he likes, and groan in such a terrible way? oh, it made me shiver to see him! i do hope he won't act being ill again." "he didn't act," said rachel in a contemptuous voice; "that's what his mother said. i wouldn't have her for a mother for a great deal. i'd rather have no mother. poor little phil didn't act. don't talk nonsense, kitty." "then if he didn't act he must be very ill," said kitty. then, her blue eyes filling with tears, she added: "i do love him so! i love him even though he has a dearest friend." rachel stretched out her hand and drew kitty into a corner of her own luxurious chair. she had not seen phil, and kitty's account of him scarcely made her uneasy. "even if he was a little ill, he's all right now," she said. "stay with me, kitty-cat; i scarcely ever see you. i think phil is quite your dearest friend." "quite," answered kitty solemnly. "i love him better than any one, except you, rachel; only i do wish--yes, i do--that he had not so many secrets." "he never told you what happened to him that day in the forest, did he, kitty?" "oh, no; he pulled himself up short. he was often going to, but he always pulled himself up. what a dreadfully jerky man he'll grow up, rachel." "he never quite told you?" continued rachel. "well, i don't want him to tell me, for i know." "rachel!" "yes, i know all about it. i'm going to see him presently, and i'll tell him that i know his secret. now, kitty, you need not stare at me, for i'm never going to breathe it to any one except to phil himself. there, kit, the dressing-gong has sounded; we must go and get ready for supper." meanwhile mrs. lovel, taking phil's hand, had led him out of the armory and to the foot of the winding stone stairs. once there she paused. the look of placid indifference left her face; she dropped the smiling mask she had worn in kitty's presence, and stooping down lifted the boy into her arms and carried him tenderly up the winding stairs, never pausing nor faltering nor groaning under his weight. when they reached the tower bedroom she laid him on his little bed, and going to a cupboard in the wall unlocked it and took from thence a small bottle; she poured a few drops from the bottle into a spoon and put the restorative between the boy's blue lips. he swallowed it eagerly, smiled, shook himself, and sat up in bed. "thank you, mother. i am much better now," he said affectionately. mrs. lovel locked the door, stirred the fire in the old-fashioned grate into a cheerful blaze, lit two or three candles, drew the heavy curtains across the windows, and then dragging a deep arm-chair opposite the glowing hearth, she lifted phil again into her arms, and sitting down in the comfortable seat, rocked him passionately to her breast. "my boy, my boy, was it very bad, very awful?" "yes, mother; but it's all right now." "did kitty hear you groan, phil?" "yes, mother; but not the loudest groans, for i buried my head in the cushion. i'm all right now, mother. i can go down again in a minute or two." "no, phil, you shan't go down to-night. i'll manage it with the old ladies; and phil, darling, darling, we have almost won; you won't have to pretend anything much longer. on the th of may, on rachel's birthday, you are to be proclaimed the heir. this is the middle of february; you have only a little more than two months to keep it all up, phil." "oh, yes, mother, it's very difficult, and the pain in my side gets worse, and i don't want it, and i'd rather rupert had it; but never mind, mammy, you shan't starve." he stroked his mother's cheek with his little hand, and she rocked him in her arms in an ecstasy of love and fear and longing. at that moment she loved the boy better than the gold. she would have given up all dreams of ease and comfort for herself if she could have secured real health for that most precious little life. "mother," said phil, "i do want to go to southampton so badly." "what for, dearest?" "because i'm expecting a letter, mother, from rupert. no, no, don't frown! i can't bear to see you frown. i didn't tell him anything, but i wrote to him, and i asked him to send his answer to the post-office at southampton, and it must be waiting there now; yes, it must, and i do want to fetch it so dreadfully. can you manage that i shall go, mother?" "i'll go for it myself, dear; i'll go to-morrow. there--doesn't mother love her boy? yes, i'll go for the letter to southampton to-morrow. there's the supper-gong, phil. i must go down, but you shan't. i'll bring you up something nice to eat presently." "oh, no, please; i couldn't eat. just let me lie on my bed quite still without talking. mother, my darling mother, how can i thank you for promising to fetch rupert's letter?" mrs. lovel laid phil back on his bed, covered him up warmly, and softly unlocking the door went downstairs. she had got a shock, a greater shock than she cared to own; but when she entered the long, low, old-fashioned dining-hall where miss griselda and miss katharine and the two little girls awaited her, her face was smiling and careless as usual. the poor, weak-minded, and bewildered woman had resumed her mask, and no one knew with what an aching heart she sat down to her luxurious meal. "is phil still pretending to be very, very dreadfully ill?" called out kitty across the table. miss griselda started at kitty's words, looked anxiously at mrs. lovel and at a vacant chair, and spoke. "is your boy not well? is he not coming to supper?" she inquired. "phil strained himself a little," answered mrs. lovel, "and he had quite a sharp pain in his side--only muscular, i assure you, dear miss griselda; nothing to make one the least bit uneasy, but i thought it better to keep him upstairs. he is going to bed early and won't come down again to-night. may i take him up a little supper presently?" "poor boy! he must be ravenously hungry," said miss griselda in a careless tone. "strained his side? dear, dear! children are always hurting themselves. i wanted him to go with me early to-morrow to collect mosses. i intend to drive the light cart myself into the forest, and i meant to take phil and kitty with me. phil is so clever at finding them." "oh, he's very strong. he'll be quite ready to go with you, miss griselda," answered the little boy's mother; but she bent her head as she spoke, and no one saw how pale her face was. the meal proceeded somewhat drearily. kitty was out of spirits at the loss of her favorite companion; rachel's little face looked scarcely childish, so intensely watchful was its expression; mrs. lovel wore her smiling mask; and the two old ladies alone were perfectly tranquil and indifferent. "may i take phil up some supper?" suddenly asked rachel. mrs. lovel suppressed a quick sigh, sat down again in her seat, for she was just rising to go back to phil, and almost ran her nails into her hands under the table in her efforts to keep down all symptoms of impatience. "thank you, dear," said miss griselda gratefully. "if you go up to phil his mother need not trouble herself about him until bedtime. we will adjourn to the drawing-room, if you please, mrs. lovel. i am anxious to have another lesson in that new kind of crochet. katharine, will you give rachel some supper to take up to phil?--plenty of supper, please, dear; he's a hearty boy and ought to have abundance to eat." miss katharine smiled, cut a generous slice of cold roast beef, and piled two mince-pies and a cheese-cake on another plate. when she had added to these a large glass of cold milk and some bread-and-butter, she gave the tray to rachel, and bidding her be careful not to spill her load, took kitty's hand and went with her into the drawing-room. rachel carried her tray carefully as far as the foot of the winding stairs; then looking eagerly up and down and to right and left, she suddenly wheeled round and marched off through many underground and badly lit passages, until she found herself in the neighborhood of the great old-fashioned kitchen. here she was met not by the cook, but by mrs. newbolt, the lady's-maid. "oh, newbolt, you'll do what i want. phil is ill, and his mother doesn't want any one to know about it. take all this horrid mess away and give me some strong, strong, beautiful beef tea and a nice little piece of toast. i'll wait here, and you won't be long, will you, dear newbolt?" newbolt loved phil and detested his mother. with a sudden snort she caught up rachel's tray, and returned presently with a tempting little meal suited to an invalid. "if the child is ill i'll come up with you to see him, miss rachel," she said. phil was lying on his back; his eyes were shut; his face looked very pinched and blue. true, however, to the little spartan that he was, when he heard rachel's step he started up and smiled and welcomed her in a small but very cheery voice. "thank you for coming to see me," he said, "but i didn't want any supper; i told mother so. oh, what is that--white soup? i do like white soup. and oysters? yes, i can eat two or three oysters. how very kind you are, rachel. i begin to feel quite hungry, that supper looks so nice." rachel carried the tempting little tray herself, but behind her came newbolt, whom phil now perceived for the first time. "have you come up to see me, newbolt?" he said. "but i am not at all ill. i happened to get tired, and mother said i must rest here." "the best place for a tired little boy to rest is in his bed, not on it," said newbolt. "if you please. master phil, i am going to put you into bed, and then miss rachel shall feed you with this nice supper. oh, yes, sir, we know you're not the least bit ill--oh, no, not the least bit in the world; but we are going to treat you as if you were, all the same." phil smiled and looked up at newbolt as if he would read her innermost thoughts. he was only too glad to accept her kind services, and quite sighed with relief when she laid him comfortably on his pillows. newbolt wrapped a little red dressing-jacket over his shoulders, and then poking the fire vigorously and seeing that the queer old tower room looked as cheerful as possible, she left the two children together. rachel and phil made very merry over his supper, and phil almost forgot that he had been feeling one of the most forsaken and miserable little boys in the world half an hour ago. rachel had developed quite a nice little amount of tact, and she by no means worried phil with questions as to whether his illness was real or feigned. but when he really smiled, and the color came back to his cheeks, and his laugh sounded strong and merry once more, she could not help saying abruptly: "phil, i have been wanting to see you by yourself for some time. i cannot tell kitty, for kitty is not to know; but, phil, what happened to you that day in the forest is no secret to me." phil opened his eyes very wide. "what do you mean, rachel?" he asked. "no, rachel, you cannot guess it, for i never, never even whispered about that secret." rachel's face had turned quite pale and her voice was trembling. "shall i whisper it back to you now?" she said. "shall i tell you where you went? you did not meet the myth lady--i begin really to be almost sure she is only a myth lady--but you did meet a lady. she was in gray and she had the saddest face in the world; and oh, phil, she took you home--she took you home!" "why, rachel," said little phil again, "you look just as if you were going to cry. how is it you found all this out? and why does it make you so sorrowful?" "oh, i want her," said rachel, trembling and half-sobbing. "i want her so badly. i long for her more than anything. i saw her once and i have not been quite happy since. she never took me inside her house. phil, i am jealous of you. phil, i want to hear all about her." "i'm so glad you know," said phil in cheerful tones. "i was told not to tell. i was told to keep it another secret; but if you found it out, or rather if you always knew about it, why, of course you and i can talk together about her. you don't know how nice it will be to me to be able to talk to you about one of my secrets. my dearest friend secret, and the betty secret, and the little house at the back of the garden secret i must never, never speak of; and the secret about my being a very, very strong boy--that i mustn't talk about; but you and i can chatter about the lady of the forest, rachel. oh, what a comfort it is!" "it will be a great comfort to me too," answered rachel. "let's begin at once. tell me every single thing about her. what did she wear? how did she speak? had she my ring on her finger?" phil smiled and launched forth into a long and minute narrative. not a single detail would sharp little rachel allow him to omit. whenever his memory was in danger of flagging she prodded it with vehemence, until at last even her most rapacious longing was satisfied. when phil had quite exhausted all his narrative she breathed a deep sigh and said again: "i envy you, phil. you have been inside her house and she has kissed you." "she was a very nice and kind lady," concluded phil, "and she was very good to me; but all the same, rachel, i would rather see that other lady--the lady in green with the lovely face who comes with a gift." "perhaps she's only a myth," said rachel. "please, rachel, don't say so. i want the bag of gold so badly." rachel stared and laughed. "i never thought you were greedy, phil," she said. "i cannot think, what a little boy like you can want with a bag of gold." "that's my secret," said phil, half-closing his eyes and again turning very pale. "a great many people would be happier if i had that bag of gold. rachel," he added, "i do trust i may one day see the lady. i went to look for her that day in the forest; i went miles and miles to find her, but i didn't, and i was nearly drowned in a bog." "it is not a bit necessary to go into the forest to see her," answered rachel; "she might come to you here, in this very room. you know this is the very oldest part of the house. this part of avonsyde is quite steeped in romance, and i dare say the lady has been here once or twice--that is, of course, if she isn't a myth. there is an old diary of one of our ancestors in the library, and i have coaxed aunt griselda now and then to let me read in it. one day i read an account of the lady; it was then i found out about her green dress and her lovely face. the diary said she was 'passing fair,' and those who looked on her were beautiful ever afterward. she showed herself but seldom, but would come now and then for a brief half-minute of time to the fairest and the best and to those who were to die young." "rachel," said little phil, "just before you came up that time i was lying with my eyes shut, and i was thinking of the beautiful lady, and i almost thought i saw her. i should be happy if she came to me." chapter xvi.--lost. phil's mother was in every sense a weak woman. she was not strong enough to be either very good or very bad; she had a certain amount of daring, but she had not sufficient courage to dare with success. she had a good deal of the stubbornness which sometimes accompanies weak characters, and when she deliberately set her heart on any given thing, she could be even cruel in her endeavors to bring this thing to pass. her husband and the elder rupert lovel, of belmont, near melbourne, were brothers. both strong and brave men, they had married differently. rupert's wife had in all particulars been a helpmeet to him; she had brought up his children to be brave and strong and honorable. she suffered much, for she was a confirmed invalid for many years before her death; but her spirit was so strong, so sweet, so noble, that not only her husband and children, but outsiders--all, in fact, who knew her--leaned on her, asked eagerly for her counsel, and were invariably the better when they followed her advice. philip lovel's wife was not a helpmeet to him; she was weak, exacting, jealous, and extravagant. she was the kind of woman whom a strong man out of his very pity would be good to, would pet and humor even more than was good for her. philip was killed suddenly in a railway accident, and his widow was left very desolate and very poor. her boy was then five years old--a precocious little creature, who from the moment of his father's death took upon himself the no light office of being his mother's comforter. he had a curious way even from the very first of putting himself aside and considering her. without being told, he would stop his noisy games at her approach and sit for an hour at a time with his little hand clasped in hers, while he leaned his soft cheek against her gown and was happy in the knowledge that he afforded her consolation. to see him thus one would have supposed him almost deficient in manly attributes; but this was not so. his gentleness and consideration came of his strength; the child was as strong in mental fiber as the mother was weak. in the company of his brave cousin rupert no merrier or gayer little fellow could have been found. his courage and powers of endurance were simply marvelous. poor little phil! that courageous spirit of his was to be tested in no easy school. soon after his sixth birthday those mysterious attacks of pain came on which the doctor in melbourne, without assigning any special cause for their occurrence, briefly spoke of as dangerous. phil was eight years old when his mother's great temptation came to her. she saw an english newspaper which contained the advertisement for the avonsyde heir. her husband had often spoken to her about the old family place in the home country. she had loved to listen to his tales, handed down to him orally from his ancestors. she had sighed, and groaned too, over his narratives, and had said openly that to be mistress of such an old ancestral home was her ideal of paradise. philip, a busy and active man, spent no time over vain regrets; practically he and his elder brother, rupert, forgot the existence of the english home. rupert had made a comfortable fortune for himself in the land of his adoption, and philip too would have been rich some day if he had lived. mrs. lovel, a discontented widow, saw the tempting advertisement, and quickly and desperately she made her plans. her little son was undoubtedly a lineal descendant of the disinherited rupert lovel, but also, and alas! he was not strong. in body at least he was a fragile and most delicate boy. mrs. lovel knew that if the ladies of avonsyde once saw the beautiful and brave young rupert, phil's chance would be nowhere. she trusted that rupert lovel the elder would not see the advertisement. she sold her little cottage, realized all the money she could, and without telling any one of her plans, started with her boy for england. before she left she did one thing more: she made a secret visit to belmont, and under the pretext of wishing to see her sister-in-law, sat with her while she slept, and during that sleep managed to abstract from the cupboard behind her bed the old silver tankard and a packet of valuable letters. these letters gave the necessary evidence as to the genuineness of the boy's descent and the tankard spoke for itself. mrs. lovel started for england, and during her long voyage she taught phil his lesson. he was to forget the past and he was to do his very utmost to appear a strong boy. she arrived at avonsyde, was kindly welcomed, and day after day, month after month, her hopes grew great and her fears little. phil played his part to perfection--so his mother said--not recognizing the fact that it was something in the boy himself, something quite beyond and apart from his physical strength, which threw a sweet glamour over those who were with him, causing them to forget the plainness of his face and see only the wonderful beauty of the soul which looked through the lovely eyes, causing them to cease to notice how fragile was the little frame which yet was so lithe and active, causing them never to observe how tired those small feet grew, and yet how willingly they ran in grateful and affectionate service for each and all. cold-hearted, cold-natured miss griselda was touched and softened as she had never been before by any mortal. she scarcely cared to have the boy out of her sight; she petted him much; she loved him well. mrs. lovel hoped and longed. if once rachel's birthday could be passed, all would be well. when the ladies appointed phil as their heir, he was their heir forever. surely nothing would occur to interfere with her darling projects during the short period which must elapse between the present time and that eventful day two months hence. as mrs. lovel grew more hopeful her manner lost much of its nervous affectation. in no society could she appear as a well-educated and well-read woman, but on the surface she was extremely good-natured, and in one particular she won on the old ladies of avonsyde. she was practiced in all the small arts of fancy needlework. she could knit; she could crochet; she could tat; she could embroider conventional flowers in crewels. the misses lovel detested crewel-work, but miss katharine was very fond of knitting and miss griselda affected to tolerate crochet. each night, as the three ladies sat in the smaller of the large drawing-rooms, the crochet and the knitting came into play; and when mrs. lovel ventured to instruct in new stitches and new patterns, she found favor in the eyes of the two old ladies. on the night of phil's illness the poor woman sat down with an inward groan to give miss griselda her usual evening lesson. no one knew how her heart beat; no one knew how her pulse throbbed nor how wild were the fresh fears which were awakened within her. suppose, after all, phil could not keep up that semblance of strength to the end! suppose an attack similar to the one he had gone through to-day should come on in miss griselda's presence. then, indeed, all would be lost. and suppose--suppose that other thing happened: suppose rupert lovel with his brave young son should arrive at avonsyde before the th of may. mrs. lovel could have torn her hair when phil so quietly told her that he had written to young rupert, and that even now a reply might be waiting for him at southampton. she knew well that rupert's father would remember how near avonsyde was to southampton. if the boy happened to show phil's letter to his father, all would be lost. mrs. lovel felt that she could not rest until she went to southampton and secured the reply which might be waiting for phil at the post-office. these anxious thoughts made her distraite; and bravely as she wore her mask, one or two sighs did escape from her anxious breast. "how silent you are!" suddenly exclaimed miss griselda in a snappish tone. "i have asked you the same question three times! am i to crochet twelve or thirteen stitches of chain? oh, you need not trouble to answer; i am putting away my work now. the pattern is not working out at all properly. perhaps you are anxious about phil. if so, pray do not let me detain you. it is a great mistake to coddle children, but i suppose a mother's foolishness must be excused." "you quite mistake. i am not the least anxious," answered poor mrs. lovel, who was in reality on thorns. "i am so very sorry that i did not hear your question, dear miss griselda. the fact is, i have been wondering if i might ask a little favor. i should like to go to southampton to-morrow morning. can you spare the carriage to send me to the railway station?" miss griselda stared. "can i spare the carriage?" she repeated haughtily. "i was not aware that you were a prisoner at avonsyde, mrs. lovel. of course you can go in or out as you please. pray send your own orders to the stables." mrs. lovel was profuse in her thanks, miss griselda as cross and ungracious as possible. the fact was the old lady was longing to pay phil a visit in his room, and would have done so had she not feared his mother accompanying her. the poor unhappy mother would have given worlds to be with her boy, but dreaded miss griselda's comments. the next day, early, mrs. lovel went to southampton, executed a few commissions in order to give color to her expedition, fetched phil's letter from the post-office, and returned home, burning with impatience to read its contents. she would not have scrupled to open the envelope had not phil implored of her, just when she was starting on her journey, to let him have this pleasure himself. phil was much as usual the next morning, and he and aunt grizel and kitty had gone off on an expedition into the forest to look for mosses. when mrs. lovel got back the little party had not returned. she had still to control her impatience, and after taking a hurried lunch went up to her tower bedroom. she laid the letter with the australian postmark on the writing-table and paced in a fever of anxiety up and down the small room. suddenly it occurred to her to beguile the slow moments with some occupation. why should she not open that trunk which contained old reminiscences and one or two articles of value? why should she not open it and put its contents in order, and take out the precious tankard and clean it? this task would give her occupation and cause the weary moments to pass quickly. she stooped down and was startled to find that the key was in the lock. how very, very stupid of her to have left it there! when had she been guilty of so dangerous a piece of negligence? with trembling fingers she raised the lid of the trunk and began to search for the tankard. of course she could not find it. suddenly she heard footsteps approaching and half-rose in an expectant attitude. her little son came quickly in. "oh, mother, have you brought my letter?" "yes; it is on the table. phil, there was a silver tankard in this trunk, and i can't find it." phil had flown to his letter and was opening it eagerly. "phil, do you hear me? i can't find the silver tankard." he went up at once to his mother. "i beg your pardon, mother. i am so dying to see what rupert says! a silver tankard? oh, yes; that old one they always had at belmont; the one gabrielle was so proud of. i did not know they had given it to you. oh, mother, i am sorry. do you know, i never thought of it until this minute." "thought of what? speak, child; don't keep me on thorns!" "i found it, mother, and i took it out with me that day when i was nearly drowned in the bog. i had it with me that day." "well, boy, well! where is it now?" "i don't know. i don't remember a single thing about it. i think i had it with me in the bog. i'm almost sure i had, but i can't quite recollect. perhaps i dropped it in the bog. mother, what is the matter?" "nothing, child. i could shake you, but i won't. this is terrible news. there! read your letter." "mother darling, let us read it together. mother, i didn't know it was wrong. kiss me, mammy, and don't look so white. oh! i am almost too happy. mother, rupert says when i am reading this he will be in england!" "then we are lost!" said mrs. lovel, pushing the slight little figure away from her. "no, no, i scarcely love you at this moment. don't attempt to kiss me. we are utterly lost!" chapter xvii.--looking for the tankard. when mrs. lovel spoke to phil with such passion and bitterness, and when, abruptly leaving the tower bedroom and slamming the door violently after her, the little boy found himself alone, he was conscious of a curious half-stunned feeling. his mother had said that she scarcely loved him. all his small life he had done everything for his mother; he had subdued himself for her sake; he had crushed down his love and his hope and his longing just to help her. what did he care for wealth, or for a grand place, or for anything in all the wide world, in comparison with the sweetness of rupert's smile, in comparison with the old happy days in belmont and of the old life, when he might be a boy with aches and pains if he liked, when he need not pretend to be possessed of the robust health which he never felt, when he need carry no wearisome secrets about with him? his mother had said, "i scarcely love you, phil," and she had gone away angry; she had gone away with defiance in her look and manner, and yet with despair in her heart. phil had guessed that she was despairing, for he knew her well, and this knowledge soon made his brief anger take the form of pity. "poor mother! poor darling mother!" he murmured. "i did not know she would mind my taking out the old belmont tankard. i am awfully sorry. i suppose it was quite careless of me. i did not know that mother cared for the tankard; but i suppose gabrielle must have given it to her, and i suppose she must love gabrielle a little. that is nice of her; that is very nice. i wish i could get the tankard back for her. i wonder where i did leave it. i do wish very much that i could find it again." phil now turned and walked to the window and looked out. it was a delicious spring day, and the soft air fanned his cheeks and brought some faint color to them. "i know what i'll do," he said to himself. "i'll go once again into the forest--i'm not likely to get lost a second time--and i'll look for the tankard. of course i may find it, and then mother will be happy again. oh, dear, to think rupert is in england! how happy his letter would have made me but for mother, and--hullo! is that you, kitty?" "yes; come down," called out kitty from the lawn in front of the house. "i've been watching you with aunt griselda's spy-glasses for the last couple of minutes, and you do look solemn." "i'm coming," phil called back. he thrust his beloved letter into one of his pockets, and a moment later joined his two cousins on the lawn. "you have been a time," said kitty, "and we have got some wonderful and quite exciting news to tell you--haven't we, rachel?" "you find it exciting, kitty," said rachel in an almost nonchalant voice, "but i dare say phil will agree with me that it's almost a bore." "what is it?" said phil. "oh, only this--the marmadukes are coming to-morrow to stay for ten days." "the marmadukes! who are they?" asked phil. "oh, some children from london. they are our relations--at least, so aunt griselda says; and she thinks it will be nice for us to know them. anyhow, they're coming--two boys and two girls, and a father and a mother, and a lady's-maid, and a pug dog, and a parrot. aunt grizel is so angry about the pug and the parrot; she wanted to write and tell them all that they couldn't come, and then aunt katharine cried and there was a fuss. it seems they're more aunt katharine's friends than aunt grizel's. anyhow, they're coming, and the pug and the parrot are to stay in newbolt's room all the time; so don't you ask to see them, phil, or you'll get into hot water. the best of it is that while they're here we are all to have holidays, and we can go a great deal into the forest and have picnics if the weather keeps fine. and in the evening aunt grizel says she will have the armory lighted, and we children may play there and have charades and tableaux and anything we fancy. oh, i call it great, splendid fun!" said kitty, ending with a caper. rachel's very dark eyes had brightened when kitty spoke about the tableaux and the charades. "it all depends on what kind of children the marmadukes are," she said; and then she took phil's hand and walked across the lawn with him. she had a fellow-feeling for phil just at present, for he and she shared a secret; and she noticed as he stood by kitty's side that his laugh was a little forced and that there were very dark lines under his eyes. "you're tired--aren't you, phil?" she said. "i?" asked the little boy, looking up with almost alarm in his face. "oh, please don't say that, rachel." "why shouldn't i say it? any one to look at you could see you are tired, and i'm sure i don't wonder, after being so ill last night. go in and lie down if you like, phil, and i'll pretend to aunt grizel that you are half a mile away in the forest climbing trees and doing all kinds of impossible things." "i do want to go into the forest," said phil, "but i won't go to-day, rachel. you were very kind to me last night. i love you for being so kind." "oh, it wasn't exactly kindness," said rachel. "i came to you because i was curious, you know." "yes; but you were kind, all the same. do you think, rachel, we shall often go into the forest and go a long, long way when the marmadukes are here?" "yes, i suppose so. it depends upon the weather, of course, and what kind of children they are. they may be such puny little londoners that they may not be able to walk a dozen steps. why do you want to know, phil? you look quite excited." "we have a secret between us--haven't we, rachel?" it was rachel's turn now to color and look eager. "yes," she said; "oh, yes." "some day," whispered phil--"some day, when the marmadukes are here, we might go near the lady's house--might we not?" rachel caught the boy's arm with a strong convulsive grasp. "if we might!" she said. "if we only dared! and you and i, phil, might steal away from the others, and go close to the lady's house, and watch until she came out. and we might see her--oh! we might see her, even if we did not dare to speak." "i want to go," said phil--"i want to go to that house again, although it is not because i want to see the lady. it is a secret; all my life is made up of secrets. but i will go if--if i have a chance. and if you see me stealing away by myself you will help me--won't you, rachel?" "trust me," said rachel, with enthusiasm. "oh, what a dear boy you are, phil! i can scarcely believe when i talk to you that you are only eight years old; you seem more like my own age. to be only eight is very young, you know." "i have had a grave sort of life," said phil, with a hastily suppressed sigh, "and i suppose having a great many secrets to keep does make a boy seem old." chapter xviii.--the marmadukes. the marmadukes were not at all a puny family; on the contrary, they were all rather above the ordinary size. mr. marmaduke was extremely broad and red and stout; mrs. marmaduke was an angular and bony-framed woman, with aquiline features and a figure which towered above all the other ladies present; the lady's-maid took after her mistress in stature and became newbolt's detestation on the spot; the pug dog was so large that he could scarcely be considered thoroughbred; and the parrot was a full-grown bird and the shrillest of its species. the four young marmadukes took after their parents and were extremely well developed. the eldest girl was thirteen; her name was clementina; she had a very fat face and a large appetite. the boys, named dick and will, were sturdy specimens; and abigail, or abby, the youngest of the group, was considerably spoiled and put on many airs, which made her insufferable to kitty and phil. the marmadukes arrived in a body, and without any efforts on their own parts or the smallest desire that way on the part of the old ladies they took avonsyde by storm. they seemed to fill the whole house and to pervade the grounds, and to make their presence felt wherever they turned. they entertained themselves and suggested what places they should go to see, and announced the hours at which they would like best to dine and what times they would wish the avonsyde carriage to be in attendance. miss griselda was petrified at what she was pleased to term the manners of the great babylon. miss katharine received several snubs at the style of friends she kept, and only the fact that they were distantly connected with the lovels, and that their visit must terminate within ten days, prevented miss griselda from being positively rude to such unwelcome inmates. "phil," said rachel on the second morning after the arrival of this obnoxious household, "if clementina thinks she is going to get the upper hand of me any more she is finely mistaken. what do i care for her kensington gardens and that pony she rides in the row! i don't suppose she knows how to ride--not really; for i asked her yesterday if she could ride barebacked, and she stared at me, and turned up her lip, and said in such a mincing voice, 'we don't do that kind of thing in london.' phil, i hate her; i really do! i don't know how i'm to endure her for the next week. she walks about with me and is so condescending to me; and i can't endure it--no, i can't! oh, i wish i could do something to humble her!" "poor rachel!" said phil in his sweet, pitying voice, and a tender, beautiful light which is born of sympathy filled his eyes. "i know clementina is not your sort, rachel," he said, "and i only wish she would talk to me and leave you alone." rachel laughed and leaned her hand affectionately on phil's shoulder. "i don't wish that," she said. "i don't want to ease myself by adding to your burdens; you have quite enough with dick and will. you must hate them just as much as i hate clementina." "oh, i don't hate them at all," said phil. "they are not my sort; they are not the style of boys i like best, but i get on all right with them; and as to hating, i never hated any one in all my life." "well, i have," said rachel. "and the one i hate most now in all the world is clementina marmaduke! oh, here they are, all coming to meet us; and doesn't poor kitty look bored to death?" phil glanced wistfully from one sister to another, and then he ran up to clementina and began to chat to her in a very eager and animated voice. he was evidently suggesting something which pleased her, for she smiled and nodded her head several times. phil said, "i'll bring them to you in a moment or two," and ran off. "what have you asked phil to do?" asked rachel angrily. "he's not a strong boy--at least, not very strong, and he mustn't be sent racing about." "oh, then, if he's not strong he won't ever get avonsyde," returned clementina. "how disappointed his mother will be. i thought phil was very strong." "you know nothing about it," said rachel, getting redder and more angry. "you have no right to talk about our private affairs; they are nothing to you." "i only know what my mamma tells me," said clementina, "and i don't choose to be lectured by you, miss rachel." here will and dick came eagerly forward, squared their shoulders, and said: "go it, girls! give it to her back, rachel. she's never happy except when she's quarreling." a torrent of angry words was bubbling up to rachel's lips, but here phil came panting up, holding a great spray of lovely scarlet berries in his hand. "here!" he said, presenting it to clementina. "that is the very last, and i had to climb a good tall tree to get it. let me twine it round your hat the way gabrielle used to wear it. here, just one twist--doesn't it look jolly?" the effect on clementina's dark brown beaver hat was magical, and the effect on her temper was even more soothing--she smiled and became good-tempered at once. rachel's angry words were never spoken, and sunshine being restored the children began to discuss their plans for the day. miss griselda had given a certain amount of freedom to all the young folk, and under supervision--that is, in the company of robert, the groom--they might visit any part of the forest not too far away. when the eager question was asked now, "what shall we do with ourselves?" phil replied instantly, "let's go into the forest. let's visit rufus' stone." rachel's eyes danced at this, and she looked eagerly and expectantly at her little cousin. "you have none of you seen the stone," proceeded phil. "there are splendid trees for climbing round there, and on a fine day like this it will be jolly. we can take our lunch out, and i'll show you lots of nests, will." "i'll go on one condition," said rachel--"that we ride. let's have our ponies. it is too horrid to be cooped up in a wagonette." "oh, we'd all much rather ride!" exclaimed the marmaduke children. "bob can drive the pony-cart to the stone," proceeded rachel, "and meet us there with our luncheon things. that will do quite well, for as there are such a lot of us we won't want a groom to ride as well. we know every inch of the road from here to the stone--don't we, phil?" "yes," answered phil softly. "well, that's splendid," said clementina, who felt that her berries were very becoming and who imagined that rachel was looking at them enviously. "but have you got horses enough to mount us all?" "we've got ponies," said rachel. "rough forest ponies; jolly creatures! you shall have brownie, as you're such a good rider; he's nice and spirited--isn't he, phil?" "yes," replied phil. "but i think clementina would have a jollier time with surefoot; he goes so easily. i think he's the dearest pony in the world." "but he's your own pony, phil. you surely are not going to give up your own pony?" phil laughed. "i'm not going to give him up," he said; "only i think i'd like to ride brownie this morning." rachel scarcely knew why she felt ashamed at these words; she certainly had no intention of offering her horse to clementina. "what queer ways phil has," she thought to herself. and then she saw a softened look in clementina's eyes and her heart gave a sharp little prick. half an hour later the riding party set out, and for a time all went smoothly. rachel was trying to curb her impatience; clementina amused herself by being condescending to philip; and dick, will, kitty, and abby rode amicably together. but the party was ill-assorted, and peace was not likely long to reign. surefoot was an extremely nice pony, and clementina rode well in front, and after a time began to give herself airs, and to arrange her fresh and very becoming habit, as if she were riding in the row. surefoot was gentle, but he was also fresh; and when clementina touched him once or twice with her riding-whip, he shook himself indignantly and even broke into a canter against her will. "you must not touch surefoot with a whip," sang out rachel. "he does not need it and it is an insult to him." clementina laughed scornfully. "all horses need the whip now and then," she said; "it freshens them up and acts as a stimulant. you don't suppose, rachel, that i don't know? i rather think there are very few girls who know more about riding than i do. why, i have had lessons from captain delacourt since i can remember." "is captain delacourt your riding-master?" asked rachel in an exasperating voice. "if so, he can't be at all a good one; for a really good riding-master would never counsel any girl to use the whip to a willing horse." "did your riding-master give you that piece of information?" inquired clementina in a voice which she considered full of withering sarcasm. "i should like to know his name, in order that i might avoid him." rachel laughed. "my riding-master was robert," she said, "and as he is my aunt's servant, you cannot get lessons from him even if you wish to. you need not sneer at him, clementina, for there never was a better rider than robert, and he has taught me nearly everything he knows himself. there isn't any horse i couldn't sit, and it would take a very clever horse indeed to throw me." clementina smiled most provokingly, and raising her whip gave gentle little surefoot a couple of sharp strokes. the little horse quivered indignantly, and rachel glanced at phil, who was riding behind on brownie. "oh, phil," she called out, "clementina is so unkind to your horse. it is well for you, clementina, that you are on surefoot's back. he is so sweet-tempered he won't resent even cruelty very much; but if you dared to whip my horse, ruby, you would have good reason to repent of your rashness." rachel was riding on a red-coated pony, a half-tamed creature with promises of great beauty and power by and by, but at present somewhat rough and with a wild, untamed gleam in his eyes. clementina glanced all over ruby, but did not deign another remark. she was forming a plan in her mind. by hook or by crook she would ride ruby home and show to the astonished rachel what captain delacourt's pupil was capable of. the children presently reached their destination, where bob and the light cart of refreshments awaited them. the day was very balmy and springlike, and the most fastidious could not but be pleased and the most ill-tempered could not fail for a time, at least, to show the sunny side of life. the children made merry. rachel and clementina forgot their disputes in the delights of preparing salads and cutting up pies; phil, the marmaduke boys, and abby went off on a foraging expedition; and kitty swung herself into the low-growing branch of a great oak tree, and lazily closing her eyes sang softly to herself. the picnic dinner turned out a grand success; and then clementina, who was fond of music and who had discovered that kitty had a particularly sweet voice, called her to her and said that they might try and get up some glees, which would sound delightfully romantic in the middle of the forest. the children sat round in a circle, clementina now quite in her element and feeling herself absolute mistress of the occasion. suddenly phil got up and strolled away. no one noticed him but rachel, who sat on thorns for a few minutes; then, when the singing was at its height, she slipped round the oak tree, flew down the glade, and reached the little boy as he was entering a thick wood which lay to the right. "phil! phil! you are going to see her?" "oh, don't, rachel--don't follow me now! if we are both missed they will come to look for us, and then the lady's house will be discovered and she will have to go away. she said if her house was discovered she would have to go away, and oh, rachel, if you love her--and you say you love her--that would be treating her cruelly!" "the children won't miss us," said rachel, whose breath came fast and whose cheeks were brightly colored. "the children are all singing as loudly as they can and they are perfectly happy, and robert is eating his dinner. i won't go in, phil; no, of course i won't go in, for i promised, and i would not break my word, to her of all people. but if i might stay at a little distance, and if i might just peep round a tree and see her, for she may come to talk to you, phil. oh, phil, don't prevent me! i will not show myself, but i might see without being seen." rachel was trembling, and yet there was a bold, almost defiant look on her face; she looked so like rupert that phil's whole heart was drawn to her. "you must do what you wish, of course," he said. "do you see that giant oak tree at the top of the glade? you can stand there and you can peep your head well round. see, let's come to it. see, rachel, you have a splendid view of the cottage from here. now i will go and try if i can get any tidings of gabrielle's tankard. good-by, rachel. remember your promise not to come any nearer." phil ran lightly away, and rachel saw him go into the little rose-covered porch of the cottage. he raised the tiny knocker, and in a moment or two nancy white answered his summons. "is the lady--the lady of the forest in, nancy?" asked the little boy. "the lady! bless my heart, if this ain't master phil lovel! well, my dear little gentleman, and what may you want?" "i want the lady. can i see her? perhaps she would come out to walk with me for a little, for i want to talk to her on a most important thing." "bless you, my dear, the lady ain't at home, and if she were she don't go taking walks at anybody's bidding. she's particular and retiring in her ways, the lady is, and when she's at home she keeps at home." "i'm sorry she's not at home to-day," said phil, leaning against the porch and getting back his breath slowly. "it's a great disappointment, for i find it very difficult to come so far, and what i wanted to say was really important. good-by, nancy. give my love to the lady when you see her." "don't go yet, master philip. you're looking very white. i hope you're quite strong, sir." "yes, i'm a strong boy," said phil in a slow voice. "you wouldn't like to come in and rest for a bit, little master? maybe i could do what you want as well as my missus." "maybe you could," said phil, his eyes brightening. "i never thought of that. no, i won't come in, thank you, nancy. nancy, do you remember the day i was nearly lost in the bog?" "of course i do, my dear little man; and a sorry pickle you was when my missus brought you home!" "had i anything in my hand when i was brought into the house, nancy? please think hard. had i anything rather important in my hand?" "you had a bit of a brier clutched tight in one hand. i remember that, my dear." "oh, but what i mean was something quite different--what i mean was a large silver drinking-mug. i cannot remember anything about it since i got lost in the bog, and i am afraid it must have gone right down into the bog. but i thought it just possible that i might have brought it here. you did not see it, did you, nancy?" "well, my dear, is it likely? whatever else we may be in this house, we ain't thieves." phil looked distressed. "i did not mean that," he said--"i did not mean that. i just thought i might have left it and that i would come and ask. mother is in great trouble about the mug; it means a great lot to mother, and it was very careless of me to bring it into the forest. i am sorry you did not see it, nancy." "and so am i, master lovel, if it's a-worrying of you, dear. but there, the grandest silver can that ever was made ain't worth fretting about. i expect it must have slipped into the bog, dear." "good-by, nancy," said phil in a sorrowful, polite little voice, and he went slowly back to where rachel watched behind the oak tree. chapter xix.--a tender heart. phil's heart was very low within him. during the last few days, ever since that terrible interview with his mother, he had built his hopes high. he had been almost sure that the tankard was waiting for him in the lady's house in the forest, that he should find it there when he went to make inquiries, and then that he might bring it back to his mother and so remove the shadow from her brow. "i never knew that mother could miss a thing gabrielle had given her so very, very much," thought the little boy. "but there's no doubt at all she does miss it and that she's fretting. poor, dear mother! she's not unkind to me. oh, no, she's never that except when she's greatly vexed; but, all the same, i know she's fretting; for those lines round her mouth have come out again, and even when she laughs and tries to be merry downstairs i see them. there's no doubt at all that she's fretting and is anxious. poor mother! how i wish i could find the green lady of the forest and that she would give me the bag of gold which would satisfy mother's heart." phil walked very slowly, his eyes fixed on the ground. he was now startled to hear a voice addressing him, and looking up with a quick movement, he saw the lady who lived in the pretty little cottage coming to meet him. he was not particularly elated at sight of her; he had nothing in particular to say to her; for as nancy had assured him that the tankard was not at the cottage, it was quite useless making further inquiries about it. "what are you doing here, philip?" asked the lady in a kind voice. she knew him at once, and coming up to him, took his hand and looked kindly into his face. "you are a long way from home. have you lost yourself in this dear, beautiful forest a second time, little man?" then phil remembered that if this lady of the forest meant nothing in particular to him she meant a great deal to rachel. he could not forget how rachel's eyes had shone, how rachel's face had looked when she spoke about her. the color flew into his own pale little face, and he spoke with enthusiasm. "i am glad i have met you," he said, "even though i don't know your name. will you come for a walk with me now through the forest? will you hold my hand and look at me while you speak? will you walk with me, and will you turn your face to the right, always to the right, as you go?" "you are a queer little boy," said the lady, and she laughed, almost merrily. "but i have just taken a very long walk and am tired. you also look tired, philip, and your face is much too white. suppose we alter the programme and yet keep together for a little. suppose you come into the cottage with me and have some tea, and nancy makes some of her delicious griddle-cakes." "that would be lovely. i should like it beyond anything; but may rachel come in too?" "rachel!" said the lady of the forest. she put her hand suddenly to her heart and stepped back a pace or two. "yes, my cousin, rachel lovel; she is standing up yonder, at the other side of the great oak tree. she wants to see you, and she is standing there, hoping, hoping. rachel's heart is very hungry to see you. when she speaks of you her eyes look starved. i don't understand it, but i know rachel loves you better than any one else in the world." "impossible!" said the lady; "and yet--and yet--but i must not speak to her, child, nor she to me. it--oh! you agitate me. i am tired. i have had a long walk. i must not speak to little rachel lovel." "she knows that," said phil in a sorrowful voice; for the lady's whiteness and agitation and distress filled him with the keenest sympathy. "rachel knows that you and she may not speak, but let her look at you. do! she will be so good; she will not break her word to you for the world." "i must not look on her face, child. there are limits--yes, there are limits, and beyond them i have not strength to venture. i have a secret, child; i have a holy of holies, and you are daring to open it wide. oh! you have brought me agony, and i am very tired!" "i know what secrets are," said little phil. "oh! they are dreadful; they give great pain. i am sorry you are in such trouble, lady of the forest, and that i have caused it. i am sorry, too, that you cannot take a very little walk with me, for it would give rachel such pleasure." "it would give rachel pleasure?" repeated the lady. and now the color came back to her cheeks and the light to her eyes. "that makes all the difference. i will walk with you, phil, and you shall take my hand and i will turn my face to the right. see: can rachel see my face now?" "yes," said phil; "she will peep from behind the oak tree. how glad, how delighted she will be!" the lady and phil walked slowly together, hand in hand, for nearly half an hour; during all that time the lady did not utter a single word. when the walk came to an end she stooped to kiss phil, and then, moved by an impulse which she could not restrain, she kissed her own hand fervently and waved it in the direction of the oak tree. a little childish hand fluttered in the breeze in return, and then the lady returned to the cottage and shut the door after her. * * * * * phil ran panting up to the oak tree and took rachel's hand. "i did what i could for you, rachel," he said. "you saw her--did you not? she kept her face turned to the right, and you must have seen her quite plainly." rachel's cheeks were blazing like two peonies; the pupils of her eyes were dilated; her lips quivered. "i saw her!" she exclaimed. "i looked at her, and my heart is hungrier than ever!" here she threw herself full length on the ground and burst into passionate sobs. "don't, rachel!" said phil. "you puzzle me. oh, you make my heart ache! oh, this pain!" he turned away from rachel, and leaning against the oak tree writhed in bodily agony. in a moment rachel had sprung to her feet; her tears had stopped; and raising phil's hat she wiped some drops from his white brow. "i ran a little too fast," he panted, after a moment or two. "i am a strong boy, but i can't run very fast; it gives me a stitch; it catches my breath. oh, yes, thank you, rachel; i am better now. i am a strong boy, but i can't run very fast." "you are not a bit a strong boy!" said rachel, wiping away her own tears vigorously. "i have discovered that secret too of yours, phil. you are always pretending to be strong, but it is only pretense." phil looked at his cousin in alarm. "if you guess my secrets you won't tell them?" he said. "of course i won't tell. what do you take me for? now you must not walk for a little, and the children are quite happy without us. is not this a nice soft bank? i will sit by your side and you shall tell me what the lady said to you and you to her." "no," said phil, with sudden energy. "i cannot tell you what she said." "you cannot tell me?" "no. i took the lady by surprise and she let out some of her secrets--not all, but some. it would not be fair to tell them to any one else. i asked her to walk with me, and she knew that you were watching. now, rachel, i am quite well again, as well as ever. shall we go back to the other children?" rachel rose slowly to her feet. "i hate secrets," she said, "and the very air seems full of them sometimes. you have lots of secrets, and my aunts have secrets, and the lady of the forest has a secret, and there is a secret about my mother, for i know she is not dead and yet i never see her. these secrets are enough to starve my heart. phil, how soon would a girl like me be supposed to be grown up?" "oh, rachel, how can i tell?" "i shall be thirteen in may and i am tall. when i am fifteen--that is, in two years' time--i shall begin to go round the world looking for my mother. i don't intend to wait any longer. when i am fifteen i shall begin to go." "in australia girls are nearly grown up at that age," said phil, who was thinking of gabrielle. "now, rachel, let us go back to the others." the others were getting impatient. they had played hide-and-seek, and hunted for squirrels, and climbed trees, and quarreled and made it up again, until all their resources had come to an end; and when rachel and phil made their appearance they found that robert had packed up the remains of the picnic, and that clementina and abby had already mounted their ponies, preparatory to riding home. robert was leading up the other ponies as the two missing children appeared. rachel's mind was still a good deal preoccupied, and it was not until she was preparing to mount her own pony that she discovered that clementina had secured ruby and was now seated comfortably on his back. "oh, clementina, it is not safe for you to ride ruby," she called out at once. "he's only just broken in and he's full of spirit." "thank you," replied clementina. "i prefer riding horses with spirit. i would not have another ride on that slow little creature, surefoot, for the world." "but indeed that is not the reason," said rachel, who felt herself, she scarcely knew why, both softened and subdued. "it is that ruby is not safe. i am the first girl who has ever been on his back. he knows me and will do what i tell him, but i am sure it is dangerous for you to ride him. is it not dangerous, robert, for miss marmaduke to ride ruby?" called out rachel to the groom. robert came up and surveyed the spirited little horse and the young rider critically. "if miss marmaduke don't whip him, and if she humors him a good bit and don't set him off in a canter, why, then no harm may be done," he said. "ruby's fresh, miss, and have a good deal of wild blood in him, and i only broke him in for miss rachel a fortnight back." clementina's color had risen very high during this discussion. "i presume," she said in an insolent tone, "that a pupil of captain delacourt's can ride any horse that a pupil of one of the grooms at avonsyde can manage! i'm sorry you're so disobliging as to grudge me your horse, rachel. i'll just ride on in front now, and you all can follow me when you are ready." she turned ruby's head as she spoke and rode away under the forest trees. "if she gives ruby a taste of the whip she'll repent of all her proud airs," muttered robert. "now, young ladies, you had better mount and get under way. i suppose, miss rachel, that that 'ere young lady knows the right road home?" "hadn't i better get on brownie and ride after her?" asked phil. "no, sir; no. ruby couldn't bear horses' hoofs a-galloping after him. it would set him off mad like, and there wouldn't be a hope for miss marmaduke. no; the only thing now is to trust that the young lady won't touch ruby with the whip and that she knows the way home." the other children mounted without any more discussion, and the ride home was undertaken with a certain sense of depression. no sign of clementina could be seen, and when they reached the stables at avonsyde neither she nor ruby had put in an appearance. chapter xx.--punished. clementina was a spoiled child, and in consequence was as disagreeable and as full of herself as such children are apt to be. she was neither beautiful nor clever; she had no outward gifts to counterbalance her imperious airs and selfish ways; consequently she was only popular with her parents and with herself. the marmadukes were very rich people, and although clementina had no real friends, she had many toadies--girls who praised her for the accomplishments she did not possess, for the beauty which had been denied her, and for the talents and cleverness which she knew nothing whatever about. clementina both believed in and appreciated flattery. flattery made her feel comfortable; it soothed her vanity and fed her self-esteem. it was not at all difficult to persuade her that she was clever, beautiful, and accomplished. but of all her acquirements there was none of which she was so very proud as of her riding. she was no coward, and she rode fairly well for a town girl. she had always the advantage of the best horses, the most stylish habits, and the most carefully equipped groom to follow her. on horseback her so-called friends told her she looked superb; therefore on horseback she greatly liked to be. rachel's words that morning and rachel's unconcealed contempt had stung clementina's vanity to the quick. she was quite determined to show this little nobody, this awkward country girl, what proper riding meant; and she galloped off on ruby with her heart beating high with pride, anger, and a sense of exultation; she would canter lightly away in the direction of the avonsyde stables, and be ready to meet rachel haughty and triumphant when she returned wearily home on that dull little pony, surefoot. surefoot, however, was not a dull pony. he was extremely gentle and docile and affectionate, and although he hated the rider he had on his back that morning, and resented to the bottom of his honest little heart the indignity of being whipped by her, still one sound from rachel's voice was sufficient to restrain him and to keep him from punishing the young lady who chose to ride him in the manner she deserved. clementina had ridden surefoot and he had instantly broken into a canter, but at the sound of rachel's voice he had moderated his speed clementina quite believed that surefoot had obeyed her firm hand; and now, as she galloped away on ruby, she laughed at the fears expressed for her safety by rachel and robert, the groom. "they're jealous," she said to herself; "they're both of them jealous, and they don't want me to have the only decent horse of the party. oh, yes, ruby, my fine fellow, you shall have a touch of the whip presently. i'm not afraid of you." she felt for her little silver-mounted riding-whip as she spoke and lightly flicked ruby's ears with it. back went the ears of the half-trained little horse at once, lightning glances seemed to flash from his red-brown eyes, and in a moment he had taken to his heels and was away. his movement almost resembled flying, and for a little time clementina persuaded herself that she enjoyed it. this was riding indeed! this was a gallop worth having! what splendid use she could make of it with her school-friends by and by. these were her first sensations, but they were quickly followed by others less pleasurable. ruby seemed to be going faster and faster; his legs went straight before him; he rushed past obstacles; he disdained to take the slightest notice of clementina's feeble little attempts to pull him in. she lost her breath, and with it in a great measure her self-control. were they going in the right direction? no; she was quite sure they were not; she had never seen that wide expanse of common; she had never noticed that steep descent; she had never observed that gurgling, rushing avalanche of water; and--oh, good god! ruby was rushing to it. she screamed and attempted violently to pull him in; he shook his head angrily and flew forward faster than before; for ruby was not of the gentle nature of surefoot, and he could not forgive even the very slight indignity which clementina had offered him. the wretched girl began to scream loudly. "i shall be killed! i shall be killed! oh! will no one save me?" she screamed. her cries seemed to madden ruby. he drew up short, put his head between his legs, and with an easy movement flung clementina off his back on to the ground. the next moment he himself was out of sight. clementina found herself sitting in the middle of a bog--a bog not deep enough to drown her, but quite wet enough, quite uncomfortable enough, to soak through her riding-habit and to render her thoroughly wretched. at first, when ruby had dislodged her from his back, her sensations were those of relief; then she was quite certain every bone in her body was broken; then she was equally convinced that the slow and awful death of sinking in a bog awaited her. she was miles from home; there was not a soul in sight; and yet, try as she would, she could not raise herself even to a standing position, for the treacherous ground gave way whenever she attempted to move. her fall had shaken her considerably, and for a time she sat motionless, trying to recover her breath and wondering if arms and legs were all smashed. "oh, what a wicked girl rachel is!" she said at last. "what right had she to go out on a wild horse like that? she must have done it for a trick; she must have done it on purpose; she meant me to ride ruby coming home, and so she tantalized me and tried to rouse my spirit. margaret and jessie dawson say that i am just full of spirit, and i never can brook that sneering way, particularly from a mere child like rachel. well, well, she's punished now, for i shall probably die of this. if all my bones aren't broken, and i firmly believe they are, and if i don't sink in this horrid bog--which i expect i shall--i'm safe to have rheumatic fever and to die of it, and then what will rachel do? she'll never know an easy moment again as long as she lives. she'll be sorry for the tricks she played me when she thinks of me lying in my early grave. oh, dear! oh, dear! what shall i do? what shall i do?" poor clementina threw up her hands, by so doing fastening herself more firmly in the odious bog, and burst into a loud wailing cry. she was cold and wet now, the excitement of her wild race was over, and as the moments flew on, lengthening themselves into half-hours and hours, she became thoroughly frightened. oh, how awful if the night should overtake her while she sat there! and yet what more likely? for not a soul had passed the place since her accident. as her anger cooled and her fright increased, several prickings of that dull conscience of hers smote the unhappy girl. after all, was rachel to blame for what had happened? had she not begged and even implored of her not to ride ruby? had not robert spoken freely of what would happen if she did so? oh, if only she had listened to their voices! if only she had not been so self-confident! she pictured them all safe and sound now at home at avonsyde. she imagined them sitting in the pleasant armory chatting over the day's adventures and most likely forgetting all about her. abby and the boys, if occupied over any exciting game, would be certain to forget her; little kitty, to whom she had always been specially cross, would most likely rejoice in her absence; rachel, if she had time to give her a thought, would be sure to be possessed with a sense of triumph; and phil--ah! well, somehow or other phil was different from other boys and girls. phil had a look in his eyes, phil had a way about him which clementina recognized as belonging to the rare and beautiful spirit of unselfishness. phil's small, thin, white face was ever and always alive and glowing with sympathy; his eyes would darken and expand at the mere mention of anybody's trouble, and again that little sensitive face would sparkle and glow with delight over anybody's joy. clementina, sitting now in the middle of the bog, the most lonely and wretched girl alive, could not help feeling comforted as she thought of phil; it was more than probable that if all the others forgot her phil might remember. while clementina was waiting in a state of absolute despair matters were not so hopeless for her as she supposed. the children when they reached avonsyde gave an instant alarm, and steps were at once taken to search for the missing girl. but it is one thing to be lost in the forest and another thing to be found. ruby had taken clementina in the opposite direction from avonsyde, and when she was submerged in the bog she was many miles away. robert, shaking his head and muttering that a willful girl must come to grief, and that it would be well if they ever saw miss marmaduke alive again, went off to saddle a fresh horse to go in search of her. other people also started on the same errand; and phil, whose pale little face was all aglow with excitement, rushed into the stables, and securing a horse, mounted it and rode away after the others. the boy was a splendid rider, having been accustomed to mounting all kinds of steeds from his babyhood; but he was tired now, and neither miss griselda nor his mother would have allowed him to go had they known anything about it. but the elder members of the family were all away, and the children and servants were only acting on their own responsibility. phil soon caught up robert, and the two trotted together side by side. "i'm quite certain i saw ruby turning to the left after he went down that steep bank," said phil. "then if he did he made for the bog and the waterfall as likely as not," said robert. "oh, robert, you don't suppose clementina has been drowned in one of the bogs?" exclaimed phil in an accent of terror. "you don't, you can't suppose that?" the man favored the boy with a queer glance. "if miss marmaduke was like you, master lovel, or like miss rachel or miss kitty, why, i'd say there weren't a hope of her; but being what she is--well, maybe she'll be given a little more time to mend her manners in." phil's face assumed a puzzled expression. he said nothing further, and the two rode hard and fast. in this manner they did at last find poor clementina, who, much subdued and softened, received them with almost rapture. "there's nothing like affliction for bringing characters of that sort low," muttered robert as he helped the young lady on his own horse. "and now, where's that little beauty ruby, i wonder? dashed hisself to pieces as likely as not agin' some of them rocks up there. oh, yes, and there'll be no 'count made at all of one of the prettiest little horses i ever broke in." robert had to run by clementina's side, who was really considerably shaken and who gave way to violent hysterics soon after they started. "somehow, phil, i thought you would remember," she said at last, turning to her little companion and speaking in a broken voice. "why, of course we all remembered," said phil. "we were all more sorry about you than i can say; and as to rachel, she has been crying like anything. it seems a pity, clementina, it really does, you know----" and then he stopped. "what seems a pity, phil?" "that you should be so obstinate. you know you were; and you were rude, too, for you should not have taken rachel's horse. it seems to me a great pity that people should try to pretend--everybody's always trying to pretend; and what is the use of it? now, if you had not tried to pretend that you could ride as well or better than rachel, you wouldn't have got into this trouble and we wouldn't have been so terribly sorry. where was the use of it, clementina?" added phil, gazing hard at the abashed and astonished young lady; "for nobody could expect you to ride as well as rachel, who is a country girl and has been on horseback such a lot, you know." phil delivered his lecture in the most innocent way, and clementina received it with much humility, wondering all the time why she was not furiously angry; for surely this was the strangest way to speak to a girl who had been for three seasons under captain delacourt. she made no reply to phil's harangue and rode on for some time without speaking. suddenly a little sigh from the boy, who kept so bravely at her side, reached her ears. she turned and looked at him. it was quite a new sensation for clementina to observe any face critically except her own; but she did notice now the weariness round the lips and the way the slight little figure drooped forward. "you're tired, phil," she said. "you have tired yourself out to find me." "i am tired," he replied. "we rode very fast, and my side aches, but it will be better by and by." "you can scarcely sit on your horse," said clementina in a tone of real feeling. "could not your groom--robert, i think, you call him--mount the horse and put you in front of him? he could put his arm round you and you would be nicely rested." "that's a good thought, miss," said robert, with sudden heartiness. "and, to be sure, master philip do look but poorly. it's wonderful what affliction does for them sort of characters," he muttered under his breath as he complied with this suggestion. when the little party got near home, phil, who had been lying against robert and looking more dead than alive, roused himself and whispered something to the groom. robert nodded in reply and immediately after lifted the boy to the ground. "i'm going to rest. please, clementina, don't say i am tired," he said; and then he disappeared down a little glade and was soon out of sight. "where is he going?" asked clementina of robert. "to a little nest as he has made for hisself, miss, just where the trees grow thickest up there. he and me, we made it together, and it's always dry and warm, and nobody knows of it but our two selves. he often and often goes there when he can't bear up no longer. i beg your pardon, miss, but i expect i have no right to tell. you won't mention what i have said to any of the family, miss?" "no," said clementina; "but i feel very sorry for phil, and i cannot understand why there should be any mystery made about his getting tired like other people." "well, miss, you ask his lady mother. perhaps she can tell you, for certain sure no one else can." clementina went into the house, where she was received with much excitement and very considerable rejoicing. she presented a very sorry plight, her habit being absolutely coated with mud, her hair in disorder, and even her face bruised and discolored. but it is certain that rachel had never admired her so much as when she came up to her and, coloring crimson, tried to take her hand. "phil said i was rude to you, rachel, and i am sorry," she muttered. "oh, never mind," answered rachel, whose own little face was quite swollen with crying. "i was so dreadfully, dreadfully unhappy, for i was afraid ruby had killed you, clementina." clementina was now hurried away to her own room, where she had a hot bath and was put to bed, and where her mother fussed over her and grumbled bitterly at having ever been so silly as to come to such an outlandish part of the country as avonsyde. "i might have lost you, my precious," she said to her daughter. "it was nothing short of madness my trusting you to those wild young lovels." "oh, mother, they aren't a bit to blame, and i think they are rather nice, particularly phil." "yes, the boy seems a harmless, delicate little creature. i wonder if the old ladies will really make him their heir." "i hope they will, mother, for he is really very nice." in the course of the evening, as clementina was lying on her pillows, thinking of a great many things and wondering if phil was yet rested enough to leave his nest in the forest, there came a tap at her door, and to her surprise phil's mother entered. in some ways mrs. lovel bore a slight resemblance to clementina; for she also was vain and self-conscious and she also was vastly taken up with self. under these circumstances it was extremely natural that the girl and the woman should feel a strong antipathy the one to the other, and clementina felt annoyed and the softened expression left her face as mrs. lovel took a chair by her bedside. "how are you now, my dear--better, i hope?" "thank you, i am quite well," answered clementina. "you had a wonderful escape. ruby is not half broken in. no one attempts to ride him except rachel." clementina felt the old sullen feeling surging up in her heart. "such a horse should not be taken on a riding-party," she said shortly. "i have had lessons from captain delacourt. i can manage almost any horse." "you can doubtless manage quiet horses," said mrs. lovel. "well, you have had a wonderful escape and ought to be thankful." "how is phil? questioned clementina after a pause. "phil? he is quite well, of course. he is in the armory with the other children." "he was not well when i saw him last. he looked deadly tired." "that was his color, my dear. he is a remarkably strong boy." clementina gave a bitter little laugh. "you must be very blind," she said, "or perhaps you don't wish to see. it was not just because he was pale that he could not keep his seat on horseback this afternoon. he looked almost as if he would die. you must be a very blind mother--very blind." mrs. level's own face had turned white. she was about to make a hasty rejoinder, when the door was again opened and miss griselda and miss katharine came in. "not a word, my dear! i will explain to you another time--another time," she whispered to the girl. and then she stole out of the room. chapter xxi.--what the heir ought to be. a few days after these exciting events the marmadukes went away. unless a sense of relief, they left no particular impression behind them. the grown-up people had not made themselves interesting to the old ladies; the lady's-maid and the parrot alike had disturbed newbolt's equanimity; and the children of avonsyde had certainly not learned to love the marmaduke children. clementina had been humbled and improved by her accident, but even an improved clementina could not help snubbing rachel every hour of the day, and rachel did not care to be snubbed. on the day they left phil did remark, looking wistfully round him: "it seems rather lonely without the marmadukes." but no one else echoed the sentiment, and in a day or two these people, who were so important in their own eyes, were almost forgotten at avonsyde. on one person, however, this visit had made a permanent impression: that person was poor mrs. lovel. she was made terribly uneasy by clementina's words. if clementina, an ignorant and decidedly selfish girl, could notice that phil was not strong, could assure her, in that positive, unpleasant way she had, that phil was very far from strong, surely miss griselda, who noticed him so closely and watched all he did and said with such solicitude, could not fail to observe this fact also. poor mrs. lovel trembled and feared and wondered, now that the tankard was lost and now that phil's delicacy was becoming day by day more apparent, if there was any hope of that great passionate desire of hers being fulfilled. just at present, as far as miss griselda was concerned, she had no real cause for alarm. miss griselda had quite made up her mind, and where she led miss katharine was sure to follow. miss griselda was certain that phil was the heir. slowly the conviction grew upon her that this little white-faced, fragile boy was indeed the lineal descendant of rupert lovel. she had looked so often at his face that she even imagined she saw a likeness to the dark-eyed, dark-browed, stern-looking man whose portrait hung in the picture-gallery. this disinherited rupert had become more or less of a hero in miss griselda's eyes. from her earliest years she had taken his part; from her earliest years she had despised that sickly younger line from which she herself had sprung. like most women, miss griselda invested her long-dead hero with many imaginary charms. he was brave and great in soul. he was as strong in mind as he was in physique. when she began to see a likeness between phil's face and the face of her old-time hero, and when she began also to discover that the little boy was generous and brave, that he was one of those plucky little creatures who shrink from neither pain nor hardship, had phil's mother but known it, his cause was won. miss griselda began to love the boy. it was beginning to be delightful to her to feel that after she was dead and gone little phil would have the old house and the lands, that he should reign as a worthy squire of avonsyde. already she began to drill the little boy with regard to his future duties, and often when he and she took walks together she spoke to him about what he was to do. "all this portion of the forest belongs to us, phil," she said to him one day. "my father often talked of having a roadway made through it, but he never did so, nor will katharine and i. we leave that as part of your work." "would the poor people like it?" asked phil, raising his eyes with their queer expression to her face. "that's the principal thing to think about, isn't it--if the poor people would like it?" miss griselda frowned. "i don't agree with you," she said. "the first and principal thing to consider is what is best for the lord of avonsyde. a private road just through these lands would be a great acquisition, and therefore for that reason you will have to undertake the work by and by." phil's eyes still looked grave and anxious. "do you think, then--are you quite sure that i am really the heir, aunt griselda?" he said. miss griselda smiled and patted his cheek. "well, my boy, you ought to know best," she said. "your mother assures me that you are." "oh, yes--poor mother!" answered phil. "aunt griselda," he continued suddenly, "if you were picturing an heir to yourself, you wouldn't think of a boy like me, would you?" "i don't know, phil. i do picture you in that position very often. your aunt katharine and i have had a weary search, but at last you have come, and i may say that, on the whole, i am satisfied. my dear boy, we have been employed for six years over this search, and sometimes i will own that i have almost despaired. katharine never did; but then she is romantic and believes in the old rhyme." "what old rhyme?" asked phil. "have you not heard it? it is part and parcel of our house and runs in different couplets, but the meaning is always the same: "'come what may come, tyde what may tyde, lovel shall dwell at avonsyde.'" "is that really true?" asked phil, his eyes shining. "i like the words very much. they sound like a kind of speech that the beautiful green lady of the forest would have made; but, aunt griselda, i must say it--i am sorry." "what about, dear?" "that you are satisfied with me as an heir." "my dear little phil, what a queer speech to make. why should not i be satisfied with a nice, good little boy like you?" "oh, yes, you might like me for myself," said phil; "but as the heir--that is quite a different thing. i'd never picture myself as an heir--never!" "what do you mean, phil?" "i know what i mean, aunt griselda, but it's a secret, and i mustn't say. i have a lovely picture in my mind of what the heir ought to be. perhaps there is no harm in telling you what my picture is like. oh, if you only could see him!" "see whom, philip?" "my picture. he is tall and strong and very broad, and he has a look of rachel, and his cheeks are brown, and his hair is black, and his arms are full of muscle, and his shoulders are perfectly square, and he holds himself up so erect, just as if he was drilled. he is strong beyond anybody else i know, and yet he is kind; he wouldn't hurt even a fly. oh, if you only knew him. he's my picture of an heir!" phil's face flushed and his lovely eyes shone. aunt griselda stooped down and kissed him. "you are a queer boy," she said. "you have described your ancestor, rupert lovel, to the life. well, child, may you too have the brave and kindly soul. phil, after the summer, when all is decided, you are to go to a preparatory school for eton and then to eton itself. all the men of our house have been educated there. afterward i suppose you must go to oxford. your responsibilities will be great, little man, and you must be educated to take them up properly." "mother will be pleased with all this," said phil; "only i do wish--yes, i can't help saying it--that my picture was the heir. oh, aunt grizel, do, do look at that lovely spider!" "i believe the boy is more interested in those wretched spiders and caterpillars than he is in all the position and wealth which lies before him," thought miss griselda. late on that same day she said to miss katharine: "phil this morning drew a perfect picture, both mental and physical, of our ancestor, katharine." "oh," said miss katharine; "i suppose he was studying the portrait. griselda, i see plainly that you mean to give the boy the place." "provided his mother can prove his descent," answered miss griselda in a gentle, satisfied tone. "but of that," she added, "i have not, of course, the smallest doubt." "does it occur to you, griselda, to remember that on the th of may rachel's and kitty's mother comes here to claim her children?" "if she is alive," said miss griselda. "i have my doubts on that head. we have not had a line from her all these years." "you told her she was not to write." "yes, but is it likely a woman of that class would keep her word?" "griselda, you will be shocked with me for saying so, but the young woman who came here on the day our father died was a lady." "katharine! she served in a shop." "no matter, she was a lady; her word to her would be sacred. i don't believe she is dead. i am sure she will come here on the th of may." chapter xxii.--right is right. when rupert lovel and his boy left the gloomy lodgings where rachel's and kitty's mother was spending a few days, they went home in absolute silence. the minds of both were so absorbed that they did not care to speak. young rupert was a precocious lad, old and manly beyond his years. little phil scarcely exaggerated when he drew glowing pictures of this fine lad. the boy was naturally brave, naturally strong, and all the circumstances of his bringing-up had fostered these qualities. his had been no easy, bread-and-butter existence. he had scarcely known poverty, for his father had been well off almost from his birth; but he had often come in contact with danger, and latterly sorrow had met him. he loved his mother passionately; even now he could scarcely speak of her without a perceptible faltering in his voice, without a dimness softening the light of his bright eagle eyes. rupert at fifteen was in all respects some years older than an english boy of the same age. it would have struck any parent or guardian as rather ridiculous to send this active, clever, well-informed lad to school. the fact was, he had been to nature's school to some purpose, and had learned deeply from this most wonderful of all teachers. when rupert and his father reached the hotel in jermyn street where they were staying, the boy looked the man full in the face and broke the silence with these words: "now, father, is it worth it?" "is it worth what, my son?" "you know, father. after hearing that lady talk i don't want avonsyde." the elder lovel frowned. he was silent for a moment; then he laid his hand on the boy's shoulder. "look me in the face, lad, and answer me a question." "yes, father." "do you trust me?" "why, of course. can you doubt it?" "then go to bed and to sleep, and believe that nothing shall be done which in the slightest degree shall tarnish your honor. go to bed, boy, and sleep peacefully, but just put one thought under your pillow. right is right and wrong is wrong. it sometimes so happens, rupert, that it is not the right and best thing to be simply magnanimous." rupert smiled. "i am quite certain you will decide as my mother would have liked best, sir," he said, and then he took his candle and left the room. the greater part of the night the elder lovel sat up. early the next morning he paid the family lawyers a visit. "i have made up my mind, mr. baring," he said to the younger of these gentlemen. "for the next few months i shall remain in england, but i shall not bring my son forward as an heir to the avonsyde property until i can claim for him unbroken and direct descent. as i told you yesterday, there are two unexpected obstacles in my way. i have sustained a loss--i don't know how. an old tankard and a parcel of valuable letters cannot be found. i am not leaving a stone unturned to recover them. when i can lay my hand on the tankard and when, even more important, i can produce the letters, i can show you by an unbroken chain of evidence that my boy is the eldest son of the eldest son in direct descent. i make no claim until i make all claim, mr. baring." "i have to-day had a letter from the old ladies at avonsyde," answered mr. baring. "they seem pleased with the boy who is at present claiming the property. from the tone of miss griselda's letter, i should judge that if your boy does not put in his appearance the child who is at present at avonsyde will be publicly recognized as the heir. even a public recognition does not really interfere with your son if you can prove his title; but undoubtedly it will be best for all parties that you should make your claim before the other child is put into a false position." "when do you anticipate that the old ladies will absolutely decide?" "they name a date--the th of may." "i think i can promise one thing: after the th of may neither rupert nor i will interfere. we make claim before or on that date, not afterward. the fact is, we know something of the child who is now at avonsyde." mr. lovel, after enjoining absolute secrecy on the lawyers, went his way, and that evening had a long interview with mrs. lovel. "i fear," he said in conclusion, "that in no case would your girls come into the place, except indeed under certain conditions." "what are they?" asked mrs. lovel. "that we find neither tankard nor letters and in consequence do not make our claim, and that little philip lovel dies." "is he so ill as that?" "he is physically unsound. the best doctors in melbourne have examined him and do not believe he will live to manhood. his mother comes of an unhealthy family, and the boy takes after her physically--not mentally, thank god!" "poor little phil! he has a wonderfully sweet face." "he has the bravest nature i ever met. my boy and girls would almost die for phil. the fact is, all this is most complicated and difficult, and much of the mischief would have been avoided if only that wretched sister-in-law of mine had been above-board." "yes," answered mrs. lovel; "but even her stealing a march on you does not give you back the tankard nor the letter." "true; and i don't suppose even she could have stolen them. well, rachel, we must all hope for the best." * * * * * "if there is a thing that worries me," said nancy white to herself--"if there is a thing that keeps coming and coming into my dreams and getting that fantastic and that queer in shape--one time being big enough to hold quarts and quarts of water, and another time so small that you'd think it would melt before your very eyes--it's this wretched silver can. it's in my mind all day long and it's in my dreams all night long. there! i wonder if the bit of a thing is bright enough now." as nancy spoke to herself she rubbed and polished and turned round and round and tenderly dusted the lost tankard of the house of lovel until it really shone like a mirror. "it takes a deal of trouble, and i'm sure it isn't worth it," she said to herself. "i just kept it more out of a bit of mischief than anything else in the beginning; but it just seems to me now as if i hated it, and yet i couldn't part with it. i believe it's a bit of a haunted thing, or it wouldn't come into my dreams after this fashion." nancy kept the tankard up in her bedroom. after giving it a last fond rub and looking at it queerly with an expression half of admiration, half of fear, she locked it up in a little cupboard in the wall and tripped downstairs to attend to her mistress' comforts. mrs. lovel kept no secrets from her old servant, and nancy knew about her mistress' adventures in london and her unexpected meeting with the friend of her early days, rupert lovel. still, nancy had a shrewd suspicion that not quite all was told her; she had a kind of idea that there was something in the background. "it comes over me," she said to herself--"it comes over me that unless i, nancy white, am as sharp as sharp and as cunning as cunning, my missus and my young ladies will be done. what is it that the missus is keeping in the back of her head to make her look that dreamy, and that wistful, and that despairing, and yet that hopeful? my word, if i haven't seen her smile as if she was almost glad once or twice. poor dear! maybe she knows as that little delicate chap can't be the heir; and as to the others--the old gentleman and the fine young lad from the other side of the earth--why, if they have a claim to make, why don't they make it? and if they don't make it, then, say i, it's because they can't. well, now, anything is better than suspense, and i'll question my missus on that very point straight away." accordingly, when nancy had arranged the tea-tray in the most tempting position and stirred the fire into the cheeriest blaze, she knelt down before it and began to make some crisp and delicious toast. nancy knew that mrs. lovel had a weakness for the toast she made, and she also knew that such an employment was very favorable to confidential conversation. "well, ma'am," she said suddenly, having coughed once or twice and gone through one or two other little maneuvers to attract attention--"well, ma'am, i wants to have my mind eased on a certain point. is it, ma'am, or is it not the case that the old gentleman from australia means to do you a mischief?" "what do you mean, nancy?" exclaimed mrs. lovel, laying down the lace which she was embroidering and gazing at her old servant in some astonishment. "the old gentleman from australia? why, rupert lovel cannot be more than forty. he is a man in his prime, splendidly strong; and as to his doing me a mischief, i believe, you silly old woman, that he is one of my best friends." "the proof of the pudding is in the eating," snorted nancy. "you'll excuse me, ma'am, but i'd like to prove that by his actions. he means that young son of his to get possession of avonsyde--don't he, ma'am?" "his son is the real heir, nancy. dear nancy, i wish to say something. i must not be covetous for my little girls. if the real and lawful heir turns up i have not a word to say. nay, more, i think if i can be glad on this subject i am glad that he should turn out to be the son of my early and oldest friend." "oh, yes, ma'am, i'm not a bit surprised about you. bother that toast, how it will burn! it's just like you, ma'am, to give up everything for six blessed years, and to have your heart well-nigh broke and your poor eyes dimmed with crying, and then in the end, when the cup that you have been so longing for is almost to your lips, to give up everything again and to be glad into the bargain. that's just like you, ma'am; but, you'll excuse me, it ain't like nancy white, and if you can be glad in the prospect of seeing your children beggared, i can't; so there!" "dear nancy," said mrs. lovel, laying her hand on the old servant's shoulder, "how am i to help myself? both might and right are against me. had i not better submit to the inevitable with a good grace?" "that bonny little miss rachel," continued nancy, "don't i see her now, with her eyes flashing as she looked up at me and that fine, imperious way she had, and 'tell the lady to wear my ring, nancy,' says she,'and tell her that i love her,' says she." "little darling," whispered the mother, and raising her hand she pressed a tiny ring which she wore to her lips. "miss rachel isn't meant for poverty," continued nancy, "and what's more, i'm very sure miss kitty isn't either; so, ma'am, i'd like to be sure whether they are to have it or not; and a question i'd dearly like to have answered is this: if the middle-aged man, mr. rupert lovel, and his son have a claim to avonsyde, why don't they make it? anything is better than suspense, say i. why don't we know the worst and have done with it?" "why, nancy, i thought i had told you everything. mr. lovel won't make a claim until he can make a perfect claim. the fact is, some of his credentials are lost." "the toast is done, ma'am. may i make bold to ask what you mean by that? you had better eat your toast while it is hot and crisp, mrs. lovel. the good gentleman from australia hasn't to go to the old ladies with a character in his hand, like a servant looking for a situation?" "no, no. nancy; but he has to bring letters and other tokens to prove his son's descent, to prove that his son is a true lovel of avonsyde of the elder branch, and unfortunately mr. lovel has lost some valuable letters and an old silver tankard which has been for hundreds of years in the family, and which was taken from avonsyde by the rupert lovel who quarreled with his relations." mrs. level's head was bent over her lace, and she never noticed how red nancy's face grew at this moment, nor how she almost dropped the steaming kettle with which she was about to replenish the tea-pot. "oh, my word!" she exclaimed hastily. "it seems as if toast and kettle and all was turned spiteful to-night. there's that boiling water flowed over on my hand. never mind, ma'am--it ain't nothing. what was it you were saying was lost, ma'am?" "letters, nancy, and a tankard." "oh, letters and a tankard. and what may a tankard be like?" "this was an old-fashioned silver can, with the lovel coat of arms and the motto of their house, 'tyde what may,' graved on one side. why, nancy, you look quite pale." "it's the burn, ma'am, that smarts a little. and so the silver can is lost? dear, dear, what a misfortune; and the fine young gentleman can't get the place noway without it. is that so or not, ma'am?" "well, nancy, the tankard seems to be considered a very important piece of evidence, and mr. lovel is not inclined to claim the property for his son without it. however, he is having careful search made in australia, and will probably hear tidings of it any day." "that's as providence wills, ma'am. it's my belief that if the middle-aged gentleman was to search australia from tail to head he wouldn't get no tidings of that bit of a silver mug. dear, dear, how this burn on my hand do smart!" "you had better put some vaseline on it, nancy. you look quite upset. i fear it is worse than you say. let me look at it." "no, no, ma'am; it will go off presently. dear, what a taking the gentleman must be in for the silver mug. well, ma'am, more unlikely things have happened than that your bonny little ladies should come in for avonsyde. did i happen to mention to you, ma'am, that i saw master phil lovel yesterday?" "no, nancy. where and how?" "he was with one of the old ladies, ma'am, in the forest. he was talking to her and laughing and he never noticed me, and you may be sure i kept well in the background. eh, but he's a dear little fellow; but if ever there was a bit of a face on which the shadow rested, it's his." "nancy, nancy, is he indeed so ill? poor, dear little boy!" "no, ma'am, i don't say he's so particular ill. he walked strong enough and he looked up into the old lady's face as bright as you please; but he had the look--i have seen it before, and i never could be mistaken about that look on any face. not long for this world was written all over him. too good for this world was the way his eyes shone and his lips smiled. dear heart, ma'am, don't cry. such as them is the blessed ones; they go away to a deal finer place and a grander home than any avonsyde." "true," said mrs. lovel. "i don't cry for that, but i think the child suffers. he spoke very sorrowfully to me." "well, ma'am, we must all go through it, one way or another. my old mother used to say to me long ago, 'nancy, 'tis contrasts as do it. i'm so tired out with grinding, grinding, and toiling, toiling, that just to rest and do nothing seems to me as if it would be perfect heaven.' and the little fellow will be the more glad some day because he has had a bit of suffering. dear, dear, ma'am, i can't get out of my head the loss of that tankard." "so it seems, nancy; the fact seems to have taken complete possession of you. were it not absolutely impossible, i could even have said that my poor honest old nancy was the thief! there, nancy, don't look so startled. of course i was only joking." "of course, ma'am; but you'll just excuse me if i go and bind up my burned hand." chapter xxiii.--forest life. the spring came early that year. a rather severe winter gave place to charming and genial weather. in april it was hot, and the trees made haste to clothe themselves with their most delicate and fairy green, the flowers peeped out joyfully, the birds sang from morning till night, and the forest became paradise. rachel, kitty, and phil almost lived there. miss griselda and miss katharine had become lenient in the matter of lessons. miss griselda was wise enough to believe in nature's lessons and to think fine fresh air the best tonic in all the world for both mind and body. phil was in his element in the forest. he was always finding new beetles and fresh varieties of chrysalides, which he and kitty carefully treasured; and as to the roots and the flowers and the mosses which these children collected, even good-natured newbolt at last gave vent to strong expressions of disapproval, and asked if the whole of the house was to be turned topsy-turvy with their messes. phil could do what he liked in his old tower bedroom; his mother never interfered with him there. this quaint old room was liberty hall to phil. here he could groan if he wanted to, or sigh if he wanted to, or talk his secrets to the silent, faithful walls if he wanted to; and here he brought his spiders and his beetles and his mosses, and kept them in odd bottles and under broken glasses, and messed away to his heart's content without any one saying him nay. downstairs mrs. lovel was a most careful and correct mother--never petting and never spoiling, always on her guard, always watchful and prim. miss griselda was wont to say that with all her follies she had never come across a more sagacious and sensible mother than mrs. lovel. as a mother she approved of her absolutely; but then miss griselda never saw behind the scenes; she never saw what went on in the tower bedroom, where mrs. lovel would take the boy in her arms, and strain him to her heart with passionate kisses, and pet him and make much of him, and consult him, and, above all things, faithfully promise him that after the th of may the burden which was crushing his young life should be removed, and he might be his own natural and unrestrained self again. mrs. lovel had got a dreadful fright when she first read young rupert's letter; but when day after day and week after week passed and no tidings of rupert or his father reached avonsyde, she began to hope that even though they were in england, they had come over on business in no way connected with the old family home; in short, even though they were in england, they had not seen those advertisements which had almost turned her head. the weeks passed quickly, and she began to breathe freely and to be almost happy once more. the loss of the tankard was certainly disquieting, but she felt sure that with the aid of the stolen letters she could substantiate her boy's claim, and she also reflected that if the tankard was lost to her it was also lost to her brother-in-law, rupert lovel. so life went quite smoothly at avonsyde, and day after day the weather became more balmy and springlike, and day after day miss griselda's face wore a softer and gentler expression; for the little heir-apparent was altogether after her own heart, and she was contented, as all women are when they find a worthy object to love. miss katharine too was smiling and happy in these early spring days. she had never forgotten the face of the mother who had left her two children in her charge nearly six years ago. that young and agonized face had haunted her dreams; some words which those poor trembling lips had uttered had recurred to her over and over. "it breaks my heart to part with the children," the mother had said, "but if in no other way i can provide for their future, i sacrifice myself willingly. i am willing to obliterate myself for their sakes." miss katharine had felt, when these words were wrung from a brave and troubled heart, that pride was indeed demanding a cruel thing; but for miss griselda she would have said: "come here with your children. you are valentine's wife, and for his sake we will be good to you as well as them." miss katharine had longed to say these words, but fear of her elder sister had kept her silent, and ever since her heart had reproached her. now she felt cheerful, for she knew that on rachel's birthday the mother of the children would return, and she knew also that when she came she would not go away again. rachel's charming little face had lost a good deal of its watchful and unrestful expression during the last few weeks. she had seen nancy white more than once, and nancy had so strongly impressed on her the fact that on the th of may the lady of the forest would reveal herself, and all the mystery of her secret and her seclusion be explained, that the little girl grew hopeful and bright and fixed her longing eyes on that birthday which was to mean so much to so many. kitty too looked forward to the th of may as to a delightful general holiday; in short, every one was excited about it, except the child to whom it meant the most of all. little phil alone was unconcerned about the great day--little phil alone lived happily in the present, and, if anything, rather put the future out of sight. to him the thought of the inheritance which on that day was to be forced upon him was felt to be a heavy burden; but, then, those little shoulders were already over-weighted, and god knew and little phil also knew that they could not bear any added burden. of late little phil had been very glad to feel that god knew about his secrets and his cares, and in his own very simple, childish little way he used lately to ask him not to add to them; and now that he was sure god knew everything, he ceased to trouble his head very much about all that was to happen on rachel's birthday. thus every one at avonsyde, with the exception of little phil, was happy in the future, but he alone was perfectly happy in the present. his collection of all kinds of natural curiosities grew and multiplied, and he spent more and more time in the lovely forest. the delicious spring air did him good, and his mother once more hoped and almost believed that health and strength lay before him. one day, quite toward the end of april, kitty, his constant companion, had grown tired and refused to stay out any longer. the day was quite hot, and the little boy wandered on alone under the shade of the trees. as usual when quite by himself, he chose the least-frequented paths, and as usual the vague hope came over him that he might see the lovely green lady of the forest. no such exquisite vision was permitted to him, but instead he came suddenly upon nancy white, who was walking in the forest and picking up small dry branches and sticks, which she placed in a large basket hung over her arm. when she saw phil she started and almost dropped her basket. "well i never!" she exclaimed. "you has gone and given me a start, little master." "how do you do, nancy?" said phil, going up to her, speaking in a polite voice, and holding out his hand. "how is the lady of the forest? please tell her that, i have kept her secret most carefully, that no one knows it but rachel, and she knew it long ago. i hope the lady is very well, nancy." "yes, my dear, she is well and hopeful. the days are going on, master philip lovel, and each day as it passes brings a little more hope. i am sure you are little gentleman enough to keep the lady's secret." "everybody speaks about the days passing and hope growing," said phil. "i--i--nancy, did you ever see the green lady about here? she could bring me hope. how i wish i could see her!" "now, don't be fanciful, my dear little gentleman," answered nancy. "them thoughts about fairies and such-like are very bad for growing children. you shouldn't allow your head to wander on such nonsense. little boys and girls should attend to their spelling lessons, and eat plenty, and go to bed early, and then they have no time for fretting after fairies and such. it isn't canny to hear you talk as you do of the green lady, master phil." "isn't it?" said phil. "i am sorry. i do wish to see her. i want a gift from her. good-by, nancy. give my love to the lady." "i will so, dear; and tell me, are you feeling any way more perky--like yourself?" "i'm very well, except when i'm very bad," answered phil. "just now i'm as well as possible, but in the evenings i sometimes get tired, and then it rather hurts me to mount up so many stairs to my tower bedroom; but oh! i would not sleep in any other room for the world. i love my tower room." "well, you'll be a very happy little boy soon," said nancy--"a very happy, rich little boy; for if folks say true everything has to be given to you on the th of may." "a lot of money and lands, you mean," said phil. "oh, yes; but they aren't everything--oh, dear, no! i know what i want, and i am not likely to have it. good-by, nancy; good-by." phil ran off, and nancy pursued her walk stolidly and soberly. "the look grows," she said to herself--"the look grows and deepens. poor little lad! he is right enough when he says that gold and lands won't satisfy him. well, now, i'm doing him no harm by keeping back the silver tankard. it's only his good-for-nothing mother as will be put out, and that middle-aged man in london and that other boy. what do i care for that other boy, or for any one in all the world but my missus and her dear little ladies? there, there, that tankard is worse than a nightmare to me. i hate it, and i'd give all the world never to have seen it; but there, now that i've got it i'll keep it." chapter xxiv.--a great alarm. "katharine," said miss griselda to her younger sister, "do you happen to remember the address of those lodgings in london where we wrote years ago to rachel's and kitty's mother? the th of may will be this day week, and although i dislike the woman, and of course cannot possibly agree with you as to her being in any sense of the word a lady, yet still when griselda lovel passes her word she does pass it, and i think it is right, however painful, to give the young woman the invitation for the th of may." "we wrote one letter nearly six years ago to no. abbey street, marshall road, s.w., london," answered miss katharine in a sharp voice for her. "one letter to a mother about her own children; but that was the address, griselda." "no. abbey street," repeated miss griselda. "i shall send the young woman an invitation to-day. of course it won't reach her, for she is dead long ago; but it is only right to send it. katharine, you don't look well this morning. is anything the matter?" "nothing more than usual," answered miss katharine. "one letter in six years to valentine's wife. oh, no, i was not likely to forget the address." "allow me to congratulate you on your excellent memory, my dear. oh, here comes phil's mother. i have much to talk over with her." miss katharine left the room; her head was throbbing and tears rose unbidden to her eyes. when she reached the great hall she sat down on an oak bench and burst into tears. "how cruel of griselda to speak like that of valentine's wife," she said under her breath. "if valentine's wife is indeed dead i shall never know another happy moment. oh, rachel and kitty, my dears, i did not see you coming in." "yes, and here is phil too," said kitty, dragging him forward. "why are you crying, aunt katharine? do dry your tears and look at our lovely flowers." "i am thinking about your mother, children," said miss katharine suddenly. "does it ever occur to you two thoughtless, happy girls that you have got a mother somewhere in existence--that she loves you and misses you?" "i don't know my mother," said kitty. "i can't remember her, but rachel can." "yes," said rachel abruptly. "i'm going all round the world to look for her by and by. don't let's talk of her; i can't bear it." the child's face had grown pale; a look of absolute suffering filled her dark and glowing eyes. miss katharine was so much astonished at this little peep into rachel's deep heart that she absolutely dried her own tears. sometimes she felt comforted at the thought of rachel suffering. if even one child did not quite forget her mother, surely this fact would bring pleasure to the mother by and by. meanwhile miss griselda was holding a solemn and somewhat alarming conversation with poor mrs. lovel. in the first place, she took the good lady into the library--a dark, musty-smelling room, which gave this vivacious and volatile person, as she expressed it, "the horrors" on the spot. miss griselda having secured her victim and having seated her on one of the worm-eaten, high-backed chairs, opened the book-case marked d and took from it the vellum-bound diary which six years ago she had carried to the old squire's bedroom. from the musty pages of the diary miss griselda read aloud the story of the great quarrel; she read in an intensely solemn voice, with great emphasis and even passion. miss griselda knew this part of the history of her house so well that she scarcely needed to look at the words of the old chronicler. "it may seem a strange thing to you, mrs. lovel," she said when she had finished her story--"a strange and incomprehensible thing that your white-faced and delicate-looking little boy should in any way resemble the hero of this quarrel." "phil is not delicate," feebly interposed mrs. lovel. "i said delicate-looking. pray attend to me. the rupert who quarreled with his father--i will confess to you that my sympathies are with rupert--was in the right. he was heroic--a man of honor; he was brave and stalwart and noble. your boy reminds me of him--not in physique, no, no! but his spirit looks out of your boy's eyes. i wish to make him the heir of our house." "oh, miss griselda, how can a poor, anxious mother thank you enough?" "don't thank me at all. i do it in no sense of the word for you. the boy pleases me; he has won on my affections; i--love him." miss griselda paused. perhaps never before in the whole course of her life had she openly admitted that she loved any one. after a period which seemed interminable to poor mrs. lovel she resumed: "my regard for the boy is, however, really of small consequence; he can only inherit under the conditions of my father's will. these conditions are that he must claim direct descent from the rupert lovel who was treated so unjustly two hundred years ago, and that he has, as far as it is possible for a boy to have, perfect physical health." mrs. lovel grew white to her very lips. "phil is perfectly strong," she repeated. miss griselda stared at her fixedly. "i have judged of that for myself," she said coldly. "i have studied many books on the laws of health and many physiological treatises, and have trusted to my own observation rather than to any doctor's casual opinion. the boy is pale and slight, but i believe him to be strong, for i have tested him in many ways. without you knowing it i have made him go through many athletic exercises, and he has often run races in my presence. i believe him to be sound. we will let that pass. the other and even more important matter is that he should now prove his descent. you have shown me some of your proofs, and they certainly seem to me incontestable, but i have not gone really carefully into the matter. my lawyer, mr. baring, will come down here on the afternoon of the th and carefully go over with you all your letters and credentials. on the th i have incited many friends to come to avonsyde, and on that occasion katharine and i will present philip to our many acquaintances as our heir. we will make the occasion as festive as possible, and would ask you to see that philip is suitably and becomingly dressed. you know more of the fashions of the world than we do, so we will leave the matter of device in your hands, of course bearing all the expense ourselves. by the way, you have observed in the history i have just read how the old silver tankard is mentioned. in that terrible scene where rupert finally parts with his father, he takes up the tankard and declares that 'tyde what may' he will yet return vindicated and honored to the old family home. that was a prophecy," continued miss griselda, rising with excitement to her feet; "for you have brought the boy and also the very tankard which rupert took away with him. i look upon your possession of the tankard, as the strongest proof of all of the justice of your claim. by the way, you have never yet shown it to me. do you mind fetching it now?" muttering something almost unintelligible, mrs. lovel rose and left the library. she crossed the great hall, opened the oak door which led to the tower staircase, and mounting the winding and worn stairs, presently reached her bedroom. the little casement windows were opened, and the sweet air of spring was filling the quaint chamber. mrs. lovel shut and locked the door; then she went to one of the narrow and slit-like windows and looked out. a wide panorama of lovely landscape lay before her; miles of forest lands undulated away to the very horizon; the air was full of the sweet songs of many birds; the atmosphere was perfumed with all the delicious odors of budding flowers and opening leaves. in its way nothing could have been more perfect; and it was for phil--all for phil! all the beauty and the glory and the loveliness, all the wealth and the comfort and the good position, were for phil, her only little son. mrs. lovel clasped her hands, and bitter tears came to her eyes. the cup was almost to the boy's lips. was it possible that anything could dash it away now? the tankard--she was sent to fetch the silver tankard--the tankard which phil himself had lost! what could she do? how could she possibly frame an excuse? she dared not tell miss griselda that her boy had lost it. she felt so timid, so insecure, that she dared not confess what an ordinary woman in ordinary circumstances would have done. she dreaded the gaze of miss griselda's cold, unbelieving gray eyes; she dreaded the short sarcastic speech she would be sure to make. no, no, she dared not confess; she must dissemble; she must prevaricate; on no account must she tell the truth. she knew that miss griselda was waiting for her in the library; she also knew that the good lady was not remarkable for patience; she must do something, and at once. in despair she rang the bell, and when newbolt replied to it she found mrs. lovel lying on her bed with her face partly hidden. "please tell miss lovel that i am ill, newbolt," she said. "i have been taken with a very nasty headache and trembling and faintness. ask her if she will excuse my going downstairs just for the present." newbolt departed with her message, and mrs. lovel knew that she had a few hours' grace. she again locked the door and, rising from her bed, paced up and down the chamber. she was far too restless to remain quiet. was it possible that the loss of the tankard might be, after all, her undoing? oh, no! the dearly loved possession was now so close; the auspicious day was so near; the certainty was at her door. no, no! the letters were proof of philip's claim; she need not be so terribly frightened. although she reasoned in this way, she felt by no means reassured, and it suddenly occurred to her that perhaps if she went into the forest she might find the tankard herself. it might be lying even now forgotten, unnoticed under some bush beside the treacherous bog which had almost swallowed up her boy. what a happy thought! oh, yes, she herself would go to look for it. mrs. lovel did not know the forest as phil and rachel and kitty did. the forest by itself had no charms whatever for her. she disliked its solitude; she saw no beauty in its scenery; no sweetness came to her soul from the song of its happy birds or the brilliance of its wild flowers. no, no--the city and life and movement and gayety for mrs. lovel; she was a poor artificial creature, and nature was not likely to whisper her secrets into her ears. when phil came up by and by his mother questioned him minutely as to the part of the forest into which he had wandered. of course he could not tell her much; but she got a kind of idea, and feeble as her knowledge was she resolved to act on it. early the next morning she rose from an almost sleepless bed, and carefully dressing so as not to awaken her sleeping boy, she stole downstairs and, as phil had done some months before, let herself out by a side entrance into the grounds. it was winter when phil had gone on his little expedition--a winter's morning, with its attendant cold and damp and gloom; but now the spring sun was already getting up, the dew sparkled on the grass, and the birds were having a perfect chorus of rejoicing. even mrs. lovel, unimpressionable as she was to all nature's delights, was influenced by the crisp and buoyant air and the sense of rejoicing which the birds and flowers had in common. she stepped quits briskly into the forest and said to herself: "my spirits are rising; that terrible depression i underwent yesterday is leaving me. i take this as a good omen and believe that i may find the tankard." phil had given her certain directions, and for some time she walked on bravely, expecting each moment to come to the spot where the boy had assured her the beaten track ended and she must plunge into the recesses of the primeval forest itself. of course she lost her way, and after wandering along for some hours, seated herself in an exhausted state at the foot of a tree, and there, without in the least intending to do so, fell asleep. mrs. lovel was unaccustomed to any physical exercise, and her long walk, joined to her sleepless night, made her now so overpoweringly drowsy that she not only slept, but slept heavily. in her sleep she knew nothing at all of the advance the day was making. the sun's rays darting through the thick foliage of the giant oak tree under which she slumbered did not in the least disturb her, and when some robins made their breakfast close by and twittered and talked to one another she never heard them. some rabbits and some squirrels peeped at her quite saucily, but they never even ruffled her placid repose. her head rested against the tree, her bonnet was slightly pushed back, and her hands lay folded over each other in her lap. presently there was a sound of footsteps, and a woman came up and bent over the sleeping lady in the forest. the woman was dressed in a short petticoat, strong boots, a striped jersey jacket, and a shawl thrown over her head; she carried a basket on her arm and she was engaged in her favorite occupation of picking sticks. "dearie me! now, whoever is this?" said nancy white as she bent over phil's mother. "dearie, dearie, a poor white-looking thing; no bone or muscle or go about her, i warrant. and who has she a look of? i know some one like her--and yet--no, it can't be--no. is it possible that she features pretty little master phil?" nancy spoke half-aloud, and came yet nearer and bent very low indeed over the sleeper. "she do feature master phil and she has got the dress of a fine lady. oh, no doubt she's his poor, weak bit of a mother! bless the boy! no wonder he's ailing if she has the mothering of him." nancy's words were all muttered half-aloud, and under ordinary occasions such sounds would undoubtedly have awakened mrs. lovel; now they only caused her to move restlessly and to murmur some return words in her sleep. "phil, if we cannot find that tankard we are undone." then after a pause: "it is a long way to the bog. i wonder if phil has left the tankard on the borders of the bog." on hearing these sentences, which were uttered with great distinctness and in accents almost bordering on despair, nancy suddenly threw her basket to the ground; then she clasped her two hands over her head and, stepping back a pace or two, began to execute a hornpipe, to the intense astonishment of some on-lookers in the shape of birds and squirrels. "ah, my lady fair!" she exclaimed, "what you have let out now makes assurance doubly sure. and so you think you'll find the precious tankard in the bog! now, now, what shall i do? how can i prevent your going any further on such a fool's quest? ah, my pretty little ladies, my pretty miss rachel and miss kitty, i believe i did you a good turn when i hid that tankard away." nancy indulged in a few more expressions of self-congratulation then, a sudden idea coming to her, she fumbled in her pocket for a bit of paper, and scribbling something on it laid it on the sleeping lady's lap. when mrs. lovel awoke, somewhere close on midday, she took up the little piece of paper and read its contents with startled eyes: "come what may come, tyde what may tyde, lovel shall dwell at avonsyde. "false heirs never yet have thriven; tankards to the right are given." the last two lines, which nancy had composed in a perfect frenzy of excitement and rapture at what she considered a sudden development of the poetic fancy, caused poor mrs. lovel's cheeks to blanch and her eyes to grow dim with a sudden overpowering sense of fear. she rose to her feet and pursued her way home, trembling in every limb. chapter xxv.--a dream with a meaning. phil had a dream which had a great effect on him. there were several reasons for this. in the first place, it wanted but two days to the great th of may; in the second place, he was feeling really ill, so was making greater efforts than usual to conceal all trace of languor or weariness; in the third place, rachel came to him about half an hour before he went upstairs to bed and burst out crying, and told him she knew something was going to happen. rachel was not a child who was particularly given to tears, but when she did cry she cried stormily. she showed a good deal of excitement of a passionate and over-wrought little heart to phil now, and when he questioned her and asked her why she was so excited about her birthday, she murmured first something about the lady of the forest and then about her mother, and then, afraid of her own words, she ran away before phil could question her further. phil's own mother, too, seemed to be in a most disturbed and unnatural state. she was always conning a piece of paper and then putting it out of sight, and her eyes had red rims round them, and when phil questioned her she owned that she had been crying, and felt, as she expressed it, "low." all these things combined caused phil to lay his head on his white pillow with a weary sigh and to go off into the land of dreams by no means a perfectly happy little boy. once there, however, he was happy enough. in the first place, he was out of his bed and out of the old house, where so many people just now looked anxious and troubled; and, in the second place, he was in a beautiful new forest, his feet treading on velvet grass, his eyes gazing at all those lovely sights in which his little soul delighted. he was in the forest and he was well, quite well; the tiredness and the aching had vanished, the weakness had disappeared; he felt as though wings had been put to his feet, as though no young eagle could feel a keener and grander sense of strength than did he. he was in the forest, and coming to meet him under the shadows of the great trees was a lady--the lady he had searched for so long and hitherto searched for in vain. she came quite naturally and gently up to him, took his little hand, looked into his eyes, and stooping down she touched his fore head with her lips. "brave little boy!" she said. "so you have come." "yes," answered phil, "and you have come. i have waited for you so long. have you brought the gift?" "beauty of face and of heart. yes, i bring them both," answered the lady. "they are yours; take them." "my mother," whispered phil. "your mother shall be cared for, but you and she will soon part. you have done all you could for her--all, even to life itself. you cannot do more. come with me." "where?" asked phil. "are you not tired of the world? come with me to fairyland. take my hand--come! there you will find perpetual youth and beauty and strength and goodness--come!" then phil felt within himself the wildest, the most intense longing to go. he looked in the lady's face, and he thought he must fly into her arms; he must lay his head on her breast and ask her to soothe all his life troubles away. "i know you," he said suddenly. "some people call you by another name, but i know who you are. you give little tired boys like me great rest; and i want beyond words to go with you, but there is my mother." "your mother will be cared for. come. i can give you something better than avonsyde." "oh, i don't want avonsyde! i am not the rightful heir." "the rightful heir is coming," interrupted the lady of the forest. "look for him on the th of may, and look for me too there. farewell!" she vanished, and phil awoke, to find his mother sitting by his bedside, her face bent over him, her eyes wide open with terror. "oh, my darling, how you have looked! are you--are you very ill?" "no, mammy dear," answered the little boy, sitting up in the bed and kissing her in his tenderest fashion. "i have had a dream and i know what is coming, but i don't feel very ill." mrs. lovel burst into floods of weeping. "phil," she said when she could speak through her sobs, "it is so near now--only one other day. can you not keep up just for one more day?" "yes, mother; oh, yes, mother dear. i have had a dream. hold my hand, mother, and i will try and go to sleep again. i have had a dream. everything is quite plain now. hold my hand, mammy dear. i love you; you know that." he lay back again on his pillows and, exhausted, fell asleep. mrs. lovel held the little thin hand and looked into the white face, and never went to bed that night. ever since her sleep in the forest she had been perturbed and anxious; that mysterious bit of paper had troubled her more than she cared to own. she was too weak-natured a woman not to be more or less influenced by superstition, and she could not help wondering what mysterious being had come to her and, reading her heart's secret, had told her to bid good-by to hope. but all her fears and apprehensions had been nothing, had been child's play, compared to the terror which awoke in her heart when she saw the look on her boy's face as she bent over him that night. she knew that he bad never taken kindly to her scheme; she knew that personally he cared nothing at all for all the honors and greatness she would thrust upon him. he was doing it for her sake; he was trying hard to become a rich man some day for her sake; he was giving up rupert whom he loved and the simple life which contented him for her. oh, yes, because, as he so simply said, he loved her. but she laid too heavy a burden on the young shoulders; the long strain of patient endurance had been too much, and the gallant little life was going out. on the instant, quick, quick as thought, there overmastered this weak and selfish woman a great, strong tide of passionate mother's love. what was avonsyde to her compared to the life of her boy? welcome any poverty if the boy might be saved! she fell on her knees and wept and wrung her hands and prayed long and piteously. when in the early, early dawn phil awoke, his mother spoke to him. "philip dear, you would like to see rupert again?" "so much, mother." "avonsyde is yours, but you would like to give it to him?" "if i might, mother--if i might!" "leave it to me, my son. say nothing--leave it to me, my darling." chapter xxvi.--love versus gold. "katharine!" "yes." "i have received the most extraordinary letter." "what about, grizel?" "what about? had you not better ask me first who from? oh, no, you need not turn so pale. it is not from that paragon of your life, rachel's and kitty's mother." "grizel, i do think you might speak more tenderly of one who has done you no harm and who has suffered much." "well, well, let that pass. you want to know who my present correspondent is. she is no less a person than the mother of our heir." "phil's mother! why should she write? she is in the house. surely she can use her tongue." "she is not in the house and is therefore obliged to have recourse to correspondence. listen to her words." miss griselda drew out of her pocket an envelope which contained a sheet of thick note-paper. the envelope was crested; so was the paper. the place from which it was written was avonsyde; the date was early that morning. a few words in a rather feeble and uncertain hand filled the page. "dear miss lovel: i hope you and miss katharine will excuse me. i have made up my mind to see your lawyer, mr. baring, in town. i know you intended him to come here this afternoon, but if i catch the early train i shall reach his office in time to prevent him. i believe i can explain all about proofs and credentials better in town than here. i shall come back in time to-morrow. don't let phil be agitated. yours humbly and regretfully, "bella lovel." "what does she mean by putting such an extra ordinary ending to her letter?" continued miss grizel as she folded up the sheet of paper and returned it to its envelope. "'yours humbly and regretfully!' what does she mean, katharine?" "it sounds like a woman who had a weight on her conscience," said miss katharine. "i wonder if phil really is the heir! you know, grizel, she never showed you the tankard. she made a great talk about it, but you never really saw it. don't you remember?" "nonsense!" snapped miss grizel. "is it likely she would even know about the tankard if she had not got it? she was ill that day. newbolt said she looked quite dreadful, and i did not worry her again, as i knew mr. baring was coming down to-day to go thoroughly into the whole question. she certainly has done an extraordinary thing in writing that letter and going up to london in that stolen sort of fashion; but as to phil not being the heir, i think the fact of his true title to the property is pretty clearly established by this time. katharine, i read you this letter in order to get a suggestion from you. i might have known beforehand that you had none to make. i might have known that you would only raise some of your silly doubts and make things generally uncomfortable. well, i am displeased with mrs. lovel; but there, i never liked her. i shall certainly telegraph to mr. baring and ask him to come down here this evening, all the same." miss griselda and miss katharine had held their brief little colloquy in the old library. they now went into the hall, where family prayers were generally held, and soon afterward miss griselda sent off her telegram. she received an answer in the course of a couple of hours: "have not seen mrs. lovel. will come down as arranged." but half an hour before the dog-cart was to be sent to the railway station to meet the lawyer another little yellow envelope was thrust into miss lovel's hands. it was dated from the lawyer's chambers and ran as follows: "most unexpectedly detained. cannot come to-night. expect me with mrs. lovel to-morrow." this telegram made miss griselda very angry. "what possible information can detain mr. baring when i summon him here?" she said to her younger sister. she was doomed, however, to be made yet more indignant. a third telegram arrived at avonsyde early in the evening; it also was from mr. baring: "disquieting news. put off your guests. expect me early to-morrow." miss griselda's face grew quite pale. she threw the thin sheet of paper indignantly on the floor. "mr. baring strangely forgets himself," she said. "put off our guests! certainly not!" "but, griselda," said miss katharine, "our good friend speaks of disquieting news. it may be--it may be something about the little girls' mother. oh, i always did fear that something had happened to her." "katharine, you are perfectly silly about that woman. but whatever mr. baring's news, our guests are invited and they shall come. katharine, i look on to-morrow as the most important day of my life. on that day, when i show our chosen and rightful heir to the world--for our expected guests form the world to us, katharine--on that day i fulfill the conditions of my dear father's will. do you suppose that any little trivial disturbance which may have taken place in london can alter plans so important as mine?" "i don't think mr. baring would have telegraphed if the disturbance was trivial," murmured miss katharine. but she did not venture to add any more and soon went sadly out of the room. meanwhile mrs. lovel was having a terribly exciting day. impelled by a motive stronger than the love of gold, she had slipped away from phil's bedside in the early morning, and, fear lending her wings, had gone downstairs, written her note to miss griselda, and then on foot had made her way to the nearest railway station at lyndhurst road. there she took the first train to london. she had a carriage to herself, and she was so restless that she paced up and down its narrow length. it seemed to her that the train would never reach its destination; the minutes were lengthened into hours; the hours seemed days. when, when would she get to waterloo? when would she see mr. baring? beside her in the railway carriage, beside her in the cab, beside her as she mounted the stairs to the lawyer's office was pale-faced fear. could she do anything to keep the boy? could any--any act of hers cause the avenger to stay his hand--cause the angel of death to withdraw and leave his prey untouched? in the night, as she had watched by his bedside, she had seen only too plainly what was coming. avonsyde might be given to phil, but little phil himself was going away. the angels wanted him elsewhere, and they would not mind any amount of mother's weeping, of mother's groans; they would take the boy from her arms. then it occurred to her poor, weak soul for the first time that perhaps if she appealed to god he would listen, and if she repented, not only in word, but in deed, he would stay his avenging hand. hence her hurried flight; hence her anguished longing. she had not a moment to lose, for the sands of her little boy's life were running out. she was early in town, and was shown into mr. baring's presence very soon after his arrival at his office. unlike most of the heirs-presumptive to the avonsyde property, phil had not been subjected to the scrutiny of this keen-eyed lawyer. from the very first miss griselda had been more or less under a spell as regards little phil. his mother in writing to her from australia had mentioned one or two facts which seemed to the good lady almost conclusive, and she had invited her and the boy direct to avonsyde without, as in all other cases, interviewing them through her lawyer. mr. baring therefore had not an idea who his tall, pale, agitated-looking visitor could be. "sit down," he said politely. "can i assist you in any way? perhaps, if all the same to you, you would not object to going very briefly into matters to-day; to-morrow--no, not to-morrow--thursday i can carefully attend to your case. i happen to be called into the country this afternoon and am therefore in a special hurry. if your case can wait, oblige me by mentioning the particulars briefly and making an appointment for thursday." "my case cannot wait," replied mrs. lovel in a hard, strained voice. "my case cannot wait an hour, and you need not go into the country. i have come to prevent your doing so." "but, madam----" "i am mrs. lovel." "another mrs. lovel? another heir forthcoming? god help those poor old ladies!" "i am the mother of the boy who to-morrow is to be publicly announced as the future proprietor of avonsyde." "you! then you have come from avonsyde?" "i have. i have come to tell you a terrible and disastrous story." "my dear madam, pray don't agitate yourself; pray take things quietly. would you like to sit in this easy-chair?" "no, thank you. what are easy-chairs to me? i want to tell my story." "so you shall--so you shall. i trust your boy is not ill?" "he is very ill; he is--good god! i fear he is dying. i have come to you as the last faint chance of saving him." "my dear mrs. lovel, you make a mistake. i am a lawyer, not a physician. 'pon my word, i'm truly sorry for you, and also for miss griselda. her heart is quite set on that boy." "listen! i have sinned. i was tempted; i sinned. he is not the heir." "my good lady, you can scarcely know what you are saying. you would hardly come to me with this story at the eleventh hour. miss lovel tells me you have proofs of undoubted succession. i was going to avonsyde this afternoon to look into them, but only as a form--merely as a form." "you can look into them now; they are correct enough. there were two brothers who were lineally descended from that rupert lovel who quarreled with his father two hundred years ago. the brothers' names were rupert and philip. philip died and left a son; rupert lives and has a son. rupert is the elder of the brothers and his son is the true heir, because--because----" here mrs. lovel rose to her feet. "because he has got what was denied to my only boy--glorious health and glorious strength. he therefore perfectly fulfills the conditions of the late squire lovel's will." "but--but i don't understand," said the lawyer. "i have seen--yes, of course i have seen--but pray tell me everything. how did you manage to bring proofs of your boy's title to the old ladies?" "why should i not know the history of my husband's house? i saw the old ladies' advertisement in a melbourne paper. i knew to what it alluded and i stole a march on rupert and his heir. it did not seem to me such a dreadful thing to do; for rupert and his boy were rich and phil and i were very poor. i stole away to england with my little boy, and took with me a bundle of letters and a silver tankard which belonged to my brother-in-law, but which were, i knew, equally valuable in proving little philip's descent. all would have gone well but for one thing--my little boy was not strong. he was brave--no boy ever was braver--and he kept in all tokens of terrible suffering for my sake. he won upon the old ladies; everybody loved him. all my plans seemed to succeed, and to-morrow he is to be appointed heir. to-morrow! what use is it? god has stretched out his hand and is taking the boy away. he is angry. he is doing it in anger and to punish me. i am sorry; i am terrified; my heart is broken. perhaps if i show god that i repent he will withdraw his anger and spare my only boy. i have come to you. there is not a moment to lose. here are the lost letters. find the rightful heir." mr. baring was disturbed and agitated. he got up and locked the door; he paced up and down his room several times; then he came up to the woman who was now crouching by the table, her face hidden in her hands. "are you aware," he said softly, for he feared the effect of his words--"are you aware that rupert lovel and his boy are now in london?" mrs. lovel raised her head. "i guessed it. thank god! then i am in time." "your news is indeed of the most vital importance. i must telegraph to avonsyde. i cannot go there this afternoon. the whole case must be thoroughly investigated, and at once. i require your aid for this. will you return with me to avonsyde to-morrow?" "yes, yes." "it will be a painful exposure for you. do you realize it?" "i realize nothing. i want to hold phil to my heart; that is the only desire i now possess." "poor soul! you have acted--i won't say how; it is not for me to preach. i will telegraph to miss griselda and then go with you to find rupert lovel and his boy." chapter xxvii.--two mothers. "here is a letter for you, ma'am." nancy was standing by her mistress, who, in a traveling cloak and bonnet, had just come home. "for me, nancy?" said the lady of the forest in a tired voice. "who can want to write to me? and yet, and yet--give it to me, nancy." "it has the london postmark, ma'am. dear heart, how your hands do shake!" "it is evening, nancy, and to-morrow will be the th of may. can you wonder that my hands shake? only one brief summer's night, and my day of bliss arrives!" "read your letter, ma'am; here it is." mrs. lovel received the envelope with its many postmarks, for it had traveled about and performed quite a little pilgrimage since it left avonsyde some days ago. something in the handwriting caused her to change color; not that it was in the ordinary sense familiar, but in a very extraordinary manner it was known and sacred. "the ladies of avonsyde have been true to the letter of their promise!" she exclaimed. "this, nancy," opening her letter and glancing hastily through it, "is the invitation i was promised six years ago for rachel's thirteenth birthday. it has been sent to the old, old address. the ladies have not forgotten; they have kept to the letter of their engagement. nancy dear, let me weep. nancy, to-morrow i can make my own terms. oh, i could cry just because of the lifting of the pain!" "don't, my dear lady," said nancy. "or--yes, do, if it eases you. the dear little lassies will be all right to-morrow--won't they, mrs. lovel?" "i shall see them again, nancy, if you mean that." "yes, of course; but they'll be heiresses and everything--won't they?" "of course not. what do you mean?" "i thought master phil had no chance now that the tankard is really lost and can never be found." "what do you know about the tankard?" "nothing. how could i? what less likely? oh! look, ma'am; there's a carriage driving through the forest, right over the green grass, as sure as i'm here. now it's stopping, and four people are getting out--a lady and three gentlemen; and they are coming here--right over to the cottage as straight as an arrow from a bow. oh, mercy me! what do this mean?" "only some tourists, i expect. nancy, don't excite yourself." "no, ma'am, begging your pardon, they ain't tourists. here they're all stepping into the porch. what do it mean? and we has nothing at all in the house for supper!" a loud peal was now heard from the little bell. nancy, flushed and agitated, went to open the door, and a moment later mr. baring, mrs. lovel, and rupert lovel and his son found themselves in the presence of the lady of the forest. nancy, recognizing mrs. lovel and concluding that she had discovered all about the theft of the tankard, went and hid herself in her own bedroom, from where she did not descend, even though she several times fancied she heard her mistress ring for her. this, however, was not the case; for a story was being told in that tiny parlor which caused the very remembrance of nancy to fade from all the listeners' brains. mrs. lovel, little philip's mother, was the spokeswoman. she told her whole story from beginning to end, very much as she had told it twice already that day. very much the same words were used, only now as she proceeded and as her eyes grew dim with the agony that rent her heart, she was suddenly conscious of a strange and unlooked-for sympathy. the other mother went up to her side and, taking her hand, led her to a seat beside herself. "do not stand," she whispered; "you can tell what you have to say better sitting." and still she kept her hand within her own and held it firmly. by degrees the poor, shaken, and tempest-tossed woman began to return this firm and sympathizing pressure; and when her words died away in a whisper, she turned suddenly and looked full into the face of the mysterious lady of the forest. "i have committed a crime," she said, "but now that i have confessed all, will god spare the boy's life?" the other mrs. lovel looked at her then with her eyes full of tears, and bending forward she suddenly kissed her. "poor mother!" she said. "i know something of your suffering." "will the boy live? will god be good to me?" "whether he lives or dies god will be good to you. try to rest on that." * * * * * that same evening miss katharine tried to soothe away some of the restlessness and anxiety which oppressed her by playing on the organ in the hall. miss katharine could make very wonderful music; this was her one great gift. she had been taught well, and when her fingers touched either piano or organ people were apt to forget that at other times she was nothing but a weak-looking, uninteresting middle-aged lady. seated at the organ, miss katharine's eyes would shine with a strange, new radiance. there was a power, a sympathy in her touch; her notes were seldom loud or martial, but they appealed straight to the innermost hearts of those who listened. miss katharine did not very often play. music with her meant something almost as sacred as a sacrament; she could not bring her melodies into the common everyday life; but when her soul burned within her, when she sought to express a dumb pain or longing, she went to the old organ for comfort. on this evening, as the twilight fell, she sat down at the organ and began to play some soft, pitiful strains. the notes seemed to cry, as if they were in pain. one by one the children stole into the hall and came up close to her. phil came closest; he leaned against her side and listened, his sweet brown eyes reflecting her pain. "don't!" he said suddenly. "comfort us; things aren't like that." miss katharine turned round and looked at the little pale-faced boy, from him to rachel--whose eyes were gleaming--to kitty, who was half-crying. "things aren't like that," repeated phil. "play something true." "things are like this," answered miss katharine; "things are very, very wrong." "they aren't," retorted phil. "any one to hear you would think god wasn't good." miss katharine paused; her fingers trembled; they scarcely touched the keys. "play joyfully," continued phil; "play as if you believed in him." "oh, phil, i do!" said the poor lady. "yes, yes, i will play as if i believed." tears filled her eyes. she struck the organ with powerful chords, and the whole little party burst out in the grand old chant, "abide with me." "now let us sing 'o paradise,'" said phil when it was ended. the children had sweet voices. miss katharine played her gentlest; miss griselda slipped unseen into the hall and sat down near phil. the children sang on, hymn after hymn, phil always choosing. at last miss katharine rose and closed the organ. "my heart is at rest," she said gently, and she stooped down and kissed phil. then she went out of the hall, rachel and kitty following her. phil alone had noticed miss griselda; he went up to her now and nestled down cozily by her side. he had a very confiding way and not a scrap of fear of any one. most people were afraid of miss griselda. phil's total want of fear in her presence made one of his greatest charms for her. "wasn't the music nice?" he said now. "didn't you like those hymns? hasn't rachel a beautiful voice?" "rachel will sing well," answered miss griselda. "she must have the best masters. philip, to-morrow is nearly come." "the th of may? yes, so it has." "it is a great day for you, my little boy." "yes, i suppose it is. aunt griselda, when do you think my mother will be home?" "i don't know, philip--i don't know where she has gone." "i think i do. i think she's gone to get you a great surprise." "she should not have gone away to-day, when there was so much to be done." "you won't say that when you know. aunt grizel, you'll always be good to mother--won't you?" "why, of course, dear; she is your mother." "but even if she wasn't my mother--i mean even if i wasn't there, you'd be good to her. i wish you'd promise me." "of course, phil--of course; but as you are going to be very much there, there's no use in thinking of impossible things." phil sighed. "aunt griselda," he said gently, "do you think i make a very suitable heir?" "yes, dear--very suitable." "i'm glad you love me; i'm very, very glad. tell me about the rupert lovel who went away two hundred years ago. he wasn't really like me?" "in spirit he was, i don't doubt." "yes; but he wasn't like me in appearance. i'm small and thin and pale, and he--aunt griselda, wouldn't your heart beat and wouldn't you be glad if an heir just like the old rupert lovel came home? if he had just the same figure, and just the same grand flashing eyes, and just the same splendid strength, wouldn't you be glad? wouldn't it be a joyful surprise to you?" "no, phil, for my heart is set on a certain little pale-faced boy. now don't let us talk about nonsensical things. come, you must have your supper and go to bed; you will have plenty of excitement to-morrow and must rest well." "one moment, please. aunt grizel, tell me--tell me, did you ever see the lady of the forest?" "phil, my dear child, what do you mean?" "the beautiful lady who wears a green dress, greener than the leaves, and has a lovely face, and brings a gift in her hand. did you ever see her?" "philip, i can't stay any longer in this dark hall. of course i never saw her. there is a legend about her--a foolish, silly legend; but you don't suppose i am so foolish as to believe it?" "i don't know; perhaps it isn't foolish. i wanted to see her, and i did at last." "you saw her!" "in a dream. it was a real dream--i mean it was the kind of dream that comes true. i saw her, and since then everything has been quite clear to me. aunt griselda, she isn't only the lady of the forest; she has another name; she comes to every one some day." "phil, you are talking very queerly. come away." that evening, late, mrs. lovel came quietly back. she did not ask for supper; she did not see the old ladies; she went up at once to her tower bedroom, where phil was quietly sleeping. bending down over the boy, she kissed him tenderly, but so gently that he did not even stir. "farewell all riches; farewell all worldly success; farewell even honor! welcome disgrace and poverty and the reproach of all who know me if only i can keep you, little phil!" poor mother! she did not know, she could not guess, that for some natures, such as phil's, there is no long tarrying in a world so checkered as ours. chapter xxviii.--the lady who came with a gift. a glorious day, warm, balmy, with the gentlest breezes blowing and the bluest, tenderest sky overhead. the forest trees were still wearing their brightest and most emerald green, the hawthorn was in full blossom, the horse-chestnuts were in a perfect glory of pink-and-white flower; the day, in short, and the day's adornments were perfect. it was still too early in the year for a garden-party, but amusements were provided for the younger guests in the grounds, and the whole appearance of avonsyde was festive without and within. the old ladies, in their richest velvet and choicest lace, moved gracefully about, giving finishing touches to everything. all the nervousness and unrest which had characterized miss katharine the night before had disappeared. to-day she looked her gentlest and sweetest--perhaps also her brightest. miss griselda was really very happy, and she looked it. happiness is a marvelous beautifier, and miss griselda too looked almost handsome. her dark eyes glowed with some of the fire which she fancied must have animated those of her favorite ancestors. her soft pearl-gray dress suited her well. rachel and kitty were in white and looked radiant. the marked characteristics of their early childhood were as apparent as ever: rachel was all glowing tropical color and beauty; kitty was one of old england's daintiest and fairest little daughters. the guests began to arrive, and presently mrs. lovel, accompanied by phil, came down and took her place in the great hall. it was here that miss griselda meant to make her little speech. standing at the upper end of the hall, she meant to present phil as her chosen heir to all her assembled guests. how strange, how very strange that mr. baring had not yet arrived! when mrs. lovel entered the hall miss griselda crossed it at once to speak to her. "i have given canning directions to let you know the very moment mr. baring comes," she said. "you and he can transact your business in the library in a few moments. mr. baring is sure to come down by the next train; and if all your proofs are ready, it will not take him very long to look through your papers." "everything is ready," replied mrs. lovel in a low, hushed voice. "that is right. pardon me, how very inappropriate of you to put on a black velvet dress to-day." mrs. lovel turned very white. "it--it--is my favorite dress," she half-stammered. "i look best in black velvet." "what folly! who thinks about their looks at such a moment? black here and to-day looks nearly as inappropriate as at a wedding. i am not superstitious, but the servants will notice. can you not change it?" "i--i have nothing else ready." "most inconsiderate. kitty dear, run and fetch mrs. lovel a bunch of those crimson roses from the conservatory. have at least that much color, mrs. lovel, for your boy's sake." miss griselda turned indignantly away, and mrs. lovel crossed over to that part of the hall where phil was standing. "mammy darling, how white you look!" "miss griselda wants me to wear crimson roses in my dress, phil." "oh, do, mother; they will look so nice. here comes kitty with a great bunch." "give me one," said mrs. lovel; "here, this one." her fingers shook; she could scarcely take the flower. "phil, will you put it into my dress? i won't wear more than one; you shall place it there. child, child, the thorn has pricked me--every rose has a thorn." "mother," whispered phil, "you are quite sure of the surprise coming?" "yes, darling. hush, dear. stay close to me." the time wore on. the guests were merry; the old place rang with unwonted life and mirth and laughter. it was many years since avonsyde had been so gay. the weather was so lovely that even the older portion of the visitors decided to spend the time out of doors. they stood about in groups and talked and laughed and chatted. tennis went on vigorously. rachel and kitty, like bright fairies, were flitting here, there, and everywhere. phil was strangely quiet and silent, standing always close to his mother. the chaise which had been sent to the railway station to meet mr. baring returned empty. this fact was communicated by canning to his mistress, and as the time wore on miss griselda's face certainly looked less happy. the guests streamed in to lunch, which was served in the great dining-hall in the old part of the house. then several boys and girls would investigate the tower and would roam through the armory and the old picture-gallery. "that man--that rupert lovel is phil's ancestor," the boys and girls remarked. "he is not a bit like phil." "no; the present heir is an awfully weakly looking chap," the boys said. "why, he doesn't look as if he had strength enough even to go in for a game of cricket." "oh, but he's so interesting," the girls said, "and hasn't he lovely eyes!" then the guests wandered out again to the grounds and commented and wondered as to when the crucial moment would arrive, and when miss griselda, taking phil's hand, would present him to them all as the long-sought-for heir. "it is really a most romantic story," one lady said. "that little boy represents the elder branch of the family; the property goes back to the elder branch with him." "how sad his mother seems!" remarked another; "and the boy himself looks dreadfully ill." "miss griselda says he is one of the most wiry and athletic little fellows she ever came across," said a third lady. and then a fourth remarked in a somewhat fretful tone: "i wish that good miss lovel would present him to us and get it over. one gets perfectly tired of waiting for one doesn't know what." just then there was a disturbance and a little hush. some fresh visitors had arrived--some visitors who came on foot and approached through the forest. miss griselda, feeling she could wait no longer for mr. baring's arrival, had just taken phil's hand and was leading him forward to greet her many guests, when the words she was about to say were arrested by the sudden appearance of these strangers on the scene. mr. baring was one of them; but nobody noticed, and in their intense excitement nobody recognized, the sleek little lawyer. a lady, dressed quietly, with a gentle, calm, and gracious bearing, came first. at sight of her rachel uttered a cry; she was the lady of the forest. rachel flew to her and, unrestrained by even the semblance of conventionality, took her hand and pressed it rapturously to her lips. "at last!" half-sobbed rachel--"at last i see you, and you don't turn away! oh, how i have loved you! how i have loved you!" "and i you, my darling--my beloved." "kitty, come here," called out rachel. "kitty, kitty, this is the lady of the forest!" "and your mother, my own children. come to my heart." but nobody, not even miss katharine, noticed this reunion of mother and children; for miss griselda's carefully prepared speech had met with a startling interruption. the mother had stopped with her children, but two other unbidden guests had come forward. one of them was a boy--a boy with so noble a step, so gallant, so gay, so courtly a mien that all the visitors turned to gaze in unspoken admiration. whose likeness did he bear? why did miss griselda turn so deadly pale? why did she drop phil's hand and take a step forward? the dark eyes, the eagle glance, the very features, the very form of that old hero of her life, the long-dead-and-gone rupert lovel, now stood before her in very deed. "aunt grizel," whispered little phil, "isn't he splendid? isn't he indeed the rightful heir? just what he should be, so strong and so good! aunt grizel, isn't it a great surprise? mother, mother, speak, tell her everything!" then little phil ran up to rupert and took his hand and led him up to miss grizel. "he always, always was the true heir," he said, "and i wasn't. oh, mother, speak!" then there was a buzz of voices, a knot of people gathered quickly round miss griselda, and phil, holding rupert's hand fast, looked again at his mother. the visitors whispered eagerly to one another, and all eyes were turned, not on the splendid young heir, but on the boy who held his arm and looked in his face; for a radiance seemed to shine on that slight boy's pale brow which we see once or twice on the faces of those who are soon to become angels. the look arrested and startled many, and they gazed longer and with a deeper admiration at the false heir than at the true. for a couple of moments mrs. lovel had felt herself turning into stone; but with phil's last appealing gaze she shook off her lethargy, and moving forward took her place by miss griselda's side, and facing the anxiously expecting guests said: "i do it for phil, in the hope--oh, my god!--in the vain hope of saving phil. i arranged with mr. baring that i would tell the story. i wish to humiliate myself as much as possible and to show god that i am sorry. i do it for phil, hoping to save him." then she began her tale, wailing it out as if her heart were broken; and the interested guests pressed closer and closer, and then, unperceived by any one, little phil slipped away. "i will go into the forest," he said to himself. "i can't bear this. oh, mother! oh, poor, poor mother! i will go into the forest. everything will be all right now, and i feel always happy and at rest in the forest." "phil," said a voice, and looking round he saw that his cousin rupert had followed him. "phil, you look ghastly. do you think i care for any property when you look like that?" "oh, i'll be better soon, rupert. i'm so glad you've come in time!" "where are you going now, little chap?" "into the forest. i must. don't prevent me." "no. i will go with you." "but you are wanted; you are the real heir." "time enough for that. i can only think of you now. phil, you do look ill!" "i'll be better soon. let us sit down at the foot of this tree, rupert. rupert, you promise to be good to mother?" "of course. your mother did wrong, but she is very brave now. you don't know how she spoke to my father and me yesterday. my father never liked her half as much as he does now. he says he is going to take aunt bella back with him--you and aunt bella, both of you--and you are always to live at belmont, and gabrielle and peggy will make a lot of you." "i'm so glad; but i'm not going, rupert. rupert, do ask gabrielle to be very good to mother." "of course. how breathless you are! don't talk--rest against me." "rupert, i must. tell me about yesterday. are all the links complete? is it quite, quite certain that you are the heir?" "yes, quite--even the tankard has been found. mrs. lovel--the lady of the forest, you remember--her servant picked it up and gave it to us last night." "did she?" answered phil. "i thought i had lost it in the bog. it fretted mother. i am glad it is found." "and do you know that the lady is rachel's and kitty's mother?" "oh, how nice! how glad rachel will be, and kitty too! isn't god very good, rupert?" "yes," answered rupert in a strong, manly young voice. "rupert, you'll be sure to love aunt grizel, won't you?" "yes, yes. i wish you wouldn't talk so much, little chap; you look awfully ill. do let me carry you home." "no; let me rest here on your shoulder. rupert, there is another lady of the forest. rachel's and kitty's mother is not the only one. i saw her in a dream. she is coming to me to-day; she said so, rupert." "yes." "i have suffered--awfully; but god has been very good--and i shan't suffer any more--i'm so happy." "dear little chap!" for about ten minutes the boys were silent--rupert afraid to move, his little cousin rapt in ecstatic contemplation. suddenly phil roused himself and spoke with strength and energy. "the lady is coming," he said--"there, through the trees! i see her! don't you? don't you? she is coming; she will rest me. oh, how beautiful she is! look, rupert, look!" but rupert could see nothing, nothing at all, although phil stretched out his arms and a radiant smile covered his worn little face. suddenly the arms fell; the eager words ceased; only the smile remained. rupert spoke, but obtained no answer. a little face, beautiful beyond all description now--a little face with a glory over it--lay against his breast, but phil himself had gone away. that is the story. sad? perhaps so--not sad for phil. the end. lady huntworth's experiment ~an original comedy in three acts~ by r. c. carton author of "liberty hall," etc., etc., etc. copyright, , by samuel french. caution:--professionals and amateurs are hereby notified that this play is fully copyrighted under the existing laws of the united states government, and nobody is allowed to do this play without first having obtained permission of samuel french, west d st., new york city, u. s. a. new york samuel french publisher west d street london samuel french, ltd. southampton st. strand, london, w. c. lady huntworth's experiment. _produced at the criterion theatre, london, th april, ._ characters. captain dorvaston (late bengal cavalry) mr. arthur bourchier. rev. audley pillenger (vicar of stillford, in the parish of droneborough) mr. eric lewis. rev. henry thorsby (his curate) mr. a. e. matthews. gandy (man-servant at the vicarage) mr. ernest hendrie. newspaper boy master r. denny. mr. crayll mr. dion boucicault. miss hannah pillenger (rev. audley's sister) miss fanny coleman. lucy pillenger (their niece) miss gertrude elliot. keziah (servant at the vicarage) miss polly emery. caroline rayward (cook at the vicarage) miss compton. act i. the vicarage garden.--morning. act ii. the vicarage kitchen.--the same evening. act iii. the vicarage library.--next morning. [illustration: _act i._ _scene plot._ _scene--back of vicarage with garden._] [illustration: plan of breakfast table.--act i. facing down stage. _note ._--those articles _not_ marked with an asterisk are discovered. _note ._--those articles marked with an asterisk are brought on. _note ._--great care must be used in setting the table.] [illustration: _act ii._ _scene plot._ _scene--vicar's kitchen._] [illustration: _act ii._ _position of articles discovered and where placed when brought on, which must be very exact_] [illustration: _act iii._ _scene plot._ _scene--vicar's study._] act i. property plot. circular table, l.c. rustic chairs, round table, l.c. seat round tree, r.c. parsley-bed, l.i.e. small rustic table, l. of tree r.c. bench in front of window. table cloth } napkins in rings } large plates } small plates } cups, saucers, and spoons } _discovered set on_ large knives and forks } _breakfast table_ small knives } _on_ large fork and spoon } _butler's tray_ l.c. cruet } slop basin } milk in jug } sugar in basin with tongs } butter in dish with knife } jam in dish with spoon } toast in toast-rack } kidneys in entrée dish } _all off_ l.o.e. tea in tea-pot ( people) } _for_ large oval salver } gandy. large circular salver } small card salver } eggs in stand and spoons } white pudding basins } fork } white china dish } eggs in basin } _all off_ l.u.e. bottle salad oil } _for_ medium-sized salver } caroline. syphon of potash } whiskey in decanter } tumblers. } door bell to ring in kitchen. letters in tree r.c., _discovered_. letters for thorsby, l. "standard" with par. } _in american cloth wrapper_ "sporting life" } _for_ various papers } _boy off_ l. flowers in bowl for lucy _off_ l.u.e. five letters for gandy _off_ r.u.e. tobacco pouch } pipe } matches and match-box } _for_ dorvaston. marriage settlement } orchid for dorvaston _off_ r. " " e. cigars in case for crayll. chimes _off_ l.u.e. act ii. property plot. kitchen table, l.c. kitchen chairs. kettle on stove. cake in tin in oven down stage. kitchen fender and fire-irons. hearth-rug. clock } tin jelly moulds } _on mantelpiece._ candlesticks } jelly moulds on walls above mantel. candle in stand and matches on bracket above fireplace. meal-sack above fireplace. towel on roller above meat-jack. plates in rack above sink } warm water in bowl on sink } _in scullery._ work-box containing pudding cloth, } needle, &c. } glass tray } _all in window._ newspaper ("standard") } plate basket } meat cover on wall over meat-jack. almanac on wall. brooms and pail in cupboard. looking-glass on flat between garden-door and larder. mat outside garden-door. cheese dish } large butter dish } _in larder._ fruit salad } cheese plates } fruit plates } _on dresser._ wine glass } dresser furnished. glass cloths } "family herald" } _in kitchen table drawer._ orchid in specimen-glass in window. stuffed fish in cases. ham on dish for keziah. canary in cage, hanging in window. salmon on dish } plates } fish knives and forks } teaspoons } _discovered on table._ piece of rag } radishes in water in bowl } radishes in dish } chickens on dish } salad bowl } plates } _ st load on butler's tray._ knives and forks } fruit salad } plates, forks, and spoons } _ nd load._ whiskey syphon and glass } tumblers, claret glasses } bread platter and knife } cheese dish and butter dish } _ rd load._ radish dish, knives, and plates } hand properties. hand-bag for gandy } music case for dorvaston } _off_ r.i.e. cigars in case } pins for caroline. letter in letter-case for crayll. act iii. property plot. oak table r.c. and cover. oak chairs r.l. and top of table. davenport r. oak chair at davenport. armchair in alcove l. library steps alcove r. settle above fireplace. fender and fire-irons. large rugs. stair carpet and rods on stairs. pictures on walls. "bradshaw" } box of safety matches } _on mantelpiece dt._ electric push below fireplace. books in bookcase. pairs green plush curtains and single ditto. spring blinds fitted to window. hand properties. coffee cups (coloured) } milk in milk-jug } _all on japanese tray for_ sugar in basin and tongs } caroline, l. bread and butter on plate } lady's shoe } sprig of syringa } _for_ caroline, l. cigarettes in case for dorvaston. wedding ring for thorsby. lawyer's letter for caroline. papers:-- "standard," "sporting life." "church times" for gandy, r. * * * * * note.--properties are marked with a small asterisk showing their position. the crosses with numbers in act i. show where the chairs are moved to; the c. one is not moved at all. all doors want proper locks on. the gate in act i. wants a latch and spring to make it spring to. inside broom cupboard must have small bolt for dorvaston to bolt when inside. the down-stage oven must open to receive cake in tin. it should have iron fixings on to make realistic noise. lady huntworth's experiment. act i. scene.--_the vicarage garden, according to plan._ time.--_early morning._ (_after the curtain rises_ thorsby _enters at gate_ l. i. e., _looks at french window, crosses and looks at kitchen window, goes over cautiously to the tree_ r.; _he mounts on the seat and extracts a letter from the cavity in the tree, replacing it with one of his own; he then stands leaning against the tree, while he opens, kisses, and begins to read the letter; while he is doing this_, gandy _comes out of the house with toast in rack and jam on dish on salver; he catches sight of_ thorsby; _crosses to top of table_ l.) gan. good morning, mr. thorsby! thor. (_startled, squashes letter into his pocket_) eh! oh, good morning! i was--i--wanted to see mr. pillenger. gan. mr. pillenger ain't much in the 'abit of climbin' trees before breakfast. (_puts jam on table_) thor. no, of course not. (_he jumps down_) i thought i saw a bird's nest, (_looks_) i was mistaken; but feeling (boy _heard whistling the a.m.b._) rather warm after my walk, i fancied it would be cooler under the branches. my object, in fact, was---- gan. shady! (_crosses down_ l. _of table_) thor. what? gan. i was sayin' it's shady under the h'oak. (_puts toast on table_) thor. exactly. (newsboy _enters at gate, crosses to_ c. _and calls towards kitchen window_.) boy. papiers! gan. late again! (_crosses in front of table_) boy. no, i ain't. (_turns and faces_ gandy) gan. yes, you h'are. (_looks at silver watch_) four minutes and a half late. (thorsby _sits_ r. _and reads letter_) your prospects of a christmas-box are darkenin' week by week. boy. well, but i say, gandy! (_crosses down_ c.) gan. mr. gandy! a leetle more respect might assist your grandmother's next h'application to the coal and blanket fund. now, is this to-day's "standard?" boy. yus! (_giving it_) gan. very good. and the other papers? boy. "sportin' life!" (_gives it_) thor. "sporting life!" (boy _sees jam, and works round to top of table_) that's rather an innovation, isn't it? gan. (_crosses to_ thorsby c.) it's for captain dorvaston. we deplore it, but we're 'elpless. (_places papers on table_ r. c., _startles_ boy _and comes towards him_. boy _backs towards gate. to_ boy) go along with you, and, mind me, if there's any more tip-cat down our road, i call at the police station. boy. all right. keep your 'air on. (_goes off, singing the chorus of a.m.b._) (lucy _comes out of house with bowl of flowers_.) lucy. good morning, mr. thorsby! (c.) thor. good morning! (_rises_) lucy. you're an early visitor. (_puts bowl on table_) thor. yes, i--i was---- gan. (_has crossed and turns at porch_) bird's nestin'! (_he goes in through porch_) lucy. (_they both watch him off_, lucy _goes up a little and down again_) what does he mean? thor. he caught me standing up on that seat. i had just found your letter, (_she hushes him_) and i had to give some explanation. lucy. and couldn't you rise to anything better than that? my dear harry, what an idiot you are. thor. you see, i greatly dislike any deviation from the truth. lucy. truth is a luxury very few of us can afford. when you and i are married---- thor. (_advancing_) darling! (_rushes to embrace her, she waves him off_) lucy. stay where you are! all the back windows have eyes to them. muslin curtains don't count. when we are married---- (_crosses_ l.) thor. in fact, after to-morrow---- lucy. oh, harry, do shut up a minute. you object to shams, how is a properly organised household to be carried on without 'em? (_sits_ r. _of breakfast table_) suppose i'm up to my neck in something important--putting finishing touches to a new ball-dress, we'll say--and some female horror calls--mustn't i be out because i happen to be at home? deviation from the truth! my dear boy, i should deviate for all i was worth. so you got my letter? thor. yes. lucy. and your answer? thor. i posted it in our usual letter box. (_going to tree_) lucy. all right, i'll get it directly. does it give full directions? thor. i think so. (_comes_ c.) lucy. got the special license? thor. yes. (_makes to embrace her, she puts him off and points to windows_) lucy. you've arranged with old bristowe? thor. yes. lucy. and we bike over to ingledene church--what time? early of course? thor. i said nine. lucy. very well. (_rises_) now you'd better go. (_he objects_) they'll be coming out to breakfast. thor. (_again advancing_) darling! lucy. (_motions him off again_) back windows! (_crosses up_ c. _to house to see if they have been seen_) thor. (_turning towards her_) i was going to say that i can't help regretting the way we are treating captain dorvaston. lucy. you mind your own business. (_she crosses down_ r. _and leans on rustic table_) captain dorvaston is in my department. thor. i never fully understood how you came to be engaged. (_crosses to her_) lucy. simple enough. my father was a colonel who did some rather big things on the indian frontier, and in a dust up with one of the native princes got himself into rather a tight corner. jack dorvaston--he was only a subaltern then--pulled him out of it, and in fact saved his life; so when the governor died a year or two later, he left a strong wish behind that the captain should marry me. thor. i understand. lucy. (_crosses round and sits on tree seat_ r.) it was a queer way of showing his gratitude, seeing that i was then a particularly unattractive child, all elbows and knees. thor. lucy! lucy. it's all right, don't be nervous; time has softened them down. (_beckons him nearer_) i have a notion that jack has always funked the thing, but his colonel had given his orders, (_he sits on table_) don't you see? and that was enough for _him_. i don't regard discipline--military or parental--with the same amount of respect. british freedom means the right to make a fool of one's self in one's own way. you're my way, and that's enough for _you_. (_he tries to take her hand, she draws it away_) back windows! thor. i suppose no one guesses that we----? lucy. mean business! no, with the exception possibly of cook. thor. cook! (_he looks at her in surprise_) lucy. somehow i've a notion she's tumbled to it. thor. would it matter? would she----? lucy. prattle about it? no, i think she rather likes me--tolerates would be a better word. thor. tolerates? a woman of that class? lucy. cook is a very great personage; she rules the vicarage. auntie made a show of resistance at first, but uncle and jack have been abject slaves from the start. thor. really? lucy. oh yes; when a woman is striking in appearance, evidently has a past history, and can make an omelette, i don't see what's going to stop her. thor. what's her history? lucy. how should i know? she was recommended to us by the duchess of sturton at the time she opened the bazaar--you remember. local philanthropic? thor. then you've nothing tangible to go on? lucy. not from a masculine standpoint. (_rises_) cook doesn't give herself away, but, like achilles, she has one vulnerable point, and in the same locality. thor. how is that? (_rising with_ lucy) lucy. she wears the neatest, quietest shoes imaginable, only i happened to notice they have louis heels. (_he looks in wonder_) that tells you nothing--the inference is too subtle; but it's quite enough for me. (gandy _appears with butter on tray, he comes right of table_) make a dignified clerical exit--here comes gandy. thor. (_takes hat and backs to_ c.) i think i won't wait, miss lucy. (gandy _coughs_, thorsby _turns nervously, and looks at him_) so will you kindly give my message to mr. pillenger? lucy. certainly! thor. thank you. (_crosses to gate_ l.) good morning! lucy. good morning. (_he looks towards_ lucy--_catches_ gandy's _eye and exits through gate_. lucy _is applauding his exit when_ gandy _turns and hides her action_. lucy _sits on garden chair and opens the "standard"_) gandy! what is there for breakfast? (gandy _has crossed to top of table and placed butter on it_) gan. h'eggs! lucy. poached? gan. biled. lucy. auntie said poached. gan. cook said biled. lucy. oh! there's some fish, isn't there? gan. kidneys. lucy. but auntie particularly mentioned fish. gan. cook thought kidneys would be _preferable_. lucy. oh! (_she reads paper_) (mr. pillenger _comes out_ c. _looking at his watch_.) pil. ah, lucy! breakfast not ready? (lucy _rises and crosses to_ c.) lucy. breakfast is late--as usual. pil. as usual? what do you mean by as usual? lucy. i mean--as usual. (_returns to seat_) pil. cook is most punctual. if some trivial hitch has occurred this morning, i daresay a perfectly reasonable explanation will be forthcoming. (_takes "sporting life" off table_) gan. kidneys was late! (_at table_) pil. kidneys was late! (_to_ lucy)--er--were late. i knew it! that man skeggs' meat--which i more than suspect of being colonial--is never delivered in time. (_to_ gandy) explain to cook that the delay is of no consequence, and beg her not to hurry. gan. (_speaking as he goes_) she won't hurry! (_he goes into the house_; pil. _and_ lucy _look at each other_; pil. _then opens paper and sees his mistake_.) pil. (_takes "standard" from_ lucy) if i shall not be depriving you of the "standard"----? lucy. not at all! (_she picks up "sporting life"_) i'll have a look at jack's "sporting life." pil. (_crossing to table, turn to her_) by the way, during the--i trust--brief interval of time that must elapse before your marriage with captain dorvaston, you might hint to him that the newspaper he favours is at variance with the general tone of a pious household. lucy. i'll mention it. pil. i am obliged to you. (_crosses and sits_ l.) (miss pillenger _comes out through french window_.) miss p. good morning, audley! pil. good morning. (lucy _rises, crosses and kisses_ miss pillenger _and returns_ r.) miss p. well, lucy! lucy. good morning, auntie. miss p. is breakfast not ready? (_looking at table through glasses_) pil. no, it isn't ready--not quite ready. i have no doubt it's _nearly_ ready. miss p. i shall really have to speak sharply to cook. (_moves towards kitchen_) pil. i see no necessity for any--er--drastic step of that description. the delay is due to that man skeggs. miss p. skeggs? (_returns to_ c.) pil. skeggs. it is also traceable, in a minor degree to yourself--your injudicious selection of kidneys. miss p. kidneys? pil. yes; you are aware of my preference for fish, and therefore i consider the substitution of kidneys---- miss p. i ordered fish--and i did _not_ order kidneys. cook is entirely responsible for the change, and i shall certainly---- (_moves towards kitchen again_) pil. hannah! hannah! if cook understood your order, which is by no means obvious (miss pillenger _crosses round and sits_ l.), she was doubtless influenced by--er--by lucy's partiality for kidneys. lucy. i never touch them. pil. well, she couldn't know that. really i think this discussion has been sufficiently prolonged. (gandy _comes out with breakfast. he places large salver with tea in tea-pot, dish of kidneys, and eggs in stand on chair at top_ r. _of table_. mr. pillenger _hands him the "standard," which he puts on back of chair. he then places eggs and dish of kidneys on table, takes tea-pot and tray up, and crosses to_ l. _to place it in position; he then removes cover of kidney dish, and slowly exits through porch_.) pil. here is the breakfast. let us endeavor to approach it in a seemly spirit. where is captain dorvaston? (lucy _crosses to_ l.) upon my word, lucy, considering the ties that will unite you, i hope _very_ shortly, to captain dorvaston, i think he might conform to my rules. lucy. jack was late last night. (_sits and takes napkin out of ring_) pil. he _was_. creaking boots after midnight are a serious infliction. lucy. i'll call up to him if you like. pil. i should be indebted. (lucy _rises and goes up_ c. mr. pillenger _takes napkin out of ring and puts it inside his collar_) lucy. (_goes up stage_) jack! jack! (captain dorvaston _opens window, he is in his shirt sleeves_) dor. hulloa! lucy. breakfast! dor. what say, little woman? lucy. breakfast! kidneys! devilled! (mr. pillenger, miss pillenger _and_ gandy _all start_) pil. tut! tut! broiled--broiled! dor. right-o! down in a minute! (_he shuts the window._ lucy _returns to the table_) miss p. what are your plans for to-day, audley? (miss pillenger _has undone napkin and is pouring out tea_) pil. i expect to be rather busy. lucy. it's sermon day, isn't it? (_hands toast to_ mr. pillenger, _and takes an egg and toast herself_) pil. it _is_. so i trust your piano practice will be reduced to a minimum. lucy. i'm going down to the village. i suppose you'll have broken the back of it by lunch time. pil. possibly--probably! (dorvaston _comes out from french window; takes_ lucy's _hand between both his caressingly_.) dor. 'fraid i'm a bit late. how are you, sir? (_bowing to_ mr. pillenger _and_ miss pillenger) pil. in my ordinary health, i am obliged to you. dor. you look astonishing fit. (_sits_) now d'you know, i feel as jumpy as a flea. miss p. captain dorvaston! dor. fact, ma'am! (_takes his napkin out of ring_) how are _you_ this morning? miss p. without being actually indisposed, i feel---- (_hands tea to_ lucy) dor. chippy--i know; same here. where are those kidneys you were shouting about, lucy? (mr. pillenger _hands them_) thanks! (mr. pillenger _passes kidneys to_ dorvaston, _which he serves himself_) lucy. you kept it up again last night, jack? dor. i had a gentle flutter at the plough and rainbow. there was a little pool, so of course i went in. miss p. i hope you changed your things, (dorvaston _and_ lucy _laugh_) captain dorvaston. damp clothing is so very dangerous. lucy. pool is a kind of billiards, auntie. miss p. oh, i misunderstood! your tea, captain dorvaston. (_she hands tea to_ dorvaston) dor. thank you, ma'am. (pillenger _hands salt, etc._) lucy. how did you do over it? (_hands toast to_ dorvaston) dor. so so. i took a few lives at the finish. miss p. dear me! it sounds rather a bloodthirsty pastime. dor. there was a man there named crayll--nailing good player! potted 'em just as he liked. he seemed to be a thirsty little beggar. i should say he took a bit of knowing. lucy. who's that, jack? dor. this fellah crayll. he's stopping at the plough and thingummy--we're going to try a horse together. lucy. to-day? dor. yes. said he'd call round some time this morning. (_pause_) pil. hannah, we must dine earlier this evening, in view of the penny reading. dor. another of those festive gatherings! hope you don't expect me to tip 'em anything this time? pil. no, captain dorvaston; your contribution on the last occasion may have been well intentioned--i judge no man, and will hope so---- dor. thought it was just the thing to wake 'em up after that shakespearian bit of yours--the ball of worsted. pil. the fall of wolsey! miss p. i was not present last time. what did captain dorvaston read? dor. it was an account of the last american glove fight, don't you know? miss p. oh! pil. described with a wealth of technical detail. (_hands his cup to_ miss pillenger) the whole occurrence was most regrettable. i was observing, hannah, we shall have to dine earlier---- miss p. i had some idea of making it a cold meal. pil. cold meal! a most unpleasant suggestion. cold food, especially in the evening, has a tendency to lie heavy on the stom--er--that is, i see nothing feasible in the notion. dor. oh no, hang it all, ma'am! cold stuff ain't the kind of thing to do a penny reading on. miss p. i thought under the circumstances it might be easier for cook. pil. eh? dor. what? (_long pause, the men look at her_) miss p. but as you both object---- dor. hold on, ma'am! pil. one moment, hannah! miss p. i will explain to cook. pil. hannah! hannah! you're so hasty. dor. hannah--ma'am--pity to be hasty. pil. if you will permit me to explain myself, captain dorvaston? i have no wish, hannah, to add weight to cook's very arduous duties. dor. hear, hear! (_slaps the table_) pil. (_raising his voice_) and therefore it seems to me--er--unmanly to lay stress upon possible digestive difficulties which fortitude and a little pepsin should enable us to face with calmness. let the meal be a cold one. (lucy _has folded up napkin again, and taken "standard" from back of chair, and is reading it_) dor. point of fact, it makes a pleasant change. miss p. but, audley! pil. the question is decided. we will not pursue the subject. (_pause_) dor. (_to_ lucy) anything in the paper? lucy. there's something about the huntworth divorce case. pil. we have no wish to hear any news relating to such a matter. dor. but it's an old business, ain't it? when i was at malta last year, the chaps used to chat about it at mess. lucy. lord huntworth brought the divorce, didn't he? pil. yes, lord huntworth was the petitioner. it was a sad case. dor. i know bob carruthers. lucy. who's he? (_rises and crosses up to_ dorvaston--_still reading the paper_) dor. the co---- pil. tut! tut! dor. bob was an extraordinary good chap! pil. how can any individual be described as good who has occupied the position of--er--a co-respondent? dor. bob managed it. pil. you seem to ignore poor lord huntworth. dor. didn't know huntworth--did know bob. he once lent me a monkey when i wanted it badly--lent it when _he_ wanted it badly. devilish good chap! pil. tut! tut! dor. beg pardon, sir--slipped out. lucy. did you know _lady_ huntworth, jack? (_crosses to_ r. _and sits under tree_) dor. no. heard she was a nice woman. pil. nice? dor. so fellahs who met her used to say. miss p. but i always understood the suit was undefended. pil. entirely undefended. dor. matrimonial thimblerig is a confusing game to watch. pil. thimblerig? dor. three thimbles, don't you know? husband--wife--and the other chap. (mr. pillenger _looks up_) well, what i meant to say was, it ain't easy for the looker-on to say which thimble the fault is under. by-the-bye, i saw something in the paper about lady huntworth the other day. pil. surely the whole affair is uninteresting and unsavory? dor. noosance to forget a thing! what was the bit you were reading, lucy? lucy. that yesterday the rule was made absolute. what does that mean? dor. only that the time was up. they keep 'em in blinkers for six months after the verdict. (dorvaston _draws napkin through the ring_) but that wasn't what i read? what the devil was it now? pil. tut! really! really! i think we've all finished, haven't we? (gandy _appears with letters, three of which_ mr. pillenger _takes, and two_ miss pillenger) hannah, you will probably wish to interview cook. (dorvaston _rises, takes chair_ r., _sits and begins to load his pipe_) miss p. i will see her in your presence. (gandy _has come back to top of table_) gandy, will you ask cook to come to me? i wish to give her my orders. gan. h'orders? (dorvaston _fills pipe and lights it_) miss p. orders. gan. i'll name it to her. (_slowly exits through porch_) pil. (_opening letter, which he holds during the whole scene with_ cook) hannah, i would suggest that whatever you have to say to cook may be said calmly and without undue severity. miss p. (_opening letters which she holds during the whole scene with_ cook) that should be left to my discretion; a stand must be made somewhere. (caroline _has come out of kitchen during this; she advances to the table_.) car. you wished to speak to me? (_the men turn and face her_) miss p. yes, cook. i want to give you the orders for to-day's dinner. car. certainly! what do you fancy? what would you all like? (_she glances round, both men beam at her_) miss p. before we speak of that i have a word to say with regard to the breakfast. car. to-morrow's breakfast? miss p. no, to-day's. i am very much astonished and annoyed. pil. tut, tut! car. what was wrong with the breakfast? when i sent it out it looked all right. miss p. why were my directions disregarded? i ordered the eggs to be poached--you boiled them; i mentioned fried bacon--none came to table; i requested you to procure fish--you gave us kidneys. now what have you to say? car. i'm afraid i forgot about the eggs? i haven't any other excuse to offer. pil. a most reasonable explanation! dor. things do slip one's memory. (miss pillenger _glares at_ dorvaston) car. i didn't cook any bacon; it had got rather low, and i didn't think the result would please you. pil. impossible to cut rashers from bacon that is--er--practically non-existent. dor. thing no fellah could do! (miss pillenger _glares at him_) car. i remember you did mention fish, but you've had a good deal of fish lately, so i thought i'd try you with kidneys. but if there has been any inconvenience, i'm sorry. pil. there has been no inconvenience. dor. none at all. (miss pillenger _glares at_ dorvaston) pil. hannah, i think we may pass (as they say in the house of commons) to the orders of the day. dor. hear, hear! (pillenger _looks at him_) miss p. well, cook, since you express your regret (dorvaston _and_ lucy _laugh_) i will say no more. now as to this evening, you will be in sole charge of the house, (_both men look up_) as i have given keziah permission to go to the penny reading--so i think we will make it a cold meal, as that will entail less washing up. car. just as you like. miss p. we will begin with salmon. car. (_reflectively_) salmon? yes, you might have salmon. miss p. pickled salmon. car. oh, no, not pickled! (_both men shake their heads_) that would be a pity! i'll make you a mayonnaise. pil. delightful! dor. rippin'! car. i shall want some lettuces. i'll tell gandy. miss p. after that we will have two cold ducklings. car. ducklings? it's late for ducklings. pil. maturity in poultry is to be deprecated. dor. leathery beasts at this time of the year. (miss pillenger _glares at_ dorvaston) miss p. then why not a gosling? car. it's early for geese. dor. deuced early! pil. entirely premature. miss p. when i mentioned a goose i was thinking of mr. pillenger. (dorvaston _and_ lucy _laugh_) pil. tut, tut! hannah! dor. hope, ma'am, when you mentioned a duck, you were thinking of _me_. miss p. i fail to understand you. my brother is exceedingly partial to goose. car. there's a ham in cut, so i think we'd better fall back on fowls. it isn't easy to do anything very novel with cold fowls, but if i stuff and glaze them, i've no doubt they'll pass muster. miss p. but, cook, i---- car. you like sweets, of course? miss p. certainly, you had better make us---- car. will you leave the sweets to me? i want to try a new kind of fruit salad; it's my first attempt, but you'll find it will be all right--and perhaps i might throw in a shape of jelly--we'll see. miss p. but---- car. what time will you dine?--at least it isn't dinner--what time will you sup? miss p. at seven to-night, instead of half-past. car. seven! i shall be ready. is there anything else you wish to say to me? miss p. no, cook; i don't suppose anything will be gained by my saying any more. (_turns away and reads letters_) car. very good! (_takes kidney dish off table_, mr. pillenger _assisting her; she crosses_ c.) dor. (_speaking eagerly_) ah! here's that bit about lady huntworth. (caroline _looks round at him in a startled manner_) it's in the agony column. (_reads_) "will lady huntworth communicate with messrs. brampton and stokes, capel court, on a matter of considerable importance?" pil. why should we resume the discussion of that disgraceful woman? (caroline _turns and looks at him_) miss p. why, indeed? (caroline _looks at her_) dor. (_to_ lucy) when we were talking just now, couldn't remember where i'd read that. hate to forget a thing. miss p. cook! (caroline _stands thinking quietly_) cook! car. i--beg your pardon! miss p. we needn't keep you, if you quite understand about the supper. car. oh, quite, thanks! (_exit into kitchen_; dorvaston _rises, looks after her_ u. b.) miss p. don't you think that woman has a very singular manner? pil. singular! no, she is certainly superior--very superior. miss p. (_rises, crosses_ c.) she is _so_ superior that she seems above taking my orders. (gandy _comes out during this and continues clearing away. he places_ mr. pillenger's _chair up_ b. c. _and_ miss pillenger's _chair up_ l. _above gate. folds cloth over tray, and takes it into the kitchen. then comes back, folds up table and takes it away into house before cue, "this is july."_) dor. i wouldn't say that, (_crosses to_ c.), ma'am; she met you half way over the salmon. (_returns to window._ miss pillenger _goes up with dignity and enters house through french window_) pil. (_rises, crosses_ c.) thorsby is late. i expected him to call. lucy. he came early this morning, but he wouldn't wait. pil. tut, tut! he knows i wished to see him. i have two christenings at one-thirty, and an interment at three. however, lucy and--er--captain dorvaston (_crosses and brings_ dorvaston _down_) as you are together for once--i will avail myself of the opportunity to say a few serious words to you both. (dorvaston _and_ lucy _look at each other nervously_) dor. peg away, sir! (lucy _stands near table_ r. dorvaston _stands centre_) pil. i have no wish to appear unduly inquisitive on a subject with which i have merely an indirect concern (_sits_ r. _of table_) but may i enquire if you have fixed the time that will make you both--that will make us all happy? (_puts arm on table and leans back._ lucy _and_ dorvaston _again look at each other_) has a date been arrived at? lucy. not precisely. dor. not to a day or so. pil. have you settled on the week or the month? dor. no, we haven't got as far as that. but something was said about the autumn. lucy. the late autumn. pil. (_has been leaning his arm on the table--now sits up and faces them_) the late autumn! (_sits up_) but last autumn something was said about the early spring; the question was then relegated to the late summer. this is july, and where are we? (_he leans back and is about to rest his arm on table, but_ gandy _has just removed it, with the result that he loses his balance and comes on his hand_. dorvaston _goes to his assistance_) dor. allow me, sir! pil. thank you. i was unaware that gandy had removed the table. but, to resume what i was saying--can you give me any definite information? dor. you see, sir, i haven't worried lucy, because i know girls are apt to be a bit--a bit---- pil. well? dor. noosance! i've lost a word. girls are apt to be a bit---- lucy. coy. dor. that's it! thanks, little woman--a bit coy. (_comes to_ pillenger) pil. coy! (_rises, comes_ c.) well, the expression hardly seems to me to convey lucy's habitual demeanour; but in any case she is of age. (_to_ lucy) you were twenty-one last week i think? lucy. yes, i was. pil. your small fortune is carefully tied up. dor. quite right, sir, so it ought to be. pil. captain dorvaston (_patting him on the shoulder_) is in a firm financial position. dor. pretty fair as things go. pil. then why any further delay? why not august? nice seaside month. my own thoughts are turning towards eastbourne. dor. i had an offer from a fellah i know to go halves in a shoot this august, (_going to_ lucy) but i wouldn't let that stand in the way, not for a moment. lucy. thanks, jack, (_crosses down_ r. _a little_) pil. take my advice, let no trivial obstacle intervene between you. let there be no postponement or interruption. dor. there shan't be, sir. (caroline _comes out from porch_) pil. that's well! (_they shake hands_) that's well! car. gandy! (_both men turn round to her without releasing hands_) pil. do you want anything, cook? (_crosses up to her_ l.) dor. anything i could do? (_they both go up_, dorvaston _on her_ r.) car. i wanted gandy for a second. pil. certainly. he was here just now. dor. saw him a minute ago. pil. i'll call him. (_goes_ l.) gandy! dor. fancy he went this way. (_goes_ r.) gandy! pil. sorry to detain you! gandy! dor. noosance having to wait! gandy! car. pray don't bother about it; i only wanted him to pick me some parsley. pil. no trouble at all. where _is_ gandy? dor. what's happened to the beggar? could i--er--take on the job? pil. tut, tut! absurd! how should you know the proper way to--er--pick parsley? dor. never too old to learn, sir. (_to_ caroline) where should i be likely to drop across it? car. there's a small parsley bed over there (_she points left_) dor. right-o! (_crosses_ l., _kneels_) car. but it's really too bad to trouble you. (_crosses_ c. mr. pillenger _goes with_ caroline _on her_ l.) dor. not a bit! to oblige you i'd pick oakum! (_he kneels and picks parsley_) pil. i--er--regret--that--er--the absence of gandy--as to which i shall require some explanation, should have caused you all this inconvenience. car. it doesn't signify. captain dorvaston is doing the work very nicely. dor. fact is i've broken out in a new place. where shall i put the pieces? (_holding up parsley_) car. in this dish. (mr. pillenger _takes dish from her, and_ dorvaston _snatches it from him--puts parsley in it, and holds it out_) dor. it's very easy when you get into the swing of it. will that be enough? car. plenty, thanks. dor. there! (_rises, crosses to hand her bowl_; pillenger _trying to get hold of it_) car. i'm much obliged. dor. don't you think i should make a good gardener? car. capital, i should say. (_crosses to porch_) pil. tut! tut! (_she goes up stage_) dor. cook! cook! (_she turns round_) if i try for the situation will you give me a character? car. i'm afraid i haven't one to spare! (_he laughs; she returns to the kitchen_) dor. (_going up to window, then turns to_ pillenger) by george she's a devilish--er---- pil. tut! tut! (_up_ l. c.; lucy _knocks on the table two or three times to draw their attention_) dor. just so, sir; but i mean she _is_--don't you know--isn't she? pil. (_crosses down_ l. c.) she is undoubtedly possessed of great refinement for anyone in her present sphere. dor. refinement! (_crosses down_ r. c.) pil. we gathered from the duchess of sturton that cook had seen better days. her grace is somewhat vague conversationally; but we understood as much as that. dor. (_confidentially, he hides_ lucy _from_ pillenger's _view_) funny thing a woman like that should be running loose. odd she hasn't married some fellah. pil. it is singular--in fact remarkable. for a certain type of man she would make--i should say--an admirable wife. dor. just the wife for a soldier man! pil. pardon me, i disagree with you. no--she has a quietude, a dignified reserve--that would fit her to preside over the household of a staid medical man--or a barrister in fair practice--who was no longer young--or even--a--a---- (_catches_ dorvaston's _eye_) but we're wasting the morning. (_crosses_ l.) lucy. don't say that, uncle. (_they both stare at her_) pil. lucy! (_crosses to top of chair_ r.) dor. hulloa, little woman! still there? lucy. yes, i'm still here. dor. by george, sir, (_crosses and sits on chair facing the others_) weren't we all chatting over something? pil. i--er--think i was urging you both--to--er---- lucy. you were urging us to name the day--and to avoid any kind of trivial interruption. (_the men look at each other_) pil. i--believe that is so. lucy. and jack agreed. dor. yes. lucy. and i chimed in with the general sentiment. but of course--at the time--it was impossible to foresee the parsley, (_the two men exchange glances--she rises_) i'm going down to the village. i punctured a tire yesterday, and i've got to fetch my bike. pil. i must get to work. i'm late as it is. (_crosses_ c. _looking at watch_) dor. make it a ten minutes' sermon, sir, weather's extr'ordinary hot. pil. i beg, captain dorvaston, you will spare me any such irreverent suggestions; and i trust that if you must sleep in a sacred edifice, you will render your slumber less aggressive. (_moves to french window_) lucy. you do snore, jack--you nearly drowned the second lesson last sunday. pil. (_turning to_ lucy) _you_ are not blameless. as his future wife, it is your duty--and--er--privilege--to nudge him. for what purpose has heaven given you elbows? (_he goes into house. slight pause._ dorvaston _puts pipe away_. lucy _crosses up, turns to chair_ r.) lucy. jack! dor. yes, little woman? lucy. do you care for me? dor. 'course i do! lucy. how much? (_crosses to chair and kneels on it_) dor. how much? (_rises, crosses_ c.) well, i'm a bad hand at explaining things. lucy. for instance, would you give up a big thing for my sake? dor. what sort of big thing? lucy. an empire? dor. oh, yes. lucy. a peerage? dor. oh, lord, yes! lucy. would you give up--a dish of parsley? dor. (_long puzzled look_) what do you mean? i--don't understand. lucy. you're a humbug! dor. sorry you think that. lucy. well, do something to please me. dor. anything i can. lucy. fetch me an orchid, (_he looks surprised_) to wear this evening--there are lots in the orchid house--will you? dor. 'course i will. lucy. thanks. (dorvaston _crosses up_ r. lucy _crosses_ l. c., _and_ dorvaston _crosses down to her_) dor. (_places hands upon_ lucy's _shoulder and speaking over her shoulder_) little woman! ever since the time when your dear old dad first gave us the word of command, i've always had a pretty clear notion where the word duty came in; so when once you've pulled yourself together, and named the day, i mean to pull myself together and do my level damnedest to make you happy. d'you see? (_turns her round_) lucy. (_facing him_) yes, i see. (_puts hand on his shoulder_) i'm quite sure you mean all you say, and it's nice of you to say it, and to mean it. the only thing is, you seem to be entering upon a matrimonial campaign without any transports. dor. i don't follow. lucy. (_takes him by the lapels of coat_) when i said you were a humbug, i meant there is one person you are always trying to deceive. dor. who's that? lucy. jack dorvaston! (_he looks bewildered_) don't you mind what i say; go and fetch my orchid. (_turns him round and pushes him away. he pauses, rubs his head reflectively, and at last strolls off_ r. lucy _goes over to the tree and sits for a moment in thought. she suddenly remembers the letter in tree, and jumps on seat to get it._ caroline _has come out, bringing with her two pudding basins which she places on the seat under the garden window; she comes down to table_ r. _to take up the newspaper, she catches sight of_ lucy _who is trying to get the letter out of cavity_) car. (_coming_ c.) shall i do that? lucy. oh, cook, is that you? (_turning quickly_) you startled me. car. did i? i'm sorry. lucy. what was it you said? car. i offered to get your letter for you. i have a longer reach. lucy. what letter? (_jumps down_) car. the latest one from mr. thorsby. lucy. cook! how dare you? car. i'm not naturally timid. lucy. you are excessively impertinent. car. am i? very likely. but as that is your opinion, i'll chance a rather rude question--when are you going to bolt with mr. thorsby? lucy. what do you mean? i'm foolish to listen to you at all. i shall go to my uncle and aunt and tell them what you've just said. (_comes close to_ cook, _then wavers and takes a step back_) car. (_pause_) if i am mistaken about you and mr. thorsby, you would be quite right to tell them. am i mistaken? (lucy _tries to brave her, but her head droops_) quite so! then i think i would get the compromising letter out of the tree and say no more about it--unless you'll let _me_ do it. (_makes a movement to get letter_) lucy. oh, no! (_she jumps hastily on seat and gets letter_) there! i don't care if you _do_ know. anybody may know after to-morrow. car. so it's to be to-morrow? lucy. (_jumps down_) yes, it is. i am bound to trust you--i can't help myself; so if you choose to give the whole thing away, you can. car. i shan't do that. on the contrary, i should like to do any little thing i could to help you. (lucy _looks in wonder_) lucy. thank you. (_slight pause; sits_) how did you find out--about--us? (_looking at_ cook) car. (_goes up a step_) two or three sundays ago--i was coming home about ten in the evening--it was my sunday out--and as i came round the corner, you and mr. thorsby were outside the gate. lucy. oh! (_her eyes drop_) car. you were supposed to be spending the evening with your friend mrs. bronson, if you remember? lucy. yes. car. you didn't hear me coming and mr. thorsby said good-night to you. lucy. oh! car. he said it--very thoroughly. lucy. yes--i believe he did. car. that was how i found out. lucy. (_after slight pause_) how funny it seems to be talking to you about it all. what did you think--when you saw--what you saw? car. i was rather amused. lucy. what did you think of _me_? car. need we go into that? lucy. i should like you to say. car. well, to tell you the truth, i thought you weren't going quite straight. lucy. because of captain dorvaston? car. yes. lucy. i don't care for captain dorvaston--and i do care for mr. thorsby. surely it's better to marry the man you love? car. i daresay it would be. i have nothing to say against mr. thorsby--he seems a very pleasant young fellow. i shouldn't think he would take to drink (lucy _looks in surprise_) or turn out badly to any special extent. of course, one can't tell beforehand. lucy. cook! (_surprised_) car. it would be all right if you weren't engaged to another man. lucy. but jack isn't in love with _me_! (_rises_) car. you think not? lucy. he likes me, and he wouldn't admit to anybody--certainly not to himself--that i wasn't all the world to him, and a bit over; but in the way of _real_ love he doesn't care a rap for _me_. he doesn't care--a sprig of parsley! (_they look at each other_, cook _smiles_, _and then_ lucy _takes it up_) car. ah! that makes a difference. (_slight pause_) well, i must see to the mayonnaise. (_she turns and goes up to the seat under the kitchen window, she begins to break eggs into the basin._ lucy _goes up to porch and sits on it, leaning her head against the pillar_) lucy. do you know, i think you've been trying to be very kind to me? car. not at all. lucy. i was wondering--if you would tell me a little--about yourself. car. tell you what? lucy. tell me--about--your life. car. my life! no. it's waste of time to discuss failures. lucy. you are a riddle--because you are--pardon me--a lady. car. well? lucy. and yet--yet--(_looking away_) who are you? what are you? car. the vicar's cook. (_their eyes meet_) you will do me a favor, miss pillenger, if you will leave it at that. lucy. oh, certainly! i'm sorry. i didn't mean to be inquisitive. (_church clock chimes the half-hour._) car. i'm sure you didn't. lucy. i ought to go down to the village. (_crosses to french window_) car. (_takes up fork and begins to stir eggs_) don't let me make you late for any appointment. (cook _puts bowl on window_; lucy _tries to laugh, and exits through french window_) (dorvaston _enters with large orchid_.) dor. here you are, little woman,. (_looks for_ lucy) car. she has gone down to the village. dor. hulloa! are you there, cook? (_goes to her_) car. yes. dor. doing a bit of al fresco cooking? car. i'm mixing the mayonnaise. dor. are you, by george! that's devilish interesting. i suppose, now, the kitchen's a bit hot for things that go off color. car. yes. dor. eggs, for instance. (_sits_ r. _of_ cook) i suppose you start with eggs as a ground plan--and then--and then you beat 'em. i often thought i should like to beat eggs. (_seriously_) car. (_rising_) you can beat these; at least, you can stir them, if you've a fancy that way. i want to baste my two fowls. dor. oh! (_disappointed, stops stirring_) car. (_she gives him the basin; pause; rises and turns to porch_) don't leave off stirring till i come back. dor. (_beginning to stir_) not for worlds. (cook _turns_) but basting now, basting must be an unusual engrossing branch of the science. couldn't i come and watch you baste? car. (_standing at entrance to porch_) no; go on with the eggs please. that orchid seems rather in your way. dor. got it for lucy to wear to-night. car. give it me. dor. thanks! (_gives it to her_) car. tell her i'm taking care of it. (_going_) dor. i say, cook! car. (_pausing_) yes. dor. i want awfully to have a chat with you. (_edging to end of bench_) car. you're chatting now. (_leans against post and faces_ dorvaston) dor. can't talk here--people about--and there's the basting. car. that's true. dor. you'll be all alone this evening. don't fancy i shall want much of the penny reading--a ha'porth will be plenty. thought i'd stroll back--and _then_, don't you understand? car. i think i understand _you_, but i'm doubtful if you quite understand me. i've an idea that what you want to say wouldn't interest me at all. dor. (_rises_) you're wrong. i don't mean an atom of harm--swear i don't. what i want to say i would say before anybody--only i'd rather talk it over quietly. may i come? car. if you like. dor. then you believe in me? car. (_pauses_) yes, i think i do. what time are you likely to be back? dor. round about nine thirty. car. nine thirty! all right! don't forget to stir the eggs (_he begins eagerly_) very gently. (_enters porch and then kitchen._ dorvaston _watches her off and is looking through window, still stirring, when_ pillenger _comes out of french window_) pil. captain dorvaston! captain dorvaston! captain dorvaston! (dorvaston _turns to him_) if you are at leisure i should be glad if---- (_seeing basin and pointing to it_) what is that? dor. fancy they call it a pudden basin. pil. what are you----? why should you----? dor. i'm stirring the eggs for the mayonnaise. cook asked me to. pil. tut, tut! i have received a letter from the lawyers, respecting the draught copy of your marriage settlement. i gave it to you. may i ask you to fetch it! dor. just now, sir? pil. naturally. why not? dor. promised i wouldn't leave off stirring. look here, sir, if i fetch the paper, will you go on with the eggs? (_gives him basin--they both stir--so as not to stop_) pil. well, rather than cause--er--domestic inconvenience (_takes basin_) but have the goodness to make haste. the position is not without embarrassment. dor. i'll look sharp, sir. (_crosses up back_) don't forget to stir very gently. pil. the caution is quite superfluous. (_crosses to back of chair_ r.) (miss pillenger _comes out followed by_ lucy; _both dressed for walking_.) dor. hulloa, ma'am! going for a prowl? miss p. fowl? (_crosses_ c.) pil. tut, tut! (_conceals the basin behind him_) miss p. (_crossing to him_) you here, audley? i am accompanying lucy to the village. i imagined you were writing your sermon. pil. i have been delayed by--er--unforeseen interruptions (dorvaston _tells_ lucy _about basin; she goes up behind_ pillenger _and taps it_) you are yourself wasting the freshness of the morning. miss p. i thought the moment was opportune for the purchase of your new socks. pil. tut, tut! miss p. but you have given me no instructions as to pattern or texture. pil. both are indifferent to me. i rely on your taste and judgment. miss p. i will go then. (_she moves_ l.; dorvaston _opens gate and stands talking to her_; lucy _laughs_) pil. what is amusing you, lucy? lucy. i was laughing because---- pil. i have no wish to hear. i object to frivolity. lucy. do you, uncle? (_crosses_ l.) wait for me, auntie. (_turns to_ dorvaston) jack, where's my orchid? dor. cook is taking care of it. lucy. (_looking at_ pillenger) what a treasure cook is. (_looking at_ dorvaston) i wonder what any of us would do without her? (_exit. the two men face each other for a second_) dor. (_laughs_) sorry i let you in, sir, (_coming_ c.) but lucy won't say anything. i'll be back directly--and, i say, you won't forget to stir very gently? (_exit off_) pil. (_angrily_) no, i won't! no, i won't! no, i won't! (_crosses; sits_ r. _of table, stirs violently for a moment, then remembers and slows down_; cook _comes out_) car. captain dorvaston! (_sees_ pillenger) is captain dorvaston---- (_he turns round_) oh, you've got it! (_comes to top of table_) pil. the basin? yes. i was compelled to interrupt captain dorvaston, so i was endeavoring to supply his place; i fear with poor results. (_puts paper on seat_) car. let me look? (_takes basin, crosses a little_ c.) thanks. (_she looks at it_) oh, no--it's all right. pil. i am relieved to hear it. still, it probably needs the--er--hum--the final touch of the artist. (_she turns to go_) you don't care for--er--compliments? car. (_looking round_) no! (_coming_ c.) pil. rather an unkind restriction. car. a bird of some experience is apt to change its first opinion of bird-lime. pil. yes, very true. but compliments that are the expression of honest and--er--respectful appreciation--what of them? car. i don't know. i've never met that kind of compliment. if you'll excuse me, i'll go back to the fowls. (_going up_) pil. (_he follows her between tree and table to porch_) i have no right to detain you from more congenial society. (_door bell heard_) but i have something i particularly wish to say to you. (_she looks at him_) something i wish to explain. car. certainly! what is it? pil. my explanation might--in fact, would occupy some time. (_door bell heard more violently_) the present moment is obviously ill-chosen for the purpose. you will be the sole occupant of the house this evening. car. shall i? pil. _every_body--keziah included--is going to the penny reading--even gandy has asked permission to visit his aged mother. car. has he an aged mother? i didn't know. pil. he doesn't lay much stress on her--she suffers from spasms, and is a nonconformist. car. well? pil. i thought if i came back early from the parish room, i could explain what i--er--wish to explain. (_very violent ring at bell without interruption_) car. you would discuss this all-important matter in the kitchen? pil. if you--er--see no objection. car. it's your kitchen, and your responsibility; but if i were you i wouldn't explain. pil. do you prohibit me from doing so? car. no, come if you like. what time am i to expect you? pil. about nine o'clock. it's a quiet hour, and usually free from callers. car. we'll hope it will prove so. very well--till nine o'clock then. (_she goes into kitchen--he crosses up to french window at_ cook's _exit, still looking after her, buried in thought_. crayll _comes through gateway, stands at steps, sees_ pillenger _and speaks_) cray. mornin'! (pillenger _does not hear, so_ crayll _prods him in back with stick_) mornin'. pil. eh! oh, good morning! (_comes_ c.) cray. what time's the funeral? pill. funeral? cray. ain't anybody dead? i rang your beastly front door bell till my arm ached; so i turned it up and came round to the back. pil. my butler--er--my male servant--is rather remiss. but to the best of my knowledge, he is still alive. cray. damn sorry for it. pil. tut, tut! cray. what's the matter? pil. i cannot countenance such language. my sacred calling---- cray. (_looking at him more attentively_) oh, i see! didn't know you were a magpie. come to think of it, s'pose i passed your place of business a little way up the road, (_pointing up_ l.) pil. er--hum--yes. cray. oh, well then, i take back the damn. after all, it don't do to open one's front door too quick. s'pose you thought i was the water rate. (_puts foot on chair, pulls out handkerchief, and dusts boot_) pil. no, sir. cray. gas? pil. certainly not. cray. then what the devil did you think? (_dusts other boot_) pil. i had no theory on the subject; and as to your language--i really must beg---- cray. beg? yes, that's your trade. same time i'll take back the devil. we don't often part company. talking of the devil, did you ever have d.t.? pil. d.t.? d.t.? if you refer to the "daily telegraph," i usually read the "standard." cray. no, no! d.t. jim-jams! pil. jim-jams? cray. delirium tremens--ever had 'em? pil. eh? what? never, sir, never! cray. lucky beast! well, when you _do_ have 'em, you'll know 'em again. i've had 'em twice. pil. really! cray. the last bout was a blazer. a man generally sees snakes, or rats, or spiders. it was spiders with me. (_makes movement of spider on_ pillenger's _chest_) pil. was it indeed? cray. yes--fat brutes with as many legs to 'em as an empire ballet--all over the walls by day--all over the bed at night. if you lit a candle you saw 'em--if you didn't you felt 'em. pah! filthy devils! (_sits exhausted_) could i have a whiskey and soda? pil. you haven't mentioned the object of your visit. cray. man named dorvaston hangs out here, don't he? pil. captain dorvaston is my guest at present. cray. thought so. promised to look him up. we're goin' to price a horse--a nailer--risin' thirteen--and well up to dorvaston's weight--which is sayin' somethin'. pil. captain dorvaston's physique is substantial. cray. if he stood on your foot, i expect you'd ask him to move. pil. probably! cray. he's goin' to be somethin' to you by marriage, ain't he? pil. he is affianced to my niece. cray. hope he'll like it. (_takes cigar out of case_) pil. why should he not, sir? cray. i daresay you stick up for marriage--double blessedness and all that kind of muck. (_biting end of cigar_) pil. i regard the married state as best calculated to confer the greatest happiness that--er--the---- cray. have you ever bin married? (_looking up at him_) pil. no. cray. (_lights cigar_) i thought not. you beggars are always jawin' about what you don't understand. you've never had d.t., but that wouldn't stop you preaching about drink. you've never bin married, and yet you get up in the pulpit and talk about hell as if you knew the country. pil. may i ask, mr.--er---- cray. crayll. pil. may i enquire, mr. crayll, if _you_ are married? cray. (_blows out light and smiles_) not at present. (dorvaston _comes out_.) pil. ah! here is captain dorvaston. dor. (_coming to_ pillenger c.) there's the paper you wanted, sir. it took a bit of finding. keziah cleaned my room out yesterday. (_gives it to him_) hulloa, crayll! (_slaps him on back and crosses_ l.) cray. hulloa! (_rises_) pil. (_to_ dorvaston) now you have come, i will ask mr. crayll to excuse me. cray. don't name it. (_crosses to_ l.) dorvaston will see to me. i daresay he knows where the whiskey's kept. (dorvaston _laughs and goes up a step or two with_ pillenger) pil. (_aside_) surely a most offensive person. (_crosses up_) dor. he's all right, sir. he takes a bit of knowing. (pillenger _goes into the house_) cray. now, for the lord's sake get me a drop of whiskey to wash the parson out of my mouth. dor. (c.) whiskey it is! take potash with it? cray. a little potash. (_crosses_ r.) dor. right-o! have a look at "sporting life"? cray. what d'ye fancy for the leger? dor. centipede! it's a dead snip. you should have a bit on it. cray. no, thank ye. don't like the name--it's too spidery. (dorvaston _goes up to kitchen window unseen by_ crayll. crayll _crosses behind chair, gets "sporting life," comes round_ l. _of table, puts hat on ground, stick behind him, and starts to read paper_) dor. cook! cook! (_at window_ cook _appears_) car. yes? dor. fact is, friend of mine has just turned up, and he's unusual thirsty. would you bring him out a whiskey and potash? car. certainly. dor. very kind of you--extr'ordinary kind. car. not at all. (_she disappears from window._ dorvaston _goes back to_ crayll) dor. look here, i'll run up and put another coat on, and then we'll start. cray. how about the whiskey? dor. it'll be here directly. (_exits through french window_) cray. thank ye. (_he resumes the newspaper_; cook _comes to table_ r. _with small tray containing whiskey, etc.; she brings it down to small table, and speaks before putting the tray down_) car. whiskey and potash! cray. all right! (_he puts down cigar on tray and turns slowly, the paper falls. they face each other in mutual astonishment_) cray. goodness a'mighty! (_slight pause_) is that you? (_she is silent_) is that you? (_speaking louder_) car. yes--what then? cray. phew! (_wipes his forehead_) when i saw you standin' there, dressed like that, i thought i'd got 'em again. damned if i didn't. car. why? cray. why, who'd expect to see lady huntworth masqueradin' as a cook. car. i'm not lady huntworth any longer. surely lord huntworth is the last person who should need the reminder. cray. i'm not lord huntworth down here. my name's crayll for the present. car. really? cray. i'm keepin' out of the way--for--reasons. car. the local police don't strike me as being very shrewd. cray. police! what d'you mean? it's duns i'm hidin' from. car. duns! cray. it's debt--it ain't crime. car. ah! not yet. well, good-day, mr. crayll. i must go back to my cooking. (_crosses up_) cray. here, hold on. damn it, don't be in such a hurry. (_crosses down_ c.) i want to talk to you. car. i have to baste the fowls. cray. curse the beastly fowls. i must see you alone for half-an-hour, d'you hear? car. i hear. cray. it's infernal important. will you meet me to-night? car. no. cray. why not? what are you afraid of? car. i'm not afraid of _you_. i think you know that. cray. that long fool will be back in a minute. you'll see me somehow to-night, because--you've damned well got to--d'you understand? car. i haven't the smallest notion why you want to see me, but since fate has played me a final dirty trick by throwing us together again, perhaps we _had_ better understand each other. so you can come here this evening for half-an-hour. i shall be alone. you had better tap at the window. cray. that'll do--i'll come. car. what time shall i have the honor? cray. i'll get here about nine. car. (_smiling_) nine! you must make it earlier than that. i expect i shall be rather busy about nine. cray. eight-thirty then. car. yes, that would suit me. (_crosses to porch and then stops_) cray. (_turns and sees she is in hesitation_) is there anything else? car. (_crosses down_ c. _to him_) as you seem to want to talk about something important you might break through a rule for once--and turn up in a possible condition. cray. not come drunk--is that what you mean? car. no, i don't want to be unreasonable. at that time in the evening you are certain to be drunk,--but try not to be _too_ drunk to be coherent. i'll expect you at eight-thirty. (_she goes up stage, stands at kitchen window; after she has gone_ crayll _picks up cigar from tray and draws at it, finding it out he throws it down violently and swears. he then pours out whiskey and drinks._ dorvaston _comes out dressed for walking_) dor. ready, old chap? (crayll _half chokes_) cray. in half-a-minute. (_drinks more whiskey_) dor. (_speaking across to_ cook) ah! cook! friend and i are going for a stroll. car. it's a pleasant day for walking. dor. how is our mayonnaise coming on? (crayll _looks up on hearing this_) car. very well, i think. dor. that's all right! (_to_ crayll, _who has been listening vacantly_) shall we get along? cray. yes. (dorvaston _goes out at the gate_; crayll _puts hat on, takes stick, rises, crosses_ l. c., _and looks back. as he does so_, cook _turns and looks at him_) goodness a'mighty. (_he then goes out at gate_) (_after he has gone_ cook _comes down to the rustic table and takes up "standard."_) car. (_reads_) "will lady huntworth communicate with brampton and stokes, capel-court, on a matter of considerable importance?" (_she stands in thought for a moment, then turns and goes up, reading the paper as she goes_) curtain. act ii. scene.--_the vicarage kitchen, according to plan._ time.--_evening._ (_as curtain rises_ cook _takes salmon to larder_ r. u. e. _and returns to table down_ l. _with fruit salad_; gandy _enters with butler's tray; crosses to_ r. _of table_; keziah _enters and takes ham to larder and returns to dresser_.) gan. sweets, cook! car. quite ready! (_clearing tray of chicken dish and plates_) they seem to have taken very kindly to the stuffed fowls. gan. oh, horful! there's 'ardly a gizzard left for hus to make a supper of. dorvaston's the worst. kez. (_at dresser_) oh, and master too. (_takes plates_) i thought he'd 'ave bust 'imself--i did reelly. (_crosses to top of_ gandy, _places plates on butler's tray_) gan. they told me to look sharp. it's wonderful they don't want a rest. (caroline _holds up dish of fruit salad_; gandy _takes dish in both hands admiringly; then lets_ cook _put it on tray_) so that's it, cook? it looks lovely. car. glad you like it. gan. (_takes up tray_) it ain't no good _me_ likin' it, i shan't get none--they'll see to that. (_moves to_ r. keziah _moves to follow him_) keziah, don't you come. you'll never wait at table--your mind can't rise above 'anding bread when nobody wants it. (_she returns to top of table; he carries tray to door_ r., _then pauses_) it _do_ look lovely. let's pray to 'eaven they don't eat it all. (_he goes out_; cook _crosses to larder with chicken and back round top down to_ l.) kez. (_at top of table clearing_) gandy's a bit narked to-night. (_rubs knives with a piece of rag_) when there's a bit of anythink extra for supper, 'e does grodge it to 'em, don't 'e? now with me it's, as you may say, different. if any trifle takes me fancy--such as a breast of chicken--or what not--while it's bein' carved i simply turn me 'ead away. car. (l. _of table arranging plates_) take these plates into the scullery. kez. yus, cook. not as it always answers. (cook _crosses to larder with salad dish_) i wes 'anding that sauce stuff--i forgot what you call it, cook---- car. mayonnaise. (_at larder; crosses back to_ l. _of table and begins to put radishes in bowl into glass dish_) kez. yus, cook, that was it--in a butter boat. well, i was 'anding it to old madam as the captain cut himself off--oh, such a slice of 'am--i dote on 'am, i do, reelly. well, i had to shet me eyes, and just then gandy hustled me with 'is elbow, and me wrist turned, as you may say, sudden like, and i upset the myanneasy on to milady's gown. she did talk to me a treat. (_takes fish plates to scullery_; gandy _enters hastily, stands_ c.) gan. now then, keziah, one claret glass short. that's your silly fault. (keziah _crosses to dresser, gets glass and hands it to_ gandy r.; _then returns to dresser for plates_) car. do they seem to fancy the fruit salad? gan. fancy it! dorvaston and the governor are both in their second 'elpings. it's 'ideous to see 'em--'ideaous! kez. (_at dresser_) i shall be awful late with me washin' up. (_crosses to window with plates_) i shall miss a good 'alf of it. car. (_crosses to larder for cheese_) i'll wash the glass and silver for you. kez. (_crosses to top of table and takes chicken plates to scullery, leaving four forks on table_) that's wonderful good of you, cook; it is reelly. d'you know i'm in two minds which 'at to wear. car. are you? (_crosses from larder to table_ r. _with cheese, places it at top of table_) kez. (_fingering top of chair_ l.) the straw's tasty; but the large 'at with the flowers is more dressy like. car. i wouldn't wear the large one with the flowers. (_returning to larder for butter_) kez. wouldn't you now? car. (_stops on her way to larder_ c.) it might have been made in the old kent road. kez. might it, now? is that in london? (_sits_ l.) car. yes. (_crosses to_ r. _of table with butter, and stands at the head_) kez. at the shop where i bought it, they told me as it was copied from a london pattern, so i dessay you're right, cook. well, i could wear the straw, but--(gandy _enters with tray_--keziah _rises, crosses to window ledge for cheese plates_) gan. (_speaking sadly_) now then, cheese--cheese. (cook _is at top of table clearing butler's tray_) car. i see they've finished the fruit salad. gan. finished it! of course they've finished it. it's 'eartbreakin'. put the dish away, and let me try to forget it. kez. (_comes down to table_ l.) 'as the governor still bin goin' it? (_putting cheese plates on butler's tray_; cook _places cheese and butter on butler's tray_) gan. i should think 'e 'ad. ah! and it will pay 'im out. this night's work'll lie 'eavy on 'im. i know 'is constitooshon. ready, cook! a bit of that cheddar all round ought to just settle 'em. (cook _takes fruit dish to larder_, keziah _crosses to top of table, and puts radishes on butler's tray_. gandy _hurries out_.) kez. as i was sayin', cook, (_calls_) as i was sayin' i could wear the straw, only i'm wishful to look me best, cos the young gentleman as i'm walkin' out with at present'll be there. car. oh! (_crosses to_ r. _of table, takes cloth out of drawer, and back to_ c.) kez. we shan't be able to sit together, cos of old madam--"i don't allow no followers," she said when i come after the place--"i don't allow no followers"--you know 'er sniffy way? (keziah _takes plates to scullery, leaving spoons on table_) car. (_puts cloth on table, crosses to mantel and gets matches off bracket_) what does your young gentleman do when he isn't following? kez. didn't i tell you? (_comes back to table_) 'e's at bilkins, (_sits on table_ r.) the pork butchers. you remember that pound of sausages that came from me aunt at cambridge? (cook _nods_) that was 'im--'e began with sausages--(cook _lights gas over stove_ l.) next comes along a photograph frame, last week _pig's feet_ and a _shell pin-cushion_. 'e's free 'anded, as you may say. car. he must be. (_crosses to_ r.) kez. won't you be feelin' lonesome (cook _lights gas_ r. _and leaves match-box on dresser_) this evenin'? all of us out--and gandy goin' to see 'is mother. she lives two stations down the line and used to take in washin'. car. no, i don't fancy i shall feel lonesome. kez. i'll (_jumps off table, comes round and sits on chair_ r. _and gets book out of drawer_) lend you my girl's "special monthly journal." there's a most _interestin'_ tale in this number. it's in 'ere. there's an _'url_ and 'e goes ridin' through a wood and 'e's all dressed up in armour, you know--just like the dish covers. (cook _crosses to window, gets knife basket and comes down to top of table_) i say, cook, when you lived in london did _you_ ever see any 'urls? car. one or two. kez. and do they dress themselves up like that? car. not as a rule. (_cleaning spoons and putting them in basket_) kez. my word, i wish i'd bin born a toff! they must find life come easy. car. (_at top of table_) not always. trouble is like a postman--sooner or later he knocks at _every_ door. kez. why, they can eat and drink just what they like. car. no. after a time their doctors have a word to say. kez. and they can wear just what suits 'em. car. they wear whatever their dressmakers and tailors tell them to wear--whether it suits them or not. it generally doesn't. kez. any'ow they don't 'ave to pay for their breakages. car. in the long run they pay just as heavily for their breakages as you do for yours. (_crosses and replaces basket on window ledge and comes down_ l.) kez. my word! think of that now! (gandy _enters and puts down tray on table_; keziah _jumps up and crosses to head of table_) gan. that's over. (_sits_) i'm fair sick of it. the governor is rushin' on to 'is fate. (cook _takes off the bread, cheese and glasses and puts them on lower end of table_; keziah _takes up cheese plates, knives, butter and radish dish, leaving the syphon, decanter of whiskey and one glass till the last_) took radishes with 'is cheese. (keziah _looks horrified_) keziah, i have brought out the captain's whiskey and syphon--i shan't be 'ere to-night, so you must take 'em up to 'is room the last thing, d'ye 'ear? kez. i 'ear. (_she takes whiskey, soda, and glass to window ledge_) gan. i've done most of the clearin' away. (cook _takes cheese to larder_) car. (_to_ keziah) bring me the bowl, keziah, and then you can put your things on. (keziah _crosses to table, takes butler's tray and places it against wall above meat jack, then goes to scullery for bowl. to_ gandy, _coming out of larder and crossing_ l.) will you have your supper now? (keziah _brings hot water to top of table; then takes glass radish dish and butter dish into larder_) gan. no, thank'ee. they've put me off it. i shall try to pick a bit by and bye when i get to mother's. car. (_to_ gandy) is your mother a good cook? (l. _of table_) gan. no, she ain't; far from it! 'er jints are flabby, and 'er pie crust is h'ashfelt. kez. (_coming out of larder_) is there anything more, cook, as i can do? car. no, thanks. (cook _takes plates into scullery_) kez. good night, gandy. (_crosses to door_ r.) gan. not so much gandy! _mr._ gandy would do you more credit, and might lead to a cap ribbon at christmas. (cook _comes out of scullery, takes large radish bowl and re-enters scullery_) it's 'ard on a respectable man to mix with such riff-raff. kez. riff-raff your own self. why, for two pins--i'd---- car. keziah! (_at scullery door, crosses_ l. _again_) kez. (_meekly_) yus, cook! (c.) car. go and dress. kez. yus, cook; i'm sorry as i spoke hasty before you. car. very well, go along; you'll be late. kez. yus, cook. (_she goes quietly to door_ r., _then turns and speaks very respectfully_) good-night, mr. gandy. (_she then goes out_) gan. (cook _takes bread to larder top way and returns round top_ l.) that's the worst of domestic service--one 'as to put up with the cheek of h'underlings. it ain't a fit life for such as h'us--we're a good many cuts above it. (_he rises_) well, cook, i shall 'ave to change my coat, so if you will excuse me---- car. certainly! (_washing glasses_) gan. but before i go to-night, i should like 'alf a word with you about a little matter which 'as bin floatin' on the top of my mind for this month past. car. won't it keep? gan. no, it won't--not if you was to put it in the refrigerator. car. people change their minds sometimes. gan. i shan't change my mind. car. well, change your coat, or you'll miss your train. (_he moves towards the door, as he does so_ lucy _enters dressed for the evening, but with cloak on_) lucy. cook! i've come for my orchid. (_crosses to_ c.) car. i'll fetch it. (_crosses to window_; lucy _crosses to chair_ r. _of table_) lucy. gandy, i thought you were going to see your mother to-night. gan. so i h'am, miss--i am just h'off. (_goes out_ r.) car. here it is. (_crosses down_ r. _of_ lucy) lucy. thanks! car. shall i pin it in? lucy. thanks! (cook _arranges the flower_) car. what time to-morrow do you take the plunge? lucy. oh, quite early in the morning, before anybody is up. mr. thorsby will fetch me. car. i see. lucy. why did you want to know? car. so that i should think of you and wish you luck. lucy. i don't see what reason you have to wish me luck. car. you're a nice child--and i was always fond of children. (dorvaston _comes in--he is in evening dress with light overcoat and carries a small music-case--he doesn't see_ lucy _at first_.) dor. i say, cook, i--ah! (cook _backs and he sees_ lucy) i--hulloa, lucy! lucy. well, jack, what do _you_ want? (cook _retires round top of table down_ l. _and resumes her glass-washing_) dor. i--ah--i--wanted--to--er--(_seeing orchid_) of course, i came to fetch your orchid. lucy. you needn't have troubled. (_looks at_ cook) i fetched it myself. dor. didn't know, don't you know! lucy. have you got my music? dor. got it here. (_showing music-case_) lucy. that's right. is auntie ready? dor. fancy she's waiting in the hall. (_crosses to_ r.) lucy. oh! then i must go. (_crosses to_ r.) good-night, cook. thanks for taking care of the flower. car. not at all! good-night! lucy. (_turning at door_) are you coming, jack? dor. in a second. thought perhaps cook would give me a light. (_takes out cigar case_) lucy. very well, we'll go on. you can catch us up. you needn't hurry. (_she goes out door_ r.) dor. (_holding cigar_) may i? car. there's a box of matches on the dresser. (dorvaston _crosses to dresser for matches, lights his cigar. she washes glass and silver_) dor. (_crosses to top of table_) this is a devilish snug kitchen. d'you know, i'd much rather stop here--and watch you doing--whatever you are doing--what _are_ you doing? car. washing up. (_washing glasses_) dor. are you, by george? washing up, now. how is that generally done? (_at top of table_) car. with water and a tea-cloth. dor. it must be an awful fag. when it comes to work, seems to me you women beat us hollow. car. you have your drill--and parade--and fighting, too, in these days. dor. fighting ain't work--it's fun. car. each to his trade! i prefer cooking and washing up. (_they both laugh_) oughtn't you to go? dor. yes, i'll get along. i say, you haven't forgotten--nine-thirty? car. no, but i was hoping you had. dor. upon my soul, what i want to say won't take ten minutes. hulloa! cigar's out. i'll just light up again, you don't mind? (_he goes to dresser for matches._ pillenger _looks in at window_) pil. cook! car. yes! pil. i just wished to say one word. (_he comes in at the back door_) i wish (_closes door, takes off hat, and sees_ dorvaston, _who has turned at the moment_) tut!--dear me! dor. hulloa, sir! pil. i imagined you had accompanied my sister and lucy. they have started. dor. came in here to fetch the orchid! pil. what orchid? dor. the orchid--and i hadn't a match--and lucy had got it already, don't you see--so cook gave me one--and--that's how it was, don't you know. pil. cook gave you an orchid? dor. no, a light. pil. then why allude to an orchid? however, it is quite immaterial. car. you said you wished to speak to me, mr. pillenger! pil. (_coming a little to her_) i desired to express my approval--my warm approval--of the excellent meal you gave us this evening; but i fear i have not sufficient time to do justice to the theme. dor. (r.) by george, sir, you did justice to the fruit salad? pil. very possibly, captain dorvaston, but i may remind you that your own appreciation assumed a very practical form. car. won't you both be rather late? (_they both look at each other and then go up to the door_) pil. (_turning at garden door_) i fear we shall. i may have to return early--i am conscious of the approach of a headache. dor. deuced odd thing! i feel a bit off colour--doubt if i shall manage to see it through. pil. tut, tut! you look singularly well! merely fancy, i'm sure. (_opens door_) good-night, cook! car. good-night! (pillenger _goes out at back door_) dor. (_following_) good-night, cook! car. good-night! dor. (_turning at door and speaking in whisper_) nine-thirty! (cook _nods--he goes out. after a second_ mr. pillenger _puts his head in at the window_) pil. cook! you remember our appointment? nine o'clock. dor. (_in the distance_) are you coming, sir? pil. (_to_ dorvaston) yes--in one moment! (_to_ cook) nine! you quite understand? car. (_calmly_) quite! pil. thank you. i thought i would just recall it to your memory. i'm coming, captain dorvaston! (_he goes_; cook _continues her work_; gandy _enters_ r., _is crossing to door, stops, comes to top of table_ r.; _he has changed his dress and carries a small hand-bag; he puts this down and his hat, and hastily consults silver watch_) gan. cook, i'm a leetle pressed for time--but i find i've just got three minutes and a 'alf to waste. car. well, what is it? (_washing glasses_ l.) gan. i'll come straight to the pint. i've saved money--i'm sick of service, and i want to settle down. i know of a eatin' 'ouse to be 'ad--good situation--terms moderate--part cash down--remainder in monthly instalments. will you marry me and take over the kitchen department? car. no. gan. (cook _crosses to oven and kneels and opens it_) don't be 'asty now. we should crush all local competition. think it over careful. (_looks at his watch again_) i can give you a minute and a 'alf. i'm a staid respectable man, and i want a staid respectable wife. car. (_kneeling at oven_ l., _looks over her shoulder_) and do i strike you in that light? gan. you do. car. that is a very unexpected compliment. (_rises, places cake on table_ l.) gan. (_comes down to chair_ r.) yes, cook; since i met you i've come to see there's things in life as i didn't suspect. (cook _stops work_) you've showed me the superiority of braized beef over biled beef--you've rewealed the difference between 'aricot and 'ash--before you came apple fritters was to me a mere flash in the frying pan. (_suddenly stopping and looking at his watch_) now i wouldn't 'urry you, but time's on the move. 'ow's it to be? car. it's to be no! gan. oh! car. i wish the eating-house every success, but i don't intend to marry. gan. but couldn't you----? car. no, i couldn't. don't miss your train. gan. well, (_takes up bag and hat_) it's a disappointment, but if you say it's to be like that---- car. it's to be like that. (_she resumes her work_) good-night. gan. (_goes slowly up stage, pauses, turns--is about to speak, thinks better of it_) good-night. (_he goes out at back door._ cook _takes cake to larder, and then crosses back to window, brings glass tray down to top of table and puts glasses on it_. keziah _rushes in after a slight pause, hastily dressed for walking, with large hat trimmed lavishly with flowers_) kez. ready at last, cook! i'm always a cow's tail, ain't i? thought i should never get into this dress. miss fletcher sent it 'ome so tight, i can't 'ardly bear myself, and no 'ook and eye at the neck, if you please. (_crosses to_ cook) lend us a pin, there's a dear! (cook _gives her one, and stands watching her_) thanks! (_crosses to looking-glass on wall_, r. u. e., _and fastens her collar with pin_.) i'll talk to me lady when i pay 'er. (_turning sees_ cook _looking at her_) you're looking at the 'at? yus, i 'ad to wear the big one, the straw didn't go with this dress, (_comes_ c.) it made me look almost common like. well, i must step it. (_goes up_) car. you've forgotten your gloves. kez. got 'em in my pocket--can't put 'em on yet--me hands is too 'ot. am i all right at the back? this skirt seems to kick up. (_turns her back to_ cook, _and kicks her foot up at the same time at back, looking over shoulder_) car. not more than it does in front. kez. that's a blessing. (_opens door_) 'arry war! (_she goes, leaving back door open._ cook _takes glass tray to window, crosses and shuts door_ r.; _crosses and takes bowl to scullery, pours out water and wipes her hands, gets plate basket (chimes strike three-quarters) comes down_ l., _puts spoons in basket, crosses to_ r. _and exit. there is a slight pause, then_ crayll _looks in at window, he taps twice, then whistles softly--there is another slight pause, then_ cook _comes back and crosses_ c.) cray. (_at window_) oh! there you are! anybody about? car. no. come in, the door is open. (_crosses to_ l., _he enters_) cray. well, i've got here. (_he stands leaning against the door_) car. so i see. cray. there's a beast of a dog somewhere on the premises, ain't there? car. yes, but he's chained up, and he's rather particular about his food; you needn't be nervous. (crayll _slams door and crosses_ c.) cray. (_looking round kitchen_) and these are your quarters, are they? you've brought your pigs to a nice market. (_she is silent_) well? car. well? cray. why don't you speak? car. i was waiting for you to begin. cray. don't you feel the damned degradation of your position? car. no. you seem to forget i was your wife for nearly ten years. cray. ah! have you any whiskey? car. no! cray. (_seeing decanter on slab in window_) why, what's this? car. that belongs to captain dorvaston. cray. that's all right. (_crosses to window_) he knows me. he won't mind. (cook _sits_ l. cray _stands at window with whiskey, syphon, and glass in hand_) a cook! that's what beats me. why a cook? car. it was an experiment. cray. if you were broke (_comes to top of table and pours out whiskey_) why didn't you try the stage? the divorce would have given you a leg up. car. how did you find me out? cray. accident! (_takes a drink and crosses_ c.) i came down here because i thought your pal the duchess might give me the straight tip as to your whereabouts. my spottin' you was a bit of luck. car. you must be very hard up? cray. oh! it's bin a rotten season! nothin's paid me. had some big stable information for doncaster week--that didn't pay me, couldn't even win place money. tried the stock exchange; damned if that paid me--jumped in at the top of the market, crawled out at the bottom. (_crosses to chair_) then there was the trial---- car. ah! i suppose the law expenses were heavy? cray. oh, devilish! car. bribing the servants must have been rather a serious item! cray. what d'ye mean? car. that was a most elaborate story my maid thompson told the jury--thompson was not very intelligent. it must have involved a great deal of careful rehearsal. cray. we needn't go into all that. (_puts glass on table_) car. you are astonished to find me here. what did you think i should do? cray. thought you were with carruthers. car. no, you didn't. (_he looks at her, tries to brave it out, but his eyes fall_) you had been dangling your title before the eyes of a certain rich widow, but i see by the papers (_he pours out whiskey_) she has slipped through those shaking fingers of yours and is going to marry another man. cray. (_taking up glass nervously and drinking_) yes; women are damned shifty. car. your notion didn't come off, but that was why you trumped up your case against me, knowing it was all a lie. cray. you didn't deny it? car. no. cray. neither did he? car. no. bob is a good fellow--and a good friend. he helped me. cray. helped you to cheat the law! car. helped me to cheat the law that ties a woman to such a man as you. cray. that was the game, was it? car. why did you want to find me out? by the way, (_crosses to window and brings down "standard" to top of table_), has that anything to do with it? cray. how do you mean? car. (_watching him closely_) to-day's "standard." there's a little advertisement in the agony column. cray. i--can't see--light's bad. read it out! car. (_crosses to gas_ l., _takes paper and reads_) "will lady huntworth communicate with messrs. brampton and stokes, capel-court, on a matter of considerable importance?" (_crosses to_ l. _of table and throws paper down_) did you know of that? cray. no. who are brampton and stokes? never heard of 'em. car. (_leaning over table with one hand on it for support_) then why have you been hunting me up? i hadn't a shilling--you saw to that. cray. (_after slight pause, makes to touch her hand_) i wanted you to--come--back. car. what? cray. i'm willin'--to bury the past. (cook _looks at him_) well, i tell you, i want to bury the past. car. (_pause, she puts hand on chair_) before we talk of burying the past, i should like you to look down into the still open grave---- cray. (_shudders_) filthy way of talkin'! car. (_sits_ l.) when i married you i was thirty--quite old enough to know better! but i'd spent my youth in nursing my father. when he died i inherited a fortune--and my freedom--without much notion what to do with either. that was a bad year for me. i lost my father and i found you. (crayll _scowls at her_) i don't know what crime i had committed that fate should sentence me to ten years' penal servitude. but my father had wished it and so did your mother. you had been a little wild, they said, but all you needed was gentle guidance. i believed them, but my gentle guidance that was to work miracles generally took the shape of helping you up to bed in the small hours, when the difficulty of adjusting the latchkey had been overcome. cray. look here, it 'pears to me you're trying to be 'fensive. car. that was my life for ten years. the dregs of your fortune and the whole of mine gradually melted away--in cards--(_he pours out drink_) racing, drink--and a few extra establishments. cray. you never grumbled about th' extra 'stablishments. car. (_rises in disgust_) oh, no! i only mention them now--to fill up the picture of our home life. with regard to your gambling and drunkenness i was sorry for myself, but in the matter of your infidelities i was sorry for the other women. cray. your language's 'fensive--damned 'fensive! car. at the finish we had a pleasant little chat; you hadn't a sixpence left--or a friend either--except bob carruthers. he had lent you more than he could afford and he was sick of it. you tried to get me to ask him again. i wouldn't. it was on that occasion you reached up and tried to strike me. (_touches him on shoulder_) do you remember? cray. momentary irritation--regretted it d'rectly! car. (_returns paper to window_) we parted that night. the place was sold up, and i didn't hear of you again till you commenced proceedings for our divorce. (_he moves chair and faces her_) then i went to bob. he offered to see me through--engage counsel and all that. it would have been easy to smash your case, (_crosses and stands over him_) but that would have left me tied to you; so i asked him if he would join me in making no defence. he pointed out what society would think of me. i said i knew enough of society to care nothing for its bad opinion. he did as i wished, so you got your decree nisi and the sympathy of the public. (_crosses to top of table again_) cray. all this is beastly 'fensive. (_leans limply over back of chair_) car. my only problem was how to live. i couldn't teach or make dresses or typewrite. there was only one thing i could do properly--i could cook. it was always a fad of mine. i used often to prepare little dishes for my father--in the old days--and while i was trying to see my way, i met millicent sturton. i told her everything, and asked her to help me. she had influence with these good people--so i resumed my own name and became the vicar's cook. (_pause_; cook _has gradually crossed_ l. _again_. crayll _moves chair back to table and drinks_) now you understand everything! i'll say good-bye. i'm likely to be rather busy this evening. cray. don't say goo'bye. i wan' you to come back. my 'ntentions are disin'ersted. won't you come back? car. (_stands with hands behind her back_) not while there's a crossing to be swept--or a box of matches to be sold. cray. (_rising unsteadily--leaning over table_) s'pose i was to--give th' show away--d'you think they'd keep a woman like you--a woman who was n'torious? car. no! cray. very well, then i can squash you. word from me'd sweep you into the gutter--an' if you don' come back--i'll do it. i'll show you what comes of r'fusin' disin'ested offer. (_she laughs and shrugs her shoulders_) don' laugh at me, you fool! i'll do it! i'll drag you off your damned high horse, i'll--i'll--(_raises his arm to strike her_) car. no, you won't! (_pauses; his arm slowly falls and he sways about limply_) you're too anxious to keep your own identity secret just now to say anything about mine. isn't that so--mr. crayll? cray. (_swaying about_) tha's true, tha's true! le's be frien's--shall we? don' le's be touchy. if you'll come back, i'll do the right thing--marry you again--marry you anywhere you like--st. paul's cathedral, if you like. come back and be a comfort to ailin' man. (_sinks into chair_) le's have 'nother honeymoon. shall we? le's kiss an' be friends; but first le's have a little more whiskey. (_taking whiskey_) shall we? car. (_removing the tumbler, etc._) no, we won't have any more whiskey--in fact, i think we had better go now. (_she takes whiskey syphon and glass to window, and looks out_) cray. (_who is now maudlin_) not friendly! no r'sumption of former 'fectionate footin', same time--no desire to remain--where not wanted. (_puts cap on_) where's cigar case? want cigar--smoke going home. (_he very sleepily takes out letter case from his outside pocket_) oh, here 'tish! (_as he holds it, he begins to doze, his arm falls its full length, and a letter falls out of case--his head falls right back, and he breathes heavily. he falls gradually into a deep sleep. she watches him quietly, then comes round to the right of him_) car. (_pause_) wake up! (_shakes him_) you mustn't sleep here. cray. (_muttering_) want cigar! car. want a cigar? but this is your letter case. (_she takes it from him, and puts it into his outside pocket_ r. _she then sees the fallen letter_) and you've dropped something. (_she picks it up--he snores_) looks like a writ. (_she glances at it_) messrs. brampton and stokes (_she pauses and looks at him_) ah! my first idea was right (_crosses to gas with letter round to fireplace and reads it under the gas_) "messrs. brampton and stokes present their compliments to lord huntworth, and would be greatly obliged if he could place them in communication with the lady who was till very recently his wife. the reason for the application is urgent, as information has been received from an australian firm of solicitors that lady huntworth has succeeded to a considerable fortune through the death of an uncle. (_she again turns and looks at him_) messrs. brampton and stokes would greatly appreciate an early reply. capel court. may th." more than two months ago! ah! (_slight pause, crosses to top of table, and leans over it_) lord huntworth, you will do me the favour to wake up. (_he snores_) i thought i had said everything i had to say, but i find i was wrong. (_she stops and listens, then puts letter hurriedly inside her dress_) what's that? did i hear the gate go? (_crosses to window, then crosses to_ crayll _and shakes him and pulls him up_) wake up--you mustn't be found here. (_she pulls him up_) cray. wha's matter? car. i must put you somewhere; you wouldn't be easy to explain away. (_she half-supports, half-carries him up and into scullery; when there she allows him to droop into a sitting position against the sink; she then shuts the scullery door_) quite like old times! (_looks out of window--brings work-box down, goes up to door and listens._ mr. pillenger _enters_) pil. hum! cook! (_at door_) car. yes? pil. may i come in? car. certainly! (_crosses to chair_ r. _and sits, takes out pudding cloth and starts to hem it_) (mr. pillenger _enters at back door_.) pil. i--er--explained to miss pillenger that i thought it advisable to return home early--as i was feeling somewhat indisposed. car. (_looks up at him_) then you would like to go to bed? i'll let miss pillenger in. (_looks at door_ l.) pil. that is not necessary, i gave her my latchkey. i fear i must admit my illness has no--er--tangible existence. car. oh! pil. i trust i am not interrupting any--er--domestic occupation? car. i have to hem some pudding cloths, but i can listen while i work. what do you want to say to me? (_she begins sewing_; pillenger _crosses to top of table, puts hat down; as he crosses_ cook _looks at door_ l.) pil. i--er--find some difficulty in approaching the subject. it is one with which i have been hitherto--quite unfamiliar. car. perhaps if you sat down it might be easier. pil. er--thank you. (_crosses to fire and stands with back to it_) the suggestion is very considerate. (_he makes several efforts to begin, but baulks himself_) during the few months you have been with us--you must have noticed that you had roused--in me--a strong feeling--(_she looks up at him_) of--er--of interest? car. i saw it--i didn't notice it. pil. exactly! (_moves to back of chair_ l.) you would not--care--perhaps, to give me a somewhat larger measure of your--er--confidence--touching the--er--the past. car. (_stops work for a moment_) no; i think we'll leave the past alone. pil. i may possibly persuade you to be less reticent--when i have submitted my--er--my proposal to you. car. proposal? (_resumes work_) pil. yes. after such reasonable hesitation as should precede the taking of any important step, i have decided to offer you an alternative to your present life, the nature of which you may have already guessed. car. (_smiling back_) i suppose _you_ are the alternative? pil. (_moves to top of table near her_) precisely. i ask you to be--er--to be my wife. car. (_smiles_) thanks! (_stops work_) pil. i am no longer young, but my health is good, with the exception of a little periodic gout. my temper, if not invariably equable, is what a long succession of curates has made it; and as to worldly considerations, without being a rich man, my position is an independent one. car. it ought to be. pil. i beg your pardon? car. you say you don't speak without consideration. have you considered what your sister would say? pil. (_moves round to_ l.) it is a point to which i have devoted very exhaustive attention. at first she might not welcome the idea with--er--absolute enthusiasm. (_sits_ l.) car. no, she might not. have you also considered what the world would say? pil. the world? car. it's rather a tolerant world where a man is concerned, but it holds special views about clergymen, and it wouldn't stand the notion of a vicar marrying his cook. pil. the social disparity between us is far more apparent than real. your present vocation must be the outcome of caprice--or temporary necessity. car. take it at that. (_puts work in box_) what do you know of me? i may be an adventuress--in fact, most of the evidence points that way. at any rate i have no intention of marrying. (_smiles_) i have said the same thing once before this evening in reply to a similar proposition from gandy. (_rises and crosses back of her chair and leans on chair_) pil. gandy? did he dare? car. he did. (_smiling_) this seems to be rather a susceptible household. (_crosses to window and looks out_) pil. (_rising_) you haven't given me a conclusive answer? car. (_hearing footsteps_) haven't i? i thought i had. pil. (_crosses to_ c.) you may require a little time for final reflection. car. i think not. (_looking out of window_) pil. nevertheless, if you will spare me your attention. car. one moment! i thought i heard a step on the path. (_she looks out of window_) yes, it's captain dorvaston. pil. (_crosses to door and looks out, returns and takes hat from table_) you don't say so? that is highly inconvenient. what had i better do? car. i think you had better go to bed. pil. an opportunity like the present is so difficult to obtain. he will merely pass through to his room. i'll wait in the scullery. (_makes for it_) car. (_puts hand on door_) the scullery is rather in confusion. (_goes back to window and looks out_) pil. then the larder is probably available. (_goes towards it_) car. i really wouldn't wait if i were you. pil. (_speaking from entrance to larder_) i do so on my own initiative. there are several arguments i wish to---- car. (_at window_) he's coming. pil. oh! (_hastily goes in and closes larder door_) (dorvaston _simultaneously enters at garden door_) dor. well, cook, i've got back. may i come in? car. if you like. (_drops down_ l. dorvaston _enters and locks door after him_) you needn't have locked the door. dor. don't you keep it locked? car. i do generally--it doesn't matter. (_sits_ l.) dor. the governor was seedy and left early. car. yes, he came back. dor. gone to bed, i s'pose? (_she is silent and has resumed her work_) i tried to think of something a bit more novel, but i couldn't, so i had to tell the old lady i wasn't feeling fit myself. car. why did you trouble? dor. (_crosses to top of table and puts hat down_) oh, well, don't you know, i wanted to say something to you. car. yes. (_stops work_) dor. i'm a bad hand at getting my notions into words. p'raps if you go on doing--whatever you're doing--i may manage to make a start. (_she resumes work_) that ought to look exceptional pretty when it's finished. car. do you think so? dor. yes! what--is it? car. a pudding cloth. dor. jove! you don't say so? (_laughs_) i say, you mustn't think me an awful ass! car. it doesn't matter what i think. dor. it matters to me. car. it oughtn't to matter. (_pause--he takes up the weekly journal_) dor. been doing a bit of reading? (_sits on table_ r. _corner_) car. no. that belongs to keziah. dor. this sounds promising. (_reads_) "the belted earl entered the lists with lance in rest. his shield bore for device a bar sinister with fleur de lys rampant." that ain't heraldry! car. yes, it is, (_looking up_) "family heraldry." (_he laughs_) i don't want to hurry you, but it's getting late. dor. (_rises_) well, i--i hope you haven't misunderstood my--object in--bothering you? car. i should like to think i had. dor. i don't follow. car. members of your profession don't generally make an appointment with cook in order to assure her of their respect. dor. some of us may be a bit rackety, but we know a lady when we see one, and we shouldn't treat her any different because she chose to pretend to be a cook. car. pretend? dor. (_crosses_ c. _and gets gradually to chair_ r. _of table_) why, any duffer could see--_i_ can see you were never meant to be what you are. these things generally come about through loss of coin--for instance, a woman's father speculates, and the home goes biff. he shuts up in his stride, and she takes up the running. now what that woman wants is a friend to give her the lead over the fences--a friend who don't want anything from her--will you keep your eye on that?--who don't want anything from her, but who would like awfully to do her a turn, if she'd let him. i think that goes into the four corners of what i wanted to say. (_sits_) car. (_rising_) do you know you're a wonderfully good fellow? dor. oh, rot! well, may i be--a little use to somebody for once? car. i won't borrow money of you, if you meant that. dor. false pride! car. no, that isn't it. dor. it's a devilish odd thing that every good woman is a bit of a coward, and she's always afraid of what people will say, especially if it isn't true. car. that description fits me less than any woman in the world. dor. you won't let me be of use to you, because i happen to be a man, and you happen to be a woman--ain't that so? (_rises_) i see how it is. i've made an ass of myself. you won't have my help or my friendship. car. (_rises_) i don't need the help, but i'll take the friendship. dor. thanks! car. (_shuts work-box_) what i thought about you was wrong. i beg your pardon. dor. oh, that's all right! car. (_leans on box_) now, will you do me a little favour? dor. anything! (_leans over table_) car. will you go to bed? (_he backs with surprise_) they mustn't come back and find you here. dor. of course not, i'll go at once; and if at any time you should want a pal, you'll let me---- car. hush! (_crosses to door and opens it_) i fancy i heard the key in the front door. (_she listens_) yes, it is them. miss pillenger is saying she wants to speak to me. dor. (_takes up hat_) by george! i'd better nip into the scullery. (_crosses to scullery_) car. no! dor. the larder? (_crosses to it_) car. no. go into the garden. dor. of course! stupid of me! (_he tries the door_) car. make haste. dor. can't get the beastly door open. something's wrong with the key. car. you'll be too late! (_advances towards him_) dor. here! (_opens door_) what's this? ah, the broom cupboard, any port in a storm! (_goes in_; cook _shuts door and stands there for a moment_) (miss pillenger _enters_.) miss p. cook, i remembered i hadn't ordered to-morrow's breakfast. (_crosses and sits_ r. _of table_) car. no. what would you like? (_crosses to top of table_) miss p. (_sitting_ r. _of table_) has keziah returned? car. not yet. miss p. both my brother and captain dorvaston were too unwell to remain with us. they have doubtless gone to bed, so i will ask you to go upstairs very quietly. car. certainly! i think i hear keziah. (_she goes to back-door_) miss p. she is very late. (_pause_) why don't you open the door? car. the key sticks a little. miss p. it should be oiled. (cook _opens the door and admits_ keziah, _who doesn't see_ miss pillenger) kez. oh, cook, i did enjoy myself a treat! 'e was there--and when i come out---- (_comes_ c. _and sees_ miss pillenger) oh lor! miss p. keziah! kez. yes, mum. miss p. why are you so late? kez. i dunno, mum. miss p. who is the person you spoke of when you came in? kez. what person, mum? miss p. you said distinctly _he_ was there. kez. oh, that was me sister's 'usband's brother, mum. (_winks at_ cook) 'e's a plumber, and church of england. miss p. you are aware i don't allow followers? kez. 'e don't follow _me_, mum. i did give 'im good evenin', bein', as you may say, relations, and 'e told me as my sister 'as just 'ad 'er _seventh_, and both doin' well, and---- miss p. that will do. i hope you are telling the truth. kez. oh yes, mum, it's gorspel, it is reely! miss p. mind you go upstairs quietly; your master is unwell. kez. yes, mum. (_goes to door again, winks at_ cook) good night, mum. miss p. good night! (keziah _goes out_) i'm afraid, cook, you must have had a rather dull evening. car. no, i haven't been dull. (_puts box on window-ledge and returns_) you were going to speak about the breakfast. miss p. yes. let me see, we shall have fish. (_noise in cupboard_) what was that? i heard a noise in that cupboard. car. it may have been a mouse. miss p. i didn't know we had any mice. you had better set a trap to-morrow. car. you mentioned fish? will you have it grilled? miss p. no, fried with egg and breadcrumbs. (_noise in cupboard is repeated more loudly_) that can't be a mouse. the cat must have got shut up in there. car. the cat is in the scullery. miss p. then it must be a strange cat. (_rises and crosses to_ r. c.) car. (_going to cupboard, her hand on knob_) strange cats sometimes fly at you. if you'll go, i'll see to it. i'm not nervous. miss p. (_advances to cupboard_) neither am i. i prefer to see for myself. (_waves_ cook _back_) how this door sticks. (_she pulls at the handle of the door, which at last opens, discovering_ dorvaston) captain dorvaston! (_he comes out sheepishly; pause_) may i ask you to explain this? (dorvaston _looks first at_ miss p. _then at_ cook--_takes his hat off_) dor. well, ma'am, it ain't exactly easy to make the thing clear. miss p. i see. (_speaking at_ cook) the explanation is only too obvious. my niece has gone to her room, so i shall not disturb her to-night, but to-morrow it will be my painful duty to tell her everything. (_moves a step to the door_) dor. i say, ma'am, just a moment. miss p. (_moves toward_ cook _and stops_) as to you, cook, i will--or, rather, mr. pillenger--will speak to you in the morning. car. (_smiling_) very well! (_at top of table._ miss pillenger _moves to go_--dorvaston _intercepts her_) dor. look here, ma'am--upon my soul you must listen. i wanted to say something to cook. it was nothing--anybody might have heard it. miss p. then why conceal yourself in the broom cupboard? dor. i know the broom cupboard ain't easy to get out of. i could explain better, only i feel in such an awful hat---- miss p. you are not wearing your hat! dor. no, but--really, you know, i simply wanted-- car. captain dorvaston, don't trouble; whatever you may say miss pillenger won't believe you. miss p. that is true. there are things that cannot be explained away. the broom cupboard is one of them. (_going_) dor. but i say, ma'am! (_moves again_) miss p. (_motions him away_) good-night, captain dorvaston. (_he opens door, she goes out._ dorvaston _and_ cook _look at each other, she smiles_) dor. (_after pause_) i've made a nice mess of it. car. you have rather. (_closes cupboard door, returns_ l.) dor. if nature allowed a fella to kick himself, i'd do it with the greatest pleasure. (_comes to_ r. _and puts hat down on table_) to drag you into such a beastly muddle! and i did so want to do you a turn. car. i know you did. you meant kindly, and i'm very grateful. go to bed and forget all about it. dor. there'll be an awful row to-morrow. i'm not thinking of myself, i'm thinking about you. car. you needn't worry about me. oddly enough, i've had news to-night that makes this affair very unimportant. now i must really ask you to go. dor. all right, i'll be off. but, i say--you do forgive me? car. of course i forgive you. dor. thanks. good-night! car. good-night! (_he goes to door_ r., _then returns to table for his hat. as he does so_ pillenger _cautiously emerges from the larder. the two men face each other_) pil. hum! tut, tut! (cook _turns and sits_ l.) dor. hulloa, sir! were you in there? pil. yes--i--er--was. dor. what, all the time? pil. i had an important reason for desiring a few minutes' conversation with--er--cook. car. mr. pillenger shared your wish that i should better myself. dor. that's devilish lucky, because, as you were a witness, you can clean the slate for us, and back up what i say. pil. you fail to perceive that my perfectly innocent sojourn in the larder would be as difficult of plausible explanation as your own regrettable occupancy of the broom cupboard. dor. jove, yes, that's true! what had we better do? car. the first step--especially as you are both invalids (_the men look at each other_) is for you to go to bed. pil. the suggestion is most judicious. (_they both start for the door_; pillenger _stops dorvaston_) i think, captain dorvaston, i will precede you by a few minutes. the stairs have a tendency to creak, and would certainly do so under our combined weight. good-night. dor. good-night, sir. pil. (_is going but pauses_) with your permission i will remove my boots. (_he does so_) it would not be fair to disturb the household. good-night! (_he goes out with a boot in each hand, and his hat under his arm_) dor. (_crosses and sits_ r.) by george! then the governor was there all the time. car. yes, i was well provided with chaperonage. (_turns to mantel and puts gas out, takes candlestick from bracket and crosses to window_) dor. it don't get you out of the mess, that's the worst of it. car. (_shutting the window and then crossing to larder_) you needn't mind me. dor. i'm bound to mind you. are you sure there's nothing i could do to help you--in any sort of way? car. no. (_shuts door; her eye goes to scullery_) well, there is one thing you could do for me--if you really mean what you say. dor. i swear i do! (_rises_) car. (_crosses_ c.) what i should want you to do would be rather a nuisance. are you sure you wouldn't mind? dor. try me. car. well, there's a man in the scullery. dor. another man! car. yes. i fancy you'll find he is asleep against the sink. dor. is he, by george? car. might i trouble you to fetch him out? (_crosses to dresser and lights candle_) dor. eh? what? oh, certainly! (_he goes to scullery, opens door and discovers_ crayll _asleep in a sitting position_; dorvaston _picks him up, places him in a chair_ r. _of table_) there you are! (cook _crosses with candle, and light falls on_ crayll's _face_) why, it's crayll! (_looks at_ cook) car. yes. dor. he's as drunk as a fiddler. car. yes. he called on me this evening, rather to my inconvenience. dor. did he? car. might i ask you--to put him somewhere for me? (dorvaston _looks at her wonderingly_) there's a dry ditch--at the end of the garden--that would do. dor. anything you wish, of course. car. thanks! (_turns_ b. _gas out_) dor. then you know crayll? car. yes. (_turning to_ dorvaston) he was my husband at one time. (_turns out gas_) dor. (_in an amazed whisper_) what! car. good-night! (_she goes out quietly at door_ r.) _the stage is now dark except the moonlight which streams in at door._ dorvaston _stands transfixed with astonishment--then he puts on his hat--goes up and opens the back door--returns--picks up_ crayll _and carries him up stage. as he does so the_ curtain falls. act iii. scene.--_the vicarage library (according to plan)._ time.--_early next morning._ (_when the act opens the stage is dark, but the morning sun shines in through the chinks of the shutters_; lucy _enters in white biking costume; she steals downstairs, puts jacket on chair_ r., _crosses to_ o.p. _windows, opens shutters, and draws curtains--crosses to back and does the same; then waves handkerchief to_ thorsby, _and runs up stairs again; stands looking off, to see no one has heard; after a moment_ thorsby _enters; steals to balustrade and kisses_ lucy's _hand, which is on the balustrade_.) thor. darling! lucy. hush! thor. mustn't i?--on our wedding day? lucy. no! thor. oh! lucy. at least--whatever you wish to convey to me must be done in dumb show. thor. i see. (_he kisses her_) lucy. mind my hat. (_looks off_) when we have been married a few years you'll realize that my hats must be treated very respectfully. thor. i suppose the household is still in bed? lucy. yes. (_crosses to settle and sits on_ r. _end_) i crept downstairs feeling like a burglar. i had one awful moment--i stumbled over auntie's shoes--they were outside her door. thor. my dearest--that was rather careless. (_leans on post_) lucy. careless! auntie's shoes aren't easy to avoid in a narrow passage. it was all right. uncle and aunty were still asleep--i could hear them---- thor. and captain dorvaston? lucy. oh! i expect jack was asleep, too, not dreaming the hour of his emancipation was at hand. poor old jack! i wish he was coming with us. thor. hum! do you? lucy. i wish he could have given me away. thor. i--hardly share that feeling. lucy. you don't know him; he'd have done it in a minute if i'd asked him. i'd have told him all about it, only he's such a clumsy old duffer; he might have given me away in a different sense. thor. you seem to place great reliance on his affection for you. lucy. he has tons of affection for me--tons--but not love--at least, not the business article you and i deal in. (thorsby _goes to embrace her, she waves him off_) by the way, harry, (_she is putting on her gloves_) there are one or two points we have never properly settled. thor. what are they? lucy. i mean to be a clinking parson's wife. thor. darling! (_moves to her, she waves him off as before_) lucy. hold on! i mean to be a clinking parson's wife, but i have my limitations. church on sunday--how many times? thor. (_hesitatingly_) three? lucy. oh, no! mornings generally, evenings sometimes, afternoons never. thor. never? lucy. never! (thorsby _moves to_ c.; lucy _rises and follows_) now you're shocked--your face has grown a couple of inches longer. well, if i'm not orthodox enough for you it's off, and i'll go back to bed again. (_moves to go_) thor. lucy dear, (_catches her arm_) in answer to what you said, i shall merely exact one promise. lucy. which is? thor. that in all things--and in all seasons--you will do--or not do--whatever you please. do you promise? lucy. (_after slight pause. she puts left hand on shoulder_) harry, i do promise; it shall be exactly as you say. indeed, indeed, i'll keep my word. now then, fasten my glove, and we'll go and get it over. (_he proceeds to fasten her glove, as_ caroline _enters, carrying a small tray with coffee, bread and butter, etc.; she also carries a large shoe under her arm_) car. (_at top of stairs_) i beg your pardon. (lucy _and_ thorsby _are much startled_. thorsby _moves away towards table_ r.c.) lucy. cook! thor. dear me! car. i hope i didn't startle you? lucy. oh, no! thor. not at all! car. (_comes down, and stands at bottom of stairs_) i thought you might like a cup of coffee (_smiling_) to help you face the ordeal. lucy. was that why you wanted to know last night what time i meant to start? car. no. i told you i wanted to think of you, and wish you luck. the coffee was an afterthought. lucy. i see. car. won't you both sit down and have it comfortably? lucy. is it safe to wait? (_crosses up_ c. _and looks off--anxiously_) car. quite. lucy. keziah? car. keziah is not awake--i wrapped the alarum in a blanket. (lucy _crosses to top_; thorsby _to_ r.; cook _crosses to top of chair and puts tray on table and shoe on chair_ l.; lucy _and_ thorsby _then sit_) lucy. it has probably dawned on you, harry, that cook is a good friend of ours? thor. it has, indeed! (_he rises, bows--sits again_) car. cook was once young herself--it was some years ago--but she hasn't forgotten the circumstances. (_to_ lucy) milk and sugar? lucy. thanks. (_she holds cup to her_) car. mr. thorsby? thor. if you please--two lumps. (_she hands cup to him_) car. bread and butter? (_they both take some_) it isn't up to much--yesterday's loaf--but it was the best i could do. and how do you both feel? nervous? lucy. beastly nervous! (_eating_) thor. (_eating_) the moment is naturally a solemn one. i feel anxious, but not nervous. (_takes up cup and drinks_) lucy. oh, it's all right for you; you've tied up such a lot of poor misguided people, that you know the words backwards. it's different with me--i know i shall bungle it. car. there are only three words that really signify. lucy. which three? car. love, honor, and obey. lucy. i think i can manage the first two, but i mean to slur the third, (thorsby _drops cup in saucer_) cough, or sneeze or something. thor. (_to_ caroline, _smiling_) that sounds rather an alarming prospect. don't you pity me? car. (_glancing at_ lucy, _and also smiling_) no, i don't think i do. (_crosses_ c.) how do you go to church? lucy. (_rising_) we are going to bike there. by-the-bye, would you tell somebody--auntie or jack--anybody will do--that i've run over to see my friend, jenny thornton, and they're not to wait breakfast? thor. (_rising_) my dear lucy, ought we to involve a third person in our deception? car. the third person hasn't a very tender conscience in such matters. (_to_ lucy) i'll tell your little fib for you with pleasure. lucy. (_leans over chair, sees shoe_) there, harry, i knew she would. thank you, cook. (_taking up the shoe which_ cook _has placed on a chair_) what's this? car. (c.) i wanted to throw a shoe after you, and that was the only one i could find. it's one of your aunt's--she put it outside her door to be cleaned. thor. dear me! it looks rather formidable. car. it _is_ large! we'll hope that the luck it brings will be proportionate. now, i should say it was time for you to go. thor. (_going up to window_) yes, i don't think we ought to delay. lucy. (_puts shoe down again, crosses up to window, and down to below table_ c.) all right, come along. stop a second though. i say, harry, have you got everything? thor. (_returns from_ r.) got everything? (cook _crosses to back of table, and puts things on tray_) lucy. everybody's fee. i should like to do the thing well. thor. yes. lucy. how about the ring? thor. eh? oh, yes, i--(_searching his pockets_) i bought it yesterday. (_still searching_) lucy. very likely, but have you got it with you to-day? thor. i certainly think so. i have a distinct recollection of putting it in my waistcoat pocket. (_still searching_) lucy. you've lost it. (_to_ cook) there's a pretty mess! thor. ah! here it is. (cook _crosses to_ c.) there is a hole in the pocket, and it had slipped down into the lining. lucy. (_to_ cook) thank goodness! that would have been a nice thing, wouldn't it? car. (_to_ lucy) will you wear this? it's only syringa, but it looks like orange blossom. (lucy _and_ thorsby _exchange glances_) i picked it for you this morning. lucy. (_fixing it_) you _have_ been kind to me, and i've no means of thanking you. will you stoop down and let me kiss you? (cook _does so_) i'm afraid that's all i can do. car. i'm quite repaid. i fancy mr. thorsby agrees with me. (lucy _crosses up to window_) thor. (_goes up_ r. _a little; takes_ lucy's _coat with him_) good-bye! may i add my thanks also? car. not at all. good-bye. lucy. (_crosses down again to_ cook) it isn't good-bye--we're coming back as soon as it's over; and we mean to tell everything to everybody. so we shall see you again. car. one never knows what may happen. i think we'll make it good-bye. (_puts hand on_ lucy's _shoulder_) now, go along and get married, and live happy ever after, as they do in the fairy tales. (thorsby _goes out of the window_; lucy _follows, but turns and kisses her hand. they go_) (cook _follows them to the verandah, and throws shoe as she returns for tray_. dorvaston _enters from_ o. p. _door_.) dor. hulloa! good-morning! car. (_at top of table_) good morning. rather a close shave. dor. i beg your pardon? car. nothing! (_is taking up tray_) dor. (_at top of table_ r. _of_ cook) look here, don't go. i want to have half a word with you. car. well? dor. i--saw to that little job. car. yes? dor. i--put him in the ditch. car. thanks. did he say anything? dor. (_top of table_) he muttered something about another whiskey, and that he would like to be called about nine. now would you mind telling me a little about it all? give you my word it ain't mere curiosity, it's interest in you and everything that concerns you. car. (_at back of chair_ l.) i told you the chief thing last night. mr. crayll was my husband at one time. dor. you say he was your husband. car. yes. we are divorced. dor. oh, that was it! (_pause_) i haven't known your--er--i haven't known crayll more than a day or two, but i can see he's an awful little swine. i suppose he treated you anyhow? car. yes. is there anything else you would like me to tell you? dor. it's extraordinary good of you to give me your confidence. car. you've earned it. (_takes tray, and turns_) dor. (_crosses behind her, to her_ l.) well then, i say, what are you going to do now? car. see to the breakfast. dor. no, no! i mean about--miss pillenger--and--the broom cupboard. there'll be an infernal row, and i'm afraid you'll get beans. car. (_smiles_) i'm used to handling all kinds of vegetables. (dorvaston _laughs too_) as i told you last night, it doesn't matter. dor. (_sits_ l. _of table_) but, by george, it _does_ matter! when i asked you then to let me be of use to you, i put it to you as a favor, now i ask it as a right. i got you into this mess, simply through my beastly clumsiness, and you've got to let me see you through it somehow. car. (_back of table_) news has reached me, in rather a roundabout way, that i have come into some money; so you see i'm independent--of miss pillenger--and the broom cupboard. dor. really? car. really! dor. you're not--pulling my leg? car. (_smiling_) no! dor. then i'm devilish glad for your sake, and devilish sorry for my own. i thought at last i saw my way--to doing you a turn. car. (_places her hand on chair at back of_ dorvaston) my life hasn't been a very pleasant one, but in one respect i've been lucky, i have known two men who honestly tried to befriend a woman. dor. who was the other chap? car. his name is carruthers. dor. not old bob? (_rises and backs_ c.) car. (_affirmatively_) old bob. dor. why, he's a dear pal of mine! car. is he? dor. and did he try to be a pal to _you_? car. i was thinking of his kindness to lady huntworth. dor. ah, how about lady huntworth? did you know her? car. yes! (_smiling_) we are rather intimate--like myself she was unfortunate in her choice of a husband. dor. huntworth brought the divorce, didn't he? car. yes. thinking he saw his way to marrying another woman, with another fortune, he brought his suit against his wife and your friend. dor. damn him! pardon! couldn't help it. (_crosses and kneels on chair_ l. _of table_) car. the whole thing was utterly untrue and i know she asked bob to join her in making no defence rather than remain lady huntworth. dor. the only thing that rather fogs me is, when the verdict was once given, why didn't bob marry her? car. he did suggest it. dor. well? car. she said no. dor. why did she do that? car. she knew he didn't care for _her_, nor she for _him_--at least not in that way. dor. (_rises, crosses_ c.) still, it was game of her to refuse! there ain't many women placed as she was who'd have done it. (_goes up and leans on balustrade, thinking_) car. perhaps not. (_pause--takes up tray and crosses_ c.; _as she moves_ c. dorvaston _turns and places hand on tray_) i must go now. dor. no, wait one minute. i'm going on duty directly. my duty is to make lucy a happy little woman and i mean to do it. but you seem to be going down rather a lonely road and i want you to remember that somewhere or other there is an old duffer lumbering about the world who will never forget you--will you remember? car. i shall remember. (_pulls tray away_) now i really can't stay any longer. (_crosses to first step_) dor. (_holding out his hand_) i say! (_she turns--places tray on balustrade_) will you? car. of course! why not? (_they shake hands_) dor. supposing i'd been a free man, do you think you--could---- car. oh! (_draws hand away and takes up tray, moves to second step_) that opens out a very large question. i haven't time to answer that. dor. (_touches her on shoulder, she turns_) i wonder if we shall ever come across each other in the future? car. (_looking at him_) more unlikely things have happened. (_mounts third step, turns to him_) good-bye! (_exit_) (dorvaston _sinks into big chair lost in thought, takes out cigarette case_. gandy _enters, door_ r., _and is crossing the stage_.) dor. good morning! (gandy _crosses from_ o.p. _to steps_) gan. mornin'. (c.) dor. got a match about you? gan. no. (_crosses to mantel_) there should be a box 'ere. (_goes to mantel_) there is! (_he brings them to_ dorvaston) dor. (_taking them, rises_) thanks! i suppose the papers haven't come yet? gan. they 'aven't. dor. you seem a trifle down. not quite your own bright self, are you? (_lights cigarette_) gan. i ain't! dor. you went to see your mother, didn't you? gan. yes. dor. hope you found her feeling fit? gan. she's fit enough! it's me. dor. what's the matter? (_hands back matches_) gan. weal cutlet for supper--that's wot's the matter! (dorvaston _crosses up back to window_. gandy _puts matches on mantelpiece_) i've always done my dooty by mother, so i picked a bit, and then i went to bed and dreamt i was superintendin' my own funeral. weal cutlet! (_crosses up steps_) mother gets above herself. dor. (_at window_) have you tried a drop of brandy? gan. i 'ave. (_first step_) dor. i should try another. gan. (_second step_) i mean to. (dorvaston _strolls out through the window and off_ r. miss pillenger _enters_ l., gandy _giving way_) miss p. gandy, can you tell me what has happened to my shoes? gan. no. miss p. i put them outside my door last night, but this morning i find one of them still uncleaned and the other has disappeared. you haven't seen it, i suppose? gan. i 'aven't. miss p. very singular! (_crosses to window up back._ gandy _goes up stairs_) have you seen miss lucy? she is not in her room! gan. no. (mr. pillenger _enters_ l. gandy _gives way. he has cut his cheek while shaving and is wearing a piece of black sticking plaster._) pil. good morning! miss p. good morning, audley. pil. (_to_ gandy) has the post come? gan. no, it ain't. (_he goes off_ l.) miss p. you appear to have had an accident. pil. accident! miss p. in completing your toilette. pil. eh? hum--yes. the razor slipped. my nervous system is slightly disorganized. miss p. the result of last night. pil. (_startled_) last night? i--er--fail to understand you. miss p. i was referring to your indisposition. pil. oh!--ah!--exactly. (_crosses to window_) miss p. are you going out? pil. i thought the fresh morning air might be beneficial. miss p. i must ask you to remain. i have a most painful subject to talk over with you. (_sits_ r.) pil. need we deal with it now? painful subjects should never be discussed on an empty--before breakfast. miss p. it does not admit of delay. we may have to face a serious scandal. pil. (_crosses to chair_ l.) scandal! i trust, hannah, you are weighing your words very carefully. miss p. i am not in the habit of speaking heedlessly. what i have to tell you refers to cook--(dorvaston _appears at the window--he has_ miss pillenger's _shoe in his hand_)--and to captain dorvaston. (dorvaston _enters smoking_.) pil. ah! here--is--er--captain dorvaston. (_he crosses to_ l. _and indicates to_ dorvaston _that_ miss pillenger _is in the room_. dorvaston _throws cigarette away and comes to top of chair_ r. c.) dor. good morning, sir. good morning, ma'am! (miss pillenger _bows frigidly_. dorvaston _crosses to chair_) pil. hannah was just--er--mentioning, as you entered, that--you---- dor. (_quietly beating the back of chair with shoe_) yes, i fancied i caught my name. what were you saying, ma'am? miss p. i was saying, captain dorvaston---- (_she notices the shoe_) what are you doing with that shoe? dor. just picked it up. miss p. why did you touch it? your doing so seems to me to be strangely wanting in delicacy. dor. don't see anything indelicate in picking up an old shoe. i found it on the garden path. miss p. my shoe on the garden path! dor. yours! i thought it was gandy's. miss p. if you thought to keep me a prisoner in my room by the removal of my shoe, the expedient was abortive. i have several other pairs. dor. don't know what the deuce you're driving at, ma'am. sorry i disturbed the thing. shall i put it back? miss p. i will thank you to restore it to me. (dorvaston _hands shoe, and_ miss pillenger _crosses, and puts it on cabinet_ r.) thank you! (_she returns and sits_ l. _of table_) now, with your permission, i will resume what i was saying to mr. pillenger when you came in. (_the men exchange glances_) i warned you last night i should consider it my duty to acquaint lucy with the details of--my--very painful discovery (dorvaston _starts to go off at window_; pillenger _follows his example upstairs_) but i find she has gone out for a walk--at least so i imagine. well--audley--audley (miss pillenger _calls_ pillenger _back, and he calls_ dorvaston _back_; pillenger _sits on settle, and_ dorvaston _leans on balustrade_) well, audley, the painful discovery i allude to was this. after returning home last night i had occasion to visit the kitchen in order to speak to cook for a moment. while doing so, i heard a mysterious noise. i investigated its origin, and found captain dorvaston concealed in the broom cupboard. he was unable to give me any lucid explanation. i now leave the matter in your hands. (_slight pause_) dor. i don't know whether it's much good me saying anything--is it, sir? pil. (_rises_) i think otherwise. (dorvaston _surprised_) i shall be very happy to hear anything you care to tell me. appearances are often misleading. miss p. but, audley, surely---- pil. hannah, the matter has now been submitted to my judgment. i shall not approach it in a spirit of carping doubt. if our dear friend can give us his personal assurance that the whole thing was--a--little joke for instance---- miss p. a little joke! pil. if he could tell us that in concealing himself in the--er--broom cupboard, he had an idea of jumping out suddenly and startling somebody by saying "boo"--not you particularly--but cook, or keziah, or myself---- miss p. you? what should you be doing in the kitchen? pil. no--that is so; but still, though i deprecate practical joking as a rule, i should consider the explanation as not being without a certain measure of antecedent plausibility. miss p. you appear to be putting words into captain dorvaston's mouth. pil. no, pardon me, i merely say that such a line of defence would carry conviction to an unbiased mind. the army is proverbially a light-hearted profession. dor. well, sir, i'm afraid i can't exactly say that. miss p. there! pil. in any case, hannah, our friend dorvaston is lucy's responsibility. (_leans on mantel_) miss p. at all events, cook is _yours_! pil. eh? hum--yes---- miss p. you will of course ring the bell and discharge her. pil. i--really think we should endeavour to avoid any---- miss p. (_rises_) her continued presence in the house would be an insult to _me_. pil. (_loudly_) to avoid any appearance of temper--do you hear me, hannah?--of temper. dor. (_coming to_ miss pillenger) upon my soul, ma'am, cook hadn't anything to do with it. i was there against her wish. pil. (_crossing to_ c.) surely that is a most convincing testimony. dor. i know last night things didn't look quite square, but whatever fault there _was_, was my fault. pil. precisely! no doubt! (_the men look at each other_) dor. i was chatting to cook--it was a stoopid thing to do--but there was no harm in it. pil. none whatever, i feel sure. dor. in fact, the governor knows there wasn't! miss p. how should my brother know? pil. hum!--tut--tut! dor. how! why, because he was in the lar---- (_pause_, miss pillenger _stares, both men stare at each other with their mouths open_) pil. (_eagerly_) i was sure to take a broad-minded view. doubtless that is our friend's meaning. dor. yes, that is what i meant. it got late, and i heard you coming, ma'am, and i knew you're a bit strict, don't you know! pil. quite so! dor. and as i was supposed to be seedy, i thought you'd take my being there the wrong way, don't you see? so i--nipped into the broom cupboard, don't you understand? (_crosses up back_) pil. (_crosses to top of table_) to a moderately impartial intelligence the whole thing is as clear as day, and really reflects discredit on no one. miss p. is it your intention to say nothing to cook on the subject? pil. i think we should give her to understand that careful investigation has tended to modify our original misconception of the true facts of the case. miss p. (_rising_) then, audley, i have this to say---- (_crosses to_ r.) (gandy _enters_ l.) gan. (_at top of steps_) i've just found a gent in the dry ditch at the end of the garden. pil. (_pause_) a gent in the ditch! (dorvaston _crosses to balustrade_) what gent?--er--gentleman? gan. 'e was asleep and i shook 'im--'e grunted, and i shook 'im again. 'e says his name's crayll, and 'e'd like to see you. pil. crayll! (_to_ dorvaston) that is the person who called on you yesterday? dor. yes, i know him. pil. he wished to see _me_? (_to_ gandy) gan. 'e said so. pil. show him in. (gandy _goes out_. dorvaston _crosses_ l.) surely a most singular circumstance! why did he go to sleep in my ditch? (miss pillenger _crosses up to top of window_) dor. i suppose, as he's an acquaintance of mine, he thought you wouldn't object. pil. he must be very eccentric. (_crosses to_ r. _corner_) dor. yes, he's a rum sort of chap! (gandy _enters, followed by_ crayll, _who looks rather dilapidated_) gan. mr. crayll! (_at top of steps--he goes out_--crayll _is at top of steps_) cray. good mornin'! (_at top of steps_) pil. good morning! cray. (_to_ dorvaston) how are you? (_crosses down and puts hat on settle_) dor. how are you? cray. think i'll sit down. (_crosses_ r.) feel rather shaky. (_he sits_ l. _of table_; dorvaston _is standing with his back to the fireplace_) pil. by all means. (_indicating_ miss pillenger) my sister! cray. oh! (_he nods carelessly_) pil. but, my dear sir, (_sits_ r.) i understand you passed the night--or some portion of it--in er--the ditch? cray. 'pears i did. pil. but--how did you get there? cray. how the devil should i know? pil. tut, tut! cray. i must have bin sprung last night, that's about the size of it. i seem to recollect somebody pickin' me up, and then chuckin' me down again, like a sack of coals. (_to_ pillenger) it wasn't you, was it? pil. certainly not! but you seem to be shivering. may i offer you anything? miss p. (_from back of table--coming down a little_) a hot cup of tea? cray. tea be damned! pil. tut! (miss pillenger _is shocked, and goes up_) cray. no, i should like a hair of the dog that bit me. pil. (_rises excitedly and leans over table_) bitten by a dog! good heavens! my dear sir, the place should be cauterised at once--no time should be lost! cray. oh, don't be such an ass! i mean whiskey. (_looking closely at_ pillenger) what's that on your face? what is it? what's that filthy black thing crawling over your face? pil. i--er--you probably---- cray. what is it? (_loudly--rises excitedly_) why the devil don't you tell me what it is? pil. a slight accident in shaving. my razor is somewhat out of condition--merely sticking plaster. cray. oh! (_subsiding_) thought it was a spider. (_pause_) i want to talk to you. pil. yes. (_sits_) cray. want to say a word or two about your cook. (dorvaston _makes a slight movement_; miss pillenger _crosses down to chair_) pil. indeed! cray. i s'pose you didn't know much about her when you took her. did you? miss p. no. pil. hannah, permit me! in answer to your inquiry, i may say we obtained the highest testimonials from the duchess of sturton. cray. oh yes, that's all right--they're pals. (_all start_) did she tell you your cook was married. miss p. married? pil. hannah! hannah! no, sir, she did not. cray. well she _is_. did she say she was a well-known society woman, who wasn't living with her husband? miss p. good gracious! pil. her grace did not mention the fact--if it _is_ a fact. cray. it _is_--you may lay your shirt on it. that ain't quite the sort of party you want in your kitchen, is it? now i happen to know the husband'd be willin' to overlook the past--and take her back again---- pil. er--really? cray. he's a good-natured beggar, and he don't bear malice. he put it to her, but she's an obstinate devil--she didn't listen to reason. now it struck me that as you're a magpie---- pil. tut! miss p. a magpie? cray. beg pardon--i mean as you're a parson, with your eye on the marriage service--"those who heaven joined" and all that kind of thing--you might see your way to chuckin' her out, neck and crop, without a character--d'you see?--and so bring her to a sense of dooty. miss p. really, audley, there is something to be said for this gentleman's suggestion. pil. whatever course it may ultimately be desirable for me to adopt, i shall require more definite information than i at present possess as to the intentions and--er--general identity--of the alleged husband. cray. you can have it. i'm her husband. pil. you! (miss pillenger _also conveys surprise_) cray. yes, you ask her; she'll admit she's been married all right. miss p. i'll ring for her at once. (_makes movement, rises and crosses to_ l.) cray. (_hastily_) hold hard! stop that, old woman! (miss pillenger _pauses_) i don't want to see her--there wouldn't be any good in that--the meeting would be painful all round. (_rising_) no! you do what i say--tell her to pack up her traps and go--and then my arms will be open to her. (miss pillenger _returns and sits_) good mornin'! (_crosses_ c.) (crayll _goes_ l., dorvaston _intercepts him_.) dor. you're not leaving us? cray. yes, i am! dor. i think not! cray. what d'you mean? i suppose i can go when i like? (_moves forward_) dor. you will go when i like; and before you do, you've got to face the lady you've just been trying to injure. sit down there (_pointing to settle_) and don't move, or i shall hurt you! (crayll _hesitates_) sit down! (crayll _sits sulkily_) now i'm going to ring the bell, and mr. pillenger will send for mrs. crayll; but if you try to get away, i shall probably hurt you rather badly. do you follow me? cray. yes. dor. that's all right. (_crosses and rings bell; to_ mr. pillenger) sorry to take the business out of your hands, sir, but we've got to see it through, don't you know? pil. i think it would undoubtedly be desirable. (gandy _enters_) will you ask mrs.--er--i mean--er--kindly inform cook we should like to speak to her. (gandy _goes out_, miss pillenger _sits; long pause, during which no one moves_) er--wonderful how the--eh--fine weather lasts! (_another pause_) (_then_ caroline _enters in outdoor costume; she is putting on her gloves. she comes down the steps and advances quietly to the table._) car. you have something to say to me? miss p. yes, we have. car. that is fortunate, because i have something to say to you. pil. (miss pillenger _makes to speak_) hannah, you will greatly oblige me by remaining silent. we wished, cook---- car. (_near chair_ c.) pardon me, mr. pillenger, i have no longer any claim to that title--i beg to hand in my resignation. pil. you contemplate leaving us? car. yes. i've sent for a fly. miss p. audley, since this lady objects to be referred to as cook, i think you should address her by her name--her real name. car. (_glancing at_ miss pillenger) i doubt if you know it. miss p. we are better informed than you imagine, mrs. crayll! car. oh, that's it! pil. (_rises_) my dear madam, pray believe the--er--somewhat startling information came to us unsought. our informant was that gentleman. (_points to_ crayll) car. what gentleman? dor. (_to_ crayll) you can stand up now. (crayll _rises and crosses down_ l. c., _and advances a step or two_. cook _turns and sees him_) car. i see! (_slight pause_) well, what has he told you? miss p. this gentleman came here this morning to beg us---- car. to turn me out? miss p. be that as it may, he is anxious to make an appeal to his, i fear, misguided wife. car. is he indeed? cray. i've been tellin' 'em i want you to come back--man can't say more, can he? car. what else did he tell you? miss p. he mentioned you were a well-known woman in society--and that you had been living apart from your husband. car. quite so! was that all he said? pil. i think that embraced the whole of mr. crayll's statement. (_pause_) car. up to a certain point he told the truth. i did marry him some years ago. miss p. you concealed the fact when you entered our service. car. it wasn't a thing i felt inclined to boast of. as he was so confidential, it seems odd he forgot to tell you we were recently divorced. pil. divorced! miss p. divorced! car. there is one other thing--i think it is only fair you should know what a distinguished individual you have been entertaining in the person of mr. crayll. cray. keep your infernal tongue between your teeth! car. this gentleman---- cray. i shan't stay here to be baited--and badgered. (_going_) dor. (_advancing_) you'll stay where you are! car. this gentleman is lord huntworth, i am--i was lady huntworth. (_all convey astonishment_) last night lord huntworth dropped in the kitchen a letter. it was from a firm of solicitors. cray. (_putting his hand to his breast pocket_) damn! car. telling him i had inherited a large sum of money. lord huntworth is rather hard up just now. there is nothing unusual in the circumstance, but i mention it because it explains the reason of his generous offer to condone the past. (_pause_) here is your letter; (_producing it_) you needn't trouble to answer it--i shall call on messrs. brampton and stokes in the course of the day. (crayll _snatches the letter_) i don't think we need detain you any longer, need we? (crayll _turns for hat_ l., _snarls at_ dorvaston _and exits up steps_; caroline _watches him off_) pil. is it actually the case that you are the lady huntworth? car. (_turns to the_ pillengers) yes, i am the lady huntworth who is so widely and so very unfavourably known. (_turns to_ dorvaston) would you oblige me by ringing the bell, captain dorvaston? dor. certainly? (_he does so_) car. (_again speaking to the_ pillengers) if i thought there was even a chance that you could understand my doing what i have done i would try to make it clear to you, but you couldn't--i should only waste your time and my own. (gandy _enters_) gandy, has the fly come? gan. it 'as. car. thanks! good-bye! (_she holds out her hand, he takes it respectfully_) we've been good friends, haven't we? gan. we 'ave; servin' with you 'as bin a honour. (_exit_) car. (_smiling and to the_ pillengers) mr. pillenger--(_he rises_) you have done everything in your power to render my little experiment a pleasant one. i am grateful; and if your thoughts should ever turn in my direction i hope you will let your mind dwell on the excellence of my curried chicken, rather than on the supposed hopelessness of my moral character. good-bye. pil. (_bows sadly_) good-bye! (_sits disconsolate_; cook _nods to_ mr. pillenger _pleasantly; then turns and gives a very stately bow to_ miss pillenger, _who stiffly returns it_; cook _then goes_ l., _but pauses as she mounts the steps and speaks to_ dorvaston) car. we have already taken leave of each other, but it has occurred to me that perhaps you might care to let me hear from you. i am leaving england for some time, but that address will find me. (_gives a card to him_) poste restante, brussels. dor. poste restante, brussels. car. yes. good-bye! dor. (_with a sigh_) good-bye! (_sits down on settle; she goes out_) (_after she has gone_ dorvaston _sits pensively on the settle; there is a pause; all three sit staring at nothing; then_ gandy _enters with newspapers at window; he goes to_ pillenger.) gan. (_crosses to_ r. _to_ pillenger) "standard!" (pillenger _takes it, but allows it to drop by his side_; gandy _then crosses to_ miss pillenger) "church times!" (_he then crosses to_ dorvaston _and hands him the other paper_) "sportin' life!" (pillenger _and_ dorvaston _pick up papers and try to read_; miss dorvaston _reads_, gandy _goes up two steps, then turns_) 'ow about dinner? pil. eh? dor. what? gan. 'ow about dinner? pil. don't dare allude to it. (_rises and sits at exit_) dor. get out of the room! (_rises and sits at exit_) (gandy _goes out, the two men open their papers firmly and begin to read_; lucy _enters at window followed nervously by_ thorsby--lucy _dragging him into_ c.; lucy _is_ l. c., thorsby r. c.) lucy. good-morning, everybody! miss p. good morning! pil. (_not looking up_) good morning! dor. (_doing the same_) good morning! lucy. i've brought mr. thorsby with me. miss p. good day, mr. thorsby! (_he bows_) dor. (_not looking round_) ah, thorsby! (thorsby _bows_) dor. (_not looking round_) how are you, thorsby? (thorsby _bows once more_) lucy. we've just been married. miss p. } what? (_all rise and throw down papers_; pil. } dorvaston _immediately takes bradshaw off_ dor. } _mantel and sits on settle looking out trains_) lucy. uncle, it wasn't harry's doing, so if you feel riled you must pitch into me. i'm responsible. harry hated the deception all through--didn't you? thor. i---- lucy. all right, don't interrupt. we started early, biked over to ingledene church--did the trick--rode back, and we want everybody's blessing, and a good breakfast. pil. as you are practically independent of my control i fear i have no power to withhold the blessing. the good breakfast may be less easily obtained. lucy. why? pil. cook has left us? (_crosses up to desk_ r., _kicking the papers from his feet viciously as he goes_) lucy. oh! i'm sorry! she got up early, and made us some coffee, (_takes hat up_ r. c.) dor. then she knew? lucy. of course she did! i told her. miss p. she would naturally take a prominent part in any duplicity. (_crossing to window_; thorsby _goes up after her to make his peace_) lucy. that's all rot. she was a real good sort--a long way better than most of us (_she goes to_ dorvaston) jack, old boy! dor. yes, little woman? (_sitting_ l. _looking at bradshaw_) lucy. you're the only one that matters. i cared for harry--and you didn't care for me--did you? tell me you didn't, or i shall hate myself. you'd have married me and tried to look pleasant, but it would have taken you all your time. now, jack, i want to hear you take your oath you don't mind. dor. (_rises_) mind! (_rings bell, returns, and takes_ lucy _by both hands_) my dear child, you don't know what a turn you've done me by throwing me over for a better man. mind? (_crosses to_ thorsby, _claps him on the shoulder_) my dear thorsby, i wish you all the luck you could wish yourself--and you'll get it! a chap who could carry out a thing of this kind in such an exceptional way has all the makings of a future bishop. (gandy _enters_) pack my things at once; i must catch the : to town. (gandy _goes out_) lucy. going to leave us? dor. (_crosses to_ lucy) i must, little woman--but i won't forget to send you a wedding present--silver mug--no, that's later! (lucy _crosses to_ thorsby u. b. _to_ pillenger) good-bye, sir. (pillenger _rises, and they shake hands across the table, he then sits again_) keep your head up and your liver active. pil. good-bye! dor. (_to_ miss pillenger) good-bye, ma'am. i mean to be quite respectable by the time we meet again. (_they shake hands_) miss p. i hope so. dor. (_to_ thorsby) good-bye, young fellah! give that little filly her head, and she won't want the whip. (_crosses_ l. _of_ lucy _and the others_) good-bye, little woman! (_kisses her_) god bless you! (_kisses her--runs up steps_) lucy. good-bye, dear old boy! (_leans over balustrade; he is going_) you'll let us hear from you? dor. yes! (_runs up steps_) lucy. where will a letter find you? dor. (_hastily taking out card and looking at it. turns to her_) poste restante, brussels! (_as he goes off the_ curtain falls. transcriber's notes silently corrected simple spelling, grammar, and typographical errors. retained anachronistic and non-standard spellings as printed. enclosed italics font in _underscores_. enclosed distinctive font in ~tildes~. the last of mrs. debrugh by h. sivia [transcriber note: this etext was produced from weird tales october . extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the u.s. copyright on this publication was renewed.] [sidenote: _mr. debrugh was dead, but he still regarded his promise as a sacred duty to be carried out.+] "letty," mr. debrugh remarked between long puffs on his meerschaum, "you've been a fine maid. you've served mrs. debrugh and me for most of fifteen years. now i haven't much more time in this life, and i want you to know that after mrs. debrugh and i are gone, you will be well taken care of." letty stopped her dusting of the chairs in mr. debrugh's oak-paneled study. she sighed and turned toward the man, who sat on a heavy sofa, puffing on his pipe and gazing across the room into nothingness. "you mustn't talk that way, mr. debrugh," she said. "you know you're a long time from the dark ways yet." she paused, and then went on dusting and talking again. "and me--humph--i've only done what any ordinary human would do to such a kind employer as you, sir. especially after all you've done for me." he didn't say anything, and she went on with her work. of course she liked to work for him. she had adored the kindly old man since first she had met him in an agency fifteen years before. a person couldn't ask for a better master. but there was the mistress, mrs. debrugh! it was she who gave letty cause for worry. what with her nagging tongue and her sharp rebukes, it was a wonder letty had not quit long before. she would have quit, too, but there had been the terrible sickness she had undergone and conquered with the aid of the ablest physicians mr. debrugh could engage. she couldn't quit after that, no matter what misery mrs. debrugh heaped on her. and so she went about her work at all hours, never tiring, always striving to please. she left the study, closing the great door silently behind her, for old mr. debrugh had sunk deeper into the sofa, into the realms of peaceful sleep, and she did not wish to disturb him. "letty!" came the shrill cry of mrs. debrugh from down the hall. "get these pictures and take them to the attic at once. and tell mr. debrugh to come here." letty went for the pictures. "mr. debrugh is asleep," she said, explaining why she was not obeying the last command. "well, i'll soon fix that! lazy old man! sleeps all day with that smelly pipe between his teeth. if he had an ounce of pep about him, he'd get out and work the flowers. sleeps too much anyway. not good for him." she stamped out of the room and down the hall, and letty heard her open the door of the study and scream at her husband. "hector debrugh! wake up!" there was a silence, during which letty wondered what was going on. then she heard the noisy clop-clop of mrs. debrugh's slippers on the hardwood floor of the study, and she knew the woman was going to shake the daylights out of mr. debrugh and frighten him into wakefulness. she could even imagine she heard mrs. debrugh grasp the lapels of her husband's coat and shake him back and forth against the chair. then she heard the scream. it came quite abruptly from mrs. debrugh in the study, and it frightened letty out of her wits momentarily. after that there was the thud of a falling body and the clatter of an upset piece of furniture. letty hurried out of the room into the hall and through the open door of the study. she saw mrs. debrugh slumped on the floor in a faint, and beside her an upset ash-tray. but her eyes did not linger on the woman, nor the tray. instead, they focussed on the still form of mr. debrugh in the sofa. he was slumped down, his head twisted to one side and his mouth hanging open from the shaking mrs. debrugh had given him. the meerschaum had slipped from between his teeth, and the cold ashes were scattered on his trousers. even then, before the sea of tears began to flow from her eyes, letty knew the old man was dead. she knew what he had meant by the speech he had said to her only a few minutes before. * * * * * "his heart," was the comment of the doctor who arrived a short time later and pronounced the old man dead. "he had to go. today, tomorrow. soon." after that, he put mrs. debrugh to bed and turned to letty. "mrs. debrugh is merely suffering from a slight shock. there is nothing more that i can do. when she awakens, see that she stays in bed. for the rest of the day." he left then, and letty felt a strange coldness about the place, something that had not been there while mr. debrugh was alive. she went downstairs and made several telephone calls which she knew would be necessary. later, when mrs. debrugh was feeling better, other arrangements could be made. she straightened the furniture in the study, pushing the familiar sofa back in place, from where mr. debrugh invariably moved it. then she knocked the ashes from the meerschaum, wiped it off, and placed it carefully in the little glass cabinet on the wall where he always kept it. times would be different now, she knew. she remembered what he had said. "you will be well taken care of." but there had been something else. "after _mrs. debrugh+ and i are gone." letty could no longer hold back the tears. she fell into a chair and they poured forth. but time always passes, and with it goes a healing balm for most all sorrows. first there was the funeral. then came other arrangements. and there was the will, which mrs. debrugh never mentioned. his things would have fallen into decay but for the hands of letty. always her dust-cloth made his study immaculate. always the sofa was in place and the pipe, clean and shining, in the cabinet. there was a different hardness about mrs. debrugh. no longer was she content with driving letty like a slave day in and day out. she became even more unbearable. there were little things, like taking away her privilege of having saturday afternoons off. and the occasional "forgetting" of letty's weekly pay. once letty thought of leaving during the night, of packing her few clothes and going for ever from the house. but that was foolish. there was no place to go, and she was getting too old for maid service. besides, hadn't mr. debrugh said she would be taken care of. "after _mrs. debrugh+ and i are gone." perhaps she would not live much longer. and then one morning mrs. debrugh called letty in to talk with her. it was the hour letty had been awaiting--and dreading. there was a harsh, gloating tone in mrs. debrugh's voice as she spoke. she was the master now. there was no hector to think of. "letty," she said, "for some time now i have been considering closing the house. i'm lonely here. i intend to go to the city and live with my sister. so, you see, i shan't be needing you any longer. i'll be leaving within the next two days. i'm sorry." letty was speechless. she had expected something terrible, but not this. this wasn't so! mrs. debrugh was lying! it was the will she was afraid of. letty remembered mr. debrugh's promise. she did not complain, however. her only words were, "i'll leave tomorrow." that night she packed her things. she had no definite plans, but she hoped something would turn up. * * * * * sleep would not come easy, so letty lay in bed and thought of old mr. debrugh. she imagined he was before her in the room, reclining on the sofa, puffing long on the meerschaum. she even saw in fancy the curling wisps of gray smoke drifting upward, upward.... it was sleep. then, with a start, she was suddenly wide awake. she had surely heard a scream. but no. and then, as soft and as silent as the night wind, came the whisper: "letty." it drifted slowly off into silence, and a cool breeze crossed her brow. she suddenly felt wet with perspiration. she listened closely, but the whisper was not repeated. then, noiselessly, she got out of bed, stepped into slippers, and drew a robe about her. just as silently she left her room and walked down the hall to mrs. debrugh's bedroom. she rapped softly on the door, fearing the wrath of the woman within at being awakened in the middle of the night. there was no answer, no sound from inside the room. letty hesitated, wondering what to do. and once more she felt that cool, death-like breeze, and heard the faintest of whispers, fainter even than the sighing of the night wind: "letty." she opened the door and switched on the light. mrs. debrugh lay in the bed as in sleep, but letty knew, as she had known about mr. debrugh, that it was more than sleep. she quickly called the doctor, and sometime much later he arrived, his eyes heavy from lack of sleep. "dead," he remarked, after looking at the body. "probably had a shock. fright, nightmare, or something her heart couldn't stand. i always thought she would have died first." letty walked slowly from the room, down the stairs, still in her robe and slippers. the doctor followed and passed her, going through the door into the outside. she walked, as though directed by some unseen force, into mr. debrugh's study. she switched on a lamp beside the sofa on which he had always sat; and she noticed that it was moved slightly out of place. there was something else about the room, some memory of old days. first she saw some sort of legal document on the table and wondered at its being there. the title said: _last will and testament of hector a. debrugh+. it was brief. she read it through and found that mr. debrugh had spoken truthfully in his promise to her. beside the will on the table was another object, and she knew then what the "something else" in the room was. the meerschaum! it lay there beside the document, and a thin spiral of grayish smoke rose upward from it toward the ceiling. no longer did letty wonder about anything. scanned images of public domain material from the google print archive. wanted: a cook wanted: a cook domestic dialogues _by_ alan dale indianapolis the bobbs-merrill company publishers copyright, the bobbs-merrill company _to_ jennie shalek: _housewife_, who, in my hour of drab and dreary cooklessness, when my heart fainted, and tragedy impended, sent her four fair daughters to my aid, with an ancient hibernian curio destined to eke out a livelihood at my expense; who knows the true inwardness of this tragic topic, and who would gladly lend a willing hand and an unwilling cook to any sufferer, i gratefully dedicate these simple, plaintive dialogues. alan dale _new york city_, _september, _ wanted: a cook chapter i my letitia! it was indeed a proud and glowing moment when i slipped the little golden circlet on her fair, slim, girlish finger, and realized that she was assuredly mine. we were so eminently suited to each other--both young, enthusiastic, and unspotted from the world. we had our own pet theories, and long before marriage we had communed on that favorite, misunderstood topic--the sanctity of the home. letitia was exceedingly well-read, and the polish upon her education shone. it was no mere thin veneer, to be worn off by a too brutal contact with the rough edges of the world. it was an ingrained polish. she adored the classics. other girls would sit down and pore over the sarah-jane romances of the hour. my letitia liked virgil. in french she was fearfully familiar with molière and racine. in german she coquetted with schiller in the most delightful manner. she knew most of the students' readings of shakespeare. in fact, she fascinated me by her arch refinement. we were both great sticklers for refinement. we pitied the poor silly things who knew how to sew and cook. refinement--we were both certain of it--was the cultivation of the gloriously useless. we despised the abominably useful. it was so sordid. we felt convinced that our "home" could be conducted upon suave and easy lines, without abandoning even one of our theories. letitia told me that "home" was the anglo-saxon _ham_, and i was so much in love with her, that i didn't mind in the least. in fact, i hinted that i had suspected as much. how could "home" be anything else but anglo-saxon? my little girl had been "finished" in paris, at a select, and pleasingly dismal, _pension_ in the avenue du roule. i, myself, had taken a b. a. at oxford. yet we were triumphantly patriotic americans. we returned to these shores absolutely convinced that they were beyond criticism. after all, people only go abroad in order that they may realize the inferiority of europe. they never go for a "good time," or for mere frivolous amusement. the great armies of americans in london and paris are there simply because they prefer america and want that fact brought home to them. if you don't believe me, ask them. nail them down to their patriotism. however, both letitia and i grudgingly admitted that in england home life did seem a bit more potent than on this side. "it naturally would," said letitia, "because you see 'home' is really an anglo-saxon idea." but we were going to have a home of our own in the very midst of seething new york. the mere notion of a vulgar, degrading "boarding-house" was detestable to us, while as for the "apartment hotel," where you sat at dinner in your best clothes with a crowd of unsympathetic strangers, we sniffed at the bare suggestion. we wanted a little refuge, tiny yet dainty, where we could be alone to live our lives. "to live our lives" was one of letitia's expressions. she abstracted it unconsciously, i believe, from ibsen. a chaste and cherishable resort, where of an evening my wife could read _the iliad_ in the original, and i, in a becoming smoking-jacket and velvet slippers, could work at my _lives of great men_, was what we clamored to possess. and possess it we fully intended to do. i may add that letitia also believed in the "new thought." she was of the opinion that you could will anything you wanted. she doted on sitting still, and sending out telepathic waves from her cunning little brain, and i loved to look at her telepathing. she was at her prettiest. aunt julia dinsmore, letitia's only relative, and a sedate old lady with drab ideas, mentioned something about the "servant question" as she listened to our domestic rhapsodies. she suggested to us that there must be some satisfactory reason to explain the lack of well-appointed homes in new york. americans liked comfort just as well as other people, said she. did we suppose that they were uncomfortable because they preferred discomfort? and again she referred to the "servant question." the "servant question"! how we laughed! letitia nudged me under the table and arched her eyebrows. she turned to aunt julia and quoted one of shakespeare's most beautiful passages: "how well in thee appears the constant service of the antique world, when service sweat for duty, not for meed!" it is one of the many charming things in _as you like it_. aunt julia said that it had nothing whatsoever to do with the case. perhaps it hadn't. in fact, as i think it over now, i can't quite see its relevancy. yet what mattered relevancy? it was a treat to listen to letitia when she quoted. "your shakespeare will die when your cook comes in," said aunt julia, and she laughed. people are so fond of laughing at their own epigrams. it is most irritating--just as though the utterance of this perverted form of philosophy were a relief. "you dear silly old thing!" exclaimed letitia to her aunt, "we shall not worry. we don't read the comic papers. americans believe all the wretched jokes, dished up for them, to be founded on fact. americans believe anything. they have no time to think for themselves. have they, archie?" all i could reply was: "no." i should like to have been pungent and clever, but somehow or other, i never can follow letitia. she generally appeals to me with a deft query, destined to color her own delightful train of thought, and i have nothing better to say than "no"--or occasionally "yes." after that, aunt julia dropped the "servant question," as she called it. the "servant question"! as though there could be such a question! how could refined and educated people elect to permit the mere matter of domestic drudgery to be a "question"? art might be a question. science was certainly a question. but to allude to the handmaiden, who opens your front door, or to the person who marylands your terrapin, as a "question" was too ludicrous. it was making mountains out of molehills. ah! letitia and i were for the glorious mountains, with their sun-kissed peaks and their exultant elevation. we were neither of us freighted with that detestable thing dubbed a "sense of humor." thank goodness for that! a sense of humor is a handicap in the world's race. people afflicted with it seem to spend their time laughing at their friends, scoffing at serious situations, and extracting spurious merriment from the gravity and dignity of life. we both believed that a sense of humor was unrefined. comic story-tellers, comic poets, comic critics--how we loathed them! they were parasites on the face of things, giving you stones when you craved bread--furnishing nasty, sickly ridicule in lieu of delicate, intellectual analysis. thank goodness, that both letitia and i had been spared the curse of a "sense of humor." we had been educated beyond it. aunt julia, as i said, was henceforth silent--or comparatively silent--on her banal, squalid "servant question." but she was rampant and interfering again when we selected the pretty little apartment--in a beautiful neighborhood--that was to be our home--letitia's and mine! we took it without a question, there being nothing that we wanted to know. it was not one of those american institutions in which, to get from the drawing-room to the dining-room, you were forced to walk through the bedrooms, no matter who happened to be in them, asleep, or dressing. it had a "private hall," and each room possessed a window. why each room shouldn't possess a window, i can't explain, but windows in up-to-date apartments are a luxury, and not a necessity. i dare say that they are very old-fashioned, but they are one of the last remnants of old fashion to which i cling. it was a small apartment with "six rooms and bath"--very cozy, and quite light and cheerful without furniture. after we had seen our dainty "belongings" moved in, we were bound to admit that some people might say that it all looked "stuffy." letitia didn't think so; nor did i. much we cared! still, it was quite remarkable what a difference furniture made. it really seemed to be in the way. the drawing-room was almost blocked up with its chairs and sofas, what-nots, and ottomans. it had seemed quite a spacious apartment when in its natural state. one would have thought that it mutely rebelled at the indignity of furniture. yet one must furnish! the only thing to do in our drawing-room was to sit down. it was quite comfortable sitting down. it seemed like refuge to get to a chair--out of harm's way. when up and doing, you had to dodge and to steer yourself. we often went there before we were married, just to get used to the position of the furniture. in front of the fireplace--where there would never be any fire, as everything was steam-heated--we placed the tiger-rug, with the real tiger-head, that aunt julia gave us. it was rather dark by the fireplace, as a bookcase, a what-not, a dear little _tête-à-tête_ chair and a "cosy corner" were in its vicinity and we always fell over the tiger's head. it was most amusing at first. i laughed when it brought letitia down. letitia laughed when she saw me prone. but one tires so quickly of innocent pleasure! the last time we visited the apartment before the gorgeous day when it literally became "ours," i fell over the tiger-head, and--it palled. for the first time it didn't seem so funny. i am glad to say that letitia laughed just the same, her mind being more ingenuous than mine. in the dining-room, too, there was a wealth of furniture. it was such a cheerful room when we first saw it, but when curtained and upholstered, it was necessary to switch on the electric light in order to see where the table was. of course, this didn't matter at all. it was merely a new experience and deliciously odd. still, we both agreed that if we preferred air and light to material, bodily comfort, our "home" was infinitely brighter unfurnished. as a matter of fact, the simplest necessities of domestic life were encumbrances. we had to ponder over an extra chair. the disposal of a small footstool called for a mathematical mind. as for the table, it had--like most other tables--four legs, but three of them were ridiculously in the way. they seemed like abnormal growths. we were delighted at all this innovation. we prattled about our "home" by the hour. these--or rather, this--might be the ancestral halls of our great-great-grandchildren, though at present it seemed destined for one generation at a time--and a small generation, too. there was scarcely room for even an ancestor, and i couldn't help feeling thankful that ancestors were not usual in new york. the bedrooms surprised us. they were called bedrooms, because nobody had yet thought out any other name for them. we were both loud in praise of their coziness. they were simply full of coziness. there was no room for anything else. furnished with ledges or bunks as on board ship, they would have been most spacious and agreeable. with beds in them they bulged. letitia admitted this, when i called her attention to it. she laughed and quoted ben jonson's memorable words: "i will not lodge thee by chaucer, or spenser, or bid beaumont lie a little further to make thee a room." and, as usual, i kissed her. her splendid thoughts were independent of mere space. they rose above and superior to close modernity. thank goodness, again, for the lack of a sense of humor! with it, i might have said things about chaucer, spenser, and beaumont, at which the groundlings, would, perchance, have smiled. the humorists, so-called, would sell their souls for a laugh. we never once looked at the kitchen. not for worlds would we have betrayed so mean and petty a spirit. undoubtedly there are women who would have peered into this food-resort, and have held forth on such disgusting topics as "tubs" and "hot and cold water." ugh! how nauseating! letitia simply passed it by with a shrug. it _had_ to be there, of course, but it had nothing to do with our case. cook would probably know if it were properly appointed. this was what cook was for. the agent had told us that a bedroom for a cook was conveniently adjoining. to which letitia had replied, in evident amusement, "no doubt. why not?" i thought it clever, and i believe that the agent did, for he turned his face quickly away. aunt julia had supplied the cooking utensils, i am thankful to say. we had no interest in them. we agreed that they were necessary, but we were willing to pay, and to pay well, for a careful custodian of that sort of thing. but as i began to say before, aunt julia, after having wisely dropped the "servant question," became rampant and interfering on the subject of our apartment. she asked distressing questions about "dumb waiters," and "janitors," and "washing." letitia was reading cicero's _de amicitia_ at the time, i remember, while i was making notes of some incidents in the life of goethe that i meant to incorporate in my book. i bore with aunt julia most patiently. as i could not answer her questions, i parried them very good-naturedly. after all, she was letitia's only relative, and she was old, and rather infirm. one must be polite, even when it would be excruciatingly exquisite to be otherwise. "i must say," remarked aunt julia, "that you don't seem to have looked at anything. you have taken an apartment, and you know nothing at all about it. you are a couple of silly children." "pardon me," i said, "but we have looked at all that it was necessary to look at. i don't expect letitia to grovel." "grovel!" cried aunt julia, "grovel! i like that. in my time, a housewife knew what she was doing--" "that's just it," i interrupted. "in your time, aunt julia, there were housewives. i hate the phrase. housewife--wife of the house. i want my wife for myself, not for my house. in your time, i dare say, women so far forgot themselves--yes, forgot themselves, aunt julia--as to discuss the laundry, or the market, with their husbands. that, i may say, is not our idea. i want your dear little niece to stay in her drawing-room--" "stay in her--what?" cried aunt julia ferociously. "i repeat: her drawing-room. oh, i know that you would prefer that i say 'parlor.' i decline to do so. it is a word that grates on my nerves. in england, they have 'parlors' in hovels. you enter the 'parlor' direct from the street. it is quite unnecessary to cast a stigma on a room. drawing-room sounds much more refined. with us it will be drawing-room." "i think archie is right, aunt julia," said letitia, looking up from _de amicitia_, and smiling at me--dear little girl! "it is a prettier term, isn't it? 'parlor' sounds so awfully poor, and--well, dear, we are really not awfully poor. it is the little refinements of life that count. i don't think i could feel at home in a parlor. i just adore the notion of my drawing-room." aunt julia laughed. it wasn't one of those laughs that signify merriment. it was that contemptuous something that we call a laugh for want of a better word. i should classify it as a snortch, or a sniffth. it angered me considerably. "there are no drawing-rooms," continued letitia's relative, "in one-hundred-and-fourth street, near columbus avenue. i should think you would be satisfied to hear them called 'parlors.' cubby-holes would be more appropriate. of course, i may be all wrong. of course. ha! ha! to talk as though you owned marlborough house, or buckingham palace, or vanderbilt's mansion! ha! ha! it is too preposterous." i saw a flush on my letitia's face. she had closed her cicero with a sigh. all this small-talk was nerve-racking. "a drawing-room," persisted aunt julia, "is literally the room to which the guests withdraw after dinner. i imagine that your guests will withdraw to it not only after dinner, but after luncheon and breakfast as well. in fact they will be obliged to withdraw there or sit on the fire-escape. by-the-by, have you a fire-escape?" as though i knew or cared! fancy selecting a home, and inquiring if there were any means by which you could escape from it. i did not answer. my mind was brooding over the question of withdrawing from the dining-room. next to our dining-room was the bathroom. it was rather an odd arrangement, especially as bathing is considered dangerous immediately after eating. the man who designed our "home" evidently thought that a bath after a meal was a good thing. otherwise, why place the bathroom next to the dining-room? i recovered my equanimity instantly. "you are trying to discourage us, aunt julia," i said, "but it won't work. you can call the drawing-room a 'parlor' if you like. but we shan't. nor are we trying to ape buckingham palace. we are too american for that. the trouble here is that whenever you try to be nice, refined, and courteous, you are accused of aping something. we ape nothing at all. we prefer a drawing-room because it has a more cultured sound. just as we intend to call the china-closet a 'pantry.' this is a free country." "fiddlesticks!" cried aunt julia. "you are very devoted to your drawing-room and your pantry, but i'm grieved to think that a sensible girl like letitia, and an able-bodied young man, like yourself, haven't thought it worth while to ask the janitor about the disposition of the garbage." that settled it. i had endured a good deal. i had been patient, polite, kindly, and amused. yes, i had been half-amused. when i heard aunt julia sully her lips with a word so coarse as "garbage" in the presence of my innocent little unsophisticated letitia, i decided that the time for protest had indeed arrived. "mrs. dinsmore," i said--not even "aunt julia"--"i must really ask you to avoid such disgusting words and topics, or, if you must mention them, to do so to me alone. i can stand it--perhaps. but it is not nice for your niece. there may be such a thing as garbage in the world--i believe that there is--but one does not care to allude to it at home." i looked at letitia. a slight expression of disgust manifested itself on her face, although she tried for my sake to conceal it. "it is a word that has come to us, archie, from the old french _garbe_," she said quickly, with her own admirable tact. "it was once more disgusting than it now seems to be. americans use it to express kitchen refuse or anything of that sort. of course, our cook will have no refuse, for we shall get a good one. probably, in low, unrefined households they do have refuse. it is possibly quite general--for average people do not understand the refinement of living. aunt julia meant nothing, i am sure." letitia, the sweetest and most diplomatic girl i have ever met, rose and kissed aunt julia, and i was bound to feel mollified. not that aunt julia was in the least upset by my dignity. in fact, she was convulsed with laughter, but it was the same sort of laughter that i prefer to call a snortch, or a sniffth. "if you ever eat oranges," she persisted in continuing, "what are you going to do with the peel? and your potato skins? and your melon rinds? and your old bones? and your tin cans? and your grocery boxes? that is what we unrefined people call garbage. but i dare say that you and letitia will put it all in your drawing-room and make a cozy corner of it, or tie it up with blue ribbons. you silly children!" she cried, drying the laughter from her eyes, "if you weren't so amusing i could be angry with you." letitia looked at me. i looked at letitia. she put her index finger to her lips to signify silence. it dawned upon us both that aunt julia--poor old thing--was cursed with the terrible commodity known as the "sense of humor." that is the way it always manifests itself. it is irrelevant laughter at serious subjects. my opinion is that it is a disease, and that a remedy for it will be found one day. they seem to be discovering that remedy in the comic papers, which no longer, i have heard, appeal to the afflicted. letitia went on reading _de amicitia_; i renewed my acquaintance with goethe, and aunt julia fell asleep with a book in her hands. i couldn't help seeing that it was called _hints to housewives_. certainly letitia's only relative was a bit disenchanting. chapter ii it was while we were honeymooning at niagara, that aunt julia, in a letter dated from her home, at tarrytown-on-the-hudson, wrote to tell us that she had secured a cook for us, a colored woman, who had been highly recommended, and whom we should find awaiting us when we took possession of our cunning little domicile. "i need not say, my dear letitia," she wrote, "that a good servant is merely the result of a sensible and far-seeing mistress. be firm with her, but not necessarily unsympathetic. remember that the servant-girl question and its many evils constitute a grave national problem. i think you may consider yourselves lucky. anna carter appears to be an excellent servant." this letter reached us the day before we returned to new york. letitia read it aloud to me at breakfast as we sat before our morning eggs. it had a prosaic sound, but--well, morning eggs are not freighted with romance. unfortunately, we were neither of us built for a diet of rose-leaves and dew-drops, delightful though they would have been, during the honeymoon. i am, however, bound to say that letitia's extremely healthy appetite did not disenchant me. nor, when i returned for a second egg, furtively during the first week, but more boldly later on, did letitia repine at my materialism. one thing we did avoid--and that was the distasteful discussion of food. we ate what was placed before us without comment. only once was this tacit rule broken. it was when, at dinner, letitia rompingly annexed an evil oyster. even then, she merely uttered a little cry of pain--which went to my heart--and dropped the subject; also the oyster. "it is really awfully good of aunt julia," she said, pretending not to notice that i had arrived at egg number three. "she is a dear, good old soul. i am delighted at the prospect of a colored maid. aren't you, archie?" "they are always very good-tempered and docile," i replied, "and with you, letitia, any girl will be exceedingly happy. ah, in the years to come, anna carter may be our 'old retainer,' to be pensioned off. think of her weeping, and begging to be allowed to remain with us--clinging to us, as it were, and even offering to stay without wages." "which i should never allow,"--letitia's tone was wonderfully firm--"i can't imagine how self-respecting people permit such a thing. they always do it in plays. i shan't countenance it. if anna persists in staying with us, when she is too old to work, then she shall have exactly the same wages. am i not right, archie?" "always," i cried admiringly; "always, my dear girl." "i think," said letitia musingly, "i think a colored maid always looks so neat and attractive in a plain black dress, buttoned down the front, and a white cap--something fluffy and lacey--a wide, stiff, white collar and pretty cuffs. i shall dress anna carter like that. i have quite made up my mind to it. oh, archie," she went on rapturously, "don't you think that the _bonnes_ in paris--you see them in the champs elysées, and everywhere--look perfectly lovely in the caps with the long satin ribbons trailing to the ground?" "but they are nurses, dear," i suggested, just for the sake of arguing with my little wife. "that doesn't matter at all," she cried triumphantly. "there's no law to prevent our dressing anna in just that style, if we like, is there, archie? you must admit that there isn't. i shall get her a pretty cap, with yards of olive-green ribbon, to match the burlap on the dining-room wall. isn't it a charming idea? and colored people love a bit of finery--a ribbon or so. i can imagine her delight. i hope she isn't fearfully colored--an unbecoming shade--as green would be such a bad match. we should be obliged to have red, and that would be so glaring with the green walls. i can't help feeling a bit sorry--since we have heard from aunt julia--that we didn't have red burlap in the dining-room. but one can't think of everything, can one, archie?" "no, dear," i said soothingly. "you are a wonderful little woman to have thought of all this." "and i do hope," she went on, "that anna has a black dress, buttoning down the front. i have set my heart on it, archie. it may be a trifle, but somehow or other, those old-fashioned buttoned bodices look so comfortable and homelike." we journeyed exultantly back to new york, eager to get to our home. we could scarcely wait. to be sure, the hotel at niagara was delightful. we had the "bridal suite" and all the luxuries that money could command--for a honeymoon comes but once to people with our ideas. still this hotel life, even under such advantageous circumstances, palled upon us. we did not care for sight-seeing, and the pastimes of the hayseed mind. the fact that the falls happened to be there, brought little satisfaction to us. we stayed at the hotel most of the time, and tried to imagine that it was home. letitia read ovid's _ars amatoria_ and _the responsive epistles of aulus sabinus_. aunt julia had given us hall caine's _eternal city_, and marie corelli's _temporal power_, but letitia threw them from the window of the train. they took up so much valuable room. they were mute testimony to a disorderly mind, she said, and i quite agreed with her. on our way back letitia announced that she had sent a telepathic message to anna carter. she sat quite motionless for ten minutes, during which time she tried to impress miss carter's mind with a picture of ourselves. "sometimes it works," she said, "and sometimes it doesn't. it all depends upon the psychic endowment of the recipient. some of the negroes have an exceptional psychic equipment. at any rate, archie, it doesn't cost anything but the mental effort. telepathy is cheaper than telegraphy. anna will probably know that we are coming." "i think a wire would have been surer, dear," i ventured. "i really don't mind the expense. i don't want my little girl to be too laboriously economical." at the grand central station we parted for the first time since our wedding--i, to set forth for my office in west twenty-third street, where i was junior partner of a profitable little publishing house, which would ultimately offer my _lives of great men_ to the world; letitia to go home. how sweet the word sounded! in reality, i could have postponed my visit to the office until the next day. but i was anxious to savor the delight of "going home" to letitia at the conventional hour. i wanted to see what it was like--this return to a sweet, expectant little wife, eagerly looking for me out of the window, while the "neat-handed phyllis" prepared a cozy dinner. letitia quite understood why i went to the office, and she was delighted at the pretty subterfuge. it was almost impossible to sink my mind to the dull level of business. they must have found me singularly unresponsive at the office. the details of the publishing business seemed unusually sordid, and i am afraid i spent most of the time looking at my watch, and waiting for the moment when i could legitimately rejoin letitia. my partner, arthur tamworth, evidently regarded me as a joke, and uttered various pleasantries of the usual caliber. however, i asked him up to dinner one night during the week, and he accepted the invitation with gusto. at five o'clock i left the office, and half an hour later i arrived at my dainty little uptown apartment. sure enough, letitia was looking out of the window on the third floor and waving a handkerchief. regardless of appearances, i kissed my hand, overjoyed at the sight of domesticity realized. briskly i reached the elevator, and almost knocked down a most remarkable looking lady who was stepping out. i begged her pardon abjectly. she wore one of those peculiar veils, with an eruption of large, angry, violet spots, through which i could see that she was colored. her dress was of mauve silk, and her hat was a veritable flower-garden of roses, violets, and lilies of the valley. she chuckled coonily at my apology and pursued her way. "who on earth is that?" i asked the elevator boy. that official seemed tired. he answered indifferently: "somebody's cook, i suppose." i couldn't help laughing. "somebody's cook!" i repeated. "who in the world would own a cook like that?" it was an amusing idea, and i quite enjoyed it. letitia opened the door herself, which was charming and unconventional. she wore an exquisite little dinner dress of pink taffeta (i believe) trimmed with white chiffon (i imagine). her neck and arms gleamed in enchanting evening revelation. we had both resolved always to "dress" for dinner. probably aunt julia would accuse us of our favorite pastime of "aping," but we had not discussed the matter with her. "dressing for dinner" was merely a little delicate formality that cost nothing at all. we looked upon it as a mutual courtesy--one of those small refinements that mean so much to the well-bred mind. even when we were entirely alone, evening dress was to be _de rigueur_, as they say in plebeian circles. "oh, archie!" cried letitia, "i'm so glad you've come, dear. it must have been at least a week since we parted. isn't the 'home' lovely? oh, i can scarcely believe it is mine. now, run away and dress, like a good boy, and then we'll talk." i struggled into my evening clothes. my new dinner coat was a particularly fetching garment, and i flattered myself, as i emerged from my room--it seemed smaller than ever--that there was something distinctly patrician about me. letitia was in the drawing-room with ovid. a lamp with a red shade cast a rosy light upon her. anything prettier than this picture i have never seen. i went in rather coyly, and fell over the tiger-head, at which letitia laughed merrily--still the same, bright, unchanged little girl. when i had picked myself up, i looked out a channel between chairs, stools, sofas and what-nots, and plowed myself through it gingerly, until i reached letitia. "now, dear girl," i said, "tell me everything. begin with anna carter." she took my hand as i sat beside her on the sofa. "well," she started, "anna was quite surprised to see me. she had not received my telepathic message. you remember i sent it at : this morning. but it appears that she was singing at that time. isn't it fun, archie? when i arrived, i found anna at the piano practising her scales." "how extremely--er--disrespectful!" "nonsense," laughed letitia, "it seems that she belongs to a choral society and is first soprano. you know, archie, i thought it best to be sympathetic at first. so i listened to her. i imagined that she was going to apologize for being discovered at the piano. but she didn't. she merely explained. the choral work will render it necessary for her to go out every night--" "but, my dear--" "don't interrupt, archie. after dinner, you know, we really don't need anybody. the old rigid idea of mewing a girl up in her room all evening is a bit out of date--don't you think so, dear, in these enlightened days? and isn't it much better to know that a cook is a woman above the usual old-time, sordid, servant brand? her voice is really beautiful. she told me that they are rehearsing the _messiah_ for christmas eve. i was quite impressed with her." "what does she look like?" i was a bit sullen, as so much oddity perplexed me. "well," letitia replied, "she didn't expect us, as my telepathic message miscarried. it was a pity, after all, dear, that i didn't take your advice and send a wire. anna did not wear a black dress buttoned down the front. probably she will appear in that to-morrow. i found her in mauve silk--really magnificently made, and her hair was done pompadour. she looked just like one of williams and walker's girls in _in dahomey_." "mauve silk!" i cried in surprise, "why letitia, just as i was entering the elevator to come up here, i fell against a most remarkable looking coon in mauve, with a veil, and a hat like the trianon gardens at versailles." "it was anna!" cried letitia merrily. "she had to go out very early to-night, as the rehearsal was called for seven o'clock. you needn't look so vexed, archie. this is surely our festival time, and why shouldn't anna be in it? time enough for discipline later. you silly boy, to frown and pout in that way--" letitia kissed me, and i felt quite ashamed of my momentary ill-temper. i must have inherited an ugly propensity for slave-driving. here i was, forgetting that this was our first night at home, because, forsooth, our cook had gone out in mauve silk to sing! "what about dinner?" i asked, and i succeeded in smiling. "it's all right, you ravenous person," she replied. "to-night, anna has provided us what she calls a delicatessen dinner. i don't know what it is--but i left it all to her. she suggested it, and was astonished when i didn't know what it meant. she told me that it is very popular in new york, and that she can always get us one, even if she should have to go out earlier. i dare say it's lovely, archie. she has laid it out in the dining-room, and i haven't looked at it, because i thought it would be jollier for us to make our acquaintance with the delicatessen dinner together. anna isn't a bit servile, or humble, and i rather like that. i hate to see these women cowed. not for a moment did anna seem cowed." my good spirits returned. after all, it was exceedingly delightful to listen to my loquacious little wife, as she sat there in her pretty evening clothes. the idea of the delicatessen dinner--whatever it might be--alone with letitia, in our newly-acquired home, was simply captivating. we went into the dining-room, arm-in-arm, and i almost wished that there was somebody there to snapshot us. my wife, with her blonde hair beautifully arranged, and her soft, pink silk draperies, with the white swirls of chiffon, was a vision of loveliness; and beside her, in my immaculate white waistcoat and admirable _piqué_ shirt, i afforded a sympathetic contrast. the dining-room, with its green burlap and handsome furniture, was absolutely correct, and in the glow of the electric lights looked like fairy-land. the effect was somewhat marred by the appearance of the festive board. it was scarcely festive. "isn't it odd?" cried letitia. and it was. on a quaint little thin wooden plate, was a mound of very cold looking potato salad. on another of these peculiar little dishes, were half a dozen slices of red sausage with white lumps in it. on a third wooden dish reposed two enormous pickles, very knobby and green. a loaf of bread lurked at one end of the table. two plates and a knife and fork apiece completed the service, with a pitcher of water and two glasses. "where is our pretty dinner set, i wonder?" asked letitia; "i don't remember these funny little wooden dishes. and--what's in that paper parcel?" the paper parcel, by the loaf of bread, had escaped our notice. letitia opened it, and revealed an immense piece of gruyère cheese, very hole-y, and appetizing looking, and moist, but appearing to lack a cheese dish, and the necessary table equipment. "what a strange way of laying a table!" i remarked rather gloomily, feeling decidedly small in my satin-lined dinner-coat, and _piqué_ shirt-front. "it is rather like camping out," said letitia, in a perplexed voice, "but perhaps this is merely the _hors-d'oeuvres_ course. anna said something about an ice-box. let's investigate, dear. it really is fun, though, isn't it?" letitia led the way to the kitchen, her pink silk dress rustling musically. a few moments before, i had wished for somebody to snapshot us. but as we stood, peering into the ice-box, in our rigid evening dress, i felt rather relieved that we were alone. i should have hated aunt julia to have been there. in the ice-box there was nothing but ice and one bottle of ale, part of which had been consumed. the ice-box seemed awfully cold and we shivered, though we naturally shouldn't have expected an ice-box to be warm. returning to the dining-room, rather meditative, and serious, and amazed, we sat down to table. there seemed to be such a quantity of table. it was almost appalling. "you must buy a plant, archie," said letitia. "aunt julia always has a fern, or something, in the middle of the table. it looks so dressy." i refrained from saying that aunt julia also had other things on the table. that would have been unnecessary. after all, this was a novelty, and it is only hopelessly conservative minds that ruthlessly reject innovation. and in spite of all, our first delicatessen dinner passed off gaily enough. in fact, the potato salad was delicious and we both agreed that anna carter was certainly a good cook. we were hungry, and the slices of sausage disappeared very quickly. we ate the pickles, not as a relish, but desperately, as solid food. they were almost a course, by themselves. "i'm really glad, archie," said letitia, "that anna is out. this is so amusing, and for our first night at home, so appropriate. it would have been embarrassing to have had anna hovering around, passing things." although it occurred to me that anna would have found very few things to pass, i did not say so. my mind had righted itself, and i was enjoying myself. the bread was fresh and appetizing. never had i eaten so much bread, and with the hunks of gruyère cheese i felt almost like a day-laborer. all i needed was a clasp-knife and a red handkerchief. i mentioned this to letitia, and we both laughed so heartily that we forgot everything but our mirth. "my dear old day-laborer in a tuxedo coat!" said letitia. "and my dear old day-laborer's wife in low neck!" i added, catering to her fantasy. it really was very jolly. i don't believe that we could have been any jollier had there been ten courses, winding up with a _parfait au café_ and a _demi-tasse_. instead of these, we finished our dinner with the remainder of the pickles and a nice glass of cool water. letitia drank my health and i drank hers. we clinked glasses in the continental fashion. then we waited, for we couldn't dispossess our minds of the belief that there was something to follow. i wouldn't admit to letitia that i felt a trifle--er--incomplete; while letitia certainly made no such confession. yet there was a something lacking--an indescribable finishing touch. the delicatessen dinner undoubtedly lacked a finishing touch. it was all beginning. the appearance of the table after dinner was even more eccentric than we had found it at first sight. the empty wooden dishes, the paper that had held the gruyère, and the two mere plates, had no suggestion of rollicking dissipation. nor did they even suggest an overweening domesticity. letitia, at last, rose from the table and i did the same. i advanced to the door and opened it for her, and she passed into the drawing-room, leaving me alone to enjoy a whiff or two of my cigarette. we determined to keep up the etiquette of refined life in its every ramification. the door of the bathroom stood wide open and rather spoiled the illusion. but letitia did not notice it. i saw her pass down the hall like a queen, her head in the air, and her pink silk dress _froufrou_-ing deliciously. i threw myself back in an arm-chair, and sighed luxuriously. then, before joining letitia, i donned my smoking-jacket, and felt exquisitely at home. this was comfort, such as the maddened bachelor, in his infuriated solitude, can scarcely imagine. the petty cares of life took unto themselves wings and fled. letitia, in the drawing-room, awaited me anxiously. we were both inclined to look upon the prescribed separation of the sexes after dinner as a relic of barbarism. but it was a polite relic, and we had no intention of shirking it. she looked up from her ovid as i entered, and then, rising, she threw her arms around me and kissed me. it was eight o'clock, and we had a long evening before us. i had promised myself a holiday from my _lives of great men_ to-night. letitia had guaranteed entertainment, and this took the form of reading a translation of ovid, aloud. she would have preferred to entertain me in the original, but excellent latin scholar though i was, i clamored for a translation. with one's wife, a man can be perfectly frank. ovid, in the original, was a trifle--heavy. she read on, and on--and still on. "banquets, too, with the tables arranged, afford an introduction; there is something there besides wine for you to look for. full oft does blushing cupid, with his delicate arms, press the soothed horns of bacchus there present. and when the wine has besprinkled the soaking wings of cupid, there he remains and stands overpowered on the spot of his capture. he, indeed, quickly flaps his moistened wings, but still it is fatal for the breast to be sprinkled by love. wine composes the feeling--" the clock struck ten. i interrupted letitia rather irrelevantly. "my dear girl," i said, "i hate to be so prosaic, but i really feel horribly empty." she looked at me rather oddly, i thought. "you feel empty?" she queried; "what an atrocious expression, archie. if you mean by that, that you are hungry--" "i am, letitia, ravenously hungry. in fact, i feel quite faint. i can't think of ovid, but only of supper. oh, letitia, a team of deviled kidneys--" "don't," she cried, "don't. i can't bear it. isn't it disgraceful, archie? i, too, am simply starving. it must be that bracing atmosphere of niagara. it has made plow-boys of us. never before have i felt that ovid was a trifle--er--inadequate. yet we have dined, archie. we have partaken of a delicatessen dinner. we ate everything--" "i believe," i said feverishly, "that there was a little bread left. we did not eat the entire loaf, letitia. i am quite sure that there was a heel--a crust--on the table. it caught my eye. shall we--shall we go and see?" we went back to the dining-room, _not_ arm-in-arm. and truly enough, we discovered that half a loaf was indeed better than no bread. i cut the crust in two and nobly gave letitia the larger piece--nobly, but i am bound to say, enviously. once more i felt relieved that there were no camera fiends to intrude upon our privacy. letitia, in her _décolleté_ pink silk gown, eating dry bread with a famished expression, seemed unconventional. so did i, as i buried my teeth in the fresh, crisp crust. there was no butter. had there been butter,--well, we should merely have eaten it. we drank some more of that nice cool water, that bubbled as i poured it from the pitcher with uplifted hand. "and now, dear," i said, "as i am going to be hungry again in five minutes--i feel it coming on--i think i'll go to bed, and forget it." "we--we--can't go to bed yet," murmured letitia, "we must wait for anna. she has no latch-key, and can't get in--" "can't get in?" i exclaimed--and i'm afraid i was testy--"surely she intends to conform to the rules of all well-appointed establishments--" "now you are wrong, dear," said my wife nervously. "it is not her fault that she has no latch-key. she asked for one. yes, archie, she even demanded it. it was very considerate of her. it is quite impossible for her ever to be back before midnight, and she hated the idea of keeping us up. it was very nice of her, and you shouldn't misjudge people, archie. to-morrow, we will all have latch-keys. at present, we are without them, so i couldn't lend her one." "then there is an hour and a half to wait--" "oh, archie,"--letitia's eyes filled with tears--"you are getting to be a regular--husband! you talk of waiting an hour and a half--alone with me--as though it were a hardship. oh, i'm so sorry. i never could have believed--" a stinging sense of remorse overcame me. i could have bitten out my tongue for those foolish words. i explained that it was not the hour and a half of waiting with letitia that annoyed me; i protested that it was the principle of the thing; i insinuated that i was unstrung, and still hungry; i--but i fancy that letitia understood. she smiled again, and declared that she was too sensitive--and also a bit hungry. so we went back to the drawing-room, and once more immersed ourselves in the intellectual contemplation of venus, and paris, and cupid, and diana, and bacchus, and thalia,--with minds out-rushing to anna carter. shortly after midnight the electric bell pealed and letitia flew to the door. "it's anna!" she cried joyously, as though it could possibly be anybody else. miss carter glided in, enormous and imposing. she almost filled the hall. letitia and i were obliged to lean tightly against the wall in order to let her pass. she surveyed letitia's costume in bland astonishment. "say!" she exclaimed, "don't you jes' look too cute for words! my! ain't it stylish?" "to-morrow you must have a latch-key, anna," said letitia majestically. "you can now retire." the mauve silk dress made twice as much rustle as letitia's. its owner passed to her room, humming in a very exhilarating manner. my wife and i, a trifle awed, moved rather gloomily toward our own apartment. "an egg apiece, and some cawfee in the morning, i suppose." the words floated in to us. they came from anna's room. letitia looked at me, and i looked at letitia. certainly our handmaiden was neither abject nor cowed. yet we were bound to uphold the spirit of independence, the very backbone of our institutions. "anna!" called letitia. i noticed a timid inflection in her voice but as i said nothing myself, i was unable to notice anything similar in my own. "never call to me," letitia ventured to remark, as cook appeared with her mauve silk bodice unbuttoned, revealing a pair of scarlet corsets, "always come. i am not at all inaccessible," she added loftily. "yes, eggs and coffee will do for to-morrow. we shall breakfast at--" "nine," interrupted anna. letitia pondered for a moment, and then nodded her head assentingly as anna departed. i felt relieved that she left when she did. she was slowly disrobing, as she stood before us, and i anticipated a catastrophe if she remained two minutes longer. "nine is awfully late, letitia," i said, "i really ought to be at the office at eight--" "i don't want anna to think you are a bricklayer, dear," asserted letitia. "one never hears of really nice people breakfasting at such an ungodly hour. you see, she herself suggested nine. evidently, archie, she has been in good families. later on, i can always explain to her that we desire an earlier meal. but just at first--" "but, my dear girl," i said weakly, "you are really mistaken in your notion that it is only the bricklayer world that rises in the early morning. the best people do it. why, gladstone was at his desk every day at six--" "oh, gladstone!" she protested with a smile, dismissing the late right honorable gentleman from her consideration, as though he were not a mere mortal of flesh and blood, with everyday sensations; "you mustn't mention gladstone, dear. if you were gladstone, you could afford to do as you liked--to have your breakfast at midnight, and indulge in other eccentricities." this was a bit irritating. naturally, i knew i was not quite in the same class as the gentlemen who have made history, but one does not care to be reminded of that fact by one's wife. even in jest, such a remark seemed unnecessary. but it was not a matter to argue. i took no further heed of it, and turned to the more vital question of our cook. "don't you think that she is extremely familiar--" "well, dear, perhaps friendly," said letitia. "i think i prefer it to servility. these bashful, deferential women are probably sneaky and deceitful. still, of course, i shall not permit her to be as friendly as she was to-night. one must have discipline." letitia was combing out her hair before the silver, beveled mirror. i watched the comb as it strayed through the shining golden strands. i was soothed by the sight, that appealed to my sense of the artistic. "to-morrow, dear," i said, "i suppose you will give her the cap with the olive-green ribbons trailing the ground, and inquire about the black dress buttoned down the front?" letitia was silent. she tugged at a refractory bit of hair and not until it had earned its right to pass through the comb, unmolested, did she speak. "i was thinking, archie," she said reflectively, "that some girls attach so much more importance to little matters of that sort, if a man--if a man puts it to them. aunt julia has often told me that she would have had a much easier time if there had been a man in the house. perhaps, archie, you would like to--" "not at all, letitia," i remarked with emphasis, "not for worlds, dear, would i interfere in your household matters. it is good of you to suggest it, letitia, and to permit me the luxury of meddling. but no, dear,"--in tones of noble self-sacrifice--"i shall refrain." "well, then, to-morrow," she said pensively, "i will attend to the matter. no doubt anna will be delighted. and, archie, she has just the sort of face that would look well beneath a cap." "i didn't like her in the hat trimmed with trianon gardens," i muttered with strange persistence. "perhaps it was a bit elaborate," letitia agreed. "but now, archie, i'm sleepy, and--let us drop anna. next week, perhaps, i shall buy her a pretty little black bonnet, tied with strings, under the chin. i intend to treat her nicely and generously and--" "i know i shall emaciate during the night," i couldn't help declaring, as i switched off the light, "i'm as hungry as a hunter, and--and--we finished the bread!" chapter iii "since eve ate apples, much depends on dinner." if byron, whose genius few will deny, can make such a remark, there is no need for me to apologize for dwelling upon a topic that long-haired dreamers, with bad digestions, might call niggledy-piggledy. in fact, i have no intention of so doing. it has long been my idea that dinner is not so much a mere matter of material indulgence, as of artistic communion, to which food is an accompaniment. the fact that the very best music, cruelly harmonized, must distress--that melba, calvé, and nordica warbling to a discordant accompaniment, would produce nausea--can certainly need no discussion. it is a fact that is self-evident. it has an euclidian q.e.d-ness that is instantly apparent. i told letitia that i was not going to emulate the example of so many men and treat myself each day to a choice luncheon in town. that has always seemed to me to be a greedy process. better--far better is it--to return to one's home at night, hungry as a hunter, with an appetite for healthful food, rather than an abnormal craving for _suprême de volaille_. don't you think so? i intended to save myself up for letitia--to accumulate hunger-pangs, and bring them to her table for artistic treatment. my wife fully agreed with me, and although i brought the due amount of hunger-pangs to our first dinner at home and discovered, perhaps, that "delicatessen" food didn't treat them quite as artistically as they deserved, i was not discouraged. my appetite next evening was really in a wonderfully unimpaired condition. i rejoiced to find that i was so healthy, and as i wended my way homewards, i looked longingly at mere apples in the street, while the peanut stands and the roast chestnut stoves almost suggested assault. on this occasion letitia was not at the window, and i was disappointed. evidently she was busy and unable to look for my advent. perhaps it was selfish of me to expect her to dance attendance upon my comings and goings, but a newly-made husband is inclined to be unduly exacting. even when i entered the apartment there was nobody to meet me, and it was not until i reached the drawing-room that i found letitia. she was sitting there, looking at the fireplace that the steam-heat rendered so unnecessary. if there had been glowing embers there she would have been gazing into them. but there were none--merely gas-logs, unlighted. on the floor by her side was a little white arrangement, around which were coiled yards and yards of olive-green ribbon. instantly i remembered anna's cap. i asked myself apprehensively why it was on the floor, and not on anna? letitia's face was flushed; her eyes were red; her pose was listless; her manner strange. something evil must have happened, and i sprang forward with the cry: "letitia!" she started, and then came forward to kiss me. her face felt feverish, and for a moment my heart stood still and i was unable to ask for an explanation. letitia herself, however, came to my rescue. "i've had such a horrible time of it, archie, that i almost telephoned for you to come back. then, i thought you would be frightened, so i simply telepathed. and--and--that didn't work, so i determined to wait--" the tears rushed to her eyes. i was frantic. i had never before seen letitia like this. she had been, hitherto, so impassive, so immovable, so admirably self-controlled. "what is it, dear?" i asked tenderly, thinking up dozens of possible catastrophes. "that!" she replied tremulously, pointing to the cap on the floor. "archie, i bought it this morning, trimmed it with seven yards of the finest ribbon i could get, and then--when i offered it to anna, i was insulted--grossly insulted--although--although she told me that i--i, archie--had grossly insulted her. oh, i shall never forget it." "i don't understand, dear. please explain--when you feel calmer." "i'm calm, now," she asserted, with a telltale gulp. "first of all, dear, when i gave her the cap and told her that i hoped she would always wear it--as it matched the burlap in the dining-room so well--she burst out laughing. oh, how she laughed! she put her hands to her sides--akimbo, i think they call it--and made such a noise that i was afraid. oh, that coon laughter! and, then, archie, what do you think she asked me? you would never guess. what she meant i can't quite figure out, but she asked me if i thought--if i thought--" "tell me, letitia." "she asked me if i thought she was a blooming circus! a blooming circus, archie! she told me that if i hadn't a quarter to go and see a variety show, she would lend me one. the humiliation of it! then she said that she wasn't going to do any 'vaudeville turn' here. vaudeville turn, if you please, archie. she told me that i had airs and manners 'to burn'--which i imagine must be slang. nothing would induce her to put on the cap. she said it was a merry-andrew affair, and though i explained to her that in paris such caps were quite the thing, it had no effect on her. in fact, she almost told me that i lied, for she declared that she had been in paris herself and had never seen such degradation." "had she been in paris, letitia?" i asked, surprised. "yes, dear," replied letitia, brushing back her disheveled hair, "in paris, kentucky. she was born there. poor girl! when i realized that she was quite ignorant, i felt sorry for her. i said to her in a very gentle voice: 'anna, i wanted you to wear this cap, because i thought it would look so well with the nice black alpaca dress that i am going to give you.' on the spur of the moment, archie, i had decided to present her with a black alpaca dress--" "and then--?" "and then," continued letitia, "she turned on me again. i could keep the black alpaca dress, she said, until she was ready for the old ladies' home. that was the livery there, she informed me. no black dresses for her. red was the only thing worth living for, she said, and mauve came next. she insisted that she wasn't working for black alpaca dresses. if she so far forgot her dignity as to go out to domestic service, it was because she needed silk gowns, and flower hats--" "she saw you were young and inexperienced," i said bitterly, "and she was just imposing. i think i'll go and have a talk with her--" "you can't," cried letitia nervously, "she's out. oh, i'm so glad she's out, for i was really frightened, archie, and can't forget her as she stood there--just where you are--in an old weather-beaten black silk skirt with half the beads on, and a bright red jersey with half the buttons off." "she must go!" i exclaimed imperiously. "she must go." "no, archie, no. the matter has been settled in an amicable way. just as she was leaving me she burst out crying, and i felt most horribly guilty. i have no idea why i felt guilty for i had merely intended to be kind, though firm, as aunt julia said. still, i felt guilty. half an hour after she came back, quite lively, and dressed to go out, in the mauve silk, with the flower hat. she told me not to be angry, and not to worry--that sometimes when she was unstrung, she was taken that way; that she hadn't really meant anything, as she knew i was only joking about the cap and the black dress. i felt so relieved, archie, it was a weight off my mind." "and dinner?" i carefully tried to suppress a few pangs that were rioting. "she was so upset, dear, that i really believed that she would go without even thinking of dinner. but i wronged her, for she didn't. she is not really a bad girl--merely odd, some one to study psychologically. in spite of her hysterical condition she has prepared dinner--another delicatessen dinner. i hope you won't mind, dear." i sank wearily into an arm-chair. "i had an apple for luncheon, letitia," i said with a yearning for sympathy; "one apple, and nothing more. what did you have?" "anna boiled me an egg," she replied; "it was really beautifully cooked, and i had some bread, and butter, and coffee. i wanted tea, archie, but anna had forgotten to get any in the house, as she prefers coffee. isn't it funny, archie? she says she simply can't drink tea--it nauseates her--and that she is quite famous for her coffee--" "letitia," i interrupted, "i don't think i could undergo another delicatessen dinner. the potato salad was certainly very nice, so were the pickles--as appetizers. but," with a weak attempt at humor, "i really couldn't give them an encore. let's go out to dinner. let's put on our things, and go down to the martin--" letitia clapped her hands. "how gorgeous!" she cried ecstatically, "what a lovely idea!" "it seems silly," i said, "to abandon our home as soon as we get into it, doesn't it, letitia? here we are dining out before we've dined in--" "but, archie," suggested letitia triumphantly, "aunt julia says that nearly all new yorkers dine at restaurants, when it is cook's night out--" "in our case, dear,"--with a little sarcastic inflection--"every night appears to be cook's night out. so we really ought to subscribe to a restaurant--" "that is unjust, archie. we have been at home two nights only. last night we really did enjoy the novelty of the delicatessen dinner, and to-night there is another waiting for us. if it hadn't been for the cap with the ribbons--which was an accident--this second delicatessen dinner wouldn't have occurred. and i'm sure--" "well, to-morrow night we dine at home, letitia," i remarked rather haughtily, "for i have invited arthur tamworth, who is quite an epicure. when we get back from the restaurant we will arrange a little menu, and anna can then give us a taste of her quality." "and i dare say that she will," said letitia, bestowing a kiss upon me. "probably she is an exceedingly good cook. we are paying her heavy wages, archie--the wages of a very good cook, aunt julia says. i don't fancy that anna is the woman to sail under false colors--" "unless mauve be a false color," i interposed wittily, and then we both laughed and good temper was restored. like a couple of children, we went gaily off to the restaurant, with ne'er a thought of the cold sausage and the buff salad that graced our own mahogany. it was a very long and well-furnished dinner, but it was not too long for us. we were famished. at various times i have seen letitia "toy" with her food. i have often told her that she merely coquetted with her meals. but now she labored strenuously, and this dinner was a serious affair. we were both too busy even to talk. the waiters looked at us in amazement, as they removed dish after dish, with naught to tell the tale of its quality. it was even alarming. it was not until we had arrived at the coffee that we paused in our mad career. letitia glanced at me a trifle shamefacedly, i thought; i returned the glance, perhaps a bit abashed. possibly she was vexed that she had shattered the rose-leaf-and-dewdrop theory, for she had certainly done so. i had never seen her in the desperation of hunger, simply battling for food. "we _were_ hungry," said letitia, with a little sigh of greedy satisfaction, as i lighted a cigarette. and i was glad that she included me. it put her at ease and, as a matter of fact, i had been just as ardent. it was unusual--but it seemed better for her to be plural in her remarks. "if anna saw us," i was puffing contentedly at my cigarette, "i don't think she would suggest another delicatessen dinner. oh, those pickles--that sausage--the ecru potato muddle! really, letitia--" "i suppose that when one is positively hungry," letitia murmured, "such food is trying. few cooks, however, anticipate appetites like ours, dear." once again i was included. it was quite natural that letitia should arraign me with herself. but the idea dawned upon me that though i had done my duty to this dinner just as nobly as had my wife--her appetite, for a fragile girl, was really more extraordinary than was mine for a full-fledged man. as soon as we were home again, letitia suggested that we start at once to arrange the little menu for the dinner at which arthur tamworth was to be present on the following evening. we sat in the drawing-room, although we should have preferred the cozier dining-room. in that apartment, however, the delicatessen dinner was still laid. we took one look at it and then fled. in our state of repletion it seemed too insolent to endure. anna was not there to remove it, and letitia's education was such that the sordid details of clearing a table were a bit beyond her. "i wish," she said, "that we had arranged this menu before dinner. it is hard to think up things, after one has dined so well." "yes, dear," i assented, "soup just now is so unattractive and--er--meat palls." "but to-morrow we shan't feel like that," she declared triumphantly, "and one must look ahead, archie. you just smoke quietly, dear, and i'll write out the menu. then we'll talk it over. i shall make it out in french, dear. the simplest things sound almost epicurean in french. i shall buy three very pretty menu cards to-morrow--with little artistic drawings on them, one for each of us. and i dare say that mr. tamworth will like to take his home with him." "but anna won't understand french." "i've thought of that," said letitia, biting her pencil. "i shall make the list out in english for anna, so that she can buy the things and serve them properly. of course, she may know french--she certainly does if she has lived in good families--but i won't rely on it. every cook really should be proficient in the gastronomic phrases that are so popular to-day." "strange, isn't it, letitia, that english and american menus should always affect french?" "no, dear," replied my wife, "not at all. we copy the latin countries in all the arts. why not in that of dining? dining _is_ an art, and not--as we regard it in england and america--a mere vulgar physiological process." for ten minutes letitia thought and wrote--and wrote and thought. she looked up at the ceiling for inspiration; she glanced at me, unseeingly, and when i made a face at her, never noticed it. she sat there, working, while i idly admired her and thought what an admirable little housewife she was. for such a blue-stocking, letitia was doing wonders, it seemed to me. at the end of the ten minutes she had finished and, bringing her work to my chair, she sat on the tiger-head at my knee and announced with much satisfaction that her efforts had been successful. "listen, archie," she began, with her paper comfortably settled on her lap. "first of all, let me say that i have made out a very simple dinner. i hate ostentation and glare. my idea is to be dainty and unpretentious. we don't want mr. tamworth to think that we are living beyond our means, but we do want him to realize the fact that we know how to be refined and inexpensive at the same time." "certainly. you are quite right, letitia. go on." "as _hors d'oeuvres_," she continued, "we will have olives and _anchois à l'huile_. that is quite enough for a little home dinner. you write it all in english for anna as i read it to you. here, take this piece of paper and pencil, dear." i wrote: "olives. anchovies at the oil." "for soup," she went on, "i shall have things that sound really much better than they are, as i don't want to confuse anna. just two soups, archie, _consommé julienne_, and _crème d'asperges_. i did think of _petite marmite_, but there is just a chance that anna might fail at it, as even in paris none but the finest _chefs_ really succeed with _petite marmite_. so just put down _consommé julienne_, and _crème d'asperges_." "beef soup with vegetables. cream of asparagus," i wrote. "don't you think, letitia, that one soup would have been enough--one thoroughly artistic and satisfactory soup?" "no, archie," she responded with some asperity. "i hate pinning people down to one thing--taking a tailor-like measure of their tastes, as it were. doesn't it all sound horrid in english?" she queried with a laugh. "one might really fancy a little _consommé julienne_, whereas beef soup with vegetables sounds absolutely tin-can-ny, and red-handkerchief-y." i thought of letitia at the restaurant, just one hour previously, and realized what absolute hunger can do for a lissome little lady. "just one _entrée_, archie,"' said she, "merely _homard naturel_. everybody likes it, and i prefer to class it as an _entrée_. i did think of having it _à la newburg_, but it is a bit too heavy, don't you think, dear? i don't want our dinner to be a foody affair--" "like that we have just finished," i interposed thoughtfully. "no," she agreed rather reluctantly. "we were both disgracefully hungry, and--and--you needn't keep discussing that meal, for it was a meal, and _not_ a dinner. now, write down, please, as _entrée_, _homard naturel_." "natural lobster," emerged from my pencil tip. "after that, a solid dish," letitia declared. "you see, archie, mr. tamworth is american, and we don't want to worry him with quail, or squab or little unsatisfactory game. i've thought it carefully over and it seems to me that a tiny, dainty _bifsteck aux pommes de terre_ will be energetic without being squalid. what say you, boy? don't you agree with me?" "beefsteak with potatoes," i wrote glibly, but even as my pencil framed the words, i shuddered. after our recent heavy dinner the thought of it seemed so arduous. letitia understood. "you see, it's all due to the coarseness of the english language," she insisted, "and you must remember that you are englishing it for anna only. i wonder," she added pensively, "if anna would make us some of those _soufflé_ potatoes--you know, archie, those things that are all blown out, and that seem like eating fried air. they are most delicate. we used to have them every sunday at the _pension_, in the avenue du roule. however, i won't tax the girl. perhaps she may give us the potatoes in that style without being told. i fancy, dear, that she is going to surprise us. i dare say it will be a relief to her to see that we really know what good living is. i shall leave the potatoes to her." "we may as well give her a chance," i agreed. "personally, i would just as soon have the potatoes _maître d'hôtel_. it is very likely that anna will prefer that method, as it is more usual." "and after that," letitia cried gaily, "nothing, but _glaces aux fraises_--" "strawberry ices," i wrote. "and a _demi-tasse_." "coffee. it is very convenient in new york, dear," i said, "anna will not have the worry of making the ices. all she will have to do will be to order a quart and they will send it over in a cardboard box." letitia shivered. "yes, i know, archie. it is very coarse, isn't it? imagine thinking of ices by the quart! picture them in a cardboard box!" "they speak of it in the singular here, dear. it is ice-cream. you talk of a quart of _it_; not of a quart of _them_. it doesn't really matter, though. the taste is the same." "ugh!" letitia exclaimed, "it is very discouraging. why people call delicious foods by such ugly titles, i don't know. 'a quart of ice-cream' has such a greedy sound, whereas 'a strawberry ice' is pretty and artistic to the ear. but as you say, dear, it really makes no difference. but what do you think of the dinner, dear? does it appeal to you? after all, archie, i would sooner it pleased you than mr. tamworth, though he _is_ the guest." "it is lovely," i said enthusiastically, "and, letitia, so are you. and you would sooner please me than arthur tamworth, oh, most charming of wives? well, you will do that, my dear. yet i bet that our little dinner will be a red-letter affair for arthur." "i shall get the menus at brentano's to-morrow," announced letitia, "some pretty little water-color, or etching, if possible. i don't intend to economize, archie. our first dinner-party--for three is a crowd, isn't it?--must, and shall be delightful." chapter iv before going to the office next morning, i accompanied letitia to the florist's. she was determined to select the table decorations herself. later on, she declared, when anna had become acclimatized and our way of living was to her as an open book, letitia promised to leave everything to her. we were rather surprised at the cost of the flowers letitia coveted. orchids and american beauty roses appealed to her strongly, and she paid no attention to less expensive blooms. not that i minded. this little dinner really meant a good deal to me. besides being a personal friend of mine, arthur tamworth was my senior partner, and it was upon him that i relied for the publication of my _lives of great men_, a work that was to make my name ring through the land and perhaps, through the ages. in fact, i delighted to do him honor, and if my motives were somewhat selfish, they were not less so than those of the majority. this is a practical age. letitia went home, flower-laden and smiling. she was neither when i returned at five o'clock. in fact, she seemed distinctly weary and her kiss was more perfunctory than any i had hitherto experienced at her lips. "anna is so surly, archie," she said droopingly, "that i simply can't cope with her. she is furious at the idea of being late at her class. this was to be her great night, she says, as she was to sing _with verdure clad_, and she seems indignant. i was kind though firm. i insinuated--though i didn't say so--that her verdure would keep, and that my dinner must be served properly." "quite right, dear." "i felt it was a sort of crisis," letitia continued, "a kind of tide in the affairs of the household. then her sister came, and i suggested that if anna liked, the girl could remain and wait at table." "but does she know how?" i asked. "what is there to know?" queried letitia, with a tinge of annoyance. "anybody can wait at table. it is very simple. anna seemed pleased, or, rather, not displeased. but she is very sulky and i have arranged the flowers on the table myself. i've never worked so hard in my life and i feel quite tired out. but i realize, dear, that one must do something useful--at least at the beginning of housekeeping. i have also placed the _hors d'oeuvres_ on the table. it all looks very charming." "poor letitia!" i exclaimed, stroking her hair, "i hate the idea of your laboring. you mustn't do it again. i have no doubt but that anna could have done it all, but as she was so cross you were right to heap coals of fire on her head. she is probably remorseful enough by this time." "no," letitia remarked thoughtfully, "i don't believe that anna has a remorseful nature. the colored disposition--i mean by that the disposition of the colored people--is peculiar, archie. when we have quite settled down, i shall study anna, psychologically." "in the meantime, dear," i said, airily jocular, "let us hope that the _crème d'asperges_ won't be too psychological." letitia looked a picture in blue _crêpe de chine_, with her beautiful neck and shoulders emerging from one of those spidery lace effects that render the masculine pen impotent. her _trousseau_ contained so many evening dresses that one might have imagined that our entire life was to be spent at night, and that morning counted for absolutely nothing. some of the orchids, remaining from the table decorations, letitia wore at her bosom, and one exquisite american beauty rose nestled in the golden glories of her hair. "you see how economical i am, archie," she said, "for instead of throwing away the superfluous flowers, i wear them. aunt julia says that the essence of good housekeeping consists in utilizing everything." we sat in the drawing-room to await arthur tamworth, and although we both made an admirable feint of ease and nonchalance, it was so obviously a feint that we gave it up, and simply killed time. of course, we were both accustomed to dinners and receptions--in fact, we had been nourished on them. but other people's affairs are--other people's affairs. this was ours, and our first, and there is no use concealing the fact that we were both nervous. letitia read ovid, upside down, and seemed to derive intellectual entertainment from it, judging by her face. i merely looked out of the window, not to watch for tamworth's advent, but because the window seemed to be such a fitting place to look out of. when the bell finally rang, letitia had the decency to adjust ovid, and i stood by the fireplace in an unstudied, host-like way, with my hands behind me, although there had never been any warmth in that fireplace and never would be--as long as we had steam-heat for nothing. as we waited, a colored head and nothing more popped in at the door, and the younger miss carter--for it must have been she--remarked: "there's a man outside who wants to come in." "never let any one in," i said sternly, for there had been an epidemic of burglars, while suspicious characters simply prowled, seeking whom they might devour. "always keep the chain on the door." "he says he's come to dinner," remarked the colored head, with a chuckle. letitia jumped up as though shot. i felt myself redden. under the caption of "man" we had not recognized arthur tamworth. of course, he was a man in the best sense of the word, but the best sense of the word is not polite society's. i rushed to the door in a fever, and unchained it noisily. arthur tamworth stood outside looking just a trifle annoyed--but not more annoyed than i was. "come in, old chap," i said, with elaborate cordiality, "we were waiting for you. the maid who opened the door was not our maid, you know--merely her sister--and--er--" "that's all right, fairfax," arthur tamworth declared, as he shook my hand, "i didn't know what i had struck. having, however, lived in new york all my life, i know something about the ladies who help. hope i'm not late?" i insisted that this was liberty hall--a remark that is always supposed to put all at their ease. then i escorted him to the drawing-room where letitia stood, peerless in her blue diaphanous gown. mr. tamworth was so engrossed with letitia's appearance that he did not notice the tiger-head, and tripping over it, fell at her feet. i assisted him to rise and introduced him to my wife. his fall, however, had irritated him a bit. he was much older than we were, being a somewhat portly person of fifty summers, with iron-gray hair and a florid complexion. "i'm so sorry," said letitia graciously, "archie and i always fall over that tiger-head, and have really grown to like it. but it is a stupid thing--very much in the way." "i always think, mrs. fairfax," mr. tamworth remarked, rubbing his shin, "that tiger-heads are meant to trip people up. and the worst of them is that they are always so hard. they must be stuffed with rocks." letitia's delightful manner, however, soon restored his equanimity. she talked to him so gracefully, so appealingly, so irresistibly, that arthur tamworth was under the spell of her presence long before we went in to dinner. i felt proud of her as she held--in the palm of her hand, as it were--this worldly, rotund person. the fate of my _lives of great men_ seemed to be settled. mr. tamworth did not wear evening dress, but affected that horrible garb known as a "business suit," with a rude, short coat. this annoyed me, as i was afraid that letitia would think my friend lacking in respect. in fact, she looked extremely surprised when, just before we moved toward the dining-room, he said: "had i known we were going to the opera to-night, mrs. fairfax, i should have dressed. but archie did not tell me." "we are not going to the opera, mr. tamworth," letitia responded, her eyes betraying her astonishment. "why should you think so?" then, with a charming determination to make him feel comfortable, she added: "archie and i dress for each other. i like him better than any audience at the metropolitan, and he has the same sort of regard for me." wasn't it pretty? mr. tamworth remarked, "you're a lucky dog, fairfax," and then letitia took his arm, and we set forth for the dining-room, cheerful and expectant. i noticed that tamworth took particular heed of the tiger-head this time. the dignity of our march was also impaired by the fact that the bathroom door stood wide open, and if it had not been for letitia's presence of mind, we should all have marched in. nothing could have looked more fairy-like than the dining-room, except, perhaps, fairy-land itself. mr. tamworth's face expanded in a pleasant smile at the mere anticipation of the dinner that awaited him. the orchids, framed in maiden-hair fern, were exquisite, and the roses in long vases of opalescent glass were fragrant as well as beautiful. at each place was a dainty menu-card, bearing misty little water-color pictures. mr. tamworth's was called "children at play," which did not seem appropriate, but was nevertheless neat and well-done. the _hors d'oeuvres_ passed off admirably. letitia was lively, mr. tamworth was wonderfully loquacious, and i sat and reveled in their clever encounters of wit. letitia and i scarcely touched the olives, and the _anchois à l'huile_, but mr. tamworth seemed hungry, and partook of them as though there were nothing to follow. then letitia touched a little bell, and after what seemed an eternity the younger miss carter appeared. i could not help gasping when i saw her. she wore a coffee-colored dress with bright yellow ribbons, and nestling in her woolly hair--in the style affected by letitia--was a rose, most red and artificial. on her face was a broad grin. i looked at letitia, and saw that she was flushed but endeavoring to overcome her vexation. tamworth's gaze appeared to be riveted upon the picture of "children at play." "will you take _consommé julienne_, or _crème d'asperges_?" asked letitia, nervously fingering her dinner-card, and trying to smile in an unconcerned way upon mr. tamworth. mr. tamworth selected the _crème d'asperges_; so did letitia and i. my wife whispered to the zulu in yellow: "asparagus soup for everybody," rather anxiously, and then turning to our guest tried to think of something to say. i say, tried to think, because, at that moment, voices were heard in the kitchen, which was as near to us as the bathroom. in fact, the voices seemed as though they were in the dining-room. "they'll all take sparrowgrass soup," said the younger miss carter, with a loud laugh. "oh, they will, will they?" retorted the elder miss carter. "you jes' ask 'em how they're a-goin to do it. they'll take what i've made, or they'll leave it. i don't know nothin' about no sparrowgrass. she's crazy, askin' for two different soups. here. you take in them three bowls o' veg., and no back talk. i'm sick and tired of this kind o' monkey business. you bet i am. and just you hurry, sylvia; we're a-missin' all of our choruses, and--" by some horrid, demoniac freak of fate, we sat hatefully and relentlessly silent. in vain i tried to think up some remark--be it ever so banal--that would distract tamworth's attention. i could see that letitia was in the same quandary. not an idea lurked in my mind. even the weather failed. each word from the kitchen reached us as though by megaphone. letitia's lip trembled, as she sat, apparently racking her brain for something--anything--to say. it was too cruel. "take in the veg. soup, and if you drop it i'll skin you," sang out miss carter. rescue came, but it was too late. "you really have a charming little apartment, mrs. fairfax," said arthur tamworth diplomatically, "i don't know when i've seen prettier appointments." a dainty soup-plate was placed before each of us by the grinning maiden. sylvia, if you please--sylvia! it was "beef soup and vegetables" with a vengeance. it stood in a solid mass in each plate and there seemed to be everything in it but soup. it approached the spoon with glutinous reluctance and appeared to be begging to be cut with a knife and put quickly out of its misery. "oh, i'm so sorry about the _crème d'asperges_," letitia murmured, her lips parched, and a fever spot on each cheek, "i suppose that she didn't understand." "this is delicious, mrs. fairfax," said arthur tamworth nobly, "there is nothing i like better than good _consommé julienne_. i really prefer it to the other." we did not sip our soup, but we worked at it. it tasted like boiled everything, served up with the water. there were nasty little flecks of red and streaks of yellow in it. one expected anything, at each spoonful. not if i had been starving, could i have eaten it. arthur tamworth plodded along laboriously, like a youth with his way to make in the world, and letitia, as hostess, evidently felt bound by the rules of etiquette to do what she could. she had recovered her equanimity, wonderful little girl! "as we were saying before dinner," she remarked, trying not to look at the odious sylvia, as she clattered away the plates, "the modern novel does seem to have deteriorated. if you consider all these irritating romances, so vastly inferior to the splendid imaginings of dumas, you must admit the weakness, the effeminacy of such efforts to-day. it assuredly does seem as though all virility had departed from the modern band of so-called romance-weavers--" letitia's effort at "polite conversation" suddenly ceased. the _homard naturel_ arrived and we could scarcely believe our eyes. instead of the splendid crustacean that we had anticipated--the glowing macrurous delicacy that we had expected to see crouching in a juggle of water-cress--a hideous can, with a picture of a lobster on it, was placed before me. the can had been opened, and there, in poisonous looking obsequiousness, lurked our _homard naturel_. "this is absurd," i said, and my voice shook. tamworth was an old friend, but sometimes old friends respond to insult, apparently deliberate. "i--i--can't understand," letitia managed to say. "what--what is it?" "simply a can of lobster," replied arthur tamworth, with a pleasant smile; "and very good it is, too, no doubt. suppose you assist us, fairfax, and cease looking as though you had lost all your available relatives, and your wife's as well." to say that i felt mortified was to put the matter mildly. the fact that tamworth was generously trying to make the best of things irritated me the more. after all, at a little dinner, one does not want charity, even though it be supposed to "begin at home." i was too overcome to eat, though i saw letitia frowning at me and noticed that she was partaking liberally. i was so angry that i could have torn up my dinner-card. the "children at play" on tamworth's did not seem so awfully inappropriate, after all. "children playing at dinner" would have been more to the point, though. "what are your views on the servant question, mrs. fairfax?" asked arthur tamworth lightly, as he toyed with a piece of what looked like brick-red india-rubber. "do you know"--with a smile--"that i am studying it? positively i am." a look of freezing severity appeared on letitia's face. in a voice shiveringly arctic, she asked: "what _is_ the servant question, mr. tamworth? i have never heard of it. if you imagine--" "not at all, mrs. fairfax, not at all"--he made the rejoinder quickly--"i do not imagine that you will let it upset you. but, honestly, it is one of the topics of the day." "with silly women, lacking in intellectuality," interposed my wife, with the sublimest inflection of contempt that i have ever heard. "brainless women must talk about something. they have no interest in the life beautiful and artistic. rather than adopt a policy of silence which would effectually cover their mental shortcomings, they discuss the kitchen and food. at least, i am told that they do. personally, i do not know. i do not associate with them." letitia was very busy with the cold mummy, masquerading before her as _homard naturel_. she did not see the look of amusement on arthur tamworth's face. i saw it, however, and it was gall and wormwood to me. i hated to believe that he regarded letitia as a joke. i had no sympathy with jokes, except when i uttered them myself, as the spontaneous bubbles of an exuberant spirit. "seriously, mrs. fairfax," continued my guest, laying aside his fork with a sigh of relief that seemed to say, "well done, thou good and faithful servant"; "it is not only the brainless ladies who talk servant. why, some of the best people are contemplating a women's domestic guild. there is, for instance, mrs. russell sage--" "ha! ha!" laughed letitia. "is she the best example you can find, mr. tamworth? i have no doubt but that mrs. sage, at a pinch, could cook her own dinner. stew, probably, followed by baked apples. really, mr. tamworth--" "i read an interview with a mrs. joseph healey, the other day," said mr. tamworth placidly; "i cut it out. i think i have it with me. ah, yes"--rescuing a newspaper clipping from his pocket--"hark at this: 'owing to the incompetency of servant girls, housekeepers, too, are compelled, more and more, to buy cooked food for their tables. the growth of the delicatessen business in recent years has been startling--'" letitia sat bolt upright, suddenly. the paragraph seemed to sear itself into my brain. "'many families,'" he went on, "'live almost continuously on ham and potato salad, which is usually kept in an ice-box two or three days until it is absolutely unfit to be eaten. the servant-girl question is, therefore, not only breaking up the american home, but serving to break down the national health.'" i tried to pretend that i was not looking at letitia. letitia tried to pretend that she was not looking at me. the dual attempt was a failure. we each knew that we were contemplating the other. "perhaps it is true," said letitia airily, "perhaps. at any rate, it reads well in the newspapers, mr. tamworth. sylvia"--to the zulu--"you can bring in the next course. it is _bifsteck aux pommes de terre_." when it arrived we would have given worlds to have been able to resume our discussion. it was then that we really needed to talk--and it was then that we couldn't! we could simply sit and gaze at the travesty. conversation, which should be so serviceable as a stop-gap, failed us completely. all we could see was a sort of coal-black chest-protector on a large dish, and some boiled potatoes swimming in water on another. "she didn't _soufflé_ the potatoes," murmured letitia tremulously. "they are not even _maître d'hôtel_," i suggested feebly. "you see," said letitia apologetically, as i hacked at the chest-protector furiously, "anna is in such a hurry to get to her singing class that she is at a disadvantage--" "singing class!" exclaimed mr. tamworth, laughing. "how funny! i must make a note of it. i hope you don't mind, mrs. fairfax. you see, i'm really studying--" "i do mind," retorted my wife quite irritably. "i quite see that we have given you material for study. still, it is disagreeable to reflect that our little--" "my dear mrs. fairfax," he cried, genuinely distressed, "please believe that i am not serious. i only want you to feel that i do not share your annoyance. this--why, all this amuses me. it is interesting. it is great. look at my good friend, fairfax, wearing an expression that suggests hamlet in his most melancholy moment. why? i ask you, why?" "i--i--i'm glad you feel that way about it," said letitia, with tears in her eyes, "but--but perhaps, you are just pretending--to make me feel comfortable." "it is good of you, old chap," i muttered, feeling as abject as though i had just put out my hand for alms and arthur had popped a nickel into it. "how absurd!" he laughed. "why, i'm a great diner-out, and i know all about it, and--shall i read you a bit more about the women's domestic guild?" "i don't think i could stand it," letitia said tremulously. "sometime, perhaps, mr. tamworth, but not to-night. there are still the ices--_glaces aux fraises_. they can't be burnt. they can't be boiled in water." _they_ were not. _they_ were brought on, in a dingy cardboard box, marked with the name of the purveyor, and the legend: "ice-cream saloon--columbus avenue." _they_ appeared on the edge of sylvia's finger, balanced by a loop of tape. the cardboard box oozed and perspired. the lid was stuck down. pink splashes dripped. "anna says to tell you," giggled the wide-mouthed sylvia, "that she got american ice-cream. the french is ten cents more, and there ain't no difference." this time arthur tamworth laughed without an apology. probably he had a sense of humor, and thought it funny to see my poor little exquisitely attired wife, sitting at the head of her orchid-laden table, and confronted with a question of "ten cents more." that is exactly what a sense of humor achieves. again, i protest that it is a curse. mute sympathy would have been more endurable than loud mirth. letitia left us while we smoked. she did not go to the drawing-room, but--as i learned afterward--retired to her bedroom to weep. when we joined her later, her eyes were red and swollen. she had lowered the lights, so that this fact should not be too glaringly evident. we sat and talked. i will do arthur tamworth the justice to say that he was quite unperturbed and made strenuous efforts to be entertaining. but the tone of our conversation suggested a house of mourning. absolute failure had benumbed us into a sort of mental paralysis. i kept looking at the clock--longing for my guest to go. letitia yawned persistently, although she made brave efforts to appear alert. but he stayed until eleven o'clock, and when he did go, remarked, with what i thought ill-timed irony, "i've had a delightful time." "never--never have i felt so small," letitia almost sobbed, as soon as we were alone. "and, archie, i feel so ill, too. that brutal lobster--i _had_ to eat it, and it won't digest. capped by the terrible beef-steak, it has nearly done for me." "why did you eat it?" i asked querulously, "i didn't." "if a hostess can't eat her own food, who can?" she demanded furiously. "i would have eaten it, if ptomaine germs had arisen from it, and introduced themselves. i hope i know my duty, and i hope that i am not weak enough to shirk it. mr. tamworth ate a lot of it." "he'll die in the night," i suggested cheerfully, "and then good-by to my _lives of great men_. it was not _homard naturel_. it was unnatural. that being the case, you might have refused it, letitia. it would have been excusable." "we won't argue the matter, archie," she retorted, "i have my own ideas of what is right. to place food before an inoffensive person--though i consider your partner was a trifle offensive--and then reject it yourself, is not quite etiquette." "would you eat it again to-morrow, under the same circumstances?" letitia shuddered. "yes," she said promptly. then, "no. yes, i would. no, i wouldn't. really, i can't say, archie. what is the use of suggesting such an impossible case? i think i would eat it. but i don't think i could." "poor old girl!" i remarked sympathetically. "we'll try and forget it. i don't know how i shall dare to go to the office to-morrow, though. i dare say that tamworth won't be there. he'll be in bed. i thought he looked rather feverish just before he left, didn't you, letitia? his gaiety seemed a bit forced, and i noticed once or twice that he gasped as though he were in pain." "the women's domestic guild!" laughed letitia scornfully. "a nice subject to bring up at a dinner party! i call it indecent--like washing one's soiled linen in public. of course, there are old frumps who like that kind of topic." "aunt julia?" i suggested. "i did not mean aunt julia, archie. she is not an old frump, though i admit that it was from her lips that i first heard servant question. however--i wonder if we have any ginger in the house, archie? you shall mix me a little. it might ward off an attack. perhaps a little weak whisky and water will be better." "i'm so sorry, dear," i said. "we have discovered one thing, however. it is the utter incompetency of anna. out of the house she goes to-morrow. once bit, twice shy. what do you say, letitia?" "will you tell her, archie? i'm afraid i shan't feel well enough." "tell her? why, of course," i answered, nobly emphatic. "i only wish she were here now, while i have this strenuous mood upon me. tell her? well, i guess so." in fact, we both believed that miss carter was simply waiting to be told. chapter v "what _can_ have happened, archie?" cried letitia excitedly next morning, as she entered the cubby-hole that i called my dressing-room and interrupted my shaving. her face was pale and her eyes shone. "there is no breakfast laid, and--there is no anna. i went to her room and found that she had not slept there. evidently she did not return last night. something dreadful must have occurred." i put my razors carefully away, with the deliberation that great men note at moments of calamity and distress. then i followed letitia to the dining-room, where there was disorderly testimony to the accuracy of her information. nothing even suggested breakfast. in fact, the remains of last night's parody on dinner confronted us and evidently declined to seek oblivion. letitia looked aghast at the débris, but as i had just left myself enough time to dally with the matutinal bacon and tea, i could not repress my extreme annoyance. i could not--and i did not. "but, archie," said letitia, noting my vexation, "while it is most irritating to find no breakfast, one must not forget that there is a graver problem. where is anna? she is a human being, archie. we must accord her some slight consideration, even though she treated us so badly last night. she must"--letitia's voice sank to a whisper--"she must have met with foul play." "i doubt it, letitia"--i felt awfully surly--"she is not the sort." "nonsense!" exclaimed letitia angrily. "she was an attractive girl--of her kind. you may not admire her, but colored people would. it isn't only homely girls who meet foul play. the newspapers always insist that every woman who is murdered, or waylaid, is lovely, but that is only to make the story readable. i've often thought, archie, that the only chance many girls have to be called beautiful is to be murdered. have you ever heard of a typewriter girl who has come to grief, and who wasn't beautiful? i haven't. some of them are regular old crows, but as soon as they reach the newspapers they are transfigured. crime seems to be a great beautifier. anna may have been made away with. if so, we shall read that she was a dazzlingly charming mulatto." "in the meantime, dear," i said patiently, "what shall we do for breakfast? everything seems tragic, you know, on an empty stomach." "if i only knew how to make tea!" sighed letitia reflectively. "i've often seen aunt julia make it, but i quite forget if you heat the tea-leaves and pour water over them, or if you boil them in a saucepan. oh, how foolish i was to neglect these trifles! but i never thought i should ever have to make tea." we were in the kitchen, where the remains of last night's mock-dinner were even more glaringly apparent. it was sickening, in the dewy morn, to see the soiled dishes and the encumbered plates. there was the piece of lobster that arthur tamworth left. there was my soup, in a cold, coagulated mass, on the table. there was the _bifsteck aux pommes_, stark before us. letitia, in a pink _peignoir_ covered with lace, tried to flit around, but there was no room to flit in. i experienced a horrid sense of nausea, and felt willing to abandon breakfast. fortunately, we were both young, and had not reached that downward grade leading to a placid enjoyment of breakfast. it is only the more than middle-aged who find keen physical satisfaction in the early kipper. to the young in spirit, the morning meal is but a tradition, followed with a certain amount of sycophancy. we found some milk and eggs in unexpected places and, as i was in a hurry, we made a hasty breakfast. letitia boiled the tea in a saucepan, and in an ecstasy of originality, suggested that we cook the eggs in that receptacle at the same time. it was not what one might call an artistic meal. the tea tasted like ink, and the sweet disposition of the egg was cooked out of all semblance of its own wistful, appealing nature. "you mustn't leave me in this unsettled state, archie," said letitia nervously. "i couldn't stand it, dear. i--i feel quite upset. we must look through the papers and see if anything has happened to anna. and perhaps it would be a good thing to notify the authorities. who are the authorities, in a case like this, archie? not the mayor, i suppose, or the aldermen; not--er--the coroner?" "police headquarters, i should say"--a little doubtfully. "of course, she may come in at any moment," letitia suggested, glancing rather timidly over her left shoulder. "i quite dread it. perhaps she will return with a battered face, or bleeding profusely from a wound. it would be annoying to notify--er--the--policeman's home, did you say?--until we are reasonably sure. there must be some penalty for uttering false alarms. sit down, archie, and i'll just run through the papers." i began to realize that letitia was veritably wrought up, and that it was no use contemplating my routine at the office until some light had been shed upon the seemingly untimely fate of miss carter. so i obeyed letitia and sat down, while she, somewhat feverishly, took up the morning papers and plunged into their labyrinthine recesses. "'girl decapitated by trolley car,'" she read slowly. "let us see now: 'the sight seemed to infuriate the mob--car struck her in the left leg--beautiful blonde.' that settles it, doesn't it? it couldn't be anna. the papers will certainly call her singularly beautiful, but no reporter, whatever his political or religious conviction, could describe her as a blonde. ah, here we are. this certainly seems to fit: 'woman drops dead in l station--sitting bolt upright in an elevated railroad station in brooklyn, a woman whose identity had not been discovered by the police last night'--archie, put on your things, and go to brooklyn." "is there nothing more, letitia?" i asked, for i loathe brooklyn. she continued, moistening her lips: "'the surgeons unable to revive her--coma followed by death--very handsome, elegantly dressed woman, golden hair--' well, evidently," said letitia, and it really seemed to me as though she were disappointed, "it can't be anna. you had better not go to brooklyn, after all, archie. here's something else. really the newspapers are full of clues. 'idiot girl found wandering by river--'" "read on, letitia," i cried, "that certainly does sound promising." "'half-witted girl discovered near the harlem river, beneath the bridge, at one-hundred-and-fifty-fifth street--singing snatches of song--muttering to herself.' the singing appears to point to anna, don't you think, dear? poor girl! perhaps she was an idiot, after all, and we have been thinking such cruel things of her, just because she couldn't grapple with _crème d'asperges_ and _bifsteck aux pommes_. let us see: 'she fought desperately with the police officer--burst into fiendish laughter--threw back her veil, revealing dazzling beauty, dark hair, and face of almost appalling pallor--' that can't be anna. i suppose that colored people feel pallor, but they certainly can't show it, can they? here's something else: 'scores killed and many maimed in wreck horror.' here's a long list of the unfortunates, but--the wreck occurred on the illinois central cannon ball train, eighty-three miles from new orleans." "i am afraid, letitia, that nothing has happened to her," i said hopelessly. "i mean by that, of course, that i am afraid we shan't discover anything in the newspapers." "isn't it exasperating?" "isn't what exasperating?" i asked. "you mean it is annoying that anna wasn't decapitated by the trolley car, maimed in the wreck, or dead in the l station?" "you are unkind, archie," said letitia, with tears in her eyes, "and i don't think this is a happy moment for joking. of course you must be joking when you suggest that i am upset because--anna hasn't had her head cut off. it isn't nice of you, dear. but i imagine that you are not quite yourself. this sort of thing does unhinge one. i wonder what we had better do? no, you can't and shan't go down-town, and leave me to receive anna, perhaps dead on a shutter, or wet from the river, with weeds in her hair, like ophelia; or--" "they wouldn't bring her here, dear," i ventured, and this time i tried to be soothing, for i could see that letitia was distraught. "they would take her to the morgue." "ugh!" she shuddered. "the morgue always sounds so creepy and damp. i can't associate it with anna, who was so alive last night." "and so disagreeable." "hush, archie. _de mortuis_--you know the rest--and perhaps she is among the _mortuis_. i think i shall go to my room, remain there in silence for ten minutes, and try to impress aunt julia telepathically. she could advise us, and perhaps if she knows of the plight that we are in, she might--" "aunt julia!" i cried enthusiastically, "why not talk to her over the telephone? she is at tarrytown now, and we can reach her. she is a very sensible and level-headed old lady. she is most practical. i dare say she could suggest things that would never occur to us." "perhaps," assented letitia coldly. "as you say, she is very sensible. as you imply--i am not. by all means, let us consult aunt julia." poor letitia was very inclined to be fractious, and everything i said appeared to tell against me. but i had no desire to add to her difficulties, and i explained to her what i meant. aunt julia was an old housekeeper and perchance in her long experience she had known this agony of the vanishing cook. if so, she would undoubtedly give us the results of her experience, and this might be of some service to us in our dilemma. it was worth trying at any rate. "you ring her up, archie," said letitia, appeased, as we approached the instrument. "a man always sounds more important at the telephone." "not in a matter of cook, dear," i protested. "aunt julia will think i am an awful molly-coddle, if i ring her up in such a cause. no, letitia, i will stand by you; i will not leave you until the matter is settled. but it is far preferable for you to ring up aunt julia. it is a household matter, isn't it, dear? i'll stay here, and--hold your hand, if you like. now, ask for her number, and--don't be nervous." i held letitia's hand, which was very cold and moist, and we stood waiting to effect a communication with mrs. dinsmore at tarrytown. it seemed endless, and all the time letitia appeared to be nervously expecting an interruption--probably in the form of anna, either dead or alive, preferably the former. "good morning, jane," i heard letitia say at last, tremulously; "will you please ask mrs. dinsmore to step to the 'phone? thank you so much. yes, i'll hold the wire." pause. letitia held the wire, and i held her hand. then again: "aunt julia, this is letitia--letitia fairfax, your niece. yes. oh, yes, aunt julia, i'm quite well, but something dreadful has happened. no. archie is very well. it's about anna carter, the cook you got for us. yesterday we gave a little dinner to archie's partner, mr. tamworth. at least, i should say we intended giving a little dinner. we gave something, but i don't know what it was. anna was very surly, and disagreeable, and to-day she has disappeared. we were not unkind to her; we drove her to nothing at all. we intended discharging her, but she has vanished. we are in a dreadful state, imagining all sorts of awful things. archie thought i had better call you up, before he went to police headquarters. archie"--turning to me, with horror in her face--"i believe i hear aunt julia laughing." at the telephone again: "have the east river dragged? no, we never thought of that. why are you laughing, aunt julia? yes, i heard you laughing. allow you to have a good time? if you _can_ have a good time, at our expense, you are at liberty to do so. archie"--turning to me--"she says, 'don't get huffy.' i don't know what she means. she has just said we are a couple of fools, and ought to be spanked and put to bed. yes, aunt julia, i hear you. yes. what? will never come back? they often, in fact, generally, go away like that when they don't like a place? you are joking, aunt julia. i don't believe it. wouldn't she, for the sake of decency, and in the interests of common courtesy, tell us that she was not going to return? yes, i did look at her room, and i saw no trunk or clothes. yes. no. what do you say? archie"--reverting to me--"aunt julia says that you must be a nincompoop." "thank her, letitia," i murmured, unable to keep back the flush that mounted to my forehead. "tell her we want advice, and not abuse." letitia, at the telephone: "archie says that we want advice and not abuse, aunt julia, and i must say that i agree with him. amusing? i don't think so, at all. i call it tragic. forget it, and hustle for another cook? if i only thought, aunt julia, that the case was as simple as that i should feel extremely relieved. thank you. no, don't come in--please don't. i am quite capable of hustling, and archie is here. no. really, aunt julia, i wish you wouldn't call him an ass. you must remember that he is my husband. even if he is an ass--which i am not admitting--you have no right to tell me so." "you seem to imply, letitia," i interrupted, much hurt, "that although you don't admit i'm an ass, i really might be one." letitia did not hear my little protest, but continued: "yes, i will. did you say intelligence office? yes, i hear. is there one in new york? oh, thank you, aunt julia. it sounds so easy, and even delightful. one goes there and just selects a cook from a whole gathering of them? aunt julia, you have saved our lives. you think we are quite justified in believing that anna has merely left, and has not met with foul play. how _should_ we know? after all, if she had told us, we shouldn't have detained her. we didn't want to detain her. quite usual? i can't credit that, aunt julia. you must be a pessimist. no, don't come into town, dear. if we need you, we'll wire. yes, otherwise all is well. no, there is no hitch. good-by." she hung up the receiver, her face wreathed with smiles, and placing her hands on my shoulders, tip-toed and kissed me. "oh, i'm so glad, archie," she cried, "that this horrible possibility of crime has been dispersed by aunt julia. she says that it is quite the thing in new york for a cook to vanish instantly, almost as though she had been conjured away. it is the etiquette of cooks, aunt julia says. and the delightful uncertainty of their return, every time they go out for a stroll, makes life exciting." "i can't see anything to be pleased about, letitia," i said rumblingly, for after all aunt julia had treated me rather badly at the telephone. "i would almost as soon know that anna had met foul play, as to realize that _we_ have. we certainly have. we have been disgracefully treated by that zulu. and you seem charmed. at any rate we should have thought better of her, if we knew that she couldn't come back, simply because she had been murdered." "oh, archie, i'm shocked," declared letitia in a pained voice. "such bloodthirsty sentiments! positively, dear, i feel as though a weight had been lifted from my shoulders. i didn't tell you what i really feared. i thought that perhaps she was vexed with me for not letting her arrange the flowers yesterday, and that, brooding over this, she might have committed suicide. yes, i thought of that, archie, and of what a life of remorse would mean to both of us. that was my dread, and now aunt julia has removed it, and i feel so deeply grateful." "perhaps you are right, old girl," i assented, cheering up, "things might be worse. they are bad enough, though, for if anna marches off at a moment's notice like that, then they will all probably do the same thing." "but we shan't think that they have met with foul play," letitia announced triumphantly. "we shall know that they haven't, and we shan't worry. that is what i like about it. oh, archie, i'm so glad. you can go down-town, now, and earn your daily bread. and i shall hie me immediately to--er--what did aunt julia call it?--an intelligence office and choose a brand-new cook, somebody nice--" "to wear the cap with the olive-green ribbons?" "that later, perhaps," she replied, with a bright smile. "i shan't insist upon it, quite at once, archie. i never knew about these intelligence offices. what a splendid idea! fancy being able to go to a sort of convention of cooks, select one that appeals to you, and bring her home. isn't it clever? certainly new york is the town for novelty and inventiveness. london and paris are not in it. how london would open its sleepy old eyes at the notion of an intelligence office! i suppose it has never even heard of such a thing." "i must be off, letitia. i am dreadfully late, and--" "good-by, old boy. when you come back to-night, you'll find everything more satisfactory. for we'll have a cook, and a good one, and--the thought of anna will be just a horrid nightmare and nothing more." chapter vi my prediction was fulfilled. arthur tamworth did not appear at the office. instead, he telephoned from his house, that, owing to a slight indisposition, he would remain at home for the day. the clerks were mystified, as mr. tamworth had never been known to absent himself from his business. to me, of course, it was clear as a pikestaff and grimly i declined to discuss the matter with the bookkeeper. i had an odiously guilty feeling, and in the matter of "secrets" it seemed to me that i could give lady audley points. the day dragged horribly. i was weighted down by my dreary knowledge, and as i sat at my desk, the various courses of our distinctly coarse and brutal dinner passed before my mind in lugubrious procession. i felt as mathias must have done in _the bells_ with the odious souvenir of the lime-kiln on his conscience. however, in exultant optimism, i argued that this little "set-back" already belonged to the past, and i resolved to keep tamworth's pitiful plight from letitia, unless he died, victim of my hospitality. by the time i reached our apartment i had driven all these tantalizing thoughts from my mind, and when letitia met me with a smile of affectionate welcome the past had been pushed back to its proper place. "sh!" said letitia mysteriously, with a finger on her lips, as we went to the drawing-room, "i've got her, archie. she's in the kitchen preparing dinner, and--and--you'll never guess, dear, so i may as well tell you the news. she--she used to be with the vanderbilts!" my wife was all excitement. there was a flush on her face, and i had never seen her look prettier. she was dressed for dinner, in still another evening gown, all white. there were forget-me-nots in her hair, and at her bosom. letitia spoke in a whisper, as though she were afraid that a mere voice would startle the latest acquisition. her enthusiasm, however, was contagious, and as she followed me to my dressing-room, where i quickly exchanged my business clothes for discreet broadcloth, i began to share her gay anticipation. "yes," she continued eagerly, "i went to the intelligence office and subscribed. at first, archie, i felt most mortified. a dozen servant girls sat there, like at a minstrel show. they seemed to be quite lacking in old-fashioned respect and were not a bit abashed in the presence of prospective mistresses. they talked and laughed, and i could have sworn that they were criticising _me_. i tried not to hear them, but i know--yes, archie, i know--that one girl, with a face that i shall never forget, meant me, when she remarked to a friend, 'she's a fool and i'm not taking any, thanks. i hate a fool.' of course, i pretended not to notice, but--" letitia reddened and seemed to forget her present satisfaction in the thought of her recent humiliation. she went on: "fortunately, i was not the only one who needed a cook. at least fifty ladies were there, looking strangely desperate. one of them spoke to me, most impertinently, i thought. she was a stout matron and she said to me, very rudely: 'is this your first time in hell?' i didn't answer her, and she smiled and passed on. i heard her tell the proprietress of the office that she had a bicycle with a coaster brake, that she was willing, if necessary, to place at the disposal of her cook, but that, personally, she would prefer a cook who played the piano. i also heard her say that she, herself, would do all the work for two hours each morning while cook practised." "was it a lunatic asylum, or an intelligence office?" i asked, as i knotted my tie. "oh, it really was an intelligence office," letitia replied seriously. "i thought that i must have made a mistake at first, and arrived at a wrong address. it was all so odd. the ladies seemed to be cooks and the cooks seemed to be ladies. really, archie"--with a laugh--"it was quite like a gilbert and sullivan opera, without music. i heard one lady tell mrs. jones, the proprietress, that she was quite willing to allow her husband to take cook to the theater once a week, but she stipulated that cook should not ask to go to the metropolitan opera house on wagner nights." "come, letitia," i said impatiently, "i dare say you mean to be funny, but i do hope, dear, that you are not going to develop a sense of humor. you know my views on that subject." "but, archie, this is all true. it is, honest injun. i am as much mystified as you are. i thought i was dreaming, or at the theater. i couldn't realize that it was genuine. fortunately for me, mrs. jones attended to me immediately. just after i had heard the conversation about the metropolitan opera house on wagner nights, an old, rather melancholy looking person came in. mrs. jones jumped up and said: 'here's the very thing for you, mrs. fairfax.' and before i knew it, i was on my way home with a cook who had been with the vanderbilts. her name, archie, is mrs. potzenheimer. she's german." "so i should judge," i murmured. "potzenheimer! good gracious, letitia!" "what does the name matter, you silly boy? that which we call a potzenheimer, etcetera. think of our luck, dear. on the way home, i remembered aunt julia's suggestion always to ask for references. i had quite forgotten all about it, stupid-like. mrs. potzenheimer looked very sad and weary, poor soul. she told me that mrs. vanderbilt would be delighted to give her a reference, but that at present she was in england, visiting the duchess of marlborough." i'm not a snob, not a bit of one. i'm a democrat to the roots of my hair. still, as this reflected glory shed itself upon me, i felt a strange sense of elation. "which of the vanderbilts was it?" i asked. "how provoking you are, archie!" exclaimed letitia impatiently. "isn't any vanderbilt good enough for us--to get a cook from? suppose it were alfred, or reginald, or william k. vanderbilt. what difference does it make? i was so overjoyed that i felt positively pleased to hear that mrs. vanderbilt was with the duchess of marlborough. if she had been here i should have deemed it my duty to call upon her for a reference, and--you know what these people are--it might have been a bad one. absolutely, i'd sooner have a bad vanderbilt cook, than a good ordinary, plain affair." "there is something in what you say, old girl," i was bound to assent. "if _you_ think so, dear, i am quite satisfied," letitia responded readily. "but there is one thing about mrs. potzenheimer--by-the-by, she suggests that we call her nellie--that troubles me. she says she never wants to go out." "and that troubles you!" i exclaimed, astonished. "i should think you would be rejoiced. we shall feel so much safer in the knowledge that mrs. potzen--nellie--is always in the kitchen." "but it is so sad, archie," persisted letitia. "when i asked her what night she would like to go out, she burst out crying. she said she had nowhere to go--that she was old, and that nobody cared for her. she wept for ten minutes, and i think--i'm not sure, archie--that i joined her. poor old soul! my first impulse was to ask her to come in and sit with us--" "letitia!" "i said 'my first impulse,'" she went on firmly. "i never act on first impulses, and i did not do so this time. just the same, i felt sorry for cook. perhaps she will get chummy with the servants in other apartments. she seems so respectable and dresses neatly in black. a more striking contrast to anna carter could scarcely be imagined. she is extremely quiet, and sits down a good deal. each time i have seen her she has been 'resting her bones' as she calls it. isn't it pitiful, archie, to think of such a woman being forced to earn her living, instead of passing her days in a little cottage with honeysuckle all over it--" "but there are none in new york, dear." "you needn't be so disgustingly literal, archie," letitia protested with a pout. "i say that it is a pity she can't pass her days in a little cottage with honeysuckle all over it, and with her grandchildren grouped around her knee." "is she so fearfully old?" i asked in alarm. "one needn't be disgracefully antique to have grandchildren," my wife declared. "you are so old-fashioned, dear. you revel in pictures of white-haired, toothless, old creatures when you hear of grandmothers. if my grandmother were alive to-day she would be just fifty-three. she married at sixteen." "they always do, nowadays," i retorted cynically. "sixteen seems to be the age for women to marry at when they intend to become grandmothers." "hush!" cried letitia, for at that moment mrs. potzenheimer came in to tell us that dinner was served. most aged and infirm was mrs. potzenheimer, and i looked at her in amazement. she was slightly lame and her face was wizened and pinched. her eyes filled with tears as she told us that dinner was ready. i had felt ravenously hungry, but the sight of the new domestic nipped my pangs. not being wholly bad, a feeling of compassion took possession of me. a horrid idea that i should be waiting on cook, instead of cook waiting on me, almost overwhelmed me. our places were laid, but the table had no other decoration than a bottle of worcestershire sauce on a little mat in the middle. never have i seen a bottle of worcestershire look so funereally lonely. robinson crusoe on his desert island was a crowd in comparison. we sat down, depressed and gloomy. i felt that like the dove on the mast--in the song--i must "mourn, and mourn, and mourn." "i wonder if this table decoration is a duplicate of mrs. vanderbilt's," i murmured, as i unfolded my table-napkin. "it _is_ strange," letitia agreed, in a whisper. "i can't understand why she has 'starred' the worcestershire sauce. it is really such an ugly thing, with the brick-red label and the crude stopper." "perhaps there are some tenement-house vanderbilts," i suggested moodily. "i told you, archie," letitia insisted, "that the mrs. vanderbilt who employed nellie is at present visiting the duchess of marlborough at blenheim castle, so that settles it. she particularly said blenheim castle." mrs. potzenheimer brought in a seething dish of mutton stew, that emitted a fragrant odor. she set it down with a heavy sigh. i noticed a tear trickling down her cheek, and so did letitia, for i saw my wife's face grow serious. it was very good stew, indeed. if we could have called it a _ragoût_, we should have felt more at ease. it was a stew, however, and, with the best of intentions, it was impossible even to think of it as anything else. "she is much older than you implied, letitia," i said, as cook limped out of the room and we began dinner. "she really seems positively decrepit." letitia sat looking at her food rather wistfully. "it is the electric light, i think," she whispered--the constant whispering made me nervous--"i admit, archie, that she looks twenty years older, lighted up. in the daytime i put her down as forty. but you know, dear, i engaged her in such a hurry that i couldn't be quite sure. it does seem cruel to allow such an old woman--" "well, dear,"--i was growing cheerful in the material comfort of the moment,--"we don't force her to do it. she evidently wanted a position, or you wouldn't have found her at the intelligence office." "she was crying when she brought in the stew." letitia's lip quivered ominously. "why should she cry?" i asked with asperity--i carefully turned on the asperity in order to combat letitia's weakness. "why should she cry? she naturally expects to cook. it can't be a surprise to her. she must know that she isn't here just as an ornament, or--" "you are so hard, archie," letitia faltered. "you can sit there and enjoy a dinner cooked by a poor old soul. of course, i'm glad you enjoy it. it is better so. but still--i can't touch it. she has unnerved me. she must be thinking of her loved ones." "you said she hadn't any." "i didn't!" cried letitia indignantly. "i said nothing of the sort. i said she ought to be with her grandchildren, and so she ought. i dare say she has dozens of grandchildren. germans always have. it is their custom. i suppose they don't want her--the wretches--as she has nowhere to go. and she seems so inoffensive and simple." "do try and eat, letitia," i urged. "you make me feel so greedy. don't be angry, dear, but don't you think it's a bit far-fetched? you engage a cook with your eyes open, and then you won't touch the food she prepares because she is old. she was just as old this morning." "it isn't her age exactly," letitia explained hesitantly, "but i can't bear to see a human being in tears. who are we that we should distress a nice old woman so poignantly? what right have we to do it?" i did not answer, for i thought that letitia was a trifle exaggerated. however, she made a brave effort to dine, and being young and healthy, i was glad to notice that the succulent stew overcame her sentimental regrets. i fancy that she felt a little better after she had partaken of nourishment. still, it was with great reluctance that she rang the bell, and as mrs. potzenheimer ambled in, letitia was distinctly nervous. we tried to talk lightly during the removal of the dishes, but it was impossible. mrs. potzenheimer's eyes were suffused and she sighed stertorously. it was a long time before she emerged from the kitchen with a rice pudding. i observed that one of her thumbs was almost hidden in the pudding and this rather encouraged me, for i thought that it would vex letitia and stem the tide of her ill-advised sympathy. letitia, however, was studying mrs. potzenheimer's face and not her thumb. it is my opinion that cook's entire hand could have been submerged 'neath the rice and letitia would never have noticed it. so i called her attention to my unappetizing discovery. "if she did that in mrs. vanderbilt's house," i said sternly, "no wonder that lady has fled to the duchess of marlborough, and to rice puddings _minus_ thumbs." "i fail to see that there is anything particularly criminal in a thumb," letitia retorted. "it is not the thumb of an outsider. she made the pudding herself with her own hands and thumbs. don't be so exasperating, archie. oh, yes, i know that it isn't nice, and that it's very bad form. but i shan't tell her about it. i'm not going to add to her burden. evidently, she feels her position--" "and our rice pudding--" "--very acutely. she seems to me like a woman who has known better days. probably the vanderbilts treat their inferiors very badly. there is nothing like the insolence and the superciliousness of people of that class. it shall be my endeavor to show her the difference. i shall go out of my way to be sweet and soothing to her. she feels strange, of course. you can go into the drawing-room and smoke there to-night. i shall go and see that nellie is comfortable." it was no use arguing. i went to the drawing-room, discontentedly enough, and broke the rules of the house by smoking there. it was with letitia's permission, to be sure, but i felt uneasy. it was the thin end of the wedge, and i hated to think of the whole wedge. my nerves were on edge and i could settle to nothing. i kept fancying i heard mrs. potzenheimer sobbing, and letitia soothing her, with a "there now!" even the unsatisfied yearning sensation that had succeeded anna carter's delicatessen dinner was better than this. we seemed to have engaged trouble, at big wages, and the thought was maddening. if letitia potzenheimered every night after dinner, what would become of me, i selfishly wondered. of course, i had my _lives of great men_, but just at present mere greatness "riled" me. the very thought of greatness evaporated in reflections upon mrs. potzenheimer. the clock struck nine, and still i sat smoking in solitary silence. i picked up letitia's cicero, open at _de senectute_, and it seemed ominous. "neither gray hairs nor wrinkles," i read, "can suddenly catch respect; but the former part of life, honorably spent, reaps the fruit of authority at the close. for these very observances, which seem light and common--" i shut the book with a bang. in sudden irritation i wondered how letitia could read such rubbish. yes, rubbish, i asserted in mental indignation. thank goodness that my wife didn't hear me, and that nobody heard me. my mood was surely no excuse for an insult hurled at the sacred memory of cicero, amiably addressing titus pomponius atticus. how could letitia toboggan from cicero to mrs. potzenheimer? it was just ten o'clock when my wife joined me. she looked very tired and i saw that she had been weeping. this touched me, and the hasty words that my lips had formed remained unsaid. "she is asleep," said letitia gently. "she literally cried herself to sleep, archie. i insisted that she should go to bed and let me take her in a little dinner. she managed to eat some stew and some rice pudding. her appetite was really good. in fact"--with a smile "she ate more than both of us together. but i fancy she did it to please me. she saw that i was genuinely distressed." "you shouldn't have let her see it, letitia," i protested. "how could i help it?"--reproachfully. "she told me a good deal about herself. she has no grandchildren. don't interrupt, archie. she has no grandchildren for the very good reason that she had no children. she was married many years, but never had--anything! isn't it odd, dear, for a german? she always had to earn her own living. she was a nurse girl at seven. how sad to think of it!" "what did she say about the vanderbilts?" i repeat that i am not a snob, but one can't help being curious. "she doesn't like to talk about them, archie. i don't know why. i imagine that they must be very hard to get along with. but she did say that the duchess of marlborough was crazy to take her to england. however, she wouldn't go; she was too old, she said, and then she wept bitterly. she asked me a lot of questions about the people in the house--which, of course, i couldn't answer. and although she has only been here a few hours, and has been crying most of the time, she seems to have struck up an acquaintance with mrs. archer's cook below. while i was in the kitchen, mrs. archer's cook called up the dumb-waiter. i heard her say: 'what cheer?' and mrs. potzenheimer replied, in very low tones: 'rotten.' i suppose she meant that she felt ill." "what a horrid expression!" i exclaimed. "nellie seemed rather perturbed when she noticed that i had heard her," letitia went on, "and explained that she had met mrs. archer's cook at the intelligence office. she didn't allude to the expression she used. when she was in bed she called for a little whisky, and i gave her some." "letitia, you shouldn't--" "she hated it, archie," said letitia, with a wry face. "she told me that it positively went against her, but that she took it for her heart. she has a weak heart, dear. she drank half a tumblerful, as she says it always puts her on her feet again after one of these little attacks." "i don't like it, letitia," i remarked suspiciously. "i don't like it at all." letitia smiled and kissed me. "of course you don't, you silly old boy," she said lightly, "you've been left alone, and i'm glad you don't like it. i should be vexed if you did. did-ems leave-ems all alone-ems? but one must do a little good in the world, archie. suppose you were ill in a strange place, wouldn't you be grateful to anybody who tried to make you comfortable? put yourself in mrs. potzenheimer's place." "you are a foolish girl, letitia," i declared, mollified in spite of myself. "but if we are going to start a home for the aged--" "stop it, archie. now, stop it. you mustn't be harsh and unreasonable. what happened to-night will probably never happen again. would you like me if i were hard-hearted, and cold-blooded? think of nellie as though she were your own grandmother." "why should i, letitia?" i asked impatiently, wound up again. "i've been trying to think of her as my cook. that is all i bargained to do. it is not likely that i should engage my own grandmother--" "oh, you are so cross--so cross!" sighed letitia; "i have never seen you so disagreeable. after all, archie, you are a great big baby. you are vexed because i left you alone for a few moments." "an hour and a half!" "an hour and a half? was it really so long? it couldn't have been. well, perhaps it was. anyway, i'm glad you missed me. it is a consolation. i missed you, dear. it wasn't at all amusing waiting on a lachrymose old woman, plying her with drink and tucking her up in bed. it was really most objectionable, and i'm extremely lacking as a ministering angel. i can't minister for a cent. but i can try, can't i? and--let's be as quiet as we can, archie, and not disturb the poor thing." chapter vii dismal, dreary, depressing, are adjectives that scarcely qualify the week that ensued. they do not express the subtile, underlying something that made my home almost unendurable. there was a sense of impending crisis that was horrible. mrs. potzenheimer's ailments became more numerous, varied, and pungent. my whisky bills were absolutely menacing. letitia developed quite a _connoisseur's_ estimate of spirituous liquors, and the various brands of rye and scotch, as well as of old tom and holland in the gin list, seemed to displace her student's appreciation of cicero and ovid as light literature. on three occasions we dined at a restaurant, while mrs. potzenheimer went to bed. we generally spoke in whispers, and once, when i whistled _hiawatha_, letitia nearly grew hysterical. this was not due to the fact that _hiawatha_ happened to be extremely hackneyed, but to the circumstance that nellie was trying to take a nap. how i hated it all! letitia was pale and looked worn, for she never went out. mrs. potzenheimer was too infirm to open the door when the bell rang and letitia insisted upon doing it herself. the dinners of which we partook at home were invariably composed of stew and rice pudding. they palled. nellie, when remonstrated with (and not by letitia), explained that the duchess of marlborough had been so partial to stew that she had practically lived upon it, and what was good enough for her grace of marlborough was good enough, she thought--etcetera. at the end of the week the mere thought of stew sickened me. it was a subject that i detested to mention and an object that i loathed to see before me. mrs. potzenheimer wept just as frequently. i believe she wept tears of whisky and gin. i could have sworn, once or twice, that i saw old tom trickling down her cheeks. then came the climax. it had been a dark day. the birds were _not_ twittering in the sunshine; the air was _not_ laden with the balmy perfume of a thousand flowers. i had felt a sense of oppression all day while at the office. i had brooded to such an extent that arthur tamworth had begged me to take a holiday. tamworth, by-the-by, had recovered, i am thankful to say, and he never alluded to our little dinner. at first he had seemed gently reproachful but this wore off. he was now quite able to be up and doing. the climax, above mentioned, bore down upon me when i reached my apartment. there was no letitia to greet me. the dense silence could almost be felt, and through it i groped my way to the drawing-room. my wife was there, in an arm-chair, propped up by cushions, and asleep. although it was the hour when, according to our code, it was barbaric to be found in any but evening garb, letitia wore a mother hubbard wrapper of red flannelette. there were traces of tears on her face; her eyelashes were wet; it was quite evident that she had just fallen asleep after some exhausting experience. her tousled and generally dilapidated appearance was extraordinary. as i bent over her, she moved uneasily, and i heard her murmur: "it's old tom, nellie. it's old tom." of course, i understood. not being like the fools in the foolish plays of to-day, i was quite aware that old tom was not a rival, but merely a gin. consequently there was no dramatic situation in my mind as i mopped my perspiring brow. i was simply aghast at the inexplicable position of my domestic evening. "it isn't old tom, dear," i said gently, kissing her awake, "it's old archie." she looked at me in perplexity for a moment or two before she disturbed the silence. i thought it best to ask no questions, but to let the evil tidings come all by themselves. "the worst has happened, archie," she said slowly, and she even forgot to kiss me. "i have had the most fearful afternoon. i don't know how i've lived through it, and--and--nellie's gone!" "thank heaven!" i exclaimed fervently. "if that is all, letitia, if there is nothing more than that to account for red flannelette at six o'clock, i am immensely thankful." she glanced at her undignified mother hubbard, but did not smile. "i felt too worn out to dress," she said. "the mere idea of white silk seemed farcical. archie, the situation is absolutely red flannelette, and--abominable. i feel i've aged. i must have gone white--like the prisoner of chillon. oh, i feel a hundred-and-ninety in the shade." "calm yourself, dear," i suggested soothingly. "perhaps if you tell me all about it, you will feel better. remember i know nothing." "poor archie!" sighed letitia; "it is a shame to worry you, but it can't be helped. let me see how it began. ah, yes. after luncheon, dear--i had some cold stew and a glass of cold water--mrs. potzenheimer complained again of her heart and i was naturally compassionate. i gave her some gin--holland, i think it was, as the other was all gone. she was most insulting, and insisted upon having old tom. when i told her that she had finished it last night, she suggested that i run to the corner and buy some more. for a moment, archie--" "no, letitia, no," i cried in horror, "don't tell me--i decline to listen." "i said 'for a moment,' archie," letitia went on, "and if you interrupt, i'll say no more. for one moment, i confess, i did think that i ought to humor an invalid. then i remembered my dignity, and i told her firmly that it was holland or nothing. i shall never forget it--never. she rose and in a most matter-of-fact voice announced that her week of trial was up, and that she had had enough of us, that she would thank me for her wages, and that she was going. at first i thought she was joking." "you don't mean--" "she seemed perfectly well," letitia continued. "all her aches and pains had disappeared as if by magic. she said that our house was too dull for her and that she had been used to life and excitement. she couldn't live with people who didn't seem to entertain and who never dined out. i was so amazed that i could scarcely speak, but i murmured something about her health and she burst out laughing. she said that such a dingy couple as we were would make any woman ill. such ingratitude, such a fiendish reward for my kindness, i could never have contemplated. at first i refused to give her any wages, and she threatened some protective women's association on me, and told me that i hadn't a chance against such an old woman as she was. so i handed out the money." "very wrongly, letitia," i asserted. "and if she had asked for double the amount, i should have handed that out, too," letitia continued, not heeding my interruption. "she made a great point of the legal aspect of the case. i seemed to see a crowded court-room, and you, archie, being led in as the prisoner. and--and--i almost heard a verdict of guilty. i tell you, dear, i was delighted to escape it all by means of a five-dollar bill. it seemed a ridiculously cheap way out of it. but that isn't all. it isn't nearly all. the worst is yet to come." "no more vanderbilt servants for me," i muttered bitterly. "hang the vanderbilts and their beastly system of housekeeping!" "archie," said letitia mysteriously, "i don't believe that mrs. potzenheimer ever saw a vanderbilt. i was furious with her, and told her that i should write at once to the duchess of marlborough and inform her of the behavior of her favorite cook. i thought that she might be contemplating returning to the service of the vanderbilts. would you believe it, archie? she simply grinned in my face and mimicked me. i was so anxious for her to leave the house that i could scarcely wait. i don't think that she was more than five minutes getting ready, but it seemed like an eternity. after she had gone i went to my room to dress--don't think, dear, that the red flannelette was premeditated--and it was then i discovered that my diamond ring--the hoop you gave me, archie--that i had laid on my bureau had vanished." "i'll go at once and get a detective," i exclaimed ferociously. "hush," she said in a tired voice. "six silver spoons, monogrammed a. l. f., that aunt julia gave me, your gold whisky flask, and my tortoise-shell comb, with the pearls and turquoises are all missing. she was in a great hurry to go, and i was in a greater hurry to see her go--" "and she was such a simple, inoffensive old woman," i muttered savagely, "and you hated to see her work! and you thought she should be with her grandchildren! and the cottage with honeysuckle all over it! and nowhere to go! and a weak heart! and that infernal mutton stew--" i paused in incoherent anger, only to experience a painful remorse, as letitia began to sob. "that is so like a man!" she cried, turning from me as i uttered fervent apologies and pleas for pardon. "you are a man, after all, archie, and i never looked upon you as one. i thought you were something better--something nobler. i was mistaken. i find--i find that i have--have married--have married a man after all." i was greatly alarmed. this was the first sign of the demon of disenchantment. although i don't know why i was so bitterly chagrined at letitia's discovery that i was a man--i nevertheless was. for the moment it seemed disgusting to be a man. i could have found it in my heart to wish that i were a monkey. "forgive me, letitia, forgive me," i urged, severely distressed; "i was wrong. i hope you'll pardon me. don't--don't, dear--call me a man, again, in that tone. i can't stand it. oh, curse this potzenheimer woman who has brought us to this!" "there--there!" exclaimed letitia, brushing away her tears and kissing me. "you didn't mean it, i know, but after what i've gone through this afternoon, i can't endure very much more. and you appeared to be reproaching me, as though i were upholding that villainous hypocrite of a woman, who seemed--" she paused, as though expecting me to add "so simple and inoffensive." but this time, i had learned my lesson, and i was so thankful for letitia's forgiveness that i had nothing further to say. and, after all, i had been wrong to taunt her. "you can imagine how i felt," letitia went on presently, "when i discovered the loss of the valuables. i didn't mind the whisky flask, or the comb, or the spoons, but the ring you gave me, archie--it almost broke my heart to lose it. just as i had made up my mind to send for you, there was a peal at the bell, and in stalked a woman, who said she was mrs. archer, living in the apartment below us." "how horribly informal!" i exclaimed. "how do we know anything about mrs. archer?" "it wasn't an occasion for etiquette, archie. mrs. archer was in a desperate state. it seems that her cook spent most of her time with mrs. potzenheimer, when we were dining out at restaurants on account of mrs. potzenheimer's health. the irony of it all! her cook was another antiquity, with an aristocratic record. she had come to mrs. archer, without references, but had declared she had lived with the ogden goelets." "go on, letitia," i said, in a sherlock holmes voice. "_and_ mrs. ogden goelet was in europe, visiting the duchess of roxburghe. _and_ the duchess of roxburghe had been very much attached to her, and had been crazy to take her to london. _and_ she was too old to go, and wanted to 'rest her bones' in new york. _and_ she was always ailing, and nothing seemed to do her any good but gin and whisky." "i guessed it, letitia," i cried triumphantly; "i guessed it." "she behaved precisely like mrs. potzenheimer. she came from the same intelligence office. she left, at a moment's notice." "taking with her a diamond ring, six silver spoons, a gold whisky flask, and a comb with pearls and turquoises," i went on glibly, still in those staccato sherlock holmes tones. "or valuables to that effect," corrected letitia. "certainly," i assented judicially, "certainly. it is clear, letitia, that these women must have been in league, and that a carefully planned robbery has been effected." "if you had made that discovery yesterday, archie, before it had been effected, you might have done some good. of course, it is quite clear to-day. a child could see that," she added impatiently. "i wish you wouldn't interrupt me with such wonderful deductions, dear. i dare say they _are_ clever, but--" letitia's irritable tone hurt me. the pain of these incidents had been temporarily deadened by my sherlock holmes demeanor. still, i was bound to confess that, as letitia pointed out, the case did seem simple. "mrs. archer seemed furious with _me_," letitia said querulously. "the more we discovered that our troubles coincided, the angrier she grew. at one time"--and here letitia flushed--"she seemed to be positively suspicious. she had noticed the constant communication between the two cooks by means of the dumb-waiter." "the dumb-waiter seems to be a sort of hyphen, connecting devils," i interpolated epigrammatically. "don't be witty, archie. don't even try to be witty, please. as i think of mrs. archer's attitude, when she first entered, i feel humiliated. she admitted that she thought rosie was here. rosie was the cook. and it was not until i told her of nellie's departure, and the loss i had sustained, that her manner changed. when i mentioned the fact that i had missed a diamond ring, six silver spoons, a gold whisky flask, and a comb with pearls and turquoises, she really heaved a sigh of relief. she said, 'oh, i'm so glad, mrs. fairfax--' and then she checked herself, and added that she was glad the case was not complicated." "i'll see her husband, and demand a written apology," i declared indignantly. "you are always too late, dear," said letitia quietly. "mrs. archer apologized profusely. she told me that her husband had always been suspicious of people who live in apartments--since dr. parkhurst had bungled up new york. she was very nice. she said she could see at once that we were quite respectable." "how insulting!" i cried. "insulting!" echoed letitia. "if she had said she could see that we were _not_ quite respectable, then it would have been insulting. perhaps i am describing the scene badly. at any rate, though it may sound insulting to you, archie, it didn't to me. she didn't say it in precisely the terms i have used. mrs. archer is a very pleasant person. we grew quite chummy. we added up our losses. rosie had taken three hundred and thirty-seven dollars' worth, and nellie had gone off with at least seven hundred and fifty dollars' worth. she admitted that i was twice as aggrieved as she was. and i must say, archie, i couldn't help feeling pleased that i had the best of her." "the best of her, letitia? you mean the worst of her." "i don't," she insisted. "when a woman confronts you angrily and announces indignantly that she is a victim, it is a satisfaction to turn upon her, with the irrefutable evidence that she is not as much of a victim as you are. i felt a triumphant sense of 'there now!' just the same, now that she has gone, i could cry all over again as i think of my loss. i put a brave face on the matter, for the sake of appearances. we had tea together, but when she had left, the trouble all came back to me and i think, archie, that i must have wept myself to sleep." "i suppose i had better report the case," i suggested. "it will be waste of time," said letitia. "mrs. archer told me so. now that rosie and nellie have gone, she remembers reading of two crooks who have been robbing apartment houses lately. like you, dear, she is a bit late." "i don't know why you speak so slightingly of your husband, letitia," i interposed haughtily. "i don't mean to slight you at all, archie. but you see through a case when it is all over, and mrs. archer remembers important information when it is no longer important. that is all, dear. rosie and nellie have probably left the city, and the state, taking care to cover their tracks." "still for the sake of other possible victims--" "never mind them, archie," said letitia promptly, "they must take care of themselves as we have had to do. anyway, now that you are here, and that i have eased myself by telling you all, i feel better. and it is such a relief not to have a patient with a weak heart on one's hands. positively, dear, i am relieved. it is as though i have shifted a burden. it is almost worth seven hundred and fifty dollars to feel comfortable. you really didn't need the gold whisky flask, and i can get along without the tortoise-shell comb. the diamond ring _is_ a blow, but i intend to forget it. i'll just put on my things and you shall take me out to dinner, and then we'll go to the theater and see something jolly, with rattle in it." "sothern's playing _hamlet_," i insinuated, "and shakespeare always cheers you." "but he wouldn't to-night, archie. who shall minister to a mind be-cooked? one must be mentally serene to appreciate _hamlet_. i want to forget mrs. potzenheimer, and although i adore classics, they don't exhilarate on occasions like these. would you think me quite dreadful and illiterate, if, instead of _hamlet_, i suggest--" "mrs. fiske in _hedda gabler_?" "no, dear, just--er--weber and fields'. do you mind?" "oh, letitia," i said in a shocked voice, though i could scarcely repress a smile of joy, "i am amazed. i should never have thought it of you. still, if you insist,--well, let us go to weber and fields'. we can leave when we are disgusted." "i shall stay till the end," announced letitia firmly, "and i hope it lasts until midnight. that is the way i feel to-night." chapter viii while a well-selected little restaurant dinner undoubtedly loosens the trammels of a too obdurate and persistent domesticity, the restaurant breakfast can scarcely be said to be conducive to an overweening amiability. those who have tried it will not be inclined to dispute the matter. it is in the early morn that the term restaurant seems singularly inappropriate. the luminous, glittering, chattering resort where, at night, one may throw off one's care and temporarily forget one's home and mother, is, in the forenoon, but--an eating house. one is there, in vulgar materialism--to eat! the boiled-egg moment, that the mere ethics of good taste assign to privacy--with the morning ablutions and the care of the teeth--is a tragedy when translated into publicity. conviviality, at the boiled-egg moment, is an impossibility. ordinary courtesy is abstruse and difficult. silence, the morning papers, the birth of one's daily attitude--the natural cravings of the hour--give way to the gloomy desolation of the public resort. cheek-by-jowl with other unfortunates, in whom it is hope to discover an interest--for altruism is not born until noon, and mere selfishness monopolizes the morning hours--the meal is a detestable torture, worthy of a place in the catalogue of mediæval horrors. yet letitia and i came to it. we came to it next morning. there were no warm slippers for me; there was no loose dressing-gown for letitia. we dressed; we put on our bonnets and shawls; we sallied forth to boiled egg. we were rather sullen about our sallying, and being devoid of a sense of humor, we saw nothing amusing in the empty glory of our prettily furnished apartment. i am told that the situation would have been saved, for the humorously born, by this mere idea. yet i am still thankful for my mental inability to rout tragedy by comedy. letitia looked at me unaffectionately; i was able to regard letitia without rapture. the maintenance of the honeymoon mood is generally strenuous--which is not meant for cynicism--but the honeymoon in its most effulgent radiance must pale, as lubin and dulcinea seek their boiled egg abroad. alas! "i dare not try it, letitia," i said, shivering, as a morning waiter, in evening dress, set the terrible thing before me. "i have a horrible presentiment that it is bad. i don't know why, but i can't shake off the idea. eggs are such a lottery." "i wish you wouldn't set me against my food," she retorted peevishly, slicing the top from the offensive egg and peering timidly into it. then with a smile: "perhaps it's like the curate's egg." "don't, letitia!" i cried indignantly, "i loathe that alleged joke. it is so silly and so played out. besides, it was never meant for morning use. there are some things that it is criminal to jest about--eggs, and _parsifal_, and cooks, and the passion play," i added desperately. i was determined that i would not taste my egg until i saw how letitia took to hers. they were probably of the same brand. it was perhaps cowardly of me to let a frail little woman explore the mysteries of an unguessed egg, but i was in a thoroughly perverse mood. i watched her stolidly as she dipped in her spoon, stirred up the contents, and transferred a portion of them to her mouth. nothing happened. she did not change color and i realized that all was well. for in the case of the restaurant egg: _ce n'est que le premier pas qui coûte_. the tea tasted like boiled hay. it was called english breakfast tea, probably because the english would never think of drinking it, and if they did, they would never drink it at breakfast time. but it was hot and wet--two qualities that are sufficient for those who have not mastered the sublime art of tea-drinking. letitia scarcely touched her breakfast. she immersed herself in the advertising columns of the morning newspaper, and was quite hidden behind the sheet. i was in that odious humor when, to be looked at as i ate, was unendurable--something simply not to be borne with equanimity. i was glad that letitia couldn't see me, for while she wasn't looking i did very nicely, and ate my team of boiled eggs with relish! if letitia had been looking at me, i should have left them both. one can not always account for the morning mood. and yet i have never been called a "crank." "archie," she said suddenly (and i quickly hid the egg-shells so that she should not remark upon my strangely-found appetite), "i think i've got it at last. it really looks as though there were a way out of our difficulties. but i do wish, dear boy, that you would try to eat." she glanced at my plate. she saw the egg-shells. the rolls, butter, tea, had all disappeared. i felt a flush mount to my brow. had i been detected in the commission of a crime, i could not have looked more uncomfortable. "oh, i see you have managed to do very well," she said in a pleased voice, without a vestige of sarcasm. "in fact"--with a smile--"if you do as well as that, without an appetite, i am quite unable to imagine what you would do with one. you are a healthy boy--healthy but silly." "well, letitia," i murmured abjectly, "you were reading, and paying no attention to me--i might have been down at the battery for all you cared--so i had to do something in self-defense." "don't apologize," said letitia, and this time there was an intonation of ill-timed jocularity in her voice. "i am glad you were hungry, and i wish that i had been. i've eaten nothing, and you don't even notice it. you don't urge me to eat. it doesn't matter." "letitia!" i cried reproachfully. "please--please--" she laughed. "i'm teasing you, archie, and i didn't mean to do so. you are such a lovely subject for persecution that i can't resist the temptation. but--bother our appetites. i have forgotten the present and am looking into the future. here is a little advertisement that will, i think, put an end to our anguish. listen--" she took a pencil and marked round the following, which she then proceeded to read aloud: "irish widow lady, with one child, wants position as cook, in small refined family, of christian principles. good home preferred to big wages. call sixth avenue. mrs. mccaffrey. up one flight." "archie," said letitia solemnly, laying down the paper, "i feel intuitively that mrs. mccaffrey is our fate. i read fifty advertisements while you were trying--i mean while you were eating" (i winced), "and i felt a warm, rushy sensation when i came to the name of mrs. mccaffrey. i believe it was telepathy, from sixth avenue." "let me look at the advertisement." i took the paper, and read the portentous lines that letitia had almost intoned. then i re-read it. "i suppose that she means to bring the child with her," i suggested ruefully. "that is the catch, letitia. we do want a cook, but we don't want a child--at least hers." "but, archie, dear," said letitia seriously, "we have none of our own." "how _could_ we have?" i cried, amazed and indignant. "we won't argue that point," declared my wife, quite unruffled. "the fact is, archie, that we haven't any children, whatever you may say, and however much you may argue. under the circumstances, i don't object to a cook with a child. in fact, i quite like the idea. she will be very much steadier and less frivolous, and--archie, i love children. i like their prattle, and their cunning little ways, and--" "but," i interrupted, catching at a straw with the zest of a drowning man, "you notice that she wants to go into the service of a family with christian principles. now, i don't propose to saddle myself with christian principles for the sake of my cook. i positively decline. what difference on earth it can possibly make to a cook whether she broil a steak for buddhists, or mohammedans, or christian scientists, or swedenborgians--or even, for the salvation army, i can't imagine. religion in the kitchen is just a bit far-fetched. i consider that advertisement most insulting, letitia." "archie, really, you--" "and i suppose," i went on, wound up, "that we should have to sing hymns with her every night and perhaps go to church with her on sunday. i won't lend myself to such new-fangled notions. cook is a question of dinner and not of religious belief. besides, how could she know what our principles were? we might be atheists, and still inform her that we had christian principles! i dare say that if we objected to her cooking, she would say we were not christians, and if we protested at her going out more than eight times a week, she would declare that we were heathens. the child is bad enough, but the christian principles are worse. i'm sorry, letitia, but this advertisement is really a mass of palpable loopholes." tears came to letitia's eyes. they seemed to be frequently in abeyance there nowadays, and they grieved me. "for a couple who a few weeks ago knew nothing about the servant question, and indignantly scouted the idea that there was such a thing, we are getting on well," she said in a low voice. "you are growing awfully suspicious, archie. the iron seems to have entered your soul. because anna carter and mrs. potzenheimer were failures--quick failures i grant--you are now inclined to put every cook in the same boat. oh, archie, i'm ashamed of you. if you are always looking for evil motives you will find them, sure enough." she paused, and the tears welled up again. the sight was so painful to me that--in sheer dread of its continuance--i succumbed. that is to say, i had no further adverse comments to make and the field was letitia's! undoubtedly, she knew it. "you see, dear," she said in mollified tones, "you don't understand the probable position of poor mrs. mccaffrey. imagine her alone in the world with a child. she is poor. she must earn a living for the two of them. all she knows how to do is to cook. she places herself in the market as a cook. but there is the child! she can not smother it, and she must take it with her. she is therefore anxious that the place to which she takes it shall be respectable and--religious. i don't suppose that she is too fearfully particular. but naturally, she would not like to see the dear little thing in the house of a man who drank and swore, and of a woman who--well, of a woman who behaved in the femininely equivalent. so, just to protect herself, she says christian principles. i admire her for it, archie." silence on my part. letitia's triumphant logic was of course unanswerable. i made no attempt to answer it, and letitia was "riled." "do say something, dear," she urged. "i don't want to vex you, letitia," i said, "and that is why i am silent. but you surely must know that men with christian principles do swear and do drink. our old servant at oxford had thoroughly christian principles, but he used to beat his wife regularly every night. the christian principles were there, but they were not sufficient." letitia knew that she had won the day and was instantly her own delightful, charming self. "you are splitting straws," she said, "you baby! i have a great mind to tell mrs. mccaffrey exactly what you said--and don't believe! it would serve you right if i went to sixth avenue and said, 'you'll like our home, mrs. mccaffrey. my husband has christian principles. he drinks like a fish, swears like a trooper, and beats his wife like a british workingman. but he is _such_ a christian!' archie, i believe you're jealous, and that's the trouble with you. you think that if there is a child your nose will be out of joint. such a foolish husband!" and letitia rose in her seat and kissed me over the table, although there were two waiters in dangerous proximity, and an enormous married couple, who seemed scandalized, at the very next table. it really did look most unseemly at such an ungodly hour of the morning! "now confess," she said tauntingly, "confess that you are pleased. confess it at once, sir, or--or i shall kiss you again, and this time much louder." i tried to be stern, and to recall the various grades of vexation that i had known since the boiled eggs were brought in. but my irritation had vanished. my wife, witch-like, had dissipated the mists that had obscured my good nature. after all, if she were pleased, why need i worry? the affairs of our household were assuredly hers--although, up to the present, i had suffered from their most uncomfortable reflection. i felt better. perhaps the much-despised breakfast was, in spite of all, partly responsible for the mental metamorphosis. "she certainly will have a good home," said letitia, pursuing her thoughts aloud, "and it is really nice to meet a woman who wants one. it shows a refined mood. what did anna carter care for a good home, except to go away from it every night? and mrs. potzenheimer? you are very domesticated for a man, archie--whatever you may be, you are that--and i feel sure that mrs. mccaffrey will take to you at once. and, archie--i shall teach the child to call you uncle, and me auntie. it will be so dear and sweet." "what an absurd girl you are, letitia," i exclaimed, amused in spite of myself at her ingenuous remarks. "you remind me of dora, the child-wife, in _david copperfield_." "i call that most unkind," she declared indignantly. "i always hated that character. dora was such a fool that i was glad when she died. please don't compare me to her again, archie. i don't think i am a fool. of course, i select a rosy outlook. i hope for the best, and i believe that most things are meant to turn out well. but i think i am most practical, and sensible, and staid, and sophisticated, and--old before my years." i settled my account with the persistently smiling waiter, who appeared to regard us as jokes, and we left the restaurant. letitia determined to ride down town with me and to set out at once in quest of the irish mccaffrey. i had some qualms about permitting her to meander around the lower extremities of sixth avenue in the seclusion of the one-flight-up resorts. but she overruled my objections in her usual vivid manner. "when you come home this evening," she said gaily, as we sat in the elevated train, and were whizzed south, "you'll find a nice little wife, a nice little cook, and a nice little child." "to say nothing of a nice little dinner," i added materially. "at any rate, letitia, i do hope you'll insist that the christian principles are not cooked with the dinner. if there is anything on earth that i detest, it is christian food. porridge and griddle cakes for breakfast, cold rubbish for luncheon, and overdone chops, followed by indigestible, chunky pie--that is my conception of christian food. i can't help thinking that much of the immorality in the world is simply due to christian food." "stop it!" cried letitia, laying a gloved finger on my lips. "you think you are getting clever. you are trying to imitate grundy, pinero, and barrie, and i assure you that it is all lost on me. i want a cook, and not an epigram." "as i said," i continued forcefully and rather loudly, "much of the immorality of the world is simply due to christian food. christian food is easy and generally--boiled. the mistaken idea that sound morals are the result of bad digestion is responsible for the inartistic plight of england and america." "hush, archie!" exclaimed letitia, looking around her nervously. "you talk as though you were haranguing a mob. and just the sort of nonsense that a mob loves, too. as for the plight of england and america--you are forgetting france. and look where french gluttony has led the nation! as for lack of morality--" "bah!" i remarked perversely, "france's lack of morality is a phrase used for advertising purposes, my girl. there is a bigger lack of it in london and new york, but you don't hear so much about it, because it is ugly--like english plum pudding and american baked beans. no people can be really wicked who have invented the duval restaurants. compare the light-hearted, cheerful, exhilarating, comfortably-stomached parisians, sitting outside their _cafés_ and sipping their _eaux sucrées_, with the greedy english, absorbing stodgy buns and dingy lemonade, and with the criminal americans, assimilating poisonous ice-creams, and destroying their mucous membranes with odious candies." "at the next station i get out and walk," declared letitia furiously. "i'll leave you, archie. your breakfast has gone to your head. what is the matter with you? really, i begin to think that our domestic troubles have unseated your reason." the train was stopping at the fifty-third street station and letitia rose, prepared to get out. as a matter of fact, i had been enjoying myself immensely. my words had been addressed to letitia, but they were selfishly designed for my own delectation. i liked to hear myself talk--in which respect, i resembled a good many other people i knew. "sit down, letitia," i said, "i've finished. i just wanted to relieve myself of a few thoughts, which seemed relevant to the occasion." "everybody is looking at you," she asserted in vexation, "and--i'll get out, archie, if you continue. what must these people think of a young man, excitedly discussing the ethics of food in the sixth avenue elevated railroad?" "in a train positively littered with advertisements of food," i added savagely. "all around us are legends of pickles, and biscuits, and sauces, and catsup--and horrid things that are bought cooked, because we live in a country where the art is unknown, and where the cooks talk of christian principles. you are not logical, letitia. it seems to me that this is the very place where, if you don't think of food, advertisers lose their money." "well, think of it," muttered letitia defiantly, "but don't talk about it." "following the example of english and americans in the matter of immorality," i couldn't help saying. then lightly: "well, letitia, you must admit that i am bright. you may not appreciate my clever remarks, but i'm sure they would make a hit in print." "not with me, dear," retorted my unappreciative wife. "i think they're silly, and old, and book-y, and i like you better in a home mood. i've never seen you as obstreperous as this before, and it has handicapped mrs. mccaffrey for me, as she was the cause of it. and now, here i am at my station, and--you can ride back to yours. don't work too hard to-day, archie, and take a good luncheon--something warm and nourishing. i'm sure that you are not quite well, and i shall call in dr. de voursney if you have any more of these alarming symptoms to-night." "one thing, letitia," i said rather penitently, for it began to dawn upon me that i had made an ass of myself. "mrs. mccaffrey advertises herself as a widow. well, i want you to make sure that mr. mccaffrey is good and dead, and that we don't get a cook-in-law as well as a child." and this time letitia laughed and dropped a curtsey, as i lifted my hat and left her. chapter ix smiling, radiant, and in her prettiest evening gown--a felicitous blend of refinement and simplicity that the most abjectly sarah-jane mind would scarcely dare to think of as a confection--my brave letitia met me as i returned from the sordid bread-and-butter struggle to sweet domesticity. and i could see that the dove of peace had temporarily descended upon my miniature household. it was letitia of the honeymoon; letitia of ovid and cicero; letitia, the provocative, the mutinous, the delightful! it was no longer the letitia of tinted anna carter, and bleary mrs. potzenheimer, and the delicatessen dinner! i heaved a sigh of relief as she kissed me affectionately. "they're here, archie," she said jubilantly, as i walked into her parlor with elastic step, "and i had no trouble at all. mrs. mccaffrey received me most respectfully--she was her own best reference--and i made my decision quickly. she has been here about an hour, and took possession of the kitchen as though she were not a bit ashamed of it." "tell me all, dear," i asked hopefully, as i began to struggle into my evening clothes all laid out on the bed for me by letitia. "there's nothing to conceal," declared letitia amiably. "i was sorry you put it into my head to ask about her husband. you remember, dear, you insisted that he must be good and dead. and you see, i am clay in your hands, archie. poor woman! she showed me a picture of his tombstone, in an elegant gold frame, and then burst into tears. he was forty-eight, and his name was michael." "and she spoke of him as mike?" i interrupted. "how _did_ you guess?" cried letitia. "yes, she did. how she cried, poor soul! he was a drunkard, but very kind to her. i suppose there _are_ really good drunkards, archie, as well as bad ones. we only hear of the bad ones, yet surely some natures must be improved by alcohol. evidently, mr. mccaffrey's was. he drank himself to death and, in his last moments of delirium tremens, she heard him say brokenly, 'you can always cook for a living, birdie.'" "birdie!" i exclaimed, dropping my collar-button. "oh, i was very firm, archie. i was, indeed. i quite realized the indignity, the indelicacy of such a name for a cook. and it was not a pet name used exclusively by her husband. she was christened birdie, and she showed me dozens of letters, all addressed to mrs. birdie mccaffrey. i thought it best to start in a determined way, and i told her that my husband was a dreadful crank." "letitia!" "i just _said_ it, archie, as i thought it would carry weight. i insisted that you would never, never call her birdie, as you were rather old-fashioned. at first she was indignant when i suggested that we call her mary, and she actually asked me how you would like it if she called you tom. that was insolent, and i snubbed her quickly. i think i did the novel-heroine's act. i drew myself up to my full height and rustled away from her. she came to her senses and compromised on her second name, which is miriam--birdie miriam mccaffrey. miriam isn't so bad, is it, archie? it's a bit biblical, and has a sort of 'sound the loud timbrel' flavor. but i've come to the conclusion that regular cooks' names are not possible in new york, and miriam might be worse. it's much better than hyacinth, or guinevere, or ermyntrude. imagine calling out 'ermyntrude, bring in the pie.' so you must really stretch a point, archie, and offer no objections to miriam." "am i such a dreadful tyrant, letitia?" "you silly boy," she exclaimed laughing, "don't you think it for a moment, dear. but with cooks, a tyrannical husband always sounds well. i must confess that i made you out to be most overbearing, arrogant, autocratic, and even insulting at times. you don't mind, dear. i thought it best. a man in the house, nowadays, means nothing. men are so weak. but a bully--" "i wish you wouldn't, letitia," i said irritably, "i don't fancy being held up as a bully. where's the sense? and where's the fun?" "i was not thinking of fun, dear. please be docile, archie, and leave household matters to me. you won't regret it. of course, i know that you are not a bully, but my cooks must think that you are one, until they find out what a meek, good-natured, foolish, old fossil of a silly old husband you are." with which she knotted my tie for me, shook me by my shoulders, and led me into the drawing-room. "the child!" i exclaimed. "you've forgotten the child. tell me about it." there was no need to do so. hardly had i spoken when the defunct michael mccaffrey's legacy to posterity joined us in the drawing-room. it was a mouse-colored little brat, with hair that looked like blankets, watery eyes that seemed to be edged with pink tape, a sticky face and hands, the dirtiness of which would probably be called picturesque in italy, and in somebody else's drawing-room, and the delightful aspect of those dear little things that play about the gutters of the east side. its nose was disgusting, and when i say that i do not refer to the shape of the organ. the child ran up immediately to a green velvet ottoman and began affectionately rubbing it the wrong way with the sticky hands. "ga-ga!" it said. "ga-ga! ga-ga!" "come away!" i cried, scenting the ruin of the ottoman. "come here, dear," said letitia gently, but the child paid not the slightest heed. "i hadn't seen it before, archie, as it was playing in the street when i called on mrs. mccaffrey. it isn't--it isn't"--in a disappointed tone--"it isn't a bit cute." "ga-ga! ga-ga!" shouted the brat. "mrs. mccaffrey must not allow the child to run wild," i said sternly. "we can't do with it in the drawing-room, letitia. it must stay with its mother. you must insist upon that. it is certainly not an ornament to a room. a little cold water and some soap--" "i wonder if it is a boy or a girl," mused letitia, as she pulled the hands of the brat from the green velvet ottoman to which they stuck. "mrs. mccaffrey didn't tell me. how _can_ i find out?" "ask miriam," i said sarcastically. "she ought to know." "you can always tell whether cats are gentlemen or ladies by the shape of the head," letitia went on irrelevantly, "but children are puzzles. this dirty little thing looks like a boy, archie. i'm quite sure that it can't be a girl. i forgot to ask, and we really ought to know, don't you think?" at that moment a loud voice was heard calling, "letitia! letitia!" and then: "letitia! where on earth is letitia?" for a minute after there was dead silence. letitia flushed, and an expression of violent anger dawned upon her face. i was too amazed to say anything. after what my wife had told me of mrs. mccaffrey's bitter antipathy to a change of name, this looked like revenge. she undoubtedly proposed to show letitia that she had no intention of changing _her_ name. the child ran quickly to its mother, and we were left alone, in a tumult of astonishment. "you must go and veto that, instantly, letitia," i asserted gravely. "stop it at once, before--before she calls me archie. she'll do it. i know she will." "you go," pleaded letitia in fervent tones. "do it for me, archie. i've done so much." "no," i declared relentlessly, "i will not interfere in household matters. you have asked me not to do so. you can tell her again that i am a bully, and a tyrant, and anything you choose. it sounds well, you know. you can put it all down to me, and inform her that if she dares to use your christian name again she can depart to no. sixth avenue, up one flight--or two flights--or any number of flights." letitia scarcely waited until i had finished my chaste remarks. she flew out of the room as though she had been shot, with the evident intention of striking while the iron was heated. i closed the door because i had no desire to hear. perhaps it was an act of cowardice on my part, but, after all, letitia herself absolved me from implicating myself in these matters. she had asked me to leave everything to her, and i had no intention of thwarting her in this instance. she returned presently, looking completely relieved. there was even a smile upon her lips. "how silly we were, archie!" she said, sinking into a chair, "and how ready we were to think the worst of a poor, hard-working woman. she wasn't calling me at all. she heard the child in the drawing-room, and was calling the child. it _is_ a girl, archie, and its name is letitia." "letitia!" i gasped. "that beastly, sticky, obnoxious little imp is named letitia?" "is it such a fearful name?" she asked quickly. "i can't say you are complimentary, archie. of course, mrs. mccaffrey didn't know that the child was going to be 'beastly,' 'sticky,' and 'obnoxious' when she called it letitia. how should she? i felt quite amused, as it is such a strange name to have selected. and yet, it is not at all an extraordinary name when you come to think of it. i know several letitias, and i have read of many more." "do be sensible, my girl," i said, trying to be patient. "surely you must see that we can't have this woman calling letitia all over the house, when it happens to be the name of the mistress." "but what's to be done?" she asked. "if you are going to suggest that i ask mrs. mccaffrey to change her daughter's name to eliza, or susan, or sarah--well, i simply decline. nothing on earth would induce me to do it. i made her consent to be known as miriam, instead of birdie, which was quite an undertaking. no more of it for me, thank you. i've finished juggling with these baptismal arrangements. you are most unreasonable. what difference can it make? as long as i don't mind, i can't see why you object. and--and--if there must be a change of name, i'd sooner change mine. yes, i would, archie. you can call me sarah, or eliza, or susan, if you like. but i will _not_ ask mrs. mccaffrey to forego the pleasure of calling her own child by its own legitimate name." "i certainly shall _never_ call you eliza, letitia," i protested indignantly, "i loathe all those names. if you had been called eliza, or sarah, or susan--or even kate--i wouldn't have married you. i feel very strongly on the subject. please don't suggest such ridiculous things." "well," said letitia, and the tears rose to her eyes, "can't you--can't you--address me as 'dear,' or 'love,' as much as possible? you are awfully fond of calling me 'my girl,' you know. it would simplify matters so much, if you could do this, archie. please do. it can't be difficult, as you do it so frequently, and now when you know that it is really necessary--" "it seems such a dreadful shame to give up the name of letitia, which is charming, just for the sake of this woman's squalid little cub. it's an outrage. i'm surprised at you, my girl." "there! you said 'my girl,'" she cried triumphantly. "now, wasn't it easy?' "i didn't know i said it," was my stern rejoinder, "and i assure you that i don't intend to make any point of it. i shall do as i choose and, anyway, if that brat is kept out of sight and hearing--and that you must insist upon--we shall not be seriously inconvenienced. the lower classes to-day are simply impossible. they--" "hush, archie!" said letitia earnestly. "you forget that there are no lower classes. you are in the united states, and not in england. try and remember that michael mccaffrey's child is just as suited to the name of letitia, as is the wife of archibald fairfax, a gentleman who is still silly enough to tack an 'esq.' to his name." "dinner's on table," said a rich, hibernian voice at the door, and we guiltily stopped short. mrs. mccaffrey stood there eying me contemplatively, and even from the cursory glance she was able to take, i felt perfectly sure that she instantly realized the fact that letitia's stories of the bully and tyrant that dominated the household, were undoubted myths. she was a large lady, neatly dressed. indications seemed to point to her possession of what is popularly known as a "temper." and perhaps the late mr. michael mccaffrey was fully aware of what he was doing when he drank himself to death. it was a cozy little dinner of barley soup, very appetizing; a tender chicken, ably accompanied with parsley sauce; vegetables, and a fruit pie. but its enjoyment was effectually marred by the circumstance that miriam was accompanied to the dining-room by letitia, who was growing peevish, and whose "ga-ga!" simply got on my nerves. it was most discouraging. tugging at cook's apron incessantly, letitia junior was an irritating obstruction. we could scarcely hear ourselves talk for the perpetual "ga-ga!" in the kitchen, and out of it. it was all that the cub could say. mrs. mccaffrey would exclaim indulgently, "be quiet, letitia!" and then, for a moment, my wife would look at her in amazement, while i bit my lip in vexation. i was unable to decide as to whether anna carter's delicatessen dinner, without "ga-ga!" was superior or inferior to mrs. mccaffrey's comfortable meal with it. it was a nice point, and one that called for a deft and finely calculated judgment. "i've got two letitias now to wait on, i see," said cook pleasantly, as she brought in the pie, while the child looked at it covetously and said "ga-ga!" "and if you could manage to keep one of them in the kitchen, my good woman," i plucked up courage enough to say, "we should appreciate it." this was a mistake on my part. a few seconds later, doleful sounds proceeded from mrs. mccaffrey's region. we heard her slapping the child, and alluding to it as a plague, and--that settled letitia. "now see what you've done," she said, casting indignant glances at me. "you have positively driven the poor mother to abuse her own child. you are countenancing cruelty. i couldn't stand it for a moment, archie. the child has done nothing. it has merely followed cook into this room, which was quite natural. it has said nothing." "pardon me," i interrupted, in vexation, "it has said 'ga-ga!' it has said 'ga-ga!' persistently, and while you may consider that enlivening, letitia, i don't. if i had a child of my own, nothing on earth would induce me to allow it to say 'ga-ga!' it is most disheartening." "well, i shall teach it to say something prettier," letitia declared. "i admit that 'ga-ga!' isn't cunning, all the time. once or twice, perhaps, it is not amiss. in the meantime, if mrs. mccaffrey slaps little letitia--my namesake, isn't she, archie?--out of the house she goes. i'd sooner she ill-treated big letitia. and you are so tender-hearted that i wonder you can sit there so quietly--like a--like a--monster--" letitia rose and went into the kitchen. i fancied that i heard her kissing mrs. mccaffrey's cub, but i could not be sure--and preferred _not_ to be sure. it was a point upon which i desired no illumination. it was one of the many things that it is better not to know. sullenly, i finished my dinner alone, while letitia talked with cook. it seemed like an endless conversation. these kitchen interludes began to pall upon me. letitia was either putting a cook to bed or discussing maternity with her. there seemed to be no escape from this preposterous condition of affairs. if i had slapped letitia, mrs. mccaffrey would probably have been up in arms about christian principles. however, it was like the case of my old oxford servant, before mentioned, who was such a christian that he used to beat his wife punctually at ten o'clock every night. not that she minded in the least. my own opinion is that she liked it, as mrs. mccaffrey's child probably did. in this, as in many other matters, there is no accounting for taste. i went moodily to the drawing-room and smoked viciously. i made "rings," and watched them dissolve in the atmosphere. i contrasted what was, with what should be. the scene lacked the placid picture of letitia reading cicero beneath the rosy lamplight. letitia was haranguing a cook and her husband was temporarily forgotten. no wonder that i felt bitter, and brooded over the unsolved enigma known as the "servant question." when letitia joined me, she led in the dirty brat by the hand. the juvenile mccaffrey had evidently been washed. there was a line round its neck that showed the limit of the operation. it had a sugar stick in its mouth, which mercifully excluded "ga-ga!" from utterance. letitia seemed rather thoughtful, and came up to me gently. "i'm sorry if i spoke harshly," she said, kissing me, "but--but--things do seem to go so wrong, dear, don't they? i told mrs. mccaffrey never to touch her child again, and i asked her about her christian principles." "good!" i exclaimed savagely. "she was rather surprised, and a trifle impertinent, and thought that ladies without children should not offer advice to mothers. from a few remarks that she let drop unconsciously, i couldn't help thinking, archie, that she has had other children--plenty of them--dozens--" "let us hope that they are dead," i said, in the quietude of despair. "anyway, they don't matter, do they, as they are not here? certainly, archie, i don't see why she shouldn't have had other children. letitia doesn't look to me like a first-born. she suggests the end of a long scale--the culmination of a series. i don't know why. it doesn't concern us, though. i have offered to take care of the child this evening as mrs. mccaffrey is going to see a sister who lives in tremont. i couldn't well refuse, could i? we are not going out." "oh, hang it!" i cried. "an evening of 'ga-ga!' you might have considered _me_. it is all very well to think so much of mrs. mccaffrey. but, of course, _i_ haven't a sister in tremont, and _i've_ got to stay in and face the music." "archie! archie!" letitia pleaded, "you are getting to be a regular old, discontented, married man. you are beginning to talk to me as though--as though i irritated you, and you couldn't stand me. oh, dear! i should never, never have thought that merely on account of a cook--" "of three cooks!" i insisted. letitia turned away from me, looking miserable, and my heart smote me. the only thing to do was to make the best of it, after all. i had a particular objection to degenerating into an ogre-husband, and probably i had been exceedingly cross. yet this situation was not due to letitia any more than it was to me. it was due to the probably noisome mr. mccaffrey, now defunct. he was responsible for the abominable child, and had gone peacefully to his rest without a qualm. even cook, herself, was powerless. domesticity was not all beer and skittles. so i smiled, and tried to look pleasantly at the brat. it was not an easy task, especially when i heard the front door shut and realized that the cook-parent was on her way to tremont, and our fate was "ga-ga!" until bed did us part. the child was eating the sugar sticks avidly, and was refreshingly tranquil and silent. i took up an evening paper, hoping for the best; letitia made a feint at ovid with one eye on the juvenile mccaffrey. this did not last long. the brat grew restless and wandered disconsolately around the room, leaving traces of sticky fingers everywhere. letitia merely pretended to read; i could see that. she followed the child around with one eye, but said nothing, probably unwilling to disturb me. poor letitia! the idea that she was frightened of me was appalling. i could never endure that. i tried to lose myself in absorbing stories of fires, and abductions, and murders. the murders seemed particularly lively--almost sporty. then i made up my mind to be good-natured and was even planning a game of hide-and-seek, or blindman's-buff, or hunt-the-slipper with letitia and the mccaffrey cub, when my good intentions were shattered. the child began to yell. it put its finger in its mouth and shouted. great tears rolled down its cheeks. its face was distorted. it threw itself down on the tiger-head and commenced to kick. the room was filled with this alarming demonstration. letitia rose, her face white; i stood up suddenly, aghast at the din. "great goodness!" cried letitia in consternation. "it is a fit, i think--or a convulsion--or a paralytic stroke. what's to be done, archie? suppose--suppose--it dies before mrs. mccaffrey gets back? oh, if i were only a mother, i should know what to do. why--i wonder why i'm not a mother!" we were both kneeling beside the child, who was still shouting blue murders. letitia lifted it up and held it upon her lap. i don't know what i did. i fancy i stroked a head--but i don't know whether it was letitia's or the child's. to add to the complexity of the situation the front-door bell rang, and i was obliged, in this cookless emergency, to go to the door. mrs. archer had called to know what was the matter, and to ask if she could be of any assistance. she followed me into the drawing-room, and, as well as i could, i explained the case. letitia, herself, was almost hysterical and was unable to greet the newcomer, or to introduce me formally to her sister victim in the potzenheimer incident. "there's nothing at all the matter with the child," declared mrs. archer authoritatively, after a cursory examination. "it's just fractious, mrs. fairfax. see--how all the time, it is pointing to that cabinet with the little indian ivory ornaments in it. it is merely crying for the ornaments. just try it. i bet that if you open that cabinet all this agony will cease." for a moment i thought our neighbor was joking. the obstreperous lamentations, the blood-curdling howls, the violent convulsions of distress could only have proceeded from dire physical anguish. letitia, upon whose forehead the beads of perspiration stood in horrid salience, put the child down, and in a frenzied manner rushed to the little mahogany inlaid cabinet with the glass doors. the key was in the lock and she turned it quickly. the door flew open, revealing a little ivory doll, a wheel-barrow, a pagoda, a horse, a chess-table, a group of animals, three indian gentlemen in summer garb, and a whole stand of pretty little indian treasures that an uncle of mine had once bought in calcutta. the screams of the child suddenly ceased. the flux of tears was instantly stayed. the wild moans no longer rent the atmosphere. it got up on its feet, in the twinkling of a double bedpost, as it were, and with a whoop of joy, scampered to the ivory collection. "ga-ga!" it cried. "ga-ga!" "oh, mrs. archer!" almost sobbed letitia in an ecstasy of gratitude--and to my horror she kissed the stranger on both cheeks (and she had never been introduced)--"you've saved us--you've saved us! oh, i thought it was dying--that perhaps the candy had poisoned it--and that when cook returned, all we should have to hand her would be a corpse." "a very badly brought up child, mrs. fairfax," was mrs. archer's solemn comment. "what it really needed was a good spanking." "oh, no," exclaimed letitia, "never. corporal punishment is so detestable, and so uncivilized. and for a mere baby! the mother slapped it while we were at dinner, and i gave her a piece of my mind." "well, now you are going to give the child several pieces of your collection," mrs. archer said airily--she seemed to be a most sensible and worthy woman--"and, of course, if you don't mind, it is all right. personally, i never believe in spoiling children. but--well i am so glad it is nothing more than temper, dear mrs. fairfax, and dear mr. fairfax. i fancied that perhaps a murder was being committed, and although mr. archer warned me not to implicate myself in such matters--he is a very suspicious man, is mr. archer--i felt that common decency necessitated my giving you any assistance that lay in my poor power." mrs. archer discreetly withdrew, and i mixed a glass of weak whisky-and-water for letitia, who was still quite limp from the fray. we were both of us inordinately thankful, for what had seemed like a tragedy was averted. "only to think," remarked letitia, haply restored to serenity, "that i know so little about children. i positively don't deserve to have any. this is really an experience, archie, isn't it? such a terrible commotion all hushed up by a few ivory trifles." we looked at the cabinet. it had been rifled of its contents. the "few ivory trifles" were all over the floor. the tiny wheel-barrow had been robbed of its wheels; the pagoda was even then in process of smash; the dainty little chess-table had a leg missing. but the mccaffrey cub was joyous and smiling, and as we approached it, called out "ga-ga!" "uncle ben said they were very valuable, letitia," i remarked rather wearily. "one or two of them, he told me, could never be duplicated. the work is very fine and artistic." "ga-ga!" cried the brat, as it tore off another leg from the chess-table. "ga-ga!" "it _is_ rather cute when it's pleased," letitia declared, smiling in spite of the devastation. "any way, uncle ben's present has been very useful, archie. nobody ever really looked into that cabinet, and it is in a dark corner of the room. i can put in a few little oddments from the five-and-ten-cent store, and they will look very well behind glass, and we can always say that uncle ben brought them to us from bombay--or was it calcutta?" we sat there placidly and watched the ruthless destruction of the indian treasures, anxious that they should not pall upon the mccaffrey darling. letitia, i am quite certain, was prepared to break up the piano and give the pieces to the cub to play with, if necessary. but peace seemed more than usually delightful. only once did another outbreak appear possible. it was when, at eleven o'clock, letitia suggested that the child be put to bed. a mournful howl was wafted from the cabinet, and we decided to take no risks. just before midnight, mrs. mccaffrey was sighted by letitia at the window, and a delightful sense of security became ours. "i shall tell her," said letitia, before opening the door, "that we have had a fearful time, and have been beside ourselves, so to speak." and as the amiable hibernian came in, and we delivered over the child to her, letitia explained the situation, adding that we had been horribly alarmed and distressed. "oh, it's nothing," said mrs. mccaffrey indulgently. "letitia's often taken like that. she has a bad temper, like her father. don't pay any attention to her again, mrs. fairfax. just let her howl. she won't mind it." chapter x "let us take a night off and enjoy ourselves, my girl," i said at breakfast in one of those elaborately, "off-hand" manners that so frequently betoken profound premeditation. "somehow or other, we seem to be getting into a groove, and--missing things. don't you agree with me, letitia? a nice little dinner down town and a theater will cheer us up wonderfully. we owe it to ourselves, i think, and--well, i believe in paying that kind of debt, and not letting the account drag on," i added felicitously. "oh, yes," letitia assented rather meditatively, and without enthusiasm, "it would be very nice. not that i feel the need of a change as much as you do, archie. however, it will do us good, and i'll tell miriam that we shall not be home, and that if she likes to ask her sister from tremont to dinner, she can do so. you see, dear, i fancy she was going out to-night. that is why i hesitated about going to the theater. but she will be just as pleased to entertain mrs. o'flaherty here, and if you don't mind--" "not at all," i said magnanimously, and i really meant it. if cook could have more fun in our "home" than i did, she was welcome to it. domesticity, under impossible circumstances, was not essentially gay. so set was i upon an evening of forgetfulness, that it seemed a trifle to resign our apartment temporarily to cook and "me sister, mrs. o'flaherty, of tree-mont." "i fancy little letitia looks rather pale," pursued my wife. "the run of the house for a night will do her good, i am sure--" the run of the house had not been denied little letitia, though i was determined to keep silent and not argue the matter. cook's child was not particularly dear to me. we had her for breakfast and dinner. she stood and watched me while i shaved. she had become hatefully affectionate, and abominably fond of me. when i kissed letitia before i went to the office, the mccaffrey cub insisted upon similar treatment. this might have been touching, but it wasn't. letitia called me hard-hearted and callous. i believe that she was a bit jealous. although she devoted herself heart and soul to the brat, it had no use whatsoever for her. but i, who loathed it, was singled out for popularity, and the compliment made no appeal to me. "well, my dear," i said, as i rose from the table, "i'll take my evening clothes with me in a dress-suitcase, and you can call for me at the office at a quarter to seven. we'll dine until eight o'clock, and then proceed to the theater. i'll get tickets this morning. what would you like to see?" letitia's lack of exuberance was rather depressing. a month ago she would have hailed the prospect with joy, and an ebullition of girlish delight. at present, she was apathetic. "oh," she replied in a preoccupied manner, "i have no particular choice." but suddenly she brightened up, and went on: "yes, i have, archie. somebody told me that _merely mary arm_ was absolutely charming. it is the story of a little servant girl, a drudge in a lodging-house, a pathetic figure, that--" "no, dear," i said peremptorily, "we get all the servant girl we need in this cunning little home. i don't see why we should pay four dollars to see mr. zangwill's english idea--idealized, of course, for the stage. it would be cheaper to stay at home and weep over the real american thing." "but perhaps," said letitia thoughtfully, "if we could really feel sorry for mary ann, we might be less harshly disposed toward anna carter, or mrs. potzenheimer, or mrs. mccaffrey." "no, my dear," i murmured sadly, "it would be waste of time. i decline to see _merely mary arm_. the subject is disgusting to me. we want to get away from ourselves when we go to the theater. we don't want to reopen wounds, and brood." "but in this zangwill play," she persisted, "mary ann inherits five million dollars, and becomes a society girl, in pink chiffon and low-neck." "which is immoral," i declared. "it is a nasty, low, and revolutionary idea--enough to make all cooks anarchists. such plays should be prohibited by a censor. positively to make a heroine of one of these creatures, who break up happy homes and make life unendurable, who seem to be responsible for everything, from race-suicide to--" "hush, archie!" cried letitia indignantly, "i can't discuss these social questions with you. i haven't been married long enough. i still consider them improper. besides, you can't accuse mrs. mccaffrey of race-suicide, with little letitia--" "oh, they reserve the right to have as many children as they like," i retorted bitterly, "but if _you_ had them, they would soon let you know what they thought of you." "you mustn't talk to me like this, archie," said letitia, vexed, "you wouldn't have done so when we were engaged. i consider such conversation rowdy--just fit for the smoking-room. and as we haven't a smoking-room you must restrain yourself, please. however, i am willing to drop _merely mary arm_. the reason i suggested it was that i thought it might make us both kinder and more indulgent." "imagine old potzenheimer with five million dollars, and low-neck!" i exclaimed, outraged. "i call it absolutely nauseating." "not if we _could_ imagine it, dear," she said gently. "zangwill is an artist, and i hoped that if we saw the subject poetically treated, and really shed tears for mary ann, as aunt julia wrote me yesterday that she did--" "no, letitia. i should shed tears only for mary ann's employer. it is the employers who are the martyrs. it would be better and less expensive to stay at home and shed tears for ourselves. for example, i feel depressed when i think of that cabinet of indian _bibelots_ all in rack and ruin--the only present that uncle ben ever gave me, and he is dead!" i added lugubriously. "how _can_ you be so petty, archie? i am surprised at you worrying about that ivory rubbish hidden away in a cabinet." "please, letitia," i interrupted with dignity, "please don't call it rubbish. uncle ben was not the man to give his favorite nephew rubbish." "oh, how we argue! how we argue!" she exclaimed desperately. "i am astonished at this acidulation of character. no more of _merely mary arm_. you ask me what i want to see, and then decline to see it. it doesn't matter. i'll select something else. suppose you get tickets for the barrie play, _the admirable crichton_." "that's more like it, old girl," i responded exultantly. "barrie is delightful. he wrote _the little minister_ and _quality street_, didn't he? he is reliable; always good--like tea. i admire his originality." "in _the admirable crichton_," said letitia, rather demurely, i thought, "there is an old nobleman, who believes in equality. his mania takes the form of treating his servants as his equals. he invites them to parties in his own drawing-room, and makes his own daughters, ladies of title, wait upon them, and ply them with cake and lemonade." "bosh!" i ejaculated furiously. "it must be in the air--this vile theme. it is a germ. it is a microbe. i won't pay to see such depravity on the stage. i simply refuse. i--" "and then," letitia went on sedately--i couldn't help fancying that she was enjoying herself, and that galled me--"they are all wrecked on a desert island, and the servant becomes the master of the situation, while the old nobleman fetches and carries, and proves that outside of civilization there is no such thing as social superiority." "ha! ha!" i laughed sarcastically. "imagine going to a desert island to prove it. he could find proof of that right here in new york--right here in this very apartment." "archie!" "certainly he could. moreover, it is an idea that needs no illumination, to my mind. if that is _the admirable crichton_ i don't want to see it. i wouldn't sit it out. possibly it might be amusing in england. here, i should consider it insulting. the idea of letting a foreigner treat the servant question for new york. where is the american playwright? why don't we foster him? why are we obliged to swallow the dramatic food made for european stomachs? the only 'servant' play i want to see, is one that places her in her true light--as the bar to marriage, the bar to family life, the bar to domesticity, the bar to digestion, to mental serenity, to--" letitia rose suddenly, and confronted me. "i can suggest nothing else," she asserted doggedly; "i seem unable to please you. take tickets for anything you like." "there seems to be a cook in everything," i declared dejectedly, "and i want to escape it. don't be so angry with me, letitia. in reality, it is for your sake as much as for my own. i guess i'll take tickets for the opera. it's _parsifal_ to-night. i never read musical criticisms, as they are so prohibitively prosy, but if you can assure me that there is no cook in _parsifal_--" "how ignorant you are, archie! _parsifal_ is sacred, and deals with the holy grail." "still, they might sneak a cook in," i insisted with irony. "i wouldn't put them past it. everything is adapted, nowadays, and grand opera artists would lend themselves so easily to the rôles of cooks. however, _parsifal_ seems safe. there is less risk about it than anything else. to be sure, wagner is rather stupefying, and you remember, dear, that we had our first quarrel after hearing _siegfried_. it made us both so cross." "it doesn't need _siegfried_ to do that, nowadays," she said sadly. "i'm a brute, letitia. i know i am. forgive me just this once, dear, and i'll try and be better. i--i'll look on the bright side of things, and--and i won't argue so much. i'll take tickets for _parsifal_ even though they cost ten dollars apiece. the idea of the holy grail appeals to me. it doesn't sound humorous, and barrie and zangwill seem to be dying to vent their sense of the ridiculous upon a suffering public. so it is understood, letitia. _parsifal_ to-night, preceded by a dainty little dinner." "the opera begins at five," said letitia, "and i don't think i could leave the house at that hour. it is an uncomfortable hour." "quite right, dear. let _parsifal_ adapt itself to us. it is absurd to make a toil of pleasure. besides, one never understands anything at the opera, so it doesn't really matter at what time one gets there. we will not alter our plans. i shall wait at the office for you until a quarter to seven. then dinner, a cab, and _parsifal_. say that this pleases you, letitia." "oh, i'm glad, dear. i want to see you pleased. i hate to have my poor boy cross and disagreeable, and misanthropic. and i am anxious to hear _parsifal_, so that i can _say_ i have heard it. you understand, archie. perhaps we may not enjoy it while we are there, but i know we shall be delighted when it is over, and we can truthfully say that we have sat through it. there is no glory in sitting through an amusing play. but it _is_ quite a feather in one's cap to go deliberately through a performance of _parsifal_. it is a good idea, archie." letitia put my evening clothes in a dress-suit-case, and, with a heart once more lightened, i departed. the old affection lingered in her parting kiss; she clung to me tenderly, and although the mccaffrey brat hovered around, and letitia insisted upon my kissing its sticky face, i made no protest. the prospect of a night off made a boy of me again. i felt young, and enthusiastic, and happy. it was not easy to buy _parsifal_ tickets. evidently the subject of the holy grail, heavy, lugubrious, massive, with an elusive fantasy about it, appealed to the wearied hearts of new york. a long line of women stood making _parsifal_ investments, anxious doubtless, as we were, to spend a cookless evening. probably these women would have winced at suggestions of _merely mary ann_ and _the admirable crichton_. i couldn't help thinking, as, in return for a twenty-dollar bill, i received a couple of pasteboard bits, that if new york managers had homes of their own, and lived the lives of the public, for which they cater, their views upon the desirability of certain plays would change. managers are not conspicuously domestic in their habits, and they have no inkling of the real joys and sorrows of their clients. they produce plays written in other lands, for the people of other lands, and reason that human nature is the same everywhere. in which, i ween, they err. they are impatient and restive at their many failures, but--they continue their policy of risk. the day passed slowly. tamworth seemed sorry for me when i told him that i was going to the opera, and suggested that i take a pillow with me--a rather tactless remark, i thought. he had once suffered, he said, from insomnia, and the doctors had almost despaired of curing him. he grew thin and restless, through lack of sleep. he read the very dullest books he could find, every night--all the romances and historical novels--and even these that had never failed him before as a narcotic, were useless. then, in an inspired moment, he went to the metropolitan house and tackled _der nibelungenring_. wagner triumphed over the physicians. morpheus emerged from his hiding-place, and insomnia was vanquished. said tamworth: "nowadays, if i have a return of my old complaint, i just walk up broadway and look at the outside of the metropolitan house. the effect is magical. i go home and sleep the sleep of the virtuous." this was not encouraging, but i did not repine. better a peaceful nerveless lethargy, induced by the holy grail, than the discordant din of horse-laughter set in motion by ill-timed variations, in fantasy form, upon tragic domestic themes. at six o'clock, i was left alone in the office. tamworth went home; and so did the typists and clerks. it occurred to me that i might utilize a half-hour or so by working upon my _lives of great men_, the thread of which i had lost. i was hopelessly out of tune with lives of great men. lives of great women--the great women of the kitchen--had lured me astray. goethe was obscured by mrs. potzenheimer; molière lurked beneath the shade of birdie miriam mccaffrey. i found it quite impossible to concentrate my thoughts. they were diffuse, and unresponsive. they wobbled; and i abandoned my task. instead, i donned my evening clothes, and made myself look as presentable as i could. i was alarmingly hungry, and could not repress a sensation of furtive delight at the thought that we were to dine at a restaurant, where nobody would say "ga-ga!" and i should not have to call the waiter miriam. we would begin steadily and industriously with oysters, and plow our way methodically through everything, until we landed safe and sound, at coffee. man proposes. at a quarter to seven i put on my overcoat, and went to the window to wave to letitia as soon as i saw her approach. she was generally punctuality itself, and prided herself upon it. as time dragged itself slowly along, however, and the slim little figure i knew so well was not to be detected in the twenty-third crowd, i began to get nervous and apprehensive. perhaps there had been an accident on the elevated. i thought up all sorts of catastrophes, and when the clock struck seven i had worked myself into a distressing state of perturbation. something had assuredly happened, and i made up my mind to wait five minutes longer before telephoning. if letitia had left the house--as she must have done--it was not much use telephoning. certainly birdie--i always thought of her aggressively as birdie--would know nothing about answering telephone rings. moreover, she was probably vividly engaged in entertaining "me sister, mrs. o'flaherty, of tree-mont." seven-twenty, and no letitia. even if she came, we should have but forty minutes to devote to dinner. food, however, was rapidly losing all interest for me. i grew cold as the minutes passed. a sense of powerlessness overcame me. at last i could stand it no longer, and going to the telephone i rang up my own address, and then stood, nervously shivering, until i got it. "this is archie," i said tremblingly. "it is i--archie. who is that at the 'phone?" a moment's pause, then: "birdie--i mean miriam. you are archie?" my worst fears seemed about to be realized. i felt like the pain-racked husband in the little play _at the telephone_. i scarcely dared to listen. "this is mr. fairfax, mrs. mccaffrey. what has happened? tell me quickly." "letitia's awful sick, and the doctor's coming to see what the matter is." the perspiration was trickling down my face. the roots of my hair seemed to tighten. letitia was too ill to answer the telephone! the familiarity of cook's allusion to my wife passed unnoticed in the wave of apprehension that swept over me. "telephone at once for the doctor, and i'll come right back," i commanded. "the doctor's telephone doesn't work," was the reply, "and your wife has gone to fetch him. me sister, mrs. o'flaherty, was too tired to go, and i had to stay with letitia." a ray of light! i laughed--almost hysterically. the sudden removal of the nervous tension nearly made me collapse. it was the mccaffrey brat that was "awful sick," and as i hung up the receiver, i experienced nothing but a sense of utter thankfulness. our little dinner most assuredly was off, and the holy grail was lost. then a normal sense of vexation set in, and i felt indignant as i thought of letitia trotting off for de voursney, while i was left, lamenting. if i had only been strong-minded enough to dine in town alone, and go to the opera in solitary state! now that i knew letitia was unharmed, i could easily have done this, and telephoned my determination to her. unluckily, i was not built for such a course. such stringency might be effective, but it was beyond me. i could not take my pleasures wifelessly. the only thing to do was to go home, and i should have been impelled to this course, even if i had been expected to sit up all night with cook's brat--and i was not at all sure that letitia would not suggest this. my mood had changed, and despondency had set in. i put my clothes into the dress-suit-case, locked up the office, and went home as rapidly as i could, after having bestowed the two ten-dollar _parsifal_ tickets upon the elevator boy, who rather ruefully told me that he had seats for the third avenue theater, where they were playing a pretty little thing called _too proud to beg_. i was not too proud, however, and i begged him to take twenty-dollars' worth of opera, for my sake, which he promised to do. letitia was very flushed and excited when i reached our apartment. it was she who opened the door, and i noticed that she had her hat and coat on. "oh, archie, i'm so sorry," she said lachrymosely, "and i do hope that you are not disappointed. poor little letitia is quite ill and feverish. she has been moaning and crying 'ga-ga!' i had to go for de voursney, and he is here now. i couldn't send miriam, or mrs. o'flaherty, or the three girls." "the three girls!" "yes, archie. cook has three other daughters, who live with mrs. o'flaherty, and they are all here--very nice respectable girls." "she has no right--" "what can i do, archie? besides, they live in tremont, so that really they don't concern us. she might have been frank, and have candidly admitted that little letitia had sisters. but, perhaps, if you had to earn your living as a cook, dear, you would do the same thing under the same circumstances. we won't argue; i don't feel equal to it. ah, here _is_ the doctor." dr. de voursney entered at that moment, and shook hands most amiably. his presence was generally reassuring, but i must admit that at present i felt no very wild sense of alarm. "glad to see you, mr. fairfax,"' he said, rubbing his hands affably. "the little patient has a febrile disturbance, and i notice a stiffening of the parotid gland in front of the ear. i should say undoubtedly--in fact i can affirm--that it is a case of _cynanche parotidaea_." letitia grew pale. "how horrible!" she exclaimed in a low voice. "perhaps you could give it us in english," i suggested ironically. "mrs. fairfax is well versed in latin, but medical phrases, i am afraid--" "certainly--oh, certainly," he said, in irrepressible good humor. "i generally use latin in apartment houses and reserve mere english for the tenements. _cynanche parotidaea_ is very prevalent just at present. it is almost epidemic. gentle laxatives and warm fomentations are really all that it is necessary to prescribe. in english, we call the malady, mumps." "mumps!" i murmured. "mumps!" exclaimed letitia. "it is not serious, as you may perceive. it is painful and quite ugly to look at. i shall leave some directions with the mother and shall come in to-morrow morning." "is it catching?" i asked anxiously. "nothing more so--nothing more so," he replied cheerfully. "it is highly contagious. it spreads through schools, through apartment houses, with the rapidity of lightning." "then you think that my wife might--" "i should say it was very likely--extremely probable," he declared, beaming upon us; "still it might be worse. now, you know, scarlet fever, at present, is raging in this neighborhood. i have just come from a house where six little children are attacked, and the seventh has all the symptoms--" we bowed him out in a trail of depression, and stood looking at each other silently. then letitia slowly took off her hat and coat and i did the same, deposing my dress-suit-case in my bedroom viciously. fate was not smiling upon us. miriam came bustling in, with a grim, set face. she scowled as she saw us, and placed her arms akimbo, in the style made popular by fishwives, and _madame angot_. "i've packed off me sister, mrs. o'flaherty, and me daughters in a hurry," she said savagely. "yer doctor says it's catching, and it's just me luck that muriel, and rosalind, and winnifred should have been here. worse luck to it, say i! me poor letitia, a-prattling so cutely as she's laid low by the nasty disease." "it is not at all serious," murmured letitia sympathetically. "for them as ain't got it--no, it ain't serious," said birdie miriam mccaffrey mockingly. "for them as ain't got it--it just tickles, that's all. curse me for a-comin' here. that's my motto. 'the neighborhood's just alive with it,' says yer doctor. 'it's in the air. it's epileptic. why,' says he, 'there's hardly a house where they ain't got mumps.' nice for me, eh? if them's yer christian principles, luring a hard-working woman, with a child, into a mumpy house, and a-saying no word to put her on her guard--" "you can go whenever you are ready," i said loftily, "and no impertinence, please." "as soon as my letitia can be moved--if the poor thing ever lives through it--and i have me doubts, as she's that delicate--we'll go. oh, we'll go, right enough. don't you worry about that. not if yez poured gold at me feet, and if i wuz a-perishing for want of a bit o' food, to keep body and soul together, would i stay in a house that's alive with germs. 'yes,' says yer doctor, 'it's a germ. it's a mikey in the air.' me poor mike! 'a mikey in the air,' says he. and i only hope that me muriel, and rosalind, and winnifred will be spared, as it's so catching. why didn't ye tell me, mrs. fairfax? why didn't ye say, when ye come down to sixth avenue, that there was diseases all around? play fair; that's my motto. i don't believe in no underhand game, i don't. not for me!" as she flounced out of the room, letitia sank into a chair and burst into tears. the twittering of birdie had been horribly effective. it had made me feel nervous and unstrung. logic was quite unavailing, and for the first time in my life, i realized that those with a sense of humor might have fared better than we did. chapter xi it was undignified, but necessary. any other course would have been impossible. it was a case of bowing to the inevitable--and it seems to me that the inevitable simply exists for the sake of the curtseys bestowed upon it by unfortunates. one is always bowing and scraping to the inevitable. it is a species of toadyism that is invariably omitted from textbooks on the sublime art of sycophancy. the inevitable, in this particular instance, was aunt julia. after the vociferous, verbose, and vortiginous departure of birdie miriam and the convalescent brat, dread symptoms of _cynanche parotidaea_ appeared in letitia, herself; we were alone, helpless, and mump-ridden, and it was letitia who suggested aunt julia. i made few telephonic explanations to tarrytown. i merely begged my aunt-in-law to put a few things in a valise and come to us at once, as her niece was quite ill. this was true. by the time aunt julia arrived, letitia's fair face had lost its outlines. in the grip of this most prosaic indisposition she was inclined to be irritable--particularly when she looked at herself in the glass, which she did every five minutes. some patients, it is said, are amused at the facial contortions guaranteed by this ailment. they must be the patients who own a sense of humor. letitia was awed by her own ugliness, and i must confess that i hated to look at her. she insisted upon wearing a lace mantilla over her head, and fastening it with a diamond brooch beneath her chin. under other circumstances this might have seemed spanish, but letitia was cross, and when i dared to suggest that she was emulating otero, she was most indignant, and thought my remark uncalled for. aunt julia's advent was very welcome. after all, she had fine qualities. there was not a suspicion of the baleful "i told you so" in her manner. she _did_ turn away her head several times, as letitia narrated the tragic stories of anna carter, _la_ potzenheimer, and birdie miriam, but although i had a suspicion that she was exuding mirth, i could not prove it. i could not have sworn that aunt julia was laughing, although i followed her face round the corner, so to speak. mercifully, letitia was unable to do this, owing to circumstances--to say nothing of swellings--over which she had no control. my poor letitia! if irritability were a good sign--as old women declare--her convalescence soon set in. she was as "cross as two sticks," as my old nurse used to remark. the worst of it was that i had to absent myself from the office until aunt julia arrived. i told tamworth that my wife had tonsilitis, as i thought it sounded better and would be more evocative of sympathy. people are sorry when you say tonsilitis; they are merely amused when you mention mumps. a heroine with mumps, or even toothache, is a romantic impossibility; but tonsilitis or nervous prostration is less destructive to poetic commiseration. "you have probably arrived at a conclusion often forced upon me," said aunt julia, as her keen, beady eyes roved around the room. "the happiest day after that upon which cook arrives is that upon which cook departs." if _i_ had dared to say that, letitia would have exclaimed ironically, "how clever!" or, "how epigrammatic!" and i should have been instantly snubbed. as it was, she murmured a dutiful "yes, aunt," and sat with her hands folded in her lap, meekness personified. aunt julia, however, was not particularly restful to the nerves overweeningly unstrung. even while she was listening to our history she was bustling about, arranging things, and--of course!--dusting. she flicked dust from the piano, filched it from the ornaments, dug it from the tiger-head, blew it from the pictures, rubbed it from the chair-backs, fought it from the window-sills. and then--if any had remained--i am perfectly certain that she would have eaten it. dust was aunt julia's weakness, as it is the weakness of many women. if dust had sex, it would assuredly be masculine, as the majority of women are so disgracefully attentive to it. they run after it so rudely. it is only the intellectual, large-minded women, who don't mind a little bit of harmless dust, and can sit still comfortably while it settles and enjoys itself. the others are always pottering around after it, making their own life, and that of their associates, unnecessarily miserable. personally, dust has always seemed to me to be homelike and cozy, and i hate to see it flagged away and routed. "you see," said aunt julia triumphantly, as she lifted the clock from the mantel-piece, and revealed the huge space, surrounded entirely by thick dust, upon which it had stood, "you two children, who are always talking cooks, really need what we call a general. you want somebody who will dust as well as cook. apparently, you have secured ladies who could do neither." "you engaged anna carter for us, aunt," remarked letitia pointedly, and i could have applauded her gladly, if i had not been in my own house. the opportunities for being impolite are wonderfully curtailed nowadays. etiquette says that you must be polite in your own house; you must be polite in other people's houses. apparently, one can be impolite only out of doors. "and i particularly told her," said aunt julia emphatically, "that the main thing was to keep the place spick-and-span. i made more of a point of that than i did of the cooking. healthy young people don't want a lot of messy '_à la_' dishes, but they do want immaculate living rooms." "oh, aunt julia--" letitia began argumentatively. "oh, aunt julia!" mimicked the old lady. "wait until you can afford to keep three or four servants before you put on so many airs. 'oh, aunt julia!' yes, and 'oh, aunt julia' again! with your 'drawing-room' and your 'evening dress' and your menus you want a retinue of domestics. you think that all you have to do is to sit down and live artistically in the most inartistic and impossible city in the world. i say that, and i'm a good american, too. and there's no 'oh, aunt julia!' about it, either." i bit my lips, and impressed upon my mind the fact that i was in my own house. i should have liked to ask aunt julia to walk with me to the corner, so that i could say rude things to her. of course her statements were absolutely grotesque and ridiculous, and both letitia and i knew it. we exchanged sympathetic glances. i could have laughed in scorn at aunt julia. letitia couldn't, of course, as her face was not in laughing order. "in the meantime, aunt julia," i said with an effort--i _had_ thought of addressing her as "mrs. dinsmore," but, after all, she was there at my invitation--"you see we have no servant at present. what can we do? letitia can't leave the house; i am unable to cook a dinner; i _could_ take a basket and sally forth to the delicatessen shops, but--" "i'm here," replied aunt julia, spreading her hands whimsically. "like the poor, i am always with you. and i assure you, you silly helpless things, that the situation is not too many for me. in fact, i am distinctly able to cope with it. my motto in life has been: don't worry about being rich; don't bother about being poor; but do, for goodness' sake, make up your mind to be independent. that's it--independence. do you fancy that a mere cook can either make or mar me? and yet, my dear letitia, and my equally dear archibald, i flatter myself that i am quite as good, socially, as anybody you are ever likely to meet. i have known the time when i have cooked an entire dinner, from soup to sweets, and sat at the head of my own table, in a low-neck dress and entertained my guests, who probably thought that i had lolled on a sofa all day, and read--er--ovid!" she added maliciously. this sounded horribly sandford-and-merton-y. i was sandford, and letitia was merton, while aunt julia appeared to be that detestable consummation of all the virtues, mr. barlow. i nearly called her "uncle barlow," but haply refrained in time. "i don't like the idea of your slaving, aunt julia," began letitia, adjusting her mantilla. "i don't say that i should select it as a pastime," asserted that lady, in her most formidable manner; "but when it is necessary--and it often is, even in the best regulated families (among which i do not class this household)--i am always on hand. the situation is mine, absolutely. you see my education was unlike yours, letitia. i am saying nothing against my poor sister, frances, your dear mother, who had her own views, but i assert that the average american woman is quite helpless and--and--the race suffers." "don't lecture me, please, aunt julia," cried letitia feebly. "i know i'm helpless, but archie is quite willing to pay for help, and--i can't be squalid. excuse me, aunt julia." "certainly," she said amiably, "i'll excuse you. you can't be squalid, but you _can_ be dusty. personally, i'd sooner be squalid, as you call it, but tastes differ, as the old lady remarked when she kissed her cow. thank goodness, i've removed a few of the evidences of neglect. i think i'll rest for a few minutes. you sit still, letitia, and you, mr. archie, don't get fidgetty. the trouble to-day is that the average new york woman who gets married doesn't want cooking, or housekeeping, or children, or the comradeship of a man. she wants diamonds for her ears, silks for her back, furs for her shoulders. she'd sooner live in an apartment that has a palatial entrance, and dark, airless cubby-holes for rooms; she'd sooner go and dine at a _table d'hôte_ restaurant than order her own dinner at home; she'd sooner pant in impossible waists and flaunt herself before the world as some odious 'gibson' freak, than stay at home in something loose, and have healthy children easily." "aunt julia!" cried letitia, aghast. "you really mustn't--before archie." "please, mrs. dinsmore," i objected, "such things--before letitia--" "don't add prudery to your other follies," retorted this terrible old lady, "i hate it. what is, is; and we might as well talk about it. somebody has said, letitia (and it wasn't your friend ovid, the chestnut), that decency is indecency's conspiracy of silence--which is clever. you see, i read occasionally, squalid though i be. it is a true remark. i hope you'll have children, but not until you know what to do with them, and are not as dependent upon a nurse as you are upon a cook. then you would be treating your own children as badly as you now treat your own stomachs. your poor stomachs!" involuntarily i placed my hand on the lower part of my waistcoat. there was certainly a flatness there. strangely enough, letitia did the same--omitting of course the waistcoat. we were both so indignant with aunt julia, that this silent action probably took the place of insulting words. "home is a thing that is going out of fashion in this city," aunt julia continued bitingly. "it is a place to sleep in, to get your letters at; a spot in which to blazon forth your name, for the compilers of the city directory. american women prefer to dine out, dance out, make merry out. they even like to get married--out. probably they will have their children out, one of these days. there will be elegant caterers to expectant mothers. no, letitia, you can't stop me. i intend to have my say. the situation confronts us. let us face it, manfully or womanfully." "you talk as though we were trying to demolish the home, aunt julia," said letitia, endeavoring to infuse an expression of indignation into her poor congested face. "we are doing our best. we are anxious to live in the house, and not out of it. what are we to do? we are unfortunate." "stuff and nonsense!" retorted aunt julia irritably; "if i were not here at this moment, and if you, letitia, were not indisposed, the two of you would be trotting out to your meals to-day, ruining your digestions with unhealthy food, and doing it because cook had left. 'oh, aunt julia!' i anticipate that you were about to remark. bah! i've no patience with you. now, if instead of reading the ridiculous antiquities you affect, you were to set to work and study the--er--cook-book--" "i shall never advise letitia, at her age, to stupefy herself with such literature," i asserted stoutly; "i don't believe in it." "what you believe in is of no consequence, archibald," she declared, rising suddenly, as another dusty spot dawned upon her vision. "you can put on your things, my boy, and go to your office. i take charge. i guarantee you a dinner to-night--no sticky _à la_ affair, but something that will appeal to a healthy appetite. go down-town, and leave letitia alone with me. i promise you that i shan't ask her to do anything. she can read the classics, if she likes, as long as she doesn't read 'em aloud to me. the classics in the harlem end of columbus avenue! ha! ha! ha! now, vanish, mr. fairfax. i can't stand a man in the house, in the daytime." "i think you're unjust, aunt julia," murmured letitia; "poor archie is so domestic. he loves to be around." "sitting in thick dust," added mrs. dinsmore, "and imagining that he's milord tomnoddy; also encouraging you to live in the clouds. and now, if you'll excuse me, i'll go and introduce myself to the kitchen. no, letitia, don't trouble to come with me, for i'm perfectly convinced that you don't know the difference between a saucepan and a corkscrew. i can find my way, and i shall amuse myself. i quite enjoy the idea of a regular, old-fashioned set-to. _au revoir._ dinner at six, mr. fairfax. by-the-by, i forgot to bring a low-neck bodice with me. do you mind? i'll sit outside in mrs. potzenheimer's sanctum, if, by any chance, i should be offensive to your evening eyes." and off she went. letitia and i sat staring at each other, lacking even the gumption to smile. upon the silence was borne the tin-ny noise of pots and pans apparently being routed and abused. a second later, and we heard aunt julia singing. that settled it. i closed the door. i loathe cheery kitchen music--especially _bedelia_. "i'll go, letitia," i sighed; "i'm turned out. i shall advertise at once. we can't trespass upon aunt julia's--er--er--kindness." "yes, do, archie,"--and letitia also sighed; "aunt julia means well, but she's very old-fashioned. you mustn't mind what she said, dear. i dare say i don't know very much, but if i had been a kitchen-y old _frau_, you wouldn't have liked me, and we shouldn't have been married. of course, there _are_ servants. somebody must have them. we've had a few failures, but we'll try again." i kissed her quite pathetically, and started officeward with a heavy heart. it seemed delightful to get away from the mugginess of home, and i marveled at my sensations. they were so strange. the people in the streets all interested me. there seemed to be such a quantity of women. women, women, everywhere, but not a cook to greet! a longing to pounce upon some of the nice, comfortable-looking women i saw, and cry: "come live with me, and be my cook," took possession of me. we wanted so little, letitia and i; just a domesticated home-body who would ply us with easy dishes, and let us "live our life"--as ibsen would say. was there anything exaggerated in these demands? in the train, i sat opposite a most attractive looking colored person; one might have almost called her a party. she eyed me rather furtively, and had perhaps some telepathic inkling of my mood. oh, if i had owned the courage to throw myself at her feet, and beg her to come cook for us! i lacked the necessary nerve. she looked as though she could contrive dainty southern dishes, and i was particularly fond of terrapin. but perhaps, i told myself cynically, she couldn't even boil an egg, and i should find myself landed again in the midst of the alarms of delicatessen. at eighty-first street, a neat looking young woman got in, and became the object of my culinary speculation. i liked her appearance immensely, and would have engaged her upon the spot, without references, if the opportunity had been there. i felt certain that she would get along admirably with letitia,--my poor letitia, who would have been so considerate and indulgent with her cooks if they had only permitted it. why, she had even hinted at her intention of giving birdie miriam her low-neck, white chiffon bodice, in a week or two, when she had no more use for it. fool that i was! i had argued with letitia upon the incongruity of presenting mrs. mccaffrey with a _décolleté_ waist, and had quite vexed myself. i had told letitia that i couldn't possibly eat stew, if a low-neck cook brought it in. it was so unnecessary, for birdie miriam had departed long before the gift was ready for her acceptance. the girl who got in at eighty-first street appealed to me. an impulse, quite irresistible, seized me. i felt that both aunt julia and letitia would look upon me as a hero, if suddenly i marched in with a splendid cook that i had fished, unaided, from an elevated train. i say the impulse was irresistible. it was. i edged up to the young woman. i tried to attract her attention by nudging her. i smiled, and was about to speak, when she rose, and in a loud voice, cried: "say, you're too fresh! where d'ye think ye are?" in an instant a stout irishman was on his feet, and i heard him mutter something about "cursed mashers." a disgraceful scene impended, and the horror of being accused of "mashing," when i was merely intent on "cook-ing," overwhelmed me. i apologized abjectly, and though i was now more certain than i had been before that the young woman was a cook, the fact that i was laying myself open to suspicion dawned suddenly upon me. the irishman sat down glowering, presumably rather vexed at the de-materialization of a fight, and i continued my journey down-town, silently. the young woman left the train at fifty-third street, with a malicious, provocative smile in my direction, but i was in no mood to notice it ostentatiously. the car was filled with smiling, radiant women, all evidently free from domestic care. my poor mind ran in the one groove only. had they cooks? if so, how? did they dine at restaurants? had they homes? i listened to their conversation. it was not exhilarating; it was interspersed with "and i says," "and she says," and then, "says she to me," and "says i to her." they were jovially wallowing in a cheery labyrinth of non-refinement and banality, and it occurred to me that perhaps some of this domestic problem's difficulties lay in the fact that the mental difference between cook and her mistress was not marked enough! this was a horrid thought. don't blame me for it. one thinks horrid things when one is gloomy and oppressed--horrid things that are also unjust. at twenty-third street domestic thoughts vanished. the troubles of home evaporated in that atmosphere of stately hotels, and shops, and carriages, and pretty women, and theaters. just once these memories returned. it was when i passed the flat-iron building, and thought, in a bitter vengeful spirit, that i would like to condemn aunt julia to flick dust from every window in that most oppressive pile. what a gorgeous revenge it would be! at the office i worked automatically. i read two manuscripts that had been submitted for publication. both were humorous, and they disgusted me. my mood was not one that the authors of those luckless manuscripts would have liked to see. it augured ill for their work. i frowned at their fantasies and ground my teeth at their airy flights. this was rank injustice, of course, and i felt it my duty to state, in declining these works, that "humor was not our specialty." i thought that rather neat. of course, in these days of ferocious competition, the authors would feel but little discomfiture. others would appreciate their labors. personally, as i have said, i hate humorists. undoubtedly there are perversities on earth who could turn my cooks to humorous account. they need never apply to me for a lift toward publicity. humor is assuredly abnormal. i rather dreaded the idea of going home. i had visions of boiled mutton, which i detest, and then there would be, perhaps--the mere idea sickened me--stewed prunes! aunt julia, being old-fashioned, would probably deem this menu wholesome, and american. to me it was appalling, deadening. i could see the meal before me--the loathsome prunes set before my eyes, at the same time as the meat, to confront and defy me, as i sat at table. everything would be spotlessly clean--you could "eat your dinner off the carpet" of course--but spotlessly unappetizing. it was a shock to me to find that letitia had not "dressed" for dinner. she explained quickly that she was not well enough to don evening dress, but begged me to do so, and not to let aunt julia think that i was afraid of her. afraid of her! perhaps i was, but i had no intention of admitting it. i went at once to my room, selected the most immaculate shirt i possessed, decorated it with my pearl studs, and then, putting on my tuxedo coat, i sallied forth to letitia, who had a turpentine-soaked flannel round her neck. aunt julia was in the kitchen, and i could hear her laboring at _bedelia_, in high spirits, and an undaunted voice. "she went out shortly after you left," said letitia, "and i haven't seen her since. of course, it is awfully good of her, archie. she didn't even consult me as to what she should get. at any rate, dear, it's a case of beggars mustn't be choosers. please try and be amiable." as the clock struck six, aunt julia announced dinner and letitia and i went to the dining-room. the old lady was as calm and unruffled as though she had been napping all afternoon. her silk dress was unperturbed; her lace collar knew its place; she was not even flushed. i felt rather guilty. the table looked so nice! there were oysters at the three places; there was no vestige of a stewed prune; the table napkins were daintily folded, with a pallidly baked roll in each. it certainly didn't look a bit old-fashioned--in the abused acceptance of that phrase. "sit down, cookless ones," said aunt julia, with a laugh, "and revel in your squalor. i haven't known what to do with myself all afternoon. the time has positively hung on my hands. i took a doze, letitia, because there was nothing else to take. work in an apartment! it's child's play." we ate our oysters in a somewhat embarrassed mood. aunt julia was as lively as a kitten. she chatted and criticised, and asked questions, and never waited for the answers, and actually enjoyed herself. then she skirmished quickly away with the oyster plates, and brought in the silver tureen, filled with strong beef soup. it all seemed to be ready at hand and piping hot, and as i tasted it, the cockles of my heart expanded and i smiled. letitia's _cynanche_ seemed remarkably better, and i don't know how it was, but the three of us found ourselves engaged in the most enlivening conversation, without having to seek for it in racked brains. nor was it small talk. so interested were we, that we never noticed how the soup got away. yet it did, and i suddenly perceived before me an appetizing dish of fried smelts, nestling beside a silver receptacle containing a _sauce tartare_. it was marvelous. it was as though a conjurer had cried, "presto!"--and behold the metamorphosis! the fish was delicious and aunt julia enjoyed it quite as much as we did. "i'm very fond of my own cooking," she said. "i take a scientific interest in it. i like to see what one can do with various foods. i love experiments. i have the same interest in a _sauce tartare_ that--er--sir oliver lodge has in radium. one is born that way, i suppose." i continued to expand. how could i help it? aunt julia seemed suddenly transfigured. she was no longer the fussy old meddler, but the good samaritan. i liked her silk dress, her lace collar, her antique cameo brooch, and with every glass of sauterne that i took, i liked them better! it was quite wonderful how they grew upon me. letitia seemed to be equally effervescent. i quite forgot her lack of evening dress, in which she had been so resplendently imperious at anna carter's delicatessen spread. this was a meal at which evening dress would have been perfectly appropriate, but this meal, alas! was born of no cook's efforts. it was original. perhaps we scarcely dared to hope for its repetition. and as this thought occurred to me, i sighed. the chicken was roasted to perfection, and its dressing was almost poetic. an epicure would have delighted in it. brillat-savarin, himself, would have commented favorably. aunt julia explained that she had not tried to display any particularly "fancy" cooking, but she opined that this was sufficient to remove satisfactorily the edge from the ordinarily unfastidious appetite. how i had wronged her! how different was the reality to the anticipation of boiled mutton and stewed prunes! we finished with a firm and convincing jelly, and some of the best black coffee i have ever tasted outside of paris. it was the first comfortable meal we had enjoyed at home! it was the first time we had ever sat at our own table, to arise therefrom at peace with the world! "and now," said the old lady solemnly, "you two young people may go into the parlor--oh, i beg your pardon, i mean drawing-room--and your squalid aunt will clear the things away. she will be with you in fifteen minutes, ready to preach, or answer questions, or do anything you like." home certainly did seem like home. the drawing-room was cozy and inviting. i felt stimulated to mental effort. letitia had forgotten her ailments, and was lively and amusing. "i must try and learn aunt julia's system," she said, "so that i can at any rate, supervise, though, archie, i'm quite sure that frauds like anna carter, or potzenheimer, or birdie miriam would never brook supervision." "there you're right," remarked aunt julia, entering suddenly. "these women know little and what they know, they know wrong. get a clean slate to work upon, secure a girl whom you can teach, and--well, your chances will be better." chapter xii we fell back upon the sublime, the luminous art of newspaper advertisement. alluring pictures of natty maids in jaunty caps and perfectly fitting dresses, as an answer to the question, "do you need help?" emerged from our subliminal consciousness, capped by the legend, "if so, advertise in ----" so we advertised in ----. each newspaper seemed to vie with the other in exquisite promises to be-cook our kitchen. there appeared to be no possible, probable shadow of doubt about the proceeding. it was so easy that the inelegant simile of "rolling off a log" impressed us as being absolutely justifiable. i flatter myself that the advertisements i composed were delightful--gems of succinct thought, though letitia seemed dubious. "i think you ought to offer some inducement," she said, "in order that our advertisement should stand out from the rest--something to indicate that we really are desperate. i suppose--please don't smile, archie--that it wouldn't do to hint that we give handsome christmas presents." "what an immoral suggestion, letitia!" i exclaimed testily. "it is putting a premium on cupidity and incompetence. i am surprised at you. moreover, it is so horribly suggestive of the idea of beating a hasty retreat after the receipt of those presents." "don't be so snappy, archie," retorted letitia peevishly. "i am merely trying to throw light upon the situation. we ought to do something. what do you say to mentioning matinée tickets once a week?" "or souvenirs if she runs for a hundred nights," i suggested gloomily. "of course," said letitia resignedly, "if you ridicule everything i say, there is no use my making further remarks. put in the advertisement as you like--'cook wanted.' how original! eighteen hundred people want cooks, and eighteen hundred people won't get them. i merely meant to emphasize our own special need. do you think"--suddenly--"that if we made it worth while at the newspaper offices, they would print our advertisement in red ink--right in the center of all the others--or--or in gold?" "no, my girl," i replied shortly, pretending to look very sapient, as though i were marvelously familiar with the inner workings of newspaper offices. then, conciliatingly, "your idea is good, letitia, but impracticable. we must take our chance with the vulgar herd." "at any rate," she cried despairingly, "you can surely say that this is a lovely, refined home, with scarcely anything for a cook to do, and--and--paint it up, archie; paint it up. moreover, we want a clean slate, as aunt julia suggested--something inexperienced for me to teach." to my credit, be it said, i did not smile. the effort to resist was intense, almost painful, but i succeeded in maintaining an owl-like expression, and letitia's quick glance at me--a glance that seemed to suggest that she expected and dreaded a smile--was wasted. we advertised in five papers, and the sense of elation that came with the deposit of each advertisement was most refreshing. it looked as though failure were impossible. letitia calculated that seven million people in new york would know of our need, and when i told her that there were not seven million people in the greater city, she airily decided that some of them therefore would know it twice--a piece of logic that needed no squelching. that evening, that cookless evening of waiting, after a restaurant dinner that had been particularly indigestible and saddening, we discussed in low voice the possibilities of the morrow. five advertisements! letitia wondered what the neighborhood would think of the crowd of aspiring, eager cooks that must assuredly besiege our door. she even suggested that i notify the nearest police station, and ask for a special squad of police to keep order. her enthusiasm was contagious. i pictured the battling mob outside--long lines of throbbing, expectant women clamoring for an interview. the moral effect of advertising is quite irresistible. it is not to be gainsaid. whatever the mere practical results may be, there is no doubt in the world but that advertisement, psychologically, is worth its price. the notion that from all the readers of five important newspapers, entering into all the nooks and crannies of metropolitan life, a huge and varied collection of cooks would fail to materialize was ridiculous. it was not to be entertained for a moment. letitia even mentioned the possibilities of the poor women waiting outside all night on camp stools; in fact, taking a look into the electric-lighted street, at about eleven o'clock, she announced positively that she saw two women already standing outside the door. "if i were quite sure that they were applicants," said letitia, "i'd ask them up at once, and listen to them. perhaps we ought to send out a little soup or hot coffee." i remembered my experience in the elevated train. it recurred to my mind so vividly that i uttered a "pshaw!" rather brusquely, and then meekly told letitia that she was probably mistaken. "you see," remarked letitia thoughtfully, "five advertisements in one day, are rather unusual. there are bound to be results. think of the colossal population of greater new york! in fact, archie, i really feel a bit afraid. we have perhaps reared a frankenstein. i am not at all sure that i can cope with an immense crowd." my rest that night was fitful. i had nightmare of a most distressing nature, which i will refrain from describing for the reason that daymare seems more popular, as a rule, with readers. letitia rose at seven o'clock just as i had fallen into refreshing slumber, and went, in her nightgown, into the drawing-room to note the line of cooks from the window. i was unable to sleep again, and lay there awaiting her return, anxious and uncomfortable. she came back, looking like lady macbeth, and exclaimed in a voice of dire amazement: "not a soul, archie! positively, there's not a human creature in the street. what can it mean?" "it's early," i suggested feebly. "oh, nonsense!" cried letitia. "out of four million people, there must be a very large percentage that doesn't regard seven o'clock as so frightfully early. perhaps the police, seeing a mob, ordered it to disperse and reassemble later. at any rate, we had better get ready. how annoying! i forgot all about breakfast, and we can not leave the house. i must prepare some coffee, and with the crackers that aunt julia bought, we must make shift." after this meal, that was strangely lacking in solidity and in various other qualities--letitia's coffee tasting like slate-pencils, only not quite so nice--we stationed ourselves at the window. we saw cable-cars, horse-cars, wagons, cabs, perambulators. we noted tradesmen, and tradeswomen, schoolgirls and schoolboys, business-men and business-women. there was plenty to look at, but there was no cook. letitia grew restive; i became nervous. every feminine creature that approached seemed to be a cook--until she went past. we looked at each petticoated passer-by, with the avid expectation of hearing her ring our door-bell and ask to be taken in. "there's one!" cried letitia excitedly. "i bet you anything that she's going to ring. how shabby her skirt is, poor thing. and just look at her hat! she is reading the numbers on the doors. yes, she's stopping here. she--she--" went by. "this time," i exclaimed, "i'll wager anything that--look, letitia!--the girl opposite is going to apply. she has a newspaper in her hand and she keeps reading it. i'm not often mistaken, letitia. when i do venture a prophecy, it is generally correct. ah, i told you so. she is looking up at us. she has crossed the street. she has examined the house. she--she--" went next door. mariana, in her moated grange, may have had an unpleasant time of it, as she "glanced athwart the glooming flats." (i should have indignantly called them "blooming" flats, but unfortunately i'm not tennyson.) then, in mariana's case, "old faces glimmer'd thro' the doors," which must have made things cheerful for her. with us, neither old faces nor young ones "glimmer'd" through anything whatsoever. gladly would we have hailed them, for, in good sooth, we were "aweary, weary." we "drew the casement curtain by"--letitia begged me to be careful, as it had just been done up--and stood there, stolidly, silently. there were no moldering wainscots, or flitting bats, or rusted nails, or oxen's low. in spite of which i am perfectly convinced that mariana was less miserable than we were, as at eleven o'clock, the awful certainty was borne in upon us that "she cometh not." "perhaps," said letitia dejectedly, "we are the victims of conspiracy. anna carter, and mrs. potzenheimer, and birdie miriam mccaffrey may have banded themselves together to--to ruin us." "letitia!" "there is some reason for all this, archie. it is to be accounted for in some way. it is absolutely impossible that five important advertisements in five important newspapers should have produced no fruit whatsoever. i shall write to each paper and say, 'after advertising in your valuable columns, i have come to the conclusion that you are no good.'" "why antagonize the newspapers?" "i must have the satisfaction of recording our experience," she replied, her face flushed, her eyes bright. "i shall do it, archie. i intend--" at that moment there was a ring at the front door-bell. letitia, wrought-up, nervously clutched my arm. for a moment a sort of paralysis seized me. then, alertly as a young calf, i bounded toward the door, hope aroused, and expectation keen. it was rather dark in the outside hall and i could not quite perceive the nature of our visitor. but i soon gladly realized that it was something feminine, and as i held the door open, a thin, small, soiled wisp of a woman glided in, and smiled at me. "_talar ni svensk?_" she asked, but i had no idea what she meant. she may have been impertinent, or even rude, or perhaps improper, but she looked as though she might be a domestic, and i led her gently, reverently, to letitia in the drawing-room. i smiled back at her, in a wild endeavor to be sympathetic. i would have anointed her, or bathed her feet, or plied her with figs and dates, or have done anything that any nationality craves as a welcome. as the front door closed, i heaved a sigh of relief. here was probably the quintessence of five advertisements. out of the mountain crept a mouse, and quite a little mouse, too! "_talar ni svensk?_" proved to be nothing more outrageous than "do you speak swedish?" my astute little wife discovered this intuitively. i left them together, my mental excuse being that women understand each other and that a man is unnecessary, under the circumstances. i had some misgivings on the subject of letitia and _svensk_, but the universal language of femininity is not without its uses. i devoutly hoped that letitia would be able to come to terms, as the mere idea of a cook who couldn't excoriate us in english was, at that moment, delightful. at the end of a quarter of an hour i strolled back to the drawing-room. letitia was smiling and the handmaiden sat grim and uninspired. "i've engaged her, archie," said letitia. "she knows nothing, as she has told me, in the few words of english that she has picked up, but--you remember what aunt julia said about a clean slate." i gazed at the maiden, and reflected that while the term "slate" might be perfectly correct, the adjective seemed a bit over-enthusiastic. she was decidedly soiled, this quintessence of a quintette of advertisements. i said nothing, anxious not to dampen letitia's very evident elation. "she has no references," continued my wife, "as she has never been out before. she is just a simple little stockholm girl. i like her face immensely, archie--immensely. she is willing to begin at once, which shows that she is eager, and consequently likely to suit us. wait for me, archie, while i take her to the kitchen. _kom_, gerda." exactly why letitia couldn't say "come, gerda," seemed strange. she probably thought that _kom_ must be swedish, and that it sounded well. she certainly invented _kom_ on the spur of the scandinavian moment, and i learned afterward that it was correct. my inspired letitia! still, in spite of all, my opinion is that "come, gerda," would have done just as well. "isn't it delightful?" cried letitia, when she joined me later. "i am really enthusiastic at the idea of a swedish girl. i adore scandinavia, archie. it always makes me think of ibsen. perhaps gerda lyberg--that's her name--will be as interesting as hedda gabler, and mrs. alving, and nora, and all those lovely complex ibsen creatures." "they were norwegians, dear," i said gently, anxious not to shatter illusions; "the ibsen plays deal with christiania, not with stockholm." "but they are so near," declared letitia, amiable and seraphic once more. "somehow or other, i invariably mix up norway and sweden and denmark. i know i shall always look upon gerda as an ibsen girl, who has come here to 'live her life,' or 'work out her inheritance.' perhaps, dear, she has some interesting internal disease, or a maggoty brain. don't you think, archie, that the ibsen inheritances are always most fascinating? a bit morbid, but surely fascinating." "i prefer a healthy cook, letitia," i said meditatively, "somebody willing to interest herself in our inheritance, rather than in her own." "i don't mind what you say now," she pouted, "i am not to be put down by clamor. we really have a cook at last, and i feel more lenient toward you, archie. of course i was only joking when i suggested the ibsen diseases. gerda lyberg may have inherited from her ancestors something quite nice and attractive." "then you mustn't look upon her as ibsen, letitia," i protested. "the ibsen people never inherit nice things. their ancestors always bequeath nasty ones. that is where their consistency comes in. they are receptacles for horrors. personally, if you'll excuse my flippancy, i prefer norwegian anchovies to norwegian heroines. it is a mere matter of opinion." "i'm ashamed of you," retorted letitia defiantly. "you talk like some of the wretchedly frivolous criticisms, so called, that men like acton davies, and alan dale inflict upon the long-suffering public. they never amuse me. ibsen may make his heroines the recipients of ugly legacies, but he has never yet cursed them with the odious incubus known as 'a sense of humor.' the people with a sense of humor have something in their brains worse than maggots. we'll drop the subject, archie. i'm going to learn swedish. before gerda lyberg has been with us a month, i intend to be able to talk fluently. it will be most useful. next time we go to europe, we'll take in sweden, and i'll do the piloting. i am going to buy some swedish books, and study. won't it be jolly? and just think how melancholy we were this morning, you and i, looking out of that window, and trying to materialize cooks. wasn't it funny, archie? what amusing experiences we shall be able to chronicle, later on!" letitia babbled on like half a dozen brooks, and thinking up a gentle parody, in the shape of, "cooks may come, and men may go," i decided to leave my household gods for the bread-earning contest down-town. i could not feel quite as sanguine as letitia, who seemed to have forgotten the dismal results of the advertisement--just one little puny swedish result. i should have preferred to make a choice. letitia was as pleased with gerda lyberg as though she had been a selection instead of a that-or-nothing. if somebody had dramatized gerda lyberg's initial dinner, it would probably have been considered exceedingly droll. as a serious episode, however, its humor, to my mind, lacked spontaneity. letitia had asked her to cook us a little swedish meal, so that we could get some idea of stockholm life, in which, for some reason or other, we were supposed to be deeply interested. unfortunately i was extremely hungry, and had carefully avoided luncheon in order to give my appetite a chance. we sat down to a huge bowl of cold greasy soup, in which enormous lumps of meat swam, as though, for their life, awaiting rescue at the prongs of a fork. in addition to this epicurean dish was a teeming plate of water-soaked potatoes, delicately boiled. that was all. letitia said that it was swedish, and the most annoying part of the entertainment was that i was alone in my critical disapprobation. letitia was so engrossed with a little swedish conversation book that she brought to table that she forgot the mere material question of food--forgot everything but the horrible jargon she was studying, and the soiled, wisp-like maiden, who looked more unlike a clean slate than ever. "what shall i say to her, archie?" asked letitia, turning over the pages of her book, as i tried to rescue a block of meat from the cold fat in which it lurked. "here is a chapter on dinner. 'i am very hungry,' '_jag är myckel hungrig._' rather pretty, isn't it? hark at this: '_kypare gif mig matsedeln och vinlistan._' that means: 'waiter, give me the bill of fare, and the list of wines.'" "don't," i cried; "don't. this woman doesn't know what dining means. look out a chapter on feeding--or filling up." letitia was perfectly unruffled. she paid no attention to me whatsoever. she was fascinated with the slovenly girl, who stood around and gaped at her swedish. "gerda," said letitia, with her eyes on the book, "_gif mir apven senap och nägra potäter_." and then, as miss lyberg dived for the drowned potatoes, letitia exclaimed in an ecstasy of joy, "she understands, archie, she understands. i feel i am going to be a great success. _jag tackar_, gerda. that means 'i thank you.' _jag tackar._ see if you can say it, archie. just try, dear, to oblige me. _jag tackar._ now, that's a good boy, _jag tackar_." "i won't," i declared spitefully. "no _jag tackar_-ing for a parody like this, letitia. you don't seem to realize that i'm hungry. honestly, i prefer a delicatessen dinner to this." "'pray, give me a piece of venison,'" read letitia, absolutely disregarding my mood. "'_var god och gif mig ett stycke vildt._' it is almost intelligible, isn't it dear? '_ni äter icke_': you do not eat." "i can't," i asserted mournfully, anxious to gain letitia's sympathy. it was not forthcoming. letitia's eyes were fastened on gerda, and i could not help noting on the woman's face an expression of scorn. i felt certain of it. she appeared to regard my wife as a sort of irresponsible freak, and i was vexed to think that letitia should make such an exhibition of herself, and countenance the alleged meal that was set before us. "'i have really dined very well'," she continued joyously. "'_jag har verkligen atit mycket bra._'" "if you are quite sure that she doesn't understand english, letitia," i said viciously, "i'll say to you that this is a kind of joke i don't appreciate. i won't keep such a woman in the house. let us put on our things and go out and have dinner. better late than never." letitia was turning over the pages of her book, quite lost to her surroundings. as i concluded my remarks she looked up and exclaimed, "how very funny, archie. just as you said 'better late than never,' i came across that very phrase in the list of swedish proverbs. it must be telepathy, dear. better late than never,' '_battre sent än aldrig_.' what were you saying on the subject, dear? will you repeat it? and do try it in swedish. say '_battre sent än aldrig_'." "letitia," i shot forth in a fury, "i'm not in the humor for this sort of thing. i think this dinner, and this woman are rotten. see if you can find the word rotten in swedish." "i am surprised at you," letitia declared glacially, roused from her book by my heroic though unparliamentary language. "your expressions are neither english nor swedish. please don't use such gutter-words before a servant, to say nothing of your own wife." "but she doesn't understand," i protested, glancing at miss lyberg. i could have sworn that i detected a gleam in the woman's eyes and that the sphinx-like attitude of dull incomprehensibility suggested a strenuous effort. "she doesn't understand anything. she doesn't want to understand." "in a week from now," said letitia, "she will understand everything perfectly, for i shall be able to talk with her. oh, archie, do be agreeable. can't you see that i am having great fun? don't be such a greedy boy. if you could only enter into the spirit of the thing, you wouldn't be so oppressed by the food question. oh, dear! how important it does seem to be to men. gerda, _hur gammal är ni_?" the maiden sullenly left the room, and i felt convinced that letitia had swedishly asked her to do so. i was wrong. "_hur gammal är ni?_" letitia explained, simply meant, "how old are you?" "she evidently didn't want to tell me," was my wife's comment, as we went to the drawing-room. "i imagine, dear, that she doesn't quite like the idea of my ferreting out swedish so persistently. but i intend to persevere. the worst of conversation books is that one acquires a language in such a parroty way. now, in my book, the only answer to the question 'how old are you?' is, 'i was born on the tenth of august, .' for the life of me, i couldn't vary that, and it would be most embarrassing. it would make me fifty-two. if any one asked me in swedish how old i was, i should _have_ to be fifty-two!" "when i think of my five advertisements," i said lugubriously, as i threw myself into an arm-chair, fatigued at my efforts to discover dinner, "when i remember our expectation, and the pleasant anticipations of to-day, i feel very bitter, letitia. just to think that from it all nothing has resulted but that beastly mummy, that atrocious ossified thing." "archie, archie!" said my wife warningly; "please be calm. perhaps i was too engrossed with my studies to note the deficiencies of dinner. but do remember that i pleaded with her for a swedish meal. the poor thing did what i asked her to do. our dinner was evidently swedish. it was not her fault that i asked for it. to-morrow, dear, it shall be different. we had better stick to the american régime. it is more satisfactory to you. at any rate, we have somebody in the house, and if our five advertisements had brought forth five hundred applicants we should only have kept one. so don't torture yourself, archie. try and imagine that we _had_ five hundred applicants, and that we selected gerda lyberg." "i can't, letitia," i said sulkily, and i heaved a heavy sigh. "come," she said soothingly, "come and study swedish with me. it will be most useful for your _lives of great men_. you can read up the swedes in the original. i'll entertain you with this book, and you'll forget all about mrs. potz--i mean gerda lyberg. by-the-by, archie, she doesn't remind me so much of hedda gabler. i don't fancy that she is very subtile." "you, letitia," i retorted, "remind me of mrs. nickleby. you ramble on so." letitia looked offended. she always declared that dickens "got on her nerves." she was one of the new-fashioned readers who have learned to despise dickens. personally, i regretted only his nauseating sense of humor. letitia placed a cushion behind my head, smoothed my forehead, kissed me, made her peace, and settled down by my side. lack of nourishment made me drowsy, and letitia's babblings sounded vague and muffled. "it is a most inclusive little book," she said, "and if i can succeed in memorizing it all i shall be quite at home with the language. in fact, dear, i think i shall always keep swedish cooks. hark at this: 'if the wind be favorable, we shall be at grothenburg in forty hours.' '_om vinden är god, sa äro vi pa pyrtio timmar i goteborg._' i think it is sweetly pretty. 'you are seasick.' 'steward, bring me a glass of brandy and water.' 'we are now entering the harbor.' 'we are now anchoring.' 'your passports, gentlemen.'" a comfortable lethargy was stealing o'er me. letitia took a pencil and paper, and made notes as she plied the book. "a chapter on 'seeing a town' is most interesting, archie. of course, it must be a swedish town. 'do you know the two private galleries of mr. smith, the merchant, and mr. muller, the chancellor?' 'to-morrow morning, i wish to see all the public buildings and statues.' '_statyerna_' is swedish for statues, archie. are you listening, dear? 'we will visit the church of the holy ghost, at two, then we will make an excursion on lake mälan and see the fortress of vaxholm.' it is a charming little book. don't you think that it is a great improvement on the old ollendorff system? i don't find nonsensical sentences like 'the hat of my aunt's sister is blue, but the nose of my brother-in-law's sister-in-law is red.'" i rose and stretched myself. letitia was still plunged in the irritating guide to sweden, where i vowed i would never go. nothing on earth should ever induce me to visit sweden. if it came to a choice between hoboken and stockholm, i mentally determined to select the former. as i paced the room, i heard a curious splashing noise in the kitchen. letitia's studies must have dulled her ears. she was evidently too deeply engrossed. i strolled nonchalantly into the hall, and proceeded deliberately toward the kitchen. the thick carpet deadened my footsteps. the splashing noise grew louder. the kitchen door was closed. i gently opened it. as i did so, a wild scream rent the air. there stood gerda lyberg in--in--my pen declines to write it--a simple unsophisticated birthday dress, taking an ingenuous reluctant bath in the "stationary tubs," with the plates, and dishes, and dinner things grouped artistically around her! the instant she saw me, she modestly seized a dish-towel, and shouted at the top of her voice. the kitchen was filled with the steam from the hot water. 'venus arising' looked nebulous, and mystic. i beat a hasty retreat, aghast at the revelation, and almost fell against letitia, who, dropping her conversation book, came to see what had happened. "she's bathing!" i gasped, "in the kitchen--among the plates--near the soup--" "never!" cried letitia. then, melodramatically: "let me pass. stand aside, archie. i'll go and see. perhaps--perhaps--you had better come with me." "letitia," i gurgled, "i'm shocked! she has nothing on but a dish-towel." letitia paused irresolutely for a second, and going into the kitchen shut the door. the splashing noise ceased. i heard the sound of voices, or rather of a voice--letitia's! evidently she had forgotten swedish, and such remarks as "if the wind be favorable, we shall be at gothenburg in forty hours." i listened attentively, and could not even hear her say "we will visit the church of the holy ghost at two." it is strange how the stress of circumstances alters the complexion of a conversation book! all the evening she had studied swedish, and yet suddenly confronted by a swedish lady bathing in our kitchen, dish-toweled but unashamed, all she could find to say was "how disgusting!" and "how disgraceful!" in english! "you see," said letitia, when she emerged, "she is just a simple peasant girl, and only needs to be told. it is very horrid, of course." "and unappetizing!" i chimed in. "of course--certainly unappetizing. i couldn't think of anything swedish to say, but i said several things in english. she was dreadfully sorry that you had seen her, and never contemplated such a possibility. after all, archie, bathing is not a crime." "and we were hunting for a clean slate," i suggested satirically. "do you think, letitia, that she also takes a cold bath in the morning, among the bacon and eggs, and things?" "that is enough," said letitia sternly. "the episode need not serve as an excuse for indelicacy." chapter xiii it was with the advent of gerda lyberg that we became absolutely certain, beyond the peradventure of any doubt, that there was such a thing as the servant question. the knowledge had been gradually wafted in upon us, but it was not until the lady from stockholm had definitively planted herself in our midst, that we admitted to ourselves openly, unhesitatingly, unblushingly, that the problem existed. gerda blazoned forth the enigma in all its force and defiance. the remarkable thing about our latest acquisition was the singularly blank state of her gastronomic mind. there was nothing that she knew. most women, and a great many men, intuitively recognize the physical fact that water, at a certain temperature, boils. miss lyberg, apparently seeking to earn her living in the kitchen, had no certain views as to when the boiling point was reached. rumors seemed to have vaguely reached her that things called eggs dropped into water, would, in the course of time--any time, and generally less than a week--become eatable. letitia bought a little egg-boiler for her--one of those antique arrangements in which the sands of time play to the soft-boiled egg. the maiden promptly boiled it with the eggs, and undoubtedly thought that the hen, in a moment of perturbation, or aberration, had laid it. i say "thought" because it is the only term i can use. it is, perhaps, inappropriate in connection with gerda. potatoes, subjected to the action of hot water, grow soft. she was certain of that. whether she tested them with the poker, or with her hands or feet, we never knew. i inclined to the last suggestion. the situation was quite marvelous. here was an alleged worker, in a particular field, asking the wages of skilled labor, and densely ignorant of every detail connected with her task. it seemed unique. carpenters, plumbers, bricklayers, seamstresses, dressmakers, laundresses--all the sowers and reapers in the little garden of our daily needs, were forced by the inexorable law of competition to possess some inkling of the significance of their undertakings. with the cook, it was different. she could step jubilantly into any kitchen without the slightest idea of what she was expected to do there. if she knew that water was wet and that fire was hot, she felt amply primed to demand a salary. impelled by her craving for swedish literature, letitia struggled with miss lyberg. compared with the swede, my exquisitely ignorant wife was a culinary queen. she was an epicurean caterer. letitia's slate-pencil coffee was ambrosia for the gods, sweetest nectar, by the side of the dishwater that cook prepared. i began to feel quite proud of her. she grew to be an adept in the art of boiling water. if we could have lived on that fluid, everything would have moved clockworkily. "i've discovered one thing," said letitia on the evening of the third day. "the girl is just a peasant, probably a worker in the fields. that is why she is so ignorant." i thought this reasoning foolish. "even peasants eat, my dear," i muttered. "she must have seen somebody cook something. field-workers have good appetites. if this woman ever ate, what did she eat and why can't we have the same? we have asked her for no luxuries. we have arrived at the stage, my poor girl, when all we need is, prosaically, to 'fill up.' you have given her opportunities to offer us samples of peasant food. the result has been _nil_." "it _is_ odd," letitia declared, a wrinkle of perplexity appearing in the smooth surface of her forehead. "of course, she says she doesn't understand me. and yet, archie, i have talked to her in pure swedish." "i suppose you said, 'pray give me a piece of venison,' from the conversation book." "don't be ridiculous, archie. i know the swedish for cauliflower, green peas, spinach, a leg of mutton, mustard, roast meat, soup, and--" "'if the wind be favorable, we shall be at gothenburg in forty hours'," i interrupted. she was silent, and i went on: "it seems a pity to end your studies in swedish, letitia, but fascinating though they be, they do not really necessitate our keeping this barbarian. you can always pursue them, and exercise on me. i don't mind. even with an american cook, if such a being exist, you could still continue to ask for venison steak in swedish, and to look forward to arriving at gothenburg in forty hours." letitia declined to argue. my mood was that known as cranky. we were in the drawing-room, after what we were compelled to call dinner. it had consisted of steak, burned to cinders, potatoes soaked to a pulp, and a rice pudding that looked like a poultice the morning after, and possibly tasted like one. letitia had been shopping, and was therefore unable to supervise. our delicate repast was capped by "black" coffee of an indefinite straw-color, and with globules of grease on the surface. people who can feel elated with the joy of living, after a dinner of this description, are assuredly both mentally and morally lacking. men and women there are who will say: "oh, give me anything. i'm not particular--so long as it is plain and wholesome." i've met many of these people. my experience of them is that they are the greatest gluttons on earth, with veritably voracious appetites, and that the best isn't good enough for them. to be sure, at a pinch, they will demolish a score of potatoes, if there be nothing else; but offer them caviare, canvas-back duck, quail, and nesselrode pudding, and they will look askance at food that is plain and wholesome. the "plain and wholesome" liver is a snare and a delusion, like the "bluff and genial" visitor whose geniality veils all sorts of satire and merciless comment. letitia and i both felt weak and miserable. we had made up our minds not to dine out. we were resolved to keep the home up, even if, in return, the home kept us down. give in, we wouldn't. our fighting blood was up. we firmly determined not to degenerate into that clammy american institution, the boarding-house feeder and the restaurant diner. we knew the type; in the feminine, it sits at table with its bonnet on, and a sullen gnawing expression of animal hunger; in the masculine, it puts its own knife in the butter, and uses a toothpick. no cook--no--lack of cook--should drive us to these abysmal depths. letitia made no feint at ovid. i simply declined to breathe the breath of _the lives of great men_. she read a sweet little classic called "the table; how to buy food, how to cook it, and how to serve it," by alessandro filippini--a delightful _table-d'hôte_-y name. i lay back in my chair and frowned, waiting until letitia chose to break the silence. as she was a most chattily inclined person on all occasions, i reasoned that i should not have to wait long. i was right. "archie," said she, "according to this book, there is no place in the civilized world that contains so large a number of so-called high-livers, as new york city, which was educated by the famous delmonico and his able lieutenants." "great heaven!" i exclaimed with a groan, "why rub it in, letitia? i should also say that no city in the world contained so large a number of low-livers." "'westward the course of empire sways,'" she read, "'and the great glory of the past has departed from those centers where the culinary art at one time defied all rivals. the scepter of supremacy has passed into the hands of the metropolis of the new world'." "what sickening cant!" i cried. "what fiendishly exaggerated restaurant talk! there are perhaps fifty fine restaurants in new york. in paris, there are five hundred finer. here we have places to eat in; there, they have artistic resorts to dine in. one can dine anywhere in paris. in new york, save for those fifty fine restaurants, one feeds. don't read any more of your cook-book to me, my girl. it is written to catch the american trade, with the subtile pen of flattery." "try and be patriotic, dear," she said soothingly. "of course, i know you wouldn't allow a frenchman to say all that, and that you are just talking cussedly with your own wife." a ring at the bell caused a diversion. we hailed it. we were in the humor to hail anything. the domestic hearth _was_ most trying. we were bored to death. i sprang up and ran to the door, a little pastime to which i was growing accustomed. three tittering young women, each wearing a hat in which roses, violets, poppies, cornflowers, forget-me-nots, feathers and ribbons ran riot, confronted me. "miss gerda lyberg?" said the foremost, who wore a bright red gown, and from whose hat six spiteful poppies lurched forward and almost hit me in the face. for a moment, dazed from the cook-book, i was nonplussed. all i could say was "no," meaning that i wasn't miss gerda lyberg. i felt so sure that i wasn't, that i was about to close the door. "she lives here, i believe," asserted the damsel, again shooting forth the poppies. i came to myself with an effort. "she is the--the cook," i muttered weakly. "we are her friends," quoth the damsel, an indignant inflection in her voice. "kindly let us in. we've come to the thursday sociable." the three bedizened ladies entered without further parley and went toward the kitchen, instinctively recognizing its direction. i was amazed. i heard a noisy greeting, a peal of laughter, a confusion of tongues, and then--i groped my way back to letitia. "they've come to the thursday sociable!" i cried, and sank into a chair. "who?" she asked in astonishment, and i imparted to her the full extent of my knowledge. letitia took it very nicely. she had always heard, she said, in fact mrs. archer had told her, that thursday nights were festival occasions with the swedes. she thought it rather a pleasant and convivial notion. servants must enjoy themselves, after all. better a happy gathering of girls than a rowdy collection of men. letitia thought the idea felicitous. she had no objections to giving privileges to a cook. nor had i, for the matter of that. i ventured to remark, however, that gerda didn't seem to be a cook. "then let us call her a 'girl'," said letitia, irritated at last. "gerda is a girl, only because she isn't a boy," i remarked tauntingly. "if by 'girl' you even mean servant, then gerda isn't a girl. goodness knows what she is. hello! another ring!" this time, miss lyberg herself went to the door, and we listened. more arrivals for the sociable; four swedish guests, all equally gaily attired in flower hats. some of them wore bangles, the noise of which, in the hall, sounded like an infuriation of sleigh-bells. they were christina and sophie and sadie and alexandra--as we soon learned. it was wonderful how welcome gerda made them, and how quickly they were "at home." they rustled through the halls, chatting and laughing and humming. such merry girls! such light-hearted little charmers! letitia stood looking at them through the crack of the drawing-room door. perhaps it was just as well that somebody should have a good time in our house. "just the same, letitia," i observed, galled, "i think i should say to-morrow that this invasion is most impertinent--most uncalled for." "yes, archie," said letitia demurely, "you think you should say it. but please don't think _i_ shall, for i assure you that i shan't. i suppose that we must discharge her. she can't do anything and she doesn't want to learn. i don't blame her. she can always get the wages she asks, by doing nothing. you would pursue a similar policy, archie, if it were possible. everybody would. but all other laborers must know how to labor." i was glad to hear letitia echoing my sentiments. she was quite unconsciously plagiarizing. once again, she took up the cook-book. the sound of merrymaking in the kitchen drifted in upon us. from what we could gather, gerda seemed to be "dressing up" for the delectation of her guests. shrieks of laughter and clapping of hands made us wince. my nerves were on edge. had any one at that moment dared to suggest that there was even a suspicion of humor in these proceedings, i should have slain him without compunction. letitia was less irate and tried to comfort me. "you've no idea what hundreds of ways there are of cooking eggs, archie," she said. "do listen to me, dear. i'm trying so hard to be domesticated, and i do so want to please you. don't let cook come between us. here's a recipe for eggs _à la reine_ that reads most charmingly. are you listening, archie?" letitia came over to me, and kissed me, and smoothed my hair, and apologized, and asked me to help her with her cook-book--and i was pacified. at another time, i should not have allowed her to apologize. but as there were eight obstreperous women in our kitchen and letitia didn't object--well, i thought the apology was not out of place. "how to make eggs _à la reine_," read letitia lightly. "you prepare twelve eggs as for the above." "what's 'as for the above'?" i asked. "let me see. ah, yes. 'as for the above' means as for eggs _à la meyerbeer_. to make eggs _à la reine_, you prepare twelve eggs as though for eggs '_à la meyerbeer_.' it's simple." "but we don't know how to make eggs '_à la meyerbeer_'," i protested, thinking of the _pons asinorum_ in euclid that had caused me bitter anguish. "to make eggs '_à la meyerbeer_'," read letitia, "you butter a silver dish, and break into it twelve fresh eggs--" "twelve!" i cried. "my dear, we should be ill. we should die of biliousness. six eggs apiece!" "twelve _fresh_ eggs, archie. i'm giving you filippini's recipe. you break the eggs into a silver dish, and cook them on the stove for two minutes. then cut six mutton kidneys in halves--" "six kidneys and twelve eggs!" i exclaimed. "surely this is a recipe for--for--horses." "we are not obliged to eat it all at once, silly! after cutting the mutton kidneys in halves, you broil or stew them according to taste, then add them to the eggs and serve with half a pint of hot _perigueux sauce_, thrown over." "what's _perigueux sauce_?" "see no. ," continued letitia, in a somewhat stupefied tone. "how confusing! no. . here it is. _perigueux sauce_: chop up very fine two truffles. place them in a sautoire with a glass of madeira wine. reduce on the hot stove for five minutes. add half a pint of _espagnole sauce_. for _espagnole sauce_, see no. ." "what a labyrinth!" i said, feeling quite muddled; "it's like following a maze. we may as well see the thing through. what does no. say?" "no. . _sauce espagnole_. mix one pint of raw, strong, mirepoix--" "raw, strong what?" "raw, strong mirepoix--oh, archie, see no. . in one minute i shall forget what we really wanted to make. isn't it positively bewildering? see no. . stew in a saucepan two ounces of fat, two carrots, one onion, one sprig of thyme, one bay leaf, six whole peppers, three cloves, and, if handy, a hambone cut into pieces. add two sprigs of celery, and half a bunch of parsley roots, cook for fifteen minutes." "and then--what do you get?" i asked putting my hands to my fevered brow. "that's for the mirepoix," she replied; "and the mirepoix is for the _espagnole sauce_. you mix one pint of raw strong mirepoix with five ounces of good fat (chicken's fat is preferable). mix with the compound four ounces of flour, and moisten with one gallon of white broth. see no. ." "heavens! can't they bring it to a head? the twelve eggs and the six kidneys are waiting, letitia." "it _is_ most exasperating, but we won't be worsted, archie. see no. . white broth. there's half a page about it. i--i really don't believe that this flat is large enough to hold all the ingredients for this dish. you place in a large stock-urn, on a moderate fire, a good heavy knuckle of fine white veal with all the _débris_, or scraps of meat, cover fully with water, add salt, carrots, turnips, onions, parsley, leeks, celery. boil six hours--" "what--what are we trying to make?" i asked helplessly. letitia was equally dismayed. "i declare i almost forget. let me see: the white broth was to be mixed with the mirepoix; the mirepoix was for the _sauce espagnole_; the _sauce espagnole_ was for the _perigueux sauce_; the _perigueux sauce_ was for the eggs _à la meyerbeer_. we know that, don't we? well, for eggs _à la reine_. at present we know how to make eggs _à la meyerbeer_. to cook eggs _à la reine_, you proceed as for eggs _à la meyerbeer_, and then--" "i don't think we'll have any, letitia," i ventured. "really, i believe i can do without them. anyway, they would be rather indigestible." "well, i _will_ know the end," she declared pluckily. "i hate to be beaten. we know how to make eggs _à la meyerbeer_. we know that, don't we? well, for the eggs _à la reine_, you make a garnishing of one ounce of cooked chicken breast, one finely-shred, medium-sized truffle, and six minced mushrooms. you moisten with half a pint of good _allemande sauce_, see no. . no, i won't see no. . you're right, archie. we'll do without the eggs _à la reine_. this recipe is like the house that jack built, only much worse, for, you have to 'see' things all the time. we'll have just plain, soft-boiled eggs." "you might learn how to cook those, dear," i suggested timidly. "no, letitia, don't be vexed. there must be an art in it. we've had four cooks, all unable to boil eggs. there must be a knack." letitia sighed, and shut up the cook-book. eggs _à la reine_ seemed as difficult as trigonometry, or conic sections, or differential calculus--and much more expensive. certainly, the eight giggling cooks in the kitchen, now at the very height of their exhilaration, worried themselves little about such concoctions. my nerves again began to play pranks. the devilish pandemonium infuriated me. letitia was tired and wanted to go to bed. i was tired and hungry and disillusioned. it was close upon midnight and the swedish thursday was about over. i thought it unwise to allow them even an initial minute of friday. when the clock struck twelve, i marched majestically to the kitchen, threw open the door, revealed the octette in the enjoyment of a mound of ice-cream and a mountain of cake--that in my famished condition made my mouth water--and announced in a severe, jet subdued tone, that the revel must cease. "you must go at once," i said, "i am going to shut up the house." then i withdrew and waited. there was a delay, during which a babel of tongues was let loose, and then miss lyberg's seven guests were heard noisily leaving the house. two minutes later, there was a knock at our door and miss lyberg appeared, her eyes blazing, her face flushed and the expression of the hunted antelope defiantly asserting that it would never be brought to bay, on her perspiring features. "you've insulted my guests!" she cried, in english as good as my own. "i've had to turn them out of the house, and i've had about enough of this place." letitia's face was a psychological study. amazement, consternation, humiliation--all seemed determined to possess her. here was the obtuse swede, for whose dear sake she had dallied with the intricacies of the language of stockholm, furiously familiar with admirable english! the dense, dumb scandinavian--the lady of the "me no understand" rejoinder--apparently had the "gift of tongues." letitia trembled. rarely have i seen her so thoroughly perturbed. yet seemingly she was unwilling to credit the testimony of her own ears, for with sudden energy, she confronted miss lyberg, and exclaimed imperiously, in swedish that was either pure or impure: "_tig. ga din väg!_" "ah, come off!" cried the handmaiden insolently. "i understand english. i haven't been in this country fifteen years for nothing. it's just on account of folks like you that poor hard-working girls, who ain't allowed to take no baths or entertain no lady friends, have to protect themselves. pretend not to understand them, says i. i've found it worked before this. if they think you don't understand 'em, they'll let you alone and stop worriting. it's like your impidence to turn my lady-friends out of this flat. it's like your impidence. i'll--" letitia's crestfallen look, following upon her perturbation, completely upset me. a wave of indignation swamped me. i advanced, and in another minute miss gerda lyberg would have found herself in the hall, impelled there by a persuasive hand upon her shoulder. however, it was not to be. "you just lay a hand on me," she said with cold deliberation, and a smile, "and i'll have you arrested for assault. oh, i know the law. i haven't been in this country fifteen years for nothing. the law looks after poor weak, swedish girls. just push me out. it's all i ask. just you push me out." she edged up to me defiantly. my blood boiled. i would have mortgaged the prospects of my _lives of great men_ (not that they were worth mortgaging) for the exquisite satisfaction of confounding this abominable woman. then i saw the peril of the situation. i thought of horrid headlines in the papers: "author charged with abusing servant girl," or, "arrest of archibald fairfax on serious charge," and my mood changed. "i understood you all the time," continued miss lyberg insultingly. "i listened to you. i knew what you thought of me. now i'm telling you what i think of you. the idea of turning out my lady-friends, on a thursday night, too! and me a-slaving for them, and a-bathing for them, and a-treating them to ice-cream and cake, and in me own kitchen. you ain't no lady. as for you"--i seemed to be her particular pet--"when i sees a man around the house all the time, a-molly-coddling and a-fussing, i says to myself, he ain't much good if he can't trust the women folk alone." we stood there like dummies, listening to the tirade. what could we do? to be sure, there were two of us, and we were in our own house. the antagonist, however, was a servant, not in her own house. the situation, for reasons that it is impossible to define, was hers. she knew it, too. we allowed her full sway, because we couldn't help it. the sympathy of the public, in case of violent measures, would not have been on our side. the poor domestic, oppressed and enslaved, would have appealed to any jury of married men, living luxuriously in cheap boarding-houses! when she left us, as she did when she was completely ready to do so, letitia began to cry. the sight of her tears unnerved me, and i checked a most unfeeling remark that i intended to make to the effect that, "if the wind be favorable, we shall be at gothenburg in forty hours." "it's not that i mind her insolence," she sobbed, "we were going to send her off anyway, weren't we? but it's so humiliating to be 'done.' we've been 'done.' here have i been working hard at swedish--writing exercises, learning verbs, studying proverbs--just to talk to a woman who speaks english as well as i do. it's--it's--so--so--mor--mortifying." "never mind, dear," i said, drying her eyes for her; "the swedish will come in handy some day." "no," she declared vehemently, "don't say that you'll take me to sweden. i wouldn't go to the hateful country. it's a hideous language, anyway, isn't it, archie? it is a nasty, laconic, ugly tongue. you heard me say _tig_ to her just now. _tig_ means 'be silent.' could anything sound more repulsive? _tig! tig! ugh!_" letitia stamped her foot. she was exceeding wroth. "aunt julia, and her clean slate!" she went on. "if this was a sample of a clean slate, give me one that has been scribbled all over. the annoying thing is that we have to stand still and listen to all this abuse. these women seem to hate one so! they are always on the defensive, when there is nothing to defend. they won't let you treat them nicely. honestly, archie, i think that they are all anarchists and that they hate us because we have a few dollars more than they have." it was rather a grave assertion but i was not prepared to combat it. could it be the fault of our "system"--admitting, for the sake of argument, that we have a system? why did peasants, from the purlieus of foreign countries, undergo a "sea change" the instant they landed? why did ladies who would have clamored to black your shoes in their own country, insist that you should black theirs when they came to yours? why was it? what did it mean? surely it was a problem, as knotty as that of the cooking of eggs _à la reine_. still, undoubtedly, there are chefs who have succeeded in elaborating the eggs _à la reine_. were there any people in this broad land, who, by dint of a life's persistence, had managed to understand their cook? letitia declined to talk any more. i could have harangued a mob. i could have stood on a wagon, without flags, and have incited the populace to deeds of violence. i should have loved to do it; i ached for the mere chance, and--and-- well, i merely switched off the light. chapter xiv those who have followed me thus far through this sad, eventful history must have perceived that the little refinements of home life with which we had started to adorn our domestic hearth were being gradually starved to death. yes, i know that many people will contemptuously allude to these "little refinements" as "little affectations." it all depends upon the point of view. i have been in towns where a man bold enough to wear a clean collar and a whole suit was disdainfully voted a dude; i have flitted through communities that would have derisively hooted at a silk hat. in western villages i have seen a gloved hand impertinently stared at, and have heard it discussed as a triumph of effeminacy--the sort of thing that might have caused the downfall of the roman empire. it all depends, assuredly, upon the point of view. our troubles were, of course, largely due to our bringing-up. we believed in the home, not as a mere place to sleep in, or a city-directory address for the reception of letters, but as the main feature of our life. we wanted to live there, entertain our friends there, and later on, perhaps, die there. the "bluff and genial" men will, of course, assert that i was a milksop, because i declined to sit around in shirt-sleeves, in the presence of my wife, and commune unaffectedly with the usual hand-painted cuspidor. the "bluff and genial" women will vote my poor letitia airy because she didn't polish kitchen stoves, or hang out the very intimacies of her underwear on pulley lines. you see, we had always been lucky enough to find women willing to do these odd jobs for us. in business, a broker isn't considered a dude because he declines to be his own office-boy. he obtains the luxury of "help." his office-boy is perhaps an anarchist, but his wings are clipped and he receives no encouragement. why is it that letitia, perfectly willing to pay somebody to remove the rough edges from domestic existence, should be dubbed airy? certainly every well-regulated person with a home must rebel at the notion of opening the front door every time the bell rings. surely each self-respecting man or women covets the privilege of being "out" to unwelcome visitors. the mere idea of being always "in" to every tom, dick and harry, is loathsome. yet that was our plight. if our bitterest enemy called, he would see us. the sweetest lie in the world is that told by the neat-handed phyllis, when she pertly remarks "not at home" to the unloved caller. that sweetest lie was an impossibility for poor letitia and her husband. and so it was on the evening of the second day after the departure of the _svensk_ atrocity, letitia came to me in the dining-room, as i smoked the pipe of alleged peace, in a most mysterious manner. she had a card in her hand, and her mood was--if i may say so--hectic. "we shall have to see her, archie," she said. "you see, i couldn't say i was out. she was very persistent, and pushed her way in. i was obliged to ask her into the drawing-room. she is"--reading the card--"miss priscilla perfoozle." "a cook!" i exclaimed joyously. "oh, letitia, i'm so glad!" "no, archie. she is miss priscilla perfoozle, representing"--again reading the card--"the society for the amelioration of the condition of the cooks of new york city." i thought letitia was joking--that, perchance, a horrible sense of humor was sprouting. we had dined out, most pleasantly, and were temporarily lulled into an agreeable lethargy of endurance. if this were a jest, it was certainly a very sorry one. i sprang up and looked at the card. there was no deception. it was, as letitia said, the pasteboard of "miss priscilla perfoozle, representing the society for the amelioration of the condition of the cooks of new york city." "what--impertinence!" i exclaimed, and the little dash between the two words signifies a profane expression that never before, during our short married life, had i been tempted to use. letitia flushed. "don't, dear," she said. "we must see her. it can't do any harm, for we have nothing to do. and, archie, _please_ don't be rude, or impolite. remember, i beg of you, that you are in your own house." i always was when my system simply pined for a bit of impoliteness. whenever i ached to be rude, i was reminded that i was at home. it was most exasperating. however, i promised letitia that there should be no outbreak; that i would be as suave as i could, and that miss priscilla perfoozle should escape with all her bones intact--and the sooner the better. we found her seated by the tiger-head, over which i firmly believed and hoped that she had tripped, for she was rubbing her shin. she was a large, gaunt, yellow spinster, with a loose, flappy mouth, that looked as though it should have been buttoned up when she was not using it. she wore black silk, like the ruined ladies in melodrama, and a neat bonnet, fastened under her chin by velvet strings. she rose, as we entered, and unchained a smile. it was one of those smiles that some christians call loving. her unbuttoned mouth--even a hook-and-eye on each lip would have been most serviceable--revealed a picturesque of the falsest sort of false teeth (this style ten dollars), but she was not a bit abashed. i felt perfectly convinced that she was determined to love us--that, even if we threw a vase at her, she would still consider us ineffably dear. she extended her hand to each of us--a hand in a black _glacé_ kid glove that was too long for her fingers. "be seated," said letitia, with much unnecessary dignity. "i dare say you have heard of the society for the amelioration of the condition of the cooks in new york city," she began chastely; "you must have read of the good work it is doing in the interests of those poor, downtrodden girls who seek only to earn a living in the houses of the rich and prosperous. the good work the society is doing, mrs. fairfax--by-the-by, i obtained your name at mrs. greaseheaver's intelligence office--is beyond all question. i am merely a missionary, aiming by means of heart-to-heart talks to awaken an interest, a human interest, in the sad lives of domestic servants, so that a few rays of sunlight may ultimately permeate their dull and wretched days." letitia looked pleadingly at me, as i moved uneasily. she laid her hand, as though unconsciously, upon an indian paper-cutter in my vicinity. the edges were very sharp. "my heart aches for them," continued miss perfoozle feelingly, "i might almost say that it bleeds. i listen to their stories day by day, in tears--positively tears, mrs. fairfax. it is perhaps silly of me to give way--i know i am a foolish little thing--but i can not help it. i am very, very susceptible. i am devoting my life to the glorious task of improving their state. by the distribution of tracts, we reach the poor girls themselves. they come to us; we board and bed them, and we endeavor to place them with ladies whose antecedents we have diligently investigated." "you have an intelligence office, then?" asked letitia naïvely. "ah, do not say it," implored miss perfoozle, with ten black _glacé_ fingers outstretched like claws. "the term has passed into such disrepute, dear mrs. fairfax. naturally our society has to be supported, though most of the ladies comprising its members would gladly give their little all to the beautiful cause. my little all, i frequently contribute." "then your society depends upon these little alls?" i asked, peacefully resolved to probe the perfoozle as a pastime. "it could not be," she replied piously. "we charge the girls we place a percentage of their first salary--merely a nominal percentage, dear mrs. fairfax. we seek to place them with reputable, god-fearing people--christians preferred, though we have no rooted objections to jews. our society has decided that the question of domestic help _is_ a question merely because most employers are cruel and abusive. treat the employers and not the girls. that, dear mr. and mrs. fairfax, is the motto of the society for the amelioration of the condition of the cooks in new york city." letitia withdrew her hand from the indian paper-knife, after pushing it in my direction. i gleaned from that trifling fact that letitia was quite willing to let me do my worst. her face flushed as she listened to the dulcet utterances of the sweetly insolent perfoozle. "if i mistake not," continued the spinster, "you employed a worker calling herself mrs. mccaffrey?" letitia started. i winced. horrible memories surged within us. old wounds re-ached. we did not answer. "a most worthy person," resumed the perfoozle serenely, "a beautiful character. a christian. she came to us, mrs. fairfax, crushed. her little girl--one of the sweetest little things i have met--contracted mumps, she tells me, owing to the unsanitary conditions of the house. i am not here to scold. i have no right to do so. but, frankly, i must admit that my warm sympathies were extended toward mrs. mccaffrey. do not be angry with me, mrs. fairfax. we are all human creatures, working in a common cause. you look good and kind, both of you, yet in the case of poor birdie, will you let me say that i can not give you right? i dare not. ah, my dear young people, why--why should you torture human souls? think--think that you may meet your cooks in the after-life." this was a horrid aspect of immortality that i had never contemplated. letitia was smiling, almost as though she possessed a sense of humor. my wife's mood inspired me. we might probably dally with priscilla perfoozle for a half-hour or so. "we hope to go to heaven, miss perfoozle," i ventured, with a sacred intonation. "i hope so, too, dear young people," she bleated. "in that case, we shall not meet our cooks," i continued. "all those we have had will most assuredly go to hell, as incompetent, abusive, mercenary, home-destroying, ignorant obstructions. you have no branches in--er--hell, miss perfoozle?" i had mentally suggested dallying toyfully with priscilla, for a half-hour or so. the gentle query anent hades showed me instantly, however, that while priscilla was a good many things, she was not a fool. her eyes snapped at my remark, and one of them, that looked a trifle squinty, turned deliberately inward, and gave her a most sinister aspect. piety was certainly hers, in a pecksniffian sense, but the commercial instinct leavened the loaf. that she intended to be-cook us from her own larder, was manifest; that she wished to "investigate" us so that she could be certain of one month for her cook and its happy percentage for herself, was clear. there was method in the perfoozle madness, and i resolved calmly, and unangrily, to "see it through." "you are profane, mr. fairfax," she said with a sickly smile, "but i expect it. the laborers in humanity's vineyard have much to contend with. but we persevere. we are smitten on one cheek, but we cheerfully turn the other. moreover, you do not mean to offend. i know it. i bear no malice. we will say no more about the poor widow, mrs. mccaffrey, whom, by-the-by, i have placed on fifth avenue, at a salary of forty dollars per month." "i'm sorry for your percentage, miss perfoozle," remarked letitia with glorious acidity. "you can see it, perhaps. i can't." "you think--" began the spinster nervously, moved by the pecuniary insinuation. "no," retorted letitia. "i am sure." miss perfoozle was silent for a moment, plunged in thought. perhaps, like mr. james russell of variety renown, she thought she saw two dollars. however, although by no means naked, she was unashamed. she righted herself speedily. piety was reinstated and she beamed upon us beatifically. "your troubles," she went on, "and i am right in assuming that you have them?--are not serious, my dear young people. they are the result of the ugly american habit of flouting inferiors. this is a democracy, yet the classes are too bitterly outlined. some time ago, i visited a young couple in a walk of life more humble than yours. they had been unable to keep help. they were desperate. they talked of breaking up their home. i carefully investigated their case, and discovered that the evil was due to the fact that they had been taught to regard a cook as an inferior. i undertook to send them a young country girl, who was very anxious to study new york. my condition was that they treat her as an equal. at first they rebelled, but--they were desperate. they agreed. i sent them the girl--a sweet young woman, named sybil montmorency. they took to her at once. she sat at table with them; she went out with them; in the evenings, she read with them. they showed her the sights of new york--the statue of liberty, the aquarium, the new bridge. sybil was delighted. she told me that she felt that she was merely a boarder--and was actually paid to board. she liked it immensely. she was as happy as a lark, until--" "i suppose she needed a change of scene?" i suggested. "not at all," viciously asserted the perfoozle. "they broke their agreement--deliberately. it appears that they were very musical. they had subscribed for the series of philharmonic concerts. actually--would you believe it, mrs. fairfax?--they declined to live up to their word. they refused to take little sybil, who was just as musical as they--precisely as musical. naturally the poor child was incensed. there she was, compelled to sit at home, alone, while they were out enjoying themselves! now, this is a democratic country--i am an american to the roots of my hair--and i admit that i was furious. i have blacklisted this couple. never another girl shall they have from my establishment. i have sybil on my hands. she is hard to place, for she is so pure and good." "i suppose she is an excellent cook?" i asked demurely. "i never permitted myself to ask her such a question," replied miss perfoozle. "in the case of some women, of course, such questions may be necessary. it would have been an impertinence in the instance of miss montmorency. such a girl was an ornament to any home. i suppose she could cook. anybody can. it is a detail. of course, the case i have just mentioned is extreme. i do not insist upon terms of equality. the haughtiness of american women render equality impossible, just at present. later on, perhaps, when the glorious spirit of democracy--the democracy of jefferson--has really instilled itself into our institutions. but, i beg of you, mrs. fairfax, as you hope for domestic happiness, to try and avoid the use of that most pernicious word, servant. ah, my blood boils at the word." "you prefer help?" asked letitia. "it is a nice point. help has also become equally obnoxious. i call my girls house-mates, or domestic companions, or house-aids. poor downtrodden women! they love to be called companions. their hearts expand at the notion of companionship. let me ask you one thing, mrs. fairfax." (she deliberately snubbed me.) "have you ever sought to analyze the sensations of one of our dear sisters, when she goes out for the first time, to cook for strange people in a strange house, far away from her loved ones?" "well," said letitia quite amiably, "i suppose that her sensations, if she doesn't know what cooking means, must be uncomfortable. she must feel, or should feel, that she is obtaining money under false pretenses. if she _can_ cook, she is probably pleased at the notion of earning her own living." "ah, you are hard, hard!" groaned perfoozle, wringing her _glacé_ kids. "you are relentless. i am sorry i told you the story of sybil montmorency. but do not believe"--her commercial instinct apparently sat up and snorted--"that all my girls are similar. this case was unique, though i trust that in the years to come it will be quite ordinary, and everyday. what i am particularly anxious to tell you, for you are bound to be impressed by the fact, is that the authority of pope pius ix is exquisitely permeated through our scheme." "hasn't the pope a cook?" i asked, wondering how he would like mrs. potzenheimer as an ornament to the vatican--or gentle gerda lyberg. "ah, i beseech you, mr. fairfax!" cried priscilla, her lips flapping. "the pope has laid down certain rules to govern the christian democracy. thanks to a paulist father--who has one of our girls at thirty-two dollars a month (and she has already been there four days!)--i have been able to see those rules. the holy father says that it is an obligation for the rich and for those that own property, to succor the poor and the indigent, according to the precepts of the gospel. they must not injure their savings by violence or fraud, nor expose them to corruption or danger of scandal, nor alienate them from the spirit of family life, nor impose on them labor beyond their strength or unsuitable to their age or sex--" "pardon me," i interrupted, "but what do you suppose the pope would say if he found his cook taking a bath in the kitchen, among the dinner things?" "you shock me!" cried miss perfoozle, with a little shriek. "you shock me, but--again i say--i do not mind. we missionaries must expect it. the pope, dear brother fairfax, would, i trust, never enter his kitchen. therefore he could not perceive the eccentric case you suggest. if perchance, he did perceive it, he would say that cleanliness was next to godliness and godliness superior to dinner things. in addition to the pope's words, which i learned by heart, i have the utterances of a famous diocesan director of charitable institutions. i have not memorized them, as, famous though the director be, he is not the pope. i will read you what he says." she drew from her pocket a soiled tract, and read: "'anything that will tend to do away with the friction that is to be found so often to-day between the employer and the employed, is to be commended and assisted.' it is short, but pithy. note that he says, 'anything'. you will also have observed that the word servant is never used." "do you remember a certain quotation from bacon, miss perfoozle?" i queried, "that which says: 'men in great place are thrice servants--servants of the sovereign, or state--servants of fame, and servants of business.' must we alter all this? if so, we should also re-edit the bible. can your cooks bear to read the bible? can they condescend to consider themselves as servants, even of the almighty?" miss perfoozle looked frightened. she blanched--if such an expression can be used in connection with her yellow face. however, she rose to the occasion. "you affect to misunderstand me," she said resignedly, "but i know that you are impressed in spite of yourself. it is difficult to plant the seed, but i feel that it is planted. 'as ye sow, so shall ye reap.' i shall expect to reap, dear young people. ah, what a pretty home you have. this cunning little parlor is a veritable curiosity shop. it is full of pretty gew-gaws." (she looked rather spitefully at the tiger-head.) "such a tasteful little home! may i--may i, dear mrs. fairfax, take a peep at the room you give to the dear sister who is so willing and anxious to wait on you?" letitia was about to make an indignant remark. i saw it coming. fortunately, miss perfoozle didn't appeal to me quite seriously. "leave her to me, letitia," i whispered to my wife, as priscilla's bonneted head was momentarily averted. then to miss perfoozle: "certainly, my dear mademoiselle," i said, "come this way, and be lenient with us. we try to do the best we can for our dear sisters." i led her to our bedroom. it was a pretty room, small but natty. the brass bedstead was elaborate with onyx trimmings. there was a handsome, pale-blue satin eiderdown upon it. a large cheval-glass stood in the corner, beveled and glistening. the bureau was littered with dainty bits of silver--puff-boxes, manicure articles, hair-curlers, brushes, combs, jars, bottles, cases. there were two windows, from each of which trailed expensive curtains of renaissance lace. "this is cook's room," i said, biting my lips, while letitia stuffed a small lace handkerchief into her mouth. "of course, it is very small but--" "it is charming," cried miss perfoozle ingenuously. "positively, my dear mrs. fairfax, i shouldn't mind it in the least for myself. i believe--nay, i am sure--that i could put up with it." "oh, miss perfoozle!" i exclaimed deprecatingly, "how can you say such a thing? it is kind of you. you are trying to put us at our ease." "was this mrs. mccaffrey's room?" she asked, a tinge of suspicion in her tone. "certainly," i cheerfully lied, "birdie and her dear little child both slept here. my wife was so sorry that there wasn't a night-nursery for the little one. yes, miss perfoozle, they both slept here, until the child contracted that horrid case of mumps." "ah, there is running water in the room," exclaimed perfoozle, spotting the marble basin. "it is always unhealthy. i look upon it as distinctly unsanitary. probably it accounts for the child's illness. there are exhalations of a miasmatic nature from these running water arrangements. otherwise, mrs. fairfax, i have no fault to find with the room. it is appointed far better than is the custom." "it is appointed far better than our own room, miss perfoozle," i declared, with assumed indignation. "let me show you our apartment. it is plain, but--it does for us." i impelled her gently toward the sanctum that birdie and potzenheimer and the others had veritably occupied. it had an ingrain carpet, and a bed, and a wash-stand. miss perfoozle surveyed it critically. "ah," she said, "you believe in keeping your own bedroom free from encumbrances. you are right. this is healthy. this is airy. i presume you realized the fact that cooks love ornaments and articles of virtue" (sic). "unfortunately, they do. as they advance in education, this will not be the case. in the years to come, mrs. fairfax, a properly self-respecting cook will prefer a cool, unadorned sleeping apartment, like this, to the vulgarity and ostentation of what you now offer her. at present, however, my dear young people, i am bound to admit that you treat your cook as she expects to be treated. i am delighted. i shall not fail to express this sentiment to mrs. mccaffrey when next i see her." letitia's shoulders were heaving. i nudged her, and whispered, "don't, for goodness' sake." miss perfoozle used a lorgnette as she made her inspection, and peered into everything. "this is the dining-room," i said, throwing open the door. "it is, as usual, small, but fairly large for the average apartment. there is room for cook, and five friends. we always dine out, you know. we dote on restaurants. my wife simply can't keep away from them. so we give over the dining-room to cook. we breakfast here, of course--just an egg, or so. there is electric light, which, though rather trying to the eyes, is convenient." "it is a shame," said miss perfoozle magnanimously, "to find you without help. honestly, it is a shame. you are young people, as i said before, and i believe, in spite of mr. fairfax's flippancy (perhaps he _has_ had occasion to feel flippant) that you are inclined to do the fair thing to your house-mates. i know a girl who will suit you, i am perfectly sure." "miss montmorency?" i ventured. "no, not sybil. sybil demands absolute equality, and i can quite see that in your case, mr. and mrs. fairfax, it would be impossible and perhaps"--indulgently--"unnecessary. but there is no reason why you should not be suited at once." "i ought to say," i interrupted in a downcast voice, "that there is no accommodation for bicycles, while as for automobiles--" "i do not countenance either," snapped miss perfoozle. "the former, which, i am thankful to say, have outlived their usefulness, were unfeminine. the latter, nasty, smelly things, always exploding and running over people, can be dispensed with. i can guarantee you a girl who will stay with you for a long time." "a whole month?" i queried gaspingly. miss perfoozle turned upon me suddenly. i had felt that she didn't quite appreciate me at my just worth. something in my last gasp appealed to her unpleasantly. "i trust you are not jesting," she remarked in a lemon tone. "no," i said shortly, moving toward the front door, "i never jest. but you have come too late, miss perfoozle. we are breaking up housekeeping to-morrow and sail for europe next day, to be gone for five years and three months. you might take our names for a cook in five years and three months from to-morrow. we shall visit london, paris, rome, vienna, berlin, dresden, jersey city, poughkeepsie, schenectady--" "you allowed me to waste my precious time here?" she asked in genuine, unadulterated anger. "you permitted me to devote an evening to the revelation of my plans and hopes, when you knew--you were sure--you--" "we had nothing better to do, i assure you, dear miss perfoozle," i said blithely. "you have amused us immensely. you must be going? yet it is early. you _will_ go? my dear madam, of course, we may not detain you. will you take our best wishes to birdie, and the child, and--" miss perfoozle's face was horrid to look at. letitia turned from her in dismay and whispered a husky "don't!" in my ear. the black _glacé_ hands looked like claws. the representative of the society for the amelioration of the condition of the cooks in new york city resembled a fury, baffled. we opened the door and clicked her out. for the first time in many days we burst into a peal of laughter. we simply shook. we howled. such a good time had, a few hours ago, seemed impossible. "i believe you have a sense of humor, after all, archie," said letitia, drying the tears from her eyes and sinking into a chair. "not yet, letitia, not yet," i demurred, weak from mirth, "but if this thing keeps up i'm awfully afraid that the dreadful curse will be visited on us both." chapter xv and it came to pass, that behold! we broke bread, and ate, and for a few soft, silly weeks, lived, in what i might call a fool's paradise. as any paradise, however, is better than none at all, and too much purgatory is apt to lose the mulligatawniness of its flavor, this little breathing spell gave us a chance to recuperate, and, as the french put it, to recoil, in order to leap better. it was like this. a lady friend of a cousin of an aunt of our laundress, knew somebody that was acquainted with a person, who had heard of a finnish maiden anxious for a position. it was a bit roundabout, but not worse than the simple recipes in alessandro filippini's cook-book. moreover, a finnish maiden--or any maiden--was less of a luxury and more of a necessity than eggs _à la reine_. we therefore negotiated, with the felicitous result that one bright morning letitia received a notification that the anxious olga would wait upon her. we both of us read up finland in the encyclopædia, it being one of those obscure european countries with which we were not familiar. letitia thought it belonged to scandinavia; i mixed it up with lapland. we were able to settle the point to our mutual satisfaction before olga arrived. "i have a dreadful presentiment," observed letitia, "that you will say 'i see her finnish'! if you do, i could never endure her. i warn you, archie." "as though i should perpetrate such a knock-kneed pun!" i exclaimed indignantly. "our experiences may have weakened me physically, but my intellect is still unimpaired." olga arrived in the early morn whilst i was shaving. letitia interviewed her in the drawing-room, and i fondly hoped that my services would not be needed. these cook-dialogues told upon my peace of mind, and i was beginning to yearn for a chance to give myself, heart and soul, to my affairs. i had finished shaving, and was admiring the velvety skin that i had coaxed into prominence, when letitia came bustling in, very serious and important. "before i quite settle with olga," she said, "i should so like you just to take a look at her, archie. would you mind? at first sight i thought her repulsive, but after looking at her fixedly, for a long time, i discovered that she really had a kind face." "i'll come in"--i sighed mournfully--"and investigate. of course, dear, good looks are not essential. she will not have to pose in the drawing-room. in fact, we really are not obliged to look at her at all. personally, i think it would be soothing not to do so." however, letitia's views were not far-fetched. the finnish lady was repellent enough to gaze upon. she wore a cape and a loose, dingy linsey-woolsey dress, and was so squat that her head looked like a knob, to be taken on and off. in fact, the head seemed out of place and unnecessary--almost as though she had borrowed somebody else's. she sat by the window, with her hands folded upon her lap, and appeared to be "taking solid comfort," as the saying is. for one moment a strange idea--but no, i banished it immediately as preposterous. irrelevant though it may seem, perhaps this is the place in which the reader might advantageously learn our ages. i have tried to conceal them, hitherto, but youth--like murder--must out. i was twenty-five; letitia nineteen. these little details need not be mentioned again. their somewhat brusque interpolation at this late stage seems necessary for a proper comprehension of what is to follow. "you don't think she is too frightful?" whispered letitia, as my eyes were riveted upon the figureless figure. "do, please, look at her face." the face was rosy and amiable. it was not necessary to look very fixedly at her to discover that. it was a vast improvement upon the acidulated countenance of the late miss lyberg. i wondered if the strange idea that i had banished so promptly could, by any chance, have occurred to letitia. i made a mental vow--a resolute inward swear--not to ask her. "in this case, her face is her fortune," i said, taking letitia aside; "it is--quite a face. a smile, occasionally, will help us along, letitia. this girl certainly looks as though she didn't hate us, just at present. it will be quite a treat not to be hated. i should engage her if i were you, and trust to luck. it is a good sign that we are not instantly attracted toward her. perhaps it is a happy augury." olga allallami--for such was her title--was thereupon secured. she seemed pleased, even grateful, which impressed me as being so drolly unusual, that i was almost suspicious. cooks would make a cynic of the angel gabriel,--though i have no intention of comparing myself to that seraph. "these finnish girls," explained letitia (i had asked for no explanation), "are brought up out of doors. they live a very active life in their own country in the fields. they are lithe and agile. when they come here, poor things, and undertake sedentary pursuits, the change is bound to tell upon them. their sinuous figures disappear; they grow squat and stumpy; instead of the lissome, flexible girl, they develop into the heavy, inactive matron. that's it, of course." letitia appeared to be pursuing her thoughts aloud--for her own benefit, and perhaps for mine. it seemed to be a reasonable way of looking at miss allallami. in any case, a beautiful cook was unnecessary. nor did it seem possible to find one. all the beautiful cooks were on the stage--in the chorus, where the remuneration was larger, if less certain, and the life more glittering, if less healthy. the beautiful cooks were all singing "tra la la" in comic opera, and were not worrying themselves about "refined christian homes" in upper new york. miss allallami came to her kitchen with dazzling punctuality next day, and almost before we knew it, the riot of our life was quelled, and an almost ominous tranquillity settled upon us. for once, we seemed to have done the right thing, in the right way, at the right time. our olga proved to be most affable. she spoke english fairly well and delighted to understand us. her cooking, while not precisely lucullian, was the best we had known, so far. she thoroughly understood the art of boiling water, and upon that ground-work built up a satisfactory culinary knack. she was prompt and willing; she was desirous of pleasing. in a neat white apron, she looked far less objectionable. in fact, within a few days after her arrival, we neither of us noticed her physical uncomeliness. either we grew accustomed to it, or we had magnified it in the first instance. letitia, always enthusiastically inclined, declared that she thought olga perfectly sweet, which seemed a bit exaggerated to my less exuberant moods. yet i was bound to admit that she had a nice face, a comfortable way of looking at one, and a comforting manner. there was no suggestion of anarchy in anything that she did. she never went out. the height of her enjoyment appeared to be reached when she sat down. she loved to sit down. when her day's work was done, she sat and sewed, which seemed so respectable! our other handmaidens--so letitia told me--never sewed. they pinned things on. as long as they could get pins they paid no attention to needles. "she makes such cute, needlework-y things!" said letitia gushingly, one day, "dear little dresses and caps. i fancy, archie, that she must be working for a store. it really does seem, dear, as though we had a treasure, at last. and just to think how doubtful we were about her. you were right; it was a good sign that we were not instantly attracted." miss allallami fitted into the household scheme admirably. she was always ready to efface herself, and in fact seemed to prefer it. gradually, letitia and i grew quite light-hearted. we began to go about and see people. we called, and emerged from our husk, so to speak. meals were always ready for us, and the hot dishes were not cold nor the cold dishes hot. system was introduced into our midst, and olga--well, i would have doubled her wages gladly. several weeks passed, and the bolt had not fallen from the blue. we went to tarrytown, and visited aunt julia, who rejoiced with us in our find. the old lady was elated at our happiness, but knew that things would right themselves eventually. she said something about a long lane that had no turning. i fancied that i had heard it before. when we returned, letitia plunged into the classics once again, and good old ovid was trotted out, refreshed after his vacation. i set to work, and added chapters to my _lives of great men_. at the office, i labored with renewed vigor, and tamworth asserted that i must have taken a new lease of life. he was very complimentary, was tamworth, and it was the invitation i tendered him to dine with us--which he promptly accepted--that ousted me from the sweet security in which i seemed to have been lulled. he came to dinner--and a very good dinner we had. it was neatly served by olga, who, with her face all smiles, appeared almost to coax us to eat. i laughingly asked tamworth if he recalled a former dinner with us, for at present i felt far superior to that uncanny day. yes, he remembered it, and was quite amused. i noticed, that he watched olga very closely--with almost embarrassing attention, but i ascribed this to his interest in her truly respectable dinner, a dinner, by-the-by, that had no premonitory menu cards. we had grown out of that sort of thing, and out of others. letitia no longer appeared _décolleté_, although i still wore evening clothes. after dinner, when letitia had left us to our cigars, tamworth struck a match, and, pausing before he lighted his weed, looked at me with a puzzled manner. "i'm surprised at you, fairfax," he said. "of course she is a good cook. there is no doubt about that. but do you think it quite nice, or--advisable?" "what--what do you mean?" "well," he said nervously, "it seems a pity that the woman shouldn't stay at home with her husband, or--if she is a widow, with her people." "my dear tamworth," i remarked laughing, "you are a humorist. why, she has never even told us that she is married. i'm quite sure she isn't." "oh, i hope she is," he cried, "i hope for mrs. fairfax's sake that she is. say, old man, you certainly don't want this sort of thing. i am sure it is very charitable of you--and all that. it is very sweet and womanly of mrs. fairfax. but the other people in the house must talk." at first i thought the man had gone stark, staring mad. he had taken very little wine at dinner, so it couldn't possibly be that. i looked at him in amazement. "you don't mean to tell me," he went on, "that you're blind?" then he said some things, in a low tone, that i--i really can't write. they were horrible. they sent the blood rushing to my face. they impelled me back to the day we engaged olga, when a strange idea had occurred to me, that i had banished instantly. so thoroughly had i banished it, that it had never occurred again, and came to me now as a sheer and odious novelty. tamworth could have no object in making these suggestions to me. he was undoubtedly in earnest. yet it seemed so ridiculous and so lacking in--er--etiquette. olga was such a pleasant, good-natured person. still, i was bound to admit that even pleasant, good-natured persons-- i rose, and began to walk up and down, mentally cursing my guest. in return for bread, he had made me uncomfortable. it was quite a ticklish position in which i found myself. the question must be discussed with letitia, and--quixotic, or some other "otic," though it may sound--the notion of such a discussion was most distasteful to me. aunt julia would have called me an idiot; perhaps i _was_ an idiot; still, because a pretty girl happens to be a man's wife, it does seem distressing that he should moot topics with her, that, if she were somebody else's wife, would remain unmooted. tamworth said no more on the subject; he evidently considered that he had done his duty, and had no further mission to fulfil. when we joined letitia in the drawing-room, tamworth and my wife monopolized the conversation. i could not take part in it; i felt too oppressed by the sudden apparition of the serpent that had appeared in our eden. letitia tried to include me in the small-talk, but she did not succeed. i sat, plunged in thought, dreading to think of tamworth's departure, when i felt that i should be forced to disconcert letitia. and she had been so happy for a few weeks, poor girl! possibly, tamworth was what they call an "alarmist." i could guarantee him no more dinners in my house. at last he went, and we were alone. i made up my mind, while he was putting on his bonnet and shawl outside, that i would defer my discussion with letitia until the morning. it would come better at the boiled-egg moment, when we were quite calm and dispassionate. moreover, i could brood over it all night, and wisdom might come to me in that way. "how quiet you were, archie," said letitia, "and what a time you and mr. tamworth were over your cigars! what _were_ you talking about?" i made a bold stroke. "tamworth," i replied in solemn, funereal tones, "was talking about olga." "the dinner certainly was excellent," said letitia proudly, "and i'm glad we invited him. so he talked about olga? i noticed, archie, that he was staring at her, in really a rude way, while we were dining. i couldn't help thinking that perhaps mr. tamworth is a--flirt!" what a tonic a laugh is! letitia's little suggestion appealed to me as so inordinately funny--despite my absence of a sense of humor--that i fell back in my chair, convulsed. i laughed until the tears rolled down my cheeks. i had not made so merry since the visit of miss priscilla perfoozle. i couldn't help picturing tamworth's face, on learning that my wife had suggested the idea of his flirting with the winsome miss allallami. it did me good. i felt better immediately. the sinister aspect of things seemed less alarming. "i don't see the joke," said letitia. "if you are amused because you look upon olga as too plain to be flirted with--well, all i can say is that every eye formeth its own beauty. mr. tamworth is seemingly very sedate, but still waters run deep. really, archie,"--as i continued to shake,--"i think you are very rude. nothing annoys me more than to be laughed at." the psychological moment had apparently arrived. there was no need to wait for the breakfast hour. after having laughed myself strong, i felt primed for the unpleasant task. poor little ingenuous letitia! i dubbed myself a mean, sneaking sort of a satan! "letitia," i began, "i have something to say to you." this sounded suspiciously like mr. william collier, at weber and fields', and i realized it as soon as i had spoken. it was a bad beginning. letitia anticipated a jest, for she followed up my remark with "don't tell me that you are--going--away--from--here?" "my dear," i said lugubriously, "arthur tamworth says that olga must be married." letitia looked surprised and a bit scornful. "and yet they say that women are gossips, and that men are superior!" she observed sententiously. "if that isn't a confession of utter weakness! two men, after dinner, with cigars and _liqueurs_, can find nothing better to talk about than the love affairs of the cook! it is my turn to laugh now. excuse me." i gladly allowed her to laugh, as i thought it would do her good. it had been so beneficial to me that i should have felt selfish if i had checked her mirth. however, letitia was not as convulsively entertained as i had been. "now, dear," i said, when she had finished, "i want you to listen to me. i--i--really do hate to tell you. i--i--can scarcely bring myself to it. but--but--tamworth insists--" i withdrew to the back of her chair, where i could not see her face. in low tones, i imparted the gist of arthur tamworth's suspicions. it was most distressing; it was painful. "the wretch!" cried letitia, springing to her feet. "to think that we have harbored such a man in our house! really, archie, your friends are beneath contempt. although i am your wife, i don't feel myself called upon to associate with such creatures. how dare you tell me the subject of your indelicate smoking-room orgies? i have always heard that men were disgraceful after dinner. aunt julia told me so. she said that coffee after dinner was a signal for all respectable women to withdraw. i did not believe her. now i do. and to think that my own husband--you--archie!" letitia turned upon me with cheeks aflame. her indignation was cyclonic. suddenly, as she gazed upon my helplessness--for she was a girl of moods--her fury seemed to disperse itself. gradually a reflective look appeared in her eyes. she grew singularly calm. presently, as i said nothing, she simply stood still, and looked at me, musingly. "you can easily ask her," i said weakly and huskily, "if--if--she is married." "ask her?" cried letitia, aghast. "not for the world would i do so. how terribly angry with myself i should feel, if she were married, and how horribly angry with her if she were not! don't you see that it is impossible? it is too awful to contemplate. perhaps--perhaps--_you_ wouldn't mind asking her." "letitia!" i exclaimed, shocked. "oh," letitia gurgled, in tears. "it is quite too wicked to think about! why--why--did we have that horrid man up to dinner? poor olga! she is a good, kind woman. yesterday, when i had a splitting headache, she bathed my forehead with _eau de cologne_. aunt julia herself couldn't have been kinder. i can't believe--" "but, my girl," i said sympathetically, "if she has a husband, she has surely committed no crime. what tamworth suggests is--er--pardonable, under those circumstances. we merely want to know. don't you see--" "oh, i see," she cried pettishly, "of course i see. seeing does not help me at all. you want me to catechize the woman because you are afraid to do so. men are such cowards. perhaps she will sue me for libel, if i ask her such questions. i shouldn't complain. i deserve to be sued for libel. i feel like suing myself. and--and--you are quite safe, because you can always say that it isn't the thing for you to interfere in such matters." "we really ought to have guessed--" "_you_ really ought to have guessed," she declared unreasonably. "you are six years older than i am. you are a man of the world. anyway"--triumphantly--"it may not be true. and if i ever find that it isn't, i'll go right down to mr. tamworth and tell him what i think of him, in his own office, before all his clerks and typewriters--and yours. he must be a horrible ninny. really, i wouldn't dare to have such a man around if--if--" there was nothing more to be said. letitia was in a mood that made argument uncomfortable, and the topic was not refreshing. i felt relieved that we had threshed the matter out, but a trifle uneasy as to future developments. these weeks had been very pleasant--the only unperturbed period we had spent in our home. could it be that our brief happiness was for ever over? at breakfast, next morning, serenity reasserted itself. we were almost inclined to dismiss all thoughts of the previous evening's discomfiture. it all seemed so groundless. we ate our boiled eggs quite placidly. miss allallami brought in the coffee and smiled reassuringly at us. letitia blushed guiltily as she saw her, and i felt quite unworthy and ashamed. "i do like her face so much," said letitia quietly, as i looked over the papers. "i don't know when i have liked it so well. not for the world would i vex her. i am trying, archie, to put myself in her place." "my dear!" "i feel like a sister toward her," continued letitia. "i have rarely been so attached to anybody. i'll tell you what we'll do, archie--if you agree to it. you know that aunt julia has invited us to stay with her over sunday at tarrytown. we'll just let things go on as they are for the present. and on thursday, when we go to tarrytown, i'll submit the case to aunt julia. if she thinks i ought to speak to olga--i agree to do so. whatever she advises shall be done. that is fair, isn't it? tell me, dear, that you are satisfied." i was satisfied--eminently so. postponing evils is always a gratifying occupation, and the few remaining days of pleasant domesticity that this arrangement left us seemed delightful. we would eat, drink and be merry, while we could. we would avoid the dreadful subject until thursday. the fool's paradise bewitched us as surely as before. tamworth faded into the distance and the old order reëstablished itself. we enjoyed ourselves in our happy little home. when thursday came, letitia took quite an affectionate farewell of miss allallami, and off we went to tarrytown. had i not reminded letitia of her agreement, i veritably believe that she would have forgotten it. it seemed a pity to reopen the wound, but i felt that it was cruel to be kind. aunt julia was very much perturbed, and i am bound to say, most disagreeable. she was indignant at letitia's qualms, and she told me that i was not only weak but unmanly. she insinuated that we were both candidates for the nursery and unfitted to cope with the problems of married life. she seemed to have no doubts as to the truth of tamworth's abominable innuendo, and, to cap it all, she opined that it was a good thing we had at least one friend who seemed to be sensible and dignified. letitia was almost in tears. i felt that i positively hated aunt julia. there is no use prolonging the story. the bolt from the blue fell. the blue had seemed so emphatically blue, and the bolt had been so invisible! it made matters worse. "i shall have to speak to olga," said poor letitia, in the train on the way home; "i see that there is no other course to pursue. it seems ten thousand pities to nip the poor girl's affection for us. i dare say she is at the window, awaiting our arrival. and i must greet her with an odious catechism." there was nobody at the window, however. the blinds in the drawing-room were down, and the aspect of the house was _morne_--which is the best adjective, though french, that i can think of. we rang the bell, and, after a pause, the door was opened, and we went up stairs. at the door of our apartment, instead of miss allallami, we encountered a strange woman in a white apron. for a moment we stood, direly perplexed. "mr. and mrs. fairfax?" asked the strange woman, with a pleasant smile. it was extraordinary. to be asked at one's own door if one were oneself! we entered without replying. letitia kept well in the background. i imagined that we should find our apartment looted. perhaps the strange woman was--looting! the drawing-room was untouched. everything was in its proper place, not an ornament missing; not a gewgaw disturbed. the woman was still smiling. "i congratulate you, mr. and mrs. fairfax," she said with a finnish intonation. "you will be glad, i know. it occurred yesterday, and it was too late to telegraph. olga--" "what about olga?" cried letitia. "go on," i commanded imperiously. the strange woman simpered, and looked down. "olga," she murmured, "olga has twins--two of the sweetest little babies, a boy and a girl. one she is going to call archie, and the other letitia. oh, she is as well as can be expected. she--" i looked round quickly, the extent of the calamity breaking in on my dense brain. i turned to letitia. she had fainted--on the tiger-head. chapter xvi i should like to drop this episode, without further comment, where i left it at the close of the last chapter. personally, i hate dotting i's and crossing t's. an interrogation mark always seems to me most satisfactory--as delightful as the after-theater supper for which somebody else pays. still, i realize that i am in the minority; that the majority cries for the comfortable adjustment of odds and ends, without any strain upon the imagination. i must therefore, put the finishing touches to the "incident" of olga allallami. the odd thing about letitia's behavior was that her affection for miss allallami evaporated so quickly that it made me wonder if my wife could possibly be fickle. it was, however, the twins that settled letitia. i feel convinced that had cook been guilty of one mere child, letitia's sweet womanly nature would have remained sympathetic. the dual blow infuriated her. she thought twins vulgar and most unrefined, and could not bear to discuss them. perhaps it was just as well. had letitia continued to "feel as a sister" toward our recalcitrant cook, things would have been very disagreeable, and the indications were that olga, with one child, would have been allowed full scope. as it was, we simply abandoned our apartment. we inflicted ourselves upon the long-suffering aunt julia, in tarrytown, and left cook and her brace of children in our home until such time as they could leave it. we learned that miss allallami's husband--for she was, indeed, a wife--had been employed in the brooklyn navy yard, and had returned to finland to make a home for his little olga. she, anxious to earn a few pennies--honest or otherwise--had remained behind, until she felt competent to join him. "it's a mercy she's married," i said as i heard this, but letitia's joyous assent was lacking. "oh, i don't know," she remarked immorally; "it wouldn't really matter. if she had been respectable enough to have had one little son, or one little daughter, i should have asked no questions." miss allallami's kindly and amiable nature had helped her cause. there had been method in her affability. she had "used" us, so to speak, and letitia felt quite embittered about it. she declared that she was losing all faith in human nature. it would henceforth be impossible for her to attach herself to anybody. it was enough to sour a seraph, she said. she had given real affection to miss allallami, and her reward had been--screaming twins. it was maddening. so irate was letitia, that i nearly pleaded poor olga's cause. "the poor woman herself did not anticipate twins," i said weakly. "nonsense!" declared letitia scornfully, "i'm convinced that she _knew_. these finnish women are so crafty. no, don't argue with me about it, archie. i'm quite ashamed of the episode. it makes me feel degraded, and i shall never like our apartment again--never. and yet i was so certain of olga's loyalty!" "you--you can't say, dear, that she isn't loyal. she is merely--" "that is enough, archie," said letitia, doing like the heroines in the novels, and "drawing herself up to her full height." "that is quite enough. you are singularly lacking in fine sentiment. i dare say that you and your charming mr. tamworth--never let me meet him again--will have a high old time chuckling over my misfortune. yes, i call it _my_ misfortune! let us for ever drop the abominable subject." and we did. of course, it had to be threshed out before final abandonment, with aunt julia, in whose house we stayed until cook's departure. mrs. dinsmore, i grieve to say, was not sympathetic. some people seem to find tragedy amusing, and aunt julia was one of them. she said that she should never be able to take us seriously, and asked us to excuse her mirth, _after_ she had indulged in it. as we were literally sponging upon her, we were obliged to be indulgent. it was not a pleasant time that we spent in tarrytown. aunt julia offered to return to new york and help letitia in her housekeeping, until such time as we were "suited"--an offer that letitia courteously but spiritedly refused. we found that miss allallami's gratitude had taken the form of a photograph of the twins, neatly framed, and hung in the drawing-room. it was a little delicate attention that we failed to appreciate. letitia tore down the picture and threw it from the window. it was the last allusion to olga. we seldom mentioned her case again. we were at home once more, as unsettled as though we were just beginning our domestic struggles, and we were determined to face the situation boldly. "i've been thinking, dear," i said one evening, as we sat dining in the least objectionable restaurant that i could find, "that perhaps if we offered fabulous wages, we could secure a fine cook. suppose we try it. you know, letitia, i always put a little money aside for a rainy day, and it seems to me that if i refrain from saving and invest it all in cook, we should be more comfortable. it can never rain worse than it is now doing." letitia looked radiant. i felt i had made a hit. "you are really a sensible man, after all, archie," she declared (i could have dispensed with the "after all"). "if you don't mind paying the same wages to cook that she would get with fifth avenue millionaires, naturally we can not fail. moreover, she will have an easier time with us than with them, as we don't give dinner parties or sit down thirty or forty to a meal. it's really a lovely idea. and--and--don't you think, dear, that saving is awfully provincial and petty, and--and--brooklyn?" i hadn't looked upon it in that light. tamworth had advised me to put something aside, as he said that married men were bound to provide for emergencies. i had done this systematically. in the meantime, we were literally "pigging" it. surely this was the rainy day. "why should a young, brainy man like you," continued letitia, beaming fondly upon me, "worry himself about what _might_ happen in the distant future? it seems so--so--little, doesn't it, dear? it is so like the little brooklyn clerks whom you see trundling baby-carriages and rushing away to savings banks with a five-dollar bill. it is really unworthy of the author of _lives of great men_. the thrifty always seem to me so namby-pamby." "you are overthrowing the doctrines of domestic economy, letitia," i said with a smile. "well, let's do it, archie. if we can be comfortable, we might as well overthrow things. oh, i suppose thrift is all right. 'a penny saved'--and all that sort of thing! let's have a culinary student in the kitchen, and pay her a handsome salary. we shall be happy, and when we are happy, we prosper. that is surely so. we send forth radiant thoughts, and they all work for us. i believe in that. oh, won't it be fun, archie?" there seemed to be logic in this idea. what's the use of saving and being uncomfortable to-day, when we may die to-morrow? we might better invest our money in the certainty of a blissful present, than hoard it in the uncertainty of the future. so we carefully knocked down the elaborate maxims of the "institutions for savings," and felt relieved. "it is absurd," said letitia, as she dipped the tips of her fingers into a rosy finger-bowl, "all this business of economy. suppose you _were_ incapacitated, archie, do you imagine that i am quite helpless? i could teach latin, and there must be hundreds of girls just crazy to read ovid in the original. or, i could learn typewriting, or bookkeeping, or other ugly but profitable accomplishments. we should never starve. i could even go on the stage, if _everything_ else failed." "only if everything else failed, my dear," i suggested. "oh, of course; as the very last thing. so many girls do it. if they are too silly to teach, or too unsympathetic to get married, or too lazy to learn anything, they go on the stage, and get lovely salaries. i shouldn't select the life of an actress, but if--" "we won't discuss such possibilities," i said firmly. "it is unnecessary to do so. my _lives of great men_ is nearly finished. it is the sort of book that every home will be obliged to store. there are seventy million people in the united states. let us put down seven million homes, at a low estimate, and there you are with seven million books yielding us a royalty--not including the sales in europe, asia, africa, and australia. the prospect is really alluring." "so it is, archie," she assented jubilantly, "and here we are, discussing saving, like sarah jane and her young man. it is very narrow of us. i forgot your book. and yet literature is most profitable, and such a necessity! the other day, down-town, i saw the complete works of shakespeare--plays and poems--bound in leather for fifty cents." "my book will cost five dollars," i said rather hesitantly. "well, dear, it's so much _newer_ than shakespeare," she asserted triumphantly. "i don't suppose that it will last quite as long--i could not say that, archie--but while it is selling, it may as well sell for five dollars. nobody ever thinks of competing with shakespeare. i'm very proud of your _lives of great men_ though you have never read any of it to me." "perhaps that's why," i suggested, temporarily moody, as most genius is said to be. "you're a silly boy, and i'm not going to flatter you by telling you how much more interested i am in archibald fairfax than in william shakespeare. you shall read me your _lives of great men_ as soon as we have our cook. in the meantime, i'm so glad you have decided not to save. let us eat, drink, and be merry, for to-morrow we die. it is hard to do those three things, at a seventy-five-cent _table-d'hôte_." "and the 'to-morrow we die' doesn't seem so hard?" "no, it doesn't, really, archie. the way we are living now is enough to drive anybody to pessimism. it is unnatural; it is wrong; we will spend our money, and be happy." there is one certain thing about new york. you can get anything you want in that "tuberosity of civilized life" if you have the wherewithal, or, in other words, "the price." it is what europeans call the middle classes that suffer the most in the american metropolis, whereas in other capitals, it is they that are the happiest. the extremely indigent and the inflatedly wealthy never complain of new york city. it is the neither-rich-nor-poor who find life difficult and are unable to gratify the innate need for refinement and comfort; who discover that graceful life is a knotty problem, and that the art of "keeping up appearances" with moderate means is well-nigh impossible. new york is the mecca of the rich and the poor; it is the hades of the unhappy medium. those who are just "comfortable" in london, are "just uncomfortable" in new york. so we set about the discovery of an expensive cook. we pored over the advertisements in the daily papers, in a determined hunt for something eminently first-class. letitia rather fancied an "alsatian chef" who had been with the "finest families in europe and america," and modestly asked one hundred dollars per month, but i felt suspicious. "you remember, dear," i said warningly, "that mrs. potzenheimer came or did not come from the vanderbilts. at any rate, she said she did. you probably recall the fact that the duchess of marlborough fancied her cooking." "let bygones be bygones," remarked letitia solemnly. "archie, don't be mean." the "alsatian chef," according to his plaintive call in the newspaper, announced that he was "first-class in every respect," but i couldn't bear the idea of a man hanging around all day in our cramped and modern apartment. it would probably be most embarrassing. "you know, dear," i said, "you were very fond of asking the others to do odd jobs, and you couldn't possibly request an alsatian chef to wash out a few handkerchiefs." "i hope i understand the etiquette of the arrangement as well as you do," she retorted, quite vexed. "i am perfectly well aware that a chef wouldn't do anything of the sort. i believe, archie fairfax, that i am quite able to cope with these matters." we learned, after incessant study of the advertising columns, that the expensive cooks emphasized "desserts, soups, jellies" in their list of attractions, and that the others never mentioned them. jellies seemed to be the great distinguishing mark--the boundary line, as it were--between the expensive and the non-expensive. this was invariable. no sooner did a cook say "jelly" than she demanded treble wages. it seemed as though, to be luxurious, one must dote on jelly. "and yet," said letitia ruefully, "i really don't care very much about it. i'd much sooner engage a woman who understood eggs _à la reine_. jelly seems to me so insipid. i don't suppose that we should want it once in a blue moon. all these women harp so on jellies, don't they, archie? there must be some reason for it. i was never brought up to consider jellies as a great accomplishment." "i suppose they really mean 'jellies' to cover all sorts of sweets," i suggested. "you see, dear, pie sounds rather vulgar. in this city, nobody thinks anything of pie. undoubtedly, however, the woman who announces her accomplishment in jellies intends to imply pastries of all kinds." "it may be so, of course. but as we are not quite sure, that question must be asked. it would be dreadful if we engaged a cook, at prohibitive wages, and then found that we had to live on nasty, wobbly jelly. besides, it sounds so invalid-y to me. i'm so accustomed to taking jelly to anybody who has a cold, or who happens to be out of sorts, that i really dislike it. why, only yesterday, archie, i sent some jelly to mrs. archer, who has a stiff neck." "here's one," i said, bringing my index finger to a sudden standstill in its chute down the advertising columns; "'elegant pastries; table decorations a specialty; french dishes, jellies.' you see, she ends at jellies, but does not begin with them. she has been 'with the finest families in the faubourg st. germain, paris.' she is 'reliable'--and odiously expensive." "that doesn't matter, we have decided," chirped letitia. "we may as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb. i rather fancy that advertisement, dear. let me see: 'address, madame hyacinthe de lyrolle." "we could call her cynthie," i ventured in a light mood. "please don't jest. we can be frivolous, later on--when we are not hungry. the advertisement reads very well, and in a case like this, even if she can't do all that she announces, it won't matter at all. for instance, we may find that 'table decorations a specialty' is just a pure ghost story. i shouldn't care a bit; should you? as long as the table is neatly set, with a pretty plant, a table-center, and delicately folded serviettes, the other decorations wouldn't matter in the least." "there you are right, letitia," i assented. "i don't suppose that she would place a bottle of worcestershire sauce in the middle of the table as a decoration, like--" "you are always dragging up those detestable women whom we are trying to forget," asserted letitia petulantly. "do, for goodness' sake, forget the past. we are going to place things on a different footing. we are going to engage the best and be satisfied with the merely--better. i think i shall go and see madame hyacinthe de lyrolle. the 'elegant pastries' capture me. i'm so sick of bread pudding and baked apples. her name, too, is reassuring. of course, you know--or should know--that a french cook is the most economical person on earth. it is a science with her. what other people throw away, she makes into _ragoût_, or _croquettes_, or _blanquette_, and other delightful things all ending in 'ette'." "i believe they call it hash, here," i interrupted. "what they call hash here," said letitia spitefully, "is just a horrid resurrection, not fit for plow-boys. the french housewife cooks very differently. why, even the _pot au feu_ is delicious, and what could be cheaper? she serves an exquisite soup, and she offers the meat with which it was made in an appetizing way. we shall certainly save money in one direction, archie, even if we spend it in another." "you seem thoroughly to understand the art of cooking, letitia," i said admiringly. "i wonder that you never went in for it." "i understand it theoretically," she said sedately. "it is, of course, a science, and if i had to begin life again, i would go to paris and study. girls go there to cultivate the voice; i'd go to cultivate the stomach. but it is too late now. i admire the french knack and system. they produce masterpieces of gastronomic skill at a moderate cost. here they throw away the delicate parts of meat and fish because they don't know what to do with them; there, they use them artistically and economically." "if you really think that madame de lyrolle can do all this--" "i'm sure she can, archie. i feel it intuitively. of course, she asks a fearful remuneration, but as long as she thinks she can get it, you can't blame her for asking. at home, she might probably be an ordinary cook, getting nothing a month, with privileges; here, she would probably be a wonder, and is entitled to high wages. please--please let us have her, archie." "and the alsatian chef?" "you provoking boy! you know he didn't appeal to you and that you brought me round to your way of thinking"--oh, letitia!--"and i gave in, as i always give in, because you are such a hopelessly spoiled person. you know you thought the alsatian chef wouldn't wash my handkerchiefs. well, though i shall never ask her to do so, i'm sure that madame hyacinthe de lyrolle would gladly help me. anyway, i want her. may i--may i--go and see about it?" letitia spoke wheedlingly, with the old charm that i had never been able to resist. it was as potent as ever. "one thing, letitia," i said, "what _could_ we call the woman? it would be so embarrassing to address her as madame hyacinthe de lyrolle. imagine calling out, 'please come here, madame hyacinthe de lyrolle, i want to speak to you.' you must arrange to address her as mary, or--or sarah." "don't be silly, archie. you are straining at trifles. we can call her madame. it sounds french-y, and impressive. that is the least of our difficulties, and not worth considering. to-morrow morning, i shall go and interview her, and--you noble boy--i know that you will never regret the expense. you like to see me happy, don't you?" "oh, letitia, have i ever--" "of course. i know you do. i've never doubted it for one moment, even with our darkest cook. and i _am_ happy at the mere idea of madame hyacinthe de lyrolle. say you consent; say it as though you meant it; say 'letitia, please, like a dear, go and engage madame hyacinthe de lyrolle, for i want her!' say that, please." i said it. there was even a tinge of emphatic yearning in my voice. the outsider, could he have heard me, might have believed that life, without madame hyacinthe de lyrolle, would be a blank. strangest thing of all--i quite believed that i wanted her. letitia's influence was hypnotic. chapter xviii there were evidently difficulties in the way of the immediate annexation of madame hyacinthe de lyrolle. when i reached home next evening i found letitia in cookless solitude, a dinnerless dining-room, and the indications of another restaurant repast. my wife looked somewhat excited, as though she had much to tell me, and i felt that, perchance, the course of french cook did not run smooth. i had arrived at the stage when nothing connected with the domestic life could surprise me; i was persistently prepared for the worst, and quite disposed to regard the best as a luxury. possibly in time i should even grow philosophic--not that i owned the temperament of the confirmed philosopher. when we were seated at table, in our selected restaurant, and i had chosen the lesser of two evils--or of two soups--letitia's pent-up excitement burst forth, and--well, conversation did not flag. "it is going to be so very much more expensive than i thought, archie," she said. "i called upon madame hyacinthe de lyrolle to-day, and found her exceedingly distinguished--i might almost say haughty. she spoke english as well as i do, and i could scarcely realize that she was french. her aptitude for languages, she told me, was quite remarkable. everything seemed satisfactory, until--until she asked about--about the butler. had we a reliable butler? she considered a docile, reliable butler almost indispensable. i know i turned scarlet, for i felt quite humiliated as i had to inform her that we didn't keep a butler." the soup had made its appearance, but letitia was too engrossed to touch it. i was not. "she smiled rather provokingly," continued letitia, "but told me not to be discouraged. she has a nephew, a respectable young man, born here, whom she has been coaching in the duties of a butler. she suggested that he would be of great value and comfort to us, as, being her relative, she could work with him in perfect harmony." "but you know, my girl," i interrupted rather testily, "that we couldn't put up a butler. there isn't space in this apartment, unless--unless he roomed with his aunt." "i warn you, archie, that if you begin to be funny--" "i can't think of any other way in which we could accommodate a butler. a nice japanese screen in his aunt's room--" letitia was a lovely subject to tease. she took everything to heart so promptly! it seems an undignified confession to make, but my little wife never amused me more than when she was in rebellion at what she called my levity. after all, a man must have a little fun in the dreary drabness of his cookless home. i continued heartlessly: "if you don't like that idea, i have another. rather than deprive madame hyacinthe de lyrolle of the services of her dear nephew, we could arrange things this way: you could room with madame and i with the butler. you must admit, dear, that there would be no glaring impropriety in that." this time letitia smiled and was saved. she made strenuous efforts to remain vexed, as i could see, but in spite of herself she was moved to a suspicion of mirth, and it did her good. "don't be a silly boy," she said, "and reserve your ingenuity. we need it in serious and not frivolous matters. i told madame de lyrolle that we occupied an apartment, which was not particularly spacious, and that much as we should like to employ her nephew, we could not possibly see our way to do so. she was disappointed. she then asked me about first maids, and second maids, and--and oh, archie, i felt disgraced. i made up my mind to abandon madame de lyrolle." letitia paused, and remembered her soup. she toyed with it nonchalantly. "she spoke quite kindly," resumed letitia. "of course, she said, we must understand that she never left her kitchen. as for doing anything else but cooking and decorating the table in case of dinner parties--that would be impossible. she insisted that she was an artist; that she had real temperament; that she was occasionally inspired, and then again depressed." "that means a depressed dinner from time to time," i muttered gloomily. "no," said letitia firmly, "not if surrounding conditions are auspicious. i quite understood her sentiments, archie. they were not at all unreasonable. the artistic temperament does not lurk merely with third-rate actors or fourth-rate novelists. a french cook may assuredly possess it. she told me that in moments of mental exaltation she has given to the world dishes of wonderful import. for instance, on one occasion when her mood was dreamy and mystic, she made a _salmi_ of black game that the editor of the paris _figaro_ said was worthy of being dramatized. oh, she talked a good deal, and in a high-falutin' strain, and i liked her, but--" "did you engage her?" "i am coming to that question. finally, she told me that as we hadn't a maid, and as she positively refused to appear in the dining-room herself, she could merely suggest that if i engaged her, i also engage a bright young girl, now living with her, a niece--" "she seems to have quite a family!" "i saw the girl, who was named leonie. she was as pretty as a picture. one could imagine her as the french maid in comedy--one of those dainty little things that wear fluffy white aprons, and occasionally do a dance. you know, archie. the girl seemed quite willing to join her aunt, but she asked a large salary--more than we paid any of our cooks. so, you see, i didn't like to engage madame de lyrolle without first consulting you. it will be much more expensive than we thought. in addition to madame's exorbitant salary, there will be leonie, and--and--do you think we could afford it?" it is horrid for a young husband to admit to a young wife that there is anything in the world he can't afford. at least i felt that way. letitia waited almost piteously for my reply, and i detested the idea of doing the poor. she looked unusually pretty, with her flushed face and her red, emotional lips. moreover, the dinner was hateful, the cooking immoral, and the surroundings impossible. i was tempted, and--i fell. "we might try it, letitia," i said. "you know my book is nearly finished, and in a home that _is_ a home, i fancy i can do so much more." "oh, thank you, archie, thank you. you are a good, brave, noble boy. i am convinced that you won't regret it, and we shall be so cozy and happy. i think you are right. we might as well enjoy life while we are young. i dare say that when we are old we shan't mind bread pudding, and baked apples, and mutton stew, and--and--hash." "i shall always loathe hash," i asserted vehemently. our dinner ended delightfully. we could not eat the food, but the meal was intellectual rather than material. we chatted affably, and no outsider could possibly have imagined that we were married. our manner was that of the newly engaged. "of course, madame de lyrolle is americanized," said letitia. "i could see that. in paris, cooks, chambermaids and nurses receive just about half the wages they get here. servants in france are quite oppressed. they don't know the meaning of a 'sunday out.' they are dependent upon the caprices of monsieur and madame. and i dare say you know, archie, that even in the most luxurious french households the most rigid economies are practised. somewhere i read that the refuse that leaves a french kitchen would starve a small family of rats; which is perhaps the reason why there are so few rats in paris." "it seems almost a pity that she _is_ americanized, don't you think, dear?" "oh, she could never _quite_ lose her french training, archie. perhaps she is americanized only in the matters of salary and privileges." "at any rate," i said, "she won't bathe in the kitchen--or anywhere else. french people rarely do." "they have been brought up to dislike water," remarked letitia reflectively. "in paris, even little children are taught that it is impure and are coaxed to drink claret. probably by dint of harping on the impurity of water, they come to the conclusion that it is rather silly to wash in it. don't you think so, archie? it seems to be a trait of the national character. yet they are a cleanly race. they don't advertise their ablutions as we do. in england and america we talk so much about cold tubs, and the latest improvements in bathroom apparatus! it is quite indelicate when you come to think of it." so letitia went down next morning to secure the gallic prize with its gallic appendage. madame de lyrolle had laughed at the idea of references. she had lived with a wall street broker, she told letitia, with an air of such importance that it was clear she regarded him in about the same class as the president of the french republic. she had cooked for the french embassy in washington, and for various people who had honored places in "who's who?"--to say nothing of "what's what." most of her references were traveling in europe. they summered in england; autumned in france; wintered in egypt; and sprung--i mean springed--in germany. they were americans, but there never seemed to be any part of the year that they dedicated to their own country. they had european resorts for the four seasons of the year. had there been a fifth, they might possibly have deigned to spend it in america, but in default of a supplementary season, they could not be reached in the land of the free and the home of the brave. the arrival of madame de lyrolle in our modest homestead seemed to be somewhat revolutionary. at any rate, immediate joy was lacking. the first view i obtained of letitia, after the advent of the lady from france, convinced me that something had crushed her. her feathers were ruffled, so to speak. she was sitting pensively in the drawing-room, in an evening gown, and although her heart's desire, and her heart's desire's niece, were in the kitchen, there was no exultant satisfaction visible upon letitia's mobile features. "my girl!" i cried, astonished. "i certainly expected to find you in the seventh heaven!" "it's nothing, archie," she said, with an evident effort, as i sat down beside her; "i am just depressed. i spent the afternoon in the kitchen with madame de lyrolle, at her request, and--and--i feel about an inch high. i feel cheap, common, and--if you don't mind my being colloquial--like thirty cents." she really looked the part. my little wife seemed to have shrunk most positively. "madame de lyrolle and leonie," she began, "are both so impressive that they awed me. the former begged me courteously to explain things to her in the kitchen before she assumed the reins of management, as she called it. naturally i complied with her request, although it seemed to me a bit unnecessary. the first thing we did was to go through the table appointments, and--and--you can't imagine how--how humiliating it was." "humiliating!" i exclaimed indignantly. "and why, pray?" "well, archie, madame de lyrolle appeared to think them inadequate. there are so many things that we lack. one of her first demands was for the asparagus tongs, and--and--when i told her that we had never used any, i saw her smile and--glance at leonie. and leonie smiled, too, and--and then they both smiled together. she asked me if we had individual asparagus holders, and--and--then there were more smiles." letitia's face was burning, and she was apparently re-sampling her humiliation. "after that," she continued, "she asked me where we kept the grape-scissors, and again i had to admit that we had none. 'oh,' she remarked quite scornfully, 'and how do you separate grapes? you don't pull them apart?' of course we do, archie, but i dreaded to say so. i think i stammered, and once more i saw her exchange glances with leonie. i could have burst into tears when she asked for the orange cups. it was absolutely galling. honestly, i thought they would have left the house immediately when i confessed to the absence of orange cups. i might have committed a crime, madame de lyrolle looked black, and leonie pursed her lips. madame said that never--never during her artistic career (those were her words) had she affiliated (her word) with people who failed in the matter of orange cups." "i wouldn't use them," i interrupted angrily. "thank goodness, while i have my health and strength, i can peel an orange with my good old fingers and a knife." "hush, dear. after the orange-cup episode, she seemed to regard me with a sort of tender pity. i'm sure she considered me a goth, and--and--nobody has ever done that before. to be pitied by one's cook! oh, it was horrible. when it came to the silver, which as you know, dear, is mostly quadruple plate--silver in name only--i was reduced to a sort of pulp. she and leonie examined it critically, positively looking for marks on it, and i should have hated to hear their comments in my absence. 'i have never served food in anything but sterling silver before,' said madame. 'just imagine my _salmi_ of black game, in an _entrée_ dish of quadruple plate! why, the delicacy of the flavor would be ruined. i'm afraid i shall not be able to achieve a _salmi_." i began to experience a slight symptom of letitia's humiliation, as i realized that while i might one day be a successful author, i could never--never--be a wall street broker! "i told her," letitia resumed, bitterly mortified, "that we would try to do without the _salmi_. we would endeavor to drag on a wretched existence without black game. i meant this for sarcasm, but it didn't take. her lip curled. 'as madame wishes,' she said contemptuously. of course, some of our silver is not quadruple plate--the salt-cellars and the cruets. i longed for her to reach them. would you believe it, archie, she was not interested? artists, she said, did not sanction the appearance on table of salt-cellars or cruets. food should be properly seasoned before it left the kitchen. salt-cellars and cruets belonged to the barbarous table notions of uneducated english and americans." "really, letitia, i don't think we can--" "don't, please. it is all right now. i'm just telling you what _did_ happen, so that you can sympathize with me. i've been through it all--alone. she then told me that while salt-cellars on a dinner table were unnecessary, _bonbonnières_ filled with dainty candy were rigidly called for. when she saw our _bonbonnières_, she and leonie turned quietly aside. you remember, archie, they were theater souvenirs that aunt julia gave us. one celebrated the one hundredth performance of _the masqueraders_, the other the fiftieth performance of _the girl with the green eyes_. i really felt quite abject. i--i--positively longed for--for mrs. potzenheimer." poor letitia! it was cruel. gladly would i have spared her such chagrin. "i don't think she meant to cause me pain," she went on. "she is merely swell, and she seemed to wonder why we, who lacked these luxuries, had engaged so expensive a culinary artist. perhaps it was natural, but--i really couldn't put myself in her place, though it must have been much more comfortable than _mine_! i was glad when the silver inspection was over. it wouldn't have been so bad if i had been alone with madame, but leonie was there, like a hateful echo, and that made it so fearfully trying. next, i had to introduce her to the glass. oh!" i dreaded to hear about the glass. what would she think of my tumblers, at ninety-six cents a dozen, bought to replace the wedding present that potzenheimer and birdie had smashed between them! "she asked to see the cut-glass," said letitia, and this time there was a wan smile on her lips. "i felt that she would indeed be extraordinarily clever--in fact, _clairvoyante_--if she _could_ see the cut-glass, for i couldn't. there was the decanter, that was cut-glass only as to the stopper, and there was the salad-bowl, that is merely near-cut-glass. when she saw the tumblers"--i winced--"i really thought that she would throw them out of the window. 'even _vin ordinaire_ would be tasteless in them,' she said. 'i should like to see the best tumblers, those that you use for dinner parties, and on state occasions.'" letitia came to a standstill, as though she had at last reached the meeting of the waters and was pausing before tackling the conflict. "just then, archie, it occurred to me," she said slowly, "that nothing--nothing could save us but a good, big, carefully conceived, well-directed, artistic, whopping lie!" "that's right!" i cried viciously. "i forgive you beforehand." "why should we be intimidated by a cook?" she asked oratorically. "i asked myself that, and i could find no answer. here we were about to ruin ourselves to give this woman employment, being cross-examined by her, as though we were prisoners at the bar. moreover, it was a case of two to one--she and leonie against me! so i remained quiet for a few moments, as i came to the conclusion that nobody could cope with all this but a really beautiful, unabashed liar!" "i can't bear to hear you talk like that, letitia," i said, my viciousness vanishing, as i realized the full force of letitia's irreligious resolution. "i suddenly turned upon her," said letitia, not heeding my plaintiveness, "in a well-assumed fury. it was a condition that i found no difficulty in simulating. 'i have listened to your impertinent catechism for a long time, madame,' i said, 'and now it's my turn. no doubt you are surprised to find our appointments so meager. the fact is, that as we don't know you, and as your references are all at the antipodes, we have sent all our valuables to my aunt's country seat in tarrytown. the gold dinner set, that we use every day; the antique silver table ornaments, the priceless salad-bowl, punch-bowl, and tumblers; the wonderful knives, and the marvelous forks--all have gone to tarrytown, because we don't know you, there to stay until we do! you see, we have been victimized by cooks, and though an artist, you are yet a cook.'" "good!" i exclaimed triumphantly. "bravo! you're a genius, letitia. it was a masterpiece." "i must confess that after my brave words, i felt terribly frightened. i experienced a sort of reaction that made me quite weak. i thought that this would end all the roseate allurements of madame de lyrolle, and that she would instantly quit. i felt positively harrowed, as it occurred to me that we should have to begin over again, and that all our efforts had gone for nothing. would you believe it, archie? she was as meek as moses, while leonie absolutely fawned!" "you clever girl!" "as for instantly quitting, she seemed to fear that i should request her to do so. 'i meant no impertinence,' she said quite humbly, 'and i think you were right about the gold dishes. one can't be too careful.' the gold dishes caught her, archie. i felt almost sorry that i hadn't studded them with a few diamonds. but one can't think of everything! aunt julia's country seat, in tarrytown, also made a hit. it seemed to shed a reflected luster upon us. she asked several questions--oh, very deferentially--about it, and i could see that we had gone up in her estimation. as i am really anxious to keep her, archie, and to be comfortable for a little while, i thought it advisable to be vulgarly ostentatious on the subject of aunt julia. i told her that my aunt was fabulously wealthy, and hated the idea of our living so unpretentiously in new york, in a small apartment. i put it all down to you, dear. i cooked up a story of a _mésalliance_. i had married you against aunt julia's wishes. you were poor and of rather common parentage, but i loved you, i said." "you needn't have lied _quite_ so artistically, letitia," i said, rather hurt. "isn't it quite true that i love you?" she asked lightly. "what an ungrateful boy! so long as we have a good cook, what matters anything? i began quite to enjoy my own romance. i felt like the lady of lyons, and nearly told her about the horrid home to which you took me. i said that the idea of a french cook was all mine. you had literally starved me, because you have been brought up to think corned-beef and cabbage the truest luxury." "i think it _most_ unnecessary, letitia," i said emphatically, "to make me out a boor--to paint me in such colors to a cook. i should never have believed--" "i _had_ to put finishing touches," she declared. "don't you see, archie, that it was important to follow up the gold plates with something dramatic? what does it matter to you how she regards you? as long as she is a good cook and behaves herself, surely you don't care what she thinks of you. moreover, though she _may_ look upon you as low, she considers _me_ as a sort of lady clara vere de vere, most aristocratic and well worth working for. isn't that enough, archie? oh, dear, i _wish_ i could induce you to be awfully coarse and disgusting, before her! it would be such a help." i rose, and walked away, thoroughly put out. "you are carrying the joke too far!" i said sullenly. "oh, what a silly, sensitive boy it is!" she sighed. "and oh, how it cares what even its cook thinks of it! i did all this for your sake, archie. you can imagine that i shouldn't select a low husband from choice. i merely thought that it made the whole story hang together. that's all. of course, you can be yourself if you prefer it. madame de lyrolle can always think that i am refining you, and that you are gradually acquiring decency." "i won't have it, letitia," i interrupted furiously; "i don't see the fun. i positively refuse to be belittled in my own house." "archie, you're almost too silly to kiss," she said, kissing me, "and i don't think you deserve to be kissed, either. here have i been cudgeling my brains all day to devise means to retain a cook that will please you! i have been bullied, and humiliated, and forced to lie, and falsify, and perjure my soul. and, after i have been through it all, and emerged safely on the other side, weak, but victorious, you sulk, because--because--you don't see the fun! there _is_ no fun to see. nobody knows that better than i do. come, sir, apologize at once, to your lawful wife, or i shall immediately go and tell madame that you are of noble birth, and that i've been guying her--that you are really quite obstreperously decent. come, archie, your apology, please." i was slightly mollified, but--"remember, letitia," i insisted, "i decline to be low." she laughed tantalizingly. "you needn't be _too_ low," she said, "just a little bit 'off' will do. even if you only promise to tuck your table-napkin under your chin and look greedy, i shall be satisfied. apologize to me, or off i trot to madame--" and she rose to go. "come back, letitia," i cried. "you are really intolerable. i apologize. i apologize. you're a martyr, and i--i--" "you're a respectable coal-heaver, dear," she said with malice and a kiss. chapter xviii "and they lived happily ever after!" if the advent of madame de lyrolle had only been the cue for that sweet, old-fashioned culmination--that dulcet, though generally inartistic surcease from trouble! but, of course, it was not. my readers will probably say that sheer dramatic justice cries out for our speedy chastisement. alas! sheer dramatic justice did not have to cry long. it pursued us relentlessly, raveningly. we were innocent as pompeii confidingly couched beside the dread vesuvius. this is not the place to say that we deserved it. surely, if letitia and i have made one solitary friend during the progress of this "sad, eventful history," he, or she, will refrain from the luxurious "i told you so!" i am not comparing madame de lyrolle to vesuvius. no. i have never been vicious, and i should scorn to do so rank an injustice to--vesuvius! there are methods of confounding, more subtile than that of a swift and merciful eruption, methods that--er--"get there just the same." alas! also, _misericordia_! thanks to letitia's iridescent mendacity, our household effects were no longer bones of contention. madame gracefully condescended to live with us and be our cook, and leonie, equally gracefully, deigned to support the culinary star. they both persisted in regarding letitia as a darling of fortune, marred. and i was the marrer. leonie, who waited upon us, paid me but scant attention and looked upon me as of no consequence. if i addressed her, she replied as to one of her own kind; in fact, it occurred to me that i was considered as a wickedly lucky mortal, who, by some freak of fate, had been plucked from a butler's life to desecrate that of the husband of an american heiress. madame asked for half her salary in advance. "we do not know you," letitia had said to her. the inference was that she, on the other hand, did not know letitia. she was not taking any risks. although our gold dishes were at tarrytown, madame cautiously decided to assure herself that some of the metal of which the dishes were made remained in new york. "leonie is to do the marketing for madame," said letitia, on the morning of the first day; "and i think that arrangement very satisfactory. i have supplied her with money--more than she could possibly need, for i did not want to seem 'close'--and at the end of the week we can go over the accounts. it all seems delightful, doesn't it, dear?" it did, indeed, and our first dinner confirmed our sensation of pleasure. there was no deception. we began with a _purée mongole_, and proceeded with frogs _à la poulette_. dainty little lamb chops, _à la maintenon_, roast grass plovers, a salad that was nearly poetic, and a delicious sweet, known as cream _renversée_, made us feel almost too nice to be at home. as for the after-dinner coffee, it was--sepia ecstasy. perhaps we _were_ fastidious; undoubtedly the dear folks who say that they revel in plain food delicately prepared in pure water, will sniff at this program. still, i should not like to set it before them with any hopes of finding remnants. those dear folks who love plain food! the grapes are so sour! leonie almost threw the food at me, but she served letitia most obsequiously. i was glad to see my little wife so well taken care of, but i must admit that i made frantic efforts to redeem myself in the handmaiden's sight. i tried to indicate, unostentatiously, education and refinement. weak i may be, but i hated to be regarded as a vulgarian. the maid was a great restraint upon us. there she stood at the back of letitia's chair like a nemesis. we had to restrict our conversation to glittering generalities. she drank in our words, unbudgingly. her eyes were riveted on letitia's plate, and my wife was plied with food unceasingly. i am sorry to say that _i_ had to ask for some more of the cream _renversée_. in fact, i had to ask twice, before i got it, and then it was pushed rather rudely before me. "it is like a dream," said letitia purringly, when we were alone in the drawing-room. "you see, nothing was over-stated in the advertisement. it was all quite true." "i only wish we had a theater on, or a party to go to, or something to do," i said longingly. "it seems wicked to sit still and read, after a dinner like that. we ought to move--stir--walk." "of course it _would_ be nicer," acquiesced letitia. "that will come later. i dare say that madame will spur us to sociability." we sat, and read, and digested. letitia seemed drowsy; i felt heavy, and disinclined for exertion. the richness of our repast was undeniable. letitia's remark that it was like a dream was not irrelevant, but the dream was a nightmare. a more awe-inspiring night i have never spent. i dreamed that gerda lyberg was holding me down and throttling me, while mrs. potzenheimer and birdie miriam mccaffrey did a cachucha apiece on my body. i awoke, dripping with perspiration, to find letitia agitatedly pacing up and down the bedroom. "nothing--nothing would induce me to go to sleep again, archie," she said excitedly. "don't ask me to. i shall sit up for the rest of the night. i dreamed that i went in the kitchen and found madame de lyrolle boiling olga allallami's twins!" breakfast was so elaborate that it made me late for the office. there were eggs, _à la bonne femme_, and porgies, _à la horly_. madame had also prepared pigs' feet with _sauce robert_, which we were obliged to refuse. in fact, most of the breakfast was left. there was enough for at least ten people, each with a healthy appetite. but, as letitia said, nothing would be wasted. these french cooks understood the science of economy. it was one of their finest points. the second dinner was an artistic continuation of the first. it consisted of broiled trout, sweetbreads, and ptarmigan. madame had made pathetic inquiries about the wine-cellar, and letitia, in humiliation, had been forced to tell her that the wine-cellar was under the bed in the spare-room. there we kept a few bottles of claret and a case of champagne. we were not collectors. we knew very little about wines, and did not belong to the class that discusses a vintage as though it were a religion. madame's artistic nature needed a stimulant, and letitia told her to take what she required. owing to the location of the wine-cellar, it called for no key. our appetite was not as keen on this second occasion, though we did fair justice to the bill of fare. it was most ridiculously generous. "it is a pity that we don't _know_ anybody," said letitia discontentedly; "it seems so greedy for us to sit down alone to such a dinner. we should appreciate it so much more if we had company. don't you agree with me, dear? positively, i feel gluttonous. i should enjoy people sharing this with us. we might ask aunt julia, or mrs. archer, or--" "tamworth?" "tamworth!" cried letitia angrily. "no, archie, that man shall never enter this house again. if he came to dinner, madame would surely have triplets--or something horrible. tamworth is unlucky. i look upon him as responsible for olga allallami's--" "letitia!" "you know what i mean. i associate him with our first knowledge of that disaster, and--i shall hate him for ever. so don't suggest tamworth. no," she said querulously to leonie, who was hovering over her with cabinet pudding, _à la sadi-carnot_. "i can't really eat any sweets to-night. i am sorry, because the pudding looks so nice. perhaps it will do for to-morrow." "madame is joking," leonie murmured deferentially. "the pudding would be impossible to-morrow." rather than sit still and read again, we went to a music-hall and walked there! it was not the music-hall that we wanted, but the exertion of getting to it. anything rather than another series of nightmares. "madame is certainly a wonder," said letitia, as we listened to a blatant comedian holding up the stage. "it is marvelous how these french women can make a little money go a long way. just think of the perpetual surprises she offers us, and of her knowledge of the market. while her wages are quite ridiculously high--i wouldn't dare to discuss the matter with aunt julia--you will find that in the long run we shall not be out of pocket, owing to the french system of economy." "the table is certainly most liberal," i remarked, "though nothing ever seems to return. i noticed, dear, that at each meal we have something new." "that is her art," said letitia delightedly. "constant surprise--that is the maxim of the french cook. i forgot to say, dear, that i gave her twenty-five dollars for kitchen utensils. she wanted _sautoires_ and _casseroles_, and dozens of things we have never had. of course, this expense can never occur again. she laughed at our old tins, and declared that they would ruin anything." the week passed uneventfully--unless we may consider our meals as events. we lived on the "fat of the land" in bounteous doses, and accepted it as our merited portion. madame seemed to awaken from her artistic lethargy, and once or twice her temperament surprised us. she and leonie waxed so lively in the kitchen that we were startled. then again, they seemed to quarrel rather vociferously. letitia asserted that she heard madame exclaim on one occasion: "_mon dieu!_" but i could have sworn that it was "hully jee!" it seemed absurd to mistake one for the other. probably i was wrong, though as letitia was expecting french she would be likely to imagine that she heard it. why, however, should madame de lyrolle of the faubourg st. germain, cry "hully jee"? then we realized that corks popped noisily and uncannily, and the inference seemed unmistakable that either leonie, or madame, or both, had been groping under the bed-wine-cellar. however, we did not mind that. the artistic temperament yearns for an occasional vinous coaxing. letitia talked persistently of the joy of surprise. that surprise is, nevertheless, not inevitably joyous, was a fact rather rudely borne in upon us. the day of reckoning came, and the "fat of the land" stared us starkly in the face. the evening that i usually dedicate to the signing of the tradesmen's checks arrived. we had dined particularly well, the main feature of the dinner having been squabs. we ate two apiece, and four were removed intact--mute testimony to the french system of economy. "i can't think _how_ she does it!" letitia had said, in ecstatic appreciation. "we might really be millionaires." we might be, but we were not. yet, i had no premonition of evil as i nonchalantly took up the butcher's bill. when i saw it, i uttered an exclamation, and letitia came running to my side. we looked at it, and rubbed our eyes. we looked again, and rubbed them some more. "it must be a mistake," letitia said, paling. the figures were fat and solid. the amount set forth would have maintained an ordinary family of seven or eight, in comfort, for a month. a horrid sensation of bankruptcy overwhelmed me. then i looked at the grocer's bill. it was four pages long, and the "demnition total" quite appalling. i could scarcely believe the testimony of my own eyes. the gentleman who supplied the fish appeared to be equally rapacious. was it all a hateful conspiracy, a fell plot to effect my ruin, or--or was it french economy? "we have eaten ourselves to the poorhouse, letitia," i said, with a sinking heart. "i--i can't pay these bills." "oh, they must be somebody else's bills," murmured letitia, "they--they can't be ours." "they can't be anybody else's," i protested, in the calmness born of despair. "nobody could stand them. rockefeller doesn't live in this neighborhood. carnegie is miles away. they _might_ be carnegie's, if he were a neighbor. as it is, my girl, i'm afraid they are ours. yet how _can_ they be?" "of course we have lived well," said letitia reflectively, "we have lived _very_ well. we can't even put it down to waste, because french people never waste." "and yet"--i tried to fathom the mystery--"there has always been three times as much as we could eat. the other night, we had six ptarmigans before us, and we ate one apiece. the inference is, letitia, either that madame and leonie have appetites like cart-horses, or that they throw the things away." "a french cook throws nothing away," persisted letitia almost defiantly. "that i know." "you had better ask madame about it," i said doggedly. "perhaps she can explain." "that is surely your privilege, archie. you pay the bills; i don't." "since you have told her that i am just a poor hanger-on, and that you are the money end of the concern, the affair this time, my dear letitia, is yours." at present, i flattered myself i had scored one. letitia had painted her position so luminously, and had etched me in in such somber tints, that i felt master of the situation. perhaps it was cowardly, but as i had the name i might as well have the game. although i had said little about the contemptuous treatment i had received from leonie during the past week, i had felt it acutely. like the spartan boy, i had suffered in silence. being american, and not even a little bit spartan, this had been difficult. letitia was weeping silently, and i felt like a double-distilled brute. "i hate to talk to an artist in that way," she said sorrowfully. "her temperament will be shocked. you can well imagine, archie, that such a woman will simply despise us." "but where's the french system of economy?" i asked wildly. "where's the _pot au feu_ with the delicious soup, and the daintily served meat? you said that rats would starve on the refuse from a french kitchen. why, according to these bills, the refuse from ours would have fattened the entire menagerie at central park and the bronx, including the elephants, tigers and bears." "now you're exaggerating," asserted letitia plaintively; "you're making things out worse than they are. you're--" i could not afford to argue. facts stared me in the face. i had a small balance at the bank, which i should over-draw if i made out checks for these bills. the savings i had accumulated were drawing interest in the growing but by no means adult publishing house of tamworth and fairfax. i could borrow from tamworth, of course, this week, but next week loomed up hideously as a sheer impossibility. something must be done at once. i rang the bell. "we must talk it over with madame," i said desperately. the kitchen, some distance away from the drawing-room, seemed strangely close. we could hear madame and leonie laughing weirdly, and though we both of us liked merry moods, this particular brand of mirth grated. there was a pause after my ring. then leonie appeared, wiping her mouth, and i told her that i wished to see her aunt. "i--i think--she's gone to bed," the maid remarked, after a reluctant moment. "why, i just heard her laughing," said letitia, surprised. "send her in at once, leonie." and as the maid departed, letitia added: "she may be unprepared for the drawing-room." this was undoubtedly true. madame came in a moment later, also wiping her mouth, and with her face wreathed in smiles. her hair was disheveled and her dress disordered. she might have been rolling on the floor. her look was so strange, her gait so unsteady, that letitia instinctively clutched my arm. thereupon, madame de lyrolle fell promptly over the tiger-head, and--unlike many who had suffered a similar fate--she lay there, laughing hilariously. "and me a lady, too!" she exclaimed, pealing with mirth. outside the room stood leonie, apparently deeply agitated. as she saw her star prone on the best rug, and heard the bacchanalian laughter stertorously proceeding from her lips, she entered hastily and approached her relative. letitia still held my arm in a grip, and my own emotions were--well, mixed. "oh, come away, aunt delia," pleaded leonie; "come away. she's not feeling good to-night"--turning to letitia--"she's had toothache, and swallowed some of the whisky that she took to ease the pain. it must have gone to her head. oh, aunt delia, get up. that ain't no position for a lady." leonie burst into tears. the position was too much for her, especially as aunt delia gave unmistakable indications of a fondness for red garters with saucy bows on them! "why do you call her aunt delia?" asked letitia sternly, evidently in the belief that the faubourg st. germain had no dealings with delias. "because it's her name," replied leonie sullenly. "that's what i call her. she was delia o'shaughnessy before she married that blooming old french chef on the french ocean steamer--blessed if i don't forget its name. she's always aunt delia o'shaughnessy to me." letitia covered her face with her hands. madame o'shaughnessy de lyrolle began to kick until the bows on her garters fluttered. still she laughed, loudly, shockingly, unendingly. "was she ever in france?" i asked, mortally pained. "not on your tintype!" declared the maid in disgraceful colloquialism, as she advanced to the tiger-head and tried to raise aunt delia's two hundred pounds. "new york's good enough for aunt delia; ain't it, auntie? she in france! and with that husband! nobody would want to go to a country that turned out specimens like that. but he taught aunt delia how to cook--coached her for years--and don't you forget it. she got that much out of him." "now i understand her extravagance," cried letitia, as though suddenly enlightened. "now i see it all. he was a cook on some ocean greyhound, and she--" "extravagant!" cried leonie insolently; "i like that. aunt delia has cooked for the best people in this country. she has never _yet_ hired herself out to cheap skates. say, aunt delia"--frantically endeavoring to pierce that lady's dulled comprehension--"they're complaining. we're extravagant. they want good things, but they hate to pay for 'em. they eat like pigs, and then kick at the bills." "come away, letitia," i said nervously. "you go to your room, and i'll see to this." "i will not leave you, archie," she declared, though she was trembling; "i--i'm not afraid." "won't either of you help me up with me aunt?" leonie asked, her anger rising and an unsteadiness of gait, similar to that of the good lady on the tiger-head, manifesting itself. "call yourselves human beings? standing there and letting a lady suffer like this! you and your gold plates!" (tugging at aunt delia). "you and your rich tarrytown aunt!" (pulling down aunt delia's refractory dress). "i don't believe it. i don't believe your stories. we've got our money, anyway, and you can fish--fish--fish!" with each "fish" aunt delia raised her limbs, and her dutiful niece pressed them discreetly down. madame o'lyrolle de shaughnessy still continued her ebullition of laughter. she was deaf to her niece's entreaties. she had certainly come to stay, and the tiger-head appeared to suit her artistic tastes. "you will have to call in a policeman, archie," said letitia, in a low voice. whether it was the innate sympathy of anything o'shaughnessy for new york's finest, or whether letitia's words acted as a stimulant to the lady's artistic temperament, we shall never know, but at the mere utterance of the word "policeman" aunt delia decided to quit her recumbent position, and with a look of offended dignity, and leonie's assistance, she rose to her feet. "i'd like to see the po-lees-man who'd touch me," she said in deep contralto tones, with a lost chord in them. "me for me bedstead, leonie, old gal. come, give us a hand." then, with a solemnity that some people might consider humorous, she added, turning to letitia: "leonie's a good girl, and a comfort--hic--to her old aunt. sorry to trouble you. don't mention it. it's a pleasure. as my husband used to say--hang him!--'_pas de quoi. a votre service._' well, we'll go now, and thank you. so long, for a little while!" leonie, with an expression of spite on her face that was almost withering, led away the faubourg st. germain's caterer. the fumes of wine filled the room and i threw open the windows, heaving a sigh of enjoyment as the fresh air reached us. letitia's bravery appealed to me, and i complimented her upon her plucky behavior. the reaction had now set in and she was shivering apprehensively. "i don't think i can stand any more of this, archie," she said weakly. "i--i've reached the limit. this scene was too degrading--too abject--too incredibly vulgar!" "they must leave the house in the morning!" "in the morning!" she cried, aghast. "why not now? i shouldn't feel safe sleeping with them in the house. they might murder us, or each other." "they won't murder us, dear," i said soothingly, "and if they choose to murder each other--" "the scandal would be too horrible. archie, let us implore them to go now. let us offer them money to leave at once." "money!" i said bitterly. "i'm not made of it, my girl. i certainly can't pay them to get out after having given them so much to come in. they won't hurt us, you silly child. they are just a trifle intoxicated." "a _trifle_ intoxicated! how can you say such a thing? oh, those red garters--those terrible red garters--those bows--will be for ever in my mind. i can never--never--look a red garter in the face again. a trifle intoxicated! why, it is in conditions like this that the worst crimes are committed. let us take the midnight train to tarrytown." "and leave them here to complete our ruin! no, letitia. you have been a brave girl throughout this episode. just be brave for a bit longer. to-morrow we shall see things differently. these women will sleep quietly, and so shall we." "i shan't. i couldn't to save my life. i should see red garters and those awful odious legs. i should hear that laughter. i can't forget it. o'shaughnessy! just think of it--the very name that i loathe, too. aunt delia! isn't it wicked, archie? isn't it cruel? ha! ha! ha! ha! oh, i can't stand it. ha! ha! ha! ha!" letitia was in hysterics before i realized it. in alarm, i ran to the dining-room and mixed her a glass of bromo-seltzer, and then ran back and stood over her until she had drunk it. as she grew calmer and an ominous repose took the place of the hysteria, i implored her to try and forget everything until the morning, when these events would seem less awe-inspiring. the riot in the kitchen had ceased. a sound of deep contralto snoring, accompanied by similar music in a tone more treble, was all that we heard. aunt delia was evidently sleeping the sleep of the faubourg st. germain, while leonie was still supporting her star. nevertheless, i locked our door, and letitia pushed the bureau against it. chapter xix our enthusiasm for the alleged joys of an alleged new york home was now decidedly on the wane, and we were face to face with the problem that new yorkers are strenuously trying to solve: how to live in apparent decency without one. we did not dare, just at present, to do more than reflect upon the intricacies of the enigma. we were, however, disillusioned. the old order of things, to which we still clung, had gone out of fashion, and we began to realize it. madame hyacinthe de lyrolle (_née_ o'shaughnessy) and her niece left us next day, with the reluctant aid of the police. their awakening was not that repentant return to the normal condition that we had confidently expected. madame's temperament was evidently not addicted to remorse. she was inclined to be violent in the morning, and we were roused by the noise of a hand-to-hand conflict between our hired ladies, in which the finger-nails of each seemed to play leading rôles. so i was obliged to telephone for a policeman, who (being named doherty) seemed a trifle uncertain whether he had been called in to remove letitia and myself or the irish gauls. apparently he thought that we deserved his attention more picturesquely than they did. a sort of masonic sympathy established itself between mr. doherty and mrs. o'shaughnessy. letitia and i felt almost _de trop_--as though we were spoiling sport or playing gooseberry. i managed to intimate to mr. doherty, however, that though american, i was still master in my own house. in due course, the policeman and the ladies left. in spite of the distasteful memory of monsieur hyacinthe de lyrolle, i fancy that the _chère_ madame was not utterly disgusted with the sex to which he belonged. the ensuing week was principally devoted to unexpected payments for unexpected things debited to my account by madame hyacinthe. some philosophic people declare that it is a pleasure to pay for what one has had and enjoyed. that may be true. i will not argue the question. i assert, however, that it is difficult to find pleasure in paying for what one has never had, and that somebody else has enjoyed. an adjacent ice-cream parlor sent me in a large bill for ice-cream sodas that had been served in my apartment, at the rate of two or three times a day, during the sojourn of the french ladies. a drug store plied me with an account for various items, the advantages of which we had never reaped. for ten days i was busy settling up. it was the "joy of surprise" with a vengeance. madame had thoughtlessly omitted to clothe herself at my expense. a few tailor-made gowns and ruffled silk petticoats would have added to the joyous revelations. "when i read," said letitia, "of the silly new york women who don't know what a home means, and who offer prizes to servants who keep their places, my blood boils. prizes to servants who keep their places! the prizes should go to the poor housekeepers who are able to overcome their sense of repugnance sufficiently to admit these creatures into their houses, and keep them there." "the women who talk most about the servant question, my dear," i said sententiously, "are the over-dressed, underfed matrons you see at the lobster palaces, who live on one meal a day, which they take at a restaurant, and spend their mornings in curl-papers and wrappers." "what i can't understand," resumed letitia reflectively, "is the total disappearance of what we read about as the dignity of labor. surely, archie, it has a dignity. some people must work for the benefit of others. if everybody had to dust, and sweep, and sew, and cook for herself, what would become of all the graces of life, of literature, art, music? i don't see anything so disgraceful in housework. we can't all be equal, can we--except in theory? why, when you see two people together for just five minutes, you can note the superiority of the one, and the inferiority of the other." i had no desire to be dragged into an economic discussion. my mind was not in a condition serene enough to grapple with it. i had just paid out nearly eleven dollars to the ice-cream and candy purveyor who had surreptitiously cooled madame de lyrolle's "innards." "i suppose," continued letitia, "that the reason new york women look so much nicer than they are is that the poor things have no time to do anything for their own mental refinement. they must eat like paupers, live like laborers' wives, and rely for their only pleasure upon clothes and a nocturnal restaurant. then they slink back to their joyless 'home' and go to a bed that they have, themselves, made." "poor souls!" i sighed. "you can't blame them for lack of conversational power," said letitia, "or for want of internal resources. they can't even have children in comfort. mrs. archer told me that when she was first married she was so busy, and so uncomfortable, and so pressed for room, and always without a cook, that she literally had no time to have children. she wanted a little boy, but put off having him until she got a good cook. and as she never obtained the good cook, she felt that she had no right to make a poor little boy unhappy." "mrs. archer talks nonsense," i remarked rather severely (i felt it my duty to be severe on this occasion). "i don't see it at all. the comforts of home are even more necessary in case of children. these wretched creatures who masquerade as servants and who detest you simply because you employ them--and for no other reason--are menaces to safety. imagine children around with the inebriated, incompetent drudges we have had--" poor letitia was talking "race suicide" with a vengeance, and i was not inclined to pursue the subject. cook as an exterminator of the human species seemed too glittering a novelty. yet there was much common sense in what my level-headed little wife said. "cook is a tragedy, my girl," i admitted. "the world has had servants for centuries, and the world has progressed. now that the end of the old régime is at hand and the cook has turned, i can't fancy that the world will be routed. something new will be discovered, and cook can hang herself. the world must fight its own battles. it is up to the world, and you and i are just atoms." "call yourself an atom, if you like, archie," she said, quite hurt, "but leave me out of it. i hate always being looked upon as an atom and i can't endure scientists. even if we _are_ very petty and unimportant and mere cogs in the wheel, we don't realize it. and if we did realize it, then we should just submit quietly to be ground down and pulverized. i won't be pulverized just yet. and all on account of cook, too!" but there was no doubt at all about it. our enthusiasm was waning, and though we still decided to play the farce for a time longer, our effort was half-hearted. we realized the gaunt impossibility of the thing. we studied the life that was lived around us--the bleak, inhospitable holes that apparently refined people called home; nooks with chairs and tables in them, ornate, and decorated, but devoid of the subtile quality known as atmosphere; crannies where the married he and she hid their discomforts, and turned a brave front to the world; cold and dismal recesses where the casual visitor was offered a glass of ice-water, and where old-fashioned hospitality was as dead as a doornail; houses, in which, except on state occasions and amid sickening ceremony, bread was never broken, and conviviality unknown; barren kennels, unkempt cages, stark nests, cheerless dormitories! home, in new york, had gone to the dogs, impelled thither by cook! "last week," said letitia, "mrs. archer gave a reception. she hired two colored girls and one man for the occasion. there was a whole line of carriages in the street. it was a very nice affair. mrs. archer received her guests in a lovely blue silk dress. there were sandwiches tied up with ribbons, delicious _paté de foie gras_, _bouillon en tasse_, ices, champagne, and all the rest of it. there was music and altogether a most pleasing time. we all enjoyed it immensely. two days later i dropped into mrs. archer's in the afternoon. i was dead tired--almost fainting for a cup of tea. i found her in a dirty cotton wrapper, dusting the pictures, and looking odious. i hinted for tea, but it was no good. she had no servant. at last, in desperation, i asked for a sip of water, and she ran and brought it for me--in a teacup!" "a cup of tea is certainly not too much to expect," i murmured meditatively. "the poorest artisan's wife, with seventeen children, and three rooms, could afford a cup of tea," declared letitia, in pained tones; "but a cup of tea suggests home, you know. hospitality suggests home. people here have lost the knack of it. these bedizened jezebels of the intelligence offices have smashed the idea to pieces. one has to set a day for the visitor, and prepare for it two weeks beforehand." "it must be true," i declared. "people don't drop in to dinner nowadays." "they can't, because the host and the hostess drop out--to dinner." it seemed impossible to realize that not so very long ago both letitia and i had scoffed at the mere idea of the existence of such a thing as the servant question. we had disdained to admit it. we had shut our eyes, and cook had knocked us in the face. we were now as gods knowing good and evil, with more of the latter than the former. our skittish lives were embittered. the beginning of the end had set in, and the prelude was being played. yet we frivoled with a cook or two more. nobody could possibly accuse us of cowardice. some may say that we were silly (and to these i simply remark: prove it); but cowardly, we were not. we distinctly warded off the time of surrender. we fought to the last finish, until our cook-mangled bodies gave out in sheer inability to cope with the enigma. we secured the aid of an ancient lady, who had first breathed the breath of life in ireland--a country, by-the-by, that talks eloquently of home rule, and yet kindly sends all its cooks over here. however, ireland's bitterest foes could wish it no worse fate than the sort of home rule that its own cook-ladies administer. mrs. o'toole was sixty years old. she had been a cook, she informed us, for thirty-five years. that time she had apparently devoted to the art of learning how to learn nothing. all she could do was to stew prunes. it had taken her thirty-five years to acquire the knack. i could have stewed the universe in less time. she was most amiable, but had never heard of the most ordinary dishes that the most ordinary people affect. like mistress anna carter, she had infinite belief in the delicatessen curse--in the cooked-up rubbish that unfortunates throw down their luckless throats--in the instinct that prompts savages to eat earth. we called in aunt julia (poor aunt julia! i don't hate her nearly as much now!), in the hope that she might be able to teach mrs. o'toole a few rudimentary things, and as cook seemed so affable, we reasoned that she would probably be very glad to learn. but, bless your heart, mrs. o'toole had a soul above the sordid question of acquiring culinary knowledge. aunt julia cooked and mrs. o'toole let her cook! "if you will just watch me, mrs. o'toole," said aunt julia politely, "i'm sure you will be able to make this dish to-morrow." the cook-lady laughed in sheer light-heartedness. "sure, mum," she said, "i've been thirty-five years without knowing how to make it, and i'm still alive. i've buried a husband and seven children, and have had a good time without all them new-fangled notions." it was hopeless. mrs. o'toole hummed _the wearing o' the green_ for the sake of her nationality, and took out her knitting. she was most good-tempered and pleasant about it, but she had no yearning to learn how to cook. yet she must have had a ferociously arduous time in learning how _not_ to cook. she was charmingly familiar with us both--a real good soul with a rooted objection to the kitchen. "yet some of these silly guilds," said letitia, "announce that they are going to teach women how to cook. how can they teach women who won't learn? my opinion is that the guilds would have much quicker pupils if they promised to teach them how to loop the loop." mrs. o'toole was so jovial that i could almost see her looping the loop at coney island, and hear her emitting shrieks of hibernian jollity as she hung head downward in that delightful institution. but i could not--and did not--see her cooking a dinner and laying a table. she went with as much good humor as she came. we kept her in our midst for a month, not because we wanted her for culinary purposes, but because she seemed able to sit in the kitchen, while we went out to dinner. she was both sober and honest, and had probably generally spent an innocuous month in every place. during a service of thirty-five years she must have graced four hundred and twenty places. admitting, at a low average, three people to each household, she had therefore catered to twelve hundred and sixty appetites! it was an inspiring thought. mrs. o'toole's successor was an english lassie. at another time, our spirits would have risen at the prospect of an albionite--a disciple of a country where servants still exist to some extent. as it was, we were so thoroughly discouraged that we had no illusions--which was just as well, as it spared us the annoyance of having them shattered. katie smith had been in the country but three days, but the rapid pace at which she had americanized was the subtlest sort of compliment to new york city. there was very little that was typically english about her, save a picturesque h-lessness. in return for lost h's she had nothing to offer. of course, the lack of h's would not have bothered us in the least. miss smith was very frank. she had gone wrong "at 'ome," and had been shipped here by her relatives. it was assumed that here she would "go right." we had no objections whatever to her past. little cared we, in our desperation, for such trivialities as a past. we asked no questions, and were not curious as to her crime. any old crime would suit us--as long as the criminal herself would let us live in peace. miss smith told us--still archly candid--that she had decided to become a cook, because, immediately on landing, she had been told that americans were in such dire straits for cooks. "and have you ever been a cook?" asked letitia kindly. "oh, never," she replied indignantly, in a perish-the-thought tone, "i was a factory lady in the pen establishment of messrs. m. myers and son, of birmingham. me a cook! not i. but, of course, in this country, i don't think i shall mind it, as the wages are high." months ago, we should have politely indicated the exact location of the door. now, we were battered and pulpy, and remonstrance seemed absurd. again we sent for aunt julia (on second consideration, i really like aunt julia!) and introduced her to the latest specimen of the genus "clean slate." my heart, at first, "kind of" went out to katie smith, because she had made pens, which are so necessary to me. but letitia remarked, rather brusquely, that pens are not puddings, and that although they were _my_ bread-and-butter, she had no desire to eat them with hers. i am bound to say that letitia's moods were becoming most variable. they were as unreliable as april weather. i suppose that the constant surprise was rather wearing on the poor girl. miss smith's career was so short that i might almost call it instantaneous. after having cooked us one alleged dinner, which tasted very much as pens _au gratin_ might possibly taste, she asked letitia if she might go into the garden, to get the air. letitia thought that she was joking. the garden! perhaps, like the wine-cellar, it was under the bed in the spare room. letitia laughed, but miss smith was serious. "i couldn't stay in no place where there wasn't no garding," she said. "my! ain't you cramped up for room, with a kitchen like a blooming cubby-'ole, and all the places so 'ot that one can't breathe. and no garding! what do you do to get the air?" "you can put on your things and go for a walk, katie," said letitia good-naturedly. "some of the girls in the house get the air, as you call it, on the roof. would you like to go up on the roof?" miss smith was much amused. "crikey!" she cried, "me on the roof! no, thank you, mum. i should get giddy, and that wouldn't do. i'm sorry, mrs. fairfax, but i must 'ave a garding, for the sake of me 'ealth. there must be a place where i can stroll of an evening." so albion's little lassie left us, and we wired to poor aunt julia to tell her that she need not bother to come as there was nothing to come for. we were not more dejected than usual, for we had lost hope, and had ceased to garner expectations. "perhaps if i asked our landlord to knock down a few of his houses and plant a garden, we might induce katie to stay," i suggested sardonically to letitia. "he owns three or four houses on this block. a very nice garden could be made. i wonder if she would like an old rose garden or if she would be satisfied with any old garden? he might even put in an orchard for her." letitia sighed. "yes, dear," she said. "i feel i ought to laugh at your humor, but you'll forgive me, archie, won't you, if i fail to discover its value? katie was really not a bad sort, and it is annoying to think that just because we hadn't a garden--" "but she couldn't cook, my girl!" "of course she couldn't _cook_. you expect too much, archie. if she had known how to cook she wouldn't have applied for the position. but she knew how to open the front door, and yesterday, when i asked her to bring me a glass of water, she was able to draw it for me. that, it seems to me, is quite an accomplishment for a new york domestic." one other attempt we made to stem the tide. mrs. archer, who sympathized sincerely with our plight and had grown accustomed to her own, which was similar, had heard of a nice fat orphan from an orphan asylum, who had taken the notion to "live out." (the expression "taking the notion" belongs exclusively to the new york hired lady. it symbolizes her state of mind as new ideas dawn upon it.) so we let in the nice fat orphan, and put her in the kitchen. she was a simple, unsophisticated thing, who had been rigidly educated in an excellent roman catholic institution, in blissful ignorance of the world in which she was expected to earn her living later. she burst out sobbing when she saw the lonely kitchen, and refused to be comforted. she had always had young girls around her, she said, and had never been separated from orphans. letitia told her that she was an orphan, and--as an extra inducement--that i was an orphan. the girl looked at her in blank incredulity and with an expression of dismay. her idea of orphans was a crowd of little girls in uniform, marching around, two by two. she could not do without this. she had never done without it. she cried so bitterly, that letitia was touched. "poor thing!" she said gently, as she told the story to me, "i only wish we knew some nice young orphans, archie, to sit in the kitchen with her. but, of course, we don't. it really grieves me." letitia irritated me. how _could_ she be gentle, and kind, and tender, confronted with all these wretched subterfuges and false pretenses? "i might go out and kill a few gentlemen and ladies," i suggested savagely; "and ask their orphans to play with this girl. it is the only way out of the difficulty. really, letitia, you are getting quite childish. i have no patience--" "that is quite true, dear. you certainly have no patience. this girl is most respectable. she is too young to drink, too religious to steal, too friendless to roam around--" "too idiotic to be useful--" "in time, she might be useful," letitia asserted, though with doubt in her voice. "she is an innocent little thing and i feel sorry for her. i can't help it; i do. she is so helpless! she doesn't even know her surname. she calls herself rachel, pure and simple. she is not sure how old she is. i hate to let her go, archie." "you needn't mind it in the least," i said; "she can walk right out of this house and get any position she wants. she can call herself a first-class cook and people will be glad to get her. when she sees that there are no orphans attached to the ordinary kitchen, she will accustom herself to the idea. you need have no scruples, letitia. it is the poor devils of men who deserve sympathy in new york. if a woman suffers, it is because she is lazy and worthless." "how hard-hearted you are!" "no, i'm not. never will i give a cent in charity to any begging woman. it is the men who have a hard time in this city. they can have any help that i am able to give them. but to the women i say merely: learn how to do housework. take a lesson or two in cooking. study the home, and you can get good, comfortable positions as long as you want them! any woman, begging in the new york streets, while thousands of unfortunate people clamor to give them good wages, should be arrested as a useless encumbrance. those are my sentiments." "i dare say you are right, archie," said letitia, evidently impressed by my fiery eloquence, which bubbled forth, almost unpunctuated. "it seems to me that most of these women would sooner roam the streets in rags, and herd together in tenement houses like cattle, than do the work for which they should be fitted. it is wonderful." "not wonderful," i said, "but deplorable. it is the spirit of independence gone wrong--turned against itself--pushed in a painful direction, like an ingrowing toe-nail. a system of education that educates in the letter and not in the spirit, is responsible. the mistaken idea of universal equality is the root of the evil. shakespeare was no better than the man who blacked his boots; goethe no bit superior to the women who cooked his hash. delicate truths like this are instilled into the minds of the people. silly socialistic men and women who have no use for either the comforts or refinements of life, are the criminals. idle people who want to turn epigrams find this a fertile theme. why, letitia, do you remember when we went to see _candida_ the other night, we noticed that even a man like bernard shaw was not averse from making one of his characters inveigh against the crime of keeping servants? it was morell, i think, who was indignant that the young poet's father kept so many servants. 'anyhow, when there's anything coarse-grained to be done,' he said, 'you ring the bell, and throw it on to somebody else. that's one of the great facts in your existence.' a man like shaw, who lives in refinement, with a delightful home, neat-handed servants, a charming wife, and all the rest of it, can not resist the opportunity to hammer at a scheme that he must know is absolutely necessary." "you will talk yourself hoarse, dear," said letitia. "of course, archie, it is a showy theme. people who use it can always be sure of making a hit with the gallery. teaching equality is delightful entertainment for those who could never possibly be equal--who are literally born unequal. why, archie, some people, through no fault of their own, are born idiots. how could they possibly be equal to those who were not so born?" "in the meantime," i continued, "those who are born idiots avenge themselves on society by going out as cooks. it is their little scheme for getting even with the world. this has given cooks a bad name. nobody cares to be in the same class as the idiot." "i'm only sorry," murmured poor letitia, "that i learned latin instead of cooking." "but my girl," i said soothingly, "i did not intend to marry a cook, and i would not have you changed in one single particular." she kissed me. "just the same," she went on, "i'm sorry. it is an art. there are the arts of cooking, and higher cooking, and scientific cooking, that are gastronomies worthy of study. i realize that, now it is too late. willingly would i substitute brillat-savarin for ovid, if i only could! it is unfortunate." "my dear," i said, and i drew her to my knee to break the news as easily as possible, "we have come to the end of our tether. as the children say when they have finished playing, we must 'bosh up.' we must make the best of a bad job, and, living in new york, do as new yorkers do. in fact, our housekeeping must end." "oh, archie!" she cried, her eyes filling with tears; "do you--do you really mean it?" i bowed my head. it was inevitable. chapter xx letitia sat on an empty barrel in the carpetless drawing-room; there was desolation in her heart, chaos in mine; the tragedy of finality in the atmosphere. strange men in linen overalls, ponderous boots, and crackly voices, creaked around, blithely disrespectful and lugubriously light-hearted. they whistled. one was named jim; a second, sam; a third, joe. they had no surnames and needed none. they had come to put our poor little hollow mockery of a home into the new york receiving vault of all domestic remains known as the "storage warehouse." sometimes they sang, as their work of devastation proceeded. they were merry souls. occasionally they suggested the flowing bowl as an incentive to higher effort. every day they took the corpses of homes that had succumbed to the "storage warehouse," and their sentiment was dead. homes died so quickly in new york; their hold upon life was so frail; their assertive powers so numbed; their prospects of longevity so pitifully small! if new york furniture could think, its reflections would busy themselves with that time of passive pension and surcease from dusting, in the storage warehouse! if tables and chairs could speak, what would they not say of a fate that nipped them in their very bud and shipped them off, in arrested development, to a long vacation? letitia sat on the empty barrel, a veritable picture of woe. her dress was bedraggled and her hair unkempt. she had a smut on the end of her nose and it did not worry her. it was one of those smuts that it was quite impossible to overlook--large, black, and deep, intimating that it would spread, if touched. her eyes were fixed upon jim, and sam, and joe. she saw them through the dust, darkly. "patience on a monument," could have taught my poor letitia many useful things! "_if_ you please, mum," said jim, pausing in a cheery rendition of _laughing water_ to confront letitia; "i'll just start packing the china in that barrel, if you'll kindly get down. sorry to disturb you, mum, but we'll try and get it done before we go to lunch." lunch! letitia shuddered, but she jumped from the barrel. sympathetically, i appreciated her feelings. the word lunch sounded so dismally cruel. these men could eat horrid, stout, meat sandwiches and drink stupefying beer in the very midst of preparing us for the storage warehouse! this lunch seemed more of an outrage upon respectable sentiment than did the medical man's snack between the acts of a _post-mortem_ examination. letitia was dry-eyed until they took up the tiger-head, over which we had fallen at so many merry, unexpected moments, and began to fold it up. then she burst into tears and ran into the dining-room, where i followed her, slowly, and mournfully. "don't, letitia," i said, feeling ridiculously oppressed. "why should we mind? new yorkers don't think anything of all this. they rather like it. they look upon it as emancipation from care and worry. don't cry, my girl. see, let me wipe that smut from your nose." "no, you s-shan't," she sobbed, warding me off. "if i ch-choose to be s-smutty, i--i w-will be s-smutty." i sat down and beat a nervous tattoo on the last table that had the last cloth upon it. the last cruet, containing the last vinegar, and the last mustard stood on this last table that had the last cloth upon it. i allowed letitia to have her cry out. when she had finished and had dried her eyes, the smut had expanded to such an extent that portions of it were smeared upon her cheeks, chin, and lips. under the circumstances, there was bathos amid the poor girl's pathos! "i can't realize it, archie," she said funereally, when her equanimity was restored. "i can't grasp the fact that this is really the end, and that to-night--to-night, my poor boy--we shall be lodged in a family hotel, so-called, i suppose, because none of the guests have families and the proprietor wouldn't take them in if they had!" "i dare say, dear, we shall be very comfortable." "parlor and bedroom elegantly furnished; bath; generous _cuisine_; fine music; view of central park and hudson river! i have learned it all by heart. nothing of it belongs to us, archie. it is the sort of thing one looks at for two weeks in paris, or rome, or berlin, but to regard it as permanent is too dreadful. and the starchy, artificial women strutting into the dining-room, wearing all the clothes they can get on to their backs, with their cheerless husbands in tow, eating the dinners that they haven't ordered and grumbling about them; then, trotting away from the dining-room, back to their silent rooms, there to wait until it is bedtime." "you can't possibly know, letitia," i said, "as you've never lived in one of these places. you are morbid, and a bit unreasonable." "oh, i've met people who _have_ lived in them," she retorted, "and who have liked it. they had nothing to worry about and nothing even to think about--except how to kill time. a friend of mrs. archer's told me that the favorite topic of conversation was the food. was the meat of the best quality? were the vegetables fresh or canned? was the table as bountiful this season as last? most of the people, it seems, grow tired of the food and go to other restaurants in despair." she paused, racking her brain for more torments and apparently taking a keen pleasure in torturing herself. yet we both knew that it was inevitable. we had discussed the matter into shreds and argued it into tatters. still, there was a sort of luxury in this grief. "i can see myself a year hence," she went on contemptuously, "going to flashy restaurants with you, and--perhaps, archie, stealing spoons and forks, and bringing them home--i say 'home' but i mean 'family hotel'--as souvenirs. mrs. archer told me that all these women do that. i think it loathsome and detestable, now, but i dare say that i shall be exactly like the other women, as i am going to live in exactly the same way, for exactly the same reason." "you will never descend to that, my girl," i said solemnly. "how do you know?" she asked perversely. "i dare say we shall be so frantic for something to do that we shall look upon this kind of petty theft as sport--just as some people regard fishing. of course, we shall. i imagine i shall feel proud of myself if i have successfully sneaked a sugar-bowl, and i can picture your joy at landing a silver soup-tureen! oh, it will be exciting. we shall come to it; see if we don't." "please--please don't talk in that way, letitia. yesterday you were quite resigned and even happy. i can't bear to see you in this mood. we both agreed that the family hotel was the only hope. we were driven to it--absolutely impelled to it. i think it is the packing that is upsetting you." "sorry to trouble you," said joe, poking his head in at the door; "we've finished the parlor, and are now going to start on this room. we've left two chairs in the parlor for you to sit on. sorry to trouble you." poor letitia gave way again, as she saw our little "drawing-room" completely denuded. nothing was left. gone were the pictures, the ornaments, the tiger-head, the indian cabinet, the what-nots and shelves, the footstools and plants. barrels, crates, bits of wood, nails, old newspapers, straw, littered the room. it was the abomination of desolation. letitia sat and wept on one chair. i took the other and closed my eyes in rueful meditation. before my mental vision a procession of our destroyers passed mockingly. i saw anna carter, mrs. potzenheimer, birdie miriam mccaffrey, gerda lyberg, olga allallami, madame hyacinthe de lyrolle, leonie, katie smith, rachel, and--could i ever forget that wistful, winsome face?--priscilla perfoozle. they seemed to glare at me revengefully, as though their aims had been accomplished, and their fell projects crowned with success. then they formed a ring around me and danced in fiendish abandon. each appeared to wear a badge on the left side of her bodice, just over the heart, and i could read the legend, "death to the home." the sight was ghastly. they grinned from ear to ear, in precisely the same way, and i was surprised to notice that their black dresses, heavily trimmed with crape, were precisely alike, as though they were all members of some devilish sisterhood. i believe i tried to open my eyes; my heart was beating wildly; i could feel the perspiration streaming from my face; i heard myself groan. "archie!" cried letitia, at my side. "what _is_ the matter? my poor boy, you have been asleep, and you must have been dreaming--at this time of day, too! oh, you poor thing, you feel it all even more than i do. how selfish i am, after all--thinking only of myself. it is wicked of me and ungrateful. after all, what does anything really matter, as long as we have each other--you and i--and our health and our strength, and"--with a smile--"the price." her words fell sweetly upon my ear. it was good to know that i had been nightmaring in the daytime, and that the fiendish sisterhood was intangible. "cheer up, archie," she went on, "we were both silly, gloomy things, and there is no reason why we should feel so oppressed, is there? as you say, it is this packing that has upset us. packing is a horrid institution, anyway, even when one is going away for pleasure. i always feel sorry to leave any place, even if i hate it; don't you, archie? i guess that we are both alike, and that we weren't built for such an unsentimental place as new york city." "we've nearly finished the dining-room," said sam, looking in upon us suddenly, "and we'd like to bring a few of the things in here, if you wouldn't mind stepping into the bedroom! sorry to trouble you, mum!" in a less remorseful frame of mind, we were driven to our little bedroom, as yet untouched. letitia made a brave effort to remain calm. i could see that she was biting her lip, and i appreciated her determination so thoroughly that i made up my mind to do all i could to steer clear of further pathos. we sat on the bed. "i read this morning, letitia," i said hurriedly, "that a bill has been introduced into the assembly for the protection of homes from the unfit servants that are supplied by intelligence offices. it is asserted that women who should not be permitted to come in contact with the family circle are sent out. strong arguments were made, and--" letitia smiled in spite of herself. "it is amusing," she said. "why bother about abolishing bad servants when there are no others? it is wonderful how people can interest themselves in that side of the case, when it is the other that is responsible for all our troubles. however, i suppose they need their little pastimes, even in albany, and the uninitiated might think, when they read about it, that a bill to abolish bad servants would help you to get good ones, which is, of course, idiotic, as there are none." "of course you are right, dear," i said, glad to see that i had roused her. "anyway," she continued, "most people don't want homes and have forgotten what they are like, so that there is no need to feel too regretful. unfortunately, the real nuisance is that when we're old and have grandchildren, we shall never be able to treat them in the good old way. grandpa and grandma will be in furnished rooms and the old homestead will exist no more! perhaps, after all, the home is just a relic of barbarism. even grandchildren, however, are going out of fashion. new york women are too young to have them, and they have lost the art of growing old. fancy a new york grandmother in a cap, knitting, with her grandchildren at her knee! no, archie. she prefers yellow hair, a blush (supplied from a nineteen-cent box) upon her cheek, and a pneumatic figure pumped up around her poor old bones, to the ancient poetic notion." "it is the spirit of progress." "yes, dear, it must be. grandma is a giddy young thing and not a bit disturbed when grandpa is gathered unto his fathers. when that happens, she very often marries a pretty little college lad, who was in long dresses when her first grandchild was born. and she takes him to live with her in the family hotel and provides for him generously. and when she really can't live any longer--she would if she could--she dies and leaves him her cash. dear strenuous young-old thing! one can't help admiring this wonderful tenacity." "you and i are horridly old-fashioned, letitia." "and we _must_ reform," she declared emphatically. "it can't go on any longer. to us, new york seems funny, doesn't it? and the complicated relationships are so peculiar. an old woman (i beg her pardon, i mean a woman who, years ago, would have been old) and her daughter, think nothing of marrying brothers, and becoming all sorts of impossible relations to each other. even that most hackneyed of all comic institutions, the mother-in-law, is a light and airy creature in this country, and has no rooted objection to being sued by her own daughter for alienating the affections of her own son-in-law." letitia's exaggerations made me laugh. but it did her good to think them up and i made no protests. i was glad to see that she was herself again, and that the nerve-racking noise of the packing no longer disturbed her as acutely as it had done. "these family hotels simplify things, of course," she said. "they do away with all fuss and feathers. a man takes an elegantly furnished suite, and just asks in a wife! an old lady engages a handsome apartment and fishes up a husband to live in it with her. the _ménage_ starts immediately. no furnishers, and decorators, and upholsterers, and servants are necessary. monsieur and madame are at home instantly. in the old days, the establishment of a home meant everything. now it is established almost as easily as it is broken up." "we're ready for the bedroom, now"--joe appeared again--"and if you wouldn't mind stepping into the kitchen! sorry to disturb you, mum!" there was nothing pathetic about the kitchen. the sight of the kitchen certainly awakened no regrets. the things were all packed, but we gazed stolidly around us, at the place that had made home-life impossible. "the poor still have their homes, letitia," i said, "and the working people have not yet experienced all the signs of the times that you mention." "they will come to it," she declared--and i couldn't help smiling at her earnestness; "they are just waiting. perhaps next century there will be no work-people. the trades-unions are doing their best. you wonder how i know all these things, archie. yes, you do; i can see it in your face. well, i'll tell you. for the last month i have been reading nothing but these subjects. i haven't touched ovid or cicero. i don't believe i ever shall again. i am so fearfully interested in a condition of society that votes all labor a nuisance and consigns the 'sweat of the brow' to the luxury of the turkish bath." "to think that cook has led us to this!" i murmured. "cook is the all-pervading evil, archie. she is the outward manifestation of this spirit of unrest. mrs. potzenheimer is but a type; birdie miriam mccaffrey is merely symbolic; madame hyacinthe de lyrolle is simply--" "unfit for publication, my dear," i interposed, and we both smiled. the rays of a gentle optimism were beginning to soothe us, as we realized our own non-responsibility in the matter of fate, personified by cook! at any rate, she had left us together. she had been powerless to separate us. * * * * * it was over. we stood in the street and watched the last relics of our little home, as they were placed in the storage-house wagons. they stood on the pavement for rude little boys to stare at, awaiting the helping hands of jim, and sam, and joe. the indian cabinet seemed to blink in the sun, as it rested on the sidewalk, preparatory to its journey. "poor thing!" said letitia, with a little gulp, as it was finally hoisted into the wagon. "it was only meant to be ornamental. it tried hard. it did its best. it stood by us, archie, as long as it could. i hate to think of it, locked up in seclusion, with nobody to look at it." "there's our bureau!" i interrupted, as the pretty bit of furniture that had been honored by the encumbrance of letitia's dainty toilet silver made its appearance out of doors, in the stark daylight. "i never realized until now what a beauty it was. how they bang it about! they have no respect for furniture. here, you jim"--to the son of toil--"try and be careful. honestly, letitia, these household goods of ours seem to be reproaching us." "dear old inanimates!" she cried. "i dare say they know that we couldn't help it, that we were the victims of--cook. oh, archie, there's the tiger-head, tied up, but still quite recognizable." the head had escaped from the restraining cords. it was salient, and impressive. the mouth of the tiger was open, in a snarl, and the glass eyes shone. jim placed it on a chest of drawers, for which he was making a corner in the wagon. letitia approached it in a sort of surreptitious manner, and patted the head. then the foolish girl leaned forward and deliberately kissed the soft, smooth fur. two little boys grinned derisively, and seemed to congratulate themselves upon their excellent position for a free show. the cab that was to take us to our family hotel stood at the door, and the trunks, containing our wearing-apparel, were laboriously placed upon it by the men. it was ready for us, but we could not tear ourselves away from the uncanny fascination of the wagons. letitia held my arm, and we watched each fragment of our broken home, as it was lifted from our view into the recesses of the greedy vehicle. "perhaps," i said, with a suspicious tremor in my voice, "we shall see them again before very long. they are still ours, letitia. i--i--shall pay for their board every month; it--it will be a pleasure to do so. you know, my girl, we can--we can call them back at any moment." a large tear was trickling down letitia's cheek, as she saw the men take their places on the wagons and realized that this--this was, indeed, the very end. "no, archie," she said, "we shall never call them back. we shall never dare to do it. and, in the years to come, our experiences with these dear old things--that, later on, we shall sell--will sound like some absurd and far-fetched story that a new generation will never credit. the question that has broken us will be solved only in the way in which we are trying to solve it. there is, and there will be, no other solution." jim smacked a whip; a huge "home"-laden wagon groaned and labored for a moment; then it slowly and reluctantly moved away. we watched it until it reached the corner and turned from our sight. the tears were streaming down letitia's face, and i must confess that i bit my mustache so ferociously that i left ragged ends. "come, my girl," i said in a low voice, as i opened the door of the cab. she got in, and i followed. we leaned back, heavy, silent, and with a mortal sorrow in our hearts. then--then-- we were driven swiftly away to a new condition of things, in which the cooks shall cease from troubling, and we shall be at rest. the end [transcriber's note: underscores are used as delimiters for _italics_] the expert maid-servant by christine terhune herrick author of "housekeeping made easy" "what to eat and how to serve it" "cradle and nursery" etc. new york and london harper & brothers publishers :: copyright, , by harper & brothers. _all rights reserved._ published october, . to a friend in need contents chapter page i. engaging the maid ii. when the maid arrives iii. mistress and maid iv. the duties of the maid-of-all-work v. duties of two or more servants vi. certain problems of service vii. general suggestions viii. a recapitulation of daily duties the expert maid-servant i engaging the maid the most common method of engaging a servant is through an intelligence office. there are nearly as many different kinds of these as there are types of domestics who patronize them. an office with a high standing should be selected. this is not only because a lower grade of employées is to be found at the other variety, but also on account of the methods followed in some of the cheaper offices. such establishments occasionally have unscrupulous managers, who make a business of encouraging the maids they place to change often, in order that the renewed fee of the employer may come to the office. this practice has become common enough in some states to justify legislative intervention. in nearly every city or town there are reputable agencies, sometimes conducted as business enterprises simply, sometimes run in connection with church or benevolent societies, where a register is kept of the references of servants for whom places are secured. these references are usually held as confidential between the agent and the would-be employer, and the latter is thus enabled to learn with some certainty the qualifications of the maid she thinks of engaging. once in a while a mistress is so fortunate as to secure a maid by the recommendation of some other housekeeper or through a servant in her own or a friend's employ. maids engaged in this fashion are often more satisfactory than those found at an office, from the fact that they enter their new positions somewhat prejudiced in favor of the employer, instead of holding the attitude of armed neutrality often found in servants who seek places through an office. wherever the maid is met and in whatever capacity she is engaged, there should be a clear understanding from the beginning as to what her work shall be. the mistress should begin the interview with the maid she seeks to employ by stating what are the duties of the place she offers and inquiring as to the capabilities of the maid for the position. often a few questions and answers will prove the unsatisfactoriness of the situation or of the applicant. in this case, the affair should be dropped at once. never, no matter what the exigency, should the housekeeper endeavor to persuade a domestic into taking a place for which she is disinclined. it is a mistake almost sure to result badly. the housekeeper should come to an interview with a prospective maid with an open mind, and not allow herself to be prejudiced by appearances. an aspect of sullenness is frequently the result of shyness and does not indicate unwillingness to work or a bad temper. the would-be employer should speak gently and not ask questions with a manner of having the maid in the witness-box. such treatment will sometimes frighten a timid maid into inability to answer intelligently, and the employer will produce an impression of her own hardness and severity which she will find it difficult to overcome later. the pert and self-sufficient maid is likely to declare her nature within a very few minutes. kindness will not intensify these qualities in her, while it will enable a bashful girl to appear to better advantage. before interviewing a maid, the mistress should have clearly framed in her own mind the outlines of the work required, and should know definitely what queries she means to put. each mistress probably has her own way of learning the maid's capabilities and of explaining the work she wishes done. the housekeeper who has had little practice in engaging servants will do well to make up a formula of inquiries in advance. to begin with, it should be ascertained what experience the maid has had, what was her last place, how long she stayed in it, what were her reasons for leaving it. having thus learned if the servant seems to be in the main satisfactory, so far as disposition and willingness are concerned, the mistress should proceed to explain what is the work of the house, putting such questions as will enable the girl to tell of her competency. for instance, in engaging a maid for general housework, she should be asked if she understands plain cooking of meats and vegetables; if she can make bread, biscuit and muffins, soups and plain puddings; if she can follow a recipe, etc. more elaborate culinary accomplishments can rarely be looked for in a maid-of-all-work. she should also be able to do washing and ironing, have some knowledge of chamber-work and of waiting, and be willing to learn. there are so many qualifications for the general-housework girl, who must be a sort of pooh bah in petticoats, that it is no wonder the supply is usually inadequate to the demand. there should be no attempt on the part of the mistress to make things in the place she offers seem better than they are. a servant who is brought into a house under false pretences is never likely to do well. if the prospective mistress entertains a good deal, if she is likely to have guests staying in the house often, she should give full notice of her intention from the start, explaining at the same time that she is willing to do all she can to lighten the burden of extra work. so far as possible, the amount of labor should be put clearly before the employée, so that if the place does not suit her she may know its drawbacks from the beginning. naturally, it should also be the part of the mistress to point out what are the especial advantages of the situation, and to let the maid see that the employer is ready to do anything in her power to prevent unusual toil from being too heavily felt. no chance should be left for misunderstanding upon any point, and from the first it should be comprehended that a spirit of accommodation and kindliness will be accorded by the mistress and expected from the maid. after the mistress and maid have reached some kind of an adjustment that makes them feel the relation of employer and employed would be desirable to both, it is time for the housekeeper to make special inquiry about the maid's references. if the office is a reputable one it may be taken for granted that the servants' characters are in the main what they should be, but the mistress will wish to go into details and either see the former employer or write to her. this matter of references is most important. the mistress owes it to the maid as well as to herself to see that these are all they should be. no matter how excellent is the written reference shown by the servant, it should be verified by the prospective employer. in many cases the mistress of a departing maid will write for her an uncandid reference for the sake of saving herself an unpleasant scene or from a mistaken kindliness. she does not wish to endanger the maid's chances of securing further employment, and she prefers to stretch the truth to being honest in the recommendation she bestows. a lamentable want of honor prevails between housekeepers in this regard, and the woman who has not found a maid in the least satisfactory while in her own employ will send her forth with a reference which makes it tolerably sure she can obtain a situation elsewhere without difficulty. on the other hand, the new mistress is no less heedless and will take a servant into her employ simply on the strength of a written reference without giving herself the pains to inquire as to its accuracy. too much stress can hardly be laid upon this necessity for honesty in the references given. it is the protection of the maid as well as of the mistress. so long as any servant can secure a good place by a forged reference or by one granted to incompetency by easy good-nature, she will not feel that her employment depends upon her merits. the conscientious trained worker stands on precisely the same plane as the careless, unqualified shirk. a good part of the reformation of the much criticised domestic service lies with the mistress who deplores its faults. when a maid understands that laziness, impertinence, dishonesty, ill-temper, incompetency, will be mentioned in her reference just as frankly as the contrary good qualities, she will take more pains concerning the recommendation that will win or lose her a place. as a matter of course, there is always the chance that an unscrupulous or bad-tempered mistress may take advantage of the power of the reference. but this risk is small, especially in the present condition of our domestic service. we have not yet reached the point attained by the english, with whom a false reference--that is, one not written by a genuine employer of the servant holding the reference--is punished by fine or imprisonment. from present appearances, it does not seem likely that we shall ever get to that. but the mistresses might at least have the sense of mutual responsibility that marks "living-out girls." if a place is once known as hard, or a mistress as unreasonable, unkind, or a "driver," it is difficult to find servants to fill it. there is an unorganized trades-union among servants which helps to protect them, in a measure. the mistresses have too little _esprit de corps_ when references are in question. it is difficult to describe to a prospective maid exactly what her work will be, but she can have a general outline of it given to her. concerning her privileges it is possible to be more explicit, although the privileges vary with the position the maid occupies in the household. where one servant is kept, it is customary to allow her every other sunday afternoon and evening out, and an afternoon and evening besides on a week-day, once a fortnight--or else an evening every week. when two servants are employed the same privilege is allowed to each, and it is the general rule that one shall take the work of the other on the days and evenings out of the latter. thus, the second maid prepares dinner as well as serves it, when the cook is out, while the cook does the waiting and serving and answers the bell, in addition to doing her own work, when the second maid has her holiday. in some households it is the custom to have supper instead of dinner on the night when the cook goes out, thus lightening the task of the waitress. the sunday evening supper is practically universal, as it gives the maids their heaviest work in the early part of the day and lessens the labor of the afternoon and evening. in the household where three women servants are employed, it is the custom to have but one out at a time, except on sundays. more or less planning is required to divide the work satisfactorily under these circumstances, and the method in which the division is accomplished must be decided by the features of each case. whatever the peculiarities of the position, they must be made plain to the maid when she is engaged, and not left at random to be decided upon later. the arrangements once made, it must be understood that the rules formed are not to be lightly broken, either by mistress or maid. the employée is to know that she can count positively on a certain day a week, and the mistress must submit to great personal inconvenience sooner than vary from this rule. if, for instance, it is more agreeable for her to entertain guests on thursday than on wednesday, and the former is the maid's evening out, the mistress should waive her own preferences and convenience sooner than break in upon the maid's outing. the same principle should be followed by the maid. her day out is agreed upon to be this or that. she should not feel that she can change it to suit herself, merely by requesting the indulgence of her mistress. in other matters about the household there should be a fixed routine, and this should be understood from the outset. meals will be served at certain hours, the maid will be expected to have them on time and the family to be prompt at the table. such system as this does much towards simplifying the work of a household and gives a maid a feeling of stability that helps her to do her work to better advantage. she knows what she has to do in the line of work and what to depend upon in the way of time, and as a consequence the wheels of the home move more smoothly. such a hard-and-fast rule as this cannot prevail, perhaps, in every household. take the case of a physician, for instance, of a newspaper man, of some business-men. it is almost out of the question for them to conform to an immutable regulation. if a doctor has been up all night with a patient, it is rank absurdity to say that he must be on hand in the morning for an eight-o'clock breakfast, or that if a commuter loses his train he must stop in town and get his dinner sooner than derange the times and seasons of the domestic economy. in such cases it is well to remember that the house is made for the family and not the family for the house. but instances like these are exceptions, and do not affect the general application of the rule. on the other hand, it may be urged that there are happy and, in the main, well-conducted homes where a different principle is followed. in these the establishment is considered more as the home and less as a piece of machinery. concessions are rendered to the preferences of the servants when they wish to vary their days out, and they in turn are ready to accommodate themselves to the wishes of their employers when a change of holidays seems desirable. such liberties as these it is not safe to advise. they are the exceptions, and, in the long run, the stricter plan will probably prove more satisfactory to all concerned. at the time of engaging the maid, the mistress should make stipulations as to the minutiæ of caps, aprons, broad collars and cuffs, and the like. in some parts of the country there are maids who object to anything that seems to suggest a livery or uniform, and, if there are protests to be made and met, the process should be disposed of at the start. many mistresses and maids fail to grasp the fact that the engagement between them is in the nature of a legal contract. mistress and maid are equals in the eyes of the law, and an agreement is as binding upon one as upon the other. it should be perfectly understood at the beginning for what term the maid is engaged and at what rates. in some places it is the custom to pay by the week, and the servant is then engaged by that term. in other localities she is engaged and paid by the month, although she is frequently taken at first on a week's trial, with the understanding that, if she gives satisfaction and is suited with the place, she is to continue her services by the month. when the latter period is the term of engagement, it is understood that the employer is expected to give not less than a week's notice of discharge to a maid, and that the latter should announce a week before her month is up her intention of leaving. should the mistress prefer, she can give a week's wages in lieu of a week's notice, but the former method is in more general use. when a servant is engaged by the week, two or three days' notice is demanded on either side. the "month's notice" with which english books have made us familiar is not common here, unless the servant has been for a long time in the place. immorality, drunkenness, dishonesty, and absolute refusal to obey orders are sufficient causes for dismissing a servant without warning or wages; but this is an extreme measure, and should be resorted to only in circumstances of great provocation. even then, complications are often avoided by paying a servant something, if not all of what is due. the servant who leaves without warning in the middle of her term is not legally entitled to her wages, but in this case, also, trouble is usually saved by paying her up to date. among the stipulations incident to the engagement of a maid, it is well to make mention of breakages. this may not be needful when hiring a cook, but it is a safeguard when engaging a waitress or even a general housework servant. inquiries should be put as to the maid's carefulness with china, and there should be an agreement that the maid is responsible for breakages except in cases of unavoidable accident. such a proviso as this may deter some maids from taking a place, but the careful girl is not likely to object to the rule, and the mistress would probably be unfortunate should she engage a maid who resented such a regulation. ii when the maid arrives the first days of a servant in a new place are not easy either for mistress or for maid. this should be recognized by the mistress, and she should lay in an extra supply of patience for the emergency. she will need it, in order to endure with equanimity the sins, negligences, and ignorances of the new-comer--especially the ignorances. yet, looked at impartially, the blunders made by the maid are probably not so much the result of ignorance as of unaccustomedness. the situation is much harder for her than for the mistress. the latter is at least on familiar ground. to the former the place is an unknown quantity. she does not know where anything is kept. she is ignorant of the preferences of her new employer. she is encompassed by novel surroundings and faces; and--a fact that is not always recognized by employers--the very phraseology of the new mistress is strange to her. the maid lacks the mental training that would enable her to adapt herself quickly to the changed conditions, the unusual expressions. under the circumstances, the wonder is not that she does things so badly, but that she accommodates herself as readily as she does to the fresh environment. i have spoken of the diffidence that sometimes produces the impression of sullenness. this same diffidence often takes other forms that are even more trying than gloom. i have known of one maid who, during the first fortnight of her stay in a new place, received every order with a loud giggle--the fashion in which her embarrassment manifested itself. another was so much at a loss what to do with her hands when they were not occupied with her work, that she slapped them together constantly as she moved about the house or stood waiting for orders. yet both of these maids, after their first shyness had worn off and they had found themselves and their relation to their work, became admirable servants and overcame the defects that had at first tried the patience of the mistress almost beyond endurance. in the average american household, where there is only a small domestic force, the mistress should always show the servant what are her duties or direct how these are to be performed. in large households, where there is a housekeeper, the training of the new servants may be delegated to her, but these establishments are too few to be weighed in making up the main account. as soon as the maid comes the mistress should direct her or show her to her room, and tell her to change her street garb for her working-dress and then to report herself to the mistress. she, on her own part, should be ready for the new-comer, not only with a clearly framed idea of the work she will put her to first, but also with the house in good order for the work that is to be done. nothing is more discouraging to a servant than to come into a place that is dirty from the carelessness of the former occupant, or untidy and topsy-turvy. the maid is as susceptible to first impressions as the rest of us, and the moral effect of bringing her into a dirty and disorderly kitchen is distinctly bad. the mistress should have had the kitchen and pantries cleaned by the outgoing maid--and it should have been done under her own supervision or else thoroughly inspected after the work is finished. should the maid who is leaving not have done her task thoroughly, it is better for the mistress to give her own time and labor to cleaning closets and shelves, or engage a charwoman to do it, than to permit the maid to come in before the work is properly performed. the servant who finds dust in the corners, the stove unpolished, the cellar and refrigerator uncleaned, is likely to draw the conclusion that the places can remain as she found them, or may be suffered to drift into the same condition again whenever she is too lazy or too careless to give them proper attention. a word about the maid's bedroom. in some circumstances it is impossible to make it very alluring. when all of a family are tucked away in dark, inside rooms, as is the case in many city apartments, it cannot be expected that the maid will fare better than her employers. but, fortunately, all humanity are not cliff-dwellers. there are plenty of homes where it is possible for the maid to have a light, airy bedroom, which could be made attractive at a small expenditure of time and money. yet it is seldom that a servant's room has anything pleasing about it. the mistresses defend themselves by saying that the servants are heedless with good things, that they do not take care of what is given them, and any mistress can cite facts to prove this position. without disputing the truth of these statements, it may yet be urged that it is hard for a servant to come into a room that bears plainly the traces of its former occupant's untidiness. possibly the new-comer has in her the potentialities of neatness and cleanliness, and it is unfair to check these at the start. the room cannot be refurnished for every new maid; but the furniture it contains can be of a sort that is readily freshened. the white iron cots are neat as well as comfortable, and there should be a good mattress always. a hard-working maid has a right to a comfortable bed. if there are two servants, they should have separate beds. this should be an invariable rule. the mattress should be protected by one of the covers that come for this purpose. this can be washed as often as it needs it. the blankets, too, should be washed between the departure of one maid and the arrival of another. a neat iron wash-stand, a plain bureau that can have a fresh bureau-cover or a clean towel laid over it, a comfortable chair, a rug by the bed, are not expensive and add much to the comfort of a room. it is wiser to have the floor bare and painted, or spread with a matting, than covered with a shabby and worn-out carpet which gathers dust and dirt. the walls are better painted than papered. the mistress can consult her own preferences as to whether or not she shall put pictures on the walls, but she should not make of the maid's room a lumber place for the old engravings and chromos that will be tolerated in no other part of the house, and do it under the impression that she is making the place attractive to the maid-servant within her gates. the bed should, if possible, be made up before the maid arrives, with a fresh spread, and the room should have the absolute cleanliness that is always a charm. one more point should be looked after in preparing for the maid's arrival. the mistress should make sure that the supply of china and cutlery that the maid will use for her own meals is in decent order. it cannot be pleasant for any one to have bent and tarnished forks and spoons, cracked and stained cups, saucers, and plates for her food. the cost of replacing these by new is very slight and pays for itself in the agreeable impression given the maid by the fresh, bright articles. a list of the dining-room silver, linen, and china should be made by the mistress and gone over by her with the maid the day of the latter's arrival. by thus verifying the list the maid has a clear idea of the property that is given into her charge and knows for what she is responsible. if the china is nicked or cracked, mention should be made on the list of each piece thus disfigured, and there should be a note of linen that is worn or broken. by means of such a list the mistress is able to keep track of her possessions and there is no possibility of the maid's excusing a chipped plate or a cracked dish with the plea that it was injured before she came. such a list is also a safeguard to the maid, who is by it enabled to prove that she is not to be blamed for disasters that occurred during the stay of a predecessor. when the servant presents herself ready dressed for her work, the mistress should tell her as simply as possible what this will be. the instruction would better be given in broken doses. the workings of the untrained mind are peculiar, and in mental equipment the average servant is often on a level with a child of ten or twelve. bestow too many facts at once and you produce only confusion. so it is not well to make an attempt to give the maid a bird's-eye view of what will be her whole duty, but rather to acquaint her by degrees with her occupations. the first step is for the mistress to show her where her work is to be and the instruments with which she is to perform it. should she be a cook, she must be introduced to the kitchen, the management of the range explained to her, the whereabouts of the principal utensils made clear. if it is the waitress who is to be inducted into office, she should be taken to the china-closet, the contents of this and of the silver and linen drawers displayed, and the particular pieces pointed out that are in daily service. when the waitress is also the chambermaid, there are explanations required as to the upstairs work. but, as i have said, it is better to supply these little by little. for example, if the cook comes into the house in the morning, give her time to get used to her kitchen and her tools before too much information is offered as to the preferences of the family in cookery. since the first meal she will have to prepare will be luncheon, tell her about this, and do not burden her with the details of dinner until after lunch is over. still less try to give her at one fell swoop all she will need to know about breakfast the next morning or what she will be expected to do on washing and ironing day. these instructions may sound unnecessary to the trained and experienced housekeeper; but the world is not entirely made up of these. the majority of women are more or less lacking in sense of proportion and in perspective, and this lack leads to a jumbling of their ideas which makes life complex for those to whom the ideas are to be imparted. of course, once in a while one finds an intelligent servant who understands herself well enough to slip at once into her place and do the work of it smoothly, but she is the rare exception to the rule. the housekeeper must plan for the average, not for the exception. this way of giving orders naturally confines the housekeeper more or less during the first days of her new maid's arrival--but a domestic convulsion of any sort is attended with drawbacks. the mistress must appreciate the fact that she will have to sacrifice herself a little in order to train her new maid properly, and that the result will be worth the trouble. this does not mean that the mistress should stand over a servant and dictate the way in which every duty is to be performed. the employer should bear in mind that there is more than one right way of doing nearly everything, and if the new maid has a special way of her own of accomplishing this or that, she should be allowed to follow her custom until she has proved that it is not so good as that of her mistress. this may sound reckless, but it has common-sense to commend it. when the maid is given a chance to prove or disprove the excellence of her method and it turns out to be as good as that of the mistress, there is the saving of just so much friction and effort in teaching and learning a new way. in advocating this i am taking it for granted that the maid has some idea of the manner in which her work is to be done. if she is absolutely "green," she will have to be taught from the beginning, and then the mistress has no option. such servants are discouraging and tiresome at the outset, but they often turn out the best in the long-run. in their cases the mistress has no bad impressions to efface and she can implant her own modes in virgin soil. when, however, the maid has some knowledge of her duties, the mistress should show her where she is to work, give her directions for the services that come next, and then leave her to herself. she will learn her way about her domain much more quickly if she is unembarrassed by the presence of an observer. the mistress must be prepared for blunders even after she has given explicit directions. as i have said, it is quite possible the maid may not understand the mistress at first, or, in the confusion of new impressions, she may forget or confound directions. should she serve a dish in a different fashion from that in which it has been ordered, reproof should be reserved until the mistress has made sure of the reason for the variation. if the wrong china or silver or linen is used, corrections should be made judiciously. the fault may have been forgetfulness, it may have been misunderstanding, and, in any case, fresh confusion will be the result if too many blunders are commented upon at once. the maid should be directed to repair one or two omissions, and the rest should be ignored for the time being, to be put right later on. occasionally a maid will be found who seems chronically unable to set a table right. i have known of several who persisted in putting on crooked the square of damask that was used at breakfast and luncheon instead of the large cloth that covered the entire table at dinner. the square would be laid in a slanting, to-one-side fashion that gave the whole table a drunken look. the mistress finally hit upon a successful plan. she put four chairs on the four sides of the table, each exactly in the middle of a side, and then laid on the cloth with each of its four corners precisely in front of a chair. the object-lesson worked to a charm and crooked cloths became a thing of the past. forgetfulness of some piece of table-furniture is a more common fault and one more difficult to rectify. if it seems impossible to overcome it in any other way, the mistress may make a ground plan of the table as it should look when properly laid, or write a list of all the objects that should go on it for different meals. it is not necessary to resort to this, however, until several days' experience has proved the new maid's inability to grasp what is required. a chambermaid will make corresponding blunders for a time. she will have to be told more than once how the beds are to be made, will have to receive repeated instruction never to put the blankets on with the doubled end at the top, and to be careful about stretching tight the lower sheet and tucking in the coverings properly at the bottom. at the beginning the mistress should establish her standard about this sort of thing as she does about sweeping, dusting, and other cleaning, and she must never relax her requirements if she expects to have her house properly kept. all this need not be told the maid the first day she comes, but even then she may be made to understand that work is not to be slighted or neglected. this principle, at least, she must have clearly in her mind at the end of the first day's service, even although her thoughts may be a trifle chaotic as regards details. those it will be the work of the mistress to make clear as time goes on and the maid becomes accustomed to her work. iii mistress and maid there is a type of mistress who seems to regard servants as beings of an inferior order. her directions are given curtly--sometimes harshly. she takes the ground that the servant is paid for her work and that for anything beyond the business relation there is no need for consideration. she may be called one extreme type. the other extreme is more common. in her desire to propitiate her employée she is herself almost servile. she is in frank fear lest the servant may leave her, and in order to retain her services makes almost any concession. such mistresses as these furnish materials for most of the jokes on the servant question--jokes that are hardly exaggerated. between these two extremes there is room for a mistress who unites considerateness with self-respect. she speaks pleasantly to her servants, but she does not spoil them by an ingratiatory manner or show herself ready to make any sacrifice sooner than run the risk of parting with them. she gives orders as orders, instead of asking services as favors; but she issues her commands in a kindly way and with none of the tone or manner of a dictator, still less of a shrew. when her servants are to be reprimanded, she does it quietly, lowering rather than raising her voice. if a servant cannot be managed in this manner, she feels it is better to part with her. in the words of a veteran housekeeper of this variety, "i will not have a servant in my house whom i have to scold." every one recollects the saying that in herding sheep it is necessary not only to teach the dogs to drive the sheep, but to accustom the sheep to obey the dogs. so it is as desirable for the mistress to learn the proper method of dealing with the maids as it is for the maids to understand the mistress. there are many kinds of manners in both. but few are the servants who do not respond more quickly to a kindly, gracious manner than to one tinged with severity. mention has been made of the difficulty a maid sometimes has in accustoming herself to the phraseology of a new mistress. to the girl's hesitancy about asking for a repetition of an order, or an explanation, are due some of the blunders she makes. the mistress should be sure she is entirely understood before she sends the girl about her work. also, she should be clear as to the cause of a mistake or of apparent disobedience before she finds fault. always the mistress should be ready to make explanations about the work. when the maid comes for instruction she should be met patiently, and if there seems to be a difficulty of understanding, a practical illustration will often do more than half an hour of verbal directions. when the mistress can show the maid how the table is to be set, how the beds are to be made, can give her an object-lesson in sweeping or dusting or dish-washing, she will have accomplished more than a dozen lectures would have wrought. nothing better in instruction has been devised than the squeers method. "first they spells it and they goes and does it." but it is the mistress who does the spelling as well as the doing if she wishes the new maid to grasp a novel mode of performing a household duty. the mistress should not shrink from reproof when it has to be administered. there are very few employées in any walk of life who are possessed of so large a supply of conscientiousness that they discharge their duties as well without oversight as with it. to every gang of workmen there is an overseer. in housekeeping the mistress is overseer as well as planner. she must "follow up" her maids--not so obviously that they feel she does not trust them, but closely enough to produce the impression upon them that she takes an interest in their work and means to see that it is thoroughly done. when it is not accomplished to her liking she should call them to account, not unkindly, but decidedly. if a ring of dust around the bric-à-brac shows where the duster has been flourished about the furniture instead of being used to wipe each surface carefully, the mistress should call the maid to bring her cloth and point out to her the defects in that portion of her work. should there be dirt left in the corners of the room, finger-marks on the paint, streaks on the windows, the same course should be pursued. when this has been done a few times, unless the employée is exceptionally slow-witted, she learns that it is less trouble to perform the work properly in the first place than to have to go over it twice, and the second time under the supervision of the mistress. all this the employer can do without joining the ranks of the fussers or belonging to that class known as the "nasty particular" housekeepers. the latter, who put the cleanliness of the house so far above the comfort of its inmates that these feel they would rather have dirt with peace than tidiness without it, are common enough to make a word of warning in place. but it is possible to accomplish neatness without sacrificing family concord, and in the desire to secure the latter the housekeeper should not permit herself or her servants to drift into carelessness. from the first the mistress should have it clearly understood that there is no place in the house into which she may not penetrate. her daily inspection of the refrigerator and the pantries should be a matter of course. her presence in the kitchen should never excite surprise or provoke criticism. naturally, she should exercise tact in this as in every other relation of life. for instance, she should not choose the time for her morning visit to the kitchen when the maids are at their breakfast. in fact, she should be punctilious not to call her servants from their meals except in cases of absolute necessity. they have a right to take their food undisturbed, and this right the mistress should respect. nor should the housekeeper choose the cook's busiest day for doing cooking on her own account, if this is going to add to the sum of the servant's labors. it is lack of consideration on these points that gives a house the reputation of being a "hard place." when such details as these are observed, servants are more likely to be contented, even if the work is heavy, than they are in a lighter place where they feel that their rights and privileges are disregarded. if a servant is to be reprimanded, it should never be done in the presence of a third person. the maid is no less human because she is in a subordinate position, and it is hard for any of us to take reproof kindly when it is bestowed in the hearing of some one else. if the mistress is inclined to be hasty, it is well for her to wait a few minutes after the discovery of the fault before she utters her rebuke. that will give her time to get the fault a little in perspective and to see its true proportions. then she should summon the maid to her and deliver her words of warning or reprimand. never should she go to the kitchen to scold the cook. there the knowledge of the latter that she is, so to speak, on her own ground has sometimes the unfortunate effect of provoking an impertinent rejoinder, which would not be forthcoming if the interview had taken place in the mistress's own room or in the drawing-room. there is a peculiar sting in a reproof given for a fault that is due to accident, to misunderstanding, or to some other pardonable cause. very often the request for an explanation will bring out facts that the mistress had not known and which put a different face upon the occurrence. when rebuke is essential it should not only be delivered quietly, but there should be no mark of anger in the manner of the mistress. such demeanor as this is more impressive than the harsh tones, the sharp words, for which the culprit might have been prepared. there are, of course, limits to which faults may be permitted to go. if it is impossible to conquer them by reproof, it is better to discharge a servant than to have to persist in fault-finding. life is too short for perpetual rebukes. never should the mistress forget that there is as much demand for courtesy in her terms with her servants as in any other relation in which she is placed. this is a fact that is often overlooked. a woman does not make herself less but more of a lady by prefixing "please" to her requests to her servants, or by rewarding a service with a word of thanks. this sounds so obvious that the injunction may seem absurd, but a little observation of mistresses and maids will convince any one that there is need for the advice. in many households not only the mistress but the master of the home gives orders harshly and discourteously, and the children are quick to take their cue from their elders. a degree of rudeness is permitted by parents in their children that should not be tolerated for an instant. the small boys and girls in presumably well-bred families bully and "sauce" the servants in a fashion that would do credit to a gang of hoodlums in a tough district. sometimes the parents do not know it, at other times they know of it and do not take the pains to correct it. the children should be taught to show courtesy to servants as well as to any one else with whom they are brought into contact. the very fact that the employées are not at liberty to retaliate in kind should be used as an argument to teach them the cowardice of insolence and unkindness. when courtesy is given by the employers it seldom fails to be accorded by the employed. a courteous order meets a respectful response, and, as a rule, willing service is more likely to be granted. as a matter of course, the service is in a way an obligation that is bought and paid for, but the introduction of a little kindliness into the transaction does much to diminish friction. apart from that, however, the courtesy is a duty the employer owes herself, quite irrespective of its effect upon her servants. while reproof should be given where it is needed, the mistress should never suffer herself to neglect the virtue of praise. it is a hard life when one's shortcomings only are recognized and one's good deeds are taken as a matter of course. if humanity were at its highest level the thought that the work was well done would perhaps be enough to bring satisfaction, but as it is, a word of commendation is grateful to all of us. it is a little thing to praise the latest baking as remarkably good, to commend the maid who has waited exceptionally well at a company lunch or dinner, to say a kindly word when a fault of heedlessness or neglect has been corrected; but such words as these are the oil that greases the domestic machinery. without them it runs hard and demands more power to keep it in motion. there is always the possibility of such commendation being given so often that it comes to mean nothing. this danger the mistress must guard against. there is also the chance that the maid may be of the variety with whom praise must be cumulative in order to produce any effect. i have known one of that sort. if her biscuit were praised once as being good, they had to be called excellent the second time, surpassing the third, and so on, until the adjectives applicable to biscuit had been exhausted and the mistress saw dark gloom on the servant's face, and was asked coldly if the biscuit were not as good as usual. but such cases as these are not common, and in any circumstances the housekeeper must gauge the appetite for praise and administer it with judgment. sometimes one meets a presuming maid who takes advantage of the kindness of the mistress to force an undue familiarity. this, too, must be watched for, but the possibility of this result does not do away with the desirability of consideration on the part of the mistress to the maid. fully as often as one finds this trouble does one see a foolish mistress who, taking a fancy to a maid, lets the latter drift into a position of pseudo-intimacy which is hard to break off. it is not probable that the latter would have put herself forward without a certain amount of encouragement. once in a blue moon one meets a pearl of a serving-woman who is worthy of all the confidence and affection that can be bestowed upon her, and who grants to her employers an unselfish devotion that one rarely gets from one's next of kin. such cases are few and far between, and blessed among women is she who has such a treasure in her household. the average housekeeper should not be too ready to think she has drawn one of these prizes in the domestic-service lottery. if she goes ahead too quickly on this hypothesis, she may have an unpleasant awakening. when advances are made by the mistress, and the maid presumes upon them, it is only the mistress who is to blame if the maid "forgets her place." the mistress should avoid taking sides in any controversy between servants. often there is a good deal of jealousy between the employées in a household, and if one maid is favored more than another there is likely to be hard feeling. this pitfall must be kept in mind by the mistress. even without expressed preferences for one over the other, she is sometimes in danger of being drawn into quarrels the servants have between themselves. almost always she is wise to decline to espouse the part of either one. occasionally, if she has good servants who seem to misunderstand one another it may be worth while, for her own sake as well as for theirs, to attempt to adjust differences between them. as a rule, it is well for her to keep out of it after one trial has shown her that her intervention has worked no good. never should the mistress be led into discussing one servant with another, or listening to the complaints that a domestic makes of her fellow-workers. class-feeling is stronger than the relation of employer and employed, and the mistress who takes up the cause of one maid against another is by way of finding she has put her fingers between the bark and the tree. the two employées are likely to make up the quarrel and combine in common cause against the mistress. this does not bespeak any especial depravity on their part. they are simply human beings, and the tie that binds them together holds where that which attaches them to the mistress fails. they go with their own as she would with her own. in order to avert complications it is safe for the mistress to give her orders direct to her servants instead of sending them by one maid to another. the latter course makes room for misunderstanding and recriminations. when a maid has been in the same employ for a good while, this rule may be waived, but when she is new to the place there should be no go-between in the matter of giving directions. the mistress should announce her own orders. iv the duties of the maid-of-all-work the general housework servant has already been referred to as a pooh bah in petticoats. she takes practically all labor for her province. it is an illustration of the value of specialization that as a rule she commands lower wages for her services than does a maid who fills any one alone of the functions the general housework servant performs. since the duties of the maid-of-all-work are what they are, the mistress should make a stipulation at the time of the engagement that the employée should be ready to "turn her hand to anything." for it is fatal if she once begins to say that this or that is not "her work." that phrase is reserved for the use of the specialist. the general servant should understand that one of the conditions of her position is the necessity for making herself useful in every department of the household. this does not mean that she is to be a domestic drudge of the london "slavey" type. she needs no warning against this. domestic service of a good sort is too hard to secure in this country for there to be any danger of the maid becoming down-trodden and imposed upon. the country bound-girl may have to submit to imposition, but it would not be tolerated for a moment by the ordinary independent serving-maid. if there is domination on either side it is more likely to be found on the part of the maid, who feels the advantage at which she holds her alleged mistress. putting aside extreme cases and turning to the average maid and mistress, it may be repeated that it is difficult to define with clearness the exact duties of the maid-of-all-work. she understands that she is to do cooking, waiting, and chamber-work, and probably washing and ironing. should the family be small she will perform nearly all these duties herself--that is, if the family live in a simple fashion. should the household be large, the maid may expect a helper with the laundry-work, and the lighter house-work will devolve upon the mistress of the house or her daughters. one pair of hands, even when backed by a quick head and a willing heart, cannot accomplish everything in the work of the house without neglecting or slighting something. the mistress of one maid must recognize this and be prepared to take her share of the labor when this is heavy. what her part is to be she must define as clearly as possible at the first, in order that the maid may know just what she has to do and be able to arrange her occupations to the best advantage. when the mistress does something outside of the duties she has assumed, she should have it thoroughly understood that her act is an exception, performed for some specific reason. it is very easy to let the exception glide into a rule, and what the maid received at first as a favor which would spare her extra toil she regards later as a right to which she is entitled. at the beginning, the mistress does well to lay out the routine of the work of the day for the benefit of the new maid. after the latter has learned the ways of the house, and finds that she can make slight alterations which will render her work easier, she should be permitted to do so if the mistress finds that the tasks are discharged as well as under the earlier plan. many a mistress gains good points from a servant, and the intelligent housekeeper, knowing this, is on the lookout for suggestions she may find of service. certain regular duties are practically the same each day, no matter what the other work may be. early rising should be insisted upon. six o'clock is none too early for a maid to be up in a house where breakfast is at seven-thirty or eight o'clock. by half after six the maid should be dressed and down-stairs. if the care of the furnace falls upon her, her first duty in winter is to open the draughts of the furnace and put on a little coal. while this is kindling she can go back to her work up-stairs. the kitchen fire must be lighted, the kettle filled freshly and set to boil, the cereal put over the fire, before the maid goes into the living-rooms to open the windows. while these rooms are airing she may brush out the front hall and sweep off the steps, unless there is a man engaged to take care of the outside work of the house and to look after the furnace. when there is a gas-stove, the maid's work is much simpler, and in that case she may open the windows and do the brushing-up before she puts the kettle to boil. when the furnace fire has come up, she may go down, put on more coal, and close the draughts. in most families where but one maid is employed the mistress of the house dusts her drawing-room. when this is the rule, the maid has only to air the rooms, straighten the furniture that is out of place, and brush up any scraps or dust that need to be removed. if the floors or parts of them are bare, she should go over them with a damp cloth. should the family be very small, consisting of but two or three persons, it is possible for the maid to do all the dusting. if this does not devolve upon her, there are other small duties she can perform at this time, such as filling and cleaning lamps. when there is a sitting-room, this, too, should be set in order. whatever else may be postponed until after breakfast, the dining-room must not be overlooked. it must be brushed up and thoroughly dusted. few things are more de-appetizing than to sit down to the first meal of the day in a room which is still, so to speak, in curl-papers. if the servant is brisk about her work she can look after the drawing-room, halls, and dining-room, and set the table before she has to go back to the kitchen. in households where a heavy breakfast is served, or where the rooms are elaborately furnished, she may have to get up earlier or leave part of the dusting to be done later. but the dusting of the dining-room must never be omitted. the morning tasks may be lightened a little by setting the breakfast-table overnight, and when this is done a thin cover--a sheet of cheese-cloth is excellent--should be thrown over the table after it is set to protect the dishes and other table-furniture from dust. the preparation of the breakfast is the maid's next duty. the extent of the work this involves varies, of course, in different households. in some homes the old-fashioned american breakfast of hot meat or fish, warm bread, and potatoes cooked in some form is still preserved. other families have adopted a modification of the continental breakfast, and find all they need for the morning meal in fruit, a cereal, rolls or toast, eggs or bacon, and coffee. the latter breakfast simplifies the work of the household, but it is not popular everywhere. whatever the breakfast, it should be in readiness at the hour appointed, if the members of the family are on hand or not. it need not be served until it is ordered, but it should be entirely ready. when all the persons in a household can reconcile themselves to breakfasting together, it makes work easier and saves time. should they find it impossible to partake of it in harmony as well as in unison, and each one eats alone, it renders the meal a more prolonged function. under such circumstances, the food may be kept hot for the tardy ones and they may be granted the privilege of getting it for themselves from the kitchen when they arrive, instead of impeding progress by making the duties of the day yield to their convenience. the fruit-course may be on the table when the family is summoned. at breakfast they usually do for themselves such waiting as passing plates, cups and saucers, and the like. a plate and finger-bowl may be in front of each person, and the porridge-bowl and saucer may be close by also, if it is desirable to simplify the service. or these dishes may be on the serving-table or sideboard, and the maid may put them on the table with the cereal when she comes in to take out the fruit-plates. after the cereal-dishes have been removed and the rest of the breakfast served, the maid may be excused to go about her other work. the time of her own breakfast may be settled by the mistress and herself. the sensible course is for the maid to eat something and take a cup of tea or coffee in the intervals of her early work, but there are few servants who can be persuaded to do this. if the maid prefers she can take her breakfast while the family is eating, but most maids and mistresses seem to find it more convenient to dispose of the bedroom work as early as possible. when this is the case the maid should go to the chambers as soon as the substantial part of the breakfast is on the table. the occupants of the beds should have stripped these on rising and opened the windows on leaving the rooms. if this has been done the bedclothing has had a chance to air. in order that such airing may be adequately done, the covers should be taken from the bed and spread across a couple of chairs placed back to back. the covers must not drag on the floor. the mattresses should be beaten and turned back over the foot of the bed that the air may reach them from both sides. to freshen them thoroughly, they should be left thus, the windows open, for from fifteen minutes to half an hour. while this is going on the rooms may be brushed or gone over with a carpet-sweeper--not thoroughly swept: this comes at another time. the beds may now be made and the dusting done. in a small family it is taken for granted that the maid should do this work, but in a household of more than two or three it is customary for the women of the family to look after the beds. in that case the maid need only brush up the rooms, strip the beds, and empty soiled water, leaving the rest of the up-stairs work undone while she goes back to the kitchen. she may now take her own breakfast if she has not had it earlier, and clear the table. after every meal the dishes should be removed from the table as soon as possible. they should be carried into the kitchen or the butler's pantry, the cloth brushed--never shaken--and folded, and the dining-room put in order, the crumbs brushed from about the table, the chairs put in their places, the room darkened, if it is warm weather. if the mistress of the house dusts the chambers, the maid may now wash the dishes; if not, she may scrape them and leave them to soak in warm water while she goes back to her dusting and cleans and arranges the bath-room. to clean the bath-room properly, there should always be a bottle of household ammonia at hand, one of forty per cent. solution of formaldehyde or other good disinfectant, a couple of cloths, a long-handled brush, and a scrubbing-brush. it is also well to have a can of concentrated lye or one of the preparations like it which will cut accumulations in waste-pipes. the hand-basin, tub, and closet should be scoured out each morning, the drain-pipes flushed twice a week with water to which has been added formaldehyde or the lye. the former is admirable for removing stains and deposits, but if these are very obstinate the formaldehyde must be left in the basin overnight. the long-handled brush enables the maid to clean the closet basin satisfactorily. ammonia on the cloth used in washing the tub and basin will remove greasy deposits. the nickel fittings and woodwork must be wiped off, the soap-dishes and tooth-brush racks washed. the vessels used in the bedrooms must be cleansed in the same manner, the water-pitchers rinsed out and filled fresh every day, and the slop-jars and commodes scalded daily. the linen-closet should be in the charge of the mistress of the house, and the maid should have nothing to do with giving out fresh linen for the beds or towels for the bath-room. when the bath-room work is finished, the maid may return to the kitchen, wash and put away the dishes, and get the kitchen and pantries in order. the maid who takes proper care of her china, glass, and silver will rinse her dishes thoroughly in one water and then wash them in hot suds, the glass first, then the silver, and then the china, drying each piece as it comes from the suds. the breakfast-dishes washed, the dish-towels should be rubbed out. once a day they should be boiled. this is the time when the mistress inspects the contents of the refrigerator and decides what shall be the meals for the day. either before or after such inspection the maid must wipe off the shelves of the ice-box, and three times a week it must be scoured out with hot water and washing-soda. the general work of the house--of which more later--is undertaken now, and after it comes the preparation of the mid-day luncheon. at this meal little waiting is required. the table is set as for breakfast. if the work is properly managed there should be no heavy tasks for the maid to accomplish in the afternoon, except on washing and ironing days. she may perhaps attend to some light work like the polishing of silver, but, if her duties are arranged as they should be and she is brisk in their performance, she ought to be able to have a little time to herself in the afternoon. the preparation of dinner is seldom undertaken until after four o'clock in houses where dinner is served at seven. the maid is expected to discharge the work of a regular waitress at dinner, so far as serving the dishes, passing plates, and the like are concerned. she is not required to remain in the room, but to come when rung for. her work of clearing away and washing dishes is practically the same after luncheon and dinner as after breakfast. the usual costume of the maid-of-all-work in the early part of the day is a neat wash-frock and white apron. while waiting at table she should wear a cap. she should have a colored apron on when working in the kitchen, but there should always be a fresh white apron at hand for her to slip on when she answers the bell. when she dresses to wait at dinner she should put on a black frock, white collar and apron and cap. since she must wear the frock in the kitchen, it is better to have it of wash goods. the mistress should be in readiness to answer the bell when the maid is dressing for dinner, or when she is at the wash-tub or doing any other work it is difficult for her to leave. a great deal of consideration is demanded of both mistress and maid when there is but one servant and the family desires to live daintily and in accordance with good form. a general outline of the daily work has thus been given, but each day must have its share of the week's duties. by general consent monday and tuesday are given over to washing and ironing, and on these days, unless a laundress is hired to help, the mistress of the house must take charge of the chamber-work and of all the dusting, and, if the wash is large, will perhaps feel it well to wash the dishes after breakfast, and to lend a hand in the preparation of luncheon. the plan practised in some houses of having all the sweeping done on friday is open to criticism. even if there is baking to be done on wednesday, a portion of the sweeping or other cleaning may also be accomplished then. the dining-room or drawing-room, as being near the kitchen, may be cleaned on the days when the maid must watch her cooking closely. this method of apportioning the work has much to commend it. washing windows is tiresome, and the maid will feel it less if she does a few every day than if she gives a whole morning or afternoon to them. the scouring of large pieces of brass or silver and the cleaning of paint it is well to discharge all at one time, and this may be done on thursday, while the sweeping of the bedrooms and cleaning of the upper part of the house may be reserved for friday. the woodwork about the doorknobs should be wiped off, the stairs brushed down, and the halls gone over with the carpet-sweeper daily, and the house, from top to bottom, swept well at least once a week. v duties of two or more servants with specialization in the household come complications. the manual labor of the mistress may be lessened when she adds to her domestic force, but with every new maid she assumes more responsibilities. she has to reconstruct the system to which she had become accustomed when she employed but one servant, and very often the whole tone of the establishment is changed from what it was in the days to which she sometimes looks back as comparatively care free. yet with the increase in a family or with an alteration in the mode of living additional service becomes necessary, and, unless the housekeeper is of the type who takes life hard, there is no reason why she should not soon adapt herself to the new conditions. as in all other circumstances where she must make plans for her domestics, she should have her scheme of action clear in her own mind before she gives it to her servants. vacillation and uncertainty on the part of the mistress shake the maid's confidence in the judgment of the ruling brain, and dispose her to question decisions and to neglect the duties which she thinks do not strike even the mistress as absolutely essential. it is hard to change the method of work when the former general household servant is put into the place of cook or waitress and a second maid engaged. the former factotum is likely to criticise the way in which her late duties are performed, and perhaps to feel that the lion's share still falls to her. so, unless it is an exceptionally competent maid who has been doing all the work, it is usually well to begin a new deal of this sort by getting two maids and dividing the work between them from the outset. the duties assigned to the different domestics in a house where two or more servants are employed are not easy to define explicitly. they must be determined largely by the individual wants and conditions. the size of the family, the arrangement of the house, the style of living, the fact of there being small children in the home, all suggest modifications of any general outline. therefore, the schedule of ordinary household duties following must be subordinate to the conditions mentioned, and also to the capabilities of the individual servant. in a household where more than one servant is employed it is desirable that there should be from the beginning as clear as possible an understanding of the duties to be discharged, since with the specialization comes a disinclination to undertake any work outside of the particular line for which the servant was employed. in the household of more than one servant there is a strong probability that the statement, "i was not engaged to do this kind of work," will be heard, sooner or later. "it seems absurd that i should employ a man-servant besides the coachman and the gardener," said a housekeeper to me the other day. "i have plenty of maids, and, as nearly as i can make out, i took on this extra man for the sake of having him sweep off the stone platform in front of the porch steps. it was nobody's work. the waitress said she did not hire to do outside work, and the coachman said it had nothing to do with his work. it was not the gardener's business, and they were all so strenuous about it that i told my husband i seemed to be the only one to whose lot it really fell by rights to keep that platform clean. there was so much discussion over it that i finally hired a houseman for the especial purpose of having that platform swept. of course, he looks after the furnace and brushes off the porch and washes windows and does other things of that sort, but they are merely incidents. the real reason i keep him is so that my husband or i won't have to sweep that platform!" bearing in mind the possibility of such complications, the mistress should tell her second maid when she engages her that she may have to perform other tasks than those which lie exactly within an over-rigid conception of her duties. if this is understood from the start it averts later annoyance. in a family of adults where two maids are kept, these are usually the cook and the waitress and chambermaid. unless some special provision has been made to that effect, the cook does nothing outside of the kitchen in the early morning. she may perhaps take care of the furnace (this would be her first duty when she came down-stairs), and it is also possible that she may brush off the front steps and sidewalk, but with that her extra kitchen-work ceases for the moment. she gets the breakfast and should be up early enough to do this, brush up her kitchen, and perhaps make preparations for cooking that is to be done later in the day. after breakfast she may assist the waitress to wash the dishes. this depends upon the work the latter has to do. upon the waitress comes the work of opening and airing the living-rooms, brushing out the halls, sweeping down the stairs, and dusting the rooms. all this should be done before breakfast, and in order to achieve this, the waitress must rise as early as the cook. as with the general housework maid, the hour of rising should be not later than six when breakfast is at half-after seven or eight. in most homes it is customary to excuse the waitress as soon as the principal part of the breakfast has been served, that she may go about her chamber-work and be ready to come down to her breakfast by the time the family has finished. before she goes to her own meal she clears the dining-room table and takes the dishes into the kitchen or butler's pantry. even if the chambermaid is competent, it is well for the mistress to make it possible to enter the bedrooms occasionally while work is going on there to make sure that it is all being accomplished properly. it is easy for the best employées to drift into careless habits, and the details of bed-making are too often neglected. under no circumstances should the mistress delegate the care of her linen-closet to a servant. she herself should lay out the linen that is to be used, taking it out in a certain routine so that it may all be worn alike. on the days when the beds are to be changed, she should select the sheets, pillow-slips, spreads, etc., before she goes down to breakfast, that the chambermaid may not be hindered in her work. clean towels should also be given out by the mistress. in a very large establishment, or in the case of an exceptionally trustworthy maid, this work may perhaps be safe in the hands of some one besides the mistress, but, simple as is the task, it requires a discretion and familiarity with the household supplies that only the mistress is likely to possess. after the waitress has had her breakfast she returns and finishes any work she has left undone in the bedrooms. it is possible she may not have had time to dust properly, or that the dust had not had a chance to settle after she gave the room its morning brushing. the bath-room, too, is attended to at this time. after this the waitress washes the breakfast-dishes. before she left the kitchen after her own breakfast she should have scraped the dishes and put them in soak. this will lessen the work of washing-up when she comes down. if there is a special arrangement by which the cook washes the dishes, the waitress is free for other work. sometimes the dish-washing is divided, the cook taking charge of the dishes in which the food has been served, while the waitress looks after the glass, silver, and the finer china. it is not easy to apportion the work in this fashion if the dish-washing is all done in the kitchen, but where there is a butler's pantry it is comparatively simple. in this case the fine tableware should never go into the kitchen at all. this plan lightens the work of the waitress and makes her responsible for the more delicate dining-room ware. a word here about the dish-washing. if the maid is open to suggestion the time she takes to do her dishes may be shortened. the general habit of servants is to leave all the dishes until the entire meal is concluded and then attack the mountain that has accumulated. much time can be saved if they will wash the dishes as they come from the table. as a matter of course, this cannot be done in a family where the waitress is required to remain in the room during the entire meal. but this is seldom the practice in the average home, when only the family is present. there is a preference for what some one has called "unexpurgated meals," and the freedom of conversation that is not possible when servants are present. if this is the case, it is an easy matter for the waitress to wash the soup-plates while the heaviest course of the meal is being eaten, and to get some of the dishes of the second course out of the way while the family is discussing the salad. in a large family all the china may not be washed then, but the silver at least and some of the smaller pieces may be clean and out of the way by the time the meal is at an end. the science that is known as "making the head save the heels" is not understood and appreciated by the average maid, and if she could receive and apply a little instruction along these lines she would find her hours of work shortened and her toil lightened. if the butler's pantry adjoins the dining-room too closely, it is not always feasible to wash dishes while the family is eating, unless it can be done so carefully that unpleasant clatter is spared. but a little thought and skill given to the matter will usually lessen the labor of washing-up after a long meal. to return to the routine of work. except when there is a great deal of cooking done it is well to arrange to have the cook take a share in the sweeping. what part this shall be circumstances must decide. she may sweep the first floor, including dining-room, drawing-room, sitting-room, and halls, once a week. or there may be a day on which she goes up-stairs and gives the bedrooms a thorough sweeping. again, it may be stipulated when she is engaged that she is to wash the windows. if one set of these tasks devolves upon her it leaves the waitress more free for her special duties. these vary, according to the size of the family. when this consists of but two or three members, the second maid should have time in a small house to keep everything in her domain in perfect order and even to do a little of the mending. if the family is larger she will have leisure for nothing outside of her regular duties, and the case will be the same if there is a good deal of entertaining done. one part of the daily work of the waitress is to take care of the lamps, cleaning and filling these. when dusk draws on she should light these and the gas, pull down the shades, and make the living-rooms ready for the evening. it is also the work of the second maid to put the bedrooms in order for the night, closing the blinds, turning down the beds, removing spreads and day-pillows, and bringing iced water to each room the last thing before she goes to bed herself. in point of fact, the work of the waitress is nearly as general in its nature as that of the maid-of-all-work. she attends the door, as a matter of course, answers the bells from the chambers or drawing-room, brings hot water to the bedrooms in the morning, prepares and carries in the afternoon tea-tray, and must be on the alert to see that the house is in spick-and-span order. she has the charge of the silver, keeping it clean and polishing the brasses. for each of these especial duties she should have a regular time, and the mistress should see that the system she put into practice when she had but one servant is followed out after she has added to her household force. all the dusting falls to the care of the waitress, unless the mistress prefers to reserve for herself the handling of curios and choice bric-à-brac. the cook may sweep, but it is the waitress who follows her with a dust-cloth and who scrubs the paint and wipes off stray finger-marks from mouldings and window-panes. when there is a child in the house, and the second maid unites the offices of nurse and waitress, her work must be divided differently. she may do the chamber-work, but she cannot be expected to wash the dishes unless the mother or some other member of the family assumes the care of the infant while the nurse is otherwise employed. nor can she be held responsible for all the details that would fall to her were she waitress, pure and simple. when a nurse is employed as well as a waitress, her work is usually absolutely separate from that of the other maid. she may do sewing and the baby's washing, help make the beds, and lend a hand on the afternoons and evenings out of the other maids, but she has little or nothing to do with the general work of the house. if the cook has thus far received slighter attention than the waitress, it is because her work is so much more closely confined to one department that it requires less minute consideration. she prepares the meals, takes charge of the kitchen, cellar, and pantries, inspects the latter and the refrigerator every morning in company with the mistress of the house, and reigns supreme in the lower realms. in small families where two servants are employed the cook usually is laundress as well. in that case the waitress generally takes part of the cook's work on washing and ironing days, preparing the luncheon on those days, washing all the dishes, and keeping the kitchen in order. the waitress often assists with the fine ironing on tuesday. cook and waitress relieve each other on their days out. the cook waits on table when the waitress goes out and attends the door, unless the mistress chooses to do this herself. when the cook takes her holiday the waitress assumes her duties. when the housekeeper has a force of more than two servants the complications thicken, since with the introduction of each new maid comes more specialization. unless the new servant is engaged because the family is so large that the work is too heavy for two maids, or because of the need of a special servant, as a nurse, the addition is usually due to increased elaboration in the way of living, and this, of course, subdivides specialization still more as well as raises the scale of wages. the "professed cook," who does nothing but cook and demands a helper or scullery-maid, gets higher pay than the general cook who does the washing and ironing or the one who may refuse to do laundry-work but yet undertakes all the labor of the kitchen. the waitress who understands the service of wines and is an adept at handling large dinners and luncheons, demands--and gets--large wages and feels her dignity to an extent that makes her cling tenaciously to the rights and privileges of her position. the average american household which employs servants--and there is a surprisingly large proportion of the sum total who keep no servant at all--is contented with one, two, or, at the most, three servants. the third may be a nurse, as i have said, or a laundress, who, besides her washing and ironing, does the chamber-work and thus leaves the waitress free for her especial tasks in the dining-room and for the duties of a parlor-maid. the laundress may also wash windows or help in other cleaning. or the third servant may be seamstress and chambermaid and have nothing to do with the dining-room or with the kitchen unless she fills one of these places on the "day off" of the regular incumbent. in a book that deals with the work of the maid-servant it is not worth while to go into the duties of the man-servant or to touch upon the possibilities of change latent in the introduction of japanese and chinese service. that all has its part in the domestic labor problem, but this is not the opportunity for discussing this phase of the servant question. vi certain problems of service the tendency to introduce the wearing of livery into domestic service has grown within the past few years. there are still many protests against it, and writers are found who declare the cap and apron of the housemaid a badge of servitude. but the growth of the livery has been universal, and implies no more degradation in one relation of life than in another. the public servant, whether he be policeman or street-cleaner or motorman or car conductor or what you will, takes his uniform as a matter of course. the shop-girl, who often prides herself on belonging to a higher social class than the "living-out girl," does not feel disgraced if in the big department store where she works she is expected to conform to the rules of the establishment and don a black gown and a white collar. the trained nurse does not feel it an indignity to wear a cap. in truth, there is a great deal of nonsense talked about the livery of the servant-girl. i have known sensible young women--at least they were sensible in everything else--who would flatly refuse to wear a pretty and becoming cap, and would give up the chance of a good place sooner than put one on. the girl who surveys matters with an unprejudiced view will recognize a pretty little cap as an uncommonly becoming adjunct to her dress. she will also appreciate the fact that she looks much neater with her flying locks tucked back under a cap than she would with the stray tresses wandering over a forehead that is heated by brisk work. rightly considered, the cap is no mark of servitude, and has a reason for its existence in the added neatness and freshness it imparts to the working-girl's garb. this, indeed, is the whole object of the livery. when the maid is at work she should be dressed in a manner that is suitable for her employment. in the morning when she is to be busy with her housework, in and out of the kitchen, handling a broom and dust-cloth, her dress should be a neat print. in houses where the mistress provides the working-frocks of the maids, as is sometimes done, she can have these frocks made all in one piece, but in the majority of homes, where but one or two maids are kept, they dress themselves. under these circumstances they cannot be expected to conform to any especial color or style, and will probably wear shirtwaists and skirts. it is a pity if the skirts are dark woollen goods, because these gather dust and retain the odors of cookery, but a large apron will protect the skirt, and washing is saved to the maid if her whole gown is not of a light material. she is wise if she wears a large sweeping-cap in the morning when she is busy at work that is likely to make dust, but this can be exchanged for a smaller cap when the rougher parts of her labor are out of the way. for the afternoon, when it is feasible, the maid, whether she be the maid-of-all-work who discharges the functions of both cook and waitress, or the servant who is waitress and parlor-maid, should, if correctly dressed, wear a black frock with white collar and cuffs, and a white bib apron. the latter may be a little more elaborately trimmed than that she has on in the morning. in fact, with a morning apron she may dispense with the bib altogether and wear only a plain, large apron. some mistresses demand the broad collar, although the cuffs may be omitted. i say "when it is feasible" the maid should make this change, because it is not always the most convenient thing in the world for the maid who has to do the cooking of the dinner before she serves it to be in her black frock all the afternoon. she may look neat in her gingham waist and skirt, and then, when she gets everything in order for the dinner, she may slip away to her room for a minute and get into the black waist. the waitress who has no kitchen work is usually expected to have on her black waist soon after luncheon in order to be ready to answer the bell properly dressed. the absolutely correct custom demands that she should be in this garb before luncheon is served, but this rule is not followed in the average household. there are many obstacles in the way of strict enforcement of various regulations which are insisted upon as essential by those who endeavor to make the social by-laws. to such rules the majority of housekeepers would be glad to conform if they could. like lady teazle, they would be only too happy if roses grew under their feet and they could gather strawberries all the year round. but domestic exigencies forbid many indulgences, and the wise woman is she who adapts herself to things as they are and does not make herself wretched over non-essentials. when a woman keeps but one maid to do the work of a household of half a dozen members, she cannot hope to have her establishment conducted as it would be with a force of three or four maids. she may very properly insist upon certain niceties of serving and waiting, but if she does this she must make up for it in other ways. for instance, the woman who demands candles for her dinner-table instead of gas must not expect the maid who does all the work of the house to have time to keep the candlesticks in order. the care of the flowers that brighten the table must also come upon the mistress. she must take this sort of thing for granted as much as she does the necessity for relying upon her own efforts in the preparation of her more delicate desserts and salads. such efforts are the price she pays for wishing to live in a certain fashion, and, since she has made her choice, she has no right to be dissatisfied with it. plainer modes of life and ultimate salvation are not incompatible, but if she prefers the added daintiness to the lighter labor it devolves upon her to do the additional work necessarily implied by the touches of elegance. i have spoken of the habit of some mistresses of providing the maids' working-dress. this is done in large establishments where a certain livery is required, and in other homes, where the mistress feels it worth while, she supplies the black frock to be worn in the afternoon. whether this is done or not it is customary for the mistress to provide the caps and white aprons worn by her maids, and the collars and cuffs, if she insists upon the latter. these belong to the mistress, and are not taken away by the maid when she leaves. the laundering of these articles is generally paid for by the mistress. that is, if the washing is put out or some one comes in to do it, the aprons are included in the family washing instead of being done by the maid herself with her own washing. in the average family, where two or three servants are employed, each does her own washing and has a fixed time for it, unless some other arrangement is made between the mistress and the servant. in some cases the mistress provides also colored aprons for the maid to wear at her heavy work, but this is not obligatory. there is not the same reason for this that there is for the mistress's purchasing the livery. it is taken for granted that the maid has enough clothing of her own to enable her to look decent about the house. if, however, the mistress has her decided preferences in favor of the maid dressing herself in a special fashion, it is her business to provide the raiment in which the maid is required to appear. often it will be found that the maid has adapted herself to her work and has purchased for herself neat black waists or frocks to wear in the afternoon. in this case the mistress is saved just so much expense and may esteem herself fortunate, but she has no right to demand that the maid shall supply herself with such a garb at her own expense. the social relations of servants is a matter with which some mistresses exercise themselves over-much, while others, perhaps, give too little attention to it. according to the ideas of some persons, the affairs of a maid outside of working hours concern no one but herself. so long as she conforms to certain rules of the household, her coming and going, her associates and habits, are no one's business but her own, unless they interfere with the proper performance of her work. in a way this is entirely true, and a mistress has no more right to pry into the affairs of her maid than the maid has to be overcurious about the business of the mistress. but there is something to be said on the other side. look at it in as matter-of-fact fashion as one will, relations of domestic service are different from any other business association. the mistress and maid do not only meet in the morning and part again at night, after having been together simply in the way of their work during the day; they eat and sleep under the same roof. often they work side by side for an hour at a time. they see each other in bodily and mental dishabille. they are by way of asking or granting little kindly services that were never nominated in the bond. without bringing too much sentiment into the relation, it may yet be asserted that it is next to impossible for them to meet on purely business terms. when this is admitted it opens the way for something more. not familiarity or interference, but a kindly and friendly interest. this interest grows to be something very like a sense of responsibility if the maid is a young girl far removed--as she often is--from the family and associations amid which she was reared. the ties that used to hold her have been loosened, and it would be no wonder if in the feeling of irresponsibility that comes with novel freedom she should occasionally make a mistake which she afterwards has to repent more or less bitterly. in one sense it is none of the mistress's business. she is not her maid-servant's keeper. yet she could hardly help reproaching herself if she thought that a kindly word, a query that showed her interest, might have spared the girl a blunder, even if this did not amount to wrong-doing. so, if the mistress can do it, she should try to establish some sort of an _entente_ with her maid. it can hardly be an _entente cordiale_, perhaps, until they have been together long enough to have broken down the little class antagonism that generally exists at first between mistress and maid and to convince the latter of the good-will of the former. it does not take much trouble to bring about this state of affairs. an interest in the girl's family, a question or two as to whether she has any of her own people on this side of the water, an inquiry as to her friends--not in a manner that seems to imply a mere curiosity or patronage, but in a fashion that shows a genuine friendliness is prompting the queries. the assurance of the maid that she may feel free to have her friends come to see her, a pleasant word of greeting to these if they come and the mistress happens to meet them, all do their part towards making the maid sure that her employer is in a measure her friend. when it comes to the question of "followers"--that vexed question in so many households--the mistress is wise if she pursues the straightest course. in the first place, she should recognize the fact that the maid-of-all-work should be permitted to have her men friends come to call on her. she did not enter a nunnery when she went into domestic service. she is a human being, and she has the right to friends among the opposite sex--just as good a right as the daughter of madam herself. bearing this in mind, the employer should allow "followers" subject to the same rules which she would enforce with her own daughters. the young men should come at a suitable hour and go at a suitable hour. they should no more be granted permission to linger around the kitchen when the objects of their attention are busy with the daily toil than should the callers of mademoiselle be welcomed when she is at her music lesson or occupied with her language teacher. to do the followers justice, they do not often attempt it, nor do the maids encourage it. of course, there are the stock jokes about the policeman on the beat and the milkman and the butcher's boy, but none of these--except the policeman--has sufficient leisure to spend much time in the kitchen or the front area during working hours. even if there is violation of this rule once in a while--well, we have all had little occurrences of the same kind in our lives. our chance meetings and partings out of canonical hours did not take place in the front area, perhaps, but that was because our employments did not lead either of us there. the responsibility of the mistress does not go so far as to make it necessary for her to inquire into the antecedents of the young men who visit in her kitchen as she would into those of the men callers in the drawing-room. that is outside of her province. yet she may let the maid know that she feels an interest in her admirers and friends, and such an interest is likely to be appreciated. again i feel i must defend myself against a charge of sentimentality. but i have seen these experiments tried with success. i do not mean by this that the maids were models of unending devotion and fidelity. we seldom find this sort of thing without flaw among our chosen associates. but i have known instances where the casual friendliness of the mistress was repaid tenfold in times of sickness or trouble by offices which could not be compensated for in money. and it was done freely and gladly, with no thought of anything out of the ordinary, with no hint that sacrifices were being made. "yes," says some one, "and those very maids will talk you over behind your back." quite true, dear madam. as the majority of us discuss not only our maids but our own familiar friends behind their backs--as they do us when our backs are turned. we are all of us as ready to resent criticism as we are to offer it. when we find the habits of high life below-stairs, it behooves us to ask ourselves what sort of an example along those lines we had set the maid-servants within our gates. without hope of any reward, except that of the comfortable sensation we have when we have attempted to do the decent thing, let us try to make our maids feel at home in our houses. if it is possible, they should have a place in which to meet their friends. where there is space, it is becoming more and more the custom to provide a sitting-room for the servants in which their visitors can be received. to many housekeepers such an arrangement as this would be impossible. in such cases there should at least be an effort to render the kitchen as pleasant as the circumstances will permit. it may be clean and neat, there may be a couple of chairs that are tolerably comfortable, and any little attempt the maid may wish to make to add to the attractiveness of the apartment should be encouraged. vii general suggestions the mistress of a house must not look for bricks without straw. in other words, she must not demand good work from her maids if they lack the tools with which to achieve it. when women, in the course of discussions on domestic topics at clubs and elsewhere, declare that housekeeping can be practised on the same principles as those on which men conduct their business, when they affirm that housekeeping may be run like machinery, they sometimes forget what is meant by the management of machinery. the metaphor pleases them so much that they fail to examine it too closely. but any machinist will tell one that an engine does not go of itself. i do not mean only that the fires must be kept up and the water which is to generate steam must be provided. there is more to it than that. the machinery must be watched and oiled and kept in perfect repair. if any bit of it is injured it must at once be replaced. there must be a regular inspection made to see that there is not so much friction on one part as to make too much wear and tear, and that other portions which are temporarily out of use do not become rusty so that they are unmanageable when they come in demand. but what housekeeper takes such care of her home machinery as this? here and there one may be found, but the majority, having started the works going, seem to have the impression that the wheels will continue to revolve with no further attention. it is taken for granted that the maid will pursue the even tenor of her way as if she were another piece of clockwork that has been wound up--or, perhaps, as if she were a part of the same big machine which comprises the household and all its appointments. the difference, of course, between the machinery and the home is that in the conduct of the latter the human equation has to be reckoned with constantly. it is not enough for the mistress to see that all parts of the engine are supplied, if this or that section is to be injured through carelessness as soon as her back is turned. the head machinist would probably drop a man on short notice who had proved himself to be persistently careless of the portion of labor committed to his charge. the fact that he could do other parts of his work well, that he was kindly and good-natured and never spoke an impertinent word, would weigh for little if he did not pay attention to his especial duty and take proper care of that which was committed to his charge. with the domestic servant matters are on a different footing. in counting up her good and bad qualities the mistress must keep a debit-and-credit account and feel that one positive virtue offsets many negative defects. yet, even while she does this and puts up with shortcomings because of some one conspicuous merit, the mistress should not relax her effort to approximate, so far as she may, the performance of household duties to the workings of the machinery to which it is so often likened. and to do this she must see that everything necessary is at hand, to make the wheels turn smoothly. it is a proof of the carelessness with which many homes are managed, and of the slackness which maids take for granted, that the household equipment is so often conspicuously poor. i have been in houses that were well furnished above-stairs where i have seen the maids attempting to do careful cookery with utensils that were utterly inadequate. there were broken vegetable-graters, cream-churns, egg-beaters, flour-sifters, coffee-pots with parts of their mechanism missing, bowls and dishes with large sections gone from them, an insufficient supply of such small items as measuring-cups, mixing-spoons, vegetable-knives, and the like. i have also had a glimpse of the articles provided for keeping a house clean--stubby brooms, worn-out brushes, half-bristled scrubbing-brushes, a stingy provision of the detergents and cleansing fluids manufactured for household use. in the midst of this dearth the maids worked as best they could, accomplishing wonders when one thought of the means they had in hand. "but," some one will say, "these things were doubtless provided at first, and if they are lacking now it is because of the carelessness of the maids that had them in charge." precisely so. but the maids ought not to have been permitted to be careless. if that consummation devoutly to be desired of making the house run like a machine is ever to be brought about, the methods of the shop must be introduced into domestic work. the maid should have given to her the utensils that she will need in order to do her work properly and then she should be held responsible for them--not responsible merely by word either. it will be necessary for the mistress to keep her eyes on these details just as the head machinist makes his inspection. she will have to see for herself that the broom is hung up or stood on the handle instead of on the bristle end, that the brushes and dust-pans not only have their nails or hooks, but are kept on them when not in use instead of being thrown into a corner of the kitchen and kicked about by any one who finds them in the way. she will have to inquire if the dish-towels are washed out after service, boiled once a day, and well dried and aired--not thrown carelessly over a clothes-horse or a line to dry with the grease and stains from carelessly washed dishes still clinging to them. once in so often the mistress must make an examination of the contents of the pot-closet to ascertain for herself if the double boiler has been left on the fire until the water has cooked away and the bottom has cracked from dryness. she must see that her pans are scoured when they need it, that no utensil is ever put away with part of the contents sticking to the inside. do some or all of these admonitions appear uncalled for? i hope they are, but i am afraid that at least five out of every ten housekeepers would find one of these defects in her pantries should she go there seeking perfection. when the mistress neglects matters in this way the maid-servant is not wholly to blame for her heedlessness. it must always be borne in mind that our domestic service is not recruited from training-schools. the maid comes to us from her own home or from a succession of other persons' homes, where she has been taught to do one thing in half a dozen different ways. from all these she has evolved her own method, which may be good and may be poor. such as it is, she is likely to follow it, unless she is persuaded of a more excellent way or compelled into it by her new mistress. in the latter case she will probably "go back to the blanket" as soon as she is at liberty. i have already said that it is a mistake for the mistress to demand that the maid shall change her mode of doing a piece of work, provided the results are good. the mistress should allow time to discover the advantages or disadvantages of the servant's system. but if she feels that her own way is surely better than that the maid follows, she should insist upon a change. she should recognize the possibility of the employée's being a reasonable creature, and show her what she considers the merits of the new plan at the same time that she makes it clearly understood that, whether the maid sees these or not, the work is to be done in the manner prescribed by the mistress. she pays for the work and she has a right to say in what way it shall be performed. sometimes one finds a maid who rebels against this sort of management. in that case a mistress is wise to discharge her at the end of the month--that is, unless she can be induced to do the work in the right fashion. of course, it is always upon the cards that the maid may have so many other good qualities that they make up for this defect; but, as a rule, it will be found that the maid who persists in refusing to adopt a method of work ordered by her employer will be hard to manage in other ways. before giving up such a servant, however, it is well for the mistress to think carefully of the question at issue and be very sure that the way she desires possesses enough advantages to make it worth while to raise an issue upon it. sometimes a maid will come around to a new method of her own accord. i knew of a cook whose mistress had purchased one of the admirable bread-making machines. the housekeeper had investigated it thoroughly and become persuaded that it not only saved time and labor, but that the bread made from it was more wholesome than that mixed and kneaded in the ordinary manner. so she installed the machine in her kitchen, explained its workings and its virtues to the cook, and supposed that there would be no trouble about it. but the cook was an obstinate conservative. she had made good bread by the old way, and to the old way she would adhere. she did not absolutely refuse to use the machine, but she calmly went on making bread by hand. excellent bread it was, too. the mistress could find no fault with it--but that was beside the point. being a sensible woman, she hesitated to raise an issue and possibly lose a good cook and a trustworthy servant. she herself went into the kitchen and made bread two or three times with the machine. her daughter did the same. in spite of herself the cook became interested in the new-fangled notion. she saw that it saved time and toil. at last she tried the machine herself. the results were so good and at so small a cost of work that she became an ardent convert. "sure, it was wicked i used to be about it," she confessed to the mistress later. "when you and miss jane were making bread with it i used to be just prayin' that it would turn out bad." there are plenty of maids of this kind, although once in a while one finds a specimen of the other sort. usually the latter kind is found among the older women who have become "set in their ways" and object to experiments of any nature. if the employer wishes to be mistress in her own house she can hardly retain one of this variety in her service. but if there are reasons that make her willing to waive her own authority for the sake of comfort in other directions, she is perhaps prudent to do it. this is a matter each housekeeper must settle for herself. to return to the first point for a moment. the mistress must give her maids what they need to do their work well before she expects to receive good work from them, and having done this shall demand that they keep their tools in order. at the same time that she makes adequate provision she should not encourage extravagance by overabundance. we all have a tendency to be lavish when we see before us what seems like more than enough. the maid should have what will suffice for the present need, but no more. there is no sense in having half a dozen double boilers, for instance, when the utmost need of the household does not call for more than four. keep two in reserve until accident or use has disabled one of the others. the maid should not have so large a supply of kitchen and china towels that she feels it makes little difference if she takes proper care of them. instead, she should have enough to wipe her dishes without having to stint herself, and if extra towels are needed for extra service they should be given for that time and then put away until the next occasion arises for their use. she should not have three or four dust-cloths in commission all the while, but should wash those she has every day or two and use them until they are worn out. her cleaning-cloths--for lamps, bedroom crockery, and the like--should not be so numerous that she feels it is easier to throw them away than to take the trouble to rinse them after service. not only the housekeeper is to be considered in the enforcement of these rules. the maid is being trained in habits of thrift or of wastefulness, and the housekeeper is preparing for her own kitchen or for the kitchen of some other woman a servant who will be valuable or the reverse. i have touched upon the responsibility of the housekeeper for her servants in other respects, and this is another way in which she should appreciate her duty to her neighbor. in some households the mistresses have slipped into the careless way of permitting the maid to give orders to the butcher and the grocer. this should only be done in unusual circumstances. the maid may be entirely honest and conscientious. at the same time, the mistress is not only putting her in the way of a temptation to extravagance, but is also neglecting one of her own duties. the maid should have a pad and pencil hanging in the kitchen. with these she should keep a list of what is wanted in the line of household supplies. when she takes the last of any kind of provision from its receptacle she should make a note of it on the pad. by this method there is never a discovery at the last moment that a supply of some desired grocery is exhausted. this memorandum the mistress must go over every morning when she makes her daily inspection of the kitchen and pantries. the slip she tears from the pad will serve as her list of purchases when she goes to market. this, too, should not be the work of the maid. once in a while she can be sent out on an emergency errand, but, as a rule, it is the mistress who should do the buying. by following this plan she knows what is ordered, what delivered, and is able at the end of the week to check intelligently the record in her weekly book from the grocer or the market-man. in all that has been said there has been no attempt to consider the large establishment where there is a housekeeper who assumes the duties of the mistress of the home in the way of ordering meals, directing servants, and looking after all the details of the household. such establishments are not plentiful enough to be considered in a book of this scope. it is in the homes where but one servant or at the most two or three are kept that problems of the sort we have touched upon present themselves for solution. in such homes these problems are often matters of daily or weekly consideration. the mistress desires to do all she can to enable the maid to make the best of her place; the maid's intentions are usually as good as those of the mistress, even if they are not quite so clearly formulated. something may be said concerning payment for extra work. when a maid is engaged it is with the understanding that she is to do for a fixed wage all the work in her particular line. if hers is the place of a general-housework servant, the duties are, as already said, hard to define, but there may be an approximate idea formed of what they comprise. in other positions in the household it is a simpler matter to lay down with some precision what the avocations of each servant shall be. except by special arrangement she should not be required to step outside her round. but there are times in nearly every family when some accident or set of unavoidable occurrences renders it necessary to ask one maid to do the work of another. sudden illness, the departure of one maid before it is possible to engage another, the descent of unexpected guests--any one of these things may make it needful for the housekeeper to request a servant to do something besides her regular work. when this is the case it should be shown by the mistress that she appreciates the consideration of the servant, and there should be an effort made to compensate for such consideration--not necessarily by a payment of money, but by a gift, the granting of an unusual privilege, or by relieving the maid of a part of her own regular work. it is not a good principle for the mistress to fall into the habit of bestowing tips for any extra service. if matters were conducted on a purely business basis this might be desirable, but, as i have said before, in the relation of mistress and maid there are too many opportunities for mutual accommodation for either to stand upon a point of a kindliness granted by the other side. when it comes to tips from guests it is another matter. if a visitor feels more comfortable to offer a gift to a servant on leaving, there is no reason why it should not be done. i know of employers who say that they pay their servants adequate wages and do not thank their guests for feeling it obligatory upon them to supplement these by presents. this is not quite the point at issue. the guest does not mean to question the justice or generosity of his host, but he feels that he has caused extra labor and has received services for which he would like to make some return to the domestic. the gift is not taken by the servant as a supplement to her wages, but as an acknowledgment of services given, on her own part, and as a token of appreciation of these by the guest. the matter of tips in this country has never assumed the importance it possesses on the other side of the water, although it is by way of becoming a more serious matter with every year. at least once a week the maid should go over the list of silver, which the mistress should have put into her hands when she came first to the house, and see that no pieces are missing. in the same way it is well for her to keep track of the china. whenever a piece is nicked, cracked, or broken she should report it at once. few mistresses are severe when this is done, although they are rarely so amiable as not to be irritated to discover such damages by accident. there will be mishaps in the best-regulated household, but concealment of these or neglect to mention them is a mistake. it shakes the confidence of the employer and saves the employée no trouble, since the injury is bound to be discovered sooner or later, and the reproof is much sharper in those circumstances than it would be if the maid had made a virtue of necessity and told of the breakage when it occurred. when there has been an accident of this sort there should be judgment exercised on the part of the mistress as to enforcing the rule concerning payment for breakages. if the maid is usually careful and the accident was the result of circumstances she could not avoid, it is better not to deduct the value of the broken article from her wages. if she is habitually careless, she will learn a lesson by having to pay for her fault. if there is a clear understanding on this matter at the time the maid is engaged, there is no room for any feeling of being imposed upon when the rule is put into practice. justice should be tempered with mercy, however, and allowances made for the first offence. the maid should be asked just how the accident happened, warned against holding wet china in slippery, moist fingers, crowding too many pieces into the dish-pan at once, attempting to carry too large a number at one time, and other methods of provoking casualties of this sort. should she persist in such habits after the warning has been given, the payment for the broken articles should be insisted upon. viii a recapitulation of daily duties the general-housework maid rise at six o'clock and have clothing in readiness, so as to be dressed and down-stairs by six-thirty. strip the bed and open the window before leaving the room. if the care of the furnace is in your hands, open the draughts and put on a little coal. light the kitchen fire, fill the kettle, put on the breakfast cereal and potatoes, or anything that requires some time to cook. open the windows of rooms on first floor, brush up the floor and the halls, and sweep off the front steps. go over bare floor in dining-room with a cloth and dust the dining-room. put more coal in furnace, close draughts, and give a look at kitchen fire. set table for breakfast. if a large cloth is used, put it on over the canton-flannel "silence cloth." if a square of damask or doilies are employed at breakfast, lay them on _evenly_. crooked spreading of a table is an abomination. at each place put a plate, knife, fork, and two spoons, the knife and spoons to the right, with the napkin beside them; the tumbler also on the right. the fork must be on the left, and near it the bread-and-butter plate. if fruit is the first course, there should be at each place a fruit-plate with a doily, finger-bowl, and fruit-knife on it. for oranges an orange-spoon should also be laid on the plate. when a cereal is the first course, the porridge bowls or saucers should be at each plate. arrange the cups and saucers, sugar-bowl, cream-jug, and other necessaries at the end of the table where the mistress of the house sits. at the other end place the carvers and lay the heavy mat for the hot dish the master of the house is to serve. see that there are tablespoons, salt-cellars, and pepper-cruets, and the call-bell on the table, a salt and pepper to every two persons, the tablespoons at the corners of the table, the call-bell near the mistress's hand. return to kitchen and prepare breakfast. cut bread, fill glasses, and bring in butter the last thing. do not announce the meal until everything is ready to serve. put on a clean apron to wait on table. while the family is eating the last course of breakfast go to the bedrooms, strip the beds, turn the mattresses, hang the bedclothing over chairs, and leave it to air while going over the floors with a carpet-sweeper. empty soiled water in bedrooms. go down-stairs and have your own breakfast. clear the table, scrape dishes and put them in water. return to second floor, make beds, dust and clean bath-room. wash and put away dishes. rinse out dish-towels and put them over to boil. see what is in the pantry and refrigerator. wipe off the shelves of pantries and refrigerator every day. scald out ice-box three times a week. clean and fill lamps. go now to any special work, such as sweeping, washing windows, or general cleaning. stop this in time to prepare luncheon. set the table for this meal as you did for breakfast. be sure that the dining-room has been well aired and that there is no odor of stale food left from breakfast. observe the same rules as at breakfast about serving butter, bread, and water. after luncheon clear table, darken dining-room, and finish any small duties that have been left over from the morning. plan your work so as to have only light tasks in the afternoon. change your dress, brush your hair, put on a fresh cap and a clean apron, and be ready to wait on the door. if afternoon tea is to be served at five o'clock, make the tray ready and carry it in at the proper hour. start to get dinner in time so that there will not be a rush at the last moment. if possible, arrange the preparations so that the cooking can safely be left half an hour before dinner-time in order to set the table. spread on the thick "silence cloth" smoothly and lay the table-cloth over it evenly and without a wrinkle. place the centre-piece in the middle of the table with the vase of flowers or jardinière on it, lay a carving-cloth in front of the master of the house, with the carvers. if a mat is used under the meat dish, put it in place. at the other end of the table lay the soup-ladle. at each place there should be a service plate with the knife and soup-spoon to the right of this, with the tumbler and napkin; the fork or forks, if more than one will be needed, at the left. if butter is served at dinner, the bread-and-butter plate may be at the left. if not, a piece of bread, cut thick, may be laid on the napkin. in most households it is customary to give a clean napkin at dinner. this should be folded plainly. the tablespoons, salts, peppers, and call-bell should be in place as at other meals. if such articles as olives, salted nuts, and the like are used, they should be on the table before dinner is served. when soup is the first course the soup-plates may be put on the service plates and the tureen be placed in front of the mistress before dinner is announced. in houses where gongs or bells are not used, the maid comes to the door of the room where the mistress is seated and announces, "dinner is served." if you have not dressed earlier, change your waist just before announcing dinner. after the soup is served, dish the rest of the dinner and be ready to bring it in when the soup has been eaten. take out the tureen first, then the soup-plates, carrying out two at a time, one in each hand. carry in all the hot dinner-plates at once, put them on the serving-table, and as you take up a service plate from the table put a hot dinner-plate in its place. bring in the meat dish first and put it in front of the carver, and then bring in the vegetable dishes and place them on the serving-table or dinner-wagon. pass meat and vegetables and see that every one has bread and that the glasses are filled. return to the kitchen and wash the silver and china of the first course. when clearing the table after this course, take out the meat and vegetables first and then the soiled plates. if salad is to be served next, put down a salad-plate in place of the dinner-plate removed. set the oil and vinegar cruets and the bowl for mixing the salad-dressing in front of the hostess, and pass the salad first and afterwards the dressing. the dishes of the preceding course may be washed during the salad course. if a sweet comes next or in place of a salad course, clear the table, removing salts and peppers, unused silver, and everything except glasses. brush off the crumbs into a plate with a folded napkin, take off and fold the carving-cloth. put the plates and finger-bowls on the table. bring in the sweet. when this has been finished, take out the dish that has held it, remove the soiled plates, and bring in the coffee. return to the kitchen, have your own dinner, and finish washing the dishes. by this time the family will have left the table. clear this, remove the cloth, folding it in the creases, put away the china, and darken the room. finish putting the kitchen in order for the night. on monday morning rise early enough to get a good start at the washing. any work of this sort that can be done before breakfast is just so much clear gain. proceed with other work as on other days, except that the dusting of the rooms and the care of the chambers will probably be assumed by the mistress. wash the sheets and other heavy pieces early in the day in order that they may have a chance to dry. do the flannels early and follow them with the fine clothes. the second water from the flannels may be used for the first rinsing of the cotton clothes. if the worst-soiled pieces can be put in soak overnight it will lessen the labor on monday morning. on tuesday morning it is also well to get an early start in order to make a good beginning on the ironing. the same rule of early rising will be found helpful when there is any piece of extra work to be accomplished. a prompt beginning gives time for rest in the latter part of the day. the cook rise at six o'clock and be down-stairs by six-thirty. open draughts of furnace and put on a little coal. fill the kettle and put the cereal over the fire. make ready the materials for the breakfast. when the furnace fire has come up put on more coal and close draughts. open the windows of the cellar, air the pantry, and see that the kitchen is in good order, the stove blacked, etc. after the family and the kitchen breakfast inspect the contents of the pantries and refrigerator and plan with the mistress for the best use that can be made of left-overs. if soup is to be made it should be put over now, and desserts that are to be served cold should be prepared. the ice-box must be scoured out with hot water and soda three times a week, the shelves of the pantry and the refrigerator wiped off every day. each morning see what is wanted in the way of groceries and other provisions, and make a list of what is lacking, to be handed to the mistress before she goes to market. after the luncheon and dinner are planned there will probably be time to do a little work outside of the kitchen before the hour for making ready for luncheon. never be behindhand in such preparations so that the waitress is delayed in serving. keep the luncheon hot after it comes from the table, and have the kitchen table set ready for the maids. in the afternoon there is usually time for resting and changing the dress. the beginnings of the dinner should be made in season and the utensils used should, as far as possible, be washed as fast as they are done with in order to prevent a clutter of work when the meal is over. wash the pots and pans in which the dinner is cooked as soon as the food is out of them. scalding water should be put into a vessel as soon as you have finished using it. scald out towels and fish and jelly cloths as soon as you have done with them. keep the sink clean, and wash it out thoroughly after each meal. the waitress and chambermaid rise at six o'clock and be down-stairs at six-thirty. open and air the rooms on the first floor, brush off the steps, sweep out the halls, and brush down the stairs. brush up the drawing-room or go over the floor with a carpet-sweeper, wipe up the hard-wood floors, and dust the rooms. if the woodwork is painted, spots must be wiped from it. take hot water up to bedrooms half to three-quarters of an hour before breakfast, according to directions previously given by mistress. wait on table during the early part of the meal. pass the fruit, offering it from the left side. take off fruit-plates from the right side, putting porridge service in the place of the plate removed. offer porridge, as sugar and cream, from the left side, remove soiled porridge service from right side, putting hot plate in its place. offer other dishes from left side, or if the plate is served by the carver, put it in front of the guest from right side. place cup and saucer on the right, offer sugar and cream from the left. when dismissed after the service of breakfast, go up-stairs to the bedrooms and proceed with them as directed previously in duties of "general-housework maid." have breakfast when summoned by cook, clear table, and prepare dishes for washing. return to the bedrooms, finish the work there and in the bath-room, and then wash dishes, put them away, and despatch other work of the dining-room. see if silver needs cleaning and that table-linen is in order. polish brasses, rub off furniture, wash windows, or attend to other work of this sort. make butter-balls for the next meal. clean and fill lamps. set table for lunch according to previous directions. wait as at breakfast. be careful that no glass is allowed to become empty, and keep a watch on the plate of each guest, offering to replenish it as it is emptied. after luncheon clear the table before going to luncheon in the kitchen. wash dishes and dress for the afternoon, requesting the cook to answer the bell while you are in your room. be in readiness to attend the door during the afternoon. make the tray ready for tea at five o'clock, and carry it in at the appointed hour without waiting for the order. if the salad is in your care, prepare it in time and see that the mayonnaise, if this is needed, is made in season. set the table according to directions already given. at dusk draw down the shades and light gas and lamps in hall and drawing-room. in passing the soup do not use a tray, but put the soup-plate down in front of each guest, from the right. remove the soup-plate from the right, leaving the service plate untouched. when the hot dinner-plates are brought in, take up the service plate, substituting the dinner-plate. bring the meat to the table first, then place the vegetables on the serving-table. stand back of the carver, a little to the left. take each plate as he serves it and put it down in front of the guest, from the right. pass vegetables, etc., from the left. follow the same plan as has been outlined earlier in serving salad, sweets, and coffee. should you be expected to remain in the dining-room throughout the meal, the soiled dishes must remain untouched until after dinner. if you are permitted to wait in the pantry, many of the soiled dishes can be washed during the meal. when coffee has been served, go up to the chambers, remove spreads, shams, etc., turn down beds, and close the blinds. come down to your own dinner, and then clear the table, wash the dishes, and put the dining-room in order for the night. be ready to answer the bell during the evening. about ten o'clock take iced water to the chambers. if up later than the members of the family, turn out lights and lock up. the end miss heck's thanksgiving party or, topsy up to date. [illustration] by ida hamilton munsell. [illustration] dedicated to the woman's club of evanston, illinois. miss heck's thanksgiving party or topsy up to date (copyrighted by the author.) _to the woman's club of evanston_: devoted, as it is, to "mutual helpfulness in all the affairs of life," and to a union of effort towards attaining the "higher development of humanity," this little brochure is dedicated by one of its members. miss heck's thanksgiving party; or, topsy up to date ida hamilton munsell, b. m. any person with but half an eye could recognize at a glance the extraordinary character of miss myra heck! and furthermore, if novelists did not show such decided preferences for white-skinned heroines, miss heck would long since have won the world-wide renown which of right belongs to her. but, unfortunately, miss myra was born of black parents away down in the sunny southland, and the dark hue of skin and wisps of woolly curls which are characteristic of the negro race have descended upon their offspring. this is the more unfortunate in that this daughter--now a young woman of twenty-four or thereabouts--is possessed of really uncommon talents, while her brain teems at all times with schemes worthy of a french diplomat; and were she fair and dainty as to exterior, she would not now be occupying the situation of "maid of all work" in the little town where we first discovered her. yet, notwithstanding the accidental disadvantages which hamper this bright maid, she has managed to achieve at least local distinction in more directions than one. few families are there in rexville who have not at one time or another availed themselves of miss heck's services. servants of any degree of ability are exceedingly rare in rexville, so that miss myra could easily reign as the bright particular star in the domestic firmament of the universe, were it not for certain peculiarities of temperament, added to an ugly habit of prevaricating, together with a too confident disposition to presume upon her mistress' willingness to permit her cook to parade the streets dressed in silks and satins from her own wardrobe. but, because of this scarcity of help, and in view of the general ability possessed by miss heck, her employers have shut their eyes to such peccadillos as these so often, that by dint of much experience the young woman has at last possessed herself of such power that she rules the mistresses of rexville with a rod of iron. she has indeed reached the conclusion that although one family may decide to forego the benefit of her assistance in their household because of some little peculiarity of hers, nevertheless she is sure of a position with some other lady on the street before twenty-four hours shall have sped. so she oscillates back and forth--like a pendulum--from one kitchen to another throughout the length and breadth of rexville. her period of tarrying varies according to the blindness of her mistress and the condition of the master's pocket-book, for this latter article shortly feels the drain of miss myra's extravagant habits, and sooner or later collapses into empty space. then self-defense demands that the sable goddess of the cuisine depart to new fields and pastures green until such time as self-denial and rigid economy shall have once more filled the purse, and brought a return of the prosperity which had been temporarily suspended. thus you see that even though miss heck has not attained the national reputation of which she is worthy, she has at least in one small corner of the earth won for herself glory and renown. in this little town, if nowhere else, her name is a household word. it is difficult to draw a correct word picture of this wily maid; her talents, too, are so numerous and varied that one hesitates which to portray first. possibly, we can convey a better idea of her personality if we describe one particular scheme of hers and its outcome. * * * * * it was the day before thanksgiving, in the year of our lord , and miss myra sat upon the floor of her mother's dingy little parlor deeply absorbed in thought. she was working just at present for banker holmes' people, but fortunately for herself the entire family had gone east a week before thanksgiving in order to eat turkey in good old-fashioned comfort with relatives not seen for months. this left miss myra free to enjoy life to the uttermost. to be sure she carried the key to the big house in her pocket, and daily went through the pretense of airing and then dusting the premises. she also had access to the cold storage room, which privilege augmented greatly the bill of fare at her father's shanty. her parents had since earliest childhood greatly admired their offspring, and this ability of hers to vary the supply and quality of their edibles on occasion did not at all diminish this fond regard. miss myra had enjoyed her freedom now for seven whole days; she had walked the streets at morning, noon and night, dressed always in her best, and this best was no mean style, for the young woman was possessed of a figure neat and trim, while every cent of her earnings went into clothes with which she might easily outshine the rest of the working girl population of rexville. she had, during these past seven days, neither baked nor swept, set the table, or made the beds for anybody. in fact, she had lived an existence of unalloyed pleasure which comes from that idleness so dear to the african heart. but now she owned--to herself, at least--that she was tired. the dull monotony wearied her. what could she do to create a new sensation? she asked herself, while she sat with her feet crossed under her, tailor-fashion, upon the bare floor. one dingy brown hand, with its hue of pallor on the palm, moved restlessly to and fro through her crown of wool and roughened its carefully plastered locks until they stood out in grotesque tangles all about her head. at length a bright idea occurred to her; she laughed aloud; a merry chime of bells could not make sweeter music. "i'se hit it this time, sure, mammy," she called out to the woman who was bending over a steaming tub in an outer room. her mother wiped her hands hastily upon the skirt of her gown and went into the parlor where miss myra yet sat upon the floor. "hit what, chile? what mischief has you got in dat hed of yourn dis time, i'd like to know?" she asked eagerly, as she threw her ponderous body into a chair. "grand scheme, mammy; the best i'se had yet," announced the girl, as she slowly untangled her feet from beneath her dress and rose from the floor. "it's bound ter be a first rate one den shuah enough, myrie," the woman said admiringly, as she watched the supple form stretch itself to relieve the cramped feeling of the limbs caused by her long continued crouching attitude. "what you goin' do dis time, chile? tell your poor old mammy," the negress went on, seeing the young woman made no haste to unbosom herself of her scheme. "wall, then, old lady, if you _must_ know, here goes! but don't let it take your bref away," the girl replied with provoking deliberateness, and she crossed the room to where a small cracked mirror hung upon the wall; here she proceeded to re-arrange her hair, holding the pins in her mouth as she did so, tantalizing yet further the anxious mother. "the longer you wait, the better it'll seem, mammy," miss myra said after a few moments. the old lady made no reply; she always let "myrie" have her own way; she had found by experience that it was not easy to do otherwise. at length even the critical taste of miss myra seemed satisfied with the vision she beheld in the little glass, for she turned away with a contented sigh, as she did so exclaiming, "i'se gwine to give a thanksgiving party here, mammy, tomorrer night! and it'll be a swell affair, tew, take my wurd for it!" then she put on her coat and hat, blew a kiss from the ends of her fingers toward the old negress yet sitting stupid with amazement in the rickety rocking-chair, and with another ringing, happy laugh went out into the storm. the sky was lead-colored, the wind blew fiercely and flung the snowflakes which were falling rapidly with spiteful force against the girl, until her heavy garments were soon hidden by a soft covering of white. but not even the fleecy crystals of snow had power to change the hue of the ebony face, and miss myra, who was a sensitive young woman, could not but feel a sensation of disgust as she thought, "i must look blacker than ever by contrast." on down the street she walked rapidly; here and there she paused long enough at some house to leave an invitation for the cook or coachman to attend her thanksgiving party; but at the end of two hours this part of her preparation was ended. it was time, then, she decided, to turn her attention to further details of her audacious plan; and retracing her steps she soon found herself at banker holmes' door. here she entered, and for a long time busied herself with necessary preparations for the morrow's festivities. as twilight fell, she closed the house once more and walked rapidly homeward. that she had not been idle, the next night's feast would show. * * * * * any one passing by jim heck's tumbled-down cottage thanksgiving night would have been astonished at the number of gleaming lights flashing out upon the snow through the cracked and grimy window-panes, and would have stopped for a moment to listen to the sounds of revelry within doors. a fiddle squeaked in a lively, even if discordant fashion, while a banjo made frantic efforts to keep it company. there was a sound, too, as if of many feet dancing an old-fashioned break-down, which made the shanty fairly tremble under the unwonted strain upon its frail supports. the aroma of hot coffee also floated out upon the crisp air, mingled with an odor of more substantial viands, which appealed strongly to the imagination of a passing tramp who had paused to look through a window void of shade or curtain. suddenly the dance ended; the music ceased with one last unearthly squeak, and for the space of a single moment almost perfect silence reigned, and then it seemed as though just previously a cyclone of noise had been running riot. at this juncture from the doorway of the combined dining-room and kitchen the host himself announced in his most gracious manner, "supper am suhved, ladies and gemmin; choose youah pardners and walk out!" with one hand he pulled down the draperies which had been improvised for the occasion, and which had so far kept the glories of the feast hidden from view; whilst with the other he politely motioned his guests to cross the hospitable threshold. for a second nobody stirred; a bashfulness as sudden as it was unusual seemed to have seized old and young alike. then a tall mulatto took his late "partner" by the arm and made a hasty exit into the supper room. this was the signal for a general stampede for seats; but when the full glories of the scene impressed themselves upon the senses of the bewildered guests, each and all stood as if rooted to the spot, staring with eyes and mouth wide open at the unexpected grandeur. at the head of the table stood miss myra herself. but such a miss myra! accustomed to see her always in the latest style, they had, "up to date," never beheld her attired like this. solomon in all his glory, the lilies of the field in their beauty, were as nothing compared to her! she wore a trained robe of richest ivory satin, elaborately trimmed with point lace; the dusky neck and arms shone like polished ebony against the glimmering sheen of the satin. she stood perfectly silent for a moment, her head uplifted, and with a haughty smile upon her lips, did her utmost to impress these humble admirers with this transitory grandeur. "yes, it jis' is indeed mis holmes' weddin' dress, nuffin' else, you simpletons," she said calmly, as if announcing the most commonplace fact. "an' dis yeah is her linen, and dat's her coffee; and it's her silber, too," she added calmly, as she moved her hands here and there, pointing out the objects which she named. "but dat is nobody's business but mine; you uns has nuffin' to do but enjoy de good things i'se provided. sit down, goosies, and let der feast proceed," she commanded in an imperious manner, and set the example by seating herself--with due regard for her long-trained gown--at the head of the table. this proceeding elicited tumultuous applause, and from that moment until the gray dawn began to lighten the east, the fun was fast and furious. of all races in the world none can equal the african in its abandon of enjoyment. from the far-off homes of their ancestors, where the tropical sun forces vegetation into luxuriance and raises the blood to well-nigh fever heat, the negroes of the south have derived the power to live in and for the present only. "foolish!" you say? well, probably. yet, after all, how much of human wretchedness results from either idle regrets for an unalterable past, or causeless care for an undiscoverable future? be this as it may, at miss myra's thanksgiving party shouts of laughter, bursts of negro melody, the shuffling of feet, all these sounds became more and more tumultuous as the night waned. in the early morning dusky forms might have been seen entering many a back or side door in rexville, and many a mistress complained that day of inattention to duty; but the darkies never told the secret of their all-night festivities. for many and many a day the glories of miss heck's thanksgiving party lingered in the minds and on the tongues of the favored guests. upon the return of the banker's wife, that worthy lady found all her belongings in the same condition, apparently, as when she left home. miss myra was shrewd enough to skillfully effect this result, and if ever her conscience troubled her in reference to her late "grand ball," she always quieted its qualms by saying: "what mis holmes don't know ain't gwine ter hurt her none! 'tain't right ter be selfish in dis wurld noway! if der lawd don't make no ekal division of things, why i'll jes have ter help, an' dat's all ther is about hit!" * * * * * it must have been at least a year after the occurrence before the banker's wife learned of the party at which her possessions had played so very conspicuous and magnificent a part; and by this time miss heck had left her employ, being maid of all work at the parsonage, and hence beyond all need of censure from outsiders, since it was perfectly evident that her reverend employer was trying to convert this topsy (up to date) from the error of her ways and to pluck one more brand from the burning, adding yet another jewel to his anticipated dazzlingly brilliant crown. but at last accounts the worthy man's efforts had not met with that measure of success which usually have crowned his ministrations. miss heck appears to be a rather difficult "subject." topsy yet reigns over all the mistresses of rexville, and condescends to work for them all in turn. her impartiality is sublime! evanston, november, . _press of w. b. conkey company, chicago._ [illustration: cover art] [frontispiece: marguerite] dimbie and i --and amelia by mabel barnes-grundy _author of_ "_hazel of heatherland._" new york grosset & dunlap publishers _copyright_, by the baker & taylor company _copyright_, by the baker & taylor company published, march, contents chapter i which introduces dimbie chapter ii nanty discourses on the writing of books chapter iii on amelia, flues, and drain-bamboos chapter iv dimbie's birthday chapter v a letter from miss fairbrother chapter vi sorrow overtakes me chapter vii dr. renton breaks some news to me chapter viii dimbie comforts me chapter ix amelia expresses her opinion of me chapter x i discover that dr. renton is in love chapter xi my first caller chapter xii nanty cheers me up chapter xiii under the apple tree chapter xiv mother and peter arrive on a visit chapter xv amelia gives me notice chapter xvi forebodings chapter xvii my worst fears are realised chapter xviii dimbie rolls a great load from my heart chapter xix we inherit a fortune chapter xx professor leighrail pays us a call chapter xxi jane fairbrother's impending visit chapter xxii a literary lady honours me with a visit chapter xxiii i surprise dr. renton's secret chapter xxiv musings on autumn and the arrival of jane chapter xxv an engagement, and i tell jane my story chapter xxvi dimbie takes peter and amelia in hand chapter xxvii a discussion about a wedding gown chapter xxviii preparations for a wedding chapter xxix jane's wedding chapter xxx the death of a little black chicken an afterword illustrations marguerite . . . . . . . . . _frontispiece_ peter has spent his spare time building canoes professor leighrail this is how he began marguerite, i don't want to frighten you your will will always be mine, marguerite dimbie and i--and amelia chapter i which introduces dimbie outside, the world is bathed in sunshine, beautiful, warm, life-giving spring sunshine. other worlds than mine may be shivering in a march wind, but my own little corner is simply basking. the chestnut in the frog-pond field at the bottom of the garden is holding forth eager arms, crowned with little sticky, swelling buds, to the white, warm light. the snowdrops and crocuses have raised their pretty faces for a caress, and a chaffinch perched in the apple tree is, in its customary persistent fashion, endeavouring to outsing a thrush who keeps informing his lady-love that she may be clever enough to lay four speckled eggs, but her voice, well--without wishing to be too personal--would bear about the same relation to his as the croak of those silly frogs in the field would bear to the note of his esteemed friend mr. nightingale, who was still wintering in the south. yes, there is sunshine out of doors and sunshine in my heart. so much sunshine, that in my exuberance i have only just refrained from embracing amelia, in spite of her down-at-heel, squeaky shoes, rakish cap, and one-and-three-ha'penny pearl necklace. you will surmise i have had a fortune left me by my great-uncle. i don't possess a great-uncle. that i have been the recipient of a new paris hat. wrong. that someone has said i am the prettiest girl in the county. bosh! that peter has ceased to bully mother. that will happen when the millennium arrives. oh, foolish conjecturer! you will never guess. it is something far more delightful than any of these things. i will whisper it to you. "dimbie is coming home this evening." you smile while i ecstatically hug jumbles. "dimbie's a dog?" you hazard. "a white, pink-eyed, objectionable maltese terrier." i chuckle at your being so very wrong. you are not brilliant; in fact, you are stupid. dimbie's a husband. _my_ husband. and he's been away for three days at the bedside of his sick aunt letitia, who lives in yorkshire. i think it is most unreasonable for any aunt to live in yorkshire and be ill when we live in surrey. it is so far away. anyhow, dimbie shall never go away again to aunt letitia, sick or well, without taking me with him. for i find i cannot get on at all without him. when i turn a retrospective eye upon the years without dimbie, it seems to me that i did not know the meaning of the word happiness. i was foolish enough to say this to peter just before i was married, and he sniffed in the objectionable way which mother and i have always so specially disliked. it sounds undutiful to speak of father thus, but he does sniff. and i might as well remark in passing that i am very far from being attached to peter, as i always call him behind his back, being less like a father than anyone i have ever met. i am sorry that this should be so, but i didn't choose him for a parent. parents have a say in their children's existence, but you can't select your own progenitors. were this within your power, general peter macintosh and i would only be on distant bowing terms at the moment, certainly not parent and child. and yet mother would be lonely without me, although i have left her. poor, darling mother! that is my one trouble, the fly in the ointment; her loneliness, her defencelessness. i do not mean that peter kicks her with clogs, or throws lamps at her head. but he worries her, nags at her. now dimbie never nags. i think it was his utter unlikeness to peter that first attracted me. peter is small and narrow in his views; dimbie is large in every sense of the word. peter has green eyes; dimbie has blue. peter has a straight, chiselled nose--the macintosh nose he calls it: dimbie has a dear crooked one--an accident at football. peter has---- but i think i'll just keep to dimbie's "points" without referring to general macintosh any further--well, because dimbie is incomparable. i met him first in an oil-shop in dorking. i was ordering some varnish for one of peter's canoes. since peter "retired," which, unfortunately for mother and me, was many years ago--he having married late in life--he has spent his spare time in a workshop at the bottom of the garden building canoes which, up to the present, he has never succeeded in getting to float. but that is a mere detail. no one has ever expressed a wish to float in them, so what matters? the point is that this arduous work kept him shut up in his workshop for many hours away from mother and me. it was then we breathed and played and laughed, and miss fairbrother, my governess, read us entrancing stories and taught me how to slide down the staircase on a tea-tray and do other delightful things, while mother kept a sharp look-out for the advance of the enemy. [illustration: peter has spent his spare time building canoes] well, dimbie and i got to know each other in this little oil-shop. i, or my muslin frock, became entangled in some wire-netting, which really had no business to be anywhere but at an ironmonger's, and dimbie disentangled me, there being no one else present to perform this kindly act, the shopman being up aloft searching for his best copal varnish. we were not engaged till quite six weeks had elapsed after this, because peter would not sanction such a proceeding. he said i must behave as a general's daughter, and not as a tradesman's; and when i pointed out that royalties frequently became engaged after seeing each other about half a dozen times, and that publicly, he just shouted at me. for years mother and i have been trying to persuade peter that we are not soldiers, but he doesn't appear to believe us. he only gave his consent in the end to our engagement because he was tired and gouty and wanted to be let alone. dimbie was like the importunate widow, and he importuned in season and out of season, from break of day till set of sun. he neglected his business, took rooms in dorking, would fly up to the city for a couple of hours each day, and spent the rest of his time on our doorstep when he wasn't allowed inside the house. peter tried threats, bribery, shouting, drill language of the most fearful description; but dimbie stuck manfully to his guns, and at last peter was bound to admit that dimbie must have come of some good fighting stock. dimbie admitted most cheerfully that he had, that his great-great-grandfather had stormed the heights of abraham and wolfe. at which peter laid down his arms and briefly said, "take her!" and dimbie did so at the very earliest opportunity, which was during the christmas holidays. and so i am his greatly-loving and much-loved wife. much loved i know i am by the very way he looks at me, strokes my hair, whispers my name, stares angrily at amelia when upon some pretext she lingers in the room after bringing in coffee and won't leave us alone. ah, that being alone! how delightful it is. we have enjoyed that best of all. we had so few opportunities before we were married, peter appearing to think it was our duty to play whist each evening, with most cheerful countenances; and were i, out of sheer desperation, to trump his best card, he would scream with annoyance. but i'm not getting on with dimbie's points. i think his dearest friend, or even his wife or mother, would be over-stepping the strict boundary-line of truth were they to describe him as handsome. he's not handsome. for which nanty, mother's old schoolfellow, says i should be deeply grateful. handsome men, she tells me, have no time to admire their own wives, so taken up are they with their own graces, which is a pity for the wives. in addition to the crooked nose i mentioned dimbie has also a crooked mouth, giving him the most humorous, comical, and at the same time the most kindly expression. i wouldn't have dimbie's mouth straight for the world. it droops at the left corner. he opines that he was born that way, that it must be a family mouth, at which his mother is extremely indignant. she asserts that the mouths in her family at any rate were quite perfect, and that this droop is the result of a horrid pipe which was never out of the corner of his mouth, alight or dead, throughout his college days. dimbie laughs at this, and says shall he grow a moustache to cover up the defect, and i say no, he shan't. the crook of his mouth and nose happen to be in opposite directions, so even when he's depressed he looks quite happy and amused. nature, trying to balance things up a little, then gave him jolly, blue, twinkling eyes, and crisp brown hair with little kinks in it. he will be thirty-one on the second of next month. his mother, whom i have only once seen and that was at our wedding, doesn't approve of his telling his age to any casual inquirer in his usual direct manner, for it naturally gives her own age away. mrs. westover, nanty says, imagines she would pass for under forty when the wind is in the west. "why west?" mother and i had cried together. "a soft damp west wind will make a woman look ten years younger," said nanty sagely. "it is a north wind which works such havoc with her complexion." mother and i have learnt a great deal from nanty one way or another, and the funny part of it is that the information which doesn't matter always seems to stick in my memory, while important things go, which dimbie says is the way of the world. dimbie is "on" the stock exchange. peter calls it a sink of iniquity and its denizens liars and thieves. one of the liars and thieves married me on the strength of a good deal in rio tintos. rio tintos must be beautiful things to have been the means of giving us so much happiness. dimbie says they are not, that they are just plain copper mines in spain. dimbie is mistaken. copper is one of the most beautiful of metals with its red-gold, warm colour. it is the most romantic of metals. a tin mine in cornwall would never have done for us what rio tintos have done, i feel convinced. the dictionary says copper was perhaps the first metal employed by man, which makes it doubly interesting to me. each day i scan the financial column of the paper to see if rio tintos are up or down. dimbie says he has no interest in them now, and smiles at my eagerness, but it makes no difference. the words stand to me for happiness, and i shall search for them always. chapter ii nanty discourses on the writing of books when i casually mentioned to nanty--yesterday afternoon over our tea--that i had begun to write a book i was unprepared for her opposition, which almost amounted to a command that i should do nothing of the kind. but then she misunderstood me from the very beginning, which was only natural now i come to reflect upon it, added to which she has a disconcerting habit of jumping to conclusions. at the outset of our conversation her manner was depressed as she looked into the fire. "ah, well," she said at length, "it can't be helped! i suppose you mean a first-person, diary, daily-round sort of book?" i nodded, pleased at her acumen. "it is the worst and most tiresome kind, but perhaps it will be best for your poor husband." "my poor husband!" i echoed. "yes." "will you kindly explain?" "it will be difficult, but i'll try." she settled herself in her chair more comfortably. "it appears to me that women, dear marguerite, write books from several motives, the principal being that, unknown to herself, a woman will get rid in this way of her own self-consciousness. it is hard on the public; it is a blessing in disguise to her friends." "nanty!" "i don't say you are of that sort. why, i believe the child's eyes are actually full of tears!" she added in consternation. "go on," i said. "but you're going to be hurt." i shook my head. "well, i will add at once that i should not expect to find in the pages of your book as much self-consciousness as is customary in a young girl of your years. general macintosh is not a person to encourage illusions about oneself. to live with him must be an education, painful but liberal." i smiled faintly. "some women write books because they are lonely. an absorbing occupation, even if badly performed, helps to pass the time, and they yearn to see themselves in print. in fact, all writers yearn to see themselves in print--a most natural desire on their part, but one to be discouraged in this age of over-publication. other women write because they say they '_love_ it.' i am not sure that this type isn't the worst of the lot. they imagine because they love it that they must necessarily do it well. not at all, the deduction is a poor one. i love bridge, but rarely pull off a 'no trumper.' "and a few, a _very_ few, write because they have really something to say, something to tell. something new--no, not new, there is nothing new under the sun, but a fresh way of telling an old story. a burning force, something stronger than themselves, which is another name for genius, compels them to speak, to give their message, and the world is the gainer. now why do you want to write? which of these four impulses is yours?" she rose and drew on her gloves. "a burning force stronger than myself, which is another name for genius." she laughed. "you're not offended with me?" she asked as i conducted her to the gate. "just a teeny bit, nanty." "well, you mustn't be." she took my two hands in both of hers. "i couldn't dream of permitting you to sulk with me, little marguerite. i've known you since the days when you wore a pinafore and had to be slapped for washing some snails in the best toilet ware in my spare room before throwing them to the ducks--nasty child. it seems hard to discourage you, to talk to you thus, but whatever in the name of fortune has put such a dreadful idea into your head?" "do you think it so dreadful?" "terribly dreadful!" she returned. "i knew an authoress--i beg her pardon, i mean an author--who after a small success with her first book--nasty, miry sort of book it was too--left her husband, quite a decent man as men go, with red hair and freckles (they lived in the country), and went to london to see life as she called it, which meant sitting on the top of a penny omnibus and eating rolls and butter at an a.b.c. she wore her hair _à la_ sarah bernhardt, and expected to have an intrigue, which never came off, the lady being past forty and plain at that. when her second edition money--i think it got into a second edition--was finished she was very glad and thankful to creep back to her husband, who in a big, magnanimous way took her in, which i wouldn't have done. then i knew another author--successful fifth edition this was--whose head became so swelled that some cows in a field--she was lying in a ditch composing--took it for a mangel-wurzel one day and ate it." "do you expect me to laugh here?" i asked. "not at all," she reassured me. "i only want to impress you before it is too late. i have one more case. a poor girl wrote a book called _awakenings_, or some such title. a reviewer on an ultra-superior, provincial paper, the _damchester guardian_ i think it was, cut it to pieces with the cleverness, cruelty and ruthlessness of extreme youth. the critic must have been young, for only youth is really hard. there was not a good word for it; it was described as maudlin, sentimental twaddle. the girl--she was a fool of course, but we can't all be born clever--committed suicide. this was a bit of rare good luck for her publisher, for he got an advertisement for nothing, and sold forty thousand copies of the book in three months." nanty paused for breath. john, the coachman, looked respectfully ahead and pretended he didn't mind waiting; and i called her attention to our bank of crocuses. "don't like crocuses," she said. i laughed. "still obstinate?" "no," i replied, "i gave up my book over my second cup of tea." "dear marguerite," she said, kissing me. "i am sure you will make your husband very happy." "i hope so." "you're bound to, if you are as earnest as all that about it. your face looks like--like--a toadstool!" "thank you," i laughed. "i'm not going to say pretty things to you. you get quite enough from that silly dimbie of yours. but now tell me before i go, just to satisfy my curiosity, what is your reason for wishing to write this book? i always thought you such a simple child." i closed the carriage door and looked away. she leaned forward and turned my face round. "why, she's actually blushing!" she ejaculated. "home," i said to john, wresting my face away. "but it's not home," she contradicted, "and won't be home till you tell me why you are blushing like a peony." "nanty," i cried, "you are too bad." "marguerite, why are you looking so guilty and ashamed?" "i'm not," i said stoutly. "you are." "why should i look ashamed?" "that's what i want to get at. i ask you the simplest question, upon which your countenance becomes that of a criminal run to earth." "pictorial exaggeration," i said lightly. "and, nanty, i'm catching cold. remember it is only march." "take this rug," she replied coolly. "i shall not let you go till you give me your reason for wishing to appear in print." "but i don't," i said with heat. "you said you did." "never. you imagined that. i simply said i was writing a book--a daily-round sort of journal, as you described it. i never referred to publication." nanty turned up her veil and stared at me for some seconds. "well, well, well!" she said at length. "i wonder you didn't say so sooner." "you never gave me an opportunity. at my first words you were off at a tangent, and then i became interested in your awful experiences." she sat back and laughed. "the impudence of the child drawing me like this. if you don't want your books published write fifty of them. it will keep you well out of mischief and do nobody any harm." then she fell into a brown study, and i prepared to tiptoe softly through the gate, when she cried suddenly-- "wait! you have still not told me why you are doing this scribbling. i should have thought you would have found plenty to do without writing. there is your house--your sewing----" "you will laugh." "i won't." "promise." "i promise." "well," i began, "i----" nanty was looking at the sunset. "i want to write, i must write," i went on more firmly, "because i am so--happy. it sounds silly, ridiculous, i know, and you won't understand, but----" i paused. nanty was still looking at the sunset. "you see, i was never very happy before i was married because of peter--father, i mean. you have visited us often, so you know. you know how he worries poor mother. it was impossible to be happy. but now it is all so different, so wonderful, so tranquil, that i sometimes feel almost sick with happiness. it is too good to last, it cannot last. i am sometimes frightened. and i cannot let dimbie know how i feel. once you told me not to let the man i loved be too sure of it. the moment in which a man knows he has gained your love he ceases to value it." "did i say that?" "yes, you said that to me the day i was married. so what am i to do? i can't tell amelia; i can't write it to mother, for peter would sneer. i must have an outlet for my feelings, or they will overwhelm me. when i have sung and danced and rushed round the garden after jumbles i can fly to my book. i can enter, 'dimbie is a dear,' 'dimbie is _my_ husband, and he will be home in half an hour.' 'one tree cottage is the sweetest spot on earth, and i, marguerite westover, am the happiest girl in the world.' when the last half hour before his homecoming hangs heavily i can enter all the events of the day. it will pass the time. in the years to come, when i am an old, old woman, i can turn back the pages and read again of my first wonderful year. it will be a book only for myself, only for my eyes. that which dimbie could not understand i can put between its covers. a man, i imagine, cannot always understand the way a woman feels about things that touch her deeply, like--well, like when dimbie and i say our prayers together. and the song of a bird, a thrush woke us the other morning. it was perched on a bough in a shaft of warm sunlight, and was pouring out its little heart just as though it were breaking with happiness. my eyes were full of tears, and dimbie saw them. he said--well, he didn't understand. he thought i was sad, and i couldn't explain even to him that my tears were of joy. and amelia--she looks at me so when six o'clock comes and i cannot keep my feet still. i brush up the hearth and put dimbie's slippers to warm, and cut the magazines, and place our two chairs side by side, very close together, and put a daffodil in my hair, and go to the window, and wander to the kitchen, and go to the front door, and back to the kitchen to see how the meat is doing, and----" i broke off, for nanty had held up her hands for me to cease, and when she turned to me her eyes were full of tears. "write your book, marguerite," she whispered. "write your book." then she stooped and kissed me, and then she gave a laugh, but there was a little sob in it. i looked at her wonderingly. "you say i told you to hide your love from the man you have married. i take the words back. better too much love than too little between husband and wife, for theirs is a union dependent on much affection and sacrifice if they would be happy. and god forbid that sorrow, disillusionment shall ever enter into your life. god forbid that you shall ever be lonely, stretch out a hand at night and find emptiness, pour out your troubles and find a deaf ear turned to you, offer a caress which is met with a curse." her voice was so low i could hardly catch the bitterness of her words. "but can such things ever be?" i cried. she laughed a little dry laugh. "i have known of them. it would seem that some marriages were not made in heaven." i thought of peter and mother. had nanty's marriage been unhappy too? she had been alone ever since i could remember. the mistress of a handsome house, lovely garden... nanty broke in---- "and when you write your book, don't let it all be of dimbie. some women haven't got a dimbie, and women are the principal readers of women's books. enter as well all the little worries and cares which are bound to crop up sooner or later, so that the contrast between your life and the life of some lonely, unloved woman may not be too cruel. she will laugh at amelia's smashing the best china, enjoy your misfortunes, cheer up when dimbie is down with typhoid and not expected to live." "but you forget my book will only be for myself. i don't know enough to write one for other people. dimbie says i am very ignorant." "oh, of course! and that after all is the best sort of book, the one you write for yourself. some publisher will be saved endless care and worry. your friends will be saved the necessity of turning down side streets when they see you coming along--they have barely four-and-six for one of the classics, or a book they really want, let alone yours." i laughed. "you are not polite." "no, marguerite; i love you, and i want to save you from your friends. but perhaps some day when it is finished, when your year is over, when you are too busy, like so many modern girls, to do anything but play golf and bridge, or there may be another interest in your life, you might let me have a look at it. a manuscript written out of sheer happiness might be interesting, though a trifle tiresome. there has been _the sorrows of werther_. why not _the joys of marguerite_? besides, your grammar and punctuation might require some correction." "nanty," i said, "you are making fun of me, and i'm very cold." "marguerite," she commanded, "give me another kiss, and then i'll go. i have enjoyed my afternoon with the little bride." "i hear the whistle of dimbie's train." "what an astonishing thing!" she remarked sarcastically. "i mean, won't you stay and see him?" "no, i won't. i'm going home." "john must have been interested in our conversation." "john grows deafer each day," she said as she drove away. i wandered down the lane to meet dimbie, and presently he turned the corner. chapter iii on amelia, flues, and drain-bamboos "put down your worries," said nanty, so i must perforce enter amelia and the kitchen boiler. the boiler won't yield hot water, and amelia says that isn't her fault, that she wasn't the plumber who put it there, and she can't be expected to get a flue-brush into a hole the size of a threepenny-bit. when i said i thought she put it up the chimney she asked me what for. "to clean the flue, of course," i retorted, a little irritably; and she replied with fine scorn that flues didn't grow up chimneys, but at the backs of fire-grates and other un-get-at-able places. ever since amelia came to us her object appears to have been the sounding the depths of my ignorance, with the idea of putting us in our proper positions. i don't mean that she wishes to be the mistress exactly, and sit with dimbie in the drawing-room while i peel potatoes in the back kitchen; but she wishes me to understand that she knows i am a silly sort of creature, and she will do the best she can for me, seeing that she is one of the "old-fashioned sort" who still take a kindly and benevolent interest in their master and mistress. not that amelia is old-fashioned really, with flat caps and elastic-sided cloth boots, such as mother's servants wear. she is an entirely modern product. she knows how to do the cake-walk, and wears two-strapped patent slippers, with high louis heels which turn over at a most dangerous angle, looking more like two leaning towers of pisa than decorous, respectable "general's" heels. but she is old-fashioned in the sense that she appears to have our interests most tremendously at heart, is quite painfully economical, is forever scrubbing and cleaning, and calls me "mum" instead of "madam" when she isn't calling me "miss." just now she invited me to go and see how far she had got the brush up the flue. she was hurt because dimbie had said _he_ should have to get up early and see what he could do about the hot water. in fact, she had laughed derisively behind the roller-towel. she thinks no more of dimbie's capabilities than of mine. i went, and was much impressed by the length of the flue-brush and its pliability. amelia had raked out the fire, and, with sleeves rolled back, showed me what she could do with flues. it was like being at a conjuring entertainment. the brush flashed about like lightning, got into impossible places, curved, wriggled, and once i thought that amelia herself was about to disappear up the chimney. i clutched at her legs and brought her down. her face was glowing and black in places. "now, mum," she panted, "if there's no hot water, is it my fault? if amelia cockles can't get no hot water, no livin' mortal can, includin' the master hisself. i'll show him to-night." "oh, don't, amelia! don't do it again! it's so difficult and dangerous, you might get stuck," i pleaded. "we'll have a new boiler." "it's not the boiler," she pronounced; "it's where it's been put." "well, we'll have it moved. where would you like it?" she was guarded in her answer. "i'm not sure as you can move boilers about like furniture. we must think it over." she drew the brush from the flue, and i now saw it in its entire length. "wherever did you get it from?" i knew dimbie and i hadn't bought it when we furnished. "from the ironmonger's, of course." "was it expensive?" i asked carelessly. i wondered if it were a present from amelia to us. "sixpence ha'penny. i sold some bottles and rubbish to the donkey-stone man." "all that for sixpence halfpenny?" i ejaculated, ignoring the donkey-stone man, of whom i had never heard before. amelia eyed me a little pityingly. "would you care to see the drain-bamboo, mum? _that cost fourpence._" "the drain-bamboo?" "the thing we push down the drains to keep 'em clean and save bad smells." "yes, please." amelia produced it. it was tied up in coils, and as she cut the string it shot across the kitchen floor and narrowly escaped my ankles. i didn't like the drain-bamboo at all, it was a nasty, sinuous thing, and i asked amelia to remove it at once. "have you any further contrivances, i mean unusual ones, concealed about the premises?" i inquired. "them are not unusual. i can't think where you was brought up if you haven't seen a flue-brush before, mum." "i was born in westmoreland first and then dorking." amelia looked at me. "i mean i was born in westmoreland and then removed to dorking." amelia flurries me so at times i hardly know what i am saying. "i never went into the kitchen much," i added apologetically. "p'r'aps your ma helped the general?" "oh, no, we hadn't a general." "no servant?" in great astonishment. "we had a servant, but not a general." "a help?" "no, we'd four servants. you see, my father suffers from gout, and he requires a lot----" "cook, kitchen-maid, housemaid, parlour-maid?" interrupted amelia, ignoring my explanation. "that was it." amelia put some coal on the fire, which she had relit, with a considerable amount of noise. "no wonder you're hignorant, mum." amelia never leaves an "h" out, but in moments of stress occasionally puts one in. on the whole she speaks well for a cockney born, and educated in the mile end road. of course all her "a's" are "i's," but i find it difficult to transcribe them. "i tell dimbie i know i shall pick up the vernacular as i am peculiarly imitative; and he says he hopes i won't, as it is not pretty." "beggin' your pardon for sayin' such a thing, but it's evidently not your fault, and p'r'aps you'll improve as time goes on. you've time to learn." i tried to feel cheered at the hopes amelia held out to me, and prepared to leave the kitchen, feeling a little annoyed with mother for neglecting my education so far as flue-brushes and drain-bamboos were concerned. "how old are you, mum? you'll hexcuse me askin' you." i hesitated. were amelia to know that i was two years her senior would she despise me more than ever? "never mind, mum. no ladies likes to tell their ages. in my last place--tompkinses'--the oldest daughter, miss julia, used to begin a chatterin' to the canary for all she was worth when anybody so much as mentions how old they was, and the way time was passin'. new year's eve was the worst, when the bells was tollin'. i've known her wake that poor canary up, when it had gone to bed, and say, 'dicky, dicky, pretty dick,' and it thought the incandescent light was the sun, and had its bath straight away." "oh, i'm not so bad as that," i laughed, "i'm twenty-three!" amelia blacked her face more than ever in her surprise. "bless my soul! who'd have thought it? in that white dress you wears at night you looks like a bit of a thing who has just got out of pinifores. twenty-three! you're older than me, and never seed a flue-brush before." "perhaps you have always been brought up with them?" i suggested. "i could handle one at six, or my mother would have let me know what for." she swelled with pride at the retrospection of her infant capabilities. "you were evidently most clever. perhaps you were born grown up. some people are." she considered this. "i was always smart for my years." "and i wasn't. i think i must have developed slowly, amelia. when you were cleaning flues i was nursing dolls. perhaps it was my parents' fault. i was the only child." "and i'm the eldest of fourteen." "dear me!" i said. "and are they all expert flue cleaners?" "eight of 'em is in heaven." she sounded as sure of this point as the exasperating little cottage girl. "you'd better get on with your work; i'm interrupting you," i said, as i walked to the door. about every third day i make this remark to amelia with the faint hope of impressing upon her that _i_ am the mistress of the establishment. then i carefully close the kitchen door behind me, barricade myself in the dining- or drawing-room, and sit down and think about her. i am sure amelia has not the slightest idea of how her figure looms in my mental horizon. i don't want to think about her. dimbie or mother or nanty are much pleasanter subjects, but i can't help it; she is the sort of person you _must_ think about. nanty found her for me. she said, "you and dimbie will require someone extremely capable. amelia cockles exactly answers to this description." now what worries me is whether to sit down quietly and let amelia manage us and be happy, or whether to endeavour to uphold our dignity and be uncomfortable. were i to put such a question to dimbie he would say, "let's be happy." but this happiness is qualified when she gives us roly-poly pudding more than once every ten days. it is a pudding for which i have always had a peculiar dislike. i will order, i mean suggest, that we shall have a thatched house pudding for dinner. i mention my liking for brown thatch, not straw-coloured thatch. i sit with an expectant appetite, and a roly-poly appears, white, flabby, and bursting at its ends with raspberry jam. reproachfully i look at amelia, but her return gaze is as innocent and ingenuous as a little child's. she would have me believe that i never even so much as mentioned a thatched house pudding. dimbie sends up his plate for a second helping. while amelia goes for the cheese course i say, "do you think you could like roly-poly a little less, only a _little_ less?" and dimbie, passing up his plate for a third helping, says he will try, but it will be difficult, as amelia makes such ripping ones, and of course she enters the room at the moment and hears him. she hears everything. i think she must fly between the kitchen and dining-room when she waits at dinner, or have spring boots concealed beneath the hall table. i happened to mention the roly-poly to nanty, and she said, "be thankful she can make a pudding at all, or you might have to make it yourself." there was an assumption in her manner that i couldn't, and i didn't argue the point. it is useless arguing with nanty. there is another point in amelia's disfavour to put against her admitted capability--she squeaks. her shoes squeak and her corsets creak, and her breathing is conducted in a series of gasps--long ones when she sweeps a room, short ones when she hands the potatoes at dinner. she seems to want oiling at every point of vantage, like a bicycle. sometimes i lie awake at night and discuss or try to discuss with dimbie the possibilities of stopping the squeaking. "tell her to wear cloth boots like your mother." "mother doesn't wear cloth boots," i contradict. "i thought you said she did," he murmurs sleepily. "no, our servants wear them." "well, tell amelia to do the same." "she won't." "then i give it up." "dimbie," i say coaxingly, "before you go quite, quite off, couldn't you suggest a remedy for squeaking? oil would spoil the carpets." "fill 'em with corn," comes the amazing suggestion. "you put corn in wet shoes, dear donkey," i shout, trying to clutch him back from that beautiful land of oblivion to which all of us, happy or unhappy, healthy or sick, young or old, are so glad to go, when like little children we are just tired. but he had gone. nothing short of a thunderbolt would bring him back till the morrow. and when that morrow came i suggested to amelia that she should dip the shoes into water. "why not boil 'em, mum, with a little washing powder?" her face was stolid, but there was a hint of irony in her voice. with dignity i walked from the kitchen, barricaded myself, and once again sat down to think about her. the squeaking was unendurable; the creaking of the corsets was nearly as bad. for these two things i could not give her notice; besides, i should never dare to give anybody notice. a little later on i caught her in the hall in an old pair of wool-work slippers embroidered with tea-roses which had belonged to dimbie, but which i had surreptitiously banished to the boxroom. she was in the midst of a cake-walk; her chest was stuck out like a pouter pigeon's, and one tea-rose was poised high in the air. "_amelia!_" i shouted, scandalised, "what are you dreaming of? have you taken leave of your senses?" she brought the tea-rose to earth with a bang, and stood like a soldier at attention. "beg pardon, mum. didn't know you was there, or i wouldn't have done it. but i was so happy at thinkin' how pleased you would be in seein' me in these here shoes, as you have took such a dislike to the others." "but i'm not pleased," i rejoined. "i could not think of permit--of approving of your wearing wool-work slippers for answering the front-door bell." "it never rings, mum." "it will when callers begin to arrive; and when you receive your next month's wages i shall be glad, amelia, if you will buy a pair of cloth flat-heeled boots or shoes. kid are expensive, but cloth is beautifully cheap." "you mentioned them before, mum. p'r'aps you'll remember. i never have and never could wear black cloth shoes. it would be like walkin' about with a pair of funerals on your feet. they'd depress a nigger minstrel. anything else to meet you. white tennis shoes? they're soft and don't squeak." "no, amelia," i said wearily, "white tennis shoes would be worse than the wool-work. we'll dismiss the subject. it is said that a man can get accustomed even to being hanged. i may learn to like your shoes in time, and even regard their noisiness as music." and i went back to the drawing-room and closed the door. the subject was finished, and so amelia continues to squeak. chapter iv dimbie's birthday i find, in accordance with nanty's advice, that i kept dimbie well out of the last chapter; but he's bound to figure pretty largely in this, for he's had a birthday. a birthday cannot very well be touched upon without referring to the person interested, and dimbie was extremely interested because of the omelet amelia made him for breakfast. on the morning previous i said to amelia-- "to-morrow is the master's birthday. now what shall we give him for breakfast? it must be something very nice." "pigs' feet." "pigs' feet?" i ejaculated. "yes, mum. pigs' feet boiled till juicy and tender, and red cabbage." "but it's for breakfast," i repeated. "yes, mum. you mentioned that." "but you can't eat pigs' feet for breakfast." "mr. tompkins' brother-in-law, mr. münchen, was dead nuts on it." her attitude was unshaken. "but wasn't he german, amelia?" "p'r'aps he was," she admitted. "ah," i said triumphantly, "that makes all the difference." "what about brawn or sausages, or black puddings or ham, mum?" "you see they're all--pig," i said hesitatingly. "well, you're not jews, mum. tompkinses had a friend who----" "i want something novel," i cut in, leaving the friend till another time. "i want something we have not had before." she thought a moment. then her countenance brightened. "i know, mum, savoury duck." "don't be ridiculous," i commanded. "we're wasting time." "it isn't a duck really, mum. p'r'aps you thought it was?" "when you say a duck, i naturally think you mean a duck." i was getting tired. "but i don't. it's made of the insides of animals mixed with onions. you buy them at tripe-shops, and they're real good." i felt myself turning sick. "amelia," i said, trying to be patient, "will you remember it's breakfast we are discussing. i've called your attention to the fact several times. i think it will have to end in an omelet--a nice, light omelet. do you know how to make one?" now amelia will never allow that she doesn't know everything in the world, so her reply was guarded. "it's made of eggs." "of course," i rejoined. "and milk and butter----" the milk might be right, but i wasn't so sure about the butter. amelia pounced on my hesitation. "why, i believe you don't know how to make one yourself, mum." i was bound to confess that i didn't. "my opportunities to cook have been few," i explained. "the little i know was learned at a cookery class." amelia sniffed derisively. "and a lot you'd learn there, mum--hentries and hoary doves, i suppose?" "hoary doves!" i repeated wonderingly, and vaguely thinking of a very ancient white-haired dove. "yes, them silly things rich folks begins their dinners with--anchovies and holives." "you mean _hors-d'oeuvres_?" that i suppressed a smile should go to my good account, i think. "that's it, only my tongue won't twist round it like yours." "and where have you met them?" i inquired with interest. "at tompkinses'!" "and did they have them every night?" "no, just at dinner parties." she spoke in an airy, careless fashion. "i see," i said, greatly impressed. amelia had been accustomed to _hors-d'oeuvres_ at dinner parties, and yet she condescended to live with us. i looked with unusual interest at her closely-curled fringe, her sharp, eager features, and her shamrock brooch. i listened to her squeaking; it was the corsets this time. sometimes a bone cracks in them like the report of a small pistol, and i think to myself, "well, there is one less to break." but the number never seems to diminish. i fancy she must have a horde of bones, a sort of nest-egg of bones, put by, and as soon as one cracks it is promptly replaced by a sound one. occasionally one bores through her print bodice, and then she puts a patch on the place, a new print patch, which rarely matches the rest of her dress. i counted four one day. she will look like a patchwork quilt soon, and i feel a little depressed at the prospect. i roused myself with an effort to dimbie's birthday and the breakfast. amelia had produced the cookery book, and was rapidly reading out loud various recipes for every variety of omelet. "stop," i said, "i'm getting muddled." it ended in our selecting a savoury parsley omelet. "i hope it will be nice," i said anxiously. "of course it will be nice. you leave it to me, mum. i've got a hand _that_ light the master will be wishin' he had a birthday every day of his life." the birthday morning dawned clear and beautiful. my first thought was of the omelet. i rose softly, dressed quickly, and went out into the garden with the hope of finding a few flowers to put at the side of dimbie's plate. a fresh, springy scent met me everywhere--damp earth, moist trees, sun-kissed, opening, baby leaves. i inspected our apple tree, which stands in the middle of the lawn, with close attention. it is the only tree we possess. i looked for a promise of blossom. "perhaps ... yes, in a month's time," i said. i wandered down the garden to the fence which divides us from the frog-pond field. a garden set at the edge of a field is a most cunning device, especially when the field contains well-grown trees (which hang over the fence, dipping and swaying and holding converse of the friendliest description with your own denizens of the garden) and a frog-pond into the bargain. the croaking of frogs may not be musical, but it may be welcomed as one of the surest notifications of the advent of spring. mr. frog is courting miss frog. he says, "listen to my voice," on which he emits a harsh, rasping sound, somewhat resembling the note of the corncrake. miss frog is probably very impressed. so are dimbie and i. "so countrified," says dimbie, drawing a long, deep breath of the sweet, pure air. "so far from the madding crowd," say i. "who ever hears a frog near the big, noisy towns?" by and by we shall see little black eggs, embedded in a gelatinous substance, floating about the surface of the water. later on there will be tadpoles, and then more frogs. the beech tree, i think, is the most kindly disposed of all the brethren to us dwellers of the garden. a lime nods to the apple tree, which is exactly in its line of vision, but the beech leans and leans over the fence, craning its neck, holding out long, beautiful branches, which so soon will be decorated with a delicate lace-work of the most exquisitely tender of all the spring greens. the beech is a long time in unfolding her treasures--the sycamore and chestnut can give her many days; but when she does consent to open out her leaves, what a wealth of beauty! on this morning i thought i could almost see them uncurling in the sunshine, hear them laughing at their old friend the lime. i could have dallied with them, anxious to hear what they had to say, what sort of a winter had been theirs, but dimbie and breakfast must be waiting for me. i sped into the house, just in time to see dimbie removing the dish cover. i paused in the doorway to witness his smile of pleasure at finding an omelet--a savoury parsley omelet--before him, but no smile came. in its place was a blank look of inquiry. "what's the matter?" i asked. "what's this?" he returned. "an omelet." i walked quickly to the table. "oh, is it?" he said quite politely. we stood together and looked at the thing, was very small and thin, and hard and spotty. "i thought it was veal stuffing." he was grave and still quite courteous. "it looks like a bit of old blanket," i observed. "it doesn't look wholesome, do you think so?" "i think it looks most unwholesome." i put my hand on the bell. "wait," he said, "amelia might be hurt: let's give it to jumbles." but jumbles was a wise cat. he smelt it, stood up his hair on end, and walked away. and so we burnt it. when i ordered some bacon to be cooked amelia asked me how we had enjoyed the omelet. "it was a little small," i said evasively. "just a little small," said dimbie cheerfully. "that must be the fault of the egg-powder, there was no eggs in the house," she said as she bustled out of the room. dimbie peeped at me and i peeped at dimbie, and we both broke into suppressed laughter. "i always said she was the most resourceful girl i had ever met." "she is," i groaned; "and i thought it would be such a beautiful surprise to you." "it was, dearest," he assured me; "never was so surprised at anything in my life." i handed him my present and looked at him anxiously. would this too be a disappointment? he had talked of pipe-racks so frequently--of the foolish construction of the ordinary rack, which, supporting the bowl of the pipe at the top, naturally encourages the evil-tasting nicotine to flow down the stem. this i had had made specially for him of the most beautiful fumed oak. the bowls of his pipes could now rest sensibly, the stems pointing skywards. his pleasure was unfeigned. he left his breakfast to hang it up and kiss me. "how clever you are, marg," he said. "how did you know?" "you have sometimes mentioned it." he laughed. "i have derived a considerable amount of useful information from you one way or another. i may even become capable in the end." "there's no knowing," he agreed. then we fell to making our plans for the day. it was not often that dimbie took a holiday, we must make the most of it. we would cycle to some pine woods at oxshott which we knew well and loved greatly. we would lunch there by the side of a little pool set in a hollow--sleepy hollow we called it. it would be warm there and sunny, for the trees had withdrawn to the right and left, and it was open to the sun and rain and wind of heaven. when we had rested we would go to a dingle where i knew primrose roots were to be found. what corner and nook and hidden by-way and bridle-path in our beautiful surrey were unknown to me? i had flown to them from peter. i had spent long days in the fields, on the commons, in the pine woods away from peter. my bicycle was a friend in need. peter couldn't cycle. nothing short of a motor-car could catch me on my bicycle. peter hadn't a motor-car. motor-cars, bicycles, and truant girls were an invention of the devil. i would laugh in my sleeve, while peter swore. i am introducing dimbie to a lot of my old haunts. two on their travels are better than one. amelia packed our lunch and asked when we would be home. "it is impossible to say," i told her. "when one rides away into the country or into a sunset or into a moonrise one may never return." and amelia stared as she does sometimes when i cannot keep the laughter and happiness out of my voice. "there's the steak," she said. "cook it when we come in," i called as i followed dimbie through the wooden gate--which is such a joy to me, as it might have been iron--and down the lane. how glorious it was as we spun along the smooth, red roads, and felt the sun and wind on our faces, and breathed spring--for spring was everywhere! "go on in front, marg," commanded dimbie. "i want to look at the sun on your hair. it's like pure gold." i humoured his fancy. "i want to feel it," he called, "to stroke it, it looks quite hot. let's stop for a rest." we dismounted, and sat down on a bank. "you won't ruffle it?" i said. "no," he replied, "i'll be awfully careful." then he stroked the back of my head the wrong way, the dear old way he has always stroked it. "i _do_ love you, sweetheart," he murmured, kissing the nape of my neck. "there never was a marguerite like mine." it is at such moments that the tears come unbidden, tears of intense happiness. will dimbie ever realise how much i love him? my words are few. i remember what nanty said, although she has now recalled her advice. i don't seem to be able to let dimbie know what he is to me. human language is not sufficient, speech is so bald. sometimes in the night, when he is asleep, i press my lips to his kinky hair, but i'm always afraid he will awake and find me out, and i whisper, "god, i thank thee for dimbie." a lark was singing rapturously above us far away out of sight, a thrush was breathing forth liquid notes of silver, and a little golden gorse bush was giving of its best and sweetest to the inmates of the grassy lane. what a beautiful thing is a lane in which the grass runs softly riotous. a street of pure gold, as it were transparent glass, was what st. john saw in his vision. to me such a street, hard and metallic, would be a disappointment. i want in my heaven cool, grassy lanes, soothing and comforting to tired feet. "what a birthday!" said dimbie. "i want always to stop at thirty-one, and sit on a bank with you and look at your hair in the sun, sweetheart." "you'd get tired of it." "never," he vowed. "what a lucky thing it was for me your getting mixed up in that wire netting. girls are very helpless." "but they manage somehow to get out of their difficulties," i laughed, and we sat a little closer. "marguerite," he said suddenly, "would you like a--child?" i felt the colour rise to my cheeks as i shook my head. he stooped and kissed me. "i'm so glad," he whispered. "i wouldn't either. we don't want anyone but each other, do we?" "perhaps--some day," i faltered. "well, perhaps _some_ day," he assented a little reluctantly. "people with children seem so beastly selfish to everybody _but_ the children. they've no thought for anybody else, no interest. you say to 'em, 'my house was burnt down last night.' they look a little vague and reply, 'how unfortunate. johnny has contracted measles.' really anxious to impress them, you go on to tell them that your mother has just died from heart failure, and they say, 'how distressing. mary has passed her matric.' you want to curse mary, but you daren't. they represent all that is holy, all that is extraordinary (in their own eyes), all that is happiness; they are parents. you stand outside the door of the holy of holies. you know not the meaning of the words life, joy, fatherhood, motherhood. the sun and the moon only shine for them. the stars twinkle, and the flowers bloom, only for the children." he paused and sighed deeply. i laughed, and patted his hand. "how do you know all this?" "i have a married sister, remember. when she went abroad with gladys and maxwell i was unfeignedly relieved. they were getting on my nerves, father included." "but this is the age of children, remember, the golden age. before they were kept in the background, now----" "they are never off the foreground," said dimbie gloomily. "they are in the drawing-room monopolising the entire attention of the guests. if the guests don't want 'em the mothers are pained. you are a heartless brute, selfish and self-centred. it never seems to strike them _they_ are the ones who are self-centred." "but that is not the poor children's fault," i said. "children are dears when they are properly trained." "no, perhaps not. the children _might_ be jolly, simple, unself-conscious little beggars if they got the chance, but they don't. as it is, most of 'em are detestable." "but"--i began. "come on, marg," he said, helping me up. "you can't make out a good case for the modern parents however hard you try. let us be getting on." we made straight for sleepy hollow and our pool when we arrived at the woods, and set our cloth at the edge of its banks. such a quiet pool, it might be fast asleep. no insects hum o'er its unruffed surface. no birds twitter in the tall sedges which hug it on three sides. no fish rise, for what would be the use when there are no insects or flies. away in every direction the pine trees stretch, filling the air with their clean, resinous odour. we spread our mackintoshes in the very sunniest spot, and dimbie threw himself on his back, while i sat cross-legged in tailor fashion. "don't you want any lunch?" i asked presently. "rather," he returned, sitting up. "what have you got--omelets?" "that," i said, "is disagreeable of you. amelia's efforts were well meant." "hope she won't have any more," he said, with his mouth full of pie. "amelia will never cease to surprise us as long as she lives with us. she is a curious mixture of extreme cleverness and astonishing simplicity. and i believe her heart's in the right place, though it is difficult to tell, so surrounded is it by bones and patches." i fell to thinking of her, and forgot dimbie and the lunch. amelia will have much to answer for, for displacement of my thoughts. before i only thought of dimbie; now amelia edges in, try as i will to keep her out. why should my mind be taken up with a cockney girl educated in the mile end road? i object. dimbie took me away from her. "by jove, isn't it stunning here! the sun is as hot as in june. i want a series of birthdays in which to ride away with you farther and farther till we reach the sea. then we can sit upon the sands and tell glad stories of our love. and you must always wear that blue serge frock and let the sun wander through your hair as it is doing now." "are you quite sure there is nothing more you want?" i inquired. "yes, i want to kiss you--that little spot on your right cheek which is pink and sunburnt." "well, you can't," i replied. "if you move you will upset the claret and glasses." "don't care," he said, and as he kissed me a man appeared from among the pine trees. "oh!" we both ejaculated, shooting back our heads. he stood and looked at us with an amused expression. "don't mind me," he said quite politely, seating himself on the stump of a tree pretty close to us. "but i am afraid we do," dimbie said equally politely. "i've seen that sort of thing dozens of times," he continued in a detached sort of manner. we sat and eyed him indignantly. "in fact, i rather like it," he went on imperturbably. "oh, do you?" dimbie's sarcasm was sharp as a knife. "yes, i find it refreshing after my work. i am a balloonist, and have done considerable research work in aerial flight. i built an aerodrome once, a steam-driven flying machine. it went about a quarter of a mile and killed my mother on the way." "oh!" i said, shocked. dimbie was staring at the sky. "yes; sad, wasn't it? but she was eighty-seven. and i am sure, could she have had the choice, she would have preferred a sudden, practically painless death to a long, lingering illness." "so did you build this aerodrome on purpose to finish her off?" i inquired with interest. dimbie smothered a laugh, and the man looked at me thoughtfully, but didn't seem offended. "well, no," he replied, "i can hardly say that. i merely meant that it was just a bit of luck for my mother. i hope, by the way, i am not disturbing you." "not very much," i answered, before dimbie could speak. "that's right. i don't like being _de trop_, or in the way; get yourself disliked." there seemed to be nothing to say to this, and dimbie and i peeped at one another and endeavoured not to laugh. [illustration: professor leighrail] the stranger looked at us thoughtfully, benevolently almost. his face was extremely thin and worn, his hands delicate, and his boots too large for him. there was a refinement about his whole personality above the ordinary, and i liked him. "have some lunch?" dimbie said, beginning to unbend. "there isn't any pie left, but there's lots of bread and cheese and some fruit." "no, thank you. i have some lunch in my pocket, so with your permission i will eat it with you." he produced an envelope, and taking out a brown lozenge began to suck it. when he had finished this he extracted a second, and then a third. then from his coat pocket he produced a tin cup, dipped it into a stream which feeds the pool, drank, returned it to his pocket, and leant back in a finished way. "is that all you are going to have?" i couldn't resist asking in astonishment. "yes," he said. "being a balloonist, i am obliged to eat sparingly, so take my meat in a concentrated form. i'm one of the thinnest men in great britain, and usually wear two coats to hide my lean appearance. would you like to feel my ribs?" he asked this simple though somewhat unusual question in exactly the same way as a man might ask you to see his velasquez. "no, thank you," we both said together. "they're worth feeling," he said, a little disappointed. we assured him of our belief in his veracity. "a bit prudish, eh?" he turned towards me. "not in the least," i replied indignantly; "but to be quite candid, i'm not very interested in your ribs. you see, we don't know you very well yet," i added, to soften the blow. "where do you live?" he asked. we told him in guarded language. "within two miles of leith hill. pretty country?" we nodded. "what's the name of your house?" was his next question. "have you taken a great fancy to us?" dimbie inquired sweetly. "very," he said. "don't remember taking a greater fancy to anybody. you seem so ridiculously happy and young." dimbie's and my face, i fear, wore the expression of happiness fleeting. "i'm going now," he said rising. "if you had favoured me with the name of your house i might have dropped in on you some day from my balloon." this sounded rather interesting. "one tree cottage," we said together. he laughed. "might have known it would be a cottage. you both look so exactly like a cottage--lattice windows, roses and honeysuckle thrown in. quite common-place, if you only knew it." "good afternoon, sir," said dimbie in an extinguishing voice. the stranger smiled good-humouredly. "now you're going to get offended with me," said he, "and i am sorry. but you take my word for it, there are scores of young couples in lattice-windowed cottages--or would like to be in lattice-windowed cottages--with honeysuckle and roses and a baby. it's the craze now to live in a cottage. we avoided them as you would the plague in my young days--insanitary, stuffy, no gas, no hot water, floors with hills in them, walls with mould in them, skirtings with rats in them. yours is like that, i expect." we vouchsafed no reply. "and your drains--i expect they're all wrong. most cottage drains are abominable." "we have a drain-bamboo," i said eagerly. "amelia uses it regularly." "amelia sounds a sensible young person. i should like to see her and the cottage. i'm interested in young people. i was young myself once, though you mightn't think it." "perhaps it was some time ago," i observed. "yes, it's a long time." his eyes became reminiscent. "i jumped into an old man the day my wife died, very old. then i took up ballooning. i thought that might prove the surest method of ending myself--short of suicide. don't like suicide--unpleasant and dramatic." he still spoke with cheerful detachment. "and are you a professional balloonist--ascend from the crystal palace and that sort of thing?" i asked. he looked at me with amused surprise, i imagined, for an instant; in fact, he laughed. "oh, no, i am not a professional. i am engaged on various work. generally pretty busy. ballooning is my hobby. if you've plenty to do you can't be lonely." "we shall be very glad to see you," i said, suddenly feeling very sorry for this eccentric person. a shadow had crept across his face as he had spoken. how dreadful to be lonely, i thought. "our village is pine tree valley. we searched about till we found a place set among the pines. i love them so. perhaps you will dine with us one evening?" "it is very kind of you," he said quickly, "but i never dine with people. they invariably eat fattening, indigestible things. if i went out to dinner i shouldn't have ribs like knife blades." he spoke quite proudly. "but i should like to call and see the baby." "there isn't a baby." dimbie's voice was irritable, and my cheeks were scarlet. "i'm sorry," he said. "we hadn't one either." "and did you mind?" i asked. "not a bit while amabella was alive. but when she died i was a great deal alone, and the house seemed big and empty. i think it is a mistake not to have children." he looked at me a trifle severely. "we've only been married a little over three months," dimbie explained apologetically. "ah, well, that makes a difference, of course. you've got plenty of time. good-bye, and may i give you my card?" he fished one out of the pocket which contained the tin mug. it was a little soiled and wet. "it is unnecessary to give me one of yours," he said with a smile. "i don't want to know your name. i shall just ask for mr. and mrs. smilingface, who live in a tiresome, typhoid-inviting, creeper-covered cottage. good-bye," and before we could speak he had gone. with interest we examined the card:-- mr. montgomery leighrail, the grey house, esher. dimbie sat down and opened his blue eyes so wide that the crook in his nose moved in sympathy. "what's the matter?" i asked. "marg," he said solemnly, "do you know what you have done?" "no," i replied; "hurry up and tell me." "you have refused to feel the ribs of one of the greatest scientists of the world. that was professor leighrail." "well, he ought to have known better than to have asked me," i said, refusing to be impressed. at which dimbie fell back and chuckled softly for some minutes. chapter v a letter from miss fairbrother beyond the fact that i have received a letter from miss fairbrother, there seems to be nothing of any real importance to-day to enter in my "daily-round." i call my journal my "daily-round," though it isn't anything of the kind, for i only scribble in it when i have nothing else to do, and when i am waiting for dimbie to come home. i always seem to be waiting for dimbie to come home, and yet i don't always write in my "daily-round"; i wait for moods. dimbie calls it my recipe book. he says it looks like one, with its ruled lines and mottled brawn stiff covers. he wants to read it, but this i won't permit. i say, "dimbie, within those covers are the meanderings of a new wife, i mean a newly-made wife. it could be of no interest to you to read: 'i have ordered two pounds of steak for dinner. amelia is unusually squeaky to-day,' but they are of vital interest to me." journals can only be of interest to the people who write them. there are, of course, exceptions, such as pepys and evelyn--i have not read either of them, but they may have made notes of really important events. i don't, for i have none to note. besides, i never know the date. properly constructed journals have dates. i only know the month we are in. i have an idea whether it is the beginning or the end, but if anyone were to say to me, "what is the day of the month?" i should be extremely flurried. i always find, too, that people who ask you the date know it much better themselves. if you say it is the sixteenth they flatly contradict you and say they are sure it is the seventeenth. peter was always like that. he would sit down at the writing-table in the library with a calendar hanging right in front of his nose, and would suddenly pounce upon poor mother with, "what is the date?" mother, not knowing any more about dates than i, would gently refer him to the calendar. peter would not be referred to calendars. mother should know dates the same as other sensible people. then there would be ructions. peter would show mother and me what could be done with an ordinary pair of lungs. i used to think what splendid bellows peter's lungs would make. one day i ventured upon this to him, i asked him to blow up the fire. i shall never forget the result. his facial contortions and the noise he made were out of the common. i am wondering if he makes those noises now. mother was always a little gentler and more yielding to him than i, so perhaps the house is quieter since i left. i don't see them very much. not possessing a carriage, and the journey by train being a little cross country, we do not exchange many visits. peter won't allow mother to come alone, and of course when he comes everything is spoilt. he does not believe in private confidential talks between women. he says that most of it is ill-natured gossip, and i have never heard mother say an unkind word of anybody in her life. i did not mean to write of peter this morning. my head was full of miss fairbrother. such a delightful letter from her. dimbie was as much interested in it as i. she says-- "'i am thirty-five to-day. yes, i have reached half the allotted age of man. the psalmist was a little mean and skimpy, i think, to limit one's years to threescore and ten. probably he was old for his age, having crowded a good deal into his life. and all those wives and sons of his were enough to make any man feel tired.'" i looked up and laughed. "go on," said dimbie. "'thirty-five will appear to twenty-three a great and mysterious age--mysterious in the way that death is mysterious; a state at which to arrive at some dim and future period--very dim, very far off when you are but twenty-three. "'and yet my years sit lightly upon me. i can still run, though not so swiftly as of old. i can still laugh, though india is very hot and very sad in some of its aspects. i still wear cotton frocks--perhaps the last foolishly; but what is one to do in an indian climate, and when one has to count up the pennies in readiness for the old age which _must_ come? muslin i eschew as being too airy and girlish for one of rounded proportions, but mercerised cotton is my salvation. praised be the lancashire cotton mills! do you happen to have met with mercerised cotton? it is deceitful, for it tries to cheat you into believing that when you don it you straightway have a silken appearance. it may deceive _you_, but it certainly does not deceive the other women of the station. you read in their uplifted glance "six-three," which means sixpence three farthings. you don't care dreadfully, for are you not cool and most suitably attired as a governess? "'you ask me, dear marguerite, what i am doing. i am still existing in a pink bungalow endeavouring to teach two poor, hot, sticky children. of course it is cool now, but the hot weather will return once more, and then they are going home to that cool, green garden whose other name is england, and my work will be finished. this makes the fourth batch of children who have left me during the years i have been here. and now that garden is calling me, calling me with a voice not to be resisted, and i too am "going home." "'you, little old pupil, will be one of the first persons upon whom i shall leave cards. marguerite married is a person of importance now. her two fair pigtails went "up" long ago, but she will always remain the little old pupil to me. "'then, too, i badly want to see this wonderful husband of yours. he won't be nice to me. a young husband, i think, is rarely devoted to his wife's old friends. but i shan't mind. i shan't resent it. i shall understand.'" i stopped again to laugh up at dimbie, who was leaning over me. "she seems a very sensible woman," he remarked. "there never was anyone quite so sensible as miss fairbrother," i returned. "she could even manage peter in a fashion, and mother was devoted to her. one of the very cleverest things mother ever did was to find miss fairbrother." "please finish," said dimbie, "or i shall miss my train." "'your charming present, for which many thanks, has already raised me some inches in the eyes of the women out here. for long they have been trying to persuade me into wearing a hair-frame. you will probably know the thing i mean--a round, evil-looking, hairy bolster, over which unpleasantness you comb your own hair, hoping to delude mankind into the belief that you have come of parentage of samsonian characteristics. now this beautiful jewelled comb of yours adds somewhat to my stature when, with an attempt--somewhat feeble, i fear--at high coiffured hair, i swim, like meredith's heroines, or try to swim, into dinner. they almost pardon my lack of a bolster when their eyes rest upon such modishness. a little less spinster-governess, they think. and i translate their thought and smile. "'always your most affectionate, "'egoist.'" "egoist, indeed!" i said musingly, as i folded the letter and took a photograph out of my desk--a photograph of a strong, smiling face, with low, broad forehead, over which the hair was parted on one side, clear, unflinching eyes, and large mobile mouth. "why don't you put her into a frame somewhere about the room?" asked dimbie. "it is a fine face." "because i promised her she should never be on view. she imagined she was plain. i think clever people are as sensitive about their looks as stupid." "perhaps so," said dimbie, with a fine disregard of all trains. "was she very clever?" i was pleased at his interest in my much-loved governess. "i don't know," i replied. "i am not clever enough to know. but whatever she said seemed to me intensely interesting. mother and even peter were inclined to hang on her words. she was so witty, so gay; she had such a sense of humour. you see, she was only twenty-eight when she left. she came to us when she was twenty, just after taking a most fearful degree. mother says peter most strongly objected to this degree; that he said women should only take things like measles and scarlet fever, and be feminine, remembering their place in nature, and not try to be clever; and that if only miss fairbrother would do her hair properly and wear white-lace petticoats, she even might get married--there was no telling. and mother argued that she did not wish miss fairbrother to be married till she had thoroughly grounded me and prepared me for that high-class boarding school, lynton house. "and i recollect peter snorted at this, and said that if miss fairbrother could just manage to knock a little writing, reading, and arithmetic into my head and teach me to sew and knit, he, for one, would be satisfied. and he forbade anyone--man or woman--to instruct me in the art of painting flowers, afterwards to be framed and stuck on his walls. i cannot convey to you the scorn in his voice as he shouted the words 'painting flowers.'" "i think he was right there," said dimbie. "so do i," i laughed; "but peter had forgotten that the painting of still life was a product of a bygone age. to imagine miss fairbrother teaching me such an art would be to imagine her teaching me how to embroider wool-work pictures. granny worked two fierce cats with spreading, startled whiskers, in berlin wool. they adorn my old nursery walls to this day. miss fairbrother made up lovely, exciting tales about them and their habits, and for some little time, till i grew older, i was under the impression they left their frames at night and sported on the tiles. we called them mr. chamberlain and mr. balfour." "i must go," said dimbie. "the cats are most interesting, and so is miss fairbrother, but i have our living to make. what do you say to asking her to visit us for a bit when she arrives?" he spoke in a nonchalant way, and i looked up quickly. he had said he shouldn't have anyone to stay with us under twelve months. his back was turned to me, so i couldn't see his face. "do you want her?" i asked. "_i_ want her? certainly not. but you sound so keen on her, and--_she_ sounds lonely." "dear dimbie," i said, "you are a pet. i appreciate your unselfishness, but----" "well, write and ask her before i change my mind. i dare say she'll have the sense to clear off and leave us alone in the evenings." "but shall you care dreadfully?" i queried. he laughed. "well, not dreadfully. no man hankers after a strange woman in the house, especially when he's already got a dear one like you. but i want you to be happy, marg." his voice became very tender. "i don't want you to be lonely. i want your days to be a perpetual delight." he crossed the room and stroked the back of my head. "and so they are," i replied, laying my cheek on his sleeve. "one long delight. sometimes i wonder why god has given _me_ so much happiness. i don't deserve it any more than anyone else. peter, all my worries are behind me; in front of me is joy. i seem to have stepped on to a little green island of content, set in the midst of a sun-kissed ocean. the waves lap the shores lovingly; the breezes linger in our hair with a caress. you and i are alone, dimbie." and he laid his lips on mine for a moment, and then he left me. chapter vi sorrow overtakes me i take up my writing again, or rather my book is propped up in front of me, and i wonder how long ago was that. it tires my head to think. my dates are more confused than ever. i know it is may, but what part of may? i look out of my window--the bed has been wheeled into the window--and i see the chestnut is crowned with its white lights, and the broom bush near the gate is a mass of golden blossom. it is the end of may; it must be nearly june, for they tell me the season is late, that there has been much cold and rain. i am almost glad to have missed that. i like my may to be smiling and gladsome, not frowning and petulant. but to-day she has put on her best bib and tucker, and with the conceit of a frail human being i weave the pleasant fancy that it is done in my honour. "they are giving me a welcome, nurse," i say. "the apple tree is rosy pink with pleasure at my greeting blown to it through the window." and nurse, putting on her bonnet and cloak to go out, tells me to hush and not talk so much. they have been telling me to hush for so long it seems; but now i am tired of hushing, tired of being good. i told dr. renton this yesterday, and he smiled and said it showed i was getting better. "not getting, got," i returned. "when may i get up?" and he said he would come and tell me on wednesday; and this is monday, three o'clock in the afternoon, and i have forty-eight long hours to get through before i know. nurse is just a trifle cross with my impatience. she becomes irritable when i talk about getting up. she says how would i like to lie for some months; and i reply not at all--that it would be quite impossible for dimbie to get along without my being ever at his elbow, and that it would be still more impossible for me to remain in a recumbent position when an upright one is possible. i was glad of this "lying down" when i was in pain. pain! there was a time when i had not known the meaning of the word. it had passed me by, left me alone. i had seen it on a few people's faces; then i thought it was discontent, now i know it was pain. how do people bear it--always? keep their reason? does god try them till they are just at breaking-point, and then gently remove them? or send them the blessing of unconsciousness? they say i lay for hours away in a world of my own. i did not flinch when they touched me, moved me, laid me on my bed, left me in the hands of the doctors. and yet i would have stayed if i could--kept my brain unclouded to help dimbie when he picked me up, disentangled me (he always seems to be disentangling me from something) from the wrecked bicycle, and laid me away from that terrible wall. i did so want to help him. his white, set face recalled me a moment from the haze of unconsciousness which was settling upon me, and i whispered, "dimbie, dear!" but i never heard his answer. the mist became an impenetrable fog, and i left him alone with his difficulties. i don't know now what i wanted to say. he teazes me with lips that won't keep steady, and says i wished to know if my hat were straight. "dear goose," i protest, "it was something to do with the black chicken my wheel caught against in my headlong flight down the hill. i tried to dodge it--it was such a nice, wee black chicken, but it dodged too, and--i couldn't help it." and the tears tremble in my eyes--just from weakness. "i think i wanted you to go back up the hill and help it, for we were both in a very sorry plight." and dimbie, to my surprise, turns away to the window and says we shall have rain. if it had rained every time dimbie has predicted it during my illness we should have been obliged to take refuge in an ark and float about the surface of the waters. i am very cheerful now. i am getting better. what joy, what hope those words contain for those who have been sick and sorry. i wiped away the last tear this morning when mother went. peter's letters had become so tiresome that i told her she had better go. and as i threw a kiss to the back of her pretty bonnet as she disappeared through the gate the tear was for her and not for myself. "i would like to cut peter for life, and i would but for your sake, poor dear little mother," i murmured savagely. and nurse, who entered the room at that moment, said, "you've moved." "yes," i replied, a little guiltily; "but as the pain has almost gone, i thought it could not do any harm just to sit up for a moment and watch mother go." "you've sat up?" she cried in dismay. "yes." i snuggled my head down on the pillow. "i think i'll have a little sleep now, nurse." "i shall tell dr. renton and mr. westover." her voice was relentless. "if you do i shall sit up again, and refuse to take my beef-tea," i asseverated. "besides, it is sneaky to tell tales." her lips twitched as she poured some beef-tea into my feeder. "if you sit up again i shall give up the case." her voice reminded me of the stone wall i had smashed against, and i told her so; but she was not to be moved. "will you give me your faithful promise that you will not sit up again? i am responsible to dr. renton and mr. rovell. i have nursed mr. rovell's cases for years, and i do not wish to lose his work." she stood over me like an angel with a flaming sword. "i promise, nursey, dear," i said meekly. "but you won't take my manuscript book from me? i can write quite easily lying down. you see, it has stiff covers." "you can keep that," she conceded. "are you doing french exercises?" "no," i said gravely. "at present i am writing what you might call 'patience exercises.' when i am at work i forget how long it is before mr. westover will be home. i forget my back. i forget general macintosh and my other worries. i am so absorbed in keeping my spelling and grammar in order that i have no time for other matters. you see, if i were to di--go before my husband, he might wish to see these exercises, and i should not like him to smile at my mistakes." "you are not going before mr. westover," she said briskly. "all my patients think they are going to die. i am not altogether sorry, as they are so sorry for themselves that it keeps them absorbed and out of mischief. were they not taken up in picturing their husbands flinging themselves on to their graves in a frenzy of grief they might be picking their bandages off." i giggled and choked into my beef-tea. "i hate beef-tea," i said when i had recovered. "besides, it is only a stimulant, and not a food." "how do you know that?" she asked. "i saw it in mother's medical book." i spoke carelessly. "where is it?" her voice was sharp. "down the bed." she dived gently but firmly under the clothes and removed the book which i had had such trouble in purloining from mother by bribing amelia. "is there anything else you have read in it?" "no," i said, "i've not had time. i was just running through the index when my eye caught the word beef-tea." "what were you going to look for?" "spines," i returned promptly. "as mine has gone a bit wrong i thought i would like a little information about it." "and i'm just glad i caught you in time," she said sternly. "that is why i like nursing men so much better than women. men are too scared about themselves to go poking their noses into medical books, but women are so curious about their own cases that there is no holding them in. they look at their charts--i have seen them doing it in hospital when the nurses' backs were turned. they take their own temperatures, feel their own pulses, and ask a thousand questions which no sensible nurse would dream of answering." "i have not asked silly questions," i argued. "no, because up to now you have been far too poorly. what is it you want to know?" "when i may get up," i said eagerly. "well, you won't find that in a medical book. did you expect to do so?" "oh, no. i wanted to find out of what spines are made; the diseases to which they are subject," i said rather lamely. "yours isn't a disease, but an accident. dr. renton will tell you fast enough when you may get up." she put the book into a drawer. "it seems so long to wednesday." "he is not coming till next week." "not till next week," i said blankly, "and this is only monday. he said he would come on wednesday." "no, he didn't. you assumed that he would." "well, i call it most neglectful." "there is nothing to come for now," she said soothingly. "it is a good way from dorking to pine tree valley, and of course, as he said, there is no good in running up a long bill." "i don't believe he said that," i cried heatedly. "perhaps he didn't," she admitted; "but you mustn't excite yourself. i am going to lower the blinds. you said you were sleepy." "i never was so wide awake in all my life," i almost sobbed. "i think it is mean of dr. renton. i did so want to get up this week and smell the wallflowers before they were quite over. i think they were late in flowering for my sake. i put them in and they waited for me, and now i shall miss them." "i will bring some in for you to smell." "it won't be the same," i cried petulantly. "you don't understand, nurse. to enjoy wallflowers to the full the sun must be shining upon them, and you must stand a little away from the bed, and the west wind must come along gently, bearing in its arms the scent--just a breath of warm fragrance, and--well, that is the way to enjoy wallflowers, and--oh, nurse, i do so want to bury my face in them." i tailed off to a wail. she walked to the window and lowered the blind. "if you carry on in this way you will never smell wallflowers again." she was cross. "i shall leave you now, and perhaps you'll be calmer when i come back." "oh, nurse," i said penitently, "don't go. i will be good. and i want you to read me _peggy and other tales_. you read it so beautifully." _peggy_ is a dear black book which belonged to mother when she was a little girl. it was my especial favourite when i was seven, and it has been quite the most suitable form of literature for a weak, fractious invalid with a hazy brain and wobbly emotions. nurse laughed as she picked up the book. "are you not tired of it?" "no," i replied. "_peggy_ comforts me very much. and when you have finished her, you might read me something out of _ecclesiastes_. it is not that i am feeling religious or think i am going to die, but the language is so musical and grand: '_or ever the silver cord be loosed, or the golden bowl be broken, or the pitcher be broken at the fountain, or the wheel broken at the cistern._' it is the repetition of the word 'broken' i like. now had i been writing the verse i should have searched about for another verb--smashed, cracked--and straightway the beauty of the lines would have been spoiled. but solomon was so sure of himself. he knew the word 'broken' was just the right word even if used three times and so he used it." nurse sat and looked at me with surprise chasing across her face. "dear me," she said, "i never notice things like that when i am reading." "what do _you_ notice?" i inquired. "oh, i don't think i notice anything. i just want to hurry on to where the man proposes." "but men don't often propose in the bible, with the exception of jacob," i said laughing. "i didn't refer to the bible. i was thinking of books generally." "you mean you never notice how a book is written. you just want to get on with the plot." "that's it," she agreed. "i hate descriptions. they tire me to death, especially as to how the characters feel inside about things. heroines are the worst of all. they commune with themselves for hours over the merest trifles." "do you mean as to whether they will get a new dress, or engage a man to put a new washer on the bathroom tap which drips?" "oh, no," she said, a little impatiently, "i can't explain; it is not over things like that they worry themselves. but you look tired. you are talking too much. i will read you to sleep." she spoke with finality, and picked up the book. as she read aloud in a somewhat sonorous voice i lay and watched the tree-tops. "next week," i thought, "i shall be out of doors once more. i shall visit the frog-pond with dimbie. i shall wander through the fields with him. his arm will clasp mine, as i shall be weak, and we shall sit and rest under a white hawthorn hedge. the scent will be heavy on the still evening air. the fields of clover and wheat will----" and at this point i left _peggy_ and nurse, and fell asleep. chapter vii dr. renton breaks some news to me the week has passed at last--in the daytime on leaden feet, on wings of gold in the evening when, as the clock has struck six, dimbie and happiness have entered my room hand in hand. "only four more days, dear one," dimbie has said hopefully. "only three more days. nurse must begin to air your tea-gown." "only two more. i am putting bamboo poles through the small wicker chair. you may not be able to walk at first, and nurse and i will carry you. i could manage you alone, you are only a feather in weight, but i might hurt you--such a frail marguerite my little wife looks." "is it the drain-bamboo you are using?" i ask demurely. "for amelia might object." and dimbie laughs like a happy boy. "only one more day. to-morrow you will meet me at the door. nurse will help you there, and then she will go away, and--we shall be alone." his voice vibrates with happiness and my cheeks glow. "have you missed me, dimbie?" i whisper. "have you enjoyed pouring out your own tea and finding your slippers and working in the garden alone?" and he smiles tenderly and says he hasn't missed me one little bit, and can't i see it in his face? and nurse who comes into the room says "ahem!" her throat often seems a little troublesome. and now to-morrow has come. dr. renton may walk in at any minute, and i press my finger to my wrist to try to hush the beating. nurse has put me into my best blue silk jacket, and my hair has been done--well, not in the very latest parisian mode, but its two plaits are tied with new blue ribbons. she has propped me up so that i may see the lane and know the exact moment in which dr. renton may drive down it. i persuaded her to go for her walk as soon as lunch was over. i told her dr. renton never came, as she herself knew, much before half-past three, and that i felt unusually well. and as soon as ever i heard the click of the gate and knew she had gone i rang the tortoise--the bell which always lives on the other pillow--for amelia. she appeared, very dirty. "why, you're not dressed," i said. "did you ring to tell me that, mum? because i knewed it." her attitude was not that of impertinence, but of inquiry. "oh, no," i replied quickly. "i want you to bring me up one of the volumes of the encyclopædia. i don't know the number, but it will have spi on the back." i spoke nervously, for i felt guilty. i was about to embark upon an act of deception. would amelia detect me? but, for a wonder, she left the room without a comment. in a minute she was back. "there is no volume with spi on it," she announced. "there is one with sib and szo on it, mum." "that will do," i said eagerly. "it will be in that." she brought it with a running accompaniment of squeaks and gasps. "three at a time, mum." "three at a time! what?" i inquired. "stairs, mum." "well, then," i said, "it is very foolish of you, amelia. your breathing resembles a gramophone when you wind it up. i shan't require anything further, thank you; but please get dressed. i should like you to be neat when dr. renton arrives, and he will probably have tea with me. i don't know how it is you are so late." "i do, mum." "why?" my question was answered by another. "have you any idea what i do after lunch, mum? do you think i am skipping or playing marbles?" "oh, no," i said hastily, "i am sure you are not, amelia." "well, then, i'll tell you what i do, so as you won't be wonderin' why i'm not dressed by half-past two." she spoke volubly. "i washes up the lunch things--nurse's now as well; she's too grand to so much as put a kettle on. then i sweeps up the kitchen, sides up the hearth, brushes the kettle, cleans the handle----" "what do you do that for?" i asked with interest. "for fun, of course." "_amelia!_" i said rebukingly. "beggin' your pardon, mum, but it seemed such a foolish question--meanin' no offence to you. i cleans the handle, which is copper here--it was brass at tompkinses'--to get the dirt and smoke off. you never got your hands black in lifting _my_ kettle, did you now?" "i don't think i have ever lifted it," i rejoined. "oh, well," she said in a superior way, "of course you can't know; but people who knows anything at all about a house knows that generals' kettles are mostly black. then i scrubs the table, dusts the kitchen, feeds the canary, and waters the geranium, which is looking that sickly-like i'm ashamed of the tradespeople seeing it. the butcher only says to me yesterday, 'i see you are a bit of a horticulturist, miss.'" she stopped, breathless. "you certainly are very busy," i said. "busy isn't the word. i'm like a fire-escape from morning till night." i think she meant fire-engine, and i was not sorry when she departed, for i was anxious to get to my encyclopædia. i turned the pages rapidly--sphygmograph, spice islands, spider, spikenard, spinach, spinal cord. "ah, here we are!" i said delightedly. in a moment my spirits drooped. "see physiology, vol. xix. p. . for diseases affecting the spinal cord, see ataxy (locomotor), paralysis, pathology, and surgery." i gave a deep sigh. i always have disliked the _encyclopædia britannica_. from the moment dimbie introduced it to our happy home i have had a feeling of unrest. it appears to think you have nothing to do with your time beyond playing "hunt the slipper" with it. you wish to look up a subject like dog. with a certain amount of faith and hope you approach your encyclopædia. dog refers you to canine. you check your impatience. canine refers you to faithfulness. a bad word, if you were a man, would then be used; but you are not a man, so you only stamp your foot. faithfulness refers you to gelert, and you hurt yourself rather badly as you replace the volume. you give up dog. you would prefer your pet dying before your very eyes to searching any more heavy volumes. when dimbie first saw the _encyclopædia britannica_ advertised in the daily mail he became very enthusiastic, and after talking about it for some time commented upon my lack of interest in the subject. "why, marg, they are giving it away!" he cried. "oh," i said, rousing myself, "that is quite a different thing. i like people who give books away. when will they arrive?" "when i said, 'giving it away,'" dimbie explained, hedging, "i meant that the payments would be by such easy instalments that we couldn't possibly miss them. and a fumed oak bookcase will be thrown in free." i became interested in the bookcase, and when it arrived i wasn't, for it was black and varnishy and sticky, and very far removed from fumed oak as i knew it. i gave it to amelia for her pans, and we ordered another from the joiner, who charged us £ for it, money down, as we were strangers. we don't find the payment of the instalment each month in the least easy. in fact, we almost go without fire and food to meet it. i rang the tortoise sharply. the encyclopædia should be made to divulge that which i wished to know. i would not be hoodwinked. "please bring me volumes phy, loc, par, pat, and sur," i said to amelia, who was buttoning her black bodice all wrong. "and where's your cap?" "in my pocket, mum." she produced it, fastening it on wrong end foremost with two hair-pins which once might have been black. "it is an unsuitable place to keep it," i pronounced. "and where are your cuffs?" amelia smiled. "they've melted, mum. i forgot they was india-rubber, and i put them into the oven after washing them, and when i went for them they was just drippin'." i sighed deeply. "well, bring me the volumes. do you remember which i mentioned?" "no, mum." "i will write them down for you." "why not have the whole forty, mum?" she said, as she took the slip of paper. "those five will be sufficient, thank you," i said coldly. her panting was naturally excessive as she laid the volumes on the bed. "they are rather heavy for me to lift, amelia," i said. "please open phy for me and turn over the leaves till you come to physiology, and then go and see about some tea. i don't feel i can wait till four o'clock to-day." "would you like some drippin' toast, mum? i've got some lovely beef drippin' from the last sirloin which master carved all wrong. he cut it just like ribs--i mean the under-cut--instead of across. he'd have catched it if he'd been mrs. tompkins' husband." "but he isn't, you see." my manner was extinguishing. "you're a bit cross, mum?" she suggested. "no, amelia, i'm not, only tired--tired of waiting for dr. renton--tired, sick to death of lying here. do you know how long i have lain here?" "seven weeks come wednesday," she replied promptly. "no, amelia. you have miscalculated. you have minimised the period of time. i have lain here," and i stretched my arms wide, "a thousand days and nights, a million days and nights; and each day and night has stretched away to eternity." "lawks, mum!" her corsets cracked. "lawks! doesn't express it, amelia. go now and put on the kettle with the clean copper handle. no dripping toast, thank you. i am sure nurse would disapprove. she has a tiresome habit of disapproving of most things. besides, i don't feel like common fare. i want something to take me out of myself and to uplift me. something delicate, subtle, ambrosial. do you know what ambrosial means? no? ambrosia means food for the gods. i want food for the gods--iced rose leaves, a decoction of potpourri to assuage my thirst. go, amelia, and make speed to do my bidding." and amelia, with bulging eyes, has gone. i could hear her muttering to the landing furniture, "just a bit dotty in the head like ned wemp, the village softy. poor thing, no wonder she's queer at times. she _did_ bump her head." and i am laughing weakly. i feel, after all, unequal to tackling the encyclopædia. i feel faint with waiting and watching for dr. renton. it is half-past three. i heard nurse come in a few minutes ago. i hear amelia rattling the tea-cups. but the sound doesn't cheer me. somehow, why i cannot say, fear has gripped me at the heart. and i cannot laugh it away. why is dr. renton so long in coming? "'he cometh not,' she said; she said, 'i am aweary, aweary, i would that i were dead!'" * * * * * dr. renton has been here. and i have sent nurse away so that i may fight it out alone before dimbie comes home. i broke down a little before dr. renton, but i mustn't cry before dimbie. i must always try to remember that. he has quite enough worries of his own. i must never cry before dimbie. dr. renton's words keep slowly repeating themselves in my brain: "to lie for twelve months is hard, but--supposing it had been life-long crippledom, that would be harder." "supposing it had been life-long crippledom!" i must go on saying it over and over again till i feel patient, till i feel grateful for only being asked to bear the lighter burden. but, oh, how long it seems! how very long! to think that i must lie quite still. and this was to have been my first year of happiness, the first year in which i was free to roam at my will, free to stretch my wings away from peter's cramping influence. it seems a little hard. "but supposing it had been life-long crippledom!" i must learn to be patient. * * * * * i think i might have helped dr. renton, made it less difficult for him to tell. but i was selfish. instinctively i knew what was coming--his rugged face was more rugged than usual--and yet i clasped my hands and cried, "how long you have been. when may i get up? oh, say to-day. i _do_ so want to go to the door to meet dimbie. i ache to go and meet him. i hear the latch of the garden gate, his footstep on the gravel; then my spirit like a bird flies to meet his, and--amelia meets him. speak, dr. renton. say it quickly. say i may get up." and all the answer he made was to pick up one of the volumes of the encyclopædia and walk to the window. there was silence for a moment, and that silence told me all. "but my pulse is steady, doctor, dear," i cried with a sob in my voice. "my temperature is normal. my eyes are clear. my colour is good. i am _quite_ well again." "i wish to god you were!" he said almost savagely. "what is the matter with me?" i spoke more quietly. his evident emotion frightened me into a momentary calmness. i might as well know the worst or best and get it over. my heart beat thickly, and i closed my eyes. i had known dr. renton long enough to feel sure that whatever he told me would be the truth. and the truth was that i was to be on my back for a whole year; to be lifted from my bed to a couch, and from the couch back again to bed; that i might be wheeled from one room to another on the ground floor, but must never walk. never walk! as one in a dream i heard his words. dully and with unseeing eyes i stared through the window. by and by i should get used to the idea, used to being still. _what would dimbie say_? i turned to the doctor quickly. "does my husband know?" "no," he replied. "why haven't you told him?" "i wanted to make sure." "and you are sure now? there is no other way--treatment, massage?" i spoke breathlessly. "there is no other way. but a year will pass quickly. you must be brave." "but i didn't want it to pass quickly," i cried bitterly. "don't you understand this was to have been my year--my wonderful year?" "there will be other years," he began gently. "you are young, marguerite. all your life is before you. there will be next year----" "but next year will not be the same as this. go, doctor renton; leave me. i am going to cry, and you will be angry. you hate tears. but i must cry before dimbie comes home, and the time is passing. unless i cry i--i shall break in two." the tears were raining down my face as i spoke, and dr. renton swore lustily, as he has always done when upset. "good-bye," i said, smiling through my tears. "your language will deprave jumbles." he held my hand between his. "you know i am sorry. i am a poor hand at expressing what i feel." "i know," i replied. "no girl ever had a kinder doctor." "i shook you when you were a little girl with measles for running barefoot about the passages." he was patting my hand. "do you mean you want to shake me now?" i asked. "yes, if you cry any more," he said a little grimly, but the expression in his eyes was very kind. "i'll try not to," i whispered tremulously. "that's a brave girl," he said. "good-bye, keep up your heart, and we'll get you well." and i lay and cried for half an hour. chapter viii dimbie comforts me dimbie went very white when i told him. he walked to the window and stared for some time at the gathering darkness. i had chosen this hour, knowing my face would be in shadow. it is so much easier to control one's voice than one's features. jumbles rubbed his face against my shoulder. i could hear amelia singing, "her golden hair is hanging down her back." she sounded cheerful and happy. nurse had gone to the village to post a letter. she would be back soon to "settle" me for the night. why didn't dimbie speak--say something? i wanted to be comforted as only dimbie could comfort me. a little sigh broke from me, and in a second his arms were round me and i was held very closely. "my poor little girl," he murmured. "i _am_ sorry for her." "oh, dimbie," i whispered, clinging to him, "can you bear with me if i have a little grumble? i meant to be so brave to you, to put on such a bright face, not to let you hear _one_ word of repining; but i want to let it all out, oh, so badly. you only can understand how i feel, because you know and love me best. and after to-night i will try never to speak of it again." for answer he pillowed my head on his shoulder and kissed my eyes and hair and lips. "you see," i said, looking across the garden, which was shadowy and mysterious, to the frog-pond field, "i don't think i should have felt it quite so much if it had been next year. we should have been an old married couple by then, and have got used to everything--to all the wonderfulness of being together alone, i mean without mother and peter." "i shall never get used to that," said dimbie with emphasis. "yes, you will," and i assumed an old married woman's air. "it seems incredible now, when we have been husband and wife for only five months. how do you feel when you say, 'my wife'?" "thrill all over." "so do i," i laughed, "when i say, 'my husband.' i feel quite shy, and imagine people must be laughing at me. but--have you ever seen peter getting excited over those two words, 'my wife'?" "never," said dimbie. "but," indignantly, "you are not surely going to compare me with peter?" "i am not going to compare you with anyone. but just think of all the couples you know who have been married, say--longer than two years." "shan't." i laughed and kissed his ear. then i became grave. "now listen to my words of wisdom. i am going to speak for some time, tell you all my thoughts, and you mustn't interrupt. you and i love each other very much, and we are always going to love each other very much--at least we hope so. but this would have been our one wonderful year. this would have been the year when we should have walked upon the heights very close to the sun and stars. this would have been our year of enchantment, when the weeds on the wayside would have blossomed as the rose, and the twitter of every common sparrow would have been to us as the liquid note of the nightingale. this would have been the year when we should have wandered down dewy lanes, and, looking into each other's eyes, would have found a something there which would have caused our hearts to swell and our pulses to beat. "on june evenings we should have gathered little wild roses and plunged our faces into fragrant meadow-sweet, and laughed at the croaking of the frogs in the pond and had supper in the garden under the apple tree, loth to leave the sweetness of a summer night. in july we should have sat in the bay or gathered moon daisies; and i, forgetting i was marguerite married, would have whispered, 'he loves me, he loves me not;' and you, flinging down, your hat on to the grass, would have knelt in front of me and behaved in a manner most foolish and yet most delightful. in august we should have had our first holiday together. what scanning of maps and reading of guide-books! cromer, we would settle--poppy land. we would laze on the heather at pretty corner and look at the blue sea. too many people we would remember, and fix on the austrian tyrol. baedekers would be bought, trains looked up, only to find that when we had paid amelia's wages and the poor rate our bank balance was very small. and finally we should have found our way to some old-world cornish fishing village, where we should have bathed and walked, and fished from an old boat. in september we should have cycled along beautiful autumn-scented lanes, dismounting at oxshott, and wading ankle-deep through the pine woods, would have silently thanked cod for the flaming beauty of the birches silhouetted against the quiet sky. in november we should have tidied up our garden and planted our bulbs for the spring--crocuses and daffodils, especially daffodils, for do we not love them best of all the spring flowers? and then xmas would have come, with its merry-making and festivities, and our beautiful year would have ended on a night when with clasped hands and full hearts we should have listened to the tolling of the bell for its passing--the dear, kind old year which had brought us such joy, such complete contentment." i finished with a break in my voice, and, forgetting all my brave resolutions, two big tears dropped on to dimbie's hand which held my own. "poor little sweetheart! my own dear wife," he said, "i am sorry for you, so sorry i cannot express it. but why shouldn't such a year as you picture be ours when you are strong and well once more? this first year of our marriage shall be an indoor year. you shall be marguerite-sit-by-the-fire, knitting and making fine embroidery, and later on you shall be my marguerite of the fresh air, of the sun and the wind, and we will still have our wonderful year." i shook my head. "it could never be the same," i replied. "i may sound sentimental, dimbie, but i am a woman and know. men are very ignorant about love, only women know. men imagine that romance will last beyond the first year as well as love, but women know better. besides, men don't care about its lasting, it tires them, bores them; but women care, oh, so much. they can't help it, they are born that way. men are tremendously keen on gaining the object of their affection, and when they have got it they regard it calmly, affectionately, unemotionally. it is a possession: they are glad for it to be there, and almost annoyed when it is absent--not exactly because they miss the possession's companionship, but it has no right to be anywhere but at its own fireside. men go to golf, tennis, race meetings, fishing on their saturdays, sundays and holidays. they are quite surprised at the possession being a little sorry and hurt at first at their not wanting to go about with her as they did in that first wonderful year. the possession is unreasonable, exacting; she wants to tie her husband to her apron strings. she has no right to be lonely--there are the children, and if there are no children she must make interests of her own; or--she might even take to golf so long as she isn't extravagant and ambitious, and expect to play with haskells or her own husband. "all these are platitudes, you will say; but there never were truer platitudes. ah, if husbands would only realise and accept the fact that woman is the other half of man, but diverse, how much happiness there would be. diverse! he loved her for her feminine attributes before marriage--for her weaknesses if you like to call them such. why doesn't he after? a true, good woman doesn't want a great deal. a gentle word, a caress, a look of love and understanding from the man she loves are far more to her than coronets. a woman likes to be wanted, and i don't think it is vanity. watch her smile if her husband marks her out of a large crowd for a little attention. the other women there may be young and beautiful; she is little and old and faded, and wears a shabby gown--but her husband _wants_ her. women are never happier than when they are wanted. and how quick they are, how instantly they divine when an act of courtesy is performed for them from duty only and not from affection. i once heard a man curse when his wife asked him to hold her umbrella on a wet night when she was struggling with the train of her gown and her slippers. they were dining out, and couldn't afford cabs. she was frail, and he was big and strong. she just caught at her breath. through the years she had learnt wisdom, a greater wisdom than solomon could ever teach. she realised that this man would stand by her in a tight place, and with that she must be content. it was unreasonable of her to hanker after the little words of love and kindness which make life so sweet. he was faithful to her, he didn't drink or gamble or go to clubs. he gave her £ a year for her clothes, and he 'kept' her. what more could she possibly want? and if he swore at her, and told her she looked old, and why couldn't she dress like other women, it was only his little way, and didn't mean anything." i paused. "and so, and so that is why i am grieved at the loss of our first year." dimbie sat in silence for a moment, and when he moved and gently placed my head on the pillow i was startled by the expression of his face. "you speak from your experience of the manner in which your father has treated your mother," he said at length slowly, "and that is a little hard on other men. do you think i shall ever cease to want you, marguerite?" "i don't know," i replied. "yes, you do." his voice was stern. "i cannot answer for the future." "you have no faith in me?" "you see, i shall be a helpless log, a useless invalid for twelve months or even longer," i said. "it will be a great strain on your love." he dropped my hand and made to go away. "don't go," i cried. "do you think my love would stand the test of your being an invalid for even twenty years?" i did not answer. "do you?" he said, dropping on to his knees and looking into my eyes. "do you, marguerite, wife?" "yes," i whispered. "thank god for that!" he said. "i was beginning to think--i was afraid you did not understand me; that you were fearful at having given yourself to me; that you did not love me, in fact, as i love you, for where there is love there is no fear." he laid his cheek to mine, murmuring, "marguerite! marguerite!" and so we sat till the darkness fell and nurse came in. chapter ix amelia expresses her opinion of me and so i have settled down to my year of inactivity, of schooling my temper, of a constant looking for and waiting for dimbie, and of a perpetual wrestling with amelia. when i told the last-named of my misfortune she just stood and stared at me. i thought she could not have understood, or surely there would be a word of sympathy. she was kind at heart i knew. "twelve whole months on my back," i repeated plaintively. "and never have a bath, mum?" "don't be silly," i said irritably. "of course arrangements will be made for my baths. and all the rooms are to be rearranged. the doctor wishes me to be carried downstairs. the dining-room is to be turned into my bedroom, then i can be wheeled across to the drawing-room each day; and the smoke-room will be used for meals. "the smoke-room is full of bicycles and photographic rubbish," she said argumentatively. "well, they can be moved. don't throw stumbling-blocks in the way of every suggestion. are you not sorry for me?" i said. "very, mum," she assured me with warmth. "i knows how you will take on. no one is never satisfied with anythink in this world. now here, i would give my very heyes to be a grand lady reclinin' on a couch in a beautiful tea-gown, readin' novels, and drinkin' egg and sherry twice a day." "you would get very tired of it," i sighed. "well, you'll have to have a settled hoccupation, mum--makin' wool mats like the work'us people, though i must say as they don't like it. my uncle says they used to be quite peaceful and happy till them brabazon ladies came along and taught 'em how to make wool mats and rush baskets. they worried about the patterns of them mats till the old men was drove fairly silly. p'r'aps you could write poetry. you has a bit of a look sometimes of a person--i mean a lady who _could_ write poetry. there was a poet as visited tompkinses'--a sickly-looking gent with hair like a door-mat and a complexion like leeks which has been boiled without soda. tompkinses was very proud of knowing him, and the heldest miss tompkins used to wear her canary-coloured satin blouse when he came to dinner. when the wine was offered him he always said, 'no, thanks,' in a habstracted way, but when it went round the table again, as wine does, he'd fill a tumbler, and frown at the ceiling, and pretend he didn't know what he was doing." "and do i look like a leek that has been boiled without soda?" i asked faintly. "oh, no, mum," amelia replied with comforting haste, "not quite so bad yet. you've looked more like a love-lies-bleeding just lately since you had your accident--though the master seems satisfied. everybody's tastes is different. love-lies-bleeding is not my fancy. i like something handsome and straight up like a sunflower or pee-ony. writin' poetry would help to pass the time, and you has some of the tricks this poet had. he'd stand and stare at the moon, when he was in the garden with miss tompkins, and mutter to it like someone gone daft. he fairly skeered me; and he'd take on at catchin' sight of a vi'let as though he'd met a cockroach." "well?" i asked, trying to see the connection. "well, mum, i catched you carryin' on in just the same way in the garden on master's birthday. you was starin' up at the sky at a lark--i was going to the ashpit--and i heard you say softly to yourself, 'bird, thou never wert.' i couldn't help hearing you, and i wondered whether you thought it was a kitten or a spider." i laughed, though i didn't want to do so. i was hideously depressed at the thought of that glorious spring morning and now--but amelia was so very ridiculous. i watched her dusting, which was vigorous and thorough, and wished she would put ruth, a picture above the mantelshelf, at a more decorous angle. "i have been thinking that you won't be able to manage the housework alone without my assistance, amelia," i observed, when she had finished brandishing the duster about and had stopped squeaking. "we shall have to engage a charwoman to help you a couple of days a week. we can't afford another servant, i am sorry, but a charwoman will be very helpful. then if i sent all the washing out i think you could manage. oh, and i will have a window cleaner," i added encouragingly. i thought she would be pleased. i imagined servants loved charwomen. i know i should were i a servant--so nice to have someone to talk to, and into whose willing ear to pour tales about the mistress. but amelia snorted so violently she made me jump. "charwoman!" it would be difficult to convey the scorn in her voice. "charwoman helpful?" "aren't they?" i inquired. amelia flung herself towards the door. "you'd never seen a flue-brush, mum, and now you asks if a charwoman is helpful." i remained silent, overwhelmed by my own ignorance. amelia fetched a piece of wet, soapy flannel, and applied it to some of her own finger-marks on the white door. i felt glad she was working off her feelings in this way. "what do they go out for?" i said at length. "just to rob the silly folks who engages 'em," she replied laconically. "are they all like that?" "everyone as i met. it took me best part of a day to clean up after her as came to tompkinses'. she swilled herself in beer and tea, had meat three times a day, and hung tea and butter round her waist under her skirt just like a bustle when she went away in the evening." "but surely she was an exception?" i commented. "no, mum, they're all like that, every one of 'em," she replied firmly. "but how are you going to manage now i am laid up?" she hesitated for a moment, perhaps out of consideration for my feelings, but her own got the better of her. "i shall manage all right," said she briskly. "in fact, i shall get along much better. your helping hindered me terribly, mum. i hope as i'm not hurtin' your feelin's. you see," she added kindly, "you 'adn't been used to work, not with four servants; and when you did anythink i always had to be runnin' after you to wipe up the mess. you said you'd fill the lamps; well, you did when you wasn't putting the paraffin on the table--there was that to scrub, and your gloves and scissors to put away. and the day as you said you'd make a puddin', well--the sultanas was lying about like blackbeetles, mum, and flour all over the place just like a snowstorm. and it was, 'amelia, put the pan on, please,' and 'amelia, take it off,' and 'amelia, put some coal on the fire, the puddin' water's stopped boilin',' and 'amelia, the puddin's boiled dry.'" she stopped for breath, and i looked drearily through the window. "hope you're not offended, mum, but i wanted you to hunderstand as how i could manage all right." "i quite understand," i replied. "no, i am not offended. i am afraid i am not of much use in the world, amelia," and i sighed. "but the master doesn't seem to want you any different, mum," she said comfortingly. "he sits and looks at you as though you had won a prize at a show. mr. tompkins used to stare at his black prize minorca just in the same hidentical way." "his black minorca?" i repeated vaguely. "yes, mum. one of his hens as got a first prize, and was a rare layer." "oh!" i murmured. "i must go now," she said, "and put the potatoes on for your lunch. and don't you fret about the work, mum. as soon as ever nurse has gone, who makes a power of mess, i shall have plenty of time and to spare, and can put a patch on my pink body." "what, another?" i almost shouted. "that will make the seventh." she regarded me with uplifted brows. "you don't want the bones of my stays to come through, mum?" "oh, no," i assured her quickly. "but is it necessary to have quite so many bones? i have only about six altogether." she looked me up and down with an eye devoid of any admiration. "of course, i don't wear corsets at all now," i hastened to explain. "my figger has always been my strong point, mum, and i'm not goin' to let myself go. of course, you're thin, mum, so it doesn't matter so much. but people who lets themselves go always has big waists, like the statues in picture galleries. i once went to a show in whitechapel, and i says to the girl who went along with me 'i'd be downright ashamed if i couldn't show a smaller waist than that venus.' i expect yours will be pretty big when you gets about again," with which comforting prediction she retired to the lower regions and left me with this pleasing prospect and my own thoughts, which were not of the most cheerful description. it is hard to be told that one is of no use in the world, and to be compared with a black prize minorca, however good a layer! chapter x i discover that dr. renton is in love nurse has gone, and i am not overwhelmed with grief. i could quite see that within another week the kitchen would have been turned into a pugilistic ring, and she and amelia would have settled their grievances in a fight. amelia has said, with her nose in the air, "seems to think i am just here to wait on her, mum. nurses halways imagines they're duchesses, and just took to nursin' out of pilanthropy." and nurse has said kindly, "i don't want to worry you, mrs. westover, but probably _that_ girl is here just as a temporary, or i shouldn't speak; but really her impertinence is----" "she is _quite_ permanent," i have hastened to assure her, at which she too has stuck her nose in the air; and so they have gone about as though the law of gravitation was reversed, and their noses permanently drawn heavenwards. i am downstairs in the drawing-room. i found awaiting me an invalid couch--an ilkley--low and luxurious, with soft down cushions cased in silk of a lovely golden hue--a couch contrived to ease the weariness of tired people. they have pushed it into the window, and from here i can see all my friends of the garden--the apple tree best loved of all, for is it not our very _own_ tree, growing on our domain? one has a peculiar affection for one's own possessions. not that i am anything but grateful to the beech in the frog-pond field for casting its cool shadow across the lawn; but it belongs to somebody else--perhaps some farmer who hardly knows of its existence. my descent from the upper regions was somewhat perilous. we--amelia, nurse, and i--wanted to take dimbie by surprise, so nurse said she would superintend my removal. as a matter of fact, she did nothing of the kind, for amelia superintended it. first of all she made me put up my hair. she said i could not "boss the show" with it hanging down in two plaits. i reflected that were i to dress it as high as the eiffel tower i should not be able to boss _her_, but i did not mention this. next she picked up _her_ end of the chair and fairly ran with me down the stairs, nurse being bound to follow. i closed my eyes and held my breath, and when i opened them again i found myself staring at two gorgeous yellow flags decorated with portraits of the king and queen. they had certainly not been there on the last occasion of my being in the drawing-room. the king wore a top-hat and carelessly held a cigar in his kid-gloved hand. the queen, poor thing, was extremely _decolletée_, and wore mauve roses in her hair. the king, in morning dress, seemed out of place to me by the side of such grandeur on the part of his spouse. amelia broke into my musings. "thought we would have a bit of decoration, like the jubilee, mum, in your honour, so i got them flags in the village." she looked at me expectantly, and nurse sniffed. the sniff annoyed me. "it was extremely kind of you, amelia," i said warmly. "thank you very much." "and the hilkley, mum? the master got that, and we smuggled it into the house without your hearing anythink that was going on. and he's been wheeling it about hever since, trying to get the best persition, where the sun wouldn't catch your eyes, and where you could see the garden and the happle tree." "i think it is lovely. please lift me on to it, nurse. _you_ will have to lift me to-morrow, amelia," i said soothingly. she watched the proceeding carefully, and with gentle hand arranged the cushions. the hand was rough and coarsened by hard work, but i felt that it would ever be ready to do my service. i told them to leave me, as i wanted to be alone. i wanted to think. now that i was downstairs i wished to review my position. the familiar aspect of the room, the furniture--which amelia had pushed against the walls with an undesirable effort at neatness--conjured up a thousand pleasant memories. it had been on a snowy winter afternoon when dimbie and i had first come home. how peaceful, how delicious the warm, fire-lit room had seemed after the rush of hotel life! we sat in the gloaming talking, planning out our lives, what we would do, where we would go; and now--ah! when should i cease to chafe at lying still? i thought of all the people who had had to lie so much--mrs. browning, stevenson, and they had seemed so patient over years of ill-health--and my inactivity was but for one year, and yet i was not patient. * * * * * doctor renton came into the room, bearing in his arms a great bunch of roses. "from your mother," he said; "she came round with them this morning. she wanted to come with me." "and why didn't she?" i felt my eyes kindle. "you know," he replied with a shrug. "peter is a beast!" i said. he smiled. "you are evidently better. i am glad to find you downstairs. how did you manage the removal?" i described it fully, and he laughed. "that girl of yours is a brick. i should keep her." "she wouldn't go," i said. "she will help you not to be lonely. have you made any friends here yet?" "no," i returned. "i believe some people called when i was ill. but i don't want anybody." "you only want your husband?" i nodded. "you seem uncommonly fond of one another." "of course," i said. to my surprise he sighed and walked to the window. i noticed his figure was a little bent and his hair grey. i had known dr. renton all my life, but for the first time it came to me that he was lonely. "why have you never married?" i asked suddenly. he surely wanted a wife. he started, and then smiled. "all young married people want to know that of their friends," he said evasively. "i think you would have made an awfully nice husband, and--it seems such a pity that you should be alone." he picked up one of the roses which i had untied and held it to his face. "how do you mean, a pity?" "why, that you should be in that great big house at dorking by yourself when there are so many women in the world. they seem to overflow. i don't know what is to be done with them all." "so you want to marry me for the sake of reducing the number of spinsters?" he laughed. "well, not exactly," i replied. "but i feel you have lost so much--you and the woman you ought to have married." "how do you know there was one?" he asked sharply. i smiled. "i guessed," i said. "i am quite brilliant at times. where is she?" "in india." he stopped abruptly on the word, and from his attitude i realised he would have given much to recall it. i felt i had been impertinent. "forgive me----" i began. "not at all," he said. "i don't mind. it's rather a relief to speak of it. you--you are still in love, and will understand. once there was a time when i looked forward to being married. i looked forward greatly. i thought of it morning, noon, and night." "well?" i said gently. "she went abroad." "but why? didn't she return your love?" "i--i don't know." "you don't know?" i raised my voice. "no." "didn't you tell her?" "you see, she went off so quickly. she was in such a deuce of a hurry to get abroad." "what do you call a hurry?" dr. renton shuffled. "perhaps you knew her for three months?" "i knew her for two years." "and you call two years a hurry?" i endeavoured to keep the sarcasm out of my voice. "of course, i didn't know if she cared anything about me." "did you expect her to propose to you?" "oh, no, certainly not." "i see, you dangled about her for two years. in fact, you almost compromised her. then you were astonished at the poor woman running away. year after year you played fast and loose with her----" "i don't call two years year after year," he interrupted meekly. "i do," i said severely. "dimbie was only six weeks." he laughed. "we are not all made of the same stuff as dimbie." he spoke so humbly, so unlike his usual decided self, that i began to feel sorry for him. "and do you think this woman will ever come back?" "i wish to god she would," he said, with an intensity that startled me. "why, i do believe you still care for her," i said. "of course i do," he returned with asperity. "i thought i mentioned that." "no, you didn't. you simply said you had driven a woman to india. poor thing, my heart bleeds for her. i expect her tears have made a sort of railway cutting down her cheeks, and she will be prematurely aged." dr. renton grunted. "if you still care for her, may i ask why you don't follow her, or write to her?" "that is what i have asked myself a thousand times a day," he cried, walking up and down the room. "for years i have been asking myself." "years!" i said in dismay. "is it years?" he nodded. "then i am afraid you are too late." i sighed. "of course i am. i've been a fool. now it is too late." "i'm very sorry." he held out his hand. "good-bye." "can nothing be done?" i wondered. "i'm afraid not, marguerite." "but you would be so happy married." "do you think all married people are happy?" "no, according to nanty few of them are. but i think _you_ would have been, and i am sure of your wife. you are so strong and kind. i always think of you in the same way as i think of miss fairbrother." "oh!" he said, turning his face away. "yes, as the shadow of a great rock in a weary and thirsty land. you are both such comforting people. do you remember miss fairbrother, my old governess?" "yes," he said, and he walked quickly to the door and went out. chapter xi my first caller yesterday morning dimbie said to me-- "have any of those beastly women called yet?" "what women?" i asked in surprise. "why, the women who live round here, of course. i suppose there are one or two knocking about? i saw a lady with thick ankles and a wellington nose come out of the old grange." "no, she's not been," i said laughing. "we've only been here six months, and we're poor. if they came in a hurry it would look as though they wanted to know us." "and i'm jolly sure we don't want to know them." dimbie was heated. "of course we don't, dear; but they won't realise that." "still, it would be rather nice if somebody dropped in occasionally to have a chat with you and discuss amelia," he said. "i don't want to discuss amelia," i retorted. "i wish nanty would come a bit oftener." "it is a long way for her to drive. why do you wish to cram the house with women?" i said plaintively. "i have quite enough to do with my reading, mending, sewing, and writing without being inundated by a lot of strange females." his dear face brightened. "so long as you don't feel lonely and the days long, that's all right." he stroked my head the wrong way. "i'm not a bit lonely," i said. "no one could be lonely or dull who had an amelia; and now the weather is so warm and lovely i lie for hours under the apple tree. june herself is more than a companion. i think i am going to read; i cut the magazines, take out a new novel, and then i lie with eyes half closed looking at the gifts june has lavished with prodigal hand, listening to the whisperings of leaves and grass and flowers." "what a patient, plucky little girl," he whispered. "patient!" i cried, when he had gone, and the click of the gate told me another long day had to be lived through alone. "patient!" but how glad i am he doesn't know. the little lazy insects seem so happy to be doing nothing. they spread their wings in the warm sun, and rub their little legs together from sheer contentment at just being alive. they regard with ill-concealed scorn the aggressive busyness of the bees in the syringa bush, who, like all working things, are kicking up a tremendous fuss about their efforts. "laziness, doing nothing," the insects say, "breed peace and contentment." "but what about enforced laziness--lying still on a couch?" i cry. oxshott woods are calling me. i want to lie on the warm, scented pine-needles, with the sun filtering through the branches of the sad, stately trees on to my face; i want my senses to be lulled into that beatific repose which only nature sounds can achieve. one thinks that woods--pine woods--on a calm day are still; but lie and listen carefully, and one will marvel at the multitude of sounds, at the little hoppings and twitterings, and scurryings and crawlings and peckings. you are far too lazy to turn your head, but you are conscious that little bright eyes have you well in focus, that a movement on your part will cause fear and confusion in the settlement, so--you don't turn your head. you like to know that they are there, and presently you fall asleep, and who knows what they do then? and i am to miss all this. the woods may call, but i must lie still. the wild-rose hedges may send messages to me on the soft south wind, invitations to view their loveliness, but i must refuse them all. i must wait for another year. amelia is anxious to wheel me into the lane. dimbie is more anxious, but i say "no." who that is injured is not sensitive? i dread the encountering of curious eyes, of eyes that even might be pitying. i want to be left alone in the garden with the birds and insects. they don't allude to my misfortune, they don't pity me. they always say the right thing. * * * * * as though in direct answer to dimbie's inquiry, the woman with the thick ankles from the old grange has called. i must have fallen asleep, for i was dreaming most foolishly and beautifully that dimbie and i were in a meadow making daisy-chains, when i was rudely brought back to my own drawing-room--amelia had wheeled me into the house as the sun had gone--by hearing her say, "a lady to see you, mum." a little irritably--for i didn't want to leave the daisy-chains--i looked round for the lady, but she wasn't there. "she's on the doorstep, mum. will you see her?" "of course," i said. "you must never leave people on the doorstep; it is very rude." "what about old clothes women, mum?" i ignored her question, which seemed to me unusually foolish, and asked her what she meant by wearing the tea-rose slippers, which i had expressly forbidden. "go and change them." i commanded, "when you have announced the lady." her "announcing" was unusual. "the lady, mum. sit down, please." at which she pushed a chair behind my visitor's legs with so much force that she simply fell on to it. "you must excuse my servant," i said apologetically when amelia had vanished. "she is utterly untrained but invaluable." i held out my hand as i spoke, which the lady touched coldly. "my name is mrs. cobbold, and i live at the old grange," she announced with a trumpet note. "oh, of course, amelia forgot to mention it," i said politely. "she didn't know it." she was aggrieved now. "she could hardly mention it then," i said smiling, wishing to cheer her up. but this simple and natural comment appeared to have the opposite effect, for her brow lowered, and the jet butterfly in her bonnet quivered ominously. "i have called because i heard you were a--an invalid, mrs. westover--that you were confined to your couch." her deportment dared me to contradict her. "it is very kind of you," i said pacifically. "not kindness, but duty." "which makes your effort all the more praise-worthy," i said gently. she looked at me sharply--through her pince-nez which gripped her nose very tightly--suspiciously almost, but she misunderstood me. i had not intended to be sarcastic. i was really touched at the sacrifice she was evidently making on my behalf. i felt she was a district visitor--probably the right hand of the vicar of the parish. she must need refreshment. she wore the look of one whose tongue clove to the roof of her mouth. i rang the tortoise, and requested amelia to bring tea. "no tea for me, thank you," mrs. cobbold quickly interposed. "i'm sorry," i said. "perhaps you won't object to my having a cup?" "certainly not, but i never take anything between meals." she seemed quite proud about this. "really!" i murmured interestedly. "but tea is a meal with me." there was a pause. i could hear amelia singing, "now we shan't be long," which meant she was reaching out the best tea-things. the best tea-things appear to uplift her in a curious way. perhaps by using them she feels we are gradually rising to the social status of the tompkinses, who had an "at home" day with netted d'oyleys, and tea handed round by amelia herself on a silver salver. i wondered if mrs. cobbold could hear her singing. i felt sure she would strongly disapprove of any maid indulging in such vocal flights, and in spite of myself i laughed. our eyes met: hers were green and hard, and in their depths i discovered that she disapproved of the mistress more than of the singing maid. i smiled again--i couldn't help it; and then i racked my brain for something interesting and polite to say. mrs. cobbold forestalled me. "when is it expected? if i may venture to ask you." "in about ten minutes." "gracious goodness!" she ejaculated, springing heavily to her feet. "whatever's the matter?" i cried, nearly falling off the couch. "i thought--i was led to understand that----" she stammered and broke off. "well?" i said, gazing at her in unconcealed astonishment. "that--that--you will pardon my mentioning it, but--i am a mother myself. and i was quite interested in hearing that the population of pine tree valley was about to be increased. but i did not imagine it would be so soon." i lay and stared at her. she had reseated herself, and again wore the district visitor air. was she mad or--suddenly, in a flash, the drift of her remarks became clear to me. i strangled a laugh. "the increase in the population of pine tree valley has nothing to do with me," i said, a little coldly. she looked disappointed. "i am suffering from an accident." "oh," she said grudgingly. "i am afraid you are disappointed." "the vicar's wife has misinformed me." "perhaps she has been gifted with a vivid imagination," i suggested. "it is unfortunate, as it might get her into trouble." mrs. cobbold looked or rather glared at me over the top of her glasses. i was relieved when amelia appeared with tea. i even forgave her for her tea-rose slippers, which in her excitement she had omitted to change. casually i inspected the three-decker bread and butter and cake-stand. i felt sure that amelia would have upheld the honour and glory of the family by "doing" the thing nicely. the first plate was beyond reproach, nicely-cut bread and butter reposing on best netted d'oyley. mrs. cobbold's parlour-maid could have done no better. but the second plate made me pause. what was it? i rubbed my eyes. did i see a lonely macaroon garnished by a ring of radishes--pointed red, fibrous radishes, with long green tops--arranged with a mathematical precision, or did i not? i leaned forward for a closer inspection--perhaps they were chocolate radishes or almond radishes. my breath came quickly, and a jet butterfly smote me on the forehead--mrs. cobbold had also leaned forward. the butterfly hurt me. _that_ i didn't mind. what i _did_ object to was mrs. cobbold's impertinent curiosity. if we chose to garnish a macaroon with radishes it was none of her business. "won't you change your mind and have some tea?" i said, recovering myself. "macaroons and radishes are _so_ nice together--a german tea delicacy." i nibbled the end of one of the radishes as i spoke, and found it so hot my eyes watered. "no, thank you," she almost snorted. "are you german?" "oh, no," i replied, "i am quite english with just a few foreign tastes." i covertly dropped the radish down the side of the couch as i spoke. "where were you born?" "i was born in dorking, i mean westmoreland," i said wanderingly. i was debating as to what had come over amelia. "so you are north-country really?" her voice was patronising. "yes," i returned, "isn't it interesting?" she again regarded me with suspicion. "north-country people are becoming quite rare. perhaps you have noticed it? everybody comes from the south." she did not speak. "and you," i inquired gently, "are you a native of pine tree valley?" "no," she replied shortly, "but i have lived here ever since i was a girl." "so long?" i said thoughtlessly. and she rose and offered me her hand, which felt like a non-committal bath oliver. "it has been so kind of you to come to see me," i said, shaking the biscuit up and down. she unbent a little. "i will try to come again, but won't promise. my days are so full. do you know any of the people here?" "no," i admitted. "the honourable mrs. parkin-dervis not called?" "no." she looked perplexed and annoyed. "but she told me she was coming. she heard that you were confined to the house." "she's not been," i said. "i am sorry. i suppose she always leads the way in the question of calling upon new people. but you needn't feel you have committed yourself. you see, i shan't be able to return your call, so please don't feel you must come again unless you want to." "it's not that," she said; "but, you see, my days are so full." "of course they are," i agreed warmly. "i shall quite understand, mrs. cobbold. i'm so sorry amelia is not here to show you out, but were i to ring the tortoise for ten minutes she wouldn't come. she is chopping wood--perhaps you hear her. amelia never takes the slightest notice of anybody when she is chopping wood--they are hudson's dry soap boxes--the more one rings the louder she chops." "if she were my maid," said mrs. cobbold, "i'd make her----" "no, you wouldn't," i interrupted. "you think you would, but you wouldn't. we thought the same when she first came to us, but now we don't. good-bye." through an unfortunate accident the tortoise rang loudly as i spoke. i caught my sleeve in its tail, and it sounded as though i were cheering mrs. cobbold's departure. she left the house with a flounce and a flourish. we may meet again in another world, but i am certainly not on mrs. cobbold's visiting list in this. when i heard the garden gate bang i rang for amelia. "i am never at home to that lady," i said. amelia stared. "where will you be, mum?" "i shall be here, of course. don't you understand, i shall not see her." "am i to say that?" "you're to say, 'not at home.'" "i can't say that if you are." her face was stolid. "amelia," i cried, "return to your soap boxes quickly, or i might fling the tortoise at you." "but----" "_go!_" i said, and with a loud crack of a bone she departed, filled with amazement. chapter xii nanty cheers me up a day has come when it is gusty and wet. last night the sun, which has been so kind to us of late, disappeared red and angry, leaving behind it a sky of flaming glory. i said to dimbie that perhaps we had not been sufficiently grateful to his majesty, that we had begun to take him for granted, and that we should never make the sun feel cheap. and so to-day the little forget-me-nots and velvety, sweet-faced pansies have laid their heads on mother earth, driven there by squalls of angry wind and rain, and the long branches of the beech tree in the frog-pond field are waving and bending and shaking out their wealth of still tender green leaves with fine abandon. i am solicitous for the sweet-peas. dimbie has been late in putting in the sticks for them to climb up, and their hold is slight and wavering. two long hedges of eckfords and tennants and burpees, and that loveliest of all sweet-peas, countess cadogan, flank the lawn on either side. in a few days they will all be out, and i shall lie in the midst of a many-hued, blossoming sweetness. so much have i to be thankful for. a cripple in town would stare at brick walls, yet to-day only discontent sits at my side. i am cold--rain in summer makes the inside of a creeper-covered cottage very chilly. the water drips from the leaves of the clematis--drips, drips. i want to be up and doing. the rain on my cheek in the woods and lanes would be gracious and sweet-scented. the raindrops lying in the heart of the honeysuckle would be as nectar for the gods. but a rainy world when one is a prisoner within four walls is truly depressing, and there will be no dimbie to-night. dimbie, dear, do you know how much i miss you? the heart of your marguerite calls for you, calls for you. you say you will be back soon, but you don't know. little old ladies take a long time to die. the flame flickers and flares up and flickers and gutters, and is so long in going out. what am i saying? dimbie, forgive me, dear. i don't want aunt letitia to die. i am praying for her to get better. ill or well, she needs you, or she would not have sent for you, for her message was: "i know your wife wants you, but i want you more; and it will only be for a few days, and then you may return to her. i would much like to have seen marguerite, but----" what does that "but" mean i wonder? does she know that the journey is nearly over? and dimbie says that that journey has been one of great loneliness, borne with a great patience and cheerfulness. i think god will create a separate heaven for very lonely women. he will give them little children and a love that passeth all understanding. the love that has been withheld from them in this world will be given to them a thousandfold in the new jerusalem. i am always sorry for lonely women. * * * * * nanty came in breezy and fresh and wet, and my loneliness vanished. "i have told john to put up in the village, and i can stay with you for a couple of hours," she announced, removing her cloak. "and you have been crying." i shook my head. "well, there are two tears at the back of your eyes ready to fall." "not now," i said. "what's been the matter?" "dimbie's away." "dear me!" she said with comical gravity. "been away long?" "he went this morning." she laughed outright. "what did you have for lunch?" "fish." "what sort of fish?' "a whiting." she sniffed. "a cold, thin whiting with its tail in its mouth, devoid of any taste and depressing in its appearance?" "that exactly describes it," i said laughingly. "did you eat it?" "no, amelia is going to make it into a fish pie for to-morrow's lunch." "amelia seems to be of an economical turn of mind." "painfully so," i agreed. nanty rose and rang the bell. "bring tea at once, please," she said when amelia appeared, "and a lightly-boiled egg for your mistress with some hot, buttered toast, and light the fire." amelia's eyes bulged. "we've been doing some summer cleaning, the fire'll make dirt." "light the fire at once, please, your mistress is cold, the dirt is of no importance; her comfort should be considered before anything else." "but it's summer----" "matches!" said nanty sternly, and amelia produced a box like lightning. nanty knelt down and removed the fire-screen. amelia stood and watched her. "that is not getting tea and toast," said nanty, without looking round. "i'm not dressed, mum----" began amelia argumentatively. "tea and toast!" thundered nanty, and amelia fled. "how brave you are," i said. she laughed. "i'm certainly not going to be bossed by a young person like amelia cockles. how does she suit you?" "i've never thought of how she suits us, but i think we suit her, although we are not grand like the tompkinses." "who are the tompkinses?" asked nanty, settling herself comfortably in an arm-chair. "don't you remember the people she lived with before she came to us? they knew a poet, and gave dinner parties and had _entrées_ and _hors-d'oeuvres_--hoary doves she calls them." "but does she look after you well?" "yes," i said, "so long as i don't interfere with her cleaning. she is a great cleaner, that is her weakest point. economy is another; she is too careful. because i told her we were not rich she seems to think we must live on potato parings. then she wears squeaky, high-heeled shoes, a pearl necklace, and puts on to her print bodies--as she calls them--innumerable patches. against these bad qualities we must set her honesty, early rising, and devotion to me. she has taken me in hand since the day she entered the house. she thinks, deep down in her heart, that i am one of the poorest creatures she has met. she has compared me on different occasions to a love-lies-bleeding and a black prize minorca hen. yet i know she would go through fire and water for me. she dresses me in the morning with a gentleness and patience unsurpassed by any nurse, and the tenderness with which she lifts me from the bed to the couch has caused me to marvel. you ask me how she suits us. now i come to think about it, i wouldn't be without amelia cockles for the world." she entered as i finished speaking, and placed the tea-tray in front of me, eyeing nanty with undisguised hostility. nanty returned the look with placidity. "i s'pose you think i have been starving her?" "no," said nanty cheerfully, "i am sure you would do nothing of the kind. your mistress has just been telling me how good you are to her." amelia's face softened. "no one could help being good to a lady like her--she _is_ a lady," and she flounced out of the room. nanty smiled. "you cannot be very dull so long as that young person is in the house." she pushed my couch nearer the fire, broke the top off my egg, and ordered me to begin to eat. "it is lovely having you here," i said, "i was just beginning to be dull. what made you come this wet day?" "your husband wired for me." "so you knew he was away?" "yes," she returned, "and i went straight away to see if i could persuade peter to let your mother come and stay with you during your husband's absence." "and----" i cried. "your father had just succeeded in getting a canoe to float on the duck-pond--personally i think it was on the bottom, but i did not suggest that--and in the flush of victory he said she could come the day after to-morrow. ah, that's better," she finished as the blood rushed into my cheeks. "you looked as white as a ghost when i came in." "you _are_ clever," i said. "yes," she agreed, "in some things." a smile hovered round her mouth. "i wonder if you had been peter's wife----" "god forbid!" she broke in. i laughed. "it will be delightful having mother." "do you find the days long?" "when it's wet." "do you still find vent for your happiness in the pages of a manuscript book?" i nodded. she looked at me with incredulous eyes. "you still find your year--what was it you called it--wonderful?" "i have dimbie." "and an aching back." "that would be worse if i hadn't dimbie." "no man is worth such love from a woman." "mine is," i said indignantly. "well, don't flash out at me like that. he must be an exception." "of course he is." "and all women think the same when they are first married." "nanty, you are a pessimist." "optimists are tiresome and always boring." "they add to the cheerfulness of the world." "they depress me and always put me in a bad temper. you say it is horribly cold, and they remind you that frost keeps away disease. you say it is windy, and they reply that it is bracing. you have lost your pet dog, and they suggest that you might have lost your favourite horse. people who always say, 'never mind, cheer up!' are aggravating in the extreme. i like people to weep when i weep and laugh when i laugh. i don't like my friends to make light of my troubles and practically suggest that i am a coward." she poked the fire with vigour. "so you would like me much better if i were to howl about my accident."' "exactly, it would be much more natural and human." "but what about dimbie?" "oh, of course if you bring dimbie into everything it will be impossible for you to behave in a rational way." i laughed gently, and nanty frowned at the fire. "if i were to howl dimbie's year would be spoiled." "i don't believe in wives being unselfish to their husbands; it spoils them. men are quite selfish enough as it is." "how down upon men you are, nanty. have you not met any nice ones?" i asked. "dimbie is not bad as men go. but give him a few years; he will be as disagreeable as the rest." "i met a very nice man the other day," i said, refusing to be annoyed. "it was just before my accident--a professor leighrail." "professor leighrail!" a great astonishment lay in nanty's eyes. "a very thin man?" "yes, he invited us to look at his ribs. his wife, amabella, is dead." "amabella dead?" she repeated. i nodded. "he took up ballooning, as he thought it would be the quickest way of ending himself." nanty started, and then poured herself out another cup of tea. "do you know him?" "i knew him some years ago." "he once asked you to be his wife." nanty dropped her spoon with a clatter. "did he tell you?" "of course not," i laughed, and hugged jumbles who lay on the couch beside me. "i knew by your face, nanty, dear. why didn't you accept him?" "because i was a fool." she spoke bitterly. "i should have been happy with that man. as it was, he--grew fond of amabella. didn't he?" she turned on me with a pounce. "i--i think so," i stammered; "but i don't suppose he ever loved her as much as he loved you. i should fancy from her name she was a bit--pussy-catty." nanty smiled a little grimly. "men like domestic, sit-by-the-hearth women. i feel sure amabella mended his socks regularly and brushed his clothes." "they wanted brushing the other day," i said reflectively, "and his boots were miles too big for him--they were like canoes." and i went on to relate where we had met him, what he had had for his dinner, and how he was coming to call upon us in his balloon. "it is a dangerous game," said nanty crossly as she rose to go. "but he is lonely and unhappy," i protested. "so are lots of people," she snapped. "i have been lonely for twenty years, and i get stouter every day." "his ribs are like knife blades," i observed. "he was always thin. i have not seen him since i was a girl, but i have followed his career. i knew he would make a name for himself. he was always dabbling in some mess--ruined his mother's bed-quilts--and wore badly-fitting clothes. it's strange you should meet him," she finished musingly. "would you like his address?" i asked quietly. "no, i wouldn't, thanks, but--i shouldn't mind meeting him here some day. it would be pleasant to have a chat about old times." "rather dangerous, i should say." "you always were an impertinent child," she said as she stooped to kiss me. the love affairs of my friends are multiplying, i thought, when she had gone--dr. renton's and now nanty's. chapter xiii under the apple thee i am under the apple tree trying to be busy. in front of me lies a waif and stray garment--a flannel petticoat. there is no house mending to do--everything is new and holeless. dimbie had a trousseau as well as i. occasionally he will wear a small hole in one of his socks, the mending of which will take me half an hour, then my work is finished. so i have taken to waif and stray garments and deep-sea fishermen's knitting in self-defence. were i not engaged on this i should be making wool-work mats like the old men in the workhouse--i can see it in the tail of amelia's eye; so i keep a garment well to the front, ready to pick up at the sound of her first footstep, which, being squeaky, fortunately warns me of the advance of the enemy. now but for amelia i should be only too content to laze through the summer--just staring at the sky and the soft, white, fleecy clouds through the breaks in the foliage of the apple tree; for though i do nothing i am tired, always tired. perhaps it is the warmth of the summer, for the rain and cold are gone. by and by i am going to be very energetic, and do little things for amelia, whether she considers it helpful or otherwise. i shall peel apples in the autumn when the weather is cooler, and stone the plums for jam, and skin the mushrooms. but now i want to be idle. i just want to watch the bird and insect life of the garden. much to my delight, a colony of ants has settled at the base of the apple tree. i get amelia to wheel the couch close to their head-quarters, and i lean over and gently drop little things in front of the openings to their tunnels. sometimes a tiny bit of twig lies across their front door, or a cherry-stone bars the cellar entrance; and then what excitement and confusion reign, what a twinkling of a myriad tiny legs! nine strong, able-bodied men are requisitioned to tackle the cherry-stone. i smile and chuckle as i picture one excited ant--who is not eager to tell the news?--rushing off to inform the others that he has discovered a thunderbolt lying at their cellar-door, and they must marshal their forces for an attack. and then what a straining and pushing and levering there is! first six men arrive; they look like policemen. presently one rushes away and brings back three more. they then sort of take their bearings, trotting in and out of the front door and eyeing with indignation the obstacle that lies in their path. "hurrah!" i cry as they lever the cherry-stone the fraction of an inch; and amelia, appearing at the front door, says-- "i beg your pardon, mum." amelia certainly has a most tiresome habit of cropping up at the tense moments of life. should i call, gently at first, "a-me-li-a," and then louder, "a-me-li-a!" and then in stentorian tones, "a-me-li-a!" finally degenerating into cat-calls and war-whoops, she wouldn't dream of hearing me; but when i apostrophise the thrush which comes to sing in the apple tree of an evening, or encourage the ants in their labours, or laugh at the ridiculous wagtails bobbing up and down the lawn, she appears suddenly and stands and stares at me. just now i said, "you shouldn't stare at me"; and when she replied, "you're so pretty, mum," i felt hers was the gentleness of the dove and the cunning of the serpent combined. i had been trying to persuade her not to whiten the front-door step, which is of cool grey stone. she appears to regard it in the same light as a kitchen-hearth bestowed by a bountiful providence. she smears it with wet donkey-stone, and when dry it gleams and scintillates in the hot sun with dazzling intensity. then she attacks the scraper, which she polishes with a black-lead brush till it resembles the kitchen kettle after "siding up." you cannot prevent amelia from "siding up." every now and again she "sides up" me. she says my hair is untidy and approaches me with a brush. she suggests that the wearing of a pearl necklace round my throat, the collar of which is cut low for comfort, would smarten me up. she picks up my slippers, which i have kicked on to the grass, and compels me to put them on in case i have callers. she constantly threatens me with these callers. she dangles them in front of me when i am idling with _the vicar of wakefield_, and offers to bring me my best hat, as "that liberty garden thing is shabby and old-fashioned." she thinks the vicar may call. he has been laid up for some weeks; but he is better, and it is his _bounded_ duty to call to see a poor sick lady. i gently bring her back to the discussion of the step, and after some stubbornness on her part she asks if i would like it done like the tompkinses'. knowing that the tompkinses are superior people, indulging in "hoary doves" at their dinner, i say "yes" without any further parley, trusting to their good taste. mother is coming to-morrow, and i know just how she is feeling about me. she will be thinking if ever her daughter marguerite wanted her it will be now--now, when she is lonely and tired and without dimbie. her dear face will be brimful of joy at being wanted by anyone, and at the prospect of getting away from peter. she would not own up to the last. if ever there was a loyal, patient soul in this world it is mother. she won't allow herself to believe that peter is selfish and domineering. he is her husband, and with a wavering curve of her sweet lips she pronounces him as just tiresome. and, best of all, i know she will like being here without dimbie. she likes him, she admires him, but she is secretly jealous of him. i believe i should be too if i had a daughter married. when a child gives herself into somebody else's keeping the mother is dethroned; the child--always a child in the mother's eyes--takes her joys and sorrows to her husband. he bandages the little cut leg, figuratively speaking, kisses the crushed fingers, wipes away the tears of sorrow. the mother has to take a back seat, and her heart is sore. when dimbie and i, in the short days of our engagement, would try to slip away to another room, to be by ourselves, i have seen mother close her eyes and heard her give a little gasping sigh. she would smile bravely when her eyes caught mine, but i had heard the sigh, and though my heart ached at the thought of leaving her alone with peter, i was unable to keep the happiness away from my own eyes and voice. poor little mother! it is hard, but it was ever thus. you left your mother, and i in turn have left you. it is one of nature's edicts--cruel it may seem, but not to be resisted. were dimbie to call, i should follow him to the end of the world, i know. but during the days mother is with me i mean to let her have it all her own way. i shall pretend that dimbie is dethroned. i shall not talk of him; at least, i shall try with unusual strength not to speak of him, beyond mentioning the bare fact that he is well and ministering to the wants of aunt letitia. and we shall also not talk of peter more than we can possibly help. long ago we decided that peter must be a tabooed subject between us. "we might be led into saying things about your father which we ought not to say," mother had implied without putting it into so many words, and i had nodded. "besides, he might--he might have been so much worse." i fear i looked doubtful about this point, for she added quickly, "he doesn't steal." "no," i admitted, "he is certainly not a thief." "and he doesn't drink." "no." "and he doesn't gamble." "no," i conceded somewhat grudgingly. "and----" she hesitated. "he doesn't go off with other men's wives, you want to say." "that's it. your father is--is quite moral." "it's a pity he is," i said laughing. "if only he would run away with someone you could get a divorce." dear mother looked terribly shocked, and glanced fearfully at the door. "it's all right," i reassured her; "he's resting in the library, overcome by your insubordination. he's not used to it. he lunged at me with his stick because he detected me in a smile, but i dodged him." i remember mother smiled faintly, and told me i ought not to dodge him. this conversation took place after an unusually violent outburst on peter's part because he had lost his best gold collar stud, which he accused mother of having taken. and when she tremblingly said that she had never in her life worn anything around her neck but a lace tucker, which did not necessitate the wearing of a gold stud, he said lace tuckers were foolish fripperies, and that she ought to wear a linen collar the same as other sensible women. and when mother protested that her neck was not long enough, he replied snappily: "then stretch it till it is. you are a woman without any resources." i smile as i conjure up dear mother's expression of countenance when he said this. she usually, with unquestioning obedience to biblical commands, turned her other cheek to him for a smite, but on this occasion she didn't do anything of the kind. she simply turned her back on him, drew herself up to her full height of five feet nothing, and pranced out of the room. i say pranced, because she did prance, just like a thoroughbred horse chafing at the bearing rein. peter watched this prancing with unconcealed astonishment; in fact, he put up his monocle and stared at the closed door. now if mother had only pranced a little oftener. peter might have been a much better behaved person. but mother is not of the stuff of which people like amelia and napoleon are composed. she is not a ruler, and she is not a fighter. she cannot stand up for herself, and so peter has taken advantage of her sitting position--which sounds as though i were referring to a hen, and not to mother at all. i find on turning back the pages that i said mother was rarely disloyal to peter, that she pronounced his selfishness and bad temper as "just tiresomeness." still, the worm _will_ turn sometimes, and on this occasion she did turn. to-morrow she will probably ignore him altogether--glad to get away from an unpleasant subject. i am full of delightful anticipations of the peaceful time she and i will spend together under the apple tree. at first she will lean forward when i speak to her as though she had been deafened by a storm. to live with peter is to live in a succession of storms, and when mother reaches the calmer spaces of the world she wears an almost dazed expression. i must speak very slowly and gently till she becomes accustomed to being in a quiet haven. we will chat in the mornings and doze in the warm afternoons and discuss amelia in the evenings. i know i shall be unable to resist discussing amelia with mother. she will be so interested in her not wearing cloth boots. she will be so surprised at my having given in. she gives in herself over every question in life, great or small. but she is quite surprised if other people do the same, especially her own daughter. she imagines i have inherited some of peter's characteristics, which heaven forbid. she thinks his bullying is strength of character. ah, little mother, i am not strong, if you only knew it. i am as weak as water towards people i love. you, dimbie and nanty could do anything with me. amelia has been to tell me that we are out of shinio, and shall she run to the village. she didn't call it shinio, but shiny. she has quite an extraordinary affection for the evil-smelling stuff, and is always "requiring" it. "but you won't be cleaning anything this afternoon," i said. "you are dressed, and it must be nearly five o'clock." "it's for the brasses to-morrow morning," she answered in a tired voice, as though she were weary of explaining things to me. "it's kitchen-day, and i do my steels and brasses before breakfast." "oh, of course," i murmured hastily while looking for my purse, which i can never find, and which she unearthed with lightning rapidity from under the tortoise. i handed her sixpence, but she didn't go. "anything further?" i asked pleasantly. "no, mum; but i was just considerin' if we couldn't alter your pocket--put it in front of your tea-gown, a sort of flap-pocket right-hand side, like motorists and golfists and cyclists has." "put a flap-pocket on my right-hand side," i repeated. "but i don't motor or golf or cycle." "no, mum, but it might help you not to lose your purse so frequently, and save you and me a lot of trouble. i expect you lies on your pocket mostly?" "i do nothing of the kind," i replied coldly, "for i haven't got one." "there!" she said triumphantly, "i might have knowed it. i'll fix you one up in two shakes. i'm a good hand at sewing. have you a bit of white serge like your gown, mum?" "no, i haven't; and i forbid your putting a pocket on me anywhere." she looked surprised at my warmth. "all right, mum; i won't if you don't wish it. i only thought it would save time. you see, when the purse isn't lost the tortis is. the tortis is a beggar for gettin' away. see now, it's slippin' down the hilkley at this minute." she caught it by the tail and placed it on the little table which always stands at the side of my couch. "the creature might be alive," she finished, shaking her fist at it. "don't be ridiculous, amelia," i commanded, endeavouring not to laugh. "i will try and not lose it so often, but things _do_ disappear." "yes, mum, they do," she responded gravely. "if nothing was ever lost, like hair-pins, the world wouldn't hold 'em." with which oracular remark she swept down the garden path to the gate, her two heels leaning over at a more dangerous angle than usual. i drew dimbie's letter--he writes every day, sometimes twice--from beneath the cushions, and read it over for--well, i won't say how many times, but one passage i already knew off by heart:-- "dear one, i am glad that you miss me--very glad, isn't that cruel? if you want me, how much more do i want you, my poor little girl. i long to put my arms round you and kiss your big, wistful eyes--kiss away the wistfulness, which only came with your suffering, and i will do it when i come home. "aunt letitia is slowly sinking. she is not suffering, and her mind is quite clear. she has asked a great many questions about you, and has even laughed feebly at amelia and her household arrangements--i mean _your_ household arrangements. for the squeaking and cracking of bones and wearing of unsuitable slippers she has no suggestions to offer. she says there is always _something_. with old ann it has been a misfit in artificial teeth. they have moved horribly, and the gums have gaped at her, but she has not considered this of sufficient importance to give ann notice. "i wired to nanty to know how you were. you don't tell me in your letters, bad girl. i shall scold and slap you when i get home, as well as kiss you." i glanced carefully round to see that neither amelia nor jumbles were watching me, and holding the letter to my lips, i kissed it over and over again. chapter xiv mother and peter arrive on a visit i said that mother and i were going to have a peaceful and happy time together--that we should chat in the mornings, doze in the afternoons, and discuss amelia in the evenings. we are doing none of these things. we are expending our entire energies, and mine are very feeble, in soothing peter and trying to keep him in a good temper, for peter arrived with mother a couple of days ago on a visit to one tree cottage. i _will_ say that it wasn't dear mother's fault. she even stooped to equivocation, or, to put it plainly, lying to keep him away. she told him that she didn't know by which train she was coming, when she knew perfectly well. she told him our spare-room bed would only hold one. oh, mother! and she told him that there had been burglaries in the neighbourhood of dorking, and it would be unsafe to leave the house to servants. to all of which he said, "pooh!" from what i can gather he lay in waiting at the station like a detective in plain clothes, and pounced upon mother just as she was saying to mary, the parlourmaid, "good-bye; you will take great care of the master, and give him kidneys with his bacon twice a week." "no, she won't," he said sardonically as he limped into the carriage, "for she won't get the chance. i am coming with you, emma. i refuse to be left to the mercy of servants when my gout is so troublesome. it is most selfish and unreasonable of you to suggest such a thing. i am as much to be considered as marguerite," at which he planked himself firmly on to the seat opposite to mother and glowered at her. at the moment he is seated in the sun with his feet on amelia's fair white step, which is now covered with a sort of egyptian hieroglyphic--_à la_ the tompkinses'. when she wheeled me in the other evening after a long day in the garden, and i caught sight of the step, i was filled with a great amazement, for i was unaware that amelia understood the ancient egyptian language. a series of curves and dots, and flourishes and symbolic signs met my gaze. i leaned forward and translated with fluency [symbol: water-line]--a water-line, [symbol: sun]--the sun, [symbol: reed]--a reed, [symbol: night]--night, [symbol: hilly country]--hilly country, [symbol: egg]--egg. father was a bit of an egyptologist, and i had picked up the meaning of a few of the symbols from him: [symbol: star]--star, [symbol: tooth]--tooth, [symbol: serpent]--serpent. amelia opened her mouth and stared at me, and then shot me into the house. it is on such occasions that she regards me as "dotty," and quickly puts me to bed. peter is now scraping his boots on the step after carefully dirtying them in the gooseberry-bed. amelia is hissing at him through the front door; she objects to her hieroglyphics being defaced. peter is not accustomed to being hissed at, and he will presently come and tell me what he thinks of amelia. i persuaded mother a little time back to wheel me under the apple tree and sit with me. the grass is still dew-laden, and peter will not dare, on account of his gout, to join us till the lawn is dry, hence his position on the doorstep. peter's gout has been the one bit of luck in mother's life since she was married. being the more active of the two, she can, when the pressure becomes very great, walk away from him--in fact, run. i cannot help rejoicing at dimbie's being away while peter is here, for i am convinced that long ere this dimbie would have thrown my father out of the house; and for mother's sake i should not care for such an ignominious thing to happen to her husband. besides, he would make such a mess on the step while he danced about, his customary habit being, when extra annoyed, to dance a kind of war dance. when he and mother arrived amelia rushed into the drawing-room and in great excitement whispered, "a red-nosed gent has come with your mother!" in an instant my mind flew to peter, but i remained sufficiently controlled to correct amelia for saying '"your mother." "is she your step, mum?" she murmured cautiously. "certainly not,"' i said. "but it is not polite. you must speak of her as mrs. macintosh. where have you left them? why don't they come in?" "the gentleman is having a row with the cabby. don't you hear him?" she grinned with enjoyment. "he has just called the cabby a grasping, white-livered jew. it seems as though he knowed how to take care of himself." i did not speak. "who is he, mum?" i pretended not to hear. "is he your uncle?" "he's--my father." i closed my eyes, signifying that the conversation was finished. "never knew you had a father, mum," came in a succession of gasps and squeaks. "of course i have a father," i said excessively crossly. "how do you suppose i came into the world. kindly show them in here and go and unstrap the luggage." when they appeared, and i had embraced them both, giving mother an extra squeeze, i said-- "dear father, whatever has been the matter?" "that impudent shark has been trying to rob me," he replied, picking up a vase from the mantelshelf and returning it with a bang. "what did he charge you?" "two shillings." "well, that is the right fare, and dimbie gives an extra sixpence if he has a portmanteau. what did you give him for the luggage?" "a piece of my mind, and threatened him with the police for his impudence." "oh, father," i cried, "i am sorry you have made a disturbance. up to now we--dimbie and i--have been respected in the village." "have you been to church?" he smiled sardonically. "n--o." "who respects you--the vicar?" "the villagers have a great respect for us. i--i am sure they have." "that's all right. they'll respect your father now. they'll know i'm a man not to be trifled with. how are you?" he shot this last at me as though he were at bisley competing for the king's prize. "i'm pretty well, thank you." "well, you don't look it. you're as thin as a rat. but it's rather improved you than otherwise, made you look less defiant and assertive." "oh, peter," mother broke in, "marguerite never looked assertive. i remember dimbie saying to me that he had never seen a sweeter face." "of course, that is exactly the sort of thing dumbarton _would_ say," he jeered; "but then dumbarton's an ass." "look here, father," i said steadily, "once and for all i wish you to remember that i will not allow you to call my husband an ass. yes, _allow_, i repeat the word." i shivered all over as i spoke. never, never had i dared to speak to peter in such a manner, but my blood was up. "dimbie was a brave man to have married into such a family. his courage was immense there." i clutched the tortoise as i spoke--clutched it for support, but i kept my head well up, looking at him defiantly and waiting for the storm. but it never burst. to my everlasting astonishment peter remained mute and just stared at me, stared at me for a full minute, then putting his hands in his pockets, he said, "well, well!" and stumped out of the room. "there!" i said, "that is the way you should have treated peter--_always_." but mother sat with her hands locked and remained speechless for some seconds. "how dared you do it?" she breathed at length. "oh, it was quite easy," i replied airily. "was it?" "well, perhaps not _quite_ easy," i corrected myself, "but fairly easy when you once get started." "i never dare start," she said plaintively. "as soon as i open my mouth i----" "shut it again," i said. "but don't in future, keep it well open. begin to-night, and i'll help you. make a firm stand like horatius." "what did he do?" she asked with interest. "he stood alone and--and looked after a gate." "oh, i could do that. if your father were a gate----" she began eagerly. "what would you do?" inquired peter, walking into the room and surveying her from head to foot. "i--i----" she stammered. "don't forget horatius," i signalled. "i--i should sit on you!" with which terrific exhibition of courage she took to her heels and fled. "i mustn't laugh," i told myself, "or everything will be spoiled." peter stood in the middle of the room, staring at the closed door. "i believe your mother is trying to be funny," he remarked when he had got his breath. "mother is often funny," i murmured. "i have noticed she has been a bit strange lately." "oh?" "very secretive." "indeed?" "in fact, deceitful." "mother deceitful?" "yes, said she didn't know what train she was coming by." he was beginning to raise his voice. "trains don't always start at the time mentioned in bradshaw. look at the south eastern." "this was the south western," he snapped. "i must give her a dose of medicine." "a dose of medicine!" i repeated in surprise. "yes, calomel. it's her liver, i expect. she has been like this before. how soon will dinner be ready?" "when amelia feels inclined to give it to us." "is amelia the forward young person with the pearl necklace who came to the door?" "that is an excellent description of amelia, but i thought you had seen her before." "and does she arrange the hour you are to dine?" "she arranges the hour in which the potatoes are dried, the meat dished, the gravy made, and the cabbage chopped. you see, as she does it all, she naturally knows when it will be ready." "god bless my soul!" he ejaculated. "what is the matter?" "i had no idea you ran your servants in such a shocking manner." "servant," i corrected; "and i don't run her, she runs me." "i wouldn't have believed it." "you would if you had an amelia." "i'd sack her." "she wouldn't go if i did." "i'd lock her out." "she'd break a window and climb through it." he began to march about the room. "i'd manage that girl in ten minutes." "she would hold you in the hollow of her hand in less than five," i said. he spluttered. "what do you take me for?" "i never know. i've often thought about it," i said gently. he stopped marching and stared at me. "i wonder what mother is doing," i said, averting my eyes. "your mother," he shouted, rushing towards the door, "is the slowest woman on god's earth. she'll be doing her hair. _i'll_ bring her down." and he went to take out of her what, by right, he should have taken out of me. "poor mother!" i sighed. i much fear we are going to have ructions--peter and i. a strange and tremendous courage has come to me. is it that i know i shall have a staunch ally in amelia? one amelia is surely worth two peters. and yet i don't know. peter has been accustomed to fighting and bloodshed, and managing his men and out-manoeuvring the enemy most of his life; and amelia is only used to managing her mistresses and charwomen. as a tactician amelia may be weak. one cannot tell. i am hoping for the best. chapter xv amelia gives me notice it is said that the young look forward and the old look backward. i am still young enough, i suppose, to live chiefly in the future--a beautiful future, with dimbie ever as the central figure. but should i live to be an old woman, and send my thoughts backward through the years, a smile will rise to my lips unbidden at the memory of a certain dinner at which peter and amelia played prominent parts. i have to put down my manuscript book for a moment while i laugh. amelia is, i know, watching me through the pantry window. she will be considering that this is one of my "dotty" moments. for anyone to lie under an apple tree and apparently laugh at nothing at all is to amelia a strange and sad sight. wait a while, amelia, you may see stranger things yet. life contains infinite possibilities for those who have even the smallest sense of humour. at present that sense with you is lacking. let us hope that it is not altogether void, but in an embryo stage waiting for development. to you the dinner last evening was not in the least amusing. in fact, the tears you shed later on were very bitter. of course, lookers-on always see most of the game, and had i been in your place i admit i should have been very angry; for peter is capable of arousing in the human breast passions which are anything but christian. let me relate the story as it sounded to my ears from the drawing-room. it is a source of regret to me that i cannot be present at meals, for the bicycle-room is not large enough to hold both the dining-table and my ilkley couch. still, with both doors set wide apart i can hear most of what is going on. peter's voice carried better than amelia's; he is used to drilling. mother's sounded like punctuation marks--notes of exclamation and interrogation, gentle little apostrophes, and full stops. but peter was not to be stopped. this is how he began to annoy amelia:-- [illustration: this is how he began] "what's this?" a stab of a fork. "don't you know, sir?" "no, i don't." "not seen lamb before?" "do you call this burnt cinder lamb?" mother, gently, "i think it looks beautifully cooked, just nicely browned." "of course you do. you can eat anything. some people have the digestion of an ostrich." amelia, breaking in, "please don't carve it that way, sir. we eats the bottom side first--that was tompkinses' way--and next day when it's turned over it looks as though it had never been touched, quite respectable like." peter: "am _i_ carving this cinder or are you?" amelia (calmly, but as i knew ominously): "neither of us, sir, at this partickler minute. but p'r'aps you will be startin' before it's cold." sounds of splashings of gravy, and hurried exit of amelia (i guessed to fetch a cloth). "it's the best table-cloth, sir, double damux, and has to last a fortnight." "a _what_?" "a week for dinner, and followin' week for breakfast." "a piggish habit!" "a what, sir?" "a piggish habit. are there no laundries or washerwomen about here?" "plenty, sir, but we don't want to over-work 'em. will you give me a bit of the knuckle for the mistress, she likes knuckle. it's not often she gets meat for her dinner, only beef and lamb and mutton, no pork or veal or beefsteak pie. that's the knuckle, sir, the other end." splutterings and drill language from peter. "and what does she have then?" asked mother. "a whitin', mum, mostly." "she looks like it." "and you'd look like it too, sir, if you was to lie still, flat on your back, day after day." arrival of amelia with my tray. confidential whispering. the meat will have to be hashed to-morrow, as it's been carved so disgracefully. i cheer her up to the best of my ability. return of amelia to dining-room. "what's this vegetable supposed to be--seakale or asparagus?" "neither, sir" (chuckling). "it's salsify. thought you wouldn't know it, as you don't seem to be up in the names of things." i bury my face in my serviette and hold on to the tortoise. "it's like stewed sawdust." "is it, sir? the cookery book says it's like vegetable hoyster." "vegetable _what_?" "vegetable _hoyster_." "i don't understand you" (thunderingly). "speak plainly, girl." "do you know what gentlefolks buys off stalls at the seaside and eats with lemon and cyenne?" (an apparent effort to keep calm.) peter (shouting): "winkles!" amelia (with fine scorn): "my friends don't buy winkles; it's only _common_ folks as does that. my friends buy hoysters." "oh, oy--sters!" "yes, hoy--sters." "you can bring in the next course, angelina." "amelia, sir. you're _that_ bad in your memory----" rest of sentence finished in hall and kitchen. gentle murmur from mother. "i shall!" (loudly). "it's a treat to speak to a girl with a bit of sense, though she is an impudent hussy, after our sleek-tongued fools--yes, fools, every one of them!" clattering of saucepans in kitchen and stamping of amelia across the hall with the pudding. i could not remember what i had ord--suggested in the way of pudding, and i hoped it would meet with peter's approval. "is this a pudding?" "yes, sir." "i thought puddings stood up straight?" "not all of 'em, sir. some is a bit weak-kneed in the joints." was she poking fun at peter's gouty legs? "what's inside it?" "here's a knife and fork, sir. you'll soon find out." "what's inside it?" "p'r'aps it's a spoon you are wantin' as well." "i don't eat red-currant pudding." "sorry, sir. just keep quiet till the next course, sir. "keep quiet!" (yells.) "what do you mean?" "the mistress's nerves gets upset with a bit of noise." "your mistress seems to get upset with the slightest provocation." "she does, sir. i saw her cryin' not so long ago over a bunch of honeysuckle. she was took reg'lar bad--red eyes and nose." "well, of course she'll miss gathering it this year. the deuce knows why women like picking things full of d--ahem! abominable insects. but they're born that way--born stupid." i surprised a gentle note almost in the first part of his sentence which filled me with wonder. was peter really sorry for me? and as though he were ashamed of his unwonted softness his next remark made amelia skip. i could distinctly hear her skip, and it made me laugh. few people can make her run, let alone skip. "this pudding makes me sick, girl. it smells of suet, reeks of suet. remove it _at once_!" he thundered. she stood her ground for a moment. "but the mistress hasn't had any." "remove that pudding!" "but supposin' mrs. macintosh wants another helpin'" (waveringly). "mrs. macintosh _won't_ require any more pudding. mrs. macintosh is going to take a liver pill. too much pudding would be bad for her." "but----" "take out this pudding!" the windows rattled, and amelia bolted--not into the kitchen but into here, and after planking the pudding down on to dimbie's arm-chair, said-- "if you please, mum, i must leave." "leave?" i echoed in astonishment. "yes, mum. i could not stop another minute--not for a thousand pounds down--with that gentle--i mean man in the house. either he must go or me." before i could check myself i had smiled, for had not amelia called peter a gentle, the offspring of a meat-fly--the horrible creature with which i had fished as a little girl? and--amelia took instant offence at my smile. not being able to follow my train of thought, she imagined i was laughing at her. "to-night," she said. "to-night!" i cried, not wishing to echo her words, but surprise bereft me of an original mode of speech. "i must leave you to-night." i lay back and looked at amelia--at her leaning, high-heeled shoes, at her pearl necklace, at her befrilled apron, at her perky cap, at her tightly-curled fringe. could all these things be leaving me to-night, leaving me forever? i should miss them, i knew, so accustomed does one become to familiar objects. i wondered where they would go, how long it would be before amelia stitched the right-hand string to her apron instead of pinning it there? my eyes rose slowly from the apron, upon which they had been resting, to her necklace. whose gaze, instead of mine, would rest upon those pearls? then i reached amelia's face--her soap-shone, eager face. this brought me to the girl herself. she, amelia, who had seemed so devoted, she was going to leave me---- "to-night!" broke in amelia sternly. "yes, yes," i said quickly. she stood and looked at me defiantly. i don't know why, for i wasn't speaking. "how soon shall you start?" i asked for want or something to say. she did not reply. "perhaps you wouldn't mind giving me a little pudding before you go," i said. "it's getting cold. you put it over there on the chair." and to my immense surprise she burst into tears. "whatever's the matter?" i asked in consternation. "don't cry, amelia, don't cry." i patted the tortoise as amelia wasn't near enough to pat. "i--i don't want to go," she sobbed. "no? well, don't go," i said soothingly. "but you want me to." "i want you to go?" "yes." "whatever makes you think that?" "you didn't say as i wasn't to go when i said i was, and i would too." this was a little involved, but i disentangled it. "i never thought of saying you were not to go. you seemed to have so completely made up your mind." "i wish everybody was all like you," she said, somewhat inconsequently. "all cripples," i laughed. she went on sobbing. "i wonder why you are crying?" i said at length gently. "because i don't know where to go at this time of night. it's past eight, and the roads are full of tramps." "well, don't go. your bedroom is surely comfortable. you've always said how much you like the pink roses on the wall-paper." "i couldn't sleep in the same house as that man who calls himself a gentleman, beggin' your pardon, mum. the same roof shall never cover us again. and to think he's your father--you're flesh of his flesh, bone of his bone." for a moment i wondered whether she would consent to sleep in the shed with the canoe and jumbles if we rigged up a hammock. or could i persuade peter to return home if i explained how matters stood? but on reflection i knew neither of these things could be. amelia was still repeating "bone of his bone" in an automatic fashion, when i broke in, "i can't help that, amelia. i can't help his being my father." then perhaps i behaved foolishly, unfilially, for i took her into my confidence. but what else was i to do? i am not a diplomatist. i am not a talleyrand. amelia must be kept at any price. the thought of mother and peter struggling to light the kitchen fire on the morrow made me shudder. "amelia"----i began. she took her apron from her eyes, and i became nervous. "i--i would like some pudding, please, however cold it may be. and--and what are they doing in the other room?" "i don't know," she replied, with a gesture indicating, as i took it, that she didn't care if they were descending the bottomless pit. "shut the door," i breathed. she did so. "amelia----" i began again. "yes, mum." "_i_ have felt like that." "like what?" "like--that i couldn't sleep in the same house as pet--general macintosh." her eyes became round. "yes, i have," i repeated. she nodded her head and came closer. "you see, he is a little difficult, a little difficult, amelia. perhaps his tem--peculiarity has been caused by his gout. he has suffered a great deal. the servants at home and mother--well, they all stay on. they don't leave. do you understand?" she nodded with complete comprehension. i now realised how very clever amelia was. "i am not well," i went on plaintively, "and mother isn't very strong and capable, and i don't quite know what i shall do without you. i'm--i'm afraid i shall die if you leave me. in fact, i'm sure i shall die----" and my voice tailed off into a moan as i finished. amelia twisted her apron into tight rolls, then untwisted them, and then leaned on her high heels towards the couch. "of course, i don't want you to die, mum." "no?" i said. "i shouldn't like it to be said as how i finished you off." "i am sure you wouldn't," i agreed with warmth. "well, then, i will stop." there was an uplifted, heroic expression on amelia's face. "i'll stop. i'll never leave you, mum--not till the breath goes out of my body, not till i'm a corpse in my coffin, not even for the butcher's young man, who was only a-sayin' yesterday as how i had the finest figger he'd ever come across. i'll work for you till i drops. i'll just ignore your father, mum. oh, mum, if everybody was as gentle and perlite and soft spoken as you i'd die for 'em." and flinging herself upon her knees, she wept against the liberty sofa blanket, while i surreptitiously stroked her cap, there being no hair visible to stroke. chapter xvi forebodings i am very weary. in the old days, before my accident, it was my boast that i was never tired. perhaps the exertion of conciliating peter, of trying to keep the peace between him and amelia, has been too much for me these sultry days. i know not. but i do know that i am always tired. the sort of tiredness which makes me say, "go away, amelia," when she brings my hot water, and lays my tea-gown and brush and comb on the bed, and the long arduous task of being dressed lies before me. "leave me for another hour, please." and of course she argues and says the water will go cold; and i tell her i prefer it so, closing my eyes wearily to show that the discussion is finished. she surveys me, i know, in surprise. how can i be tired when i do absolutely nothing but lie still, when she is quite fresh after doing the whole work of the universe? "amelia, there is a weariness of the spirit which is greater than that of the flesh. you cannot understand this. a weariness which leads you to no other desire but that of lying quite still with your eyes closed, which makes you regard the simple act of combing out your own hair as tantamount to one of the herculean labours. you would almost prefer its being tangled to going through the exertion of getting it straight. that you would like to disentangle it for me, i know, but i shudder at the very thought. you are kind, but you don't understand how very tired i am. i want to rest a little longer." even the prospect of being under the apple tree, in the proximity of my friends the ants, doesn't tempt me. the dressing has to be got through first. it hurts--the lifting from the bed to the couch--though amelia is very tender. it jars--that being wheeled from the hall on to the step. i want to be without steps and doors, and corners and turnings and sudden descents. i want to be on a gentle, inclined plane--on a soft, billowy cloud, on wings of thistledown. i am tired of my body. it is troublesome and aching. i would gladly have done with it to-day. oh, that i could step out of it and into a new, whole, strong body--radiant and beautiful--for dimbie's sake. it is hard that these bodies have to get so tired before we have done with them. god sends this weariness, i suppose, to make the passing easier. i am thinking of aunt letitia now. she has gone, she has done with the world, she knows what is behind the veil. dimbie says she just slept herself away. she was conscious almost to the last, but was too tired even to eat a grape. then she fell asleep. dimbie will be coming home now, but--not for four days. four days seem a long time in which to bury a very tired, little, old lady. what am i saying? am i growing selfish? "forgive me, aunt letitia. i will _not_ grudge dimbie to you at the last, when you have done so much for him." and the time will pass, for mother and peter are still here, and one cannot be dull when peter is in the neighbourhood. i hear amelia's footsteps. she enters the room and tells me i _must_ get up. it is useless asking her to permit me to have "a little slumber, a little sleep, a little folding of the hands to sleep," for she tells me that it is dining-room day, which means that she must clean it, and cannot waste any more time on an idle, troublesome girl. i ask her if i may lie in nature's own garments under the apple tree, with just a soft, silken coverlet thrown over me; and she is scandalised, and says most probably mr. brook, the vicar, or mrs. cobbold may call. "amelia," i say, "i am tired of your threatening me with mr. brook. we have lived here for six months, and he does not seem to be dreaming of calling upon us. as for mrs. cobbold--well, she will never call again." "mr. brook has been ill," she argues. "mrs. brook might have called." "she has been too busy nursing him." "poor woman! she must be quite glad of an excuse, then, not to call," i said. "i have the truest sympathy for clergymen's wives, always going to see stupid parishioners because it is considered their duty. i only hope she will not call." "we never use the best china," said amelia sadly. "use it while mother is here," i said cheeringly; "it will be a good opportunity." she shook her head. "it's too good for common use. mrs. macintosh might stay a fortnight, and _he_ might smash it." ("_he_" is peter.) i ask her what they are doing with themselves, and she says peter is scrattlin' his feet about on the doorstep like an old hen. she attacks me with a brush, and i implore her to permit my hair to hang loose to-day. i explain that it is all in a tangle, and perhaps a passing breeze might disentangle it, so saving us much trouble. she regards me severely, and says no breeze will think of knocking about, that it is about degrees in the shade, and that if i wish mr. brook to see me, of course-- "put it up," i cry; "and if you dangle mr. brook in front of my eyes _once_ again i will throw something at you." she tells me to calm myself, and, picking me up, lays me on the couch and trundles me out of the front door. and here i lie refusing to do anything but gaze at the soft, white, eider-down clouds which seem to be trying to tuck up the blue. amelia has tried to make me eat. i have refused. mother has tried to engage me in a conversation about dimbie--artful mother! i have refused. peter has tried to draw me into a quarrel. i have still refused. and now they have all gone away and left me. praised be the gods! * * * * * as the shadows began to lengthen upon the lawn i fell asleep, and when i opened my eyes, very slowly, for i did not want to return to a world without dimbie, i found dr. renton sitting at the side of my couch watching me intently. i fancied that he had been there for some time, and i felt vaguely uneasy. "may i smoke?" was his first question. "of course," i said. "have you been here long?" "about half an hour." he struck a match. "why didn't you wake me?" "you had a bad night?" i nodded. "it was the heat." "where's your husband? it's time he was home, isn't it?" he took out his watch. "he's away." "away! well, he's no right to be away when you are so--feeling the heat. what's he doing?" "my husband was obliged to go to an aunt of his who was dying," i said with dignity. "what does she mean by dying now?" he said with asperity. "she's not, she's dead." "ah, that's better!" he observed in a most shameless manner. "he will be returning to-day?" "not for four days. he must wait for the funeral. this aunt practically brought him up." "well, she's not bringing him up now," he said, marching about the lawn. "his duty lies at home." "dimbie knows his duty as well as any man," i said stiffly. dr. renton laughed. "i beg your pardon, but----" "you think i am fretting for him?" "yes, i do. your face is like a bit of white notepaper." "the heat," i said. "are you eating properly?" "who could eat in this weather?" "are you sleeping well?" "dr. renton, i don't want to talk of myself." "but we must. what's the matter with you?" "nothing." "are you tired?" "i have just been to sleep." "look here, marguerite," he said sternly, sitting down and staring into my face, "answer my questions properly--i am your medical adviser--or i will call in mr. rovell; in fact, i am going to persuade rovell to have a look at you in any case." "call in mr. rovell?" i said blankly. he nodded. "candidly, i am not satisfied with your appearance. you are much thinner." "mr. rovell can't make me fatter." "i shall bring him this week--say thursday." i stared at him, dismayed and frightened. "i don't see the sense of making dimbie fork out another big fee," i quavered, "and i'm--i'm quite well." "are you? how's the back?" "it's quite--well, thanks." "i thought you were truthful." "well, it's pretty well." "marguerite," he said gently, holding my hand, "i don't want to frighten you. as you say, your white, rose-leaf face and hands may be the result of the great heat, but--i think it well to have another opinion. it cannot do you any harm, it may do you good, and at any rate it will satisfy me." [illustration: marguerite, i don't want to frighten you] "very well," i said, laying my face on his hand for a moment, "but i--_am_ frightened." "i know," he replied. "i have seen fear, sickening anxiety, written on the faces of many of my patients when the great specialist--the man who will pronounce their doom or otherwise--has entered the room, only to be followed by a great joy. we must hope and pray that this joy will be yours. it must be," he said almost savagely, getting up and kicking over his chair. "you are too young always to lie still." the last words were muttered to himself but i caught them, and a momentary darkness rose before my eyes, but i brushed it away as something tangible. "you--but you do think it will be well with me, dr. renton?" and the bitter entreaty of my cry startled my own ears. voices came across the garden, and mother and peter appeared through the gate. dr. renton hesitated a moment, and then went to meet them. my question remained unanswered. chapter xvii my worst fears are realised the day has come at last on which dimbie is to return, and--i am not glad. that i, his wife, should ever write such words seems almost unbelievable. but, oh--i am not ready for him! i am not yet brave enough to smile. i shrink from the thought of meeting the look of happiness in his blue eyes, of hearing the joyous ring of his voice, of seeing the whimsical, crooked smile on his lips. for how can i return the look, how smile back at him when my heart is wellnigh breaking, and every fibre of my being will be concentrated in keeping my lips steady, my eyes undimmed? and yet i must smile--somehow. it matters not that my happiness is marred so long as dimbie never knows it--if my tears fall in the darkness when he is asleep; if my spirit cries out in its anguish, and only god hears. god will not mind as dimbie would mind, for dimbie loves me. it is hard to believe that god loves me, or why give me such happiness just for a little while only to wrest it from me? it is he who has crippled me for life; he who gave me strong young limbs, only to strike them helpless; he who filled me with a passionate love for nature, only to shut me away from her forever within four walls. and yet christian people tell us that he is a god of love. love? i smile, it seems so strange that they should believe this. and they will come along and say very kindly, very gently, "you loved dimbie too much, you made an idol of him. god has sent you this trial to bring you to him. he must always come first." and you wonder at their lack of understanding. do they not know that you come closest to god in your moments of supreme happiness? it is then you want to creep away to a quiet spot and thank him, on your knees, for giving you such happiness. it is then you look upon all the wonders of the world with understanding eyes. it is then you try to help those who suffer and are sick. oh, dear religious people, it is you who don't understand! it is not sorrow which brings men and women to god, it is joy. it would seem to me a poor sort of thing to go to god when you are down on your luck--to make him a substitute for husband, home, friends; in fact, to call upon him when everything else has failed. that sort of religion does not appeal to me! i was grateful to him, too, for my happiness, for giving me dimbie. in my contentment i think i tried to lead a better life, to be more tender-hearted, more charitable, less down upon other people's shortcomings; and now--god has forgotten me. o god, were you not a little sorry for me when they--the doctors had gone, stepped out into the beautiful wide world, and left me alone a helpless, stricken creature? did you not feel a little twinge of pity when, not believing them, i struggled to stand, gripped the head of the bed, held out vague, wandering hands to anything that might help me to raise myself, only to fall in a huddled, unconscious heap on the floor? or perhaps you said, "poor, foolish little child, she is rebellious now; but a day will come when her spirit will be broken, broken upon the wheel of suffering." ah! what am i saying? forgive me, o lord. i am weak and sorrowful and lonely. i cannot understand it yet; i cannot see the reason why. i am as a little child groping in the darkness. the darkness stretches away to an eternity, and i can see no daylight. but help me to smile, help me to smile when dimbie comes home. the afternoon is hot and long and very silent. mother and peter are gone. instinctively mother knew i wanted to be alone to meet dimbie. how wise mothers are! she strained me to her breast, and the hot tears fell upon my face as she said "good-bye." "a word from you," she whispered, "will always bring me, even from the very end of the earth." "and what about peter, little mother?" i asked tremulously. "peter must remain at home." "but i think _even he is_ a little sorry for me," i said gently. she turned away, trying to get her face and lips still. "in the night i heard him say, 'my little marguerite, my poor little girl!'" she whispered. "don't, mother!" a great sob burst from me. "don't tell me things like that. don't sympathise with me, for i cannot bear it--yet. just take your broken girl as a matter of course. try to pretend that i have always been helpless, crippled. imagine me as a little baby once more, needing all your love and tenderness, but not your sympathy. it is sympathy that will make me break down, it is sympathy that will make me weep. and i am trying to keep all my strength for dimbie. if i cry i shall become weak, and then i shan't be able to smile when he comes through the garden-gate. don't give me sympathy, mother." * * * * * it is five o'clock. in an hour's time dimbie will be here. the day has passed desperately slowly, and yet all too quickly, for i am not ready for him yet. my smile is still trembly. i feel my lips quiver as i practise it. amelia looks at me out of the corner of her eye. how can she know what i am doing--that i am engaged in smiling exercises? a new feature of my curious mental condition, she thinks. but amelia is very gentle and patient with me now. she does not want me to know that there is any difference in her method of treating me. she is still firm and managing, but an unwonted softness creeps into her voice and manner when she addresses me. she has not referred to my trouble, and i understand why. she is cheating herself into believing that the doctors have made a mistake, and she thinks she is cheating me into the same belief. in an off-hand way she will refer to mr. tompkins having been told by a famous specialist that he was suffering from "hangina pectorate," and how it was nothing of the kind, but simply indigestion through eating welsh rabbit six nights out of seven; and how the second miss tompkins was told unless she had an operation she would be dead in a week, and how she ran away from the nursing home to which she had been taken and so saved her life, as she never had it done. amelia's recitations help to pass the time. just now i pretended i wanted tea, hoping to decoy her into staying with me a while when she came to remove the tray, but she said she was busy. "busy!" i ejaculated, "on a sultry afternoon like this. what can you be doing?" and she asked me if i imagined the work got done itself. and if i thought an oven never wanted washing out with quicklime. "what do you do that for?" i said eagerly. from certain well-known signs i thought amelia was preparing for a gossip, but i was disappointed, for she picked up the tray and moved towards the house. "why do you quicklime the oven?" i called after her desperately. i could not face another long half-hour alone. she put the tray down on to the step and walked slowly back. "do you really want to know, mum?" "of course," i said. "well, to sweeten it." "oh! doesn't the lime burn you?" "it would if i got it on to my hands, but i don't." "where do you get it from?" "i got a big lump out of a field." "do you--do you find lime in fields?" she eyed me with pity. "a house was being built there," she said laconically, as she began to walk away. "wait a minute," i called. "there's no hurry. where was the field?" she stood and stared at me. "you see, i--i am very interested in quicklime and ovens." i spoke rapidly. "did the tompkinses quicklime their oven?" amelia fell into the trap like a mouse. "they didn't till i taught 'em. they didn't do anythink like that till i showed 'em how. when i went there first, the oven was like that tex in the bible." "which text?" i asked with relief, for she had seated herself upon the grass. "'it stank in your nostrils.'" "dear me," i said, "how unpleasant." "heverythink tasted of ovens. you know the taste, mum?" "i'm not sure that i do." "it's like bad hot fat." "oh, then, i'm sure i don't. and so you cleaned it." "it came off in cakes. i had to take a knife to it." "the lime?" she eyed me sadly. "i'm afraid you're not listenin', mum?" "why?" "i'm just tellin' you as how i put the lime on, and you asks me if i took it off. it's the dirt--the fat i'm speaking of now." "oh, of course. it's the dirt you are speaking of--the fat that stank in your nostrils." i added this last to show how very sure i was of my ground. but this didn't appease her. she was in a contrary mood, and rose. "don't go," i cried. "wait, i have something important to ask you. i--" feverishly i cudgelled my brains--"i want to know the name of the poet who used to go to the tompkinses', and looked like a garden leek. was it by any chance"--i picked up a book--"william watson?" "no, mum, william potts." "a poet named potts? you must be mistaken. a poet could not be named potts." amelia set her lips doggedly. "this one was." "perhaps he was a tinker really, or you are mistaken in the name, as i said before. poets have musical-sounding names, such as wordsworth, tennyson, byron." amelia was evidently trying to keep her temper. "this man was named potts, i know it for a fact, for i always remembered it by thinking of kettles." "oh!" i said. "yes, whenever i wants to remember a name i think of somethink else like it, _that_ helps me. when that stout lady called on you i thought of a cobbler." "oh, mrs. cobbold," i said brightly, pleased at being able to follow her meaning. she cheered up a little. "now, when your father, general macintosh, came, i just thinks quickly of your waterproof hangin' in the hall." "i see." "don't you think it's a good plan, mum?" "most brilliant," i replied. "when you want to remember to feed the canary you say to yourself the word 'sparrows.'" there was a pause. i was not looking at amelia. i was, therefore, unprepared for the blinding sarcasm which followed. "that's it, mum. when i wants to remember to boil some pertaters i straightway puts on a cabbage. when i'm trying to recollect to clean the master's patent boots i washes his golf stockin's. you've got it quite right, mum. you've understood my meanin'. i'm not blamin' you. folks can't help the hinterlecks as god gives 'em, and i'm not blamin' you," and picking herself up she marched into the house. i laughed weakly for some minutes after she had gone. she might have been watching me through the pantry window--i care not. "bless you, amelia, for living with me and looking after me and amusing me. i know the kindness of your heart as well as the sharpness of your tongue. i know with what infinite tact you keep away from the subject of my infirmity, and i am grateful to you." presently she was out again. i was lying with my eyes closed. "you're tired, mum?" "a little," i said. "shall i get a flower to put in your gown before the master comes? it will freshen you up a bit." "how do i look?" she carefully selected a beautiful red rose. "there are two spots the colour of this rose in the middle of your cheeks." "i look well, then?" i asked eagerly. she sniffed a little. "i've seen folks as looked better." "bring me a hand-glass." she went slowly to the house. "i didn't know as you was vain, mum," she observed, as she put it into my hand. "you can go back to your oven now, amelia," i said a little frigidly. i waited till she had gone, and then raised the glass. two great, dark, burning eyes looked into mine. my cheeks were wasted, and my hair lay in a damp cloud on my forehead. all the gold which dimbie loved so much seemed to have gone out of it. in the relentless light of day, fascinated, i gazed at my strangely-altered countenance. "and once dimbie thought that face beautiful!" the words burst from me in a sob, but no tears came. my aching eyes turned to the roses and lupins which were drooping in the hot afternoon sunshine, to the hedge of wondrous-tinted sweet-peas, to the cool, green limes and beech tree leaning over the fence. "how lovely to be inanimate!" i cried passionately. "to be without a soul, without a memory, without a future. to be a soft, fragrant rose wrapped round by the sun and the wind and summer rain, sending forth a sweetness to gladden the heart of man, and then falling petal by petal to the cool, kind embrace of mother earth." why should humans suffer so? why should all this pain be? animals and birds and fish and insects prey upon one another. they drink to the dregs the cup of physical suffering, but they are spared the anguish of mental pain. will dimbie's love stand? ah, that is what is torturing me day and night! will dimbie remain faithful? he is but young. life is before him. he still lives in the present and future, only the old live in the past. to be tied forever to a helpless wife, to a creature wedded to a couch, to a stricken, maimed woman. oh, how i hate myself! i despise my own weakness and impotence. once i was a strong girl, who could run and dance and scale high mountains. dimbie said my eyes were as bright as stars in the frosty heavens, my hair as gold as the setting sun, my cheeks--ah, he flattered me! and now, god help--but no, there is no one to help me. god has forgotten me! bring a brush, amelia, and try to weave into my dull hair a little of the bright sunshine. pin the red rose you gathered into my gown. twine around your finger the damp tendrils which lie on my forehead, and make them curl as of old. tell me a funny story of the tompkinses to straighten up the droop of my mouth. for dimbie is coming down the lane--i hear his footstep eager and fast--and i want to look like the marguerite he married. a bird has broken into song in the apple tree--a golden melody. is he singing for the coming of dimbie? or is he a harbinger of hope? does he mean that dimbie's love _will_ stand--last throughout the ages? oh, that it might be so! i would rather be a cripple with dimbie's love than whole and strong without it. chapter xviii dimbie rolls a great load from my heart in the crises of life--the tremendous moments of fear, hope, and expectation--what a curious calmness overtakes us. maud's poor lover, after killing her brother in the duel, says-- "why am i sitting here so stunn'd and still, plucking the harmless wild-flower on the hill?" and later on, when he sits on the breton strand, he says-- "strange that the mind when fraught with a passion so intense one would think that it well might drown all life in the eye,-- that it should, by being so over-wrought, suddenly strike on a sharper sense for a shell, or a flower, little things which else would have been passed by." and so it was with me, i "suddenly struck on a sharper sense" as dimbie came through the gate, and i had nothing to say in the first moment of greeting but to tell him that a button was missing from one of his boots and his coat was very dusty. his look of utter astonishment expelled my apathy, and when his arms were round me and he was showering kisses upon my face and hair, and whispering, "marguerite, marguerite, have you nothing else to say?" in an overwhelming torrent it came to me what i _had_ to say, what i had to tell him. the reality of it suffocated me, i felt as though i were drowning. i could only cling to him murmuring his name. "dear love," he whispered at length, "say that you love me!" "love you!" i cried, finding speech. "love you! ah, dimbie, it is not for you to ask such a question. it is _i_ who must put it to you. do you love me? can you always love me--forever and ever, whatever happens to me? whatever i am----" i broke off. "whatever i am," i repeated mechanically. again he looked at me, held my face away from his, and surprise and bewilderment chased across his countenance. i could not meet the look in his eyes, and my own fell. he took my hands in his and held them to his lips very tenderly. "love you as you are, whatever you are! why of course, that is why i shall love you always, because you are marguerite. you may grow blind and deaf, and old and feeble, but you will always be my marguerite. that is the beautiful part, we shall always have each other--to the end. aunt letitia's was a lonely life and a lonely death. only old ann and i with her. no husband nor children, nor brothers nor sisters, no one very closely related; only i, a nephew, and an old servant." he settled himself on the grass at the side of the couch and leant his head against my knee. "but you and i will have each other for ever. but i am not going to talk of sad things--not that aunt letitia's death in itself was sad, for it was very peaceful and beautiful--but i want to talk of the delights of being home again, of sitting in our jolly little garden with my own dear wife, and of the said wife's stroking her husband's head." he raised his blue eyes to mine and pulled my hand down to his hair, and perforce i had to stroke it. "i cannot tell him yet," i cried to myself. "we must have this beautiful hour together. later on--perhaps when the dusk has fallen." he sighed contentedly as my hand passed over his crisp, kinky hair, and took jumbles, who was purring and arching his back, on to his knee. "now tell me the news, wife," he commanded. "first of all, how are you? has renton been to see you?" "yes," i replied after a pause, "he came the other day." "and what does he think?" "he thinks"--i caught at my breath--"that i am thinner and--not quite so well." dimbie turned round quickly and gave me a prolonged scrutiny. then he threw jumbles off his knee and got up. "you are decidedly thinner, marg. let me feel your arms." "my arms," i said, trying to smile, "were always so abominably fat that it is an improvement their being thinner." dimbie felt me carefully, then his mouth set in a hard, straight line. "we must get you away from here," he said, "to the sea, or somewhere bracing. by the time you are ready to walk about there will be nothing left of you to walk." "by the time you are ready to walk about," i started. amelia was coming across the lawn, and heard dimbie's words. her lips parted. she was going to tell him. "amelia," i cried, "come here quickly. the--the tortoise is slipping down the couch." "and that won't be the first time, mum," she returned, diving after it. "and you won't have a pocket, mum." "shake up my cushions, please, and--" i whispered in her ear as she leaned over me, "don't tell the master yet." "what are you two up to?" asked dimbie. "amelia is bringing you some tea, and we are going to have supper in the garden. i always have supper under the apple tree when it's fine," i said quickly. "isn't it a bit earwiggy?" "it is; but to make up for that there is the night-scented stock, and a corncrake in the field. peter got very angry with the corncrake and the frogs." "by the way, where are peter and your mother? it is very decent of them to have gone out and left us alone for a bit." "they are gone home," i replied. "a seismic movement of the earth's crust is now taking place at dorking." dimbie laughed. "not very polite to me to clear off just as i was returning." "i think peter feared you might quarrel with him." "a nice way of putting it. how did he and amelia get on?" "they didn't get on at all. amelia gave me notice to leave, and peter flung dinner plates on to the floor. i think he had been reading about savage landor's pitching crockery about when he was a little annoyed." "i'd have pitched him out of the house." "yes," i said, "that was why i felt glad you were not at home." amelia appeared with the tray. "how did you like general macintosh, amelia?" asked dimbie. she sniffed and tilted her head. "i gave him his half-sovereign back when he went this morning; that will show you how much i liked him, sir. he nearly wore the mistress and me out. i managed him though in the end." "what did you do?" "well, sir, i peppered him and keatinged him just as though he was a house-moth." we both stared at her. "readin' a book made me think of it; it was about a duchess and a baby, and the baby kept sneezin'. 'this will do for him,' says i to myself. so i buys a quarter of a pound of pepper and a tin of keating's moth powder, and i sprinkles his pillow and hairbrushes, and handkerchiefs and pyjamas, and shaving-brush and his clothes, and the sneezin' which took place after that was somethin' dreadful. his eyes and nose was runnin', and he says he had a dreadful attack of influenza. don't you remember, mum?" she looked at me, but i made no answer. he was, after all, my father, and i must not sympathise with amelia in her depravity. "go on," said dimbie encouragingly, helping himself to a large supply of strawberry jam. "well, he came and danced about my kitchen like a hathlete at the circus. couldn't have believed pepper could have made anythink so active, and with his gout, sir. i couldn't get him out of the kitchen for hever so long." "and what did you do?" "oh, i just fetched the pepper-pot and shook it at him, one shake and he fairly raced. and jumbles began a-sneezin' too, and rushed off to the roof of the shed; there was legs flying in all directions." dimbie tilted back his chair and roared with laughter. "and was he polite to you after that?" "pretty well, sir. he had to be. every time he was going to break out i just casual-like referred to the pepper. i would ask mrs. macintosh if there was enough of it in her soup, or if the curry was too hot." "you are a strategist, amelia," said dimbie. "yes, sir," she replied, without comprehension. "do you know what i mean?" "no, sir." "you can outwit the enemy." "yes, sir." she moved towards the house. she was wearing the tea-rose slippers again. dimbie caught sight of them. "why are you wearing my slippers? how dare you, amelia!" she stood nonplussed for a moment, then, "the mistress won't allow _you_ to wear them, sir, and i thought it was a pity for them to be wasted," and she disappeared into the house. we looked at each other and laughed. "she is a good girl, and looks after you well, doesn't she?" "excellently." "but i think we will get another maid--one who is more used to invalids." "no one but amelia shall look after me; besides, we can't afford," i said decidedly. "oh, we can afford right enough, marg. wouldn't you like one, dear?" "no, i wouldn't." he smiled. "well, don't get so heated about it, you shan't if you don't like. you shan't do anything or have anything contrary to your wishes." "you are very good to me, dimbie, dear;" and tears trembled in my eyes. "whatever's the matter?" he said in alarm. "i'm only tired. i have been so excited about your coming." "poor darling!" he murmured softly. "it's this hot weather that is making you so weary. i'm going to read you to sleep, and you must sleep till supper. what shall it be?" he picked up one or two of the books from the table. "_omar_?" "no, i'm tired of _omar_." _"the garden of allah_?" "no, beautiful but sad." "what, then?" i lay and thought. dimbie had a musical voice; he read well. i wanted something to suit his voice. "_pilgrim's progress_," i said. "it's on the drawing-room table." he fetched it, and turned the pages. "what part do you fancy?" "anywhere, so long as i can see you while you read." he stooped and kissed me, and holding one of my hands in his he began. very little of the beautiful language did i hear, for i was thinking and pondering upon what i should say to him later. how should i tell him? how break my news? the shock would be so great; i must choose my words carefully. "help me to say the right thing," i prayed i know not to whom. "help me to choose the right words, and let him go on loving me." * * * * * and dimbie himself made it all quite easy for me, for before i spoke or told him his own words rolled a great load from my heart. we had finished supper, the darkness had fallen, and a moon swam in a sky of the deepest blue. heavy on the warm night air lay the perfume of the roses, the night-scented stock, and the flowering lime, in which a thousand and one bees had been humming throughout the day. now they were asleep, and the lime was at rest. dimbie, with his arm around me, was telling me of aunt letitia's death, and how glad she was to go; how quietly and simply she had talked of her business affairs, of the disposal of her money, of her legacies. she had left her house in order, and with the faith of a little child had set out on the long, unknown journey fearless and with a great trust in the mercy of god. "at the last she said to me, 'from what you have told me i quite seem to know marguerite, and i should have loved her i am sure. i feel she is good. some good women are very unlovable; they are hard on the frailties of others. in their unsmirched purity they cannot understand the meaning of the words temptation, sin; but i do not think marguerite is one of these. i should imagine she would be very tender towards those who are weak, for she understands and knows the mercy of god.'" "the mercy of god." the words rang in my ears--dinned and hammered and beat. "_i_ understand the mercy of god! dimbie, dimbie, aunt letitia is wrong. i don't, i don't. i'm wicked, i'm rebellious, i----" my words broke off in a bitter cry, and i clung to him with both hands. "hush, hush, my dear one," he said, holding me closely. "if you are wicked it is a poor lookout for the rest of humanity. why, to myself, i always call you my white marguerite. i--" he paused, and i could hear the beating of his heart--"i want to tell you now what you have made of me, of my manhood. i have wanted to tell you ever since i first met you, but--it is difficult to lay your heart bare, even to the woman you love, but--i think i'm a better man now, marguerite. i was a careless, selfish sort of beggar before, i only thought of myself. the down-on-their-luck fellows were down through their own fault i supposed. the women on the streets disgusted me; the sick and suffering i shunned as something repulsive; the poor and hungry bored me with their whining. then i met you. you gave me something priceless--your love. i knew i was not worthy of it, but you married me. then came your accident and illness. will you think me cruel when i tell you i was almost glad? now i could do something for you, wait on you, take care of you, cherish you, i thought, try to make myself worthy of your love. and your first question was, would my love stand the strain of your illness? ah, marguerite, how those words hurt, how they cut me to the heart. 'she doesn't understand me,' i cried, 'she has no faith in me.' and have you still no faith in me? do you not trust me? marguerite, wife, were you to be stricken for life, always tied down to your couch, always a helpless invalid, i should feel that you were a sacred trust given to me by god to love and cherish. and--so long as you gave me your love i should be more than content. do you still doubt me, fear that my affection would waver? tell me that you trust me. speak, marguerite." and i spoke, very slowly at first. the words came haltingly, brokenly. i was trying to keep the tears back--tears not of sorrow now, but of joy. as my husband was speaking sorrow left me, and my soul was irradiated with a great and wondrous happiness. i forgot my tired body, it seemed to fade away, dissolve, and only my spirit was left behind singing a _te deum_. my doubts, my fears had gone. dimbie would _always_ love me. i believed him as truly as i believed that the sun would rise on the morrow. "dimbie, dear," i said simply, "i _do_ believe you, and i do trust you. your words to-night have made that which i have to tell you quite easy. i--shall never walk again." my arm stole round his neck and i drew his cheek to mine. "no, don't speak till i have finished. i want to tell you all about it now--everything. then we will accept it as the inevitable and never speak of it again. you say that i am patient, good. when the doctors had left me--dr. renton had broken it to me--i railed against god. i cried out in my agony, 'this cross is greater than i can bear!' i beat the pillows, tried to tear the sheets, struck my head against the bed. i longed to die. i prayed to die. i struggled to rise, only to fall in unconsciousness on the floor. this unconsciousness, i think, saved my reason. and, oh, the tears i shed, the bitter tears! i was glad you were not there, dimbie. in the darkness of the night, even as job, i cried out, 'let the day perish wherein i was born!' never to walk again--the words rang in my ears. always to lie still. the wind and sea would call me, but i must lie still. spring and summer would call me, but i must lie still, always still. never stretch my limbs in the sunshine or feel the mountain air upon my face. never hear the wind in the corn, or listen to the soft falling of the pine-needles in the woods. dimbie, that night has left its mark upon my brow, i fear. i felt as though i had been seared with a hot iron. i quivered when they touched me--peter, mother, amelia--they all came to me, and i cried, 'leave me, leave me!'" with a passionate movement dimbie made to speak, but i laid my fingers on his lips. "wait," i said. "hush, dear. i don't feel unhappy now, that has all gone, you have sent it away. for above all my grief there was a sorrow which was a thousand-fold more keen, more bitter. i doubted you. i doubted your love, and i did not in my mind reproach you, dimbie. 'he is young and strong,' i cried, 'and i am a cripple. he cannot spend the remainder of his life with a hopeless invalid. nature demands a healthy mate. i cannot expect him to be faithful to me.' "but, oh, i felt i could not give you up! i loved you so. you were _my_ husband. no other woman should have you. and--i looked at my face. it is a little pitiful when a woman comes to look at her face, i think. is it the men's fault, i wonder? ah, and what the mirror told me! i put it from me, and i laughed mirthlessly. 'that will never hold him,' i said, and so i drew nearer and nearer to my gethsemane and my cup was wellnigh full. and--then you came, and i woke as from a hideous nightmare; my sorrow and pain and anxiety fell from me like an old worn-out cloak. dimbie, dimbie, do you know how you smiled? in that dear crooked, whimsical, and most loving smile lay a woman's heaven--a heaven upon earth--and without you she wants no other paradise." dimbie's arms were around me as i finished. his tears fell upon my face, but he did not speak. in each other's arms we lay, wrapped around by the still, warm, scented night, and the silence was more beautiful than words. later on, when he carried me to bed, he knelt down and said-- "i thank thee for my most precious wife, o lord, so much more precious now that she is--she is--brok----" he paused, and, getting up, went quietly out of the room. chapter xix we inherit a fortune i have done with sadness forever. who could be sad on an afternoon such as this? is the witchery of spring with us once more? we ask; for it has rained for a week, and now every faded green thing--leaf and grass and hedges--are chortling with pride over their fresh, bright raiment. they are as maidens of fifteen mincing in their new frocks. the roses are holding up their heads and inviting you to bury your face in the heart of their sweetness where some raindrops still remain. you gladly do as you are bidden, and amelia, who has brought them to you, thinks you are an eccentric creature to go sighing and sniffing and kissing their wet petals in such sentimental fashion. "the sweetest flower that blows," you sing, and she says they are nothing of the kind, that "vi'lets take the cake." "the master will be home at half-past four," you tell her, and she says you have mentioned this fact at least half a dozen times. "only twice, amelia," i say. "you should learn to speak the truth." and she steps deliberately on to the tortoise, which lies on the grass, in order to teach me that i may allow it to stray once too often. i tell her i am sorry, and she suggests that i should tie it round my neck suspended from a ribbon, and people might take it for an enlarged miniature of one of my relations. i ignore her remark, and watch a thrush who is having a succulent feast of worms after the rain. i wonder at the worms being so easily deceived as to imagine that the stamping of the thrush's small feet is an earthquake, bringing them out of their burrows with a run. "miniatures are fashionable," she continues. i am still engrossed in the thrush. "that one of you in the drawing-room is not bad, but a bit flattering." "miniature of me?" i say lazily, refusing to be interested in amelia's conversation. "i have never had a miniature painted in my life. the one to which you are referring is the master's great-aunt, painted when she was a girl." she walks on high, sloping heels to the house with her head well up. in about two minutes she returns with ill-concealed triumph written on her face, and places a portrait of myself on my knees. in surprise i pick it up and examine it closely. yes, it is i, and--my heart contracts painfully as i look at it. have i that expression in my eyes--now? surely not. i put it down hastily, as amelia is watching me. "don't you like it, mum? i shouldn't be disappointed if it was my portrait. not but what i thinks it flatters you. the master was starin' at it for half an hour this morning--never touched his breakfast, and it was a fried sole, too." i picked up a book. "it's not bad," i say carelessly. "will you go to the village, amelia, and bring me some bull's-eyes--hot, pepperminty ones. the master is very fond of bull's-eyes, and so am i." i evaded her glance and searched for my purse. "it's in your pocket, mum. i stitched one in last night after you had gone to bed. second seam, right-hand side. the house was being that neglected while i was lookin' for things--purses and tortises--that i took the liberty, mum." now i own to feeling excessively annoyed with amelia. i had particularly requested her not to stitch a pocket on to me--anywhere, and she had disobeyed me. i had wondered what the hard, knobly thing i was lying upon could be. it was my own purse. i should not search the second right-hand seam. amelia must be shown that she could not disobey my commands with impunity. i read my book carefully, and turned its pages assiduously. "i am waiting for the money, mum." this in an injured voice. "there is some in the jewel drawer in my dressing-table," i said distantly. "and bring me my _crêpe de chine_ gown, and kindly remove the pocket from this one to-night." amelia's prolonged stare almost broke down my gravity. "why, you're holding your book upside down!" "and what if i am?" i retorted. "if i choose to read a book upside down that is no concern of yours. kindly go." i smiled as she walked slowly to the house. she was a very good girl, but must be kept in her place. she was back in a minute. "here's your money, mum, and did you mean your grand new lavender gown which your moth--i mean mrs. macintosh--sent you?" "that is what i meant," i said. "but it's like a bit of spider's web." she held it at arm's-length. "it's that delikit and lovely, you'll crush it to pieces." "that is your fault," i said quietly. "you have debarred me from wearing the other till the pocket is removed. now help me, please." with dexterous hands she got me out of one gown and into the other, but i was tired and spent when she had finished. "you look like a pichir with your gold hair, mum, though it's not so bright as it was. lavender wouldn't suit me, now, scarlet's my colour, but----" she broke off with a cry. "whatever's the matter now?" i asked. "there's a pocket in _this_ one, mum," she gasped, pointing to a gaping seam. i looked and said nothing. "dressmakers is but human, mum. 'ow was they to know that you had a prejudice against----" "amelia, _will_ you hush," i almost shouted. "i am so tired of your talking so much. go and buy the bull's-eyes." "will you have this gown off first?" she asked placidly. "no, i won't. i am not a load of hay to be pitched about from pillar to post. and my gowns are not legion." "there's the white serge, and the black heolian, and----" "amelia," i said, "if you don't go away i shall ring the tortoise for help--help from a stranger passing down the lane. i am a pestered, servant-driven creature, and i require as much help as a drowning man." and she went without another word to me, but muttering softly to herself, of which i caught a word or two: "moidered with the heat! poor thing, i have known as sunstroke----" &c., &c. she disappeared round the broom bush, and i laughed more than i have done for many days. * * * * * dimbie brought great news with him. he flung himself down upon the grass, tilted back his hat, wiped his brow, and said-- "i have retired from business, marg." "well, that doesn't make sitting upon the damp grass an act to be commended," i said severely. an amused giggle came from behind me. it was amelia crossing the lawn with a lettuce in her hand. "i thought you were getting tea." "so i am, mum. this here lettuce is for it, and i just catched what the master said, 'retired from business!'" she put her hands to her hips. "i'm thinkin' there'll be a power more work to do now two for lunch and two for tea hevery day. and the master, beggin' his pardon, will be makin' more mess with his tobacco ash than ever. it lies about the carpets like bone manure on a flower-bed." she continued her walk to the house, brandishing the lettuce and squeaking with emotion, without giving us time to reply. "amelia is like a jack-in-the-box. she seems to spring from nowhere," said dimbie depressedly. "well, never mind. go on with what you were saying, and get up from the grass, it's very damp, and you are sitting on a multitude of worm-hills." "give me the end of the couch, then. tuck up your toes. did you hear what i said? i have retired from business. i have done with the stock exchange forever, marg." "this then, i suppose, will be our last meal. we have no private means." "i will feed you on oysters and champagne!" "bread-fruit and yams, more likely, on a desert island, where you can obtain food for nothing." "marg, i am worth £ , a year," he said gravely, and with suppressed eagerness. i looked at him anxiously. "sunstroke too," i murmured. "do you hear? i am worth £ , a year. i can give you everything you want." he raised his voice excitedly. and of course amelia, who was bringing tea, tipped the hot-water jug over, and in endeavouring to catch it dropped the tray, and then sat down among the ruins and began to weep. "don't be a fool!" said dimbie. "get up! it doesn't matter." but amelia remained rooted to the ground, sobbing her heart out. "i shan't leave, i _shan't_ go," she wailed at length, looking at me as though i were contradicting her. "of course you won't," i agreed. "it's not the best china. it doesn't matter the least little bit in the world, amelia." "oh, i don't mean that, mum. i mean that if the master's got £ , a year--i couldn't help hearin'--there'll be no room for amelia cockles. you won't want me. you'll keep cook, kitchenmaid, housemaid, parlour-maid, butler, boots, and have hentries, hoary-doves, cheese-straws, low dresses, and dessert every day of the week." she reeled this off without apparently drawing breath, and i too was breathless at the contemplation of such a truly awful prospect. "never!" i said. she looked incredulous. "never!" i repeated. she sat up on her heels and began to collect the broken pieces and pick up the bread and butter. "and were i ever to indulge--i mean saddle myself with the retinue of servants you mention--there would always be room for you, amelia." "thank you, mum," she sobbed, while eating a piece of sandy cake in complete unconsciousness. "you could be mistress of the robes," said dimbie cheeringly. her sniffs became less frequent. "you could be lady's maid," i said. "but no pockets, amelia. you understand." she gave a watery smile. "i could find the tortis and brush your hair all day long, mum." "thank you," i said; "and would you let me wear plaits?" she hesitated, and then, like the boy who stood on the burning deck, remained faithful to duty. "people might call." "and if they did?" "plaits is only proper for little girls and in bedrooms--i don't like them there,--but if the master doesn't mind _i_ don't." dimbie broke into roars. "go and get some more tea," i commanded, "and make haste." "she's a good, faithful soul," said dimbie when she had gone, "and we won't part with her." "part with her!" i repeated in astonishment. "i should think not indeed. why, if amelia were to go i should be lost; and i should not only lose myself, but the tortoise, my purse--everything i possess. she is my guide, my comforter, my solace in my lonely hours, and tells me entrancing stories about the tompkinses. i could not do without amelia." "and yet i don't know how she would agree with other servants." "dimbie, dear," i said petulantly, "don't joke any longer. i don't feel like joking and amelia dropping trays; they upset my silly nerves." "i am not joking," he returned slowly. "aunt letitia has left me all her money. she has lived simply, almost niggardly, the last few years, poor old lady. the money has been accumulating at compound interest, and we shall have an income of £ , a year and a house in yorkshire. what do you think of that, marguerite?" he put an arm around me and laughed like a happy schoolboy. "we shall be able to buy you everything you want. we will take a house by the sea, in the mountains, in the heart of one of your dearly-loved pine woods--wherever you wish it, my princess. you've only to hold up your little finger and your desire shall be gratified. we'll bring the roses back to your pale cheeks in a more bracing climate. you might even--get well--nearly well. this garden is too small and hot. now isn't it?" "i love it better than any other spot in the world," i said earnestly. he looked at me with disappointment chasing across his face. quickly i said, "dimbie, dear, i am delighted at your good luck. it will be too beautiful to have plenty of money. i can hardly believe it yet. it seems too good to be true. and i think you deserve every little bit of it. you have been to aunt letitia more than a son. but--you won't take me away from here just yet. i--i don't want to go." "you don't want to go to a jolly big house with nice grounds and smooth lawns?" "what lawn could be smoother than ours? it is like velvet." he smiled. "but it's only the size of a----" "it's big enough to hold the apple tree and me," i interrupted. "you shall have grand chestnuts, wind-torn oaks, and sit under a weeping willow in our new garden." "i want to sit under my own apple tree," i said querulously. he surveyed it disdainfully. "it is so beautifully gnarled and old." i disregarded the look. "and you see it has seven apples on it, and i believe they are going to be red." "we shall be able to use them for cider, perhaps." his voice was mocking. "and i don't want to leave the ants; they're so interesting." "i suppose no other garden contains ants?" "and look at the roses! have you ever seen trees bloom more freely?" "roses--in england--are, of course, extremely rare." "dimbie," i said, "if you mock me again i shall----" "kiss me, sweetheart," and he held his face to mine. "i shall not kiss you until you promise faithfully you will not transplant me to another garden. i--i don't want to go yet awhile, dimbie." "but what shall we do with our money? there is nothing to spend it on here," he argued. "oh, i could soon run through it, given the opportunity. i should first of all buy new shoes for amelia--lovely, respectable, black, kid shoes, with neat bows and low heels." "would they cost seven and sixpence?" he asked ironically. "quite," i returned gravely. he walked up and down the lawn impatiently. "but tell me why," he said after a time, standing still in front of me, "why, marguerite, my poor white daisy, you are so anxious to remain here?" "because----" i paused. ah, no, i must not tell him _yet_; it is not time. besides, after all, it may only be my foolish fancy. "because," i continued, "to take me away from the garden that i love, from our pretty cottage, would be to tear out my heart-strings. perhaps you will think it sentiment, dimbie, but i want to finish our year here--our wonderful year. into the branches and green lace-work of the trees, into the dewy grass, into the sweet-peas and roses, into the beech--which is always so kind and friendly--into the frog-pond, and, above all, into our much-loved apple tree, are woven a thousand beautiful associations and memories. the memories, you will say, will remain with us, be with us wherever we go; but they are not yet complete. this is only august. we have four months left to finish our year. into those four months may be crowded much happiness, much simple, quiet joy, and the storehouse of our 'looking back' will be full to the brim and running over. let us finish our year here--you and i and amelia--and then----" i turned away to hide my face. "and then----?" "why then," i said softly, "i will do whatever is required of me." he sat down beside me. "your will will always be mine, marguerite." [illustration: your will will always be mine, marguerite.] i shook my head. "you and everybody will turn me into the most selfish creature that ever breathed if i let you have your way." "and why not? there is not very much left to you now." his voice was a little bitter, and a shadow crept across his face. "hush!" i said. "i have nearly everything a girl could possibly want--husband, home, friends, and now riches. why," i continued, trying to divert his thoughts, "why didn't you tell me your most important news on the day you returned home? didn't you know?" "yes, i knew. the will was read after the funeral. i was going to tell you. i kept it as a _bonne-bouche_ till the night fell, and then there was your news----" he broke off and did not finish. "afterwards," he said a little later, "i waited till my right to the money was confirmed. my mother was inclined to dispute it. she was aunt letitia's only sister, and considered she had the first claim, though she had not been to see her for years. yorkshire was too dull for her after the gaieties of london. still, she seemed to think the money was hers by right." he slowly dissected a sweet-pea. "i hope never again to see such a look on any woman's face as was on my mother's when the will was being read. it was very ugly and--sad. poor mother, she has missed the best things of life." he sighed deeply. amelia's voice singing "i wouldn't leave my little wooden hut" came through the pantry window. "she too is evidently of the same opinion as i," i said, smiling. "she doesn't want to leave." "you are in collusion, that is quite clear. two women are too much for any one man, especially when one of the women is an amelia. we will stay here and see the old year out, marg. your wishes are but commands. what is your desire now, my princess--to be wheeled nearer the sweet-peas?" he stroked my cheek lovingly. "was there ever a husband like mine?" i asked myself. and aloud, "go and tell amelia to sing less loudly, and inquire of her the size in shoes she takes." chapter xx professor leighrail pays us a call the afternoon was waning, and dimbie and i were beginning to wake up and trying to ignore the fact that amelia was watching us through the ever useful point of vantage, the pantry window, when professor leighrail drifted through the gate, round the broom bush, and stood staring at the cottage. that he hadn't seen us in the profound shade cast by the apple tree was evident from his not too polite remark addressed to the cottage-- "worse than i imagined--an overgrown pest-house!" we laughed aloud, and he walked to us with outstretched hands. his dress attracted my immediate attention, as it was a little unusual--black cloth trousers, white linen coat, large, badly-fitting, brown shoes with different coloured laces, and a top hat. the last he removed with a flourish, and his first observation seemed characteristic of the little i knew of him. "guessed i should find you like this, still playing at romeo and juliet, and you look," he put on a pair of spectacles, "you look, seated against that background of gnarled old branches, just as foolishly sentimental and happy as any young couple _could_ look." he did not wait for any reply, but rattled on. "i found you without the slightest trouble. i knew i should." "pine tree valley is not a large--" "certainly not," he interrupted, "but had it been a town and not a village, i should have found you just as easily. i said to a villager--man in corduroys--'where is the residence of a lady and gentleman who smile, who live on sunshine and walk on air?'" "and did he understand you?" we asked, determined _not_ to smile. "certainly, i spoke quite clearly. he reflected for a moment, scratched his head, and said, 'first turning to the right, one tree cottage.' 'that is correct,' i said. 'one tree cottage is the foolish and fantastic name they mentioned to me, now i come to think of it.' so you see here i am, and i must say that you and your cottage are worse than i anticipated." "worse!" dimbie ejaculated. "yes, you and your wife are still at it, the love-making. i thought you would be getting over it by now. and your cottage--isn't it below the sea level? it looks to me as though it might have been built on drained marsh land, originally a swamp." he spoke in the same cheerful, detached manner as when he first scraped acquaintance with us in the wood. "we are two hundred feet above the level of the sea," said dimbie with as much pride as if he had had a hand in the manufacture of the earth's surface. "a valley does not necessarily mean below the sea level, as you must know." the professor laughed. "but isn't it extremely damp and insanitary, covered over with that weed?" "that weed is clematis." "oh!" said the professor. "i should root it up, all the same." "but marg--my wife and i almost took the cottage on the strength of it." "a foolish reason. did you look into your drains, young man?" "amelia does that," i broke in. "you know she has a drain-bamboo." "of course, i remember. very sensible of amelia, most sensible. where is she?" "on the pantry table." "a curious place to sit." "she has the best view of us from there." he smiled. "i like servants to be interested in their master and mistress." "she is _very_ interested in us," i said. "i should like to see this young person, and i should like to see your drains. are they trapped?" we both remained silent. "i will have a look at them, if you don't mind." dimbie rose. "no, i want mrs. smiling face. women ought to know more about the arrangements of their homes than men." he offered me his hand. i looked helplessly at dimbie. it was so difficult to speak, to tell him. my voice still had an annoying habit of breaking when i was trying my hardest to refer to my--sorrow in a cheerful, careless fashion. the tears did not come, but--there was always the break. i would be telling amelia she might have my waterproof, as i should never require it again. i would start quite bravely, then would come the catch. will it always be so, i wonder? shall i never become quite calm and indifferent? it is eleven days since dimbie came home--a rich man--full of his good news. eleven days he has spent with me, and never once have we spoken of the cross we are called upon to bear, for it is dimbie's cross as much as mine. are we wise to put it behind us thus? should we not feel it less if we bravely discussed it? and yet it is my doing. it is i who willed it so, i who bade dimbie never to speak of it, and now i am almost sorry. somehow it seems as though the silence makes it harder to bear. our skeleton becomes more of a skeleton. perhaps if we were to discuss it freely, frankly, we should begin to regard it in the same way as one regards a smoky chimney--as tiresome, annoying, but bearable if the windows are kept open to let in the fresh air. our windows left wide would let in a great deal of happiness--love, comradeship, the pleasure of friends, the interest of books, the everlasting joy of nature. i must ask dimbie what he thinks. dimbie always knows what is right. in a few brief words he explained to professor leighrail that i was a prisoner to my couch, and that _he_ must conduct him to the house. the professor started as though to offer me words of sympathy, and then stopped. simply taking my hand in his he pressed it gently, and then followed dimbie into the house. "that was nice of him," i thought. "i wish nanty was here that they might renew their old friendship. perhaps they--but no," i laughed, "they are a little old, and--nanty hates men." amelia bore down upon me with intense excitement. "that gentleman has got his coat off, and he's poking about the drains with _my_ bamboo." "it just shows how prepared you were for any emergency, amelia," i said sympathetically. she looked at me out of the corner of her eye. i never knew anyone's eyes capable of turning back so far. "like a halibut's," i murmured. they instantly became straight. "what did you say, mum?" "nothing," i replied gently. "i sometimes think aloud." "yes," she said, in a tone which suggested she wished i wouldn't. "is he a sanitary inspector, mum?" "who?" "the gentleman who's doin' the drains." "no, certainly not. he's one of the greatest and cleverest men in england, and--he killed his mother." amelia looked incredulous. "he'd have been hung if he'd done that, mum--hung by the neck till he was dead." my servant is painfully dramatic on occasions. "it was an accident," i hastened to explain. i was afraid she might lock the professor in the cistern-room, or some other dark and unholy place. "he was driving an aerodrome. an aerodrome is----" but amelia was not in the least interested in my explanation. "what's he examining the drains for?" "he is afraid we shall be down with typhoid." amelia jumped into the air and dropped with a thud on to her now decently flat-heeled shoes. "tompkinses' grandfather died of typhus." "on the maternal side?" i asked affably. she took no notice of my question. "he lay for twelve weeks." "well, that was better than standing," i said. she resumed her halibut-eyed expression, and--left me. presently i heard her in strident-voiced conversation with the professor. i could not hear what they said, but they appeared to be very much in earnest. dimbie came out smiling. "one is seated on the back kitchen table, and the other is working away at the sink with the bamboo. it seems a nasty job, but they appear to be very happy." "which is doing the work?" "amelia. the professor wanted to, but she snatched the implement from him." "well, are we to be down with typhoid, or is there any chance of our escaping?" dimbie sat down. "he doesn't know yet, but he is hoping for the best. he's a queer old cock, but i like him immensely." "so do i," i agreed. "i wish nanty would come." it very rarely happens that one's wishes are instantly granted, but in this particular case my fairy godmother was in a generous mood, for as i spoke nanty's carriage drew up at the gate, and she swept down the path and across the lawn just as the professor emerged from the house brandishing in his right hand the drain-bamboo. now that nanty should, after a lapse of nearly thirty years, meet her old friend professor leighrail armed with a drain-bamboo would appear to be a situation very far removed from romance. but to me it seemed a most delightful and natural proceeding, for nanty would no doubt remember that her one time lover was, to say the least of it, a little eccentric in his habits. and professor leighrail would equally remember that nanty with her broad outlook on life was not easily shocked. did i say "broad outlook"? i withdraw it, for nanty with her hard and narrow views of the genus man is anything but broad in one respect. even her more intimate knowledge of dimbie has not converted her, and peter pronounces her as "pig-headed." anyway, her meeting with the professor left her quite calm and unruffled, while he, poor man, because he _was_ a man, mopped his brow and dropped the bamboo on to the grass as though it had been a live snake. i had omitted to tell dimbie of their former relationship, and he now stood and stared at them in the same way that amelia stares at me when i am gone, as she terms it, "a bit dotty." nanty dropped gracefully into a wicker basket-chair, and settled her mauve taffeta gown comfortably and elegantly. the professor with his big shoes and linen coat cut a poor figure beside her. "nanty and professor leighrail used to know one another," i explained to dimbie. "it was a very long time ago, when we were young. i won't say how long, because the professor might not like it," said nanty calmly. here was an opening for the professor to say something gallant, "that _she_ was not altered in the least, that only _he_ had grown old," but he did not take it. the professor is not a party man. he stared at the bamboo and said nothing. was he thinking of the days when nanty stood to him for everything adorable in woman, or was he thinking of his lost amabella? can the woman you have married entirely efface your memory of the other woman you wished to marry? and nanty. she had started and seemed distressed when i told her of the professor's loneliness, of his unkempt appearance. she was downright cross when i mentioned his ballooning, she had said it was a dangerous game. she had also said she had been a fool not to marry him, and she supposed that he had grown very fond of amabella. now she sat sphinx-like, with a little smile on her lips and her hands folded on her lap. the professor might have been a casual acquaintance she had met the day before. i longed for strength to get up and shake her. dimbie recognised that the professor was in trouble. his embarrassment and awkwardness, not to mention silence, were only too evident. manlike he came to the help of man. he plied him with questions about the drains. he did not understand why the professor _should_ be awkward and embarrassed, though vaguely he felt it had something to do with the presence of nanty; but whatever the cause, he knew that the professor required gentle assistance, and to give this assistance he must get him on one of his own pet subjects, either drains, over-eating, or balloons. he selected drains. he picked up the bamboo to attract the professor's attention, and asked him how long he gave us. "give you?" said the professor, looking a little dazed. "before we are down with typhoid." dimbie was quite grave. "oh, that depends on how much or how little you flush your drains." the professor was equally grave. "what do you recommend us to use?" "condy's fluid, or any other good disinfectant." the professor was now becoming interested. "chloride of lime is cheapest," chipped in amelia excitedly. under the pretext of rescuing her drain-bamboo she had joined the party, and when i tried to catch her eye to inform her that her services were not required her eye steadily refused to be caught. "quite right," said the professor, "chloride of lime _is_ the cheapest." "tompkinses always used it; their drains was always beautiful, that sweet and fresh you could have eaten your dinner in 'em." dimbie now tried to catch her eye, but she still wouldn't be caught. "amelia," i said gently. she became deaf as well as blind. "the tompkinses set a good example which all householders might follow with great advantage to themselves. it is simply suicidal"--the professor had now quite forgotten nanty--"it is simply suicidal the manner in which they neglect their drains, ignore their drains. and their ignorance on drains is usually colossal, only exceeded by the ignorance and stupidity of the men who lay them. i quite expected to find your main drain running beneath your drawing-room. "you almost seem disappointed that it isn't," i said. he smiled. "do you know where it is?" "no--o." "do you know where your gas-meter is?" "we haven't one, we use lamps and candles." "ah, well, you wouldn't know if you had. women never know these things." he spoke despondently. "i am not overwhelmed at our ignorance," i said laughing. "i don't see why we should know. surely the knowledge of gas and water is a man's business?" "i do not agree with you at all." he spoke with extreme rapidity. "women use them as much as men, they should therefore understand something of their working." "do you know where the pearl buttons for your flannel shirt are kept?" i asked quietly. dimbie suppressed a chuckle. "i didn't know i used them." "how do you suppose your shirt remains fastened? at the present moment the button on your left wrist-band is cracked across the centre. you must replace it with a new one on your return home." the professor laughed good-humouredly. "you had me there," he said. "they always have us," quoth dimbie. "haven't you found it so?" the professor stole a sly glance at nanty. "not always," he said softly. he was evidently recovering from his embarrassment by leaps and bounds. a smile flickered across nanty's lips. she did not return the look, but she unbent ever so little. "what do _you_ think of women, professor? you have told us what you think about drains and creeper-covered cottages, let us have your opinion of the fair sex." dimbie looked wicked. with unusual perspicacity he smelt a rat, and now he meant to run it to earth. "what do i think of women! i--i--" (the professor was now undoubtedly flurried) "i don't think anything of them." "that is a little rude and unkind of you," i said. "eh, what?" "that you should not think anything of them. are they so very unworthy?" the poor man looked worried. "i--i think i must go now." "no, don't go," i pleaded. "do stay to supper. we do so want to hear your views upon women. we so often hear them upon men" (i glanced at nanty) "that it will be quite refreshing to have a change." "and--what are the views you hear upon men?" he also looked at nanty. "that they are all bad." he laughed. "and--_i_ think women are all good," at which he bolted across the garden, called a good-bye, raised his hat, and disappeared through the gate. "that is the thinnest man i have ever seen," said nanty somewhat unromantically. "i don't think he gets enough to eat." she started. "housekeepers are poor sort of creatures--selfish, thoughtless, heartless," i generalised, not having known one. nanty looked at the sweet-peas. "i am sure he is often hungry." she started again, and getting up from her seat walked across the lawn and back to me. "where does he live?" she asked abruptly. "the grey house, esher. why do you want to know?" "oh--just curiosity." "perhaps you might ask him to tea?" i suggested. "i don't ask men to tea," she said crossly, picking up a newspaper and beginning to read. "visitors don't usually read." "humph!" "while you read i'll think," and i fell into a reverie, weaving many pleasant fancies, in which, strange to say, nanty and the professor were always the central figures. by and by she looked up. "of what are you thinking and smiling?" "of--marriage and love." "a foolish thought, and you cannot put the two together." "no?" "_no_!" said nanty decisively. chapter xxi jane fairbrother's impending visit "all's right with the world." the long-looked-for letter from miss fairbrother has arrived, and she is coming to stay with us. i read out the good news to dimbie exultantly and most happily:-- "'little old pupil,--shall i be glad to come to you? why my pulses quicken at the very thought, and my heart sings when i contemplate the quiet joy of sitting in an english garden--a little green garden under an apple tree with marguerite westover. kipling says: "o the oont, o the oont, o the gawd-forsaken oont!" but i cry, "o the heat, o the heat, o the hellish, burning heat!" and i conjure up before my sun-tired eyes a vision of wondrous golden cornfields, ripening blackberries, leaves turning to crimson and russet, dewy, hazy mornings and over all the soft, mellow september sunshine--for it will be september, that sweetest of english months, when i arrive. "'everything i have to say to you must wait till i am at one tree cottage. of your accident and suffering i cannot write, but you will know--knowing me a little--what i feel for you. but take heart. twelve months will not pass quickly at your age. time tarries only for the young it would seem, when for the old--who would have it linger--it flies all too quickly. but the months _will_ pass. think, marguerite, if it had been for life!' (this i did not read to dimbie, i feared my voice, for it still breaks.) 'as it is, you will get stronger each month. and then a day will come when i shall take you for your first walk, if i am anywhere near you, through the stately pine trees you loved so much as a child. do you still love them? but, ah, i forgot--mr. dimbie will be there to take you. there will always be a husband now, tiresome man! forgive me, but i want to step back to the dear old days when i had my little pupil all to myself. "till the fifteenth of september good-bye. i shall, on reaching london, travel straight to pine tree valley. it is so good of you to ask me, and much _gooder_ of your husband. "'always your affectionate, "'jane fairbrother.'" i smiled up at dimbie, who was leaning over me, but there was no response. on his face there was an expression i had never seen before. he avoided my eyes and walked across to the window. "she seems a silly, sentimental woman," he pronounced curtly. "i can't bear people who gush." and he marched out of the room and shut the door with a bang. for a moment i wondered whatever was the matter. then it dawned upon me that he was jealous, and i laughed softly to myself. "dear dimbie, goose, that you should be jealous of anyone, when i'm--i'm--no use now, makes me absurdly happy, ridiculously puffed up with pride and----" dimbie was back. "will that woman have meals with us?" "where else could she have them?" i asked. "couldn't she have them in the kitchen with amelia?" "with amelia? miss fairbrother is the daughter of----" "i don't care if she is the daughter of an archbishop," he interrupted with extreme gloom. "i am not going to have her always messing round." "she won't mess round. miss fairbrother is not that sort of person." "you are prejudiced. you see her through the rose-coloured spectacles of time. it is eight years since you met. probably she has degenerated into a prig." he threw himself on to the bottom of the bed. "should i be mistaken in my estimation of miss fairbrother, and she prove to be a prig, she shall leave within a week. i promise you that." "how are you going to get rid of her?" he spoke eagerly. "why, i _do_ believe you hope she will be one." "oh, i don't say that!" "but you'll want her to go all the same?" "yes," he returned brazenly, "i shall. she'll go and spoil everything, i know. i was a fool to suggest her coming; but you seemed such dead nuts on her. our pleasant afternoons in the garden will be spoiled. all our jolly talks and reading aloud and suppers under the apple tree will be at an end----" "but she can have talks and supper under the apple tree with us. there'll be plenty of room for three," i interrupted. "and that's just what there won't be. i'll see to that," almost shouted dimbie in a manner very similar to peter, i am ashamed to say. "are you going to be rude to miss fairbrother?" "yes, very rude." "very well, then, i'll cable to stop her." "where are you going to cable--she sailed more than a month ago--why she'll be here this week!" springing up. "of course," i returned. "have you only just found that out? amelia is already airing the best drawn-thread linen sheets." "then what did you mean by saying you'd cable?" "i meant i would wire on her arrival." "but she said she was coming straight here. you can't wire." he groaned. "oh, marg, marg, what _shall_ we do?" "do?" i cried impatiently. "you talk as though miss fairbrother were a perfect gorgon, instead of the sweetest and best woman in the world." "that's just it." he wiped his forehead. "i don't like best women; i like 'em ordinary. in fact, i don't like them at all--no one but you." "that is exactly the way peter talks." "i don't care. there are worse people in the world than peter. look what we're going to have planked on to us for weeks--months even." "hand me my desk!" i commanded in a patient voice. "what do you want it for?" "to write a telegram form for amelia to take at once. it will be given to miss fairbrother on the boat when it arrives, i should imagine. anyway, i will try it. she must be stopped from coming at any price." "it's no good wiring till the boat is due." "i don't know when it is due. please pass me my desk." "we'd better go through with it." "hand me my desk." "shan't! let the infernal woman come and be done with it!" with which exceedingly ungallant remark my husband again stumped out of the room, and again i lay and laughed and kissed the ugliest photo' of him in my possession, for which i have an unaccountable liking. and so to-day i have lived more or less under a cloud--a cloud in the shape of a lowering frown on dimbie's face. but i care not. i know most assuredly that it will disappear as jane fairbrother walks through the gate. he will like miss fairbrother, or jane, as i always think of her now. he will not be able to help it. and into our days jane will bring outside interests, a fresh, breezy atmosphere, new thoughts, new ideas, which i know will be good for both of us. most fearful am i of becoming a self-centred invalid, thinking of myself only, of my ailments, of my weariness, of my sometimes suffering. and if i am afraid for myself, still more desperately afraid am i of the _invalid_ atmosphere for dimbie. "it is not natural," my heart cries out, "that a man young and strong should be the silent witness of everlasting helplessness and weariness." when i am pretty well and able to be interested in all that goes on around me, and can smile and be happy, it matters not for him; but, oh, the days when i am too tired to do anything but lie with my eyes closed! and the nights, the long, long nights, when i am too restless to do anything but keep them wide open; when my head tosses and moves restlessly from one side of the pillow to the other, and when i long with an unspeakable longing to be able to move my helpless body in unison! that is not good for dimbie to see; it cannot be good. he will stretch out strong, cool hands and gently lift me on to my side, or turn my pillow, or hold a cooling drink to my thirsty lips. he will speak cheerfully, he will even try to find a joking word; but, oh, the heartache that must be his, the weary heartache! and some day--as yet perhaps the burden is not too heavy, the yoke not too galling, because out of his great love for me he has learnt a great patience; but will not the day come when the burden _will_ be too heavy, when he will falter or faint by the wayside? "o god, take me before that," i whisper out of the darkness, "take me before he gets tired of me!" and so i look for the coming of jane with a great thankfulness. the days in the garden, which i have feared will become long and monotonous to dimbie, will be shared by one who, as i remember her with her vivid personality, was always engaging and interesting. i have searched the papers for the shipping intelligence, and for the date upon which the good steamship _irrawaddy_ is due. i have looked up every possible train by which she could come down to pine tree valley. the spare room, amelia tells me, is fit for the habitation of the queen of england. and it _is_ a pretty room, with its indian matting floor coverings, soft green walls and rugs, wide, old-fashioned windows through which a white rose peeps, and airy, silken casement curtains. it seems a long time since i was in that room. some day, perhaps, if i should get stronger, i will persuade dimbie and amelia to carry me upstairs, and it will be like exploring a long-forgotten country. that amelia has flattened every piece of furniture (as much as you _can_ flatten washstands and wardrobes) against the walls i feel pretty certain. she objects to corners and pretty angles disturbing her visual horizon. she likes furniture to be neat and orderly and placed like soldiers in a row. she looks at my bed, which i insist upon having in the window, and sighs heavily. i can see her fingers itching to bang me up against the wall. she suggests that i shall feel draughts and get a stiff neck, be bitten by earwigs taking a walk from the clematis which endeavours to climb through the window, be sun-struck in the morning, moon-struck at night, and be blown out of bed by the first gale which comes along. to all of which i say, "i don't care, amelia"; and she, figuratively speaking, washes her hands of me, as sensible people do wash their hands of silly, contrary creatures who won't listen to reason. amelia really is no more pleased at the prospect of jane's visit than dimbie, although she has so thoroughly cleansed the spare room. she talks to me in this strain-- "miss fairbrother's not going to dress you, mum?" "of course not." "and she won't be wanting to order the dinners?" "i am sure she won't. besides," with a sly smile, "i thought _i_ ordered the dinners." amelia considered this, and with the wisdom of a diplomatist said-- "of course you do, mum." "i thought so," i agreed. amelia looked at me--one of the halibut looks--and continued, "and i won't have her messing about the kitchen." had she overheard dimbie's remark? "miss fairbrother would not dream of messing about the kitchen. miss fairbrother is not used to kitchens and flue-brushes and 'sweetening' ovens with lime." "oh, of course, if she's a grand lady!" amelia's nose tilted in the air. "she's not a grand lady; but her work in life has lain in channels otherwise than kitchens. she teaches, she used to teach me." "oh----!" i took up the paper. "she can't know much, then!" now i am sure amelia had no intention of being in the least rude. "that depends upon what you mean by much," i said. she began to walk away. unaccountably i yearned to know her definition of knowledge. "what do you think constitutes 'knowing much'?" she looked at me without understanding. "what do you mean by saying miss fairbrother won't know much?" "well, she won't." "granted that," i was becoming impatient, "but what sort of things won't she know?" "she'll know nothing useful." "amelia," i said despairingly, "if anyone can walk round and round a circle you can." she batted her eyes and regarded the ceiling in complete vacancy. once again i tried. "will you tell me the things you consider not useful?" "lessons and maps and 'broidery work." "maps?" "we was made to do maps in mile end road." "what sort of maps?" "heurope in red paint." "don't you mean the british possessions?" "that was it--america and----" "but america doesn't belong to us," i interrupted. she closed her eyes in intense boredom, but i was not to be snubbed. "what do you call useful?" "gettin' bailiffs out of a house when they thinks they's settled in." "oh!" i said. "i've got two lots out." "was it at the tompkinses'?" i whispered. "tompkinses was as respectable as you, mum," she said, mildly indignant. "oh, i beg your--i mean the tompkinses' pardon." "they had salmon--lots of it." "the bailiffs?" i knew i had been stupid the moment the words were uttered, but it was too late. "i'm speaking of tompkinses, mum." "of course you are." "why did you say bailiffs then?" "a slip of the tongue." amelia with her eyes dared me to any more "slips." "the tompkinses had salmon twice a week and manase once." "did it agree with them?" "of course it did. _we_ might afford salmon a bit oftener now as we's rich before it goes out." "goes out where?" "goes out of season, of course," and this time she left my presence with a most distinct snort. human nature is very much alike. dimbie is cross about miss fairbrother's coming because he thinks his nose with its dear crook will be put farther out of joint. amelia is cross because she thinks _her_ nose will be put out of joint. and i am sufficiently human and feminine to derive considerable joy and satisfaction from their anxiety about the putting out of their said noses. chapter xxii a literary lady honours me with a visit on several different occasions of late has amelia had the pleasure of reaching out the best china to a shrill accompaniment of "now we shan't be long," for the few select residents of pine tree valley have begun to call. six months have elapsed since we came to live here. now it will not look like "rushing at us." most of them are kindly, amiable, well-meaning matrons, who seem sincerely sorry for me, who have sent me books and magazines, and who take an unfeigned interest in amelia, her management, and her singing. "at any rate, she has nice, respectable shoes now," i say to myself with secret satisfaction. and _she_ is enjoying the callers; she feels we are getting on. she has hinted at an "at home" day; she says i must buy japanese paper serviettes to lay on the ladies' laps; and that rolled bread and butter is more correct than flat, every-day bread and butter. of all my visitors only two stand out in my memory with any distinctness: mr. brook, the vicar of the parish, because he was a man, and mrs. winderby, because she was literary. as mr. brook walked through the gate amelia simultaneously flew out of the front door, and put my slippers on to my feet with a smart action, rescued the tortoise, and generally put me in order. on reflection, i have decided that amelia must take up her position at the pantry window each afternoon to lie in wait for callers. mr. brook's eyes twinkled as he watched amelia's efforts, and i liked him for the twinkle. i remember more of mrs. winderby's conversation than i do of that of mr. brook, for the latter was not literary or nervous, or highly strung or jumpy, he was just a plain clergyman. i don't mean plain-looking, but a man without frills or nonsense, a kindly, breezy, broad-minded christian gentleman with a clean-shaven face and a cultured voice. he was apologetic for having been so long in calling, he had been more or less ill for some months, and his wife did not make calls without him; she was at the seaside just now enjoying a well-earned rest. he was extremely sorry to hear of my illness; he hoped i should soon be better; he had seen my husband at church; and he consumed two muffins and four cucumber sandwiches with his tea. tennyson's bad and unpoetical line in which he burlesqued wordsworth jumped into my mind: "a mr. wilkinson, a clerygman." that, i thought, exactly described mr. brook; but i felt he would be a good friend to those who were down on their luck. i cannot dismiss mrs. winderby thus briefly, for she still keeps edging into my thoughts in exactly the same way as amelia used to edge. mrs. winderby wore, as amelia describes it, a bed-gown, and her words were well chosen, for it _was_ a bed-gown. the bed-gown was fashioned of green velvet cut in a low square at the throat. it was supposed to hang in full, graceful folds, but it didn't do any thing of the kind, for mrs. winderby was of rounded, uncorseted, somewhat stout proportions, so the poor bed-gown was tight and strained. around mrs. winderby's throat was a string of amber beads; and her hair, which was red and towsly, was surmounted by a green, untidy, floppy, liberty hat. she sank on to the low wicker chair, and said-- "i have simply ached to know you ever since you came to pine tree valley." "oh!" i returned, unable to keep the surprise out of my voice. "of course, i know you have been here some time; but, you see, i am always so _frantically_ busy." "are people ever busy here?" i asked. "if they like to be," she pronounced; "it depends on the people. people who have resources of their own are always busy. _you_ have resources." she pointed her parasol at me. "oh, have i?" i said, surprised. "for you have a temperament." now i knew i had a temperature, but i didn't exactly know what she meant by the other thing; so i just laughed carelessly. had she said, "you are of a sanguine or pessimistic temperament," i should have quite understood; but to say in that decided manner, "you have a temperament," simply nonplussed me. and as she evidently knew more about it than i, i didn't contradict her. "i can see it in the colour of your gown, in the books on your table--dear, darling _omar_--in the way you dress your hair." she trod on jumbles as she spoke. involuntarily i put my hand to my head, but it felt all right. "and this is such a sweet garden. you live the simple life, i suppose?" "i live the life of an invalid," i replied; "it is bound to be simple." "of course, of course. i was told that you were a sufferer--most distressing." she spoke hurriedly, as though anxious to get away from a painful subject. did she think that i should dilate on my affliction to her? god forbid! "i had been so hoping that you would have been one of us." i looked at her, puzzled. "that you and your husband would have been kindred spirits. i thought i saw your husband as i came through the gate?" "yes, that was my husband," i said steadily. she looked about the garden, as though dimbie were concealed behind the sweet-pea hedge or hidden among the rhubarb, and i had difficulty in suppressing my laughter. "even if _you_ are a prisoner--poor thing--perhaps your husband would join our little coterie. what is his bent? what line does he take?" her conversation was mysterious, but here was a plain, simple question easily understood. "the south-western he used to take," i said; "but now----" she eyed me a little coldly. "i was not referring to railway lines," she interrupted. "i meant in what movement, art, thought, work, is he specially interested?" "oh," i said in confusion, "i beg your pardon. i don't think there is anything very special. my husband is rather a lazy man. he enjoys walking, and, oh," i added with inspiration, "he likes gardening." "gardening has been overdone," she said firmly. "charming subject, communing with nature and all that sort of thing; but we have had elizabeth, alfred austin, mrs. earle, dean hole, and a host of others." "my husband does not commune with nature, he kills slugs," i retorted. "besides, none of the people you have mentioned have gardened for us. elizabeth may fall into ecstasies of astonishment at the unique sight of a crocus in bloom in february, alfred austin may converse most charmingly with his verbenas and lavender, but they don't know where dimbie has planted our celery." she made a gesture of impatience. "you don't seem to understand me, but i will endeavour to explain. you see, a few of us here have formed ourselves into a little band of----" "musicians," i said pleasantly. i was listening to amelia's rendering of "now we shan't be long," and had not quite followed the gist of mrs. winderby's conversation. "i was not going to say 'musicians,'" she contradicted, "though musical people _are_ members of our club. we are literary--_i_ am literary" (a pause)--"artistic, scientific. we have formed ourselves into a club, and meet at each other's houses once a week." "it sounds most interesting and improving," i observed. "i know a scientific man. he invented an aerodrome which killed his mother, and he goes about in a balloon, and----" "we only have gentlemen in our club." "but he _is_ a gentleman. he is the great----" she leaned forward and stared at me intently. "what's the matter?" i asked, "an insect crawling over me?" "more than that." "more than that!" i cried, nervously clutching at my gown. "is it a wasp?" "don't get excited." she murmured, leaning still farther towards me. "it is most interesting. you have a cleft under your nose between your two nostrils; it denotes extraordinary artistic sensibility." "oh, no," i said, "you are mistaken. that mark is the result of falling against a sharp-edged fender as a child. i thought it was practically imperceptible. my husband calls it a dimple. i am afraid i am not artistic in the sense you mean. my husband and i are not very interesting. we are just every-day, ordinary people." "and you are all the happier for that," she said, lifting the hair from her forehead as if it were too heavy. "you ordinary people, as you call yourselves, have the pull over us nervous, highly-strung, thinking mortals. oh, the thoughts that burn in my brain! sometimes i lie with my face pressed to dear mother earth--i put my lips to the grass, i murmur to her, i become one with her, and she soothes and comforts me as a mother soothes a tired child." involuntarily i pictured mr. winderby finding his rather portly spouse in her green velvet bed-gown rolling on the ground, and i smiled. i pretended that i was smiling at amelia, who appeared with an advance guard of japanese serviettes, but mrs. winderby detected my deceit. she frowned and rose. at once i felt conscience-stricken. mrs. winderby was trying to entertain me, she had taken me into her confidence, and here was i, a supercilious invalid, laughing at her. i felt really sorry. "don't go, mrs. winderby," i said pleadingly. "tea is coming, and i should like you to meet my husband." "master's in the cock-loft," said amelia, carrying the three-decker cake-stand and placing it in front of mrs. winderby. "in the where?" i asked. "in the cock-loft." "wherever's that?" "the cistern-room. he's doin' photigraphs in the dark." now i felt that dimbie was acting very basely. he had seen mrs. winderby coming through the gate. he had rapidly taken his bearings, and was now in hiding in a cock-loft. "will you tell the master tea is ready, and that i am anxious to introduce him to mrs. winderby," i said to amelia. "yes, mum." mrs. winderby sat down again appeased. she graciously accepted a cup of tea, which she said must be just milk and water on account of her nerves, and she skilfully brought round the conversation to a man with a name which sounded like a sneeze, whom i knew nothing about. she talked of him, quoted him, raved about him. "he was a dear, naughty philosopher, and his philosophy drove him mad," she finished, and i covertly made a note on the fly-leaf of a book which lay beside me: "niet or ntiez, man who went mad." i intended looking him up in the encyclopædia. mrs. winderby might call and talk of this sneezy philosopher again, and i must know something about him. she detected me in my note-making. "what are you doing?" she inquired. "i was only jotting something down." "your commonplace book? i presume. was it something i said? my friends do put down bits of my conversation ready for copy." she smoothed out her velvet gown with a plump, white hand. "copy books?" i murmured. "certainly not," she retorted snappily. "copy means matter for books--anything interesting or amusing, that you hear and see. have you not met any literary people?" "no," i returned humbly. "but amelia--amelia is my maid--knew a poet in her last place; he visited the tompkinses." "how interesting! i wonder if she remembers his name, and what he was like." "i know what he was like," i said, delighted to have interested her. "amelia described him to me. he was like a garden leek that had been boiled without soda--yellowish looking i suppose she meant. and a great friend of mine once knew an authoress--a fifth edition, marie corelli sort of writer--whose head was like a mangel-wurzel." i began to feel more on an equality with mrs. winderby. nanty's and amelia's reflected glory was raising my spirits. "i am afraid i don't understand you," my visitor said. "oh, because it was so----" i stopped abruptly. suddenly i remembered that mrs. winderby was literary. she looked at me coldly, she did not help me. she saw my agitation, she watched the beads rise on my forehead, and the only word i could think of was "swelled." i could not say swelled--it was impossible to say swelled. i hugged the tortoise, and my slippers fell off. "i am afraid i don't understand. i cannot see the connection between a mangel-wurzel and a successful author," she repeated. "why because," i laughed feebly, "i--i--they----" and dimbie appeared from the cock-loft and saved me. "because they are both so nice," he said affably, offering a hand to mrs. winderby and drawing up a chair close to hers. the situation was saved. dimbie was covered with cobwebs. his hands were dirty, but his manners were irresistible; and that mrs. winderby fell in love with him straight away gave me no qualms of jealousy. "it is so kind of you to come and call upon my wife," he was saying. "she is delighted to see any of the residents of pine tree valley." oh, dimbie, dimbie! mrs. winderby gracefully crossed one velvet-clad leg over the other. she was prepared to prolong her visit indefinitely now that dimbie had appeared. jumbles, giving her foot a wide berth, crept on to the couch and snuggled down beside me. "i have been telling mrs. westover how much i had been hoping that you would have been one of us. we are wanting new members." "oh!" said dimbie politely. "we call ourselves the sesameites." it sounded so like a tribe of israel that i wanted to laugh, but dimbie's face checked me. "we are a little club for self-improvement. we exchange views, opinions, thoughts. we help each other like the----" "buffaloes," came a voice from the neighbourhood of the couch, but it was certainly not mine. it belonged to amelia, who stood behind me regarding mrs. winderby with parted lips. "_amelia!_" i said. "_amelia!_" echoed dimbie. "my brother's a buffalo," she said defiantly, while turning a little red. "i though p'r'aps he belonged to the same club as this lady, as she says it's to help one another. you put in so much money a week, and then when you's ill you----" "that will do," i said when i could get a word in. "you can remove the tray." she walked unwillingly to the house, and we turned apologetically to our guest. "you were saying?" said dimbie. "i am afraid i have lost the thread," she returned gloomily. "perhaps it will come to you," he said hopefully. "you were talking about the simeonites." "sesameites," she corrected. i pinched the tortoise quietly under the sofa blanket. "oh, yes, a sort of debating and literary society?" "exactly. _i_ started it. it was uphill work at first, but i persevered. and now we have an extremely interesting number of members. some of them are quite celebrities; for instance, it was i who wrote _winged white moths_." "really?" said dimbie. "yes," she said, dropping her eyelids. "it took a great deal out of me--i felt it all so intensely. i was quite exhausted when i had finished." "how many editions?" i asked pleasantly. she did not reply, perhaps she did not hear me, anyway she did not reply. she drew on her gloves and said "good-bye." dimbie conducted her to the gate. i could hear him entreating her to come again, and she sounded a little more cheerful as she went away. when he came back he threw himself into a chair and frowned at me. i returned it with an engaging smile, but he continued to frown. "it doesn't suit you because of your dear crooks," i said. "we shall never have any friends, marg, if you behave like----" "do you want friends like that?" i interposed. "_i_ don't, but i'm thinking of you." "well, don't," i said. "i don't want any friends like mrs. winderby. i like clever, _really_ clever people, because they are usually unaffected and quite simple, and can be interested in you and your doings as well as in their own. but mrs. winderby is artificial, and she poses. i don't like people who pose. i would infinitely prefer unclever, natural women than posy ones. wouldn't you?" "she was a bit of an affected ass, certainly." "some of the women who have called are very nice--not violently interesting any more than i am, but just kind and simple and straightforward. i like to know them, but i don't want to know mrs. winderby." "and you shan't," said dimbie, lighting his pipe. "the next time she comes i'll throw her out of the gate if you like." "dear dimbie," i said, "one of your most engaging qualities is that you so often see things from my point of view. now some husbands would have forced their wives to know that woman." he laughed, then a tender expression crept into his face. "you see, you are not like most wives." "i am not able to run away from disagreeable people, you mean?" "no, i did not mean that." a shadow now superseded the tenderness. "i meant that you were so much more reasonable in your wishes than most women." i blew him a kiss. "dimbie, you are prejudiced. what about my selfishness in insisting upon remaining here when you are aching to spend your money upon some large establishment. you are penned in, i know. when i think that if we were away from here you might get some shooting, riding, golf this autumn, i am ashamed of my own selfishness. but--it won't be for long, that comforts me a little. not for very long now." "and then you are willing to go?" he said eagerly, kneeling at the side of my couch. "and then i shall be ready to go," i said gently, hiding my face on his breast. "dear sweetheart!" he murmured, kissing my hair. "dear god," i said in my heart, "once again i thank thee for dimbie!" chapter xxiii i surprise doctor renton's secret very blind, very dense, and downright stupid have i been; and being of the gender called feminine, and presumably supposed to possess the gift of scenting a love affair of even the most embryo growth, i am all the more annoyed at my own density. besides, dr. renton helped me. the scent was hot. he mentioned india; he said she had lived at dorking, or am i imagining he said that? anyway, the trail was good, and it was only at five o'clock this afternoon that i discovered that my medical adviser, dr. renton, has been in love with my old governess, jane fairbrother, for over ten years. and my discovery was only made by accident. had i been staring at dimbie, as is my customary fashion, instead of at dr. renton, when i announced from the open telegram in my hand that jane would arrive on the morrow, i should not have seen the red colour dye the doctor's bronzed cheeks, and i should still be wondering most probably who was his long-loved and long-lost woman. "oh!" i said, blinded for the moment by my sudden illumination. "oh!" our eyes met. he smiled, and i knew that he understood. "yes," he said, nodding quietly. dimbie was balancing a piece of cake on jumble's nose. "i'm so glad." "thank you," he said simply. "what are you glad about?" asked dimbie, looking around. "that the sun is coming out for jane and dr. renton after the long, long gloom." dimbie gazed at me. "i don't see why you should be specially glad for them. i think we require the sun much more than they, as we are lazy people who lie about and do nothing. besides, it has only been dull for three or four days. you can't expect this wonderful summer to go on forever. you've become exacting, captious." "it has been more or less dull for eight years," i remarked sententiously; and dimbie, after again staring at me, returned to jumbles, as though cats were easier to understand than women. the doctor and i smiled. "i should wear grey flannel and a soft, grey hat--grey goes so well with hair of the same colour," i observed. "it's not very bad," he protested, putting his hand to his hair. "pretty bad," i laughed; "there's a little brown left, but it's mostly tinged with grey." "and my tie?" he asked, with a funny and almost resigned expression upon his face. i put my head on one side to consider. "lavender would be--too bridal. i think grey or black and white." "whatever are you two talking about?" asked dimbie. "colours. we were just considering what would best suit a man with iron-grey hair." "but i'm not grey," said dimbie. "no, dear." "well, what do you mean?" "i was just considering another man for the moment. another man's appearance for an occasion on which he is anxious to look unusually well and young." "he must be a conceited ass!" quoth dimbie, getting up and strolling after jumbles, who with arched back and stately tread marched away, refusing to be turned into a common performing clown at any man's bidding. we laughed outright. "may i--may i talk to you about it?" i asked. he nodded. "when would you like to see her?" "to-morrow evening if you'll let me." i considered this. "say the day after." "why?" "because if--if she says 'yes' she'll cease to take any further interest in me. i've grown selfish, and i should so like to have her all to myself for the first evening." "very well," he agreed somewhat grudgingly. "you see, after waiting for eight years one day----" "will seem longer than the whole lot put together," he said despondently. "well, come late to-morrow night, after supper." "no, i'll try to hold out." he smiled a little. "if she--well, if she refuses me, i shall have had all the longer blissful looking forward to meeting her again. and if she should say 'no' it will serve me right." "i somehow don't think she'll refuse you, though, as you say, it would certainly serve you right." "yes, i know it would." in his eyes lay an anxious, almost wistful look, which touched me. his rugged face had softened to a semblance of youth, his voice was less gruff. "women don't forget easily. if she ever cared for you----" i began. dimbie was returning. "dimbie," i called, "you might climb over into the frog-pond field and bring me some marguerites." "aren't they over?" "if they are bring me some loosestrife and, scabious and anything you can find. i long for some wild-flowers." lazily he threw a leg over the fence and disappeared. "he'll be away some time now. dimbie never does anything quickly; he is slow and thorough, and he will endeavour to find the largest daisies in the field." "i suppose when i--if i were ever married my wife"--he stumbled over the words--"might ask me to pick daisies for her?" "perhaps. but a great deal depends upon the man. i cannot imagine my father picking flowers for mother; he would more likely throw them at her." dr. renton smiled. he had known peter as long as i. "i wonder whether you will find miss fairbrother much changed? she is eight years older, you know." "of course," he said placidly. "women age as well as men." "naturally." "you don't care?" "how do you mean?" "you don't mind if she looks older?" "certainly not. no man _wants_ his wife to look old, but if she does he loves her none the less. i have not been married, but i know this is so. i have seen the most beautiful affection between quite old men and women. it is not passion, but a love that has been tried in the fire and emerged triumphant." i gave a sigh of relief. "besides, i know jane's is a face that will have become more beautiful with the years." "why?" "you will remember that her mouth was firm, almost hard? her clear eyes honest, but almost defiant?" i shook my head. "well, they were. perhaps i studied her features more carefully than you." "possibly," i said, a little dryly. "she had had to fight her own battles. she had had to stand up for herself against the world. her childhood had been sad--an invalid mother, a drunken father----" "no?" i said. "yes. once she told me all about it. we were alone, and she gave me her confidence. and--i was fool enough to let that moment pass, though every bit of my being cried out to me to speak to her, tell of my love. but i thought she wasn't ready, and then she went away. but, as i was saying, i know she will be more beautiful now, hers was a large nature. the years will have brought her a tenderness and sympathy which will have written themselves on the lines of her face. some lined faces, with their experience, are infinitely more attractive than the fresh, smooth faces of youth. don't you think so?" i nodded. for the first time in my life i was learning that the doctor had another side to his character. he had thrown aside his cloak of reserve, his professional manner, and i feared lest a chance word of mine might cause him to withdraw into his shell. "in some faces you will see written the history of their owners' lives, dispositions, characters, if you look carefully. note the little lines around the eyes that star away in all directions. they mean that the person who possesses them has smiled much, laughed at misfortune, helped the world to be the brighter and better for his or her presence. i expect to see those lines around jane's eyes, and if they are not there i shall almost be disappointed." he fell into a reverie, and i looked at him thoughtfully. he would make jane very happy. "oh, i hope she'll have him, i hope she'll have him!" i whispered again and again to myself. dimbie appeared over the fence. "will those do?" he asked, putting into my hand an enormous bunch of wild-flowers. i buried my face in their fresh sweetness. "we will put them in jane's room; she loves flowers." "you will not put them in jane's room," contradicted dimbie crossly. "i don't gather flowers for every strange woman from india, please understand that, marguerite." dr. renton looked up in surprise. "yes, i have to speak like that. marguerite will make a perfect fool of miss fairbrother if i let her have her way. it's miss fairbrother this and miss fairbrother that. i'm sick of the very name of the woman. i'll take jolly good care that she is out of this house in less than a fortnight. marguerite asked her for an _in_definite period, but it happens to be very definite in my mind." with which he flung himself across the lawn and into the house. the doctor opened his mouth. "don't take any notice," i said quickly, for i knew dimbie was watching us through the drawing-room window, "it's only jealousy, nothing more; he'll be all right when she comes." "i'll marry her at once," the doctor pronounced, getting up from his chair. "you forget that she may not accept you." he blushed a little. "good-bye," he said gruffly. "good-bye," i laughed; "but you might tell me before you go whether you think i am any better or worse. you'll remember you came over to see me--perhaps?" he couldn't help laughing too. "i'm awfully sorry. you see, the telegram came just after my arrival." "you needn't be, there's nothing fresh to report." "still tired?" he asked very gently. "still tired and waiting for a fresh breeze to blow. i think i shall be better then, doctor." "god grant that it may be so." he raised my hand to his lips. "you are a staunch friend, marguerite." "take care," i said, my eyes suddenly filling, "dimbie is watching, and he is in a bit of a temper. you will be coming on thursday, and good luck to you." when he had driven away dimbie sauntered across the grass. "what is that man kissing you for?" "dimbie," i said, "you are too comical for words, and i will return your question with another. what is the matter with you?" "i don't know." he lay down on the grass and leaned his head against my couch. "i'm cross, i think, marg." "yes," i returned, running my fingers through his wavy hair, "you're very cross. how long do you think you will continue to be so?" "till miss fairbrother has gone. marg, i don't want to be a surly beast, but, oh, i do wish i had never consented to that indian woman's coming." "if i tell you something will you promise to keep it secret--either till the day after to-morrow, thursday, or forever?" "there's rather a wide difference between the two periods of time." "yes, but there is a reason for it. will you promise?" "all right." "i mean a faithful promise. you have a rather trying habit of slipping things out. this must be an on-my-oath promise." "on-my-oath, world-without-end promise," repeated dimbie. "dr. renton wishes to marry jane fairbrother." "the deuce he does!" "yes," i said, enjoying his astonishment. "but he doesn't know her." "he has known her for years. he knew her when she lived with us, but she went to india before he could make up his mind to speak to her. now he is coming on thursday." "and he will take her away just when she is going to be useful to us, selfish beast!" i smiled behind my hand. "dear dimbie," i said, "i always thought men the most _contrary_ creatures, having lived under peter's roof for some years, but never _quite_ so contrary as i now find them to be." "what do you mean?" "i mean that here you have been making yourself extremely disagreeable about miss fairbrother's visit, and the moment someone comes along and says he will remove the incubus you turn equally nasty." "i don't want _you_ to be disappointed. for myself, i am only too jolly thankful that she won't be here long." "but she may. i am not sure that she will accept dr. renton." "i am." "why?" "most women accept the first man who asks 'em." i swelled with indignation, and i rang the tortoise to emphasise my righteous anger. "the conversation is finished," i said. "no, it isn't," contradicted dimbie. "i repeat that it is." i shut my eyes. "you've beautiful eyelashes--look like a fringe on your cheeks, and they all curl up at the ends, marg." an interval of silence. "i didn't say _you_ would rush at a man. i meant most women." more silence. "don't you think i'm right?" "your ignorance of women is only equalled by your colossal conceit. the conversation, i again repeat, is at an end." "and once again i assert that it isn't. i wish to discuss the matrimonial prospects of dr. renton and miss fairbrother." "you must discuss them with yourself." "can't." "you must take back what you said." "shan't." i closed my eyes tightly. "i shall go and talk about them to amelia." he got up. "you dare!" "i shall." "you promised. you can't break your word." "it would be quite easy." "dimbie, i never thought you _could_ descend to such meanness." "you see how little you knew me." "women are always deceived." "it's funny how they rush at marriage." "oh," i cried, "you are too dreadful! go away at once." he laughed and croodled closer to the couch. "this is our last afternoon," he said ingratiatingly, looking up into my face. "what do you mean?" "before the she-dragon comes. be nice to me, wife." i looked away. it is hard to resist the plead in dimbie's eyes and the crook of his mouth. his hand stole into mine. i took no notice. the other hand stroked my hair the wrong way, and--then, after the manner of fond, foolish woman, i forgave him and was nice. chapter xxiv musings on autumn and the arrival of jane one of those september days is with us in which the world, like rip van winkle, is very fast asleep. a great stillness broods o'er our little garden. no blade of grass or leaf of tree moves or rustles to disturb the silence. jumbles lies curled upon the warm front doorstep; dimbie lies asleep in a low hammock chair. the birds and insects, and even the ants, have joined in the general siesta; and i, generally having more time than the others in which to indulge in flights to the land of nod, am keeping awake to take care of all my friends of the garden. i have to keep removing a fly from dimbie's nose; to see that jumbles doesn't wake up suddenly and pounce upon a drowsy, unwary bird in the neighbourhood of the broom bush; and to turn an eye upon a butterfly which appears to have fallen asleep in the heart of a single dahlia. over all broods a haze, gossamer and fairy-light, but still a haze which ever follows in the footsteps of sweet september--september so quiet, so peaceful, so mellow and rounded. september is to may as mature and still beautiful womanhood is to the freshness of girlhood, not so radiant, but so complete, so satisfyingly lovely. spring somehow, i know not why, gives me an ache at the heart, creates within me a yearning for something. autumn does not affect me thus. there may be a regret, a glance of retrospection at the months which are gone--the beautiful, bountiful summer months--but the ache has vanished, the yearning has departed. is it that september, herself the most peaceful of all the months, bears in her arms a gift for nature's truly loving and understanding children--the gift of peace, a peace which passeth all understanding? lately it has come to me, this peace, and i smile happily, hugging it to my heart. all the anguish of the last weeks--the bitter tears, the pining for movement, the unutterable yearning to be out in the wind, by the sea, on the mountains--has left me. i am content to lie in my little garden, to be still, to commune with myself, and to know that dimbie is there. and--i am reading a book, one that i read as a child, as a girl, and now as a woman. i am a woman now, for i know the meaning of the word suffering. in the old days i read this book as one reads a lesson--dull, uninteresting, i thought it. i chafed at the chapter which miss fairbrother obliged me to read each day. some parts struck me as being duller than others. there was the tiresome description of the building of the temple, and the bells and pomegranates--pomygranates i used to call them--and the fourscore cubit this and the fourscore cubit that. miss fairbrother would endeavour to make it interesting, but i was unmistakably bored. but now---it seems curious that i should have ever thought it dull. i read it with deep intensity. i know as i turn the pages what is coming, but yet it is all new to me, a new meaning falls upon my understanding. and there are three words from this book which of late have continually danced before my eyes. i have seen them written on the sky, on the grass, on the pages of my book. i have heard the wind whisper them, the flowers repeat them, the leaves pass on the refrain to the waving corn, and yet i alone have been unable to say or believe them. the words have stuck in my throat, my dry lips have refused to form them. and then a night came when i saw them written on dimbie's face. he had been depressed, and had taken his sorrow to the pine woods, and when he returned a gladness irradiated his countenance, and on his forehead, as it seemed to me, were the words, written in letters of gold, "god is love! god is love!" i repeated them mechanically to myself over and over again; and suddenly the mists cleared away, the fog dispersed, and i too cried, with a great sincerity and gladness, "god is love!" * * * * * jane came softly down the walk and with finger to lip bade me be silent. "i want to love and kiss you, little old pupil, without any jealous eye to mar my happiness. and i also want to have a good look at your husband." dimbie lay with head thrown back, giving to the garden a music that was not of the sweetest. "he is not at his best," i whispered; "his mouth isn't always like that." jane made a comical little _moue_ and kissed me again. "the same old marguerite," and she framed my face in her hands. "with a difference," i said quietly. "with a beautiful difference. i don't wonder at your husband's falling----" "hush!" i said, "i am going to wake him." jane sat down and watched with interest. "dimbie! dimbie, dear, would you mind waking up?" "he doesn't always sleep quite so heavily as this," i explained apologetically. "it has been such a warm, enervating day." "_dimbie_, will you stop snoring." still no answer. loudly i rang the tortoise, and he was on his feet in an instant, blinkingly staring at jane. "it's not a fire or an accident," i said; "it's miss fairbrother." with the first of jane's wholesome, heartsome smiles i knew that his conquest had begun. they shook hands, and he apologised for being caught in such an attitude. "it enabled me to have a good look at marguerite's husband, of whom i have heard so much," said jane frankly. "and what do you think of him?" dimbie asked with a twinkle. "i must reserve my judgment till later. it may be a case of cruelty, desertion, and wife beating. appearances are so deceitful. and no faith should be placed in a young wife's estimate of her husband." he pushed his hammock chair towards her. "won't you take this; it is more comfortable. and were marg's letters very tiresome?" "well, she didn't say much about you." jane wore an air of "may god forgive me!" "but what little she did write of you was mostly to the good." dimbie laughed, and began to enjoy himself. "before you begin to talk," i said, "would you like a wash or have tea first?" "tea, please." i rang the bell. "i'm quite anxious to see the young person with the tea-rose slippers," observed jane, removing her hat and running her fingers through her soft, luxuriant hair, which was parted on one side. "she doesn't wear them now. we have had a lot of money left us," i said, studying the expressive face in front of me, which had changed so little. "does she run about barefoot?" "oh, no! what i mean is that we can afford now to give her nice, kid slippers." i struggled to keep my mind on amelia, and not on jane's pretty, cool, grey linen gown which was inset with beautiful, irish crochet lace. "it isn't mercerised cotton," i thought aloud. "it's one of my best frocks," said jane, following my eyes. "do you think it suitable for my years, marguerite?" "i should wear it to-morrow," i said impulsively, and then stopped awkwardly. "why to-morrow?" she asked in surprise. "are you having a party?" "only marg's medical m----" "dimbie," i shouted, "will you go and see if tea is ready? i can't think what amelia can be doing." i looked at him feverishly. he sat open-mouthed for a moment, and then he remembered, nodded his head, and set off to the house with a run. i could see from jane's expression that she thought we were very odd people. "what--what do you think of the sunflowers?" i asked jerkily. "i think they appear to be very handsome, self-respecting sunflowers," she replied. there was an interval of silence. "what's the matter, marguerite?" she asked at length. "the atmosphere is charged with a mysterious something which i cannot understand." "i will tell you on thursday." "on thursday?" "yes. oh, here is amelia with tea! this is amelia." jane gave her a smile, showing her even, white teeth. this was returned by a look of hostility. amelia was not to be won by any smile. she was not a weak man, and she prided herself on her even balance. "good afternoon," said jane. "good afternoon," said amelia in a tone of "go to perdition with you!" but jane had no intention of doing so, at any rate, till she had had some tea. she handed some money to amelia. "will you be good enough to give this to the man who is bringing my trunks along?" "were there no cabs? most people takes cabs." now she was being distinctly impertinent. i felt very angry with her. "please do as you are told," i said wrathfully, "and without comment." she was, for the first time since she had been in my service, impressed by my anger, and at once she changed her tactics. "the day would be hot i was thinkin' for miss fairbrother to walk." "you were thinking nothing of the kind. stick to the truth." and to my consternation she immediately did as she was told and stuck to it. "i don't want no visitors." "_amelia!_" jane laughed unconcernedly. "i shouldn't either," she said, looking at amelia in a most friendly manner. "i quite sympathise with you. you think i am going to meddle and interfere?" "yes." "you think i am going to poke into the kitchen and do things for your mistress that you have been in the habit of doing?" "yes," said amelia, surprised at jane's intuition. "well, you may make your mind quite easy on that score. to begin with, i am far too lazy to interfere. i like people to work for me if they will. and i think it would be a mean thing to do when you have served mrs. westover so faithfully and lovingly. i shall not usurp your place." jane's voice was most gentle now, full of sympathy and kindliness. "but if you will allow me, i will help you with my bed and dust my room. i shall make a little extra work, of course, and i am sure you must have a great deal to do." amelia wavered, rocked about with indecision for a moment, and was won. "thank you, miss, it's very good of you," was all she seemed able to say. and as a relief to her feelings she slapped the tortoise, picked up jane's gloves from the ground and returned to her kitchen. "tea is going cold," said dimbie. "first game of the rubber to miss fairbrother." "you don't say the rubber, i notice," observed jane. "i know amelia." "i fancy though, without any undue conceit, that i shall win. i like that girl." "so do we, but that doesn't give us the power of managing her." "i don't want to manage her. my simple desire is that she shouldn't manage me, and will permit me to remain with you for a short time." "you shall certainly do that," said dimbie. "marg has been counting the days to your coming." "and you?" she asked slyly. "i--i have been doing likewise," said my husband brazenly. she laughed, a merry, incredulous laugh. "and yet i fancied i had two rubbers to play and hoped to win." "really?" said dimbie. "only one as far as i know, and the first game is already yours." "you are very kind," she said simply. "i understand, and am grateful. i did so want to see marguerite again." "you could not be more grateful than i am for your coming," he returned earnestly. "the thanks are on our side." and i knew he meant it. "a rubber and a half for jane," i whispered to the tortoise. and i stretched out a hand and held dimbie's closely in mine. chapter xxv an engagement, and i tell jane my story the two of them came down the garden path hand in hand. the sun caressed jane's small, dark head. she wore the pretty, cool, grey gown, and in her belt was tucked a red rose no redder than her cheeks. they stopped in front of the couch, and i held out my hands to them. "i know," i said. "you needn't tell me. i'm so glad. you two dear things. it is beautiful, and--i like your suit, dr. renton; my sartorial instinct is good, i think." "i don't think it was the suit--altogether, but perhaps i'm vain." he looked gravely at jane. she was a little mystified. "i was telling dr. renton the other day that i considered grey flannel was very becoming to men with grey hair." "oh," she said, "i didn't notice what he was wearing." "there!" said the doctor. "i don't feel abashed. unconsciously she would take in the general effect." jane wandered to the sweet-pea hedge and hummed a little tune. "i don't like a conversation conducted in asides," she called. "when you two have finished tell me." dr. renton regarded her with pride and love written on every line of his face. "you see, she has grown beautiful!" he said. "do you think so?" "certainly. don't you?" "well, no. i haven't thought so; but i will look more closely. are the lines there?" "a few, but not so many as----" "you had expected?" "as i had hoped," he finished with a smile. "jane," i called, "the doctor is disappointed not to find you wrinkled." "did he wish me to keep him in countenance?" "jane, you must learn to be respectful. the doctor is older than you." "i cannot learn such a lesson at my time of life. my pupils have respected _me_." "i shall be your master, not your pupil." "these are early days to adopt such a tone, sir." "you might both be in your teens," i observed. and they laughed as happily as though they were. a hammering at the drawing-room window attracted our attention. "it's dimbie," i explained. "you see, he is a little cross. he went to look up something for me in the encyclopædia, and i told amelia to lock him in. i was afraid he might worry you, and perhaps follow you about." "do you mean to say he knew----" jane broke off, turning a vivid scarlet. what was i to say? here was a pretty dilemma. "i let it out the other day," said the doctor bravely. "did you know when you invited me here?" her eyes were full of fire, but her voice was quiet. "no," i said triumphantly, "not a word. and dr. renton didn't exactly tell me; i found out. he was here when your telegram came." "mr. westover will certainly break the window," she said, somewhat inconsequently. he was waving and war-whooping like an indian. amelia came to the door. "shall i let him out now, mum?" she asked. "at _once_." when he appeared i said-- "dimbie, you should try to be more controlled." "well, of all the cheek----" "it wasn't cheek, but common sense," i interposed gently. "i told amelia to do it." "but why? you may be the mistress of one tree cottage, but _i_----" "come here, and i will whisper to you." i pulled his sunburnt face down to mine. "your hair tickles!" he was still a little cross. i pushed it back. "i was afraid you might follow those two about and stare at them, and i wanted them to get engaged and----" dimbie raised his head. (jane, followed by the doctor, had strolled away.) light broke across his face. "and they've done it?" "it is not an elegant way of putting it." "they've been jolly sharp." "dr. renton has been here over half an hour." "and where have i been?" "studying the encyclopædia. don't you remember i asked you to find me the sneezy man? who was he?" "nietzsche, a bally german who didn't know what he wanted." he crossed the lawn, and i noticed that the grip he gave the doctor's hand was pretty severe. to jane i heard him say: "it's made marg awfully happy. her eyes are shining, and she thinks she has brought it all about--a regular match-maker!" i could not catch jane's reply, but presently they returned to me. "you will be wanting to walk and wander down the lanes, as dimbie and--as all lovers want to wander, and you shall go at once. the evening is lovely. there is a cornfield in the lane after you have passed the four cross-roads. dimbie has told me of it. the sun is setting--sun on a golden cornfield is a thing of beauty--and later there will be a moon. please remember that supper is at eight o'clock." they laughed, and jane without any more ado put on her hat. "it seems to me," observed dimbie, as our eyes followed them round the broom bush and through the gate, "that they are a little old for the game." "that is so like a man who never knows or understands anything." "oh!" he settled himself in a deck-chair and lighted his pipe. "you see, the hearts of jane and the doctor are still quite fresh and young." "indeed?" "yes," i said, "love has kept them so. as they walk down the lane they are back in their 'twenties.' the years have slipped away. what matters if their faces are tired, if some of the brightness has gone out of their eyes, if some of the freshness has left their voices? they are beautiful to each other, that is sufficient." "you sound very wise, little wife." i nodded. "i am wiser than you in a few things because i am a girl. only women understand that which pertaineth to love. men are very ignorant." dimbie smiled and smoked for a while in silence, while i thought of the happiness of jane. we had had a long and intimate talk the previous evening. dimbie had left us and gone to the fields in search of mushrooms at my special request. mushrooms, i had felt, were the one thing needed to complete our evening in the garden, for we were to sup under the apple tree; and dimbie on his return was to hang out our chinese lanterns and dot fairy lights about the lawn. "you only want to get rid of me," he had laughed. "i am convinced that there will not be a single mushroom in surrey after the long, dry summer." "if i want to get rid of you," i returned, "it will be for the very first and last time in my life; but i want to talk to jane for a little while--just by ourselves." he looked at me for a moment jealously and suspiciously. "you don't mind just for once, dear." "no, not very much, though i don't approve of secrets between women." "good-bye," i said, patting his cheek, "and bring plenty of mushrooms." jane sat on a low chair with her arms pillowed behind her head. "now," she said, "tell me all, tell me your story from the very beginning. you have suffered much, i can see it in your face, but you are happy. tell me where you met your husband. i may say at once that i like him tremendously." "jane," i said, "my heart goes out to you at your words. to like dimbie shows that you possess a fine discrimination." she smiled and said, "i am waiting." and so in the gentle hush of evening, in the fading light, in the sweet fragrance of the garden, i told her all. of dimbie's and my first meeting, of our engagement, of our marriage, of my great happiness--i lingered on that. the pain which had been mine when i recalled those radiant days had gone. i could speak of them now calmly and without any break in my voice. those were days pulsating with joy, these were days of a great peace. then briefly i touched upon my accident and suffering, of our hopes only to be dashed to the ground, of my subsequent despair, of my doubts as to the steadfastness of dimbie's love, followed by the radiance of complete faith and understanding. i told her of aunt letitia's money, of my desire to remain at our cottage till the end of the year because---- should i tell her why? should i tell her that which i had even withheld from dimbie? jane was so sensible, so---- and out of the gathering darkness it came to me that she was crying silently, despairingly. "why, jane," i whispered, "you are crying. you must not do that, dimbie might come, and it would distress him. listen, i am not unhappy now. do not think i am sorry for myself, for--perhaps i cannot make it clear to you, words are so futile, but--one morning just lately, one wonderful dawn when god himself took out his palette and brush and touched the clouds with softest grey and pearl, and pink and rose, when the first note of a still sleepy bird broke the silence, when the flowers shook the dew from their fresh morning faces, something came to my room on footsteps light as thistledown, something came to my bed on which i had spent a long, weary, sleepless night, and laid a gentle, healing hand on my aching brow, and sorrow and pain and the fear of death fell from me, and i was comforted. you will say i was fanciful, imaginative, that my mind was overwrought from fatigue; but no, i was calm and clear-eyed, and i knew that it was peace that had come to me. i opened my arms wide and held it closely, never to let go. 'dear comforter,' i whispered, 'you shall never leave me, for now i know a happiness which is not of this world, but is of a life which is eternal.' "i lay very still thinking about it. i must tell you that during my weeks of suffering i had lost my faith, i had lost god. i felt that he had treated me too cruelly. 'he is not a god of love,' i had cried. 'i cannot believe that. i have done with him.' so as i lay watching the dawn, waiting for the sun, i wondered and wondered again: 'has god forgiven me--forgiven my rebellion, taken pity on my loneliness?' for when dimbie has said his prayers at night with his hand in mine, and entered into his presence, i have felt so lonely and cried in my heart, 'lord, let me find thee again, for where dimbie is there i want to be.' "'perhaps he has forgiven me, and wants me--_even_ me,' i said to myself. with my eyes on the glowing east i waited and watched for the sun. at last he appeared, and, as though looking for me, sent a warm shaft of light across my body. and from me came the words, 'god is good! allah is great!' and i laughed aloud, and dimbie stirred and woke. 'what is it, girl?' he asked. 'have you had a good night?' "'a bad, bad night, but such a dawn. look! here from my corner i can see all the beauty of the world--shell-pink softness, the red glory of sunrise, a distant cornfield touched with gold, dewdrops on gossamer web. "'o world as god has made it, all is beauty; and knowing this is love, and love is duty. what further may be sought for----' and dimbie put a gentle arm around me and drew my head on to his shoulder. 'and have you no further need to ask for, sweetheart?' he inquired. "'not one,' i whispered. 'i am beginning to understand things--just a little, and i am at peace.'" i stopped. night had fallen, my story was finished. jane got up--i could not see her face--and she walked across the lawn to the sweet-pea hedge. no sound broke the stillness of the garden. presently she returned and knelt in front of me. "little old pupil." "yes," i said. "i want to say something to you. most people say things when it is too late. i don't want to be too late. i want to tell you, now, that you have given me all the happiness i have had for the last eight years. an indian station is a dreary place for a plain, unattached, working woman. i should have become hard, dull, apathetic but for your love, little marguerite, but for your admiration of my poor qualities. your bright, loving letters came each month as a draught of fresh water to a tired, thirsty traveller. your faithfulness cheered me on my way. your symp----" "i don't want to hear any more, jane," i broke in. "and but for you i should never have returned to england." "and you would have missed happiness, the crown of your life." she paused and looked up into my face. "happiness!" she said a little bitterly, "the crown of my life! i don't know what you mean. i only know that you suffer; i have just heard your story." "ah, don't speak of that! there are other things. there is love." "love and i passed each other long years ago," she said. "love mocked me, laughed at me, left me alone." "but he may return." "it is unlikely. i am not young. but i don't want to talk of myself. i want only to speak of you. a little while back you said--you said that the fear of death fell from you. what did you mean?" "just what i said," and i bent my head and kissed her. "i think i hear dimbie." he came down the lane whistling, through the white gate--a dark, mysterious figure. "three mushrooms!" he called gaily. "one for each of us. now i must light up. you are all in the dark." "we are all in the dark," said jane hopelessly. "and the light is coming," said i. chapter xxvi dimbie takes peter and amelia in hand peter and mother are here again, and jane has been transferred to the bachelor's room. peter is gouty, irritable, chilly--for october is with us and giving us sharp little frosts--and sulphurous in his language. amelia wears a patient, stand-by-me-o-lord air; and dimbie is crossly resigned to the inevitable. he came to me this morning. "i am going to kick peter." "yes," i agreed, drawing my blue nightingale, which mother has made me, more closely round my shoulders. "i am going to pitch him out of the front door." i nodded. "you have no objection?" "well, choose a flower-bed for his descent." "but i want to hurt him." "i quite sympathise with you in your desire, which is most reasonable. but were he to alight on the gravel path he might break his leg, and then we should be obliged to have him here for weeks." "then i shall certainly not choose the path," said dimbie decisively. "that is right. what has he been doing?" "everything he shouldn't do. your mother is reduced to tears, and amelia is flinging the saucepans and kettles at the kitchen-range." "she is certainly making a noise." dimbie sat down on the bed and knit his brows. "i am sorry, dear," i said sympathetically. "i couldn't help his coming; i didn't invite him." "i know. naturally your mother wanted to see you." "yes. poor mother! to live for three months without any respite upon the edge of a crater subject at any moment to volcanic eruptions is naturally wearing, and she must have an occasional change in order to keep her reason." dimbie nursed his leg, and his mouth was a little more crooked than usual. i lay and watched him. how unselfish and forbearing he was! he put up with peter for mother's sake, he put up with mother for my sake, he put up with jane for her own and the doctor's sake. here he was yearning to be alone, to be by ourselves; and the house was full up with parents, friends, and doctors. and i, to add to his worries, have been obliged to keep my room for the last week owing to a feverish cold and general poorliness. "but they will all go soon," i said, trying to comfort him. "peter and mother are returning home after the wedding, and jane is to be married next month." "november is an idiotic month for a wedding," he said irritably. "why?" "she mightn't have been in such a deuce of a hurry." "but it isn't she, it's the doctor." "then he ought to have learnt patience at his age." i smiled. "you've grown fond of jane?" "oh, i like her all right, but it's you i'm thinking of. she seems to know how to look after you and make you comfortable. i'm rough and amelia's stupid, and it's amazing how she knows exactly what you want. and amelia has taken to her, she's a perfect lamb in her presence." "i wish peter would be a lamb, too. how are they getting on at meals?" and dimbie gave me a most vivid description of how they _were_ getting on at meals, which left me weak with laughter. "and really, sweet," he concluded, "i am rather glad you are fast here, though the drawing-room without you seems like a barren wilderness. your old corner looks lonely and empty." "i'll soon be there to fill it," i said. "do you think you are better?" he furrowed his brow. "i wonder how many times a day you ask me that, dear one. don't i look better?" he regarded me anxiously. "when we get to our new house----" "ah, yes!" he said, brightening at once. "it is change you want. as soon as ever we have cleared out this rabbit warren we'll begin our plans. we'll be our own architects--master builders, eh?" "do you mean by the rabbit warren mother and peter?" "yes," he laughed. "and when the endless discussion of frocks and jane's wedding is over we'll set to work hard. i want the house to be ready by the summer." a little pain settled at my heart. he was so bent upon building this new home for us--a home after our own hearts, a house with south-west windows to catch every bit of sunshine for me, with a verandah in which i could lie, with an old-world garden--we must find a plot of land with well-grown, stately trees--with extensive views, with distant, pine-clad hills, and smiling, fertile valleys. perhaps a river might be included too, a babbling stream which would cheer me with its happy laughter. his eyes glisten as he paints his picture, develops his foreground, sketches in his distances. "they must be blue distances," he said to-day. "they might be grey, swept by clouds, wrapped in mist." "even then they would be beautiful," he argued. "yes," i agreed, "most distances are beautiful; look at the frog-pond." he laughed. "still attached to our little home?" "oh, so attached! i love it more each day. it is so cosy, and we are so comfortable. now that amelia has permitted us to have daily help there is nothing we want, is there?" a cloud passed over his face. "i am sorry that you still do not wish to leave, marg. i know it would be so much better for you, and renton insists upon it. he says in bracing air you will be so much stronger, and--i am disappointed that you are not interested." "he does not know----" the words broke from me. and then, "i _am_ interested. i want to do what you want. your picture is entrancing. let us begin at once. i will draw a plan of the garden, and you shall draw a plan of the house, and then we'll compare notes." i spoke rapidly. why should we not begin, as he was so eager? it would give him occupation during the long days. it would make him happy, feeling that it was being done for me and my comfort. he brightened at once. "where shall we have it?" i went on. "shall it be on the top of leith hill, or at hind head, farndon, frensham, or dorking?" "it must be where there are pine trees and heather for you, and in the neighbourhood of shooting for me. it must be high up, and yet not too cold, and we must pitch the house southwest for the sun." "and there must be a river," i continued gravely, "and blue distances, a wide, extensive view, grand forest trees in our own garden, and lawns that have been rolled and 'mowd' for a thousand years. and god will specially create it all for us." "now you are being impertinent." he smiled happily. "i will fetch paper and pencils." but he didn't, for peter arrived at the moment and forced an entrance. his nose was a trifle blue, and his eyes glistened as a warrior's who has recently tasted blood. he pecked me on the forehead and asked me how i was. i informed him that i was only very middling, and dimbie added that rest and quiet were most essential for my well-being. peter ignored dimbie and seated himself in front of the fire, to which he held out a gouty leg, and remarked that amelia was a brazen minx. dimbie and i not replying, he repeated it again. dimbie and i admired the view from the window, and peter for the third time repeated the same uninteresting remark, but this time with a yell. dimbie said politely and firmly that if the yell was repeated peter must leave the room, as my nerves were not in a state to stand cat-calls. peter glared but didn't repeat the yell, at which i marvelled. mother popped her head in at the door, and seeing peter, popped it out with extreme activity. jane did the same. amelia popped hers in, but kept it there, and then advanced. she sort of arched her back as she looked at peter, and bristled and figuratively spat. "what is it, amelia?" i asked, before they got at each other. "the butcher, mum." "how often the butcher seems to call," i said wearily. "does he live very near to us?" "he lives in the village, mum, and he's killed a home-fed pig." "poor thing! just when there's an abundance of acorns." amelia ignored my sympathy. "a nice loin of pork with sage and onion stuffing would be a change, mum." "i don't eat sage and onion," growled peter. "a nice loin of pork with sage and onion stuffing would be a change," repeated amelia steadily. "and i've got oysters and a partridge for you, mum." "i don't want both. general macintosh could have the partridge," i said pacifically. "there'll be soup, pork, charlotte _ruce_, and savoury eggs for the dining-room." when amelia adopted that tone it was unwise to argue. "do _you_ know how to make charlotte russe?" amelia creaked, and a bone snapped, the result of an extraordinary veracity. "i have an idea how it's made, but miss fairbrother does the sweets now. she's gettin' her hand in before she's married. she's goin' to spoil the doctor. most ladies spoils their husbands." she fixed a baleful eye upon dimbie and peter. peter seized the poker and thumped the fire into a blaze. i was glad, for the room was chilly. "is that all, amelia?" "no, mum. i wants to speak about the bathroom. it's fair swimmin' with water. you could float the canoe in it." "dear me, has the cistern overflowed?" asked dimbie. "no, sir, it's general macintosh. when he takes his bath in the mornin' he thinks he's suddenly turned into an alligator. the splashin's dreadful, and when he's tired of that he just bales the water on to the floor. it's like the bay of biscay when i go in, and i shall be glad if you'll kindly speak to him about it, sir." peter put his gouty leg carefully and firmly on to the floor, and, as golfers say, got a good stance. then he opened his mouth, but before he could utter a word dimbie had gently but forcibly taken him by the shoulders and put him out of the room. amelia was triumph personified, but her victory was short lived, for when dimbie returned he was very angry with her. "understand now, amelia, that no such tales are brought to the mistress. i will _not_ have her worried with trivial household matters. i thought you were capable and clever enough to manage for yourself; you keep telling us that you are, and the first thing that goes wrong you fly to her. understand too that your manner of speaking to general macintosh is little short of downright impertinence, and if it should occur again, if there are any more scenes, not only he goes out of the house, but you also. yes, _you_ go, understand that. you are a good girl, but there are plenty of other good girls in the world. your mistress is poorly, weak and nervous, and she is _not_ to be worried. now go! not a word. _go!_" dimbie stopped for breath, and weeping, humiliated, and very unhappy, amelia went. whether she straightway fisted peter, whether she peppered him from every point of vantage, we have not inquired; but during the last six hours there has been a marked improvement in the behaviour of both. peter is not bearing dimbie any grudge for his ejectment, which seems to me remarkable, but which dimbie says isn't. "bully a bully and he becomes an angel." "he is hardly that yet," i objected. "he passed the hot buttered toast to us at tea and didn't have any himself." "hot buttered toast doesn't agree with him," i said. "it has always lain heavily upon his stomach." dimbie laughed, and peter entered in the middle of it. "your mother and i are going for a stroll. do you want anything from the village?" my stare was rude, i fear. it was certainly the first time i had ever heard peter ask if anybody wanted anything. "thank you," i began, "it is very good of you." i cast round in my mind for some requirement--soap, candles, shinio, oatmeal, pearl barley, gelatine, potatoes, all the various things amelia spent her life in requiring--but we were not "out" of any of them. peter was waiting; his kindly intention must not be nipped in the bud at any cost. "chips!" i cried with illumination. "chips?" "firewood. hudson's dry soap boxes." peter clutched at his understanding. "amelia chops them up," i explained. "he can't carry soap boxes home," whispered dimbie. "couldn't you want darning wool?" of course, darning wool was one of the most useful things in the world. "please bring me two cards of darning wool," i said aloud. "you will get them at the candle shop." peter rubbed his head. "wool at a candle shop?" "yes, it keeps everything--sweets, oil, candles and haberdashery." he went out of the room. "well, i'm blessed!" ejaculated dimbie. "so am i. he looked quite docile, and he's really wonderfully handsome for a man of his age." peter was back. "what colour your mother wishes to know?" "colour? oh, anything!" "brown," said dimbie hastily, turning a reproachful eye upon me. "you really are stupid, marg," he said when peter had gone. "i admit it," i said ruefully, "and we haven't a brown thing in the house. why couldn't you have said black while you were about it?" and dimbie didn't know why he hadn't said black. but it is sufficient for me to know that peter is trying to be good, and that amelia has ceased to throw saucepans about the house, as the noise was a little trying. peter may yet go to heaven. chapter xxvii a discussion about a wedding-gown the discussion about jane's wedding-gown began in that pleasant hour between tea and dinner on the soft edge of the dusk, when the refreshing influence of tea still pervades one, when the fire seems to burn its brightest, when the clock ticks its softest, when the little shadows begin to creep into the corners of the room, and the familiar furniture and ornaments become a soft, rounded blur. nanty had been persuaded into staying for a real long evening; and john had been persuaded, against his better judgment, into putting up his horses at the "ring o' bells," and was in the kitchen saying pleasant and pacifying things to amelia, no doubt. "we shall be held up by highwaymen. john will be gagged and thrown into a ditch, and my pockets will be rifled and my jewellery stolen." nanty said this resignedly, nay almost cheerfully, as though a change from the ordinary routine of life would not be unacceptable to her. and mother gazed at her in fearful admiration. heroism in any form appeals strongly to mother, though she herself is the bravest of the brave. to have lived with peter for twenty-five years denotes some courage. nanty's pleasure on hearing of jane's engagement was cloaked by a pretence at surprise and pity; but of course we all know nanty. she had been very kind to jane when she lived with us. "above the ruck of ordinary governesses," she had pronounced. "not always on the look-out for slights and snubs; a most sensible young person!" now the sensible young person was anxious to tell her herself of the happiness which had come into her life, and had requested mother and me to keep silent on the subject "if we _could_." she had, however, conceded to our earnest request that the announcement should be made in our presence after the men had gone out. we knew that nanty's observations would be amusing, and we looked forward to a pleasant half-hour. when tea had been removed peter seemed inclined to linger, notwithstanding the unnecessary number of women around him. the arm-chair which he had annexed--(dimbie's)--was luxurious, the fire was warm, his temper was mild. dimbie seemed still more inclined to linger. the rug on which he was stretched was curly and soft, his hand sought mine, he liked and was always entertained by nanty. mother and i looked at one another and looked at jane, and curbed our impatience. mother glanced at peter and opened her mouth and shut it again. the courage of horatius was not within her this day. i did the same at dimbie. "what is it, dear?" he asked. "aren't you comfy? shall i alter your pillow?" i assured him that i was perfectly comfortable, and at the same time ventured to suggest that it was a lovely evening on which to take a walk. jane's approaching marriage could not be discussed before two men when one of them was peter; for nanty was never talkative before peter, she said he always roused her temper to such a pitch that she could scarcely get her breath. dimbie agreed with my view of the evening's attractiveness, and stretched his legs luxuriously towards the fire. i mentioned that the birch trees in the spinny would be at their best, dressed out in all their autumn glory. he again agreed with me, and remarked that their grey boles was what peculiarly appealed to him--grey with the vivid splashes of orange and red leaves above. the others began to look bored. i mentioned that the squirrels would be busy gathering and storing acorns for the winter. he said he thought it was within the range of possibility, and he put more coal on the fire. mother folded her hands and looked resigned, and jane took some needlework from her basket. "why don't you say what you want?" said nanty suddenly. "men don't understand hints and beating about the bush. they are simple-minded creatures--some of them. do you want your husband to fetch you some chocolate from the village?" dimbie looked at me inquiringly. "i want you to go for a walk for an hour, and take father with you and show him the beauties of the spinny. and you might take a basket and get some blackberries." mother's startled and amazed countenance at the idea of peter's going blackberrying made me laugh, and dimbie's reproachful face moved me to pity. "well, peter might go blackberrying alone and you to see the squirrels," i said confusedly. and now nanty laughed outright, and mother sat horror-stricken, gazing at peter. but he by a merciful dispensation of providence, was dozing which was a lucky thing for me. dimbie got up slowly and stretched himself. "come on, general macintosh," he said resignedly, but peter dozed on. dimbie patted his leg, unfortunately the gouty one, and peter started up swearing loudly. "we've got to go for a walk," said dimbie apologetically. "who's got to go for a walk?" demanded peter fiercely. "you and i. we have to go blackberrying and see the squirrels." the look which peter gave to dimbie obliged me to press my mouth against the tortoise's back to keep from screaming. peter sat down heavily. "i don't know whether you think you are being funny, sir, but i don't. to wake a man up from a much-needed sleep to talk about da--ahem, squirrels and blackberries seems to me to be about the most deucedly idiotic thing--" "hsh, father!" i said. "dimbie wants you to go for a walk with him to the spinny. it's a lovely evening, and you might just happen to come across some squirrels and blackberries." "but i don't _want_ to see any squirrels or bl----" dimbie took him by the arm and began gently to drag him towards the door. "come on," he said coaxingly, "we've got to go somewhere, general. they want to get rid of us. women are----" and peter was so interested in hearing what dimbie thought of the senseless creatures, that he actually followed him into the hall, allowed himself to be put into his top coat, and led through the door, down the path and out of the gate. "you can take a breath, mother, dear," i said, "or you will suffocate. and now, jane, tell your news, they won't be back under an hour." she drew a thread from the linen tea-cloth she was making with unswerving fingers, but the colour crept into her cheeks. "she looks as though she were making bottom drawer things," remarked nanty dryly. "and that's exactly what she is doing." "oh! for herself?" "well, she'd hardly bother to make them for other people." "i disagree with you. miss fairbrother is exactly the sort of kind person who would like to see a friend's drawer filled with a lot of feminine frippery." "this is for her own," i returned. "go on, jane." she put down her work. "you seem to be telling, so you had better finish, marguerite." "you mean you are too shy. well, nanty, jane is to be married next month. guess to whom. you shall have three tries." nanty sniffed superciliously. "i should have thought she would have had more sense. to an indian rajah who lives in a gilded palace?" "wrong." "to a man in the service with a small pension, an enlarged liver, residing at brighton and requiring a kind nurse?" "wrong again." "to a widower--perhaps the father of the two sticky children you mentioned to me?" "the mother is alive and extremely healthy," said jane. nanty leaned back in her chair. "i only hope the man is as nice as can be expected or hoped for. miss fairbrother has the appearance of a woman who would throw herself away upon a rake, hoping to reform his morals and save his soul." jane smiled. "do you think that dr. renton's soul is in danger?" nanty checked a gasp of surprise. "i have always felt that he was a man with a hidden--something. i have wondered about it," she said, recovering herself. "most women wonder at single men, and they wonder still more when they are married," said mother. "who," i asked, laughing, "the women or the men?" "oh, the women!" she spoke with an earnestness that recalled peter and his blackberrying to my mind, and i laughed again. "men," said nanty, "are necessary for the continuation of the race. i cannot see that they are of any other use in the world." "now i am waiting for your opinion, marguerite," said jane with a twinkle. "i should like to have no illusions about man before i marry him." "i am not to be drawn," i returned. "there are men and men. the two looking for squirrels at the moment are extreme types. perhaps there is something half-way between, and you may be fairly fortunate." jane smiled with a satisfied air. "you have not congratulated me," she said to nanty. "it is usual, i think." "i don't congratulate people on marriage." "you are a cynic." "no, but my eyes are open; there was a time when they were closed like yours." "it is a pity," said jane softly. "i hope mine will always remain shut." "let us hope so," returned nanty a little bitterly. "i thought we were to discuss jane's wedding gown," said mother plaintively, bringing us back to actualities. she fetched two big bundles of patterns from a side-table and handed them to jane. "before we begin," said the latter, turning again to nanty, "won't you change your mind and congratulate me?" "i'll congratulate dr. renton, if that will satisfy you." "but it won't. i think i am quite as much, if not more, to be congratulated than he." "now you are being humble," said nanty whimsically, "and i don't like humility in a woman. a woman should always remember that she is quite good enough for any man living." and with that jane had to be satisfied. and what a discussion followed as to the gown jane should wear on the great day. we might have been schoolgirls. and the trouble was that no two of us agreed on any single point--colour, material, or fashion of making. when mother had soared away to silver gauze posed on chiffon, jane said-- "kindly remember my age, and that i am going to a wedding and not to a ball." when nanty even, roused to enthusiasm, had completed a dream of a princess gown of softest pastel-blue, chiffon velvet, jane said-- "kindly remember that i am small and dumpy." and when i extolled the virtue of palest mauve taffeta, jane simply laughed outright and asked me to look at her colouring. "i'm looking," i said. "you've brown hair and bright red cheeks." but she ignored all our suggestions. "i shall be married in silver-grey poplin," she pronounced. "exactly like a servant." nanty closed her eyes. "they always wear silver-grey. i had three parlour-maids in succession who had selected it for their wedding-gowns." "but alpaca, surely! mine will be silk poplin of a good quality." but nanty and mother refused to take any further interest in the subject, and nanty picked up a paper. "what about grey cloth, then--pale dove-grey?" jane waived the silver poplin with an apparent effort. nanty put down the paper. "grey cloth with chinchilla is rather nice," she admitted grudgingly. "i did not mention chinchilla," said jane meekly. "_i_ will give the chinchilla as a wedding present if you don't mind. grey cloth alone would be most uninteresting." "the coat must be a bolero," said mother firmly, "lined with white satin." "you are all evidently going to run me into a lot of money. i am not accustomed to satin linings. i thought of having italian cloth." "what?" shouted mother and nanty. "italian cloth," repeated jane firmly. "i hope to do the whole thing for about five pounds." "_impossible!_" said nanty. "fifteen would be mean and skimpy." jane set her mouth good-humouredly. "then i can't get married." "no, you evidently can't," agreed nanty. "it would be unfair to the man." "it's a pity," observed jane, "because i rather wanted to." "a foolish desire on your part which should be checked at once." mother began to look worried. with a desire to cheer her up i casually inquired of nanty if she had seen anything more of professor leighrail. i was unprepared for her dropping the patterns about like chaff in a wind. "professor leighrail!" said mother, with widely-open eyes. "anastasia's old lover?" "exactly," i replied. "he's a friend of ours, and nanty met him here the other day. have you seen him again?" i asked. she did not reply. "it is a pity when deafness overtakes people--the first sign of old age." "she is not deaf," said mother, "and is only fifty-one." i laughed. "kiss me, mother, dear," i said, "you are so practical at times. and yet some people of your age are quite romantic and sentimental." "la, la, la, la!" sang nanty. she leaned over my couch. "marguerite," she said, "i should slap you if you were strong and well." "but i'm not," i said, "so kiss me." and she did so, while whispering that the professor _had_ been to tea with her. "it's not proper," i said, and nanty laughed. chapter xxviii preparations for a wedding the house is very quiet. jane and dimbie are out in the woods gathering sprays of red-tinted brambles, briony, traveller's joy, bracken, which though fading is of that golden tinge which is almost more beautiful than the green, hips and haws shining and scarlet, and clusters of berries of the mountain-ash. this collection of autumnal loveliness is for the decoration of the cottage, for is not jane to be married to-morrow? mother and peter have gone for a stroll as peter calls it, or for a gallop as mother terms it, for peter can get up as much speed, in spite of his gouty leg, as amelia can with my ilkley couch. amelia has "run" to the village for innumerable things forgotten this morning when the grocer's boy clamoured for orders. and the help i should imagine, from the quiet of the house, has fallen asleep over the kitchen fire. the help, from what amelia tells me, is very stupid and is no help at all. she puts the blacking on the scullery floor instead of on the boots. she never screws the stopper on to the shinio bottle after use, and the contents are therefore spilled all over the place. she allows the handles of the knives to lie in water. "does she take them off the blades?" i asked, and i received one of amelia's halibut looks. she forgets to sprinkle tea-leaves on the carpets before brushing them, though the tea-leaves are put all ready for her in a nice clean saucer. and yet, in spite of all these enormities, amelia permits her to remain and not help. before "running" to the village just now she wondered whether anything would go wrong during her temporary absence and what the help would be up to. "she's worse than her at tompkinses'." "the one who wore half a pound of tea as a bustle when she left at night?" amelia seemed pleased at my memory, and she then went on to explain why this help was worse than the other. it appeared that deceit was her besetting sin. the other one openly, so to speak, wore tea as a bustle; this one you could never catch. she would leave of an evening with a face like the song of solomon--i did not see the connection, but did not like to interrupt--and yet butter, bacon, and tea disappeared miraculously. amelia would search her hand-bag when the help was washing up; she would look under the lining of her crêpe bonnet. "crêpe!" i said. "is she a widow?" but amelia said she wasn't, that the bonnet had been given to her by a late employer, and the crêpe was of the best quality. i felt remiss in not having a crêpe bonnet too to present to the help, and asked amelia if she thought my old yellow satin dancing frock would be of any use to her, and amelia has gone off without replying. perhaps she would like the frock for herself. i know she can dance, for have i not seen her executing the cakewalk in dimbie's tea-rose slippers? the help is to wear a cap and collar and cuffs for to-morrow's festivities. amelia is making her do this; and i am a little sorry for the poor help, for she may dislike a cap very much, having a husband and four nearly grown-up children. amelia says that she and the help will be able to manage the guests quite easily, and i believe her. i know that she alone would be quite equal to forty, and we are only expecting ten besides the house-party. a younger brother of dr. renton is to be best man; and then there will be nanty; a miss rebecca sharp, a suffragist, and cousin to jane; dr. renton's married sister and her husband; his housekeeper, who has served him faithfully like a housekeeper in a book for nearly twenty years; a mrs. wilbraham, an old patient, who has invited herself; and professor leighrail. dimbie suggested inviting the last, and i jumped at him. "he will entertain nanty," i said. "you don't want to marry them?" said dimbie in alarm. "dimbie, dear," i returned, "you must try to break yourself of the habit of assuming that i am perpetually trying to marry people." "what about jane and the doctor?" "i was a girl in the schoolroom when they fell in love with one another." "you brought them together." "i did nothing of the kind. jane's visit was arranged long before i knew." he was only half convinced. "i don't want another wedding from here," he said a little gloomily. "one is all right. i like jane, and it has been fun and amusement for you. but if nanty and more pattern-books arrive i shall clear off." "were i stronger," i said, "i should shake you." "would you?" he laughed, holding his face to mine. "i hope you are going to be very good to-morrow, and give jane away nicely. you mustn't give her a push, you must hand her over gracefully to the doctor." dimbie screwed up his face. "i don't fancy the job. i wish you could be there, marg, to give me a wink at the right moment." "oh, don't!" i whispered, in a momentary fit of passionate longing. "don't remind me that i can't be there. dimbie, i am _so_ disappointed that i shall not see jane married! i do so love jane. it is--hard to bear." as the words were uttered i would have given a kingdom to recall them. when should i learn control? pain flitted across my dear one's face, pity and sorrow. "never mind!" i cried, striving to heal the wound. "i shall see her dressed. she is going to don her wedding-gown in my room, and i am to put all the finishing touches. she will kneel in front of me, and i am to pull a lock of hair out here, pat one in there, persuade a curl to wander across her forehead, tilt her hat to a more fashionable angle, and altogether make her the most beautiful jane in the world." but dimbie was not to be comforted. he has gone to the woods with black care hovering very close at hand, and every effort must i strain this evening to bring back the smile to his lips. there must be no sad faces to-morrow. jane has had a somewhat hard and lonely life, and she must embark upon her new voyage without a shadow of unhappiness. the doctor will be good to her, i know--gentle and chivalrous. one knows instinctively when a man will be good to the woman he has married; it is in his voice, his manner, in the very way he looks at her. what dimbie is to me he will be to her. why should jane and i be of the elect among women? we deserve it no more than mother and nanty. but they will have their compensation, i verily believe. god in his goodness will reserve for all the tired, disillusioned wives of the world a little peaceful niche where they may rest from their husbands, which is another word for labours. and the husbands! i do not think that theirs is always the blame, the fault. there must be many too who would like to find a peaceful haven where they may smoke and read, and put their feet upon the chairs, and rest from the perpetual nagging and fault-finding of their wives. * * * * * amelia is back and has roused the help, for her voice was borne to me loudly indignant. "and there is no kettle boiling for tea!" poor help, or sensible help? did she realise that if she waited long enough amelia would put on the kettle? there are usually plenty of amelias to put on kettles and scold helps and tidy up the universe. and so also are there many helps who realise this, and therefore sit with folded hands doing nothing so long as the amelias will permit them. i don't know to whom my sympathy goes the most, the amelias or helps. peter and mother are back too, and are removing their outdoor wraps. peter, blowing and snorting like the alligator to which amelia likened him, has informed me that it is a beastly cold day with an east wind, that the roads in surrey are the worst in europe, and that mother is the slowest woman in god's universe. mother has tip-toed back to tell me what she thinks of peter. that his limp was so fast and furious that you might just as well try to keep up with a fire-engine, that she has made up her mind that this will be her last walk with him (mother has been saying this for many years), and that he has _forbidden_ her to wear her new bonnet on the morrow, as--she looks a fright in it. i have soothed her as best i can. i have told her that dimbie shall stand by and see that she does wear the new bonnet, and that if peter is in any way untractable he shall be locked up for the day in the shed with his own canoe, which has caused her to steal away in a state of fearful joy. i see jane and dimbie coming through the gate. jane is wellnigh lost in a tangled wealth of glorious autumn treasures, and dimbie trails behind him an immense bough of pine. it is for me to smell, i know--to inhale the delicious, resinous scent fresh from the woods. a bit broken off is less than nothing, you must have a branch straight from the heart of the trunk. when i have felt it and held it, and smelled it and loved it, it shall stand by the grandfather clock in the hall, and it will make a beautiful decoration for to-morrow's festivities. i must cease scribbling. they are all assembling for the last family tea. the doctor has just arrived. jane has a bunch of mountain-ash berries tucked into her belt. here comes amelia with the tea and toast, and resignation under suffering written on her brow! what has the help been doing now? chapter xxix jane's wedding nanty described it as a calm, gracious sort of wedding. there was no blare of trumpets when jane and the doctor plighted their troth. "just as it should be," said nanty. "a wedding at all times is to me a depressing spectacle; and when accompanied by a sound of brass and tinkling of cymbals, and shawms, and ringing of bells, and thumping of wedding marches, it simply becomes ridiculous, not to mention that the making of such noises is a relic of barbarism." mother said a bright ray of sunshine found jane out, and lit up and illumined her face just as she was repeating the beautiful and solemn words, "till death us do part." "she looked--she looked----" mother paused for suitable words. "as though she had been sunstruck," interposed nanty. mother was mildly indignant. "she looked like an angel, anastasia." nanty gave a little grunt. "an angel in a paris hat, eh? but i must admit she looked rather nice. she's certainly far too good for the doctor." "of course, jane is getting on," said mother doubtfully. "if she were sixty she would be too good for any man," pronounced nanty decisively, and when she adopted that tone mother ceased to argue. i was glad that the wedding morning dawned serenely beautiful. i had feared lowering skies, heavy, white mists, a dripping, gloomy, sad-faced world, but november was on her best behaviour. the sun sent mild, warm rays across the garden, and the few leaves which still clung to the trees across the fence were as splashes of gold against the brown branches and quiet, blue sky. they bade me remain in bed till late on in the morning, so that i might be well and strong for the reception, which was a grand name to give to a gathering of a dozen or more people. i lay and laughed at the various sounds of the household, which were carried to me through my open door--at amelia's shrill expostulations with the help, who seemed to be bent upon doing the wrong thing at the wrong time; at peter's explosions as he was chivied about from pillar to post by "tiresome women who would go putting silly decorations all over the confounded place"; and at dimbie's perpetual wailing at the disappearance of the corkscrew. "tie it round your neck on a ribbon, dumbarton," i could hear peter growl; and dimbie said it was a most excellent suggestion on the part of his father-in-law, and he would carry it out at once. "would you mind moving once again, general macintosh, we must arrange the refreshments now," came jane's voice pleading and ingratiating. "well, i'm not preventing you." "but we want the table, please." and he straightway burst into my room to tell me what he thought of the institution of marriage. "not so much as a hole left for a cat to creep into," he said angrily. "jumbles is here; _you_ can stay if you like. the easy chair by the fire is very comfortable." he dropped into it a little ungraciously. "so you don't like weddings?" i said with a smile. "like weddings!" "why did you come?" "your mother insisted. when your mother gets an idea into her head you might as well talk to a mule." "but _you_ needn't have come," i said gently. he put some coal on the fire with unnecessary energy. "what is mother doing?" "getting in everybody's way." "i thought it was you who were doing that." he vouchsafed no reply, and buried himself behind _the times_, thinking, i suppose, like the ostrich, that if he covered up his head his body would not be detected. but jane soon routed him out. "i have come to dress marguerite," she announced. "amelia is permitting it." there was no movement from behind the paper. "general macintosh, i am sorry to disturb you, but the time is getting on." "i thought marguerite was dressed, she looks very grand." "it is the ribbons of my nightingale which have deceived you, i have only that and my nightdress on. i can hardly appear in so scanty an attire." "give 'em something to talk about." "father," i said, "_will_ you go." and growling and grumbling he went in search of mother, presumably to have a row. the sunshine streamed into the room, the tits chattered, and a robin blithely showed what could be done with a range of eight notes: tweet, tweet, ta ra ra tweet, tre la, tre la, ta ra ra tweet. "listen, jane," i said, "it is singing to you. isn't it a lovely day! i'm so glad the sun is shining. are you happy, jane?" "yes," she said simply, dropping a kiss on to my hair, which she was gently brushing. "i'm too happy to talk about it; and i must hurry, dimbie will be here in a minute, he has got something for you." and there he was, peeping through the door with amelia close behind him. in his arms was a large cardboard box. "it's a new tea-gown straight from paris, mum," said amelia, excitedly, as dimbie removed the lid. "there were twenty to choose from," added jane, "and _we_ were over an hour in settlin' on it," completed amelia. very carefully dimbie removed all the folds of soft, white paper, and shook out the gown--a lovely mass of pearly satin, soft as the petals of a rose, and marvellous old lace of cobweb transparency and texture. "it is too beautiful!" i whispered to him, folding my arms around his neck. "and there is a rose for your neck, sweetheart, just the colour of your hair. isn't he a beauty?" i held the fragrant, yellow softness to my face, for the tears were coming, and jane and amelia stole softly away and left us by ourselves for ten minutes--ten minutes which would alone make the saddest life worth living, and mine was not sad because i had dimbie. presently jane came back. "you must go, sir," she commanded, "or your wife will not be ready." and dimbie went. deftly and quickly she arranged my hair, got me into the lovely gown, and fastened the rose at my breast. and while she worked she talked. she made me laugh at her description of the help, who was sitting dazed and "amoithered" in the middle of the kitchen, drinking the strongest black tea, and regarding every onslaught of amelia with the utmost indifference and apathy. and amelia! she, of course, was working like a traction engine in the refreshment-room, shaking her fist at the creams and jellies, some of which refused to stand up, and persuading trails of briony to stick to their proper position on the cake and not wander away to the dishes of oyster pâtés. "and now you are ready, and you look--well, dimbie will tell you how you look. i will call him." "don't," i said, "he will stay so long, and then you will go to another room to dress, and i do so want to watch you. i shall be awfully particular about your hair." "you won't suggest a hair-frame?" "god forbid! you are not the type of woman for a frame. but you drag your hair too much off your temples at times, and although your forehead is low and broad and all that a forehead ought to be, i fancy a few tendrils straying across it would look sweet under your chinchilla toque, and you must humour my fancy, jane." obediently she knelt down and let me do what i would with her. "be very careful getting into your skirt," i commanded. "don't ruffle your hair whatever you do." she made a comical face. "what a fuss!" she said. "if you don't fuss on your wedding-day you never will. and men don't like dowdy women. come here and i will fasten your bodice. i can if you will kneel very close to me." for a moment i rested my cheek against the soft, beautiful fur which trimmed the bolero-bodice--nanty had indeed been generous. "jane, dear," i said, "i _am_ glad you are going to be married, and that you will have no more sticky children to teach. i should like to have seen the doctor as a bridegroom. i feel sure that he will use profane language in the stress of his emotions. now put on your hat and walk across the room with stately mien so that i may have a good look at you." i nodded approval. "you'll do. you look sweet--a study in grey. and you are quite tall and slight in that elegant frock. i believe even nanty will be satisfied." she came and knelt again by my couch. how strong and yet gentle was her face! i thought. how steady and clear were her eyes! how sweet and expressive the large, sensitive mouth! "i want to say good-bye to you alone--not before the others. i want to thank you, little, patient marguerite, for all your goodness to me----" "jane," i said, "if you utter another word i shall weep, and then my eyes will be red. be merciful to me." "god bless you and keep you!" she murmured with a great earnestness, and then she bowed her head for a moment, and i knew that she was praying. mother forced an entrance. "peter has hidden my bonnet"--her air was tragic--"and i can't find him, he has hidden himself as well." "he was under the pine tree in the hall when i last saw him," said jane. "he may have slipped behind the clock." "i'll go and see," said mother breathlessly, "i shall never be ready in time. the carriages are due now." mother and peter were to have one to themselves, and dimbie was to take jane. she was back in a moment. "i've got it. amelia found it. he says he never touched it, and that it was the help." and now dimbie came banging at the door. "time's up," he shouted. "how much longer are you going to prink, jane?" then popping his head in, "peter will be smashing the wedding presents if you don't all hurry up." "i'm ready. what do you think of your wife, sir?" said jane. i covered my face with my hands at the look in his eyes. "wheel me to the drawing-room," i whispered to him, "you don't go so fast as amelia; and put me right in the window, so that i may see you all coming down the path." "what a lovely marguerite!" he murmured, shutting the door. "i must kiss my little wife. why, even your cushions are gold! you look like a golden lily." "the carriages are waiting," i said. "i shall come home the very minute i have given jane away; i shan't wait to the end. you will be lonely." and dimbie little knew how earnestly during the next quarter of an hour i longed for the loneliness he had predicted. never had i more fervently yearned to be by myself, for as soon as ever jane and dimbie had driven away the help appeared. she came slowly and deliberately into the room and seated herself on a chair opposite to the couch. she wore the black crêpe bonnet, a black dress, black kid gloves, and she carried a black parasol and a prayer-book. "good afternoon," i said politely. "good afternoon," she returned. "are you going--to a funeral?" she stared at me with hard, black eyes. "i've come to the reception." "oh!" i said. "master said me and 'melia could hear their health drunk--the bride and bridegroom's." "but they are not here yet." "no," she said, still staring at me unwaveringly. "where's amelia?" the help alarmed me. "'melia's gone to the wedding, and then she's going to run 'ome before the others to make the tea and coffee." "couldn't you make it?" i cried with sudden relief. "no, 'melia's going to make it. she said i was to look after you and see that you wanted for nothin'." "i don't require anything, thank you; if i do, i will ring." she did not move. i closed my eyes. "i do not require anything at present, thank you," i repeated. there was no movement, and i opened my eyes. the help was still staring at me unflinchingly--not a flicker of an eyelid, not a movement of a muscle. i felt i was going to scream. "don't you think,--perhaps, it would be advisable--will you be so good as to see to the potatoes?" i clasped and unclasped my hands feverishly. "what pertaters?" "oh--er--the potatoes we are going to eat." "we're not goin' to eat no pertaters. 'melia never told me. there's to be tea, coffee, jelly, and champagne." "but shan't we require some later on with our dinner?" she shook her head. "it's to be 'igh tea. there'll be no time for dinner." "but i should like potatoes." the help looked doubtful. "i love potatoes." "i'll ask 'melia when she comes in." "there is no occasion to ask amelia. won't you go now, please, mrs.----?" she still stared at me steadfastly. "there's plenty of time; pertaters only takes half an hour." "it's not enough," i cried sharply. "i've boiled 'undreds of 'em--skerry blues, magnums, queen of them all, cheshires--none of 'em takes more than half an hour." i closed my eyes and clung to the tortoise. "oh, when would dimbie come?" i moaned to myself. i lay thus for some minutes. it seemed ridiculous, absurd to be frightened of a mere help. i told myself this over and over again. at length i ventured to open one eye. i longed to know if the help were still staring at me. she was, and i shut it again quickly. what was i to do? when would the wedding be over? i opened my eye again. the help was staring harder than ever. most wickedly i wished that she could be struck dead by lightning. but it was unlikely, the day was brilliantly fine and sunny. now i put a handkerchief over my eyes. i would not look at the help. the gate banged. i heard dimbie's step, and he came into the room, but i dare not remove the handkerchief. "what is it?" he cried anxiously. "are you poorly, marguerite?" "come here," i said. he stooped down. "is the help still staring?" i whispered. "yes." "can you get her out of the room?" he began to laugh. "can you?" i repeated. "of course." "well, do so quickly, please." his voice rang out pleasantly and commandingly-- "will you go and tell amelia, please, that when the carriage returns i shall be glad if she will give the coachmen some dinner--some meat and potatoes." would the help think that we were all in a conspiracy to make her boil potatoes? "'melia is not here." "where is she?" "at the weddin'." "well, then, you go and get the dinner ready, please." she looked at her black dress and gloves and parasol. "i didn't know as there was to be cookin'. i've got my best dress on." "you can put on an apron," i said gently. she wavered. dimbie opened the door for her as he would have opened it for a duchess, and looked at her. she rose, carefully placed her parasol and prayer-book on the chair in order to reserve it for future use, and unwillingly went out of the room. "move the chair quickly," i gasped, "and hide the parasol and prayer-book. that woman must never be permitted to stare at me again or i shall go mad. how could you tell her that she might come in to hear the health of the bride and bridegroom drunk?" "she asked me. what could i say?" said dimbie ruefully. "and dressed up as though she were going to a funeral----" dimbie began to laugh. "and is she going to hand tea to the guests in a crêpe bonnet?" "can't say, you are the mistress of the house." "oh, dimbie, what shall i do? i daren't tell her to remove it." "wait till amelia comes home. she'll manage her." amelia came rushing through the gate, and i signalled to her from the window. "yes, mum!" "the help is--wearing a crêpe bonnet. i thought you said she was to wear a cap and collar and cuffs?" "so she is, mum. she must have slipped into that bonnet the minute my back was turned. she'll be out of it in a jiffy, i'll see to that. she's that deceitful, she'll wear me into my grave. and the weddin' was _that_ beautiful! miss fairbrother looked----" "i think i hear a carriage," i interrupted; and amelia miraculously flew into her cap and apron, and the next moment announced-- "doctor and mrs. renton." jane advanced to the couch with outstretched hands. her eyes were shining and her lips smiling. "did your husband swear?" i asked as she kissed me. "certainly not," said the doctor. "how's my patient to-day?" "quite well, thank you," i replied. "now that you've got jane safely tied up you'll begin to remember that you have some patients hanging on your words. jane, he mustn't let his practice go to the wall. you have to live, you know." "there's another carriage," said dimbie, looking through the window. "ah, and here's nanty!--what a howling swell!--and a whole host of people i don't know." "jane, i am frightened of miss rebecca sharp. stand by me when you introduce us. i am not used to suffragettes," i said. and a most delightful half-hour followed, while we discussed jane's and amelia's united efforts at refreshments. dimbie would not permit my being wheeled to the refreshment-room and noise, so my cake and champagne were brought to the drawing-room, and i was entertained in turn by nanty and professor leighrail, the doctor and jane, miss rebecca sharp, who was most mild and unassuming, mr. tom renton, the best man, who ran to a heavy moustache and pimples, and even peter came for a moment to give me his opinion of amelia's jelly. nanty and the professor interested me greatly. she, resplendent in purple velvet and old lace, was composed and sarcastic; he genial, happy, and detached. "down with all weddings!" was the gist of her conversation. "do all you can to encourage them," said the professor cheerfully. "disillusionment and misery are the inevitable sequence." nanty nibbled at the almond on a piece of wedding-cake. "happiness and a fuller life are the natural result." the professor waved his glass in the air. she regarded him with amusement. "and you really think so?" "i do, madam." "you are optimistic." "there was a time when i believed that the world contained no happiness." "and now?" "now i am older, and think that most people are as happy as they will allow themselves to be." "but the sin, the suffering?" "many sufferers are happy." (his glance rested for a second upon me.) "and as for the sinners--well, surely they wouldn't sin if they didn't enjoy it?" "i do not agree with your philosophy." "madam, i am open to argument." "the room is too warm for discussion." "it is pleasant in the garden, and there are some late roses. will you come?" nanty hesitated. he held out his arm. "the sunshine is inviting." "perhaps it is," she admitted; and laying a beautifully-gloved hand lightly upon his arm, she went out with him. dimbie came in and found me smiling. "what is it, girl?" his eyes followed mine through the window. "humph!" he said. "he asked her to go and look at the roses." "and now i suppose you are happy?" "nanty's and the professor's desire for roses does not affect my happiness," i said gravely. "liar!" he laughed, stroking my hair. and now the bride and bridegroom came to say "good-bye." the doctor held back while jane kissed me and said, "i'll come back soon, little old pupil; and i will drive over the day after our return and tell you everything." her eyes were full of unshed tears. the doctor held my hand in a strong, close grip, and they were gone. through the window i could see everyone assembled on the path. confetti was in the air, congratulations, good-byes. the help with her cap all askew, into which amelia had insisted upon her changing, hurled rice and a slipper at the retreating cab. and so jane and the doctor drove away to happiness. chapter xxx the death of a little black chicken a day has come, still, cold and grey, when you say, "there is snow in the air," and you are not sorry. the first snow is curiously attractive. before, you are a little doubtful as to the season. is it late autumn--there are still a few leaves on the beech tree--or has winter arrived? you would like to know; you object to being in uncertainty about your seasons. and then the snow comes one night very softly but very surely, and you wake in the morning to find that the thing is accomplished--winter has come. your furs are reached out, your last thin frock is laid away, your eider-downs are aired, and you are quite resigned, you have no regrets. the summer brought you treasures in abundance, scattered largess with prodigal hand. but winter is no niggard. it gives you branches of trees stripped of their greenery, but beautiful in their form and shape. you had forgotten that the apple tree had a delicious crook here, a bend of the knee there, and a graceful arm with finely-turned wrist held out to its neighbours in the field in a spirit of friendship. and winter gives you brown fields--sad, you were about to say, but your pen halts at the word. they are not sad, they are but resting and waiting. "all things must rest." those quiet, brown fields have done their work, they have yielded great riches, they have given of their best. now is their season of peace, and they will be ready after their winter sleep for more work. winter gives you red suns and clear, frosty nights. it gives you the friendship of little birds who in summer are shy and not to be won. you are not deceived by their sudden overtures; it is not you, you know. it is the cocoa-nut hanging in front of the window, and the crumbs on the lawn, and the succulent bit of mutton-fat suspended from the apple tree. but you are glad to have them at any price; the tits' joyful chatter and the wrens' hurried warble, and the clear, sweet note of the robin enliven the atmosphere. they make no pretence of being fine musicians, like their sometime friend the thrush; but they say, "what's the good of being a singer if you keep your mouth or bill shut for six months in the year?" and i smile behind my hand and partly agree with them, though i dare not let the thrush hear me. i gave him a great welcome in the spring, and he would think me faithless were i now to speak of him disparagingly. and winter brings in its wake great glowing fires and warm, lamplit rooms, and a feeling of snug cosiness when the curtains are drawn. they have pushed my couch close to the fire, for i am a shivery mortal these days, and from my corner i can see the grey sky, the still, bare trees, and i can feel the hush in the air which ever precedes the snow. anxiously i hope that dimbie will be home before it comes, for he is many miles from here--gone at my request to satisfy a longing, a desire of mine which has been with me for many weeks, which has lain very close to my heart, and which has now become so insistent that it cannot be hushed. it has been with me by day, i have whispered it in the long hours of the night, "how fares the tiny black chicken?" has it suffered, lived on since that cruel moment when my bicycle crushed it to earth, or was its life snatched away from it? if it has lived it will be a big chicken now. the soft down will have become feathers, the wee legs will have grown long and thin. this morning i found courage to voice my request, to tell dimbie of my longing. at the first word he started, and his face became set. he walked to the window and drummed on the panes. "you don't mind, dimbie? you'll go for me?" i pleaded. "but why? why do you want to know?" "i cannot tell," i replied. "it may be silly, morbid, but i feel as though--one or two things might be made clear to me if i knew." he did not speak for a long time. his back was to me, and i could not see his face. presently he said, without looking round, "i'll go. i cannot refuse you anything, marg. but i don't like it. the chicken may be gone." "gone?" "well--dead." "and if it is," i said softly, "i shan't mind. i shall know--and be satisfied." he came and knelt by the couch. "but won't you be lonely, girl?" i shook my head. "are you better to-day, sweetheart? do you think you are any stronger? that wedding was too much for you." each day my dear one abuses poor jane's wedding. i had been overtired that night, faint, with a singing in my cars and the sound of many waters surging around me. and each day also he says, "you are a little stronger, i think, don't you?" but he does not wait for an answer. sometimes it is better to leave a question unanswered. oh, my husband, will you ever know, ever understand how much happiness you have given to me? before i knew you life was an arid wilderness. i was but young, but there was always peter. afterwards i came to a garden of roses and lilies set about with the tender green of spring. and _our_ year! how wonderful it has been! sorrow came to us, but joy entered a little later. sorrow we thrust forth, and joy crept still closer, and has remained with us even to the end. sorrow will dog dimbie's footsteps for a little season, but joy will triumph over all--"for here we have no continuing city." * * * * * dimbie came home as the first snowflake brushed the window-pane. in the firelight he knelt and told me of the strange thing that had happened. he found the cottage, and as he entered the little chicken turned over on its side, stretched its legs and died. a child with golden hair leaned over it and wept bitterly. "and had it suffered?" i whispered. he shook his head. "the woman said not, but it was lamed. the child from the day of the accident cared for it, tended it, nursed it. it slept in a box in the kitchen, and became very tame. the woman is a widow, and this little one the only child." "did you tell her of--me?" "yes," said dimbie gently. i laid my cheek to his, and he stroked my hair in his old, dear fashion. and we sat thus, and once again told each other the old, old story of our love. the soft snow brushed the window-pane, the corners of the room became shadowy and mysterious, and hand in hand we waited for the light which always follows the darkness. an afterword the pen has fallen from marguerite's hand never again to be taken up. and we who wait for the lifting of the veil find it hard not to question the why and the wherefore. hers was a beautiful, blameless life. her suffering was borne with a great patience and cheerfulness, and we cry and cry again, "why should this be?" jane renton's philosophy is simple: "god wanted her more than we." but to me it seems such love as theirs--of husband and wife--should have been allowed to continue yet a little while longer. jane says it will outlast the ages. to jane has been given a faith, an understanding which has been withheld from many. her eyes can see while ours are blinded with tears. i have her husband's sanction to give her simple story to the world. "it may help to brighten the life of some other sufferer, and she would be glad," i said, and he bowed his head. the last night of her life was one of silver, as she herself would have described it, for the moon turned the earth with its soft mantle of snow into silver sheen. we drew back the curtains and pushed the bed still nearer to the window. dimbie's arms pillowed her head. from unconsciousness she kept creeping back to moments of consciousness, and she would speak a little. once she murmured something about a little black chicken, and always the word "dimbie" was upon her lips. at the last we left them alone. by and by dimbie came out of the room and passed out into the moonlit night. she would be glad that it was so, that there was the moonlight, and that while her spirit winged its way to eternal light there was a reflection of its brightness left for her dimbie. nanty. the end. * * * * * a few of grosset & dunlap's great books at little prices new, clever, entertaining. gret: the story of a pagan. by beatrice mantle. illustrated by c. m. relyea. the wild free life of an oregon lumber camp furnishes the setting for this strong original story. gret is the daughter of the camp and is utterly content with the wild life--until love comes. a fine book, unmarred by convention. old chester tales. by margaret deland. illustrated by howard pyle. a vivid yet delicate portrayal of characters in an old new england town. dr. lavendar's fine, kindly wisdom is brought to bear upon the lives of all, permeating the whole volume like the pungent odor of pine, healthful and life giving. "old chester tales" will surely be among the books that abide. the memoirs of a baby. by josephine daskam. illustrated by f. y. cory. the dawning intelligence of the baby was grappled with by its great-aunt, an elderly maiden, whose book knowledge of babies was something at which even the infant himself winked. a delicious bit of humor. rebecca mary. by annie hamilton donnell. illustrated by elizabeth shippen green. the heart tragedies of this little girl with no one near to share them, are told with a delicate art, a keen appreciation of the needs of the childish heart and a humorous knowledge of the workings of the childish mind. the fly on the wheel. by katherine cecil thurston. frontispiece by harrison fisher. an irish story of real power, perfect in development and showing a true conception of the spirited hibernian character as displayed in the tragic as well as the tender phases of life. the man from brodney's. by george barr mccutcheon. illustrated by harrison fisher. an island in the south sea is the setting for this entertaining tale, and an all-conquering hero and a beautiful princess figure in a most complicated plot. one of mr. mccutcheon's best books. told by uncle remus. by joel chandler harris. illustrated by a. b. frost, j. m. conde and frank verbeck. again uncle remus enters the fields of childhood, and leads another little boy to that non-locatable land called "brer rabbit's laughing place," and again the quaint animals spring into active life and play their parts, for the edification of a small but appreciative audience. the climber. by e. f. benson. with frontispiece. an unsparing analysis of an ambitious woman's soul--a woman who believed that in social supremacy she would find happiness, and who finds instead the utter despair of one who has chosen the things that pass away. lynch's daughter. by leonard merrick. illustrated by geo. brehm. a story of to-day, telling how a rich girl acquires ideals of beautiful and simple living, and of men and love, quite apart from the teachings of her father, "old man lynch" of wall st. true to life, clever in treatment. * * * * * grosset & dunlap's dramatized novels a few that are making theatrical history mary jane's pa. by norman way. illustrated with scenes from the play. delightful, irresponsible "mary jane's pa" awakes one morning to find himself famous, and genius being ill adapted to domestic joys, he wanders from home to work out his own unique destiny. one of the most humorous bits of recent fiction. cherub devine. by sewell ford. "cherub," a good hearted but not over refined young man is brought in touch with the aristocracy. of sprightly wit, he is sometimes a merciless analyst, but he proves in the end that manhood counts for more than ancient lineage by winning the love of the fairest girl in the flock. a woman's way. by charles somerville. illustrated with scenes from the play. a story in which a woman's wit and self-sacrificing love save her husband from the toils of an adventuress, and change an apparently tragic situation into one of delicious comedy. the climax. by george c. jenks. with ambition luring her on, a young choir soprano leaves the little village where she was born and the limited audience of st. jude's to train for the opera in new york. she leaves love behind her and meets love more ardent but not more sincere in her new environment. how she works, how she studies, how she suffers, are vividly portrayed. a fool there was. by porter emerson browne. illustrated by edmund magrath and w. w. fawcett. a relentless portrayal of the career of a man who comes under the influence of a beautiful but evil woman; how she lures him on and on, how he struggles, falls and rises, only to fall again into her net, make a story of unflinching realism. the squaw man. by julie opp faversham and edwin milton royle. illustrated with scenes from the play. a glowing story, rapid in action, bright in dialogue with a fine courageous hero and a beautiful english heroine. the girl in waiting. by archibald eyre. illustrated with scenes from the play. a droll little comedy of misunderstandings, told with a light touch, a venturesome spirit and an eye for human oddities. the scarlet pimpernel. by baroness orczy. illustrated with scenes from the play. a realistic story of the days of the french revolution, abounding in dramatic incident, with a young english soldier of fortune, daring, mysterious as the hero. * * * * * a few of grosset & dunlap's great books at little prices cy whittaker's place. by joseph c. lincoln. illustrated by wallace morgan. a cape cod story describing the amusing efforts of an elderly bachelor and his two cronies to rear and educate a little girl. full of honest fun--a rural drama. the forge in the forest. by charles g. d. roberts. illustrated by h. sandham. a story of the conflict in acadia after its conquest by the british. a dramatic picture that lives and shines with the indefinable charm of poetic romance. a sister to evangeline. by charles g. d. roberts. illustrated by e. mcconnell. being the story of yvonne de lamourie, and how she went into exile with the villagers of grand prè. swift action, fresh atmosphere, wholesome purity, deep passion and searching analysis characterize this strong novel. the opened shutters. by clara louise burnham. frontispiece by harrison fisher. a summer haunt on an island in casco bay is the background for this romance. a beautiful woman, at discord with life, is brought to realize, by her new friends, that she may open the shutters of her soul to the blessed sunlight of joy by casting aside vanity and self love. a delicately humorous work with a lofty motive underlying it all. the right princess. by clara louise burnham. an amusing story, opening at a fashionable long island resort, where a stately englishwoman employs a forcible new england housekeeper to serve in her interesting home. how types so widely apart react on each others' lives, all to ultimate good, makes a story both humorous and rich in sentiment. the leaven of love. by clara louise burnham. frontispiece by harrison fisher. at a southern california resort a world-weary woman, young and beautiful but disillusioned, meets a girl who has learned the art of living--of tasting life in all its richness, opulence and joy. the story hinges upon the change wrought in the soul of the blasé woman by this glimpse into a cheery life. quincy adams sawyer. a picture of new england home life. with illustrations by c. w. reed, and scenes reproduced from the play. one of the best new england stories ever written. it is full of homely human interest * * * there is a wealth of new england village character, scenes and incidents * * * forcibly, vividly and truthfully drawn. few books have enjoyed a greater sale and popularity. dramatized, it made the greatest rural play of recent times. the further adventures of quincy adams sawyer. by charles felton pidgin. illustrated by henry roth. all who love honest sentiment, quaint and sunny humor and homespun philosophy will find these "further adventures" a book after their own heart. half a chance. by frederic s. isham. illustrated by herman pfeifer. the thrill of excitement will keep the reader in a state of suspense, and he will become personally concerned from the start, as to the central character, a very real man who suffers dares--and achieves! virginia of the air lanes. by herbert quick. illustrated by william r. leigh. the author has seized the romantic moment for the airship novel, and created the pretty story of "a lover and his lass" contending with an elderly relative for the monopoly of the skies. an exciting tale of adventure in midair. the game and the candle. by eleanor m. ingram. illustrated by p. d. johnson. the hero is a young american, who, to save his family from poverty deliberately commits a felony. then follow his capture and imprisonment, and his rescue by a russian grand duke. a stirring story, rich in sentiment. bruvver jim's baby. by philip verrill mighels. an uproariously funny story of a tiny mining settlement in the west, which is shaken to the very roots by the sudden possession of a baby, found on the plains by one of its residents. the town is as disreputable a spot as the gold fever was ever responsible for, and the coming of that baby causes the upheaval of every rooted tradition of the place. its christening, the problems of its toys and its illness supersede in the minds of the miners all thought of earthy treasure. the furnace of gold. by philip verrill mighels, author of "bruvver jim's baby." illustrations by j. n. marchand. an accurate and informing portrayal of scenes, types, and conditions of the mining districts in modern nevada. the book is an out-door story, clean, exciting, exemplifying nobility and courage of character, and bravery, and heroism in the sort of men and women we all admire and wish to know. the message. by louis tracy. illustrations by joseph c. chase. a breezy tale of how a bit of old parchment, concealed in a figurehead from a sunken vessel, comes into the possession of a pretty girl and an army man during regatta week in the isle of wight. this is the message and it enfolds a mystery, the development of which the reader will follow with breathless interest. the scarlet empire. by david m. parry. illustrations by hermann c. wall. a young socialist, weary of life, plunges into the sea and awakes in the lost island of atlantis, known as the scarlet empire, where a social democracy is in full operation, granting every man a living but limiting food, conversation, education and marriage. the hero passes through an enthralling love affair and other adventures but finally returns to his own new york world. the third degree. by charles klein and arthur hornblow. illustrations by clarence rowe. a novel which exposes the abuses in this country of the police system. the son of an aristocratic new york family marries a woman socially beneath him, but of strong, womanly qualities that, later on, save the man from the tragic consequences of a dissipated life. the wife believes in his innocence and her wit and good sense help her to win against the tremendous odds imposed by law. the thirteenth district. by brand whitlock. a realistic western story of love and politics and a searching study of their influence on character. the author shows with extraordinary vitality of treatment the tricks, the heat, the passion, the tumult of the political arena, the triumph and strength of love. the music master. by charles klein. illustrated by john rae. this marvelously vivid narrative turns upon the search of a german musician in new york for his little daughter. mr. klein has well portrayed his pathetic struggle with poverty, his varied experiences in endeavoring to meet the demands of a public not trained to an appreciation of the classic, and his final great hour when, in the rapidly shifting events of a big city, his little daughter, now a beautiful young woman, is brought to his very door. a superb bit of fiction palpitating with the life of the great metropolis. the play in which david warfield scored his highest success. dr. lavendar's people. by margaret deland. illustrated by lucius hitchcock. mrs. deland won so many friends through old chester tales that this volume needs no introduction beyond its title. the lovable doctor is more ripened in this later book, and the simple comedies and tragedies of the old village are told with dramatic charm. old chester tales. by margaret deland. illustrated by howard pyle. stories portraying with delightful humor and pathos a quaint people in a sleepy old town. dr. lavendar, a very human and lovable "preacher," is the connecting link between these dramatic stories. he fell in love with his wife. by e. p. roe. with frontispiece. the hero is a farmer--a man with honest, sincere views of life. bereft of his wife, his home is cared for by a succession of domestics of varying degrees of inefficiency until, from a most unpromising source, comes a young woman who not only becomes his wife but commands his respect and eventually wins his love. a bright and delicate romance, revealing on both sides a love that surmounts all difficulties and survives the censure of friends as well as the bitterness of enemies. the yoke. by elizabeth miller. against the historical background of the days when the children of israel were delivered from the bondage of egypt, the author has sketched a romance of compelling charm. a biblical novel as great as any since "ben hur." saul of tarsus. by elizabeth miller. illustrated by andré castaigne. the scenes of this story are laid in jerusalem, alexandria, rome and damascus. the apostle paul, the martyr stephen, herod agrippa and the emperors tiberius and caligula are among the mighty figures that move through the pages. wonderful descriptions, and a love story of the purest and noblest type mark this most remarkable religious romance. when a man marries. by mary roberts rinehart. illustrated by harrison fisher and mayo bunker. a young artist, whose wife had recently divorced him, finds that a visit is due from his aunt selina, an elderly lady having ideas about things quite apart from the bohemian set in which her nephew is a shining light. the way in which matters are temporarily adjusted forms the motif of the story. a farcical extravaganza, dramatized under the title of "seven days". the fashionable adventures of joshua craig. by david graham phillips. illustrated. a young westerner, uncouth and unconventional, appears in political and social life in washington. he attains power in politics, and a young woman of the exclusive set becomes his wife, undertaking his education in social amenities. "doc." gordon. by mary e. wilkins-freeman. illustrated by frank t. merrill. against the familiar background of american town life, the author portrays a group of people strangely involved in a mystery. "doc." gordon, the one physician of the place, dr. elliot, his assistant, a beautiful woman and her altogether charming daughter are all involved in the plot. a novel of great interest. holy orders. by marie corelli. a dramatic story, in which is pictured a clergyman in touch with society people, stage favorites, simple village folk, powerful financiers and others, each presenting vital problems to this man "in holy orders"--problems that we are now struggling with in america. katrine. by elinor macartney lane. with frontispiece. katrine, the heroine of this story, is a lovely irish girl, of lowly birth, but gifted with a beautiful voice. the narrative is based on the facts of an actual singer's career, and the viewpoint throughout is a most exalted one. the fortunes of fifi. by molly elliot seawell. illustrated by t. de thulstrup. a story of life in france at the time of the first napoleon. fifi, a glad, mad little actress of eighteen, is the star performer in a third rate parisian theatre. a story as dainty as a watteau painting. she that hesitates. by harris dickson. illustrated by c. w. relyea. the scene of this dashing romance shifts from dresden to st. petersburg in the reign of peter the great, and then to new orleans. the hero is a french soldier of fortune, and the princess, who hesitates--but you must read the story to know how she that hesitates may be lost and yet saved. happy hawkins. by robert alexander wason. illustrated by howard giles. a ranch and cowboy novel. happy hawkins tells his own story with such a fine capacity for knowing how to do it and with so much humor that the reader's interest is held in surprise, then admiration and at last in positive affection. comrades. by thomas dixon, jr. illustrated by c. d. williams. the locale of this story is in california, where a few socialists establish a little community. the author leads the little band along the path of disillusionment, and gives some brilliant flashes of light on one side of an important question. tono-bungay. by herbert george wells. the hero of this novel is a young man who, through hard work, earns a scholarship and goes to london. written with a frankness verging on rousseau's, mr. wells still uses rare discrimination and the border line of propriety is never crossed. an entertaining book with both a story and a moral, and without a dull page--mr. wells's most notable achievement. a husband by proxy. by jack steele. a young criminologist, but recently arrived in hew york city, is drawn into a mystery, partly through financial need and partly through his interest in a beautiful woman, who seems at times the simplest child and again a perfect mistress of intrigue. a baffling detective story. like another helen. by george horton. illustrated by c. m. relyea. mr. horton's powerful romance stands in a new field and brings an almost unknown world in reality before the reader--the world of conflict between greek and turk on the island of crete. the "helen" of the story is a greek, beautiful, desolate, defiant--pure as snow. there is a certain new force about the story, a kind of master-craftsmanship and mental dominance that holds the reader. the master of appleby. by francis lynde. illustrated by t. de thulstrup. a novel tale concerning itself in part with the great struggle in the two carolinas, but chiefly with the adventures therein of two gentlemen who loved one and the same lady. a strong, masculine and persuasive story. a modern madonna. by caroline abbot stanley. a story of american life, founded on facts as they existed some years ago in the district of columbia. the theme is the maternal love and splendid courage of a woman. * * * * * books on nature study by charles g. d. roberts handsomely bound in cloth. price, cents per volume, postpaid. the kindred of the wild. a book of animal life. with illustrations by charles livingston bull. appeals alike to the young and to the merely youthful-hearted. close observation. graphic description. we get a sense of the great wild and its denizens. out of the common. vigorous and full of character. the book is one to be enjoyed; all the more because it smacks of the forest instead of the museum. john burroughs says: "the volume is in many ways the most brilliant collection of animal stories that has appeared. it reaches a high order of literary merit." the heart of the ancient wood. illustrated. this book strikes a new note in literature. it is a realistic romance of the folk of the forest--a romance of the alliance of peace between a pioneer's daughter in the depths of the ancient wood and the wild beasts who felt her spell and became her friends. it is not fanciful, with talking beasts; nor is it merely an exquisite idyl of the beasts themselves. it is an actual romance, in which the animal characters play their parts as naturally as do the human. the atmosphere of the book is enchanting. the reader feels the undulating, whimpering music of the forest, the power of the shady silences, the dignity of the beasts who live closest to the heart of the wood. the watchers of the trails. a companion volume so the "kindred of the wild." with full page plates and decorations from drawings by charles livingston bull. these stones are exquisite in their refinement, and yet robust in their appreciation of some of the rougher phases of woodcraft. "this is a book full of delight. an additional charm lies in mr. bull's faithful and graphic illustrations, which in fashion all their own tell the story of the wild life, illuminating and supplementing the pen pictures of the authors."--_literary digest_. red fox. the story of his adventurous career in the ringwaak wilds, and his triumphs over the enemies of his kind. with illustrations, including frontispiece in color and cover design by charles livingston bull. a brilliant chapter in natural history. infinitely more wholesome reading than the average tale of sport, since it gives a glimpse of the hunt from the point of view of the hunted. "true in substance but fascinating as fiction. it will interest old and young, city-bound and free-footed, those who know animals and those who do not."--_chicago record-herald_. * * * * * famous copyright books in popular priced editions re-issues of the great literary successes of the time, library size, printed on excellent paper--most of them finely illustrated. full and handsomely bound in cloth. price, cents a volume, postpaid. the cattle baron's daughter. a novel. by harold bindloss. with illustrations by david ericson. a story of the fight for the cattle-ranges of the west. intense interest is aroused by its pictures of life in the cattle country at that critical moment of transition when the great tracts of land used for grazing were taken up by the incoming homesteaders, with the inevitable result of fierce contest, of passionate emotion on both sides, and of final triumph of the inevitable tendency of the times. winston of the prairie. with illustrations in color by w. herbert dunton. a man of upright character, young and clean, but badly worsted in the battle of life, consents as a desperate resort to impersonate for a period a man of his own age--scoundrelly in character but of an aristocratic and moneyed family. the better man finds himself barred from resuming his old name. how, coming into the other man's possessions, he wins the respect of all men, and the love of a fastidious, delicately nurtured girl, is the thread upon which the story hangs. it is one of the best novels of the west that has appeared for years. that mainwaring affair. by a. maynard barbour, with illustrations by e. plaisted abbott. a novel with a most intricate and carefully unraveled plot. a naturally probable and excellently developed story and the reader will follow the fortunes of each character with unabating interest * * * the interest is keen at the close of the first chapter and increases to the end. at the time appointed. with a frontispiece in colors by j. h. marchand. the fortunes of a young mining engineer who through an accident loses his memory and identity. in his new character and under his new name, the hero lives a new life of struggle and adventure. the volume will be found highly entertaining by those who appreciate a thoroughly good story. the circular staircase. by mary roberts reinhart. with illustrations by lester ralph. in an extended notice the _new york sun_ says: "to readers who care for a really good detective story 'the circular staircase' can be recommended without reservation. the _philadelphia record_ declares that 'the circular staircase' deserves the laurels for thrills, for weirdness and things unexplained and inexplicable. the red year. by louis tracy. "mr. tracy gives by far the most realistic and impressive pictures of the horrors and heroisms of the indian mutiny that has been available in any book of the kind * * * there has not been in modern times in the history of any land scenes so fearful, so picturesque, so dramatic, and mr. tracy draws them as with the pencil of a verestschagin or the pen of a sienkiewics." arms and the woman. by harold macgrath. with inlay cover in colors by harrison fisher. the story is a blending of the romance and adventure of the middle ages with nineteenth century men and women; and they are creations of flesh and blood, and not mere pictures of past centuries. the story is about jack winthrop, a newspaper man. mr. macgrath's finest bit of character drawing is seen in hillars, the broken down newspaper man, and jack's chum. love is the sum of it all. by geo. cary eggleston. with illustrations by hermann heyer. in this "plantation romance" mr. eggleston has resumed the manner and method that made his "dorothy south" one of the most famous books of its time. there are three tender love stories embodied in it, and two unusually interesting heroines, utterly unlike each other, but each possessed of a peculiar fascination which wins and holds the reader's sympathy. a pleasing vein of gentle humor runs through the work, but the "sum of it all" is an intensely sympathetic love story. hearts and the cross. by harold morton cramer. with illustrations by harold matthews brett. the hero is an unconventional preacher who follows the line of the man of galilee, associating with the lowly, and working for them in the ways that may best serve them. he is not recognized at his real value except by the one woman who saw clearly. their love story is one of the refreshing things in recent fiction. a six-cylinder courtship. by edw. salisbury field. with a color frontispiece by harrison fisher, and illustrations by clarence f. underwood, decorated pages and end sheets. harrison fisher head in colors on cover. boxed. a story of cleverness. it is a jolly good romance of love at first sight that will be read with undoubted pleasure. automobiling figures in the story which is told with light, bright touches, while a happy gift of humor permeates it all. "the book is full of interesting folks. the patois of the garage is used with full comic and realistic effect, and effervescently, culminating in the usual happy finish."--_st. louis mirror_. at the foot of the rainbow. by gene stratton-porter. author of "freckles." with illustrations in color by oliver kemp, decorations by ralph fletcher seymour and inlay cover in colors. the story is one of devoted friendship, and tender self-sacrificing love; the friendship that gives freely without return, and the love that seeks first the happiness of the object. the novel is brimful of the most beautiful word painting of nature and its pathos and tender sentiment will endear it to all. judith of the cumberlands. by alice macgowan. with illustrations in colors, and inlay cover by george wright. no one can fail to enjoy this moving tale with its lovely and ardent heroine, its frank, fearless hero, its glowing love passages, and its variety of characters, captivating or engaging humorous or saturnine, villains, rascals, and men of good will. a tale strong and interesting in plot, faithful and vivid as a picture of wild mountain life, and in its characterization full of warmth and glow. a million a minute. by hudson douglas. with illustrations by will grefe. has the catchiest of titles, and it is a ripping good tale from chapter i to finis--no weighty problems to be solved, but just a fine running story, full of exciting incidents, that never seemed strained or improbable. it is a dainty love yarn involving three men and a girl. there is not a dull or trite situation in the book. conjuror's house. by stewart edward white. dramatized under the title of "the call of the north." illustrated from photographs of scenes from the play. _conjuror's house_ is a hudson bay trading port where the fur trading company tolerated no rivalry. trespassers were sentenced to "la longue traverse"--which meant official death. how ned trent entered the territory, took _la longue traverse_, and the journey down the river of life with the factor's only daughter is admirably told. it is a warm, vivid, and dramatic story, and depicts the tenderness and mystery of a woman's heart. arizona nights. by stewart edward white. with illustrations by n. c. wyeth, and beautiful inlay cover. a series of spirited tales emphasizing some phase of the life of the ranch, plains and desert, and all, taken together, forming a single sharply-cut picture of life in the far southwest. all the tonic of the west is in this masterpiece of stewart edward white. the mystery. by stewart edward white and samuel hopkins adams. with illustrations by will crawford. for breathless interest, concentrated excitement and extraordinarily good story telling on all counts, no more completely satisfying romance has appeared for years. it has been voted the best story of its kind since _treasure island_. light-fingered gentry. by david graham phillips. with illustrations. mr. phillips has chosen the inside workings of the great insurance companies as his field of battle; the salons of the great fifth avenue mansions as the antechambers of his field of intrigue; and the two things which every natural, big man desires, love and success, as the goal of his leading character. the book is full of practical philosophy, which makes it worth careful reading. the second generation. by david graham phillips. with illustrations by fletcher c. ramson, and inlay cover. "it is a story that proves how, in some cases, the greatest harm a rich man may do his children, is to leave them his money." "a strong, wholesome story of contemporary american life--thoughtful, well-conceived and admirably written; forceful, sincere, and true; and intensely interesting."--_boston herald_. * * * * * the masterly and realistic novels of frank norris handsomely bound in cloth. price, cents per volume, postpaid. the octopus. a story of california mr. norris conceived the ambitious idea of writing a trilogy of novels which, taken together, shall symbolize american life as a whole, with all its hopes and aspirations and its tendencies, throughout the length and breadth of the continent. and for the central symbol he has taken wheat, as being quite literally the ultimate source of american power and prosperity. _the octopus_ is a story of wheat raising and railroad greed in california. it immediately made a place for itself. it is full of enthusiasm and poetry and conscious strength. one cannot read it without a responsive thrill of sympathy for the earnestness, the breadth of purpose, the verbal power of the man. the pit. a story of chicago. this powerful novel is the fictitious narrative of a deal in the chicago wheat pit and holds the reader from the beginning. in a masterly way the author has grasped the essential spirit of the great city by the lakes. the social existence, the gambling in stocks and produce, the characteristic life in chicago, form a background for an exceedingly vigorous and human tale of modern life and love. a man's woman. a story which has for a heroine a girl decidedly out of the ordinary run of fiction. it is most dramatic, containing some tremendous pictures of the daring of the men who are trying to reach the pole * * * but it is at the same time essentially a _woman's_ book, and the story works itself out in the solution of a difficulty that is continually presented in real life--the wife's attitude in relation to her husband when both have well-defined careers. mcteague. a story of san francisco. "since bret harte and the forty-niner no one has written of california life with the vigor and accuracy of mr. norris. his 'mcteague' settled his right to a place in american literature; and he has now presented a third novel, 'blix,' which is in some respects the finest and likely to be the most popular of the three."--_washington times_. blix. "frank norris has written in 'blix' just what such a woman's name would imply--a story of a frank, fearless girl comrade to all men who are true and honest because she is true and honest. how she saved the man she fishes and picnics with in a spirit of outdoor platonic friendship, makes a pleasant story, and a perfect contrast to the author's 'mcteague.' a splendid and successful story."--_washington times_. grosset & dunlap, publishers, -- new york much ado about peter by jean webster author of daddy long-legs, dear enemy, etc. [illustration: decoration] new york grosset & dunlap publishers made in the united states of america [illustration: " ... plunged into a reckless flirtation with mary, the chambermaid"] all rights reserved, including that of translation into foreign languages, including the scandinavian copyright, , by the s. s. mcclure company copyright, , by the crowell publishing company copyright, , by the phillips publishing company copyright, , by hampton's broadway magazine copyright, , by doubleday, page & company published, march, contents chapter page i. gervie zame, gervie door ii. the ruffled frock iii. their innocent diversions iv. dignity and the elephant v. the rise of vittorio vi. held for ransom vii. george washington's understudy viii. a usurped prerogative ix. mrs. carter as fate x. a parable for husbands much ado about peter i gervie zame, gervie door peter and billy, the two upper grooms at willowbrook, were polishing the sides of the tall mail phaeton with chamois-skin rubbers and whistling, each a different tune, as they worked. so intent were they upon this musical controversy that they were not aware of mrs. carter's approach until her shadow darkened the carriage-house doorway. she gathered up her skirts in both hands and gingerly stepped inside. peter had been swashing water about with a liberal hand, and the carriage-house floor was damp. "where is joe?" she inquired. "he's out in the runway, ma'am, jumpin' blue gipsy. shall i call him, ma'am?" billy answered, as the question appeared to be addressed to him. "no matter," said mrs. carter, "one of you will do as well." she advanced into the room, walking as nearly as possible on her heels. it was something of a feat; mrs. carter was not so light as she had been twenty-five years before. peter followed her movements with a shade of speculative wonder in his eye; should she slip it would be an undignified exhibition. there was even a shade of hope beneath his respectful gaze. "why do you use so much water, peter? is it necessary to get the floor so wet?" "it runs off, ma'am." "it is very unpleasant to walk in." peter winked at billy with his off eye, and stood at attention until she should have finished her examination of the newly washed phæton. "the cushions are dripping wet," she observed. "i washed 'em on purpose, ma'am. they was spattered thick with mud." "there is danger of spoiling the leather if you put on too much water." she turned to an inspection of the rest of the room, sniffing dubiously in the corner where the harness greasing was carried on, and lifting her skirts a trifle higher. "it's disgustingly dirty," she commented, "but i suppose you can't help it." "axle grease _is_ sort o' black," peter agreed graciously. "well," she resumed, returning to her errand with an appearance of reluctance, "i want you, william--or peter either, it doesn't matter which--to drive into the village this evening to meet the eight-fifteen train from the city. i am expecting a new maid. take trixy and the buckboard and bring her trunk out with you. eight-fifteen, remember," she added as she turned toward the doorway. "be sure to be on time, for she won't know what to do." "yes, ma'am," said peter and billy in chorus. they watched in silence her gradual retreat to the house. she stopped once or twice to examine critically a clipped shrub or a freshly spaded flower-bed, but she finally passed out of hearing. billy uttered an eloquent grunt; while peter hitched up his trousers in both hands and commenced a tour of the room on his heels. "william," he squeaked in a high falsetto, "you've spilt a great deal more water than is necessary on this here floor. you'd ought to be more careful; it will warp the boards." "yes, ma'am," said billy with a grin. "an' goodness me! what is this horrid stuff in this box?" he sniffed daintily at the harness grease. "how many times must i tell you, william, that i don't want anything like that on _my_ harnesses? i want them washed in nice, clean soap an' water, with a little dash of _ee-oo-dee cologne_." billy applauded with appreciation. "an' now, peter," peter resumed, addressing an imaginary self, "i am expectin' a new maid to-night--a pretty little french maid just like annette. i am sure that she will like you better than any o' the other men, so i wish you to meet her at the eight-fifteen train. be sure to be on time, for the poor little thing won't know what to do." "no, you don't," interrupted billy. "she told me to meet her." "she didn't either," said peter, quickly reassuming his proper person. "she said either of us, which ever was most convenient, an' i've got to go into town anyway on an errand for miss ethel." "she said me," maintained billy, "an' i'm goin' to." "aw, are you?" jeered peter. "you'll walk, then. i'm takin' trixy with me." "hey, joe," called billy, as the coachman's steps were heard approaching down the length of the stable, "mrs. carter come out here an' said i was to meet a new maid to-night, an' pete says he's goin' to. just come an' tell him to mind 'is own business." joe appeared in the doorway, with a cap cocked on the side of his head, and a short bull-dog pipe in his mouth. it was strictly against the rules to smoke in the stables, but joe had been autocrat so long that he made his own rules. he could trust himself--but woe to the groom who so much as scratched a safety-match within his domain. "a new maid is it?" he inquired, as a grin of comprehension leisurely spread itself across his good-natured rubicund face. "i s'pose you're thinking it's pretty near your turn, hey, billy?" "i don't care nothin' about new maids," said billy, sulkily, "but mrs. carter said me." "you're awful particular all of a sudden about obeying orders," said joe. "i don't care which one of you fetches out the new maid," he added. "i s'pose if pete wants to, he's got the first say." the carter stables were ruled by a hierarchy with joe at the head, the order of precedence being based upon a union of seniority and merit. joe had ruled for twelve years. he had held the position so long that he had insidiously come to believe in the divine right of coachmen. nothing short of a revolution could have dislodged him against his will; in a year or so, however, he was planning to abdicate in order to start a livery stable of his own. the money was even now waiting in the bank. peter, who had commenced as stable-boy ten years before, was heir-presumptive to the place, and the shadow of his future greatness was already upon him. billy, who had served but a few meagre months at willowbrook, did not realize that the highest honours are obtained only after a painful novitiate. he saw no reason why he should not be coachman another year just as much as peter; in fact, he saw several reasons why he should be. he drove as well, he was better looking--he told himself--and he was infinitely larger. to billy's simple understanding it was quantity, not quality, that makes the man. he resented peter's assumption of superiority, and he intended, when opportunity should present itself, to take it out of peter. "i don't care about fetchin' out the new maid any more than billy," peter nonchalantly threw off after a prolonged pause, "only i've got to take a note to the holidays for miss ethel, and i'd just as lief stop at the station; it won't be much out o' me way." "all right," said joe. "suit yourself." peter smiled slightly as he fell to work again, humming under his breath a song that was peculiarly aggravating to billy. "_je vous aime, je vous adore_," it ran. peter trilled it, "_gervie zame, gervie door_," but it answered the purpose quite as well as if it had been pronounced with the best parisian accent. the last maid--the one who had left four days before--had been french, and during her three weeks' reign at willowbrook she had stirred to its foundations every unattached masculine heart on the premises. even simpkins, the elderly english butler, had unbent and smiled foolishly when she coquettishly chucked him under the chin in passing through the hall. mary, the chambermaid, had been a witness to this tender passage, and poor simpkins's dignity ever since had walked on shaky ground. but annette's charms had conquered more than simpkins. tom, the gardener, had spent the entire three weeks of her stay in puttering about the shrubs that grew in the vicinity of the house; while the stablemen had frankly prostrated themselves--with the exception of joe, who was married and not open to gallic allurements. it was evident from the first, however, that peter and billy were the favoured ones. for two weeks the race between them had been even, and then peter had slowly, but perceptibly, pulled ahead. he had returned one morning from an errand to the house with a new song upon his lips. it was in the french language. he sang it through several times with insistent and tender emphasis. billy maintained a proud silence as long as curiosity would permit; finally he inquired gruffly: "what's that you're givin' us?" "it's a song," said peter, modestly. "annette taught it to me," and he hummed it through again. "what does it mean?" peter's rendering was free. "it means," he said, "i don't love no one but you, me dear." this episode was the beginning of strained relations between the two. there is no telling how far their differences would have gone, had the firebrand not been suddenly removed. one morning joe was kept waiting under the _porte-cochère_ unusually long for mrs. carter to start on her daily progress to the village, but instead of mrs. carter, finally, his passenger was annette--bound to the station with her belongings piled about her. joe had a wife of his own, and it was none of his affair what happened to annette, but he had observed the signs of the weather among his underlings, and he was interested on their account to know the wherefore of the business. annette, however--for a french woman--was undemonstrative. all that joe gathered in return for his sympathetic questions (they were sympathetic; joe was human even if he was married) was a series of indignant sniffs, and the assertion that she was going because she wanted to go. she wouldn't work any longer in a place like that; mrs. carter was an old cat, and miss ethel was a young one. she finished with some idiomatic french, the context of which joe did not gather. billy received the news of the departure with unaffected delight, and peter with philosophy. after all, annette had only had three weeks in which to do her work, and three weeks was too short a space for even the most fetching of french maids to stamp a very deep impression upon peter's roving fancy. four days had passed and his wound was nearly healed. he was able to sit up and look about again by the time that mrs. carter ordered the meeting of the second maid. ordinarily the grooms would not have been so eager to receive the assignment of an unallotted task, but the memory of annette still rankled, and it was felt between them that the long drive from the station was a golden opportunity for gaining a solid start in the newcomer's affections. the stablemen did not eat with the house servants; joe's wife furnished their meals in the coachman's cottage. that evening peter scrambled through his supper in evident haste. he had an important engagement, he explained, with a meaning glance toward billy. he did take time between mouthfuls, however, to remark on the fact that it was going to be a beautiful moonlight night, just a "foin" time for a drive. an hour later, billy having somewhat sulkily hitched trixy to the buckboard under joe's direction, peter swaggered in with pink and white freshly shaven face, smelling of bay-rum and the barber's, with shining top-hat and boots, and spotless white breeches, looking as immaculate a groom as could be found within a hundred miles of new york. he jauntily took his seat, waved his whip toward billy and joe, and touched up trixy with a grin of farewell. later in the evening the men were lounging in a clump of laurels at one side of the carriage-house, where a hammock and several battered veranda chairs had drifted out from the house for the use of the stable hands. simpkins, who occasionally unbent sufficiently to join them, was with the party to-night, and he heard the story of peter's latest perfidy. simpkins could sympathize with billy; his own sensibilities had been sadly lacerated in the matter of annette. joe leaned back and smoked comfortably, lending his voice occasionally to the extent of a grunt. the grooms' differences were nothing to him, but they served their purpose as amusement. presently the roll of wheels sounded on the gravel, and they all strained forward with alert interest. the driveway leading to the back door swerved broadly past the laurels, and--as peter had remarked--it was a bright moonlight night. the cart came into view, bowling fast, peter as stiff as a ramrod staring straight ahead, while beside him sat a brawny negro woman twice his size, with rolling black eyes and gleaming white teeth. an explosion sounded from the laurels, and peter, who knew what it meant, cut trixy viciously. he dumped his passenger's box upon the back veranda with a thud, and drove on to the stables where he unhitched poor patient little trixy in a most unsympathetic fashion. billy strolled in while he was still engaged with her harness. peter affected not to notice him. billy commenced to hum, "_je vous aime, je vous adore_." he was no french scholar; he had not had peter's advantages, but the tune alone was sufficiently suggestive. "aw, dry up," said peter. "pleasant moonlight night," said billy. peter threw the harness on to the hook with a vicious turn that landed the most of it on the floor, and stumped upstairs to his room over the carriage-house. for the next few days peter's life was rendered a burden. billy and joe and simpkins and tom, even good-natured nora in the kitchen, never met him without covert allusions to the affair. the gardener at jasper place, next door, called over the hedge one morning to inquire if they didn't have a new maid at their house. on the third day after the arrival the matter reached its logical conclusion. "hey, pete," billy called up to him in the loft where he was pitching down hay for the horses. "come down here quick; there's some one wants to see you." peter clambered down wearing an expectant look, and was confronted by the three grinning faces of billy, tom, and david mckenna, the gardener from jasper place. "it was miss johnsing," said billy. "she was in a hurry an' said she couldn't wait, but she'd like to have you meet her on the back stoop. she's got a new song she wants to teach you." peter took off his coat and looked billy over for a soft spot on which to begin. billy took off his coat and accepted the challenge, while david, who was a true scotchman in his love of war, delightedly suggested that they withdraw to a more secluded spot. the four trooped in silence to a clump of willow trees in the lower pasture, peter grimly marching ahead. billy was a huge, loose-jointed fellow who looked as if he could have picked up little peter and slung him over his shoulder like a sack of flour. peter was slight and wiry and quick. he had once intended to be a jockey, but in spite of an anxious avoidance of potatoes and other fattening food-stuffs, he had steadily grown away from it. when he finally reached one hundred and sixty-six pounds he relinquished his ambition forever. those one hundred and sixty-six pounds were so beautifully distributed, however, that the casual observer would never have guessed their presence, and many a weightier man had found to his sorrow that peter did not belong to the class he looked. the hostilities opened with billy's good-natured remark: "i don't want to hurt you, petey. i just want to teach you manners." ten minutes later peter had taught him manners, and was striding across the fields to work off his surplus energy, while billy, whose florid face had taken on a livelier tinge, was comforting a fast-swelling eye at the drinking trough. it was the last that peter heard of the maid, except for a mild lecture from joe. "see here, pete," he was greeted upon his return, "i'm given to understand that you've been fighting for your lady-love. i just want you to remember one thing, young man, and that is that i won't have no fighting about these premises in business hours. you've laid up billy for the day, and you can go and do his work." three weeks rolled over the head of "miss johnsing," and then she, too, departed. it developed that a husband had returned from a vacation on "the island" and wished to settle down to family life again. a week passed at willowbrook without a parlour-maid, and then one day, as peter returned from the lower meadow where he had been trying to entice a reluctant colt into putting its head into the halter, he was hailed by joe with: "say, pete, mrs. carter sent out word that you're to go to the station to-night and fetch out a new maid." "aw, go on," said peter. "that's straight." "if there's a new maid comin' billy can get her. i ain't interested in maids." "them's orders," said joe. "'tell peter,' she says, 'that he's to drive in with the buckboard and meet the eight-fifteen train from the city. i'm expectin' a new maid,' she says, but she neglected to mention what colour she was expectin' her to be." peter grunted by way of answer, and joe chuckled audibly as he hitched up his trousers and rolled off toward his own house to tell his wife the joke. the subject was covertly alluded to at supper that night, with various speculations as to the colour, nationality, and possible size of the newcomer. peter emphatically stated his intention of not going near the blame station. when the train hour approached, however, the stables were conspicuously empty, and there was nothing for him to do but swallow his assertion and meet the maid. as he drove down the hill toward the station he saw that the eight-fifteen train was already in, but he noted the fact without emotion. he was not going to hurry himself for all the maids in creation; she could just wait until he got there. he drew up beside the platform and sat surveying the people with mild curiosity until such time as the maid chose to search him out. but his pulses suddenly quickened as he heard a clear voice, with an adorable suggestion of brogue behind it, inquire of the station-master: "will you tell me, sor, how i'll be gettin' to mr. jerome b. carter's?" "here's one of the carter rigs now," said the man. the girl turned quickly and faced peter, and all his confused senses told him that she was pretty--prettier than annette--pretty beyond all precedent. her eyes were blue, and her hair was black and her colour was the colour that comes from a childhood spent out of doors in county cork. he hastily scrambled out of his seat and touched his hat. "beggin' yer pardon, ma'am, are ye the new maid? mrs. carter sent me to fetch ye out. if ye'll gi' me yer check, ma'am, i'll get yer trunk." the girl gave up her check silently, quite abashed by this very dressy young groom. she had served during the two years of her american experience as "second girl" in a brown-stone house in a side street, and though she had often watched men of peter's kind from a bench by the park driveway, she had never in her life come so near to one as this. while he was searching for her trunk, she hastily climbed into the cart and moved to the extreme end of the left side of the seat, lest the apparition should return and offer assistance. she sat up very stiffly, wondering meanwhile, with a beating heart, if he would talk or just stare straight ahead the way they did in the park. peter helped the baggage-man lift in her trunk, and as he did it he paused to take a good square look. "gee, but billy will want to kick himself!" was his delighted inward comment as he clambered up beside her and gathered the reins in his hands. they drove up the hill without speaking, but once peter shot a sidewise glance at her at the same moment that she looked at him, and they both turned pink. this was embarrassing, but reassuring. he was, then, nothing but a man in spite of his clothes, and with a man she knew how to deal. a full moon was rising above the trees and the twilight was fading into dusk. as billy had justly observed at the supper table, it was a fine night in which to get acquainted. the four miles between the station and willowbrook suddenly dwindled into insignificance in peter's sight, and at the top of the hill he turned trixy's head in exactly the wrong direction. "if ye have no objections," he observed, "we'll drive the long way by the beach because the roads is better." the new maid had no objections, or at least she did not voice any, and they rolled along between the fragrant hedgerows in silence. peter was laboriously framing to himself an opening remark, and he found nothing ludicrous in the situation; but to the girl, whose irish sense of humour was inordinately developed, it appeared very funny to be riding alone beside a live, breathing groom, in top-hat and shining boots, who turned red when you looked at him. she suddenly broke into a laugh--a low, clear, bubbling laugh that lodged itself in peter's receptive heart. he looked around a moment with a slightly startled air, and then, as his eyes met hers, he too laughed. it instantly cleared the atmosphere. he pulled trixy to a walk and faced her. his laborious introductory speech was forgotten; he went to the point with a sigh of relief. "i guess we're goin' to like each other--you an' me," he said softly. the moon was shining and the hawthorn flowers were sweet. annie's eyes looked back at him rather shyly, and her dimples trembled just below the surface. peter hastily turned his eyes away lest he look too long. "me name's peter," he said, "peter malone. tell me yours, so we'll be feelin' acquainted." "annie o'reilly." "annie o'reilly," he repeated. "there's the right swing to it. 'tis better than annette." "annette?" inquired annie. she had perceived that he was a man; he now perceived that she was a woman, and that annette's name might better not have been mentioned. "ah, annette," he said carelessly, "a parlour-maid we had a while ago; an' mighty glad we was to be rid of her," he added cannily. "why?" asked annie. "she was french; she had a temper." "i'm irish; i have a temper--will ye be glad to be rid o' me?" "oh, an' i'm irish meself," laughed peter, with a broader brogue than usual. "'tis not irish tempers i'm fearin'. thim i c'n manage." when they turned in at the gates of willowbrook--some half an hour later than they were due, owing to peter's extemporaneous route by the beach--he slowed trixy to a walk that he might point out to his companion the interesting features of her new home. as they passed the laurels they were deeply engaged in converse, and a heavy and respectful silence hung about the region. "good night, mr. malone," said annie, as he deposited her trunk on the back veranda. "'tis obliged to ye i am for bringin' me out." "oh, drop the mister malone!" he grinned. "peter's me name. good night, annie. i hope as ye'll like it. it won't be my fault if ye don't." he touched his hat, and swinging himself to the seat, drove whistling to the stables. he unhitched trixy and gave her a handful of salt. "here, old girl, what are ye tryin' to do?" he asked as she rubbed her nose against his shoulder, and he started her toward her stall with a friendly whack on the back. as he was putting away her harness, billy lounged in, bent on no errand in particular. peter threw him a careless nod, and breaking off his whistling in the middle of a bar, he fell to humming softly a familiar tune. "_gervie zame, gervie door_," was the song that he sang. ii the ruffled frock it was the fourth of july, and annie was hurrying with her work in order to get out and celebrate. she had no particular form of celebration in view, but she had a strong feeling that holidays, particularly fourths of july, ought to be celebrated; and she was revolving in her mind several possible projects, in all of which peter figured largely. aside from its being the fourth of july, it was thursday, and thursday was peter's afternoon off. she put away the last of the dishes with a gay little burst of song as she glanced through the window at the beckoning outside world. it was a bright sunshiny day with a refreshing breeze blowing from the sea. the blue waters of the bay, sparkling at the foot of the lower meadow, were dotted over with white sailboats. "do ye want anything more of me, nora?" she asked. "no, be off with you, child," said nora, good-naturedly. "i'll finish puttin' to rights meself," and she gathered up the dish-towels and carried them into the laundry. annie paused by the screen door leading on to the back veranda, and stood regarding the stables speculatively. she was wondering what would be the most diplomatic way of approaching peter. her speculations were suddenly interrupted by the appearance in the kitchen of miss ethel, with a very beruffled white muslin frock in her arms. "annie," she said, "you'll have to wash this dress. i forgot to have kate do it yesterday, and i want to wear it to-night. have it ready by five o'clock and be careful about the lace." she threw the frock across the back of a chair, and ran on out of doors to join a laughing crowd of young people about the tennis-court. annie stood in the middle of the floor and watched her with a fast-clouding brow. "an' never so much as said please!" she muttered to herself. she walked over and picked up the frock. it was very elaborate with ruffles and tucks and lace insertion; its ironing meant a good two hours' work. ironing muslin gowns on a fourth of july was not annie's business. she turned it about slowly and her eyes filled with tears--not of sorrow for the lost afternoon, but of anger at the injustice of demanding such work from her on such a day. presently nora came in again. she paused in the doorway, her arms akimbo, and regarded annie. "what's that you've got?" she inquired. then the floodgates of annie's wrath were opened and she poured out her tale. "don't you mind it, annie darlin'," said nora, trying to comfort her. "miss ethel didn't mean nothin'. she was in a hurry, likely, an' she didn't stop to think." "didn't think! why can't she wear some other dress? she's got a whole room just full o' dresses, an' she has to have that special one ironed at a minute's notice. an' kate comin' three days in the week! it isn't my place to wash--that isn't what mrs. carter engaged me for--i wouldn't 'a' minded so much if she'd asked it as a favour, but she just ordered me as if washin' was me work. on fourth o' july, too, an' mrs. carter tellin' me i could have the afternoon off--an' all those ruffles--'have it done by five o'clock,' she says, an' goes out to play." annie threw the dress in a fluffy pile in the middle of the floor. "i shan't do it! i won't be ordered about that way by miss ethel or anybody else." "i'd do it for you meself, annie, but i couldn't iron that waist no more 'n a kangaroo. but you just get to work on it; you iron beautiful and it won't take you long when you once begin." "won't take me long? it'll take me the whole afternoon; it'll take me forever. i shan't touch it!" annie's eyes wandered out of doors again. the sunshine seemed brighter, the songs of the birds louder, the glimpse of the bay more enticing. and, as she looked, peter came sauntering out from the stables--peter in his town clothes, freshly shaven, with a new red necktie and a flower in his buttonhole. he was coming toward the kitchen. annie's lips trembled and she kicked the dress spitefully. peter appeared in the doorway. he, too, had been revolving projects for the fitting celebration of the day, and he wished tentatively to broach them to annie. "what's up?" he inquired, looking from annie's flushed cheeks to nora's troubled eyes. annie repeated the story, growing more and more aggrieved as she dwelt upon her wrongs. "an' never so much as said please," she finished. "that's nothin'--ye mustn't mind it, annie. miss ethel ain't used to sayin' please." peter was gropingly endeavouring to soothe her. "i remember times when she was a little girl she'd be so sassy, that, lor', me fingers was itchin' to shake her! but i knowed she didn't mean nothin', so i just touches me hat an' swallows it. she's used to orderin', annie, an' ye mustn't mind her." "well, i ain't used to takin' orders like that, an' what's more, i won't! 'have it done by five o'clock,' she says, an' it's half past two, now. an' all them ruffles! i hate ruffles, an' i won't touch it after the way she talked. not if she goes down on her knees to me, i won't." "aw, annie," remonstrated peter, "what's the use in kickin' up a fuss? miss ethel's awful kind hearted when she thinks about it." "kind hearted!" annie sniffed. "i guess she can afford to be kind hearted, havin' people wait on her from mornin' to night an' never doin' a thing she doesn't want to do. i wish she had to iron once, an' she could just see how she likes it." "she gave you a bran' new dress last week," reminded nora. "yes, an' why? 'cause when i was dustin' her room she happened to be tryin' it on an' it didn't fit, an' she threw it down on the floor an' said: 'i won't wear that thing! you can have it, annie.'" "the time you burned your hand with her chafing-dish she 'most cried when she saw how blistered it was, an' wrapped it up herself, an' brought you some stuff in a silver box to put on it." for a moment annie showed signs of relenting, but as her glance fell upon the dress again, she hardened. "she tipped the alcohol over me herself an' she'd ought to be sorry. i'd be willin' to do her a favour, but i _won't_ be ordered around. she just pokes it at me as if i was an ironing machine. an' this the fourth o' july, an' mrs. carter tellin' me i could go out. she has enough dresses to last from now till she's gray, an' i just won't touch it!" "you won't touch what?" asked mrs. carter, appearing in the doorway. she glanced from the girl's angry face to the rumpled frock upon the floor. they told their own story. "what's the meaning of this, annie?" she asked sharply. annie looked sulky. she stared at the floor a moment without answering, while peter's and nora's eyes anxiously scanned mrs. carter's face. finally she replied: "you said i could go out this afternoon, ma'am, an' just as i was gettin' ready, miss ethel came in an' said i was to wash that dress before five o'clock." "i am sorry about your afternoon," said mrs. carter. "miss ethel didn't know about it, but you may go to-morrow afternoon instead." "i was wantin' to go to-day," said annie. "i'm willin' enough to do me own work, ma'am, but it isn't me place to wash." mrs. carter's mouth became a straight line. "annie, i never allow my servants to dictate as to what is their work and what is not. when i engage you, i expect you to do whatever you are asked. this is a very easy place; you are allowed to go out a great deal, and you have very little work to do. but when something extra comes up outside your regular work, i expect you to do it willingly and as a matter of course. miss ethel has been very kind to you; you can do her a favour in return." "i wouldn't mind doin' it as a favour, but she just walks in an' orders it as if it was me regular place to wash." "and i order it also," said mrs. carter. "you may wash that dress and have it done by five o'clock, or else you may pack your trunk and go." she turned with a firm tread and walked out of the room. annie looked after her with flashing eyes. "she orders it too, does she? well, i won't do it, an' i won't, an' i _won't_!" she dropped down in a chair at one end of the table and hid her head in her arms. peter cast an anxious glance at nora; he did not know how to deal with annie's case. had she been an obstinate stable-boy, he would have taken her out behind the barn and thrashed reason into her with a leather strap. he awkwardly laid his hand on her shoulder. "aw, annie, wash the dress; there's a good girl. it won't take ye very long, an' then we'll go down t' the beach to-night to see the fireworks. miss ethel didn't mean nothin'. what's the use o' makin' trouble?" "it's no more my place to wash than it is simpkins's," she sobbed. "why didn't she ask him to do it? i won't stay in a place like this where they order you around like a dog. i'll pack me trunk, i will." nora and peter regarded each other helplessly. they furtively sympathized with annie, but they did not dare to do it openly, as sympathy only fanned the flames, and they both knew that mrs. carter, having pronounced her ultimatum, would stand by it. annie must wash that dress before five o'clock, or annie must go. at the thought of her going, peter fetched a deep sigh, and two frowning lines appeared on his brow. she had been there only four weeks, but willowbrook would never again be willowbrook without her. presently the silence was broken by the sound of generous footsteps flapping across the back veranda, and ellen, the cook at mr. jasper's, appeared in the doorway. "good afternoon to ye, nora, an' i wants to borrow a drop o' vanilla. i ardered it two days ago, an' that fool of a grocer's b'y----what's the matter wit' annie?" she asked, her good-natured laughing face taking on a look of concern as she gazed at the tableau before her. nora and peter between them explained. annie, meanwhile, paid no attention to the recital of her wrongs; only her heaving shoulders were eloquent. ellen hearkened to the story with ready sympathy. "oh, it's a shame, it is, an' on fort' o' july! we all has our troubles in this world." she sighed heavily and winked at peter and nora while she pushed them toward the door. "get out wit' ye, the two of yez, an' lave her to me," she whispered. ellen reached down and picked up the dress. "'tis somethin' awful the things people will be puttin' on ye, if ye give 'em the chance. 'tis a shame to ask any human bein' to wash a dress like that wit' all them ruffles an' lace fixin's. i think it's bad enough to have to wash mr. harry's shirts, but if he took to havin' lace set in 'em, i'd be leavin' pretty quick. an' ye not trained to laundry work either! i don't see how miss ethel had the nerve to ask it. she must be awful over-reachin'. she'll be settin' ye to play the piano next for her to dance by." annie raised a tear-stained face. "i could do it," she said sulkily. "i can wash as good as kate; miss ethel said i could. it's not the work i'm mindin' if she'd ask me decent. but she just throws it at me with never so much as please." "i don't blame ye for leavin'; i would, too." ellen suddenly had an inspiration, and she plumped down in a chair at the opposite end of the table. "i'm goin' to leave meself!" she announced. "i won't be put upon either. an' what do ye think mr. jasper is after telephonin' out this afternoon? he's bringin' company to dinner--three strange min i niver set eyes on before--an' he's sint a fish home by patrick, a blue fish he's after catchin'. it's in the ice-box now an' we're to have it for dinner, he says, an' i wit' me dinner all planned. i don't mind havin' soup, an' roast, an' salad, an' dessert, but i _won't_ have soup, _an' fish_, an' roast, an' salad, an' dessert. if there was as many to do the work at our house as there is over here, i wouldn't say nothin', but wit' only me an' george--an' him not so much as touchin' a thing but the silver an' the glasses--it's too much, it is. george 'ud see me buried under a mountain o' dishes before he'd lift a finger to help." ellen paused with a pathetic snivel while she wiped her eyes on a corner of her apron. annie raised her head and regarded her sympathetically. "soup, an' fish, an' roast, an' salad, an' dessert, an' three strange min into the bargain, an' all the dishes to wash, an' the fish not even cleaned. true it is that troubles niver come single; they're married an' has children. ivery siparate scale o' that blue fish did i take off wit' me own hands, an' not a word o' thanks do i get. i slaves for those two min till me fingers is worn to the bone, an' not a sign do they give; but just let the meat be too done, or the bottles not cold, an' then i hears quick enough! 'tis the way wit' min; they're an ungrateful set. ye can work an' work till ye're like to drop, an' they swallows it all an' niver blinks. it ud be different if there was a woman around. i've often wished as mr. harry had a wife like miss ethel, so smilin' an' pretty 't is a pleasure to watch her. oh, an' i wouldn't mind workin' a little extra now an' then for her--but five courses an' no one but me to do the dishes! it's goin' i am. i'll give notice to-night." ellen broke down and wept into her apron while annie attempted some feeble consolation. "i've worked there thirteen years!" ellen sobbed. "since before mrs. jasper died, when mr. harry was only a b'y. 'tis the only home i've got, an' i don't want to leave." "then what makes you?" annie asked. "because i won't be put upon--soup, an' fish, an' roast, an' salad, an' dessert is too much to ask of any human bein'. the dishes won't be done till ten o'clock, an' it's fort' o' ju-l-y-y." ellen's voice trailed into a wail. her imagination was vivid; by this time she fully believed in her wrongs. they cried in unison a few minutes, ellen murmuring brokenly: "soup, an' fish, an' roast, an' salad, an' dessert, an' it's all the home i've got. "you don't have company very often," said annie consolingly. "that we don't!" cried ellen. "an' the house is so lonesome an' shut up 'tis like a tomb to live in. if there was dancin' an' singin' an' laughin' the way there is over here i'd be glad enough. wit' mr. jasper an' mr. harry so quiet an' frownin' an never sayin' a word--oh, if i had someone like miss ethel to do for 'tis willin' enough i'd be to iron her dresses. that night she had her party an' i come over to help, an' you an' pete was dancin' in the kitchen to the music, an' after the guests was served we had a table set out on the back veranda--'tis then i was wishin' i lived in a place like this. an' miss ethel come out when we was eatin' an' asked was we tired an' said thank you for sittin' up so late, an' she was glad if we was havin' a good time, too." annie sighed, and her eyes wandered somewhat guiltily to the dress on the floor. "mrs. carter orders me around just as if i was a machine," she reiterated, in a tone of self-defence. "an' it's orderin' around ye've got to learn to take in this world," said ellen. "if ye occasionally get a 'thank ye,' thrown in, ye can think yourself lucky--it's more 'n i get. i've darned mr. harry's socks for eleven years, an' never a word o' notice does he take--i'm doubtin' he even knows they're darned. 'tis a thankless world, annie dear. thirteen years i've worked for the jaspers, an' on top o' that to ask me for soup, an' fish, an' roast, an' salad, an' dessert on a fort' o' july night!" ellen showed signs of breaking down again and annie hastily interposed. "don't cry about it, ellen; it's too bad, it is, but mr. jasper likely didn't think what a lot o' trouble he was makin'. he ain't never washed no dishes an' he don't know what it's like. i'll come over an' help you do them." "but ye won't be here. ye're goin' yerself," ellen blubbered. annie was silent. "thirteen years an' 'tis the only home i've got." "don't go, ellen," annie begged. "soup, an' fish, an' roast----" "i'll stay if you will!" ellen heaved a final shuddering sigh and wiped her eyes. "ye'll have to hurry, annie, if ye're goin' to get that dress done by five o'clock. come on!" she cried, jumping to her feet. "i'll help ye. ye take the waist and i'll take the skirt, an' we'll see which one gets done first. it just needs a little rubbin' out an' we'll iron it damp." five minutes later, peter and nora, who had been sitting on the back steps, waiting patiently for ellen's diplomacy to bear fruit, returned to the laundry. they found ellen at one tub and annie at another--up to her elbows in the soap suds, her cheeks still flushed, but a smile beginning to break through. "ellen's helpin' me," she said in rather sheepish explanation. "an' she's comin' over to wash the dishes for me to-night," ellen chimed in. "we're havin' soup, an' fish, an' roast, an'----" peter clapped his hand over his mouth and nora cast him a warning look. "you're goin' to the beach with pete to see the fireworks, that's where you're goin' to-night," she said. "i'll help ellen with her dishes." "thank ye, nora," said ellen. "'tis a kind heart ye've got, an' that's more 'n i can say for mr. jasper, for all i've worked for 'im thirteen years. 'tis soup, an' fish, an' roast, an' salad, an' dessert the man's after wantin' for dinner to-night, an' no one but me to wash a kettle. if it wasn't for annie, i'd be leavin', i would." ellen wrung the skirt out and splashed it up and down in the rinsing water. "an' now while this dress is dryin' ready to iron, i'll just run home an' stir up a bit o' puddin' for dessert, if ye'll be lendin' me some vanilla, nora dear. that fool of a grocery b'y----" "oh, take your vanilla an' get along wit' you! we've had all we wants o' your soup an' your fish an' the rest o' your fixin's." nora dived into the pantry after the bottle, while the attention of the others was attracted by a gay laugh outside the window. annie's face clouded at the sound, and they all looked out. miss ethel was coming across the lawn on her way to the bay. mr. lane, who was visiting at willowbrook, strolled at her side, dressed in white boating flannels with some oars over his shoulder. a little way behind walked mr. harry, a second pair of oars over his shoulder, and his eyes somewhat surlily bent on the ground. miss ethel, pretty and smiling in her light summer gown, was talking vivaciously to mr. lane, apparently having forgotten that mr. harry existed. "i'd show her pretty quick if i was mr. harry!" ellen muttered vindictively. miss ethel paused and shaded her eyes with her hand. "it's awfully sunny!" she complained. "i'm afraid i want a hat." she glanced back over her shoulder. "harry," she called, "run back and get my hat. i think i left it on the front veranda, or maybe at the tennis-court. we'll wait for you at the landing." for a moment mr. harry looked black at this peremptory dismissal; but he bowed politely, and whirling about strode back to the house while miss ethel and mr. lane went on laughing down the hill. "an' she never so much as said please!" whispered annie. "i'll be darned if i'd do it," said peter. iii their innocent diversions "we got three kids visitin' to our house, and there won't be nothin' left o' willowbrook by the time they goes away. hold up, trixy! what are ye tryin' to do?" peter paused to hook the line out from under trixy's tail, and then re-cocking his hat at a comfortable angle and crossing his legs, he settled himself for conversation. peter loved to talk and he loved an audience; he was essentially a social animal. his listeners were two brother coachmen and a bandy-legged young groom, who were waiting, like himself, for "ladies' morning" to draw to its usual placid termination--sandwiches and lemonade on the club veranda after a not too heated putting contest on the first green. "yes, we got three visitin' kids; with master bobby it makes four, and i ain't drawed an easy breath since the mornin' they arrived. they keep up such an everlastin' racket that the people in the house can't stand them, an' we've had them in the stables most o' the time. mrs. brainard, that's their mother, is mr. carter's sister, and i can tell ye she makes herself to home. "that's her over there with the lavender dress and the parasol"--he jerked his head in the direction of a gaily dressed group of ladies trailing across the links in the direction of the first green. "she's mournin' for her husband--light mournin', that is; he's dead two years." "she picked me the first day to look after the la-ads. 'peter,' she says, 'me dear boys are cr-razy to play in the stables, but i can't help worryin' for fear they'll get under the horses' feet. i have perfect confidence in you,' she says, 'and i'll put them under yer special care. just keep yer eye on the la-ads an' see that they don't get hur-rt.' "'thank ye, ma'am,' says i, flattered by the attention, i'll do the best i can.' i hadn't made the acquaintance o' the little darlin's yet, or i would 'a' chucked me job on the spot. "master augustus--he's the youngest--has gold curls an' blue eyes and a smile as innocint as honey. he's the kind the ladies stops an' kisses, and asks, 'whose little boy is you?' at the first glance ye'd think to see a couple o' wings sproutin' out behind, but when ye knowed him intimately, ye'd look for the horns an' tail. i've pulled that little divvil three times out o' the duck pond, and i've fished him out from the grain chute with a boat hook. i couldn't tell ye the number o' trees he's climbed after birds' eggs and got stuck in the top of; we keeps a groom an' ladder on tap, so to speak. one afternoon i caught the four o' them smokin' cigarettes made o' dried corn silk up in the hay loft as comfortable as ye please--'tis many a stable-boy as has been bounced for less. between them they finished up the dope the vet'rinary surgeon left when blue gipsy had the heaves, thinkin' it was whisky--an' serves them right, i say. i didn't tell on 'em, though, when the doctor asked what i thought the trouble was; i said i guessed it was green apples. "but them's only the minor divarsions that occupy their leisure; they're nothin' to the things they think of when they really get down to business. the first thing they done was to pretend the victoria was a pirate ship; an' they scratched the paint all up a-tryin' to board her. joe turned 'em out o' doors to play, an' they dug up the whole o' the strawberry bed huntin' for hidden treasure. their next move was to take off their shoes an' stockin's, turn their clothes wrong side out, an' dirty up their faces with huckleberry juice--ye would have sworn they was a lot o' jabberin' dagoes. they went beggin' in all the houses o' the neighbourhood, includin' willowbrook, an' nora never knew them an' give them some cold potatoes. "one day last week they nearly broke their blame young necks slidin' down the waggon-shed roof on a greased tea-tray. there's a pile o' straw at the bottom that kind of acted as a buffer, but master augustus didn't steer straight an' went over the edge. 'twas only a drop o' four feet, but he come up lookin' damaged. "that ain't the worst though. last sunday afternoon they frightened the cow into hysterics playin' she was a bull, an' they was matydoors or torydoors, or whatever ye call them. they stuck pins into her with paper windmills on the end, and she ain't give more 'n six quarts at any milkin' since. i was mad, i was, an' i marched 'em to the house an' tole their mother. "'it grieves me,' she says, 'to think that me boys should be so troublesome; but they didn't mean to be cruel to the poor dumb brute. they're spirited la-ads,' she says, 'an' their imaginations run away wid them. what they needs is intilligent direction. ye should try,' she says, 'to enter into the spirit o' their innocint divarsions; an' when ye see them doin' somethin' dangerous, gintly turn their thoughts into another channel. their grattytood,' she says, 'will pay ye for yer trouble.' "'wery well, ma'am,' says i, not too enthusiastic, 'i'll do the best i can,' and i bows meself out. i've been superintendin' their innocint divarsions ever since, and if there's any one as wants the job, i'll turn it over to him quick." peter paused to back his horses farther into the shade; then having climbed down and taken a drink at a near-by hydrant, he resumed his seat and the conversation. "but ye should have seen them this mornin' when i drove off! they was a sight if there ever was one. joe's away with mr. carter and i'm takin' charge for the day. when i went into the carriage-house to give billy orders about hitchin' up, what should i find but them precious little lambkins gambolin' around in stri-ped bathin' trunks, an' not another stitch. they was further engaged in paintin' their skins where the trunks left off--an' that was the most o' them--with a copper colour foundation and a trimmin' o' black stripes. "'holy saint patrick!' says i. 'what the divvil are ye up to now?' "'whoop!' says master bobby. 'we'll scalp ye and eat yer heart. we're comanche braves,' he says, 'an' we're gettin' ready for the war-path.' "'ye look more like zebras,' says i, 'escaped from a menagerie.' "'wait till we get our feathers on,' he says, 'an' pete,' he adds, 'will you do me back? there's a place in the middle that i can't reach.' "wid that he turns a pink an' white surface a yawnin' for decoration, an' presses a can o' axle grease in me hands. and i'll be darned if them young imps hadn't covered their skins with axle grease and red brass polish, an' for variety, a touch o' bluing they'd got off nora in the kitchen. an' they smelt--gee! they smelt like a triple extract harness shop. i tole them i thought they'd be havin' trouble when they was ready to return to the haunts o' the pale-face; but master bobby said their clothes would cover it up. "i done the job. i don't set up to be a mural artist, and i ain't braggin', but i will say as master bobby's back beat any signboard ye ever see when i finished the decoratin'. i fastened some chicken feathers in their hair, and i hunted out some tomahawks in the lumber room, an' they let out a war-whoop that raised the roof, an' scalped me out o' grattytood. "'now see here,' says i to master bobby, 'in return for helpin' along yer innocint amusements, will ye promise to do yer scalpin' in the paddock, an' not come near the stables? 'cause me floor is clean,' i says, 'and i don't want no blood spattered on it. 'tis hard to wash up,' i says. i was, ye'll observe, gintly turnin' their thoughts into another channel, like their mother recommended. an' they promised sweet as cherubs. she was right; they're spirited la-ads, an' they won't be driven. 'tis best to use diplomacy. "i left them crawlin' on all fours through the bushes by the duck pond, shootin' arrers in the air as innocint as ye please. i dunno, though, how long 'twill last. i tole billy to keep an eye on them, and i s'pose when i get back, i'll find his head decoratin' the hitchin'-post an' his hair danglin' from their belts." a movement of farewell on the club veranda brought the men back to their official selves. peter straightened his hat, stiffened his back, and gathered up the reins. "so long, mike," he remarked as he backed into the driveway. "i'll see ye to-morrow at the daughters o' the revolution; and if ye hear of anyone," he added, "as is wantin' a combination coachman an' first class nursemaid, give them my address. i'm lookin' for an easier place." "peter," said mrs. carter, as they trotted out of the club-house gateway and swung on to the smooth macadam of the homeward road, "i meant to ask you what the children were doing this morning. have they been amusing themselves?" "yes, they've been amusin' themselves. they was playin' indian, ma'am, with chicken feathers in their heads." he wisely suppressed the remainder of the costume. "i found them some tomahawks in the lumber room, an' the last i see o' them they was in the paddock scalpin' each other as happy as ye please." "those delicious boys!" murmured their mother. "i never know what they will think of next. it is such a relief to get them into the country, where they can have plenty of room to play and i can be sure they are not in mischief. they are so exuberant, that when we are stopping in a summer hotel i am always uneasy for fear they may disturb the guests." the carriage had turned into the willowbrook grounds, and was decorously rolling along between the smooth green lawns bordered by coloured foliage, the two ladies reclining against the cushions in placid contemplation of the summer noonday, when suddenly an ebullition of shouting and crying burst out across the shrubbery in the direction of the stables. it was not the mere joyous effervescence of animal spirits that had been gladdening willowbrook for the past two weeks. there was an unmistakable note of alarm, a hoarser undertone, as of men joining in the tocsin. peter pulled the horses sharply to their haunches and cocked his head to listen, while the ladies leaned forward in a flutter of dismay. "something has happened to my precious boys! drive on quick, peter," mrs. brainard gasped. peter used his whip and they approached the house at a gallop. the trouble was evident by now. heavy clouds of smoke were curling up from among the willow trees while the cry of "fire! fire!" filled the air. "thank heaven it ain't the stables!" ejaculated peter, as his eye anxiously studied the direction. "'tis the waggon-shed--an' the buckboard's in it an' all the farmin' tools." people were running from every side. two men from jasper place came puffing through the hole in the hedge, dragging a garden hose behind them, while the house servants, bare-headed and excited, swarmed out from the back veranda. "annie! annie!" called mrs. carter as the panting horses were dragged to a standstill, "turn on the fire alarm. go to the telephone and call the engine house." "simpkins has done it, ma'am," called annie over her shoulder, as she hurried on. "ow! what's that?" she added with a scream of astonished terror, as a red and black striped figure, with a row of ragged feathers waving in a fringe about its ears, burst from the shrubbery and butted plump against her. "bobby!" gasped his mother, as after a moment of shocked hesitation she recognized her son. bobby waved his arms and set up a howl. an expression of terror was plainly visible struggling through the war-paint. "pete, billy, patrick! quick! quick! we can't untie him and he's burning! we didn't mean to burn him," he added quickly. "it's an accident." "burn what?" cried mrs. carter. "augustus," bobby sobbed. and to the horror-stricken group was borne a shrill falsetto wail: "help! h-e-l-p! they're burning me at the s-t-a-k-e!"--a wail apparently of mortal anguish, though an unexcited listener would have detected in the tones more of anger than of pain. mrs. brainard, with a frenzied shriek, threw away her lavender parasol and dashed in the direction of the sounds. peter jumped from the box and overtook her. he was first upon the spot. the waggon-shed roof was a blazing mass; the straw pile beneath it was sending up a stifling cloud of blue smoke, and the dry surrounding grass was crackling in a swiftly widening circle. but in the centre of the conflagration there still remained a little oasis of green, where a young willow sapling rose defiantly from the flames. and as the smoke blew momentarily to one side, the writhing figure of augustus came to view lashed firmly to the tree trunk, his hands above his head. with the arrival of spectators he finished struggling and assumed an expression of stoicism that would have done credit to a true comanche. "my boy! my boy!" shrieked mrs. brainard, running forward with outstretched arms, as the smoke again closed around him. peter caught her. "stand back, ma'am. for heaven's sake, stand back! ye'll ketch yer dress. he ain't hurt none; the fire ain't reached him. i'll save him," and whipping out his knife, peter dashed into the smoke. he returned three minutes later, a mass of stripes and mingled grease kicking in his arms. mrs. brainard, who had closed her eyes preparing to faint, opened them again and looked at augustus. he was a muddy copper colour with here and there a vivid touch of blue, and he exuded a peculiarly blent odour of brass polish and smoke. "is--is he dead?" she gasped. "he's quite lively, ma'am," said peter, grimly struggling to hold him. she opened her arms with a sob of relief, and received the boy, grease and smoke and all; while the three remaining braves modestly tried to efface themselves. "robert," said mrs. carter, laying a detaining hand on her son's tri-coloured shoulder, "what is the meaning of this outrageous affair?" bobby dug his eyes with his greasy fists and whimpered. "we just tied him to the stake and pretended to burn him. and then we sat down to smoke a pipe of peace, and i guess maybe the straw caught fire." "it did--apparently," said his mother; her tone carried a suggestion of worse to come. peter, having hastily organized a fire brigade, succeeded in saving the buckboard and a few of the farming tools, but the building itself was beyond salvation. the wood was dry and thoroughly seasoned, and the feeble stream of water from the garden hose served to increase the smoke rather than to lessen the flames. the men finally fell back in a panting circle and watched it burn. "gee!" ejaculated peter, "i'm glad it was the waggon-shed. it might have been the stables." "or the house," added mrs. carter. "or augustus!" breathed mrs. brainard. the roof fell in with a crash, and the flames leaped up to surround it. a mild cheer broke from the spectators; since there was nothing more to be done, they might as well enjoy the bonfire. the cheer was echoed by an answering shout at the end of the avenue, and a moment later the sea garth volunteer hook and ladder company dashed into sight, drawn by two foam-covered horses, the firemen still struggling into belated uniforms. they came to a stand; half a dozen men tore off the nearest ladder and dragged it to the burning building. there, they hesitated dubiously. it was clearly an impossible feat to lean a thirty-foot ladder against a one-story waggon-shed whose roof had fallen in. their chief, an impressive figure in a scarlet shirt and a rubber helmet, advanced to take command. he grasped the painful situation, and for a moment he looked dashed. the next moment, however, he had regained his poise, and announced, in a tone of triumph; "we'll save the stables!" mrs. carter stepped forward with a voice of protest. "oh, no, i beg of you! it isn't necessary. the sparks are flying in the other direction. my own men have fortunately been able to cope with the fire, and while i am very much obliged for your trouble, there is no necessity for further aid." "madam," said the chief, "the wind is likely to change at any moment, and a single spark falling on that shingle roof would sweep away every building on the place. i am sorry to be disobliging, but it is my duty to protect your property." he waved her aside and issued his orders. for the first time in her life mrs. carter found that she was not master on her own place. five minutes later half a dozen ladders were resting against the main edifice of the stables, while the bucket brigade was happily splashing the contents of the duck pond over the shingle roof. this precautionary measure was barely under way, when a second shouting and clanging of bells announced the approach of the sea garth volunteer hose company no. . they did not possess horses and their progress had of necessity been slower. accompanied by an excited escort of barefooted boys, they swept like a tidal wave across shaven lawns and flowered borders. "keep them back! keep them back!" wailed mrs. carter, in a sudden access of helplessness. "peter, william, stop them! thank them and send them home." she accosted the hook and ladder chief. "tell them it's all over. tell them that you yourself have already done everything that's necessary." "sorry, mrs. carter, but it's impossible. there hasn't been a fire in this town for the last three months, and then it was only a false alarm. they're sore enough as it is because we got here first. a little water won't hurt anything; we're in need of rain. you go in the house, mrs. carter, and trust to me. i won't let them do any more damage than necessary." the hose company bore down upon the scene of confusion that surrounded the wrecked waggon-shed with an air of pleased expectancy. their faces fell as they caught sight of the pitiable size of the fire; but the new chief, with quickly reviving cheerfulness, usurped dictatorship, and soon had a generous stream of water playing upon the embers. mrs. carter, with a last plaintive appeal to peter to get rid of them, resumed her natural aloofness; and she and mrs. brainard trailed their smoke-grimed splendour toward the house, driving the vanquished braves before them. when, finally, the last spark was irretrievably dead, the duck pond was nearly dry and everything else was wet, the firemen reloaded their ladders and hose, their buckets and rubber helmets, and noisily trundled away. the willowbrook contingent sat down and mopped their grimy brows. "will you look at my flower-beds?" mourned tom. "walked right over 'em, they did." "an' will ye look at the clothes on the line?" cried nora. "they walked slap through them wid their dir-rty hands." "go and look at the carriage-house floor," peter growled. "they turned a three-inch stream o' water in at the front door; it looks as if the flood o' arrerat had struck us. if i ever ketch that lobster of a fire chief out alone, i'll teach 'im 'is dooty, i will." he paused to examine his person. "gee! but i blistered me hands." he carried the examination further. "an' these is me best pants," he muttered. "the next time i helps along their innocint divarsions, i'll get me life insured." iv dignity and the elephant "come in!" peter opened the library door and advanced with awkward hesitation. behind his respectfully blank expression there was visible a touch of anxiety; he was not clear in his own mind as to the reason for this peremptory summons to the house. it might mean that he was to be rewarded for having saved master augustus's life and the contents of the waggon-shed; it might mean that he was to be censured for any one of a dozen innocent and unpremeditated faults. but mr. carter's expression as he turned from the writing table banished all doubt as to the meaning of the interview. his bearing contained no suggestion of honourable mention to come. "close the door," he said dryly. peter closed the door and stood at attention, grasping with nervous fingers the brim of his hat. mr. carter allowed a painful silence to follow while he sat frowning down at a newspaper spread on the table before him. peter, having studied his master's face, lowered his troubled eyes to the headlines of the paper: comanche braves on the war path fire threatens destruction to jerome b. carter's estate "this has been a very shocking affair," mr. carter began, in a tone of impressive emphasis. "the damage, fortunately, was slight, but the principle remains the same as if every building on the place had burned. the blame on the surface rests with the boys who started the fire; and," he added, with a touch of grimness, "they have been fittingly punished. but i find, upon looking into the matter, that the blame does not stop with them. i have here a copy of a new york evening paper of an--uh--sensational order, giving a grossly exaggerated account of the incident. there is one particular, however, in regard to which they do not exaggerate--exaggeration being impossible--and that is in their description of the outrageous apparel which my son and my nephews were wearing at the time." mr. carter adjusted his glasses and picked up the paper, his frown darkening as he glanced rapidly down the column. a facetious young reporter had made the best of a good story. "'volunteer firemen--gallant behaviour of chief mcdougal--threatened tragedy--h'm----" his eye lighted on the offending paragraph, and he settled himself to read. "'conspicuous among those present were the authors of the conflagration, master robert carter, twelve-year-old son of jerome b. carter, and his three cousins, sons of john d. brainard, of philadelphia. whatever may be said of philadelphians in general, there is nothing slow about the brainard boys. in the character of comanche braves the four were clothed in simple but effective costumes of black and red war-paint. the paint, we are informed, was composed of axle grease and brass polish, and had been artistically laid on by one peter malone, who occupies the position of head groom in the carter stables. young malone has missed his calling. his talents point to the field of decorative art.'" a fleeting grin swept over peter's face. it struck him, for the hundredth time, that there was a singular absence of a sense of humour in the carter family. but he quickly recomposed his features. mr. carter had laid the paper down again, and was waiting. peter glanced dubiously about the room, and finally ventured in a tone of conciliation: "it weren't so shockin' as the paper made out, sir. they was wearin' stri-ped bathin' trunks and a row o' chicken feathers in addition to the grease." mr. carter waved the remark aside as irrelevant. "that has nothing to do with the point. the question which i am discussing is the fact that you painted my son with axle grease. i am not only shocked, but astonished. i have always entertained the highest opinion of your sense of propriety and fitness. i should have believed this story a pure fabrication on the part of an unprincipled reporter, had i not heard it corroborated from master bobby's own lips. before passing judgment it is only right that i hear your version of the affair. what have you to say?" peter shifted his weight uneasily. an invitation to tell a story rarely found him wanting, but he liked to feel that his audience was with him, and in the present instance mr. carter's manner was not surcharged with sympathy. "well, sir," he began, with an apologetic cough, "if ye'll excuse me mentionin' it, them three brainard boys is young limbs o' satan, every one o' them. their badness, so to speak, is catchin', an' master bobby's got it. 'tis demoralizin', sir, to have them about; i'm losin' me own sense o' right an' wrong." "very well," said mr. carter, impatiently, "what i want to hear about is this indian business." "yes, sir, i'm comin' to it, sir. yesterday mornin' i got an order early to drive mrs. carter to the country club, an' when i went into the carriage-house to see about hitchin' up, what should i find but them four little div----" peter caught mr. carter's eye, and hastily altered his sentence. "i found the four young gentlemen, sir, dressed in stri-ped bathin' trunks, engaged in paintin' their skins with axle grease ready for the war-path. they'd got two cans on before i seen 'em, and all i done was master bobby's back an' master wallace's legs. i mistrusted it wouldn't come off, sir, and i told 'em as much; but they was already so nearly covered that it seemed a pity to spoil the sport. ye see, i was mindin' what their mother said about takin' a sympathetic interest in their innocint divarsions." "and this struck you as an innocent diversion?" "comparatively speakin', sir. none o' their divarsions strikes me as fittin' for a sunday-school." "go on," said mr. carter, sharply. peter fumbled with his hat. he was finding his employer's mood a trifle difficult. "it weren't my fault about the fire, sir. when i drove off they was playin' in the paddock as innocint as ye please. how should i know that as soon as me back was turned they'd be takin' it into their heads to burn master augustus at the stake? it ain't no ordinary intilligence, sir, that can keep up wid them. and as for the damage, there wouldn't 'a' been none, aside from losin' the waggon-shed, if it weren't for that meddlin' fire department. ye see for yerself the mess they made." he came to a sudden pause, and then added with an air of reviving cheerfulness: "'t was bad, sir, but it might have been worse. we saved the buckboard, an' we saved the garden tools, to say nothin' o' master augustus." mr. carter grunted slightly, and a silence followed, during which peter glanced tentatively toward the door; but as his companion gave no sign that the interview was at an end, he waited. mr. carter's eye had meanwhile travelled back to the paper, and his frown was gathering anew. he finally faced the groom with the deliberative air of a counsellor summing up a case. "and you think it consonant with the dignity of my position that a new york paper should be able to print such a statement as that in regard to my son?" peter smiled dubiously and mopped his brow, but as no politic answer occurred to him, he continued silent. "there is another matter which i wish to speak of," added mr. carter, with a fresh assumption of sternness. "i am informed that you called the boys, in their presence," he paused, as though it were painful for him to repeat such malodorous words--"_damned little devils!_ is that so?" peter sighed heavily. "i don't know, sir. i might 'a' said it without thinkin'. i was excited when i see the roof a blazin' and i may have spoke me mind." "are you not aware, peter, that such language should never, under any circumstances, be used in master bobby's presence?" "yes, sir, but if ye'll pardon the liberty, sir, there's times when the angel gabriel himself would swear in master bobby's presence." "that will do, peter. i won't bandy words with you any further; but i wish this to be a warning. you are now head groom--i was even considering, as you know well, the advisability of advancing you still further. whether or not i do so will depend upon yourself. i regret to say that this episode has shaken my confidence." there was a sudden flaring of anger in peter's eyes. he recalled the long years of honest service he had given mr. carter, a service in which his employer's interest had always been his own; and his irish sense of justice rebelled. it was on his tongue to say: "i've worked ten years at willowbrook, and i've always done my best. if my best is not good enough, you'll have to look for another man. good evening, sir." but he caught the words before they were spoken. since annie had come to willowbrook, peter's outlook on life had changed. if a secret dream concerning himself and her and the coachman's cottage were ever to come true, he must swallow his pride and practise wisdom. his mouth took a straighter line, and he listened to the remainder of his master's homily with his eyes bent sulkily on the floor. "had it been one of the other grooms who was guilty of using such language before my son, and of committing such an--er--unpardonable breach of decorum as to paint him with axle grease, i should have discharged the man on the spot. your past record has saved you, but i warn you that it will not save you a second time. in future, i shall expect you to set an example to the under stablemen. you never find me forgetting the dignity of my position; let me see that you remember the dignity of yours. you may go now." mr. carter dismissed him with a nod, and turned back to the desk. annie was waiting in the kitchen to hear the history of the interview. peter stalked through the room without a word, his face set in ominous lines. she followed him to the back veranda, and caught him by the coat lapel. "what's the matter, petey? what are you mad at? didn't he thank you for savin' the things?" "thank nothin'," peter growled. "do the carters ever thank you? all the blame is fixed on me for the things them little divvels do--_damn_ little divvels--that's what they are. 'an' is it fittin',' says he, 'that ye should use such language before master bobby?' lor'! i wish he could hear the language master bobby used before me the time he fell into trixy's manger. i'd like to meet mr. carter in the open once, as man to man. i'd knock him out in the first round with me right hand tied behind me." peter was clearly fighting mad. "i'd like to get a whack at that reporter what wrote that paper. young malone has missed his callin', has he? i'd show him where young malone's talents lie; i'd knock him into the middle o' next week. 'gallant work o' chief mcdougal.' bloomin' lobster in a rubber helmet. i'll teach him his dooty if i ever ketch him out alone. it was me as saved the buckboard an' all the tools, an' master augustus in the bargain--wish i'd let him burn, i do. 'an',' says mr. carter, 'do ye think it consonant wid the dignity o' me position,' he says, 'that me son should be painted with axle grease--me--the honourable jerome b. carter, esquire?' his dignity! take away his money an' his dignity, an' there wouldn't be enough of him left to fill a half-pint measure. i'll get it back at him; you see if i don't. i risks me life and i burns me best pants, an' that's all the thanks i get!" a week had passed over willowbrook. the charred ruins of the waggon-shed had been carted to the barnyard; the comanche braves had become white again--though in the course of it they had lost a layer of skin--and the subject of axle grease and brass polish had been allowed to fade into the past. mr. carter, having once eased his mind, had banished all rancour from his thoughts. being a lawyer, with influence in high places, he had received an unexpectedly adequate insurance, and he was beginning to regard the matter as a funny after-dinner story. but peter persisted in being sulky. though his blistered hands were healed, his wounded feelings were still sore. as he drove his employer to and from the train, he no longer permitted himself the usual friendly chatter; his answers to all queries were respectful but not cordial. peter was steadfastly determined to keep mr. carter in his place. meanwhile, he was looking longingly for the chance to "get it back." and suddenly the chance presented itself--fairly walked into his hands--a revenge of such thorough-going appropriateness that peter would have held himself a fool to let it slip. the yearly circus had arrived--the nevin brothers' company of trick animals and acrobats--and every billboard in the village was blazing with pictures of rajah, the largest elephant in captivity. the nevin brothers confined themselves to one-night stands. on the day of the performance, peter, having driven mr. carter to the station, stopped on his way home at scanlan's to have the shoe tightened on trixy's off hind foot. the shop was just around the corner from the vacant lot where the tents were going up, and while he was waiting, peter strolled across to watch. to his surprise and gratification he discovered that the elephant trainer was a boyhood friend. arm in arm with this distinguished person, he passed by the curious crowd of onlookers into the animal tent for a private view of rajah. once inside, and out of sight, it transpired that his friend would be obliged if peter could lend him a dollar. peter fortunately had only fifty cents about him; but the friend accepted this, with the murmured apology that the boss was slow in forwarding their wages. he more than paid the debt, however, by presenting peter with a pass for himself and "lady," and peter drove home in a pleasant glow of pride and expectation. he submitted the pass to annie, and drove on to the stables, casually informing the groom who helped him unhitch that he had gone to school with rajah's trainer, and wished he had a dollar for every time he'd licked him. toward seven o'clock that evening, as peter was happily changing from plum-coloured livery into checked town clothes, a telephone call came out from the house, ordering the waggonette and the runabout. "yes, sir, in fifteen minutes, sir," said peter into the mouthpiece, but what he added to the stable boy would scarcely have been fit for master bobby's presence. he tumbled back into his official clothes, and hurried to the kitchen to break the news to annie. "it's all up with us," said peter gloomily. "they've ordered out the two rigs, and both billy an' me has to go--if it had only been ten minutes earlier they'd uv caught joe before he got off." "'t is a pity, it is, an' you with the lovely pass!" she mourned. "why the dickens should they take it into their heads to go drivin' around the country at this time o' night?" he growled. "they're goin' to the circus themselves!" said annie. "miss ethel's after havin' a dinner party; i was helpin' simpkins pass the things, and i heard them plannin' it. the whole crowd's goin'--all but mrs. carter; she don't like the smell o' the animals. but mr. carter's goin' and all four boys--master augustus was in bed an' they got him up an' dressed him. they're laughin' an' carryin' on till you'd think they was crazy. mr. harry jasper pretended he was a polar bear, an' was eatin' master augustus up." "mr. carter's goin'?" asked peter, with a show of incredulity. "an' does he think it consonant wid the dignity o' his position to be attendin' circuses? i wouldn't 'a' believed it of him!" "he's goin' to help chaperon 'em." "i'm glad it ain't for pleasure. i'd hate to think o' the honourable jerome b. carter descendin' so low." "i'm to serve supper to 'em when they come home, an' i'll have somethin' waitin' for you on the back stoop, pete," she called after him as he turned away. peter and billy deposited their passengers at the entrance of the main tent, and withdrew to hitch the horses to the fence railing. a number of miscellaneous vehicles were drawn up around them--mud-spattered farmers' waggons, livery "buggies"--but private carriages with liveried coachmen were conspicuously lacking. peter could not, accordingly, while away the tedium of waiting with the usual pleasant gossip; as for opening a conversation with billy, he would as soon have thought of opening one with the nearest hitching-post. billy's ideas were on a par with billy's sparring, and in either case it was a waste of breath to bother with him. peter sat for a time watching the crowd push about the entrance, the pass burning in his pocket. then he climbed down, examined the harness, patted the horses, and glanced wistfully toward the flaming torches at either side of the door. "say, bill," he remarked in an offhand tone, "you stay here and watch these horses till i come back. i'm just goin' to step in an' see me friend the elephant trainer a minute. sit on the lap robes, and keep yer eye on the whips; there's likely to be a lot o' sneak thieves around." he started off, and then paused to add, "if ye leaves them horses, i'll come back an' give ye the worst tannin' ye ever had in yer life." he presented his pass and was admitted. the show had not begun. a couple of clowns were throwing sawdust at each other in the ring, but this was palpably a mere overture to keep the audience in a pleasant frame of mind until the grand opening march of all the animals and all the players--advertised to take place promptly at eight, but already twenty minutes overdue. peter, aware that it would not be wise to let his master see him, made himself as inconspicuous as possible. hidden behind the broad back of a german saloon-keeper, he drifted with the crowd into the side tent, where the animals were kept. here, vociferous showmen were urging a hesitating public to enter the side-shows, containing the cream of the exhibit, and only ten cents extra. vendors of peanuts and popcorn and all-day-suckers were adding to the babel, while the chatter of monkeys and the surly grumbling of a big lion formed an intoxicating undertone. across the tent, gathered in a laughing group about the elephant, peter caught sight of the willowbrook party--the ladies in fluffy, light gowns and opera coats, the gentlemen in immaculate evening clothes. they were conspicuously out of their element, but were having a very good time. the bystanders had left them in a group apart, and were granting them as much attention as rajah himself. the elephant, in scarlet and gold trappings, with a canopied platform on his back, was accepting popcorn balls from master augustus's hand, and master augustus was squealing his delight. above the other noises peter could hear his former schoolmate declaiming in impressive tones: "fourteen years old, and the largest elephant in captivity. weighs over eight thousand pounds, and eats five tons of hay a month. he measures nine feet to the shoulders, and ain't got his full growth yet. step up the ladder, ladies and gentlemen, and get a bird's-eye view from the top. don't be bashful; there's not the slightest danger." mr. harry jasper and master bobby accepted the invitation. they mounted the somewhat shaky flight of steps, sat for a moment on the red velvet seat, and with a debonair bow to the laughing onlookers, descended safely to the ground. they then urged mr. carter up, but he emphatically refused; his dignity, it was clear, could not stand the strain. "step up, sir," the showman insisted. "you can't get any idea of his size from the ground. there's not the slightest danger. he's as playful as a kitten when he's feeling well." miss ethel and one of the young men pushed mr. carter forward; and finally, with a fatuous smile of condescension, he gave his overcoat to master bobby to hold, his walking-stick to master augustus, and having settled his silk hat firmly on his head, he began climbing with careful deliberation. peter, hidden in the crowd, fingering in his pocket the dollar he had intended to spend, suddenly had an infernal prompting. his revenge spread itself before him in tempting array. for one sane moment he struggled with the thought, but his unconquerable sense of humour overthrew all hesitation. he slipped around behind rajah and beckoned to the trainer. all eyes were fixed upon mr. carter's shining hat as it slowly rose above the level of the crowd. the two men held a hurried consultation in a whisper; the bill inconspicuously changed hands, and peter, unobserved, sank into the crowd again. the trainer issued a brief order to one of the bandmen and resumed his position at rajah's head. mr. carter had by this time gained the top, and with one foot on the platform and the other on the upper round of the ladder was approvingly taking his bird's-eye view, with murmured exclamations to those below. "stupendous! he must measure six feet across--and not reached his full growth! a wonderful specimen--really wonderful." rajah suddenly transferred his weight from one side to the other, and the ladder shook unsteadily. mr. carter, with an apprehensive glance at the ground, prepared to descend; but the keeper shouted in a tone of evident alarm: "take your foot off the ladder, sir! sit down. for heaven's sake, sit down!" the ladder wavered under his feet, and mr. carter waited for no explanations. with a frenzied grasp at the red and gold trappings he sat down, and the ladder fell with a thud, leaving him marooned on rajah's back. on the instant the band struck into "yankee doodle," and rajah, with a toss of his head and an excited shake of his whole frame, fell into a ponderous two-step. "stop him! hold him! the ladder--bring the ladder!" shouted mr. carter. his voice was drowned in the blare of trumpets. without giving ear to further orders, the elephant plunged toward the opening between the two tents and danced into the ring at the head of a long line of gilded waggons and gaudy floats. the grand opening march of all the players and all the animals had begun. peter looked at the willowbrook party. they were leaning on each other's shoulders, weak with laughter. he took one glance into the ring, where mr. carter's aristocratic profile was rising and falling in jerky harmony with the music. and in the shadow of the lion cage peter collapsed; he rocked back and forth, hugging himself in an ecstasy of mirth. "gee! oh, gee!" he gasped. "will ye look at the dignity of his position now?" in one perfect, soul-satisfying moment past slights were blotted out, and those booked for the future were forgiven. rajah completed the circuit and two-stepped back into the animal tent drunk with glory. half a dozen hands held the ladder while mr. carter, white with rage, descended to the ground. the language which he used to the keepers, peter noted with concern, should never have been spoken in master bobby's presence. the elephant trainer waited patiently until the gentleman stopped for breath, then he took off his hat and suggested in a tone of deprecation: "beg your pardon, sir, but the price for leading the grand march is fifty cents at the evening performance." "i'll have you arrested--i'll swear out an injunction and stop the whole show!" thundered mr. carter, as he stalked toward the entrance. peter, coming to a sudden appreciation of his own peril, slipped out behind him. he ran smack into billy who was hovering about the door. "so i caught ye," hissed peter. "get back to them horses as fast as ye can," and he started on a run, shoving billy before him. mr. carter, fortunately not knowing where to find the carriages, was blundering around on the other side. "what's yer hurry?" gasped billy. "get up and shut up," said peter sententiously, as he shot him toward the waggonette. "an' ye can thank the saints for a whole skin. we ain't neither of us left our seats to-night--d'ye hear?" to billy's amazement, peter jumped into the runabout, and fell asleep. a second later mr. carter loomed beside them. "peter? william?" his tone brought them to attention with a jerk. peter straightened his hat and blinked. "what, sir? yes, sir! beg pardon, sir; i must 'a' been asleep." mr. carter leaped to the seat beside him. "drive to the police station," he ordered, in a tone that sent apprehensive chills chasing up billy's back. "yes, sir. whoa, trixy! back, b-a-c-k. get up!" he cut her with the whip, and they rolled from the circle of flaring torches into the outer darkness. "she's a trifle skittish, sir," said peter, in his old-time conversational tone. "the noise o' the clappin' was somethin' awful; it frightened the horses, sir." mr. carter grunted by way of response, and peter in the darkness hugged himself and smiled. he was once more brimming with cordial good-will toward all the world. mr. carter, however, was too angry to keep still, and he presently burst into a denunciation of the whole race of showmen, employing a breadth of vocabulary that peter had never dreamed him capable of. "yes, sir," the groom affably agreed, "it's true what ye say. they're fakes, every one of them, an' this show to-night, sir, is the biggest fake of all. the way they do people is somethin' awful. fifty cents they charges to get in, an' twenty-five more for reserved seats. extra for each of the side shows, an' there ain't nothin' in them, sir. peanuts is ten cents a pint when ye can buy them at any stand for five, an' their popcorn balls is stale. i've quit goin' to shows meself. i spent a dollar in five minutes at the last one, sir. i had a good time and i ain't regrettin' the money, but 'tis expensive for a poor man." mr. carter grunted. "the worst sell i ever heard of, though," peter added genially, "is chargin' fifty cents to ride the elephant in the openin' grand march. ye wouldn't think it possible that anybody'd want to do it, but they tells me that never a night goes by but somebody turns up so forgettin' of his dignity----" mr. carter glanced at peter with a look of quick suspicion. the groom leaned forward, and with innocent solicitude examined trixy's gait. "whoa, steady, ole girl! she's limpin' again in her off hind foot. they never shoe her right at scanlan's, sir. don't ye think i'd better take her down to gafney's in the mornin'?" they were approaching the station house. peter glanced sideways at his companion, and picked up the conversation with a deprecatory cough. "yes, sir, the show's a fake, sir, an' no mistake. but if i was you, sir, i wouldn't be too hard on 'em. 'twouldn't be a popular move. if ye're thinkin' of runnin' for judge," peter broke off and started anew. "if ye'll excuse me tellin' it, sir, i heard 'em sayin' in callahan's saloon the other day that they guessed ye was a better man than judge benedict all right, but that ye was too stuck up. they didn't care about votin' for a man who thought he was too good to mix with them. an' so, sir, you're appearin' at the circus so familiar like was a politic move--meanin' no offence. i know ye didn't do it on purpose, sir, but it'll bring ye votes." he drew up before the station house in a wide curve, and cramped the wheels and waited. mr. carter appeared lost in thought. finally he roused himself to say: "well, after all, perhaps there isn't any use. you may drive back and pick up the others. i've changed my mind." v the rise of vittorio david mackenna, the gardener at jasper place, was a scotchman of the scotch. he was truculent when sober, and actively pugnacious when drunk. it may be said to his credit that he was not drunk very often, and that when he was drunk he was canny enough to keep out of mr. jasper's way. but one night, after a prolonged political discussion at callahan's saloon, he was unsteadily steering homeward across the side lawn just as mr. harry and two friends who were visiting him emerged from the gap in the hedge that divided jasper place from willowbrook. the gentlemen were returning from a dinner, and were clothed in evening dress. they in no wise resembled tramps; but david's vision was blurred and his fighting blood was up. he possessed himself of an armful of damp sods, and warily advanced to the attack. he was not in a condition to aim very straight, but the three shining shirt-fronts made an easy mark. before his victims had recovered from the suddenness of the onslaught sufficiently to protect themselves, he had demolished three dress suits. the next morning david was dismissed. the other workers, both at jasper place and willowbrook, appreciated the justice of the sentence, but were sorry to see him go. david's argumentative temper and david's ready fists had added zest to social intercourse. they feared that his successor would be of a milder type, and less entertaining. the successor came some three days later, and peter, observing his arrival across the hedge, paid an early call on patrick to see what he was like. peter returned to willowbrook disgusted. "he's a dago! a jabberin' dago out of a ditch. he can't talk more'n ten words, an' he don't understand what they means. mr. harry picked him all right for a peaceable citizen who won't be spoilin' no dress suits. he ain't got a drop o' fight in him. ye call him a liar, an' he smiles an' says, 'sank you!'" vittorio set about the weeding of his flower-beds with the sunny patience bred of love. whatever were his failings in english and the war-like arts, at least he understood his business. mr. harry watched his protégé with pleased approval. he had always admired the italian character theoretically, but this was the first time that he had ever put his admiration to the actual test; and he congratulated himself upon finding at last the ideal gardener with the pastoral soul that he had long been seeking. mr. harry had no racial prejudices himself, and he took it for granted that others were as broad. vittorio's pastoral soul, however, won less approval among his fellow-workers. peter did not share mr. harry's enthusiasm for the italian race, and peter largely swayed public opinion both at jasper place and willowbrook. "it's somethin' awful," he declared, "the way this country's gettin' cluttered up with dagoes. there ought to be a law against lettin' 'em come in." in so far as he was concerned, peter refused to let vittorio come in; and the man was consigned to social darkness and the companionship of his plants. he did not seem to mind this ostracism, however, but whistled and sang at his work with unabated cheerfulness. his baby english shortly became the butt of everybody's ridicule, but as he never understood the jokes, he bore no grudge. the only matter in which he showed the slightest personal prejudice was the fact that they all persisted in calling him "tony." "my name no tony," he would patiently explain half a dozen times a day. "my name vittorio emanuele, same-a de king." tony, however, he remained. the man's chief anxiety was to learn english, and he was childishly grateful to anyone who helped him. the stablemen took a delighted interest in his education; it was considered especially funny to teach him scurrilous slang. "come off your perch, you old fool," was one of the phrases he patiently committed to memory, and later repeated to mr. harry with smiling pride at his own progress. mr. harry spoke to peter on the subject. "yes, sir," peter agreed easily, "it's disgustin', the language these dagoes picks up. i can't imagine where they hears it, sir. they're that familiar, ye can't pound no manners into them." mr. harry wisely dropped the matter. he knew peter, and he thought it safest to let vittorio work out his own salvation. several of the practical jokes at the man's expense should, logically, have ended in a fight. had he taken up the gauntlet, even at the expense of a whipping, they would have respected him--in so far as irishmen can respect an italian--but nothing could goad him into action. he swallowed insults with a smiling zest, as though he liked their taste. this unfailing peaceableness was held to be the more disgraceful in that he was a strongly built fellow, quite capable of standing up for his rights. "he ain't so bad looking," annie commented one day, as she and peter strolled up to the hedge and inspected the new gardener at work with the clipping-shears. "and, at least, he's tall--that's something. they're usually so little, them eye-talians." "huh!" said peter, "size ain't no merit. the less there is of an eye-talian, the better. his bigness don't help along his courage none. ye're a coward, tony. d'ye hear that?" their comments had been made with perfect freedom in vittorio's presence, while he hummed a tune from "fra diavolo" in smiling unconcern. unless one couched one's insults in kindergarten language and fired them straight into his face, they passed him by unscathed. "ye're a coward, tony," peter repeated. "cow-ward?" vittorio broke off his song and beamed upon them with a flash of black eyes and white teeth. "how you mean, cow-ward? no understand." "a coward," peter patiently explained, "is a man who's afraid to fight--like you. eye-talians are cowards. they don't dare stand up man to man an' take what's comin' to 'em. when they've got a grudge to pay, they creeps up in the night an' sticks a knife in yer back. that's bein' a coward." the insulting significance of this escaped vittorio, but he clung to the word delightedly. "cow-ward, cow-ward," he repeated, to fix the syllables in his mind. "nice word! sank you." then, as a glimmering of peter's insinuation finally penetrated, he shook his head and laughed. the charge amused him. "me no cow-ward!" he declared. "no afraid fight, but no like-a fight. too hard work." he shrugged his shoulders and spread out his hands. "more easy take care-a flower." the subtlety of this explanation was lost upon peter, and the two went their ways; the one happily engaged with his weeding and his pruning, the other looking on across the hedge contemptuously scornful. peter's ideal of the highest human attainment was to become a "true sport." his vocabulary was intensive rather than extensive, and the few words it contained meant much. the term "true sport" connoted all desirable qualities. abstractly, it signified ability, daring, initiative, force; it meant that the bearer attacked the world with easy, conquering grace, and--surest test of all--that he faced defeat no less than success with a high heart. concretely, a true sport could play polo and ride to hounds, could drive a motor-car or a four-in-hand or sail a boat, could shoot or swim or box. all of these things, and several others, mr. harry jasper could do. it was from observing him that peter's definition had gained such precision. the billiard-room mantelpiece at jasper place held a row of silver cups, relics of mr. harry's college days. the hall at jasper place testified to mr. harry's prowess with the rifle. a moose head decorated the arch, a grizzly bear skin stretched before the hearth, and a crocodile's head plucked from the mud of its native nile emerged grinning from the chimney-piece. some day mr. harry was going to india after a tiger skin to put over the couch; in the meanwhile he contented himself with duck-shooting on great south bay, or an occasional dip into the adirondacks. patrick had accompanied him on the last of these trips, and it had been a long-standing promise that peter should go on the next. their camp was to be in canada this year, as soon as the open season for caribou arrived. peter's heart was set on a caribou of his own, and as the summer wore to an end his practice with the rifle was assiduous. mr. harry had set up a target down on the jasper beach--a long strip of muddy gravel which the inlet, at low tide, left bare--and had given the men permission to shoot. one saturday afternoon patrick and peter and billy were gathered on the beach amusing themselves with a rifle and a fresh box of cartridges. the target was a good two hundred yards away. with a light rifle, such as the men were using, it was a very pretty shot to hit one of the outer rings, the bull's-eye, through anything but a lucky fluke, being almost impossible. "mr. harry's givin' us a run for our money," peter grumbled, after splashing the water behind the target several times in a vain attempt to get his range. "ye'd better keep out, billy. this ain't no easy steps for little feet." but billy, with his usual aplomb, insisted upon trying. after his second shot peter derisively shouted: "look out, pat! it ain't safe to stand behind him; he's likely to hit 'most anything except the mark." billy good-naturedly retired and engaged himself in keeping score. the rivalry between peter and patrick was keen. the latter was the older hand at rifle-shooting, but peter was the younger man and possessed the keener eye. as soon as they became accustomed to their distance they pulled into line, and the contest grew spirited. presently vittorio, a garden hoe in hand, came loping across the meadow, attracted by the shots. when he saw what was toward, he dropped down on the bank and interestedly watched the match. patrick had been ahead, but his last shot went wild and splashed the water to the left of the target. peter made the inner ring and pulled the score up even. he was in an elated frame of mind. "hello, tony!" he called with unwonted affability as he paused to reload. "see that shot? pretty near hit the bull's-eye. you don't know how to shoot--no? eye-talians use knives. americans use guns." vittorio smiled back, pleased at being so freely included in the conversation. "i shoot-a more good dat. you no shoot-a straight; no hit middle." his tone was not boastful; he merely dropped the remark as an unimpassioned statement of fact. peter had raised the rifle to his shoulder; he lowered it again to stare. "what are ye givin' us?" he demanded. "ye think ye can shoot better'n me?" vittorio shrugged. he had no desire to hurt peter's feelings, but at the same time he saw no occasion to lie. "course i shoot-a more good dat," he responded genially. "i shoot-a long time. you no learn how like-a me." "here," said peter, stretching the rifle toward the man, "let me see ye do it, then! either put up or shut up. i'll show ye that it ain't so easy as it looks." vittorio sprang to his feet with an air of surprised delight. "you let-a me shoot? sank you! sank you ver' moch." he took the rifle in his hand and caressed the barrel with a touch almost loving. his eyes were eager as a child's. "here, you, tony," peter warned, "don't get funny with that gun! point it at the target." vittorio raised the rifle and squinted along the barrel; then, as an idea occurred to him, he lowered it again and faced the three men with his always sunny smile. he had a sporting proposition to make. "you shoot-a more good me, my name tony. i shoot-a more good you, my name vittorio emanuele, same-a de king. you call me vittorio, i understand, i come; you call me tony, i no understand, no come." peter, whatever his prejudices, was true to his ideals. "it's a bargain, tony. ye beat me shootin' and i'll call ye any bloomin' thing ye please--providin' i can twist me tongue to it." vittorio's eyes sought patrick's. he removed the pipe from his mouth and grunted. "all-a right!" said vittorio. "we shoot-a free time. first me, den you, den you, den me again, like dat." without more ado he threw the gun to his shoulder, and, scarcely seeming to sight, fired, and snapped out the empty cartridge. as the smoke cleared the three strained forward in open-mouthed astonishment. he had hit the target squarely in the centre. "by gum! he's done it!" peter gasped; then, after an astonished silence, "nothin' but luck--he can't do it again. gi' me the gun." peter's surprise had not steadied his nerves; his shot went far astray, and he silently passed the rifle to patrick. patrick laid down his pipe, planted his feet firmly, and made the inner ring. he passed the rifle on to vittorio, and resumed his pipe. patrick was a phlegmatic soul; it took a decided shock to rouse him to words. "let's see ye do it again," said peter. vittorio raised the rifle and did it again. his manner was entirely composed; he scored bull's-eyes as a matter of course. peter's feelings by now were too complicated for words. he studied the nonchalant vittorio a moment in baffled bewilderment, then stepped forward without remark to take his turn. he sighted long and carefully, and scored the outer ring. he offered the rifle to patrick, who waved it away. "i'm out." "don't back down," said peter. "ye've got two more tries. if ye let him beat us he'll be so darned cocky there won't be no livin' with him." patrick copied the italian's shrug and passed the rifle on. vittorio advanced for his third turn under the keenly suspicious scrutiny of six eyes. they could not divine how such shooting could be accomplished by trickery, but, still more, they could not divine how it could be accomplished without. vittorio sighted more carefully this time, but he made his bull's-eye with unabated precision. "dat make-a free time," he observed, relinquishing the rifle with a regretful sigh. "guess i've had enough," said peter. "you're vittorio emanuele, same-a de king, all right. we don't appear to trot in your class. how'd ye learn?" "all italian mans know how shoot--learn in de army. i shoot-a long time. shoot-a afric'." "africa!" said peter. "you been in africa?" "two time," vittorio nodded. "what'd ye shoot there--lions?" "no, no lion." vittorio raised his shoulders with a deprecatory air. "just man." "oh!" said peter. his tone was noticeably subdued. mr. harry jasper, also attracted by the shooting, came strolling along the beach to see how the match was going, but arrived too late to witness vittorio's spectacular exhibit. mr. harry considered himself a pretty good shot; he had often beaten peter, and peter entertained a slightly malicious desire to see him worsted once at his own game. "oh, mr. harry!" he called carelessly. "we've been tryin' our hands at yer target, like ye said we might, an' this here new gardener-man come along an' wanted to have a try. he's a surprisin' good shot for an eye-talian. ye wouldn't believe it, but he beat pat an' he beat me. would you mind shootin' with him once? i'd like to show him what americans can do." peter's tone was a touch over-careless. mr. harry glanced at him suspiciously, and from him to vittorio, who was looking on with amiable aloofness, quite unaware that he was the subject of discussion. mr. harry had not been entirely blind to the trials of david's peaceable successor, and he was glad to see that the man was coming to the top. "so he's beaten you? how does that happen, peter? i thought you prided yourself on your shooting." "i'm a little out o' practice," said peter. mr. harry ran his eye over vittorio's well-set-up figure. "served in the army, vittorio?" "si, signore, five year." "what corps--_bersaglieri_?" "si, si!" vittorio's face was alight. "i b'long _bersaglieri_. how you know?" "thank you for your interest, peter," mr. harry laughed. "i don't believe i'll shoot with him to-day. i'm a little out of practice myself." peter's face was mystified. "the _bersaglieri_," mr. harry explained, "are the sharpshooters of the italian army, and a well-trained lot they are. you and i, peter, are amateurs; we don't enter matches against them when we know what we're about." "he didn't tell me nothin' about bein' a sharpshooter," said peter, sulkily. "he said he learned in africa." "africa?" mr. harry echoed. "did you go through the campaign in abyssinia, vittorio?" the man nodded. "surely not at adowa?" a quick shadow crossed his face. "si, signore," he said, simply; "i fight at adowa." "good heavens!" mr. harry cried. "the fellow's fought against menelik and the dervishes." he faced the other three, his hand on vittorio's shoulder. "you don't know what that means? you never heard of adowa? it means that this chap here has been through the fiercest battle ever fought on african soil. he was beaten--the odds against him were too heavy--but it was one of the bravest defeats in history. the italians for three days had been marching across burning deserts in a hostile country, on half rations, and with almost no water. at the end of that time they accomplished a forced march of twenty miles by night, across hills and ravines so rough that the cannon had frequently to be carried by hand. then, as they were, worn out and hungry, hopeless as to the outcome, they were asked to face an enemy six times larger than themselves--not a civilized enemy, mind you, but howling dervishes--and they did it without flinching. there's not a man who went through adowa but came out a hero." vittorio had watched his face; here and there he had caught a word. he suddenly threw out his arms in a spasm of excitement, his eyes blazing at the memory of the fight. "dat's right! menelik bad king--bad war. no like-a dose peoples--me. i shoot-a fast like dis." he snatched up the rifle and crouched behind a rock; in pantomime he killed a dozen of the foe in as many seconds. he threw the rifle away and sprang to his feet. "not enough cartridges! no can shoot-a more. den i get-a wound; lie like-a dis." he dropped his arms and drooped his head. "how you say? tired? yes, ver' tired like-a baby. _santissima virgine!_ no can move, i bleed so moch. sun ver' hot--no water--ver' t'irsty. den come-a dose peoples. dey cut-a me up." he tore open his shirt. a broad scar extended from his shoulder across his breast. he lifted his hair and showed a scar behind his ear, another on his forehead. "si, signore, all over my body dey cut-a me up!" mr. harry frowned. "yes, yes, i know. it was terrible! you put up a great fight, vittorio--sorry you didn't do for 'em. you are brave chaps, you italians. it's a great thing to have gone through adowa, something to be proud of all your life. i am glad to know you were there." he glanced at peter sharply, then nodded and turned away. peter studied vittorio, a new look in his eyes. the man's momentary excitement had vanished; he was his old, placid, sunny self again. "i guess we made a mistake," said peter, and he held out his hand. vittorio obligingly shook it, since that seemed to be expected, but he did it with smiling uncomprehension. he had never known that he had been insulted, and he did not realize that amends were necessary. a pause followed while the three men gazed at vittorio, and vittorio gazed at the sun, slanting toward the western horizon. "six 'clock!" he exclaimed, coming to a sudden realization that duty called. "i go water flower." he shouldered his hoe and turned away, but paused to add, his eyes wistfully on the rifle: "you let-a me shoot some ovver day? sank you. goo'-bye." peter looked after him and shook his head. "an' to think he's a dago! i s'pose if ye could understand what they was jabberin' about, half the time, ye'd find they was talkin' as sensible as anybody else. 'tis funny," he mused, "how much people is alike, no matter what country they comes from." he picked up the rifle and stuffed the cartridges into his pocket. "get a move on ye, billy. 'tis time we was feedin' them horses." vi held for ransom peter, from being a care-free, irresponsible young groom, suddenly found himself beset with many and multiform anxieties. it commenced with joe's falling through the trap-door in the ice-house and breaking his leg. while he was in the hospital impatiently recovering, peter was put in command of the stables. the accident happened only a short time after the burning of the waggon-shed, and peter was determined to retrieve his good name in mr. carter's sight. the axle grease episode remained a black spot in his career. the three brainard boys were still at willowbrook, but their visit was to come to an end in a week, and in the meantime they, too, were in a chastened mood. peter marked out a diamond in the lower meadow, and with infinite relief saw them devote themselves to the innocent pursuit of base-ball. if their enthusiasm could only be made to last out the week, he felt that the waggon-shed would be cheap at the price. but though the boys were providentially quiescent, peter's private affairs were not moving so smoothly. he had another reason besides mere ambition for wishing to prove himself capable of taking command in that uncertain future when joe should resign. heretofore, the prospect of being coachman, absolute ruler of three grooms and two stableboys, had been sufficient goal in itself; but of late, visions of the coachman's cottage, vine-covered, with a gay little garden in front, and annie sewing on the porch, had supplanted the old picture of himself haughtily ordering about his five underlings. he had not, however, ventured to suggest this dream to annie. his usual daring impudence, which had endeared him to her predecessors, seemed to have deserted him, and he became tongue-tied in her presence. peter had been possessed before by many errant fancies, but never by an obsession such as this. he went about his work blind to everything but the memory of her face. when he peered into the oat-bin it was annie that he saw; she smiled back at him from the polished sides of the mail phaeton and the bottom of every bucket of water. she made him happy and miserable, exultant and fearful, all at once. poor badgered peter knew now what it felt like to be a brook-trout when a skilful angler is managing the reel. this alternate hope and fear was sufficiently upsetting for one whose whole mind should have been upon his duties, but it was nothing to the state that followed. their quarrel fell from a clear sky. he had taken her, one sunday afternoon, to a popular amusement resort, a trolley ride's distance from willowbrook, and had suggested refreshments in a place he remembered from the year before. it was called the "heart of asia," and represented, so the man with the megaphone announced, the harem of a native prince. the room was hung with vivid draperies of gold and crimson, and dimly lighted by coloured lanterns suspended from the ceiling. the refreshments were served by maidens billed as "circassian beauties," but whose speech betrayed a celtic origin. peter picked out a secluded table and ordered striped ice-cream. he had thought the place particularly conducive to romance, but annie was too excited over her first introduction to the glamour of the east to give attention to anything but her surroundings. "ain't she wonderful?" annie whispered, as a circassian beauty, in green and gold, trailed across her field of vision. peter shrugged in blasé, man-of-the-world fashion. "'tis the paint an' powder an' clothes an' lights," he said sceptically. "out in the daylight, with her own clothes on, she wouldn't look so different from you." this was not a strictly politic rejoinder, but he meant it well, and for the moment annie was too dazzled to be in a carping mood. the gorgeous creature drew near, and set their ice-cream upon the table. she was turning away, after a casual glance to make sure that they had spoons and ice-water and paper napkins, when her eyes lighted upon peter. her second glance was not so casual; it lingered for a moment on his face. peter had never visited the place but once in his life, and that the summer before, when he had spent an inconsequential half hour in chaffing the girl who served him. the incident had completely faded from his mind; but the girl had a diabolical memory and a love of mischief. "hello, peter malone!" she laughed. "you haven't been around much lately. i guess you don't care for me any more." peter's face--for no reason on earth but that he felt annie's questioning eyes upon him--took on a lively red. annie transferred her gaze and studied the circassian beauty at close range. after some further reminiscences, audaciously expansive on her part, gruffly monosyllabic on peter's, the girl withdrew with a farewell laugh over her shoulder; and annie's eyes returned to peter, an ominous sparkle in their depths. "i've had all i want o' this place," she observed, pushing away her dish of ice-cream. peter followed her outside, aware of a chilly change in the atmosphere. he anxiously ventured on an explanation, but the more he explained, the more undue prominence the incident acquired. "ye needn't be apologizin'," said annie, in an entirely friendly tone. "ye've got a perfect right to go anywhere ye please, an' know anyone ye please. it's none o' my business." she bade him good-night with an air of cheerful aloofness, thanking him politely for an "interestin' afternoon." her manner suggested that there was nothing to quarrel about; she had been mistaken in her estimate of peter, but that was not his fault; in the future she would be more clear-seeing. this wholly reasonable attitude failed to put peter at his ease. he passed a wakeful night, divided between profanity when he thought of the circassian beauty, and anxiety when he thought of annie. in the morning the plot thickened. a fourth youngster was spending a few days at willowbrook--another brainard, cousin to the three who were already there; but, providentially, he was only thirteen months old, and had not learned to walk. peter accepted the arrival without concern, never dreaming that this young gentleman's presence could in any degree affect his own peace of mind. the baby, however, had lost his nurse, and while they were searching a new one annie volunteered to act as substitute. the morning after her visit to the heart of asia saw her ensconced on a rustic bench under an apple tree on the lawn, the perambulator at her side. the tree was secluded from the house by a mass of shrubbery, but was plainly visible from the stables. it was also closely adjacent to the grounds of jasper place, and this morning, by a fortuitous circumstance, vittorio was clipping the hedge. it had never entered peter's mind to regard vittorio as a possible rival; but now it suddenly occurred to him that the man was good looking--not according to his own ideals, but in a theatrical, exotic fashion, sure to catch a woman's eye. it also occurred to him that vittorio's conversation was diverting--again from a woman's point of view. there was something piquant in the spectacle of a broad-shouldered, full-grown man conversing in the baby accents of a child of three. peter went about his work that day, bitterly aware of the by-play going on under the apple tree. annie had undertaken the task of teaching vittorio english, and the lessons were punctuated by the clear ring of her merry laugh. in the evening the man was enticed to the back veranda, where he sat on the top step singing serenades to his own accompaniment on the mandolin, while the maids listened in rapt delight. even miss ethel added her applause; overhearing the music, she haled vittorio and his mandolin and italian love songs to the front veranda to entertain her guests. peter, who had never been invited to entertain miss ethel's guests, swallowed this latest triumph with what grace he might. the irony of the matter was that it had been peter himself who had first rescued vittorio from social obscurity, and who had insisted to the other sceptical ones that the man was "all right," in spite of the misfortune of having been born in italy instead of in ireland. he had not hoped to be taken so completely at his word. in this sympathetic atmosphere vittorio expanded like a flower in the sunlight. he had suddenly become a social lion. his funny sayings were passed from mouth to mouth, and everybody on the place commenced conversing in italian-english. "eh, peta!" billy hailed him one afternoon, "mees effel, she want-a go ride. she want-a you go too. i saddle dose horsa?" "aw, let up!" peter growled. "we hears enough dago talk without them as knows decent english havin' to make fools o' theirselves." while peter's private troubles were thus heavy upon him, his official responsibility increased. mr. carter was called away on business. on the morning of the departure, as they were starting for the station, miss ethel ran after them with a forgotten umbrella. "take care of yourself, dad!" she kissed him good-bye, and stood on the veranda waving her handkerchief until the carriage was out of sight. mr. carter settled himself against the cushions with a sigh. "what a world this would be without women!" he murmured. "yes, sir," peter agreed gloomily, "an', beggin' yer pardon, what a hell of a world it is with 'em, sir." the following few days strengthened this opinion. vittorio's education progressed, while annie still maintained her attitude of superior aloofness. her manner was friendly--exactly as friendly to peter as to any of the other men. the intangibility of the quarrel was what made it hardest to bear. could he have punched some one it would have eased his mind, but in all fairness he was forced to acknowledge that the "dago" was not to blame. the advances were blatantly from annie's side. in the meantime, however, a new complication had developed, which acted in a measure as a counter irritant. mr. carter's train was barely out of hearing, when the most extraordinary amount of petty thieving commenced. nothing could be laid down anywhere about the place but that it immediately disappeared. there had been a number of armenian women in the neighbourhood selling lace, and peter would have suspected these had not the list of stolen articles been so unusual. it comprised the clothes-line, half a dozen sheets and the wash-boiler, six jars of jam from the cellar, and some bread and cake from the pantry window, a bundle of stakes for training the tomato plants, and master wallace's spelling book (he was having to study through vacation, and he bore the loss with composure), a japanese umbrella-holder from the front veranda, a pair of lap-robes from the stable, and last, most uncanny touch of all, the family bible! this had stood on the under shelf of the table in the library window, where it could be reached easily from the outside; but, as peter dazedly inquired of the world in general, "why the divvil should anyone be wantin' to take a bible? it can't do him no good when it's stolen." it was annie who had discovered this last depredation in the course of her daily dusting. as yet the family had not noticed the loss of any of the articles, and peter, fearing that the matter might reflect upon his own generalship, had hesitated about reporting it; none of the things were very valuable, and he had daily expected to find the thief. the boys knew, however, and took an open delight in the situation. anything approaching a mystery was food and drink to them. they abandoned base-ball, and gave themselves over entirely to a consideration of the puzzle. the day the lap-robes disappeared, they were gathered in a group outside the stable, peter tipped back in an old armchair pulling furiously at his pipe, with a double frown the length of his brow, the four boys occupying the bench in an excited, chattering row. "perhaps the place is haunted!" master jerome put forth the suggestion with wide eyes. "haunted nothin'," peter growled. "it was a pretty live ghost that got off with them lap-robes durin' the two minutes the stable was empty." "they were the old ones," bobby consoled him. "at least it was kind of him not to take the best ones when they were just as convenient." "do you fink it's gypsies?" master augustus asked the question with a fearful glance over his shoulder. he had been told that gypsies carried off bad little boys. "i don't know what it is," peter said sullenly, "but if i ever ketches anybody snooping about this place who has no business to snoop----" the sentence ended in a threatening silence. the four boys looked at one another and shuddered delightedly. "it's like a book," master wallace declared. "the miscreant has foiled us at every turn." "let's form a detective bureau!" bobby rose to the occasion. "you can be chief of the local police, peter. and since you find the mystery beyond your power to solve, you have called to your aid a private detective force--that's us. jerome and wallace and me can be detectives, and augustus can be a policeman." "i want to be a detective, too," objected augustus. "it's nice to be a policeman," soothed bobby. "when we've tracked down the thief, we'll call to you and say, 'officer, handcuff this man!' and you'll snap 'em on his wrist and lead him to jail." "all right!" agreed augustus. "give 'em to me." "later, when we're on his track," said bobby. "now, peter, you ought to plan a campaign. 'course, you aren't expected to find out anything, the local police never do; but nominally we're under your orders, so you must tell us to shadow some one." peter had been staring into space only half at tending to their prattle. bobby jogged his elbow. "pay attention, peter! we're waiting for orders. you ought to detail two plain-clothes men to watch the gates, and i think it would be well to shadow vittorio. he's a foreigner, you know; maybe he b'longs to the black hand. i shouldn't wonder if he was planning to blow up the stables. only," he added, as an afterthought, "it's sort of hard shadowing a man who stands by the hedge all day talking to annie." peter's frown darkened as his gaze sought the rustic bench under the apple tree. he had little spirit left for the boys' diversions, but he roused himself to say: "i'll turn the details o' the case over to you, master bobby. guard the gates, an' shadow anyone that seems suspicious. i'm drivin' joe's wife to the hospital this afternoon; ye can report at six o'clock, when i gets back." the four rose and saluted; they held a whispered consultation, and crept warily away in different directions. peter watched them out of sight with a wan smile, then turned inside to hitch up. the ladies of the family were spending the day in the city on a midsummer shopping expedition, so he had no fear of any demands issuing from the house. he called the under-groom, gave him strict orders not to leave the stables alone a minute, and drove on to the cottage to pick up joe's wife. she packed a basket for the invalid into the back of the cart, and climbed up beside peter. "i'm fetching him out something to eat," she explained. "they don't give him nourishment enough for a kitten. a man of joe's size can't keep up his strength on beef tea and soft-boiled eggs." as they drove through the gate, a small figure sprang out from the bushes in front of the astonished trixy's head. "i'm sorry to detain you," said bobby, with dignified aloofness--his expression suggested that he had never seen peter before--"but my orders are to search every person leaving the premises." "lord love you, master bobby! what are you playing at now?" inquired joe's wife with wide-eyed amazement. "i am robert carter, of the secret service," said bobby, icily, as he walked to the rear of the buckboard and commenced his search. "ha! what is this?" he raised the towel that covered the basket and suspiciously peered inside. it contained two pies, a quantity of doughnuts, and a jar of cherry preserves. "madam, may i ask where you obtained these articles?" his manner was so stern that she stammered her reply with an air of convicted guilt. "i--i made them myself. they're for joe in the hospital." "h'm!" said bobby. "as they are for charitable purposes, i will not confiscate the entire lot." he gravely abstracted two of the most sugary doughnuts and transferred them to his pocket. "these will be sufficient to exhibit at headquarters with a description of the rest. please favour me with your names and addresses." peter complied in all seriousness. evidently, his was a case of dual personality; he represented the local police only when he was not acting as coachman. he drove on with an amused grin. after all, the boys and their escapades added to the dull routine of daily life a spice of adventure which most twentieth century households lacked; the entertainment they furnished paid for the trouble they caused. three hours later peter set down joe's wife at the door of the cottage and drove on to the stables. as he rounded the corner, he perceived an excited group gathered under the apple tree where he had left annie and her kindergarten class. "there he is!" cried nora. "peter! come here quick." peter threw the lines to an adjacent groom--the one who had been told not to leave the stables--and hurriedly joined the circle. he found annie collapsed on her bench beside the baby-carriage, rocking back and forth, and sobbing convulsively, while the other servants crowded about her. "what's the matter?" he gasped. "they've stolen the baby!" annie wailed. peter felt a cold chill run up his back as he peered into the empty carriage. for a moment he was silent, struggling to grasp the full horror of the fact; then he laid a hand, none too lightly, on annie's shoulder, and shook her into a state of coherence. "stop yer noise an' tell me when it happened." "just now! just a few minutes ago. the baby was asleep, an' vittorio, he had some new flowers in the farther bed, an' he wanted me to tell him their name. i wasn't gone more'n five minutes, an' when i come back i peeked in to see if the baby was all right, an' the carriage was empty! we've hunted everywhere. he's gone--stolen just like the lap-robes." annie buried her head in her arms and commenced sobbing anew. peter's face reflected the blankness of the others. "lord! this is awful! what will its mother be sayin'?" annie's sobs increased at this agonizing thought. "it's them armenian-lace women," nora put in. "master bobby says they're gypsies, and are always stealing babies and holding them for ransom." "haven't ye done anything?" he cried. "didn't ye telephone for the p'lice?" "master bobby wouldn't let us. he says the local police are blind as bats and what we need are detectives. an' above all, he says, we must not let it get into the papers; his father is awful mad when anything gets into the papers. leave it to him, he says, and he'll have the gypsies shadowed." "this ain't no time for play," growled peter, whirling toward the house and the telephone. "what's that?" he stopped as his eye lighted upon a vivid sheet of paper lying on the ground. "it was pinned to the p-pillow," annie sobbed. peter snatched it up and stared for a moment in blank amazement. the words were printed in staggering characters, a bright vermilion in tone. place ten thousan doubbloons in gold in the hollo oak before sun rise and your baby shall be ristored fail and you wont never see him agen!! blood! blood! a flash of illumination swept over peter's face. there was an old barn at the end of the lane that had been moved back when the new stables were built. a few days before, peter, himself unobserved, had seen wallace knock three times on the door, and had heard a voice from inside respond: "who goes there?" "a friend," said wallace. "give the countersign." "blood!" "pass in," said the voice. the door had opened six inches while wallace squeezed through. peter had supposed it merely their latest play, unintelligible but harmless; now, however, he commenced putting two and two together. evidently, his was not the only case of dual personality. "gee! i'm a fool not to have thought of it," he muttered. "oh, pete!" annie implored. "do you know where he is?" peter controlled his features and gravely shook his head. "i can't say as i do, exactly, but this here paper furnishes a clue. i think p'raps i can find the baby without calling in the p'lice." he faced the others. "go back to the house and watch out that none o' them gypsy women comes prowlin' around." he waited until they were out of hearing, then he sat down on the bench by annie. "i'll find the kid on just one condition--ye're to let that dago alone. d'ye understand?" "get the baby, hurry--please! i'll talk to you afterward." "i think i'll be talkin' just a second now. ye know well enough i never had nothin' to do with that circassian beauty girl." "yes, yes, pete! i believe you. i know you didn't. please go." "stop thinkin' o' the kid a minute an' listen to me." he reached over and grasped her firmly by the wrist. "if i fetches him back without no hurt before his mother gets home, will everything be just the same between us as before i took ye to that infernal heart of asia?" "yes, pete, honest--i promise." her lips trembled momentarily into a smile. "i knew you didn't have nothing to do with her. i just wanted to make you mad." his grasp tightened. "ye succeeded all right." "ow, pete, let me go! you hurt." he dropped her wrist and rose to his feet. "mind, now, this is on the straight. i finds the kid an' we're friends again." she nodded and smiled into his eyes. peter smiled back, and swung off, whistling, down the lane. a rustling behind the hedge, and a scampering of feet, warned him that the enemy had posted scouts. he stilled his whistle and approached the old barn warily. it presented a blank face when he arrived; the door was shut and locked. he pounded three times. a startled movement occurred inside, but no challenge. he pounded again, more insistently, pushing with his shoulder until there was the sound of straining timber. "who goes there? give the countersign," issued from the keyhole in master augustus's tones. "blood!" said peter, with grim emphasis. a pause followed, during which he kept his ear to the crack. a whispered consultation was going on inside, then presently, a small window opened and master augustus's head appeared. "oh, pete! is dat you?" there was relief in his tone. "wait a minute an' i'll let you in. i was 'fraid it was gypsies." "well, it ain't gypsies; it's the local p'lice on the track o' stolen goods. you open up that door an' be quick about it!" a long wait ensued while augustus ineffectually fumbled with the lock, talking meanwhile to peter in as loud a voice as possible to drown the sound of movement behind him. the door was finally flung wide, and peter was received with a disarming smile. he stepped inside and peered about. "where have ye hid the other boys?" he demanded. "i'm a p'liceman," lisped augustus, with engaging inconsequence, "stationed here to guard de lane. i fought it was safest to keep de door locked for fear some more gypsy people might come along." "where's the ladder gone to that loft?" "de ladder?" augustus raised wide innocent eyes to the hole in the ceiling. "maybe de same person stole de ladder as stole de ovver fings." "maybe," peter assented genially, as he squinted up through the opening. the end of the ladder was visible, also the end of a rope-ladder, easier to haul up in emergencies. the clothes-line at least was accounted for. peter took off his coat, shoved a saw-horse under the opening, and sprang and caught the edge of the scuttle, while augustus, in a frenzy of remonstrance, danced below and shouted warnings. after a few convulsive kicks peter swung himself up and sat down on the edge of the scuttle to get his breath, while he took a preliminary survey of the room. there was no doubt but that he had tracked the robbers to their den. opposite him, in letters a foot high, the legend sprawled the length of the wall: tom sawyer's robber gang as his eyes roved about the room they lit on one familiar object after another. the four walls were hung with sheets; two pirate flags of black broadcloth (he recognized his lap-robes) fluttered overhead; the centre of the room was occupied by the umbrella-stand, upside down, serving as a pedestal for the bible, and the tomato stakes, made into cross swords, decorated the walls. the booty was there, but the thieves had escaped. a second, more thorough examination, however, betrayed in a shadowy corner, a slight bulging of the sheets, while sundry legs protruded from below. peter stalked over, and laying a firm grasp on the nearest ankle, plucked out master wallace from behind the arras. he set the boy on his feet and shook him. "what have ye done with that baby?" wallace dug his fists into his eyes and commenced to whimper. peter tried another cast, and fetched out master bobby. "hello, pete!" said bobby, with cheerful impudence. "you cough up that baby," said peter. "he's in the wash-boiler." bobby waved his hand airily toward the opposite end of the room. peter, still grasping bobby's collar with a touch unpleasantly firm, strode across and raised the lid. the baby was sleeping as peacefully as in his own perambulator. "we were just going to return him when you came." bobby's voice contained an increasing note of anxiety. "we fed him and sterilized his milk just like annie does. he's been having a bully time, laughing and crowing to beat the band. he likes adventures. it's terribly stupid lying all day in that carriage; a little change is good for his health." peter shook his captive. "what's the meanin' o' this?" his gesture included the entire interior. "we're robbers," said bobby, stanchly. "i'm huck finn, the red-handed, and jerome's tom sawyer, the terror of the plains. when we saw that baby left alone in the carriage, we thought we ought to teach annie a lesson. we meant to turn into detectives pretty soon and raid this robber den and take the baby back. we were just getting ready to be detectives when you came." "this is one time the local police got in first," observed peter. "what's that bible for?" "to take our oaths on." "huh! i guess yer mother will be havin' somethin' to say to that." he lowered the ladder and faced the robbers. there were three by this time: jerome had emerged of his own accord. "i'll take the baby meself. master bobby, ye follow with the bible; master jerome, ye rip the skull an' bones off them lap-robes, fold 'em up neat, an' put 'em in the closet where they b'long. i'll give ye just half an hour to break up this gang an' return the loot. master augustus!" peter bellowed down the trap, "fetch four pairs o' handcuffs an' have these robbers at the p'lice station in half an hour to hear their sentence." he shouldered the baby with awkward care, and retraced his steps toward the house. annie was still drooping on her bench. peter approached softly from behind. "here he is like i promised." "oh, pete! is he hurt?" she snatched the child from his arms and commenced anxiously examining his limbs for injuries. the baby grabbed her hair and cooed. she covered him with kisses. "where'd you find him?" "i found him--where i found him," said peter, cannily, "an' don't ye be leavin' him alone again." "i won't! i can't never thank you enough." "yes, ye can--by not flirtin' with that dago any more." "i wasn't flirtin' with him; he don't care nothin' about me. all he wants is to learn to talk." peter looked sceptical. "honest, pete! it's the livin' truth. i never flirted with no one, except--maybe you." peter's face softened momentarily, but it hardened again as a shadow fell between them. vittorio was standing on the other side of the hedge. "you find-a dat baby?" he inquired with an all-inclusive smile. as the fact was self-evident, nobody answered. vittorio was a romantic soul; he caught the breath of sentiment in the air. "annie you girl?" he inquired genially of peter. peter scowled without speaking. "i got-a girl too, name marietta. live-a napoli. some day i send-a money, she come americ'; marry wif me. nice girl, marietta. annie nice girl, too," he added, as a polite afterthought. "you marry wif her?" peter's face cleared. "some day, vittorio, if she'll be havin' me." he stole a side glance at annie. she rose with a quick flush. "quit your foolin', pete! 'tis time this baby was getting his supper. would you mind settin' his carriage on the porch? good night, vittorio." she tucked the baby under her arm and started, singing, for the house. peter put up the carriage and sauntered toward the stables in the utmost good humour. he found augustus with his prisoners drawn up in line, their wrists and ankles shackled together. augustus saluted. "i caught free robbers," he observed. "de ovver one 'scaped." peter drew his face into an expression of judicial sternness. "what have ye got to say for yourselves?" he growled. there was silence for a moment, then jerome ventured: "we're going away in three days. i shouldn't think at the very end you'd want to have hard feelings between us." "if you tell mother," bobby added, "you'll get annie into an awful lot of trouble. annie's been good to me. i'd hate to have her get a scolding." peter suppressed a grin. "ten years at solitary confinement is what ye deserve," he announced, "but since there's extenuatin' circumstances, i'll let ye go free on parole--providin' ye play base-ball all the rest o' the time." "i say, pete, you're bully!" "it's a bargain," said peter. "_an' mind ye keep to it._ officer, set free the prisoners." vii george washington's understudy "wait a moment, peter," miss ethel called from the veranda, as he was starting for the village with the daily marketing list. "i want you to drive around by red towers on your way home and leave this note for mrs. booth-higby." "very well, miss ethel." peter reined in trixy and received the note with a polite pull at his hat brim. "and, peter, you might use a little discretion. that is--i don't want her to know----" "you trust me, miss ethel; i'll fix it." her eyes met his for a second and she laughed. peter's face also relaxed its official gravity as he pocketed the note and started off. he understood well the inner feelings with which she had penned its polite phrases. a battle had been waging in the carter family on the subject of mrs. booth-higby, and the presence of the invitation in peter's pocket proved that miss ethel was vanquished. the invitation concerned a garden party to be given at willowbrook on the evening of the fifteenth, with the daughters of the revolution as guests of honour, and amateur theatricals as entertainment. peter knew all about it, having arduously assisted the village carpenter in the construction of rocks, boats, wigwams, log-cabins and primæval forests. he knew, also, that the chief attraction of the evening would not be the theatricals, but rather the presence of a young irish earl who was visiting mr. harry jasper. miss ethel was also entertaining guests, and the two households formed an exclusive party among themselves. the entire neighbourhood was agog at the idea of a live lord in their midst, but so far no one had seen him, except from a distance, as he was whirled past in mr. harry's motor, or trailed across the golf links in miss ethel's wake. she was planning to exhibit him publicly on the night of the garden party. the question of invitations had been difficult, particularly in the case of mrs. booth-higby. in regard to this lady society was divided into two camps, comprising those who received her and those who did not. miss ethel was firm in her adherence to those who did not, but her father and mother had tacitly slipped over to the other camp--mr. carter being a corporation lawyer, and mr. booth-higby a rising financier. peter likewise knew all about this, mrs. carter and her daughter having discussed the matter through the length of a seven-mile drive, while he sedulously kept his eyes on the horses' ears, that the smile which would not be suppressed might at least be unobserved. mrs. carter had maintained that, since mrs. booth-higby was a member of the society, not to invite her would be too open a slight. miss ethel had replied that the party was purely a social affair--she could invite whom she pleased--and she had added some pointed details. the woman's maiden name, as everyone knew, was maggie mcgarrah, and her father, previous to his political career, had kept a saloon; she was odious, pushing, _nouveau riche_; she dyed her hair and pencilled her eyebrows, she didn't have a thought in the world beyond clothes, and she flirted outrageously with every man who came near. peter's smile had broadened at this last item. it was, he shrewdly suspected, the keynote of the trouble. miss ethel had caught mr. harry jasper paying too assiduous attention to mrs. booth-higby's commands on the occasion of a recent polo game. peter felt that when mrs. carter and her daughter matched wills, the result was pretty even betting, and his sporting instincts were aroused. he had been interested, upon delivering the invitations, to see that there was none for the booth-higbys; and now his interest was doubly keen at receiving it three days late. miss ethel had succumbed to the weight of superior argument. he turned in between the ornate gates of red towers--the two posts surmounted by lions upholding a mythical coat of arms--and drew up in the shadow of an imposing _porte-cochère_. a gay group of ladies and gentlemen were gathered in lounging chairs on the veranda, engaged with frosted glasses of mint julep; while mrs. booth-higby herself, coifed and gowned as for an evening reception, was standing in the glass doors of the drawing-room. as her gaze fell upon peter she strolled toward him with a voluminous rustle of draperies. "whose man are you?" she inquired, with an air of languid condescension. peter's face reddened slightly. the entire group had ceased their conversation to stare. "mr. jerome carter's," he replied, fumbling for the note. "ah!" said mrs. booth-higby, with a lifting of the eyebrows. "it should have come three days ago," peter glibly lied. "miss carter give me a lot o' them to deliver; this one must have slipped down the crack between the cushions an' got overlooked. we come across it this mornin' when we was washin' the buckboard, so i drove over with it on me way home from the marketin'. i hope that it ain't important, and that ye won't feel called upon to tell miss carter? it would get me into trouble, ma'am." her face had cleared slightly during this recital; it was evident that she knew about the garden party, and had entertained emotions over the absence of her own invitation. she saw fit now to work off her stored-up anger upon the delinquent. peter knew his place, and respectfully swallowed the scolding, but he did it with a cordial assent to miss ethel's description of the lady's character. she ended by bidding him wait for an answer. he heard her say, as she swept down the veranda: "excuse me a moment while i answer this note. it's from ethel carter, jerome carter's daughter, you know"--evidently this was a name to conjure with--"an invitation to meet lord kiscadden. it should have come three days ago, but their man stupidly forgot to deliver it. he is begging me not to report him, though i feel that such carelessness really ought to be punished." she rustled on into the house, and peter sat for twenty minutes flicking the flies from trixy's legs. "an' she's a daughter o' tim mcgarrah!" he repeated to himself. there had been nothing snobbish about tim; he was hail-fellow-well-met with every voter east of broadway. "she's ashamed of him now," peter reflected, "and won't let on she ever heard the name; but the old man was ten times more a gentleman than his daughter is a lady, for all his saloon!" his cogitations came to an end as mrs. booth-higby rustled back, a delicately tinted envelope in her hand and a more indulgent smile upon her lips. "there are to be theatricals?" she inquired, in a note of forgiveness. "i believe so, ma'am." "is lord kiscadden to take part?" "can't say, ma'am." peter, as scene-shifter, had had ample opportunity to study lord kiscadden's interpretation of the character of george washington--his lordship, with a fine sense of humour, had himself selected the rôle--but at mention of the name, peter's face was blank. "is he to remain much longer at jasper place?" she persisted. "haven't heard him say, ma'am." she abandoned her pursuit of news, handed him the note, and graciously added ten cents. peter touched his hat gravely, murmured, "thank ye, ma'am," and drove away. at the foot of the lawn the booth-higby peacock--supposedly a decoration for the italian garden, but given to wandering out of bounds--trailed its plumage across his path. peter shied his ten cents at the bird's head, with the muttered wish that the coin had been large enough really to accomplish damage. the day of the garden party showed a clear sky above, and peter was up with the dawn and at work. miss ethel had appointed him her right-hand man, and though he had the entire stable and house force to help him, he found the responsibility wearing. he was feeling what it was to be a captain of industry. he superintended the raising of a supper tent on the lawn, strung coloured electric bulbs among the branches of the trees, saw the furniture moved out of the drawing-room and a hundred camp chairs moved in. he spent the afternoon shifting scenery for the dress rehearsal; but finally, close upon six, he shoved plymouth rock back into place for the first tableau, and, with a sigh of relief, turned toward the kitchen. he felt that he had earned a fifteen-minutes' chat with annie. but fresh trouble awaited him. he found mrs. carter and nora in anxious consultation. the ice-cream had not come; and the expressman, who had already met three trains, said that he could not deliver it now until morning. mrs. carter pounced upon peter. "is miss ethel through with you? then drive to the station immediately and meet the six-twenty train. if it isn't on that, stop at gunther's and tell them they will _have_ to make me seven gallons of ice-cream before ten o'clock to-night. it's disgraceful! i shall never engage perry to cater again. and tell the expressman that i consider him very disobliging," she threw after him. an hour and a half later he dumped three kegs of ice and brine on the back veranda, and was turning away, cheered by the near hope of his long-postponed supper when annie hailed him from the kitchen window. "hey, pete! wait a minute. miss ethel said, as soon as you got back, for me to send you to the library." "what are they wantin' now?" he growled. "i'll be glad when that bloomin' young lord takes himself home to ireland where he b'longs. between picnics an' ridin' parties an' clambakes an' theatricals, i ain't had a chance to sit down since he come." annie shoved a chair toward him. "then now's your chance, for he's gone. a telegram came calling him away, an' mr. harry's just back from motoring him to the station." "praise be to the saints!" said peter, and he turned toward the library door. he found miss ethel, the two young ladies who were visiting her, and mr. harry jasper gathered in a pensive group before the gauze screen that stretched across the front of the stage. "here he is!" cried miss ethel, with an assumption of energy. "put on this hat and wig, peter, and stand behind the screen. i want to see what you look like." peter apathetically complied. he had received so many extraordinary commands during the past few days that nothing stirred his curiosity. "bully!" said mr. harry. "never'd know him in the world." "we'll lower the lights," said miss ethel. "fortunately the gauze is thick." "peter," mr. harry faced him with an air of tragic portent, "a grave calamity has befallen the state. the rightful heir has been spirited away, and it's imperative that we find a substitute. i've often remarked, peter, upon the striking resemblance between you and lord kiscadden. in that lies our only hope. it's a prisoner of zenda situation. often occurs in novels. do you think it might be carried out in real life?" "can't say, sir," peter blinked dazedly. "be sensible, harry!" miss ethel silenced him. "peter, lord kiscadden has been suddenly called away, and it spoils our tableaux for this evening. fortunately, he didn't have a speaking part. you've watched him rehearse--do you think you could take his place?" "don't believe i could, ma'am." peter's face did not betray enthusiasm. "you'll _have_ to do it!" said miss ethel. "it's too late now to find anyone else." "you're george washington," mr. harry cut in. "father of his country. only man on earth who never told a lie--no one will recognize you in that part, peter." "here are the clothes." miss ethel bundled them into his arms. "you saw lord kiscadden this afternoon, so you know how they go. be sure you get your wig on straight, and powder your face _thick_! it's half-past seven; you will have to dress immediately." "i ain't had no supper," peter stolidly observed. "annie will give you something to eat in the kitchen. we won't tell anybody except the few who are with you in the tableaux. the operetta cast have never seen lord kiscadden, and won't know the difference. the minute the tableaux are over you can disappear, and we will explain that you have been suddenly called away." a slow grin spread over peter's face. "are ye wantin' me to talk like him?" he inquired. his lordship's idiom had been the subject of much covert amusement among the servants; peter could mimic it to perfection. "i don't quite ask that," miss ethel laughed, "but at least keep still. don't talk at all except to us. you can pretend you are shy." "what did she want, pete?" annie inquired, with eager curiosity as he reappeared. peter exhibited his clothes. "don't speak to me so familiar! i'm lord kiscadden o' county cark. me family is straight descinded from the kings of ireland, and i'm masqueradin' as george washington who never told a lie." an hour later, peter, in knee breeches and lace ruffles, with hat comfortably cocked toward his left ear, was sitting at ease on a corner of the kitchen table, dangling two buckled shoes into space, while a cigarette emerged at an acute angle from the corner of his mouth. his appearance suggested a very rakish caricature of the immortal first president. the maids were gathered in a giggling group about the young man, when miss ethel and mr. harry, also in costume, appeared in the kitchen door. the effect on george washington was electrical; he removed his cigarette, slid to the floor, straightened his spinal column, and awaited orders. mr. harry carried a make-up box under his arm. he covered the groom's face with a layer of powder, redirected the curve of his eyebrows, added a touch of rouge, and stepped back to view the effect. "perfect!" cried miss ethel. "no one on earth would recognize him." "peter," mr. harry gravely schooled him, "these are your lines for the evening; say them after me: 'by jove! ripping! oh, i say! fancy, now!'" peter unsmilingly repeated his lesson. "and no matter what anybody says to you, you are not to go beyond that. understand?" "yes, sir. i'll do me best, sir." there was an anxious gleam in peter's eye; he was suddenly being assailed by stage fright. "your first appearance is in the fourth tableau, where you say good-bye to your family before taking command of the army," miss ethel explained. "the moment it's over slip out to change your costume, and stay out until after the declaration of independence has been signed. don't stand around the wings where people can talk to you. now go and wait in the butler's pantry until you are called." washington took an affecting leave of his family amid an interested rustling of programmes on the part of the audience; no one was unaware of the exalted identity of the hero. the applause was enthusiastic, and the curtain was twice raised. as it fell for the last time a group of historical personages from the operetta cast hovered about him with congratulatory whispers. one or two were in the secret, but the rest were not. mr. harry, as stage manager, waved them off. "clear the boards for the next scene," he whispered hoarsely. "here, kiscadden, you'll have to hurry and dress. you cross the delaware in ten minutes." with a hand on george washington's shoulder he marched him off. "that was splendid, peter," mr. harry whispered, as he shunted him into the butler's pantry. "not a soul suspected. you stay here until you are wanted." the delaware was crossed without mishap, also the night watch kept at valley forge. washington and lafayette crouched over their camp fire amidst driving snow, while the audience shivered in sympathy. but unluckily, these tableaux were followed by no change of costume, and several others intervened before peter's next appearance. as he was anxiously trying to obliterate himself in the shadow of plymouth rock, he heard some one behind him whisper: "let's cut out and have a smoke. it's deucedly hot in here." he turned to find miles standish of the operetta cast, with an insistent hand on his elbow. miles standish, in private life, was a young man whose horse peter had held many a time, and whose tips were always generous. there seemed to be no polite means of escape, and peter, with a suppressed grin, followed his companion to the veranda. it was lighted by a subdued glow from coloured lanterns, but there was an occasional patch of dimness. he picked out a comfortable chair and shoved it well into the shadow of a convenient palm. standish produced cigars--twenty-five-cent havanas, peter noted appreciatively--and the two fell into conversation. fortunately the young man aspired to the reputation of a _raconteur_, and he willingly bore most of the burden. peter kept his own speeches as short as possible, manfully overcoming a tendency to end his sentences with "sir." an occasional interpolation of "by jove!" or "i say!" in imitation of lord kiscadden's lazy drawl, was as far as he was required to go. he came out of the encounter with colours still flying; but a perilous ten minutes followed. as the two strolled back to the stage entrance, they were intercepted by a gay group of pilgrim maids. peter had coped successfully with one young man, but he realized that half a dozen young ladies were quite beyond his powers of repartee. one of them threw him a laughing compliment on his acting, and he felt himself growing pink as he murmured with a spasmodic gulp: "yes, ma'am. thank ye, ma'am--i say!" the orchestra saved the situation by striking into a rollicking quickstep that made talking difficult. the music in the end went to peter's heels; and grasping a blue and buff coat tail in either hand, he favoured the company with an irish jig. this served better than conversation; the laughter and applause were uproarious, bringing down upon them the wrath of the stage manager. "here you people, _taisez-vous_! you're making such a racket they can hear you inside. ah, kiscadden! you're wanted on the stage; it's time for cornwallis to surrender." peter was marched out of danger's way. the surrender was followed by the operetta in which miss ethel was heroine. her own affairs claimed her, but she paused long enough to whisper in george washington's ear: "you may go now, peter. you've done very nicely. slip out through the butler's pantry where no one will see you. change into your own clothes and help them in the kitchen about serving supper--but don't on _any_ account step into the front part of the house again to-night." "yes, ma'am," said peter, meekly. he found the entrance to the butler's pantry blocked, and he dived into the empty conservatory, intending to pass thence to the veranda, and so get around to the kitchen the outside way. but as he reached the veranda door he ran face to face into mrs. booth-higby. peter quickly backed into a fern-hung nook to let her pass. the light was dim, but his costume was distinctive; after a moment of hesitating scrutiny she bore down upon him. "oh, it's george washington!--lord kiscadden, i should say. i see by the programme that your part is finished. it was so frightfully warm inside that i slipped out to get a breath of air. may i introduce myself? i am mrs. booth-higby, of red towers. i trust that you will drop in often while you are in the neighbourhood. i have so wanted to have a chance to talk to you because you come from ireland--dear old ireland! i am irish myself on the side that isn't colonial, and i have a warm spot in my heart for everything green." peter manfully bit back the only observation that occurred to him while the lady rattled on: "my irish connection is three generations back--a younger son, you know, who came to make his way in a new land, and, having married into one of the old colonial families, settled for good. but once irish, always irish, i say. my heart warms to the little ragamuffins in the street if they have a bit of the brogue. it's the call of the blood, i suppose. shall we sit here? or perhaps you have an engagement--don't let me keep you----" he summoned what breath was left and confusedly murmured: "oh, i say! ripping!" they settled themselves on a rustic bench, and peter, possessing himself of her fan, slowly waved it to and fro in the nonchalant manner of mr. harry. mrs. booth-higby, fortunately, was no less garrulous than miles standish had been, and she rattled on gaily, barely pausing for her companion's english interpolations. peter's feelings were divided. he had the amused consciousness that he was being flirted with by the lady who, three days before, had so condescendingly given him ten cents. and he also had a chilly apprehension of the storm that would rise if by any mischance she discovered the hoax. but his fighting blood was up, and he was excited by past success. he abandoned his interjections and, venturing out for himself, recounted an anecdote of a fellow countryman in an excellent imitation of irish brogue. the effort was received with flattering applause. after all, he reassured himself, this was not his funeral, miss ethel and mr. harry must bear all blame; with which care-free shifting of responsibility he settled himself to extract what amusement there might be in the situation. the curtain finally fell on the last act of the play, and a shuffling of feet and moving of chairs betokened that a general exodus would follow. peter came back with a start to a realization of his predicament. while confidence in his powers of simulation had been rising steadily during the past half-hour, he still doubted his ability to deal with the audience _en masse_. but fortunately, the first two to appear in the conservatory were miss ethel and mr. harry, engaged entirely with their own affairs, all thought of the pseudo kiscadden put from their minds. as they became aware of the couple in the fernery, they stopped short with a gasp of surprise. "why, pet----" miss ethel caught herself, and summoning a cordial tone added quickly: "lord kiscadden! a telegram came a long time ago--i thought you had received it? i'm afraid they stopped the boy in the kitchen." "oh, i say, by jove! fancy now!" george washington jumped hastily to his feet. "pleased to know ye, ma'am," he added with a farewell duck of his head; and without waiting for further words, he vaulted the veranda railing and disappeared around the corner of the house. he lingered a moment in the shrubbery to hear her say: "lord kiscadden and i have been having such an interesting evening! what a delicious accent he has! you must bring him to red towers, mr. jasper. i feel that he really belongs to me more than to you; we have discovered that we are distant connections. it seems that his grandmother, the third lady kiscadden, was a mcgarrah before she married. my own family name was mcgarrah, and----" peter put his hand over his mouth to stifle his feelings, and reeled toward the kitchen porch. an hour later, when supper was finished, miss ethel and mr. harry jasper slipped away from the guests and turned toward the kitchen. they paused for a moment in the butler's pantry, arrested by the sound of peter's voice as he discoursed in his richest brogue to an appreciative group of maids. his theme was the daughters of the revolution--he had evidently kept his ears open during his brief introduction to society. "me father was a malone, an' me mother was a haggerty. the family settled in america in b. c., all me ancistors on both sides bein' first-cabin passengers on the _mayflower_. we're straight discinded from gov'nor bradford, an' me fifth great-grandfather was the first man hung in the united states. malone's a scotch name--it used to be douglas, but it got changed in the pronouncin'--an' haggerty is frinch. i'm eligible on both sides, an' me mother was a charter member. yes, 'tis a great society; the object of it is to keep the country dimocratic." they pushed open the door and entered. peter, restored to his own clothes, was seated before the kitchen table engaged, between sentences, with a soup plate full of ice-cream. he shuffled hastily to his feet as the two appeared, and with a somewhat guilty air studied their faces. he was trying to remember what he had said last. "peter," miss ethel's voice was meant to be severe, "what have you been telling mrs. booth-higby?" peter shifted his weight anxiously from one foot to the other. "nothin', ma'am." "nothing--nonsense! she is going about telling everybody that she is lord kiscadden's cousin. she never made up any such impossible story as that without help." miss ethel's manner was sternly reproving, but peter caught a gleam of malicious amusement in her eye. it occurred to him that she was not averse to an exhibition of mrs. booth-higby's folly before mr. harry jasper. "i wasn't to blame, miss ethel. i couldn't get out by the butler's pantry like ye told me because the hartridge family was blockin' the way, and i knew they'd recognize me if i come within ten feet. so i thinks to meself, i'll go through the conservatory; but just as i reaches the door i runs plumb into mrs. booth-higby. "'oh, me dear lord kiscadden,' she says, 'you was the b'y i was wantin' to see! i must tell ye,' she says, 'how i've enjoyed yer actin'; 'twas great,' she says, 'ye was the best person in the whole show.' an' wid that she puts a hand on me arm an' never lets go for an hour and a quarter--ye know, mr. harry, how graspin' she is." peter appealed to him as one man to another. "she begun with askin' about me estate in dear old ireland. bein' only eighteen months old when i left it, i couldn't remember many details, but i used me imagination an' done the best i could. i told her there was two lions sittin' on the gate-posts holdin' me coat-of-arms in their paws; i told her there was two towers to the castle, and a peacock strollin' on the lawn; an' then f'r fear she'd be gettin' suspicious, i thought to change the subject. 'yes, 'tis a beautiful house,' i says, 'but it ain't so grand as some. the biggest place in the neighbourhood,' i says, 'is castle mcgarrah'--the name just popped into me head, miss ethel. "'mcgarrah!' she says, 'that is me own name.' "'the divvil!' thinks i. 'i've put me foot in it now.' but 't was too late to go back. 'possibly the same family,' says i, politely. 'the present owner, sir timothy mcgarrah----' "'timothy!' she says, 'that was me father's name, an' me grandfather's before him.' "'there's always one son in ivery gineration that carries it,' says i. "'can it be possible?' she murmurs to herself. "'me own grandmother was a daughter to the second sir timothy,' i says, 'him as quarrelled with his youngest son an' drove him from home. some says he went to australia, an' some that he come to america. 'twas fifty years ago, an' all trace is lost o' the lad.' "an' with that she says solemn like, 'the b'y was me grandfather! i see it all--he was a silent man an' he niver talked of his people; but i always felt there was a secret a preyin' on his mind. an' by that token we're cousins,' she says. 'i must insist that ye make red towers yer home while ye stay in america. me husband,' she says, 'will enjoy yer acquaintance.' "an' while i was tryin' to tell her polite like that 't would be a pleasure, but unfortunately me engagements would require me presence in another place, you an' mr. harry come walkin' into the conservatory, and i made me escape." "what ever possessed you to tell such outrageous lies?" miss ethel gasped. "'twas the clothes that done it, ma'am; bein' dressed as george washington, i couldn't think o' nothin' true that was fit to say." miss ethel dropped limply into a chair, and leaning her head on the back, laughed until she cried. "peter," she said, wiping the tears from her eyes, "i don't see but what i shall have to discharge you. i should never dare let you drive past mrs. booth-higby's again." "there's nothin' to fear," said peter, tranquilly. "she won't recognize me, ma'am. mrs. booth-higby's eyes ain't focussed to see a groom." viii a usurped prerogative peter scooped a quart of oats into a box, took out the bottle of liniment the veterinary surgeon had left, and started, grumbling, for the lower meadow. trixy had hurt her foot, and it was billy's fault. a groom who knew no better than to tie a horse to a barbed-wire fence on a day when the flies were bad, ought, in peter's estimation, to be discharged. he had some trouble in catching trixy and applying the liniment, but he finally accomplished the matter, and dropped down to rest in the shade of the straggling hedge that divided the grounds of willowbrook from jasper place. he lighted his pipe and fell to a lazy contemplation of the pasture--his thoughts neither of trixy nor the cows nor anything else pertaining to his duties, but now as always playing with a glorified vision of annie, the prettiest little parlour-maid in the whole wide world. he was completely lost to his surroundings, when the sound of pistol shots on the other side of the hedge recalled him to the present with a jerk. "what are them young devils up to now?" he muttered, as he raised himself to look through the branches. a group of boys was visible down on the jasper beach, firing, somewhat wildly, toward a target they had set up on the bank. peter squinted his eyes and peered closely; one of the boys was bobby carter, and peter more than suspected that the revolver was his father's. the boy had been strictly forbidden to play with firearms, and peter's first impulse was to interfere; but on second thoughts he hesitated. bobby was very recently thirteen, and was feeling the importance of no longer being a little boy. he would not relish being told to come home and mind his father. while peter stood hesitating, a sudden frightened squawk rang out, and he saw one of mr. jasper's guinea fowls fly a few feet into the air and plump heavily to the ground. at the same instant patrick appeared at the top of the meadow, bearing down upon the scene of the crime, shouting menacingly as he advanced. the boys broke and ran. they came crashing through the hedge a few feet from peter and made for cover in a clump of willows. peter recognized them all--bobby and bert holliday and the two hartridge boys, the latter the horror of all well-regulated parents. he saw them part, the two hartridge boys heading for the road, while bobby and bert holliday turned toward the house, keeping warily under the bank, bobby buttoning the revolver inside his jacket as he ran. peter crouched under the branches and laid low; he had no desire to be called into the case as witness. patrick panted up to the hedge and surveyed the empty stretch of meadow with a disappointed grunt. he caught a glimpse of the hartridge boys as they climbed the fence into the high-road, but they were too far off for recognition. he mopped his brow and lumbered back to examine the body of the guinea fowl. poor patrick was neither so slender nor so young as when he entered mr. jasper's service twenty years before; as he daily watched peter's troubles across the hedge, he thanked the saints that the jasper family contained no boys. peter waited till patrick was well out of sight, when he rose and turned back toward the stables. he met bobby and bert holliday in the lane, armed with a net, a basket, and a generous hunk of raw meat. "hello, pete!" bobby hailed him cheerily. "we're going crabbing, bert and me. if you hear nora asking after some soup meat that strayed out of the refrigerator, don't let on you met it." "trust me!" said peter with an answering grin; but he turned and looked after the boys a trifle soberly. bobby's escapade with the revolver was on a different plane from such mild misdemeanours as abstracting fishing bait from the kitchen. peter felt keenly that mr. carter ought to know, but he shrank from the idea of telling. for one thing, he hated tale-bearing; for another, he had a presentiment as to the direction bobby's punishment would take. as an indirect result of his thirteenth birthday, the boy was to have a new horse--not another pony, but a grown-up horse--provided always that he was good. mr. carter, being occupied with business out of town, had not been able to give the matter his immediate attention; and poor bobby had been dwelling on the cold heights of virtue for nearly a month. he had undergone, a week or so before, a mild attack of three-day measles which he had borne with a sweet gentleness quite foreign to his nature. peter had openly scouted the doctor's diagnosis of the case. "rats!" he remarked to annie, after viewing the boy's speckled surface. "that ain't measles. it's his natural badness working out. i knew it weren't healthy for him to be so good. if mr. carter don't make up his mind about that horse pretty soon the boy'll go into a decline." but at last the question was on the point of being settled. mr. carter, having visited every horse dealer in the neighbourhood, had, in his carefully methodical manner, almost made up his mind. the choice was a wiry little mustang, thin-limbed and built for running; he could give even blue gypsy some useful lessons in speed, and she had a racing pedigree four generations long. peter had fallen in love with the mustang; he wanted it almost as much as bobby. and he realized that these next few days were a critical period; if the boy were discovered in any black offence, the horse would be postponed until his fourteenth birthday. his father had an unerring sense of duty in the matter of punishments. it was saturday and mr. carter would be out on the noon train. peter drove to the station to meet him, still frowning over the question of bobby and the revolver. he finally decided to warn the boy; there would be time enough to speak if the offence were repeated. mr. carter proved to be in an unusually genial frame of mind. he chatted all the way out on matters pertaining to the stables; and as they drew up at the _porte-cochère_ he paused to ask: "ah, peter, about this new mustang for master bobby, what do you think?" "he's a fine horse, sir, though i suspicion not too well broke. but he's got a good pair o' legs--i should say two pair, sir--an' sound wind. that's the main thing. we can finish his trainin' ourselves." "then you advise me to get him?" "i should say that ye wouldn't be makin' no mistake. i'll be glad, sir, to see master bobby with a horse of his own. he's gettin' too heavy for toddles." "very well. i'll do it. you may have blue gypsy saddled immediately after luncheon and i will ride over to shannon farms and close the deal." at two o'clock blue gypsy stood pawing impatiently before the library door with peter soothingly patting her neck. mr. carter paused on the steps to survey her shining coat with the complaisant approval of ownership. "pretty good animal, isn't she, peter?" "she is that," said peter, heartily. "you'd search a long time before----" his sentence broke down in the middle as his eye wandered to the stretch of lawn beyond the hedge. patrick was visible hurrying toward them, a white envelope waving in his hand, plainly bent on gaining the hole in the hedge and mr. carter's side before that gentleman's departure. peter tried to cover his slip and induce his master to mount and ride off; but it was too late. "here, peter, just hold her a minute longer. i think that note is for me." patrick with some difficulty squeezed himself through the hole--it had been made originally by mr. harry so that he might run over and call on miss ethel without having to go around; and mr. harry was thin. patrick emerged with hair awry and puffing. he stood anxiously mopping his brow while mr. carter read the note. peter likewise eyed his master with a touch of anxiety; he had a foreboding that the contents of the letter meant no good to the cause of the new mustang. mr. carter ran his eye down the page with a quickly gathering frown and then faced the man. "you saw my son shoot the guinea fowl?" "no, sir--that is, sir, i ain't sure. mr. jasper he asked me who i thought the boys was, and i told him i didn't get close enough to see, but i fancied one was bobby carter, because they run this way, and i thought i recognized master bobby's legs as he crawled under the hedge. i told mr. jasper it was only guess, but he was mad because she was one of his prize hens, and he said he'd just drop a line to you and let you investigate. it was dangerous, he said, if master bobby was playin' with firearms, and you'd ought to know it." "yes, certainly; i understand." mr. carter raised his voice and called to the boy who was visible sprawling on a bench by the tennis-court. "bobby! come here." he pulled himself together with obedient haste and advanced to meet his father, somewhat apprehensively, as his eye fell upon patrick. "bobby, here is a note from mr. jasper. he says that some boys were shooting at a target on his beach this morning and killed one of his prize guinea fowls. he is not sure, but he thinks that you may have been one of them. how about it?" bobby looked uncomprehending for a moment while he covertly studied patrick. the man's air was apologetic; his accusation was evidently based upon suspicion rather than proof. "i went crabbing with bert holliday this morning," said bobby. "ah!" his father's face cleared, though he still maintained his stern tone. "i gave you strict orders, you remember, never to touch my revolver when i was not with you?" "yes, father." "you never have touched it?" "no." bobby's tone was barely audible. "speak up! i can't hear you." "no!" snapped bobby. "don't act that way. i am not accusing you of anything. i merely wish to know the truth." mr. carter turned to patrick, who was nervously fumbling with his hat. "you see, patrick, you were mistaken. tell mr. jasper that i am sorry about the guinea fowl, but that master bobby had nothing to do with the shooting." he dismissed the man with a nod, and mounted and rode away. peter watched him out of sight, then he turned and crossed the lawn to the tennis-court. bobby was back on his bench again engaged in carving his name on the handle of a racket, though his face, peter noted, did not reflect much pleasure in the work. he glanced up carelessly as peter approached, but as he caught the look in his eye, he flushed quickly, and with elaborate attention applied himself to shaping a "c." peter sat down on the end of the bench and regarded him soberly. he was uncertain in his own mind how he ought to deal with the case, but that it must be dealt with, and drastically, he knew. peter was by no means a puritan. the boy could accomplish any amount of mischief--go crabbing instead of to sunday-school, play fox and geese over the newly sprouted garden, break windows and hotbeds, steal cake from the pantry and peaches from judge benedict's orchard, and peter would always shield him. his code of morals was broad, but where he did draw the line he drew it tight. bobby's sins must be the sins of a gentleman, and peter's definition of "gentleman" was old fashioned and strict. bobby grew restless under the silent scrutiny. "what do you want?" he asked crossly. "if you don't look out you'll make me cut my hand." he closed the large blade with an easy air of unconcern, and opening a smaller one, fell to work again. the knife was equipped with five blades and a corkscrew; it was one of the dignities to which bobby had attained on his recent birthday. peter stretched out his hand and, taking possession of the knife, snapped it shut and returned it. "put it in yer pocket an' pay attention to me." "oh, don't bother, pete. i'm busy." "your father will be home before long," said peter, significantly. "well, fire ahead. what do you want?" "ye told a lie--two o' them, to be accurate. ye were one o' them boys that shot the chicken an' ye did have the pistol." "i didn't shoot his old chicken; it was bert holliday. and anyway he didn't mean to; it flew straight in front of the target just as he fired." "he had no business to be firin'. but it's not the chicken i'm mournin' about; it's the lie." "it's none of your business," said bobby, sullenly. "then i'll make it me business! either ye goes to yer father an' tells him ye lied, or i will. ye can take yer choice." "peter," bobby began to plead, "he'll not give me the mustang--you know he won't. i didn't mean to touch the revolver, but bert forgot his air rifle, and the boys were waiting to have a shooting match. i won't do it again--honest, peter--hope to die." "it ain't no use, master bobby. ye can't wheedle me. ye told a lie an' ye've got to be punished. gentlemen don't tell lies--leastways, not direct. they hires a lawyer like judge benedict to do it for them. if ye keep on ye'll grow to be like the judge yerself." bobby smiled wanly. the judge, as peter knew well, was his chiefest aversion, owing to an unfortunate meeting under the peach trees. "you've told lots of lies yourself!" "there's different kinds o' lies," said peter, "an' this is the kind that i don't tell. it ain't that i'm fond o' carrying tales," he added, "but that i wants to see ye grow up to be a thoroughbred." bobby changed his tactics. "father'll feel awfully bad; i hate to have him find it out." peter suppressed a grin. "boys ought always to be considerate o' their fathers' feelin's," he conceded. "and you know, pete, that you want me to have the mustang. you said yourself that it was a shame for a big boy like me to be riding toddles." peter folded his arms and studied the distance a moment with thoughtful eyes; then he faced his companion with the air of pronouncing an ultimatum. "i'll tell ye what i'll do, master bobby, since ye're so anxious to save yer father's feelin's. i'll agree not to mention the matter, an' ye can take yer punishment from me at the end of a strap." bobby stared. "do you mean," he gasped, "that you want to whip me?" "well, no, i can't say as i _want_ to, but i think it's me dooty. if ye was a stable-boy and i caught ye in a lie like that, i'd wallop ye till ye couldn't stand." "i never was whipped in my life!" "the more reason ye need it now. i've often thought, master bobby, that a thorough lickin' would do ye good." bobby sprang to his feet. "tell him if you want. i don't care!" "just as ye please. he's over to shannon farms now buyin' the mustang. when he gets back an' finds his son is a liar and a coward, he'll be returnin' that horse by telephone." bobby's flight was suspended while he hung wavering between indignation and desire. "there it is," said peter. "i won't go back on me word. either ye keeps a whole skin an' rides toddles another year, or ye takes yer lickin' like a man an' gets the horse. ye can have an hour to think it over." he rose and sauntered unconcernedly toward the stables. bobby stared after him, several different emotions struggling for supremacy in his freckled face; then he plunged his hands deep into his pockets and turned down the lane with an attempt at a swagger as he passed the stable door. at the paddock gate toddles poked his shaggy little head through the bars and whinnied insistently. but bobby, instead of bestowing the expected lump of sugar, shoved him viciously with his elbow and scuffed on. he seated himself precariously on the top rail of the pasture fence and fell to digging holes in the wood with his new knife, cogitating meanwhile the two alternatives he had been invited to consider. they appealed to him as equally revolting. only that morning he had carelessly informed the boys that his father was going to buy him a mustang--a brown and white circus mustang that was trained to stand on its hind legs. the humiliation of losing the horse was more than he could face. yet, on the other hand, to be beaten like a stable-boy for telling a lie! he had boasted to the hartridge boys, who did not enjoy such immunity, that he had never received a flogging in his life. he might have stood it from his father--but from peter! peter, who had always been his stanchest ally, who, on occasion, had even deviated from the strict truth himself in order to shield bobby from justice. the boy already had his full quota of parents; he did not relish having peter usurp the rôle. for thirty minutes he balanced on the fence, testing first one then the other of the horns of his dilemma. but suddenly he saw, across the fields where the high-road was visible, a horse and rider approaching at a quick canter. he slid down and walked with an air of grim resolution to the stables. peter was in the harness-room busily engaged in cleaning out the closet. the floor was a litter of buckles and straps and horse medicine. "well?" he inquired, as bobby appeared in the door. "you can give me that licking if you want," said bobby, "but i tell you now, _i'll pay you back_!" "all right!" said peter, cheerfully, reaching for a strap that hung behind the door. "i'm ready if you are. we'll go down in the lower meadow where there won't be no interruption." he led the way and bobby followed a dozen paces behind. they paused in a secluded clump of willows. "take yer coat off," said peter. bobby cast him one appealing glance, but his face was adamant. "take it off," he repeated. bobby complied without a word, his own face growing white. peter laid on the strap six times. he did not soften the blows in the slightest; it was exactly the same flogging that a stable-boy would have received under the same circumstances. two tears slipped down bobby's cheeks, but he set his jaw hard and took it like a man. peter dropped the strap. "i'm sorry, master bobby. i didn't like it any better than you, but it had to be done. are we friends?" he held out his hand. "no, we're not friends!" bobby snapped. he turned his back and put on his coat; then he started for the house. "you'll be sorry," he threw over his shoulder. during the next few days bobby ignored peter. if he had any business in the neighbourhood of the stables he addressed himself ostentatiously to one of the under men. the rupture of their friendship did not pass unmarked, though the grooms soon found that it did not pay to be facetious on the subject. billy, in return for some jocular comments, spent an afternoon in adding a superfluous lustre to already brilliant carriage lamps. the mustang arrived, was christened apache, and assigned to a box stall. he possessed a slightly vicious eye and a tendency to buck, as two of the grooms found to their cost while trying to ride him bareback in the paddock. peter shook his head dubiously as he watched the unseating of the second groom. "we'll put a curb bit on that horse. i don't just like his looks for a youngster to ride." "huh!" said billy, "master bobby ain't such a baby as everybody thinks; he can manage him all right." word came out from the house that afternoon that bobby was to try the new mustang. billy saddled the horses--apache, and blue gypsy for miss ethel, and a cob for peter--and led them out, while peter in his most immaculate riding clothes swaggered after. the maids were all on the back porch and the family at the _porte-cochère_ to watch the departure. bobby would accept no assistance, but mounted from the ground with a fine air of pride. apache plunged a trifle, but the boy was a horseman and he stuck to his saddle. "be careful, bobby," his mother warned. "you needn't worry about me," bobby called back gaily. "i'm not afraid of any horse living!" blue gypsy never stood well, and miss ethel was already off. bobby started to follow, but he wheeled about to say: "you come, billy; i don't want peter." "bobby, dear," his mother expostulated, "you don't know the horse; it would be safer----" "i want billy! i won't go if peter has to come tagging along." peter removed his foot from the stirrup and passed the horse over to the groom. the cavalcade clattered off and he walked slowly back to the stables. he felt the slight keenly. he could remember when he had held bobby, a baby in short dresses, on the back of his father's hunter, when he had first taught the little hands to close about a bridle. and now, when the boy had his first horse, not to go! peter's feeling for bobby was almost paternal; the slight hurt not only his pride but his affections as well. he spent an hour puttering about the carriage room, whistling a cheerful two-step and vainly pretending to himself that he felt in a cheerful frame of mind. then suddenly his music and his thoughts were interrupted by the ringing of the house telephone bell, long and insistently. he sprang to the instrument and heard annie's voice, her words punctuated by frightened sobs. "oh, pete! is that you? something awful's happened. there's been an accident. master bobby's been throwed. the doctor's telephoned to get a room ready and have a nurse from the hospital here. you're to hitch up arab as fast as you can and drive to the hospital after her. oh, i hope he won't die!" she wailed. peter dropped the receiver and ran to arab's stall. he led him out and threw on the harness with hands that trembled so they could scarcely fasten a buckle. "why can't i learn to mind me own business?" he groaned. "what right have i to be floggin' master bobby?" the young woman whom peter brought back decided before the end of the drive that the man beside her was crazy. all that she could get in return for her inquiries as to the gravity of the accident was the incoherent assertion: "he's probably dead by now, ma'am, and if he is it's me that done it." as they turned in at the willowbrook gate peter strained forward to catch sight of the house. a strange coupé was drawn up before the _porte-cochère_. he involuntarily pulled arab to a standstill and looked away, but the nurse reached out and grasped the reins. "here, man, what is the matter with you? hurry up! they may want me to help get the boy in." peter drove on and sat staring woodenly while she sprang to the ground and hurried forward. mrs. carter and the maids were gathered in a frightened group on the steps. he could hear miss ethel inside the carriage calling wildly: "do be quick! his head has commenced to bleed again." the driver climbed down to help the doctor lift him out. they jarred him going up the steps and he moaned slightly. peter cursed the man's clumsy feet, though not for worlds could he himself have stirred to help them. the boy's head was bandaged with a towel, and he looked very limp and white, but he summoned a feeble smile at sight of his mother. they carried him in and the servants crowded after in an anxious effort to help. peter drove on to the stables and put up arab. in a few minutes billy returned leading the two horses. he was frightened and excited; and he burst into an account of the accident while he was still half way down the drive. "it wasn't my fault," he called. "miss ethel said it wasn't my fault. we met a mowing-machine and apache bolted. he threw the boy off against a stone wall, and by the time i reached 'em, apache was eating grass in the next field and master bobby lying in the ditch with 'is head cut open." "i don't want to hear about it," peter returned shortly. "put them horses up and get out." he himself removed apache's new saddle and bridle and drove him with a vicious whack into the stall. billy took himself off to find a more appreciative audience, while peter dropped down on a stool inside the stable door, and with his chin in his hands sat watching the house. he saw the nurse fling wide the blinds of bobby's room and roll up the shades; he wondered with a choking sensation what they were doing to the boy that they needed so much light. he saw annie come out and hang some towels on the line. the whole aspect of the place to peter's sharpened senses wore an air of tragic bustle. no one came near to tell him how the boy was doing; he had not the courage to go to the house and ask. he sat dumbly waiting for something to happen while twilight faded into dusk. one of the stableboys came to call him to supper and he replied crossly that he didn't want any supper. presently he heard a step scrunching on the gravel, and he looked up to find annie coming toward him. "is--is he dead?" he whispered. "he's not goin' to die. he's feelin' better now; they've sewed up the hole in his head. the doctor did it with a thread an' needle just like you'd sew a dress. he took ten stitches an' master bobby bled awful. he never cried once, though; he just got whiter an' whiter an' fainted away. don't feel so bad, pete, he's goin' to get well." she laid her hand caressingly on his hair and brushed it back from his forehead. he caught her hand and held it. "it's me that's to blame for his gettin' hurt. he won't never speak to me again." "yes, he will; he's wantin' to speak to you now. they sent me out to fetch you." "me?" he asked, shrinking back. "what's he wantin' with me?" "he's been out of his head an' callin' for you; he won't go to sleep till he sees you. the doctor said to fetch you in. come on." annie's manner was insistent and peter rose and followed her. "here he is," she whispered, pushing him ahead of her into the darkened room. bobby made a half movement to turn as the door creaked, but a quick pain shot through his shoulder and he fell back with a little gasp. "take care, bobby," the nurse warned. "you mustn't move or you will hurt that bad arm." her greeting to peter was stern. "you may stay five minutes, and mind you don't get him excited!" she bent over the boy to loosen the bandage about his shoulder. "you go out," said bobby, querulously. "i want to see peter alone." "yes, dear," she patted the bedclothes indulgently. "remember, five minutes!" she added as she closed the door. the two left alone stared at each other rather consciously for a moment. they both felt that the occasion demanded something heroic in the way of a reconciliation, but it was the natural instinct of each to fly from sentiment. the sight of bobby's pale face and bandaged head, however, had their effect on peter's already overwrought nerves. "i'm a blunderin' fool!" he groaned. "i don't know why i can't never learn to attend to me own affairs. if i'd told yer father, as was me dooty, he'd never uv given ye that spotted devil of a horse." "you aren't to blame, pete. i guess i was hurt for more punishment 'cause i didn't take the first in the right spirit." he fumbled under his pillow and drew out the new five-bladed knife. "this is for a remembrance, and whenever you use it you will think 'it was me that cured bobby carter of telling lies.'" peter received the gift with an air of hesitation. "i don't like to take it," he said, dubiously, "though i have a feelin' that perhaps i ought, for with five blades to choose from ye'll be cuttin' yer blamed young throat--i'd hate to be the cause of any more accidents." he balanced it thoughtfully in his palm. "but i'm thinkin," he added softly, "that the corkscrew might be doin' as much damage to me as the five blades to you." bobby grinned appreciatively, and held out his uninjured left hand. "pete," he said, "if i promise never, never to tell any more lies, will you promise never, never to use that corkscrew?" "it's a bargain!" said peter, grasping the boy's hand. "and i'm glad that we're friends again." they stared at each other solemnly, neither thinking of anything further to add, when peter suddenly became aware of the ticking of the clock. "holy saint patrick!" he ejaculated. "me five minutes was up five minutes ago. i must be takin' me leave or that commandin' young woman will come back and eject me." he moved toward the door, but paused to throw over his shoulder: "i'd already promised the same to annie, so ye needn't be takin' too much credit to yerself fer me conversion." ix mrs. carter as fate as the summer wore to an end, the course of affairs between peter and annie became a matter of interested comment among the other servants. they had all seen peter recover from many incipient attacks of love, but this they unanimously diagnosed as the real thing. joe and his wife talked the matter over upon his return from the hospital, and decided that the time had definitely come for the livery stable; peter, in all fairness, had served as groom long enough. they would move out of the coachman's cottage the following spring, and give the young people a chance. thus was the way open for a happy conclusion, and everyone was preparing to dance at the wedding, except peter and annie themselves. they alone were not certain as to the outcome. neither was quite comfortably sure that the other was in earnest, and when it came to the point they were both a little shy. annie, with laughing eyes, tempted peter at every point, but when he showed a disposition to control matters himself, she precipitously fled. the two were standing on the back veranda one moonlight night, and annie was engaged in pointing out to peter the lady in the moon. peter was either stubborn or stupid; he frankly declared that he saw no "loidy," and didn't believe there was one. in her zeal in the cause of astronomy, annie unwarily bent her head too near, and while her eyes were turned to the moon, peter kissed her. she slapped him smartly, as a well-brought-up young woman should, and fled into the house before he could catch her. peter, strong in his new-found courage, waited about in the hope that she would reappear; but she did not, and he finally took himself off to his room over the carriage-house, where he sat by the window gazing out at the moonlight for two hours or more before he remembered to go to bed. the slap had hurt neither him nor his feelings; he liked her the better for it. she wasn't really mad, he reflected happily, for she had laughed as she banged the door in his face. the next morning peter went about his work with a singing heart and many a glance toward the kitchen windows. he swashed water over the stable floor and rubbed down the horses with a mind happily intent upon what he would say to annie when he saw her. about ten o'clock mrs. carter ordered the victoria, but as the carriage horses were at the shop being shod, joe sent peter in to ask if trixy and the phaeton would do as well. peter dropped his sponge and started for the house at exactly the wrong moment for his future peace of mind. he arrived at the kitchen door just in time to see the man from the grocery put his packages on the table and his arms around annie, and kiss her with a smack that resounded through the room and would, to peter's outraged senses, resound through all time. annie turned with a startled cry, and as her gaze fell upon peter, her face paled before the look in his eyes. without a word he whirled about and strode back to the stables with white lips and clenched fists, and murder in his heart for the grocer's man. he did not hear what annie said to him, nor did he know that she locked herself in her room and cried; what he did know was that she had been making a fool of him, and that she flirted with every man who came along, and that that wasn't the kind of a girl he wanted to do with. several days before, as peter was driving mr. lane, who was visiting at willowbrook again, and master bobby to the village, annie had been sweeping the front veranda as they passed, and had thrown a friendly smile in the direction of the cart. the smile was intended for peter, but mr. lane had caught it, and had remarked to bobby: "that's a deuced pretty maid you've got there." "annie's the bulliest maid we ever had," bobby had returned appreciatively. "she swipes cake for me when nora isn't looking." but peter had frowned angrily, as he longingly sized up mr. lane, and wished he were not a gentleman so that he could punch him. it was none of mr. lane's business whether annie was pretty or not. at that time annie could do no wrong, and peter had not thought of blaming her for mr. lane's too-open admiration, but now he wrathfully accused her of trying to flirt with gentlemen, than which, in peter's estimation, she could do no worse. as he could take it out of neither of them in blood--which his soul thirsted for--he added it to the grocer's score, and his fingers fairly itched to be at work. the grocer was just the sort of man that he most enjoyed pummelling--big and florid, with curling hair, a black moustache, and a dimple in his chin. annie, after her _contretemps_ with the grocer, passed a miserable day. in vain she tried to get a word with peter; he was not to be seen. billy was the groom who came to the house on all further errands from the stables. that evening she put on her prettiest frock and sat for two hours on the top step of the back veranda with her eyes turned expectantly toward the carriage-house, and then she went to bed and cried. had she but known it, peter was in a vacant lot back of paddy callahan's saloon, blissfully remodelling the features of the grocer's man. annie passed a wakeful night, and the next morning she swallowed her pride and went to the stables in the hope of seeing peter alone. peter, too, in spite of his victory of the evening, had kept vigil through the night. he was listlessly currying one of the carriage horses when he saw annie leave the house and come slowly down the walk toward the stables. his heart suddenly leaped to his mouth, but a moment later he was bending over the horse with his back to the door, whistling as merrily as though he had not a care in the world. he heard annie's hesitating step on the threshold, and he smiled grimly to himself and whistled the louder. "pete, i'm wantin' to speak to you, if ye're not busy." peter glanced up with a well-assumed start of surprise. he looked annie over, slowly and deliberately, and then turned back to the horse. "aw, but i am busy," he returned. "lift up!" he added to the horse, and he solicitously examined her foot. annie waited patiently, struggling between a sense of pride which urged her to go back and never speak to peter again, and a sense of shame which told her that she owed him an explanation. "pete," she began, and there was a little catch in her voice which went to peter's heart; in his effort to resist it and mete out due punishment for all the misery she had caused him, he was harder than he otherwise would have been. "pete, i wanted to be tellin' ye that it wasn't my fault. he--he niver kissed me before, and i didn't know he was goin' to then." peter shrugged. "ye needn't be apologizin' to me. i ain't interested in yer amoors. if ye wants to be apologizin' to any one go an' do it to his wife." "his wife?" asked annie. "aye, his wife an' his three childern." "i didn't know he was married," said annie, flushing again, "but 'tis no difference, for it weren't my fault. i niver acted a bit nicer to him than to anny other man, an' that's the truth." "oh, ye're a lovely girl, ye are! flirtin' around with other women's husbands, and lettin' every fool that comes along kiss ye if he wants to." "ye needn't talk," cried annie. "ye did it yerself, an' ye're no better than the grocer man." "an' do ye think i'd a-done it if i hadn't knowed ye was willin?" annie backed against the wall, and with flushed cheeks and blazing eyes, stared at him speechlessly, angry with herself at her powerlessness to say anything that would hurt him enough. as she stood there, master bobby and mr. lane came in on their way to visit the kennels. mr. lane looked curiously from the angry girl to the nonchalant groom, who had resumed his work, and was softly whistling under his breath. master bobby, being intent only upon puppies, passed on without noticing the two, but mr. lane glanced back over his shoulder at annie's pretty flushed face, and paused to ask: "my dear girl, has that fellow been annoying you?" "no, no!" annie said wildly. "go away, mr. lane, please." mr. lane glanced from one to the other with a laugh. "ah, i see! a lovers' quarrel," and he followed master bobby. peter echoed his laugh, and in a tone which would have justified mr. lane in knocking him down had he heard. "so ye're his dear girl too, are ye? he's a nice gentleman, he is! ye ought to be proud o' him." annie straightened herself with her head thrown back. "peter malone," she burst out, "i came here to 'pologize, 'cause, without meanin' any harm, i thought as i'd hurt yer feelin's an' was owin' an explanation. i niver had anything to do with that groc'ry man nor any other man, an' ye know it as true as ye're standin' there. instead o' believin' what i say like a gentleman would, ye insult me worse than anybody's iver done in the whole o' me life, an' i'll niver speak to ye again as long as i live." she choked down a sob, and with head erect turned and walked back to the house. the two had had differences before, but never anything like this. peter, his arms dropped limply at his side, stood watching her go, while the words she had spoken rang in his ears. suddenly a lump rose in his throat, and he leaned his head against the horse's neck. "lord!" he whispered. "what have i done?" the week which followed was one of outward indifference and inward misery to both. annie mourned when alone, but under the eyes of the stables she flirted openly and without conscience with one of the painters who was opportunely engaged in re-staining the shingle roof of the jasper house. peter watched her with a heavy heart, and formed a brave determination never to think of her again, and ended by thinking of her every minute of the day. he made one awkward attempt at reconciliation which was spurned, whereupon he, too, plunged into a reckless flirtation with mary, the chambermaid, who was fat, and every day of thirty-five. as neither peter nor annie had any means of knowing how wretched this treatment was making the other, they got very little comfort from it. annie sat at the kitchen table polishing silver with a sober face. it was six days since the grocery man's historic visit, and the war clouds showed no sign of lifting. there was a houseful of company at willowbrook, and the work was mercifully distracting. mary, this morning, had hung a long row of blankets and curtains on the line to air, for the sole purpose, annie knew, of being near the stables. peter was visible through the open window, greasing harness in the carriage-house doorway, and exchanging jocular remarks with mary. annie's eyes were out of doors oftener than upon her work. nora, who was sitting on the back veranda shelling peas, remarked on peter's newly awakened interest in the chambermaid, but as annie did not answer, she very wisely changed the subject. "i guess that mr. lane what's visitin' here has got a heap o' money," she called in tentatively. "i guess he has," annie assented indifferently. "he seems to be pretty taken up with miss ethel. that was an awful becomin' pink dress she had on last night. mrs. carter would be pleased all right." annie received this remark in silence, but nora was not to be discouraged. she felt that this new freak of taciturnity on annie's part was defrauding her of her rights. a maid whose duties call her to the front part of the house is in a position to supply more accurate gossip than it is given a cook to know, and it is her business to supply it. "mr. harry would feel awful, havin' growed up with her like," nora continued. "he's a sight the best lookin' o' the two, and i'm thinkin' miss ethel knows it. it ud be convenient, too, havin' the places joined. the jaspers has got money enough, an' him the only son. i guess they wouldn't starve if she did marry him. i've always noticed 'tis the people who has the most money as needs the most. i don't think much o' that mr. lane," she added. annie suddenly woke up. "i don't neither. 'tis too fresh he is." "that's what i'm thinkin' meself," said nora, cordially. "an' i guess so does mr. harry. i'm after observin' that he hasn't been around much since mr. lane's been here." annie's mind had wandered again. her own affairs were requiring so much attention lately that miss ethel's were no longer a source of interest. out in the stable peter was proclaiming, in tones calculated to reach the kitchen, "there's only one girl in this world for me." annie's lip quivered slightly as she heard him; a week before she had laughed at the same song, but as affairs stood now, it was insulting. the peas finished, nora gathered the yellow bowl under her arm and returned to the kitchen, where she concentrated her attention upon annie and the silver. "i'm thinkin' ye must be in love!" she declared. "ye've cleaned that same spoon three times while i've been watchin', an' ye didn't count the plates right last night for dinner, an' ye forgot to give 'em any butter for breakfast." annie blushed guiltily at this damning array of evidence, and then she laughed. "if it's in love i am whiniver i forget things, then i must a-been in love since i was out o' the cradle." "an' there's him as would be in love with you, if ye'd only act dacent to him--and i'm not meanin' the painter." annie chose to overlook this remark, and nora's sociability was suppressed by the entrance of mrs. carter. "we have decided to have a picnic supper at the beach to-night, nora," she said. "you will not have to get dinner for anyone but mr. carter." "very well, ma'am." "i am sorry that it happens on your afternoon out, annie," she added, turning to the maid, "but i shall need you at the picnic to help about serving." "certainly, ma'am," said annie. "i don't care about goin' out anyway." "we shall start early in the afternoon, but i want you to wait and help nora with the sandwiches, and then peter can drive you out about six o'clock in the dog-cart." annie's face clouded precipitously. "please, ma'am," she stammered, "i think--that is, if ye please----" she hesitated and looked about desperately. "i'm afraid if ye're after wantin' coffee, i can't make it right. i'm niver sure o' me coffee two times runnin', and i should hate to be spoilin' it when there's company. if ye could take nora instead o' me, ma'am, i could just be gettin' the lovely dinner for mr. carter when he comes." "why, annie," she remonstrated, "you've always made excellent coffee before, and nora doesn't wait on the table. is it because you want to go out this afternoon? i am sorry, but you will have to wait until miss ethel's guests have gone." "no, ma'am," said annie, hastily, "i'm not wantin' the afternoon, an' it's willin' i am to help miss ethel, only--only--will you tell peter, ma'am, about the cart?" she finished lamely, "'cause if i tell him he's likely to be late." mrs. carter passed out of the kitchen door and crossed the lawn toward the stables, casting meanwhile a sharp eye about the premises to be sure that all was as it should be. mary was shaking blankets with an air of deep absorption; peter was industriously cleaning the already clean harness, and joe could be heard inside officiously telling billy to grease the other wheel and be quick about it. unless mrs. carter approached very quietly indeed, she always found her servants oblivious to everything but their several duties. as she drew near the doorway, peter rose from the harness and respectfully touched his cap with a very dirty hand, while the coachman, with a final order over his shoulder to a brow-beaten stable-boy, came forward hastily, and stood at attention. "joe, we are going to have a picnic at the beach this afternoon, and i want you to have the horses ready at three o'clock. miss ethel, mr. lane, and master bobby will ride, and you will drive the rest of us in the waggonette." "very well, ma'am," said joe. "and peter," she added, turning to the groom, "i want you to bring out the supper with trixy and the dog-cart at five o'clock." "all right, ma'am," said peter, saluting. "be sure to be on time," she warned. "stop at the kitchen for annie and the hampers promptly at five." peter's face suddenly darkened. he drew his mouth into a straight line, and looked sullenly down at the harness. "beggin' yer pardon, ma'am," he mumbled, "i don't think--that is----" he scowled defiance at joe, who grinned back appreciatively. "if it's just the same to ye, ma'am, i'd like to drive the waggonette an' let joe fetch the lunch. if i'm to be coachman, ma'am, i'd sort o' like to get used to me dooties before he goes." mrs. carter was frankly puzzled; she could not imagine what had suddenly got into her servants this morning. a lady who has a grown daughter, of some attractions and many admirers, to chaperone, cannot be expected to keep _au courant_ of her servants' love affairs. "you have had a month in which to get used to your duties while joe was in the hospital; that is sufficient for the present. joe will drive the waggonette and you will follow with the supper--i wish you to help tom put new netting in the screen-doors this afternoon." her tone precluded argument. as soon as she was out of hearing, joe remarked softly, "now, if she'd only said mary instead of annie i 'spose----" "aw, let up," peter growled, and he fell to rubbing in the grease with unnecessary vehemence. his misunderstanding with annie was a subject he would stand no fooling about, even from his chief. at five o'clock, peter, in a spotless top-hat and shining boots, looking as stiff as if he were clothed in steel armour, drew up before the kitchen door and piled the hampers and pails he found on the back veranda onto the seat beside him. he climbed to the box again with an air of finality, and gathering his reins together made a feint of starting. "peter!" nora called from the kitchen window. "where is it ye're goin'? wait for annie." "annie?" peter looked as if he had never heard the name before. "yes, annie. did ye think ye was to cook the supper yerself?" "i didn't think nothin'," said peter. "me orders was to stop for the lunch at five o'clock, an' i done it. if she wants to come along she'll have to sit on the back seat. i ain't a goin' to change these baskets again." annie appeared in the doorway in time to hear this ungracious speech; she clambered up to the somewhat uncomfortable footman's seat in silence, and they drove off back to back, as stiff as twin ramrods. the cart rolled along over the smooth roads, past country clubs and summer cottages, and the only sign either of the two gave of being alive was an occasional vicious crack of the whip from peter when patient little trixy showed signs of wishing to take a quieter pace. at such times annie would instinctively stretch out a deterring hand and form her mouth as if to say, "please, pete, don't whip her; she's doin' her best," and then suddenly remembering that formidable vow, would straighten up again and stare ahead with flushed cheeks. the beach was five miles away, and there is an element of ludicrousness in the spectacle of two people in one small dog-cart riding five miles without speaking. annie's sense of humour was keen; it struggled hard with her sense of wrong. she was never an indian to cherish vengeance; her anger could be fierce at the moment, but it rarely lasted. and peter was sorry for what he had said, she reminded herself; he had already tried to make up. by the end of the second mile two dimples appeared in her cheeks. at the third mile she shut her mouth tight to keep a laugh from escaping. at the fourth mile she spoke. "say, pete, why don't ye talk to me? are ye mad?" peter had been gazing at trixy's ears with an air of deep preoccupation, and he came back to the present with a start of surprise, apparently amazed at finding that he had a companion in the cart. "ma'am?" he said. annie glanced around at his uncompromising back. "why don't ye say somethin'?" she repeated more faintly. "i ain't got nothin' to say." annie's dimples gave way to an angry flush. never, never, never again would she say a thing to him as long as she lived. the remainder of the drive was passed in a tumultuous silence. peter, with grim mouth, kept his unseeing eyes on the road in front, and annie, with burning cheeks, stared behind at the cloud of dust. when the cart arrived among the straggling cedar trees which bordered the beach, they found drawn up beside the carter horses, mr. harry's hunter and a strange drag which betokened impromptu guests. annie had barely time to wonder if the plates would go around and if there would be salad enough, when the cart was welcomed with joyful shouts by a crowd of hungry picnickers. she caught a glimpse on the edge of the group of miss ethel, debonair and smiling, in another new dress, with mr. lane scowling on one side of her and mr. harry on the other. ordinarily, she would have taken a lively interest in such a situation, and would have had an appreciative fellow-feeling for miss ethel; but she saw it now with an unhappy sense that the blessings of this world in the shape of dresses and men are unevenly distributed. annie usually accepted the pranks of the young ladies and gentlemen in good part, no matter how much extra trouble they caused; but to-day as she caught a plundering hand on one of the hampers, she called out sharply: "master bobby, you let that cake alone! them olives are for supper." a general laugh greeted this outburst, and she turned away and began unpacking dishes with a bitter feeling of rebellion. mrs. carter bustled up, and having driven off the marauders, briskly took command. "now, peter, as soon as you have hitched trixy, come back and help about the supper. annie will tell you what to do." annie cheered up slightly at this, and for the moment waived the letter of her vow. as peter reluctantly reappeared, she ordered: "get a pile o' drift wood and fix a place for the fire. them are too big," she commented, as he returned with an armful of sticks. "get some little pieces and be quick about it; you're too slow." peter looked mutinous, but the eyes of mrs. carter were upon him, and he obeyed. "now, take those two pails and go to the farm-house for water," annie ordered. when he returned with the two heavy pails, cross and splashed, she fished out a bug or two with an air of dissatisfaction, and told him to build the fire. peter built the fire, and, at annie's suggestion, held the coffee-pot to keep it steady. he burnt his hands, and swore softly under his breath, and annie laughed. mrs. carter, having started preparations, suddenly recalled her duties as hostess and hurried off again, leaving annie to superintend the remainder alone. "here, peter," said annie, "i want ye to open these cans o' sardines." peter looked after the retreating figure of mrs. carter. she was well out of hearing; he took from his pocket a cigarette and leisurely regarded it. "i want these cans opened," annie repeated more sharply. peter lighted his cigarette. "i'll tell mrs. carter if ye don't." peter threw himself down on the grass, and blowing a ring of smoke, looked dreamily off toward the ocean. mrs. carter showed no signs of coming back, and annie saw that her brief dominion was over. she picked up the can-opener and jabbed it viciously into the tin. it slipped and cut an ugly gash in her finger. she uttered a little cry of pain, and turned pale at sight of the blood, and peter laughed. she turned her back to keep him from seeing the tears of anger that filled her eyes, and for the third time she solemnly swore never, never, _never_ to speak to him again. the two served the supper with the same grim silence behind the scenes that they exhibited before the guests. when it was over, instead of eating with joe and peter, annie commenced gathering up the dishes and repacking them in the hampers ready for departure. the two men laughed and joked between themselves, without taking any notice of her absence, and annie angrily told herself that she wouldn't speak to joe any more, either. just as she had everything packed and was comforting herself with the thought that she would soon be back home, and the miserable day would be ended, mrs. carter reappeared. "your coffee was excellent, annie," she said, pleasantly, "and you and peter served very nicely indeed. and now, instead of going home, i should like to have you wait and make some lemonade to be served later in the evening. it will be a beautiful moonlight night, and you and peter can stay and enjoy yourselves." "very well, ma'am," said annie, dully. peter, at this news, lighted another cigarette and strolled off with joe, while annie, who was growing apathetic under a culmination of troubles, busied herself in making the lemonade, and then sat down by her baskets to wait. she could see through the gathering dusk the merry crowd upon the beach, as they scattered about gathering driftwood for a fire. she heard every now and then, above the sound of the waves, a gay shout of laughter, and, nearer at hand, the restless stamping of the horses. she turned her back to the beach half pettishly, and sat watching mr. harry's sorrel as he nervously tossed his head and switched his tail, trying to keep off the sand flies. from that she fell to wondering how mr. harry happened to be there, and what mr. lane thought about it, and if there would be a fight. there probably would not, she reflected, with some regret, for gentlemen did not always fight when they should. (she had heard through the butcher's boy the story of peter's prowess, and the knowledge had given some slight comfort.) her reflections were suddenly interrupted by the sound of steps crashing toward her through the underbrush, and she looked up with a fast-beating heart. her first thought was that it was peter coming to make up, and she resolutely stiffened herself to withstand him, but a second glance showed her that it was mr. lane. "where's joe?" he demanded. "i don't know, mr. lane." "where's peter, then?" "i don't know. the two o' them hasn't been here since supper." "well, damn it! i've got to find some one." mr. lane was evidently excited. "see here, annie," he said, "you're a good girl. just give a message to mrs. carter from me, will you, please? tell her a boy rode out on a bicycle with a telegram calling me back to new york immediately, and i had to ride back to the house without finding her in order to catch the ten-o'clock train. don't say anything to miss ethel, and here's something to buy a new dress. good-bye." "thank you, sir. good-bye." he hastily rebuckled his horse's bridle, led him into the lane out of sight of the beach, and mounted and galloped off. annie looked after him with wide eyes; his bearing was not very jaunty; she wondered if mr. harry had whipped him. it did not seem likely, for mr. lane was the larger of the two; but for the matter of that, she reflected, so was the grocer's man larger than peter. she did not understand it, but she slipped the bill into her pocket with a shrug of her shoulders. she could afford to be philosophic over other people's troubles. it was growing dark in among the trees and she was beginning to feel very lonely. a big red moon was rising over the water, and a bright fire was crackling on the beach. the sound of singing was mingled with the beating of the surf. annie wandered out from the shadow of the trees and strolled up the beach away from the camp-fire and the singers. presently she dropped down in the shadow of a sand dune and sat with her chin in her hands pensively watching the black silhouettes against the fire. by and by she saw two figures strolling along the beach in her direction. she recognized them as miss ethel and mr. harry, and she crouched down behind the dune until they passed. she felt lonelier than ever as she watched them disappear, and the first thing she knew, she had buried her head in her arms and was crying to herself--but not very hard, for she was mindful of the ride home, and she did not wish to make her eyes red. not for the world would she have let peter know that she felt unhappy. suddenly into the midst of her misery came the sound of scrunching sand and the smell of cigarette smoke. then, without looking up, she felt that some one was standing over her and that that some one was peter. she held her breath and waited like a little ostrich, with her head burrowed into the sand. peter it was, and a mighty struggle was going on within his breast, but love is stronger than pride, and his irish heart conquered in the end. he bent over and touched her shoulder lightly. "annie!" he whispered. she held her breath and kept her face hidden. he dropped on his knee in the sand beside her. "annie, darlin', don't be cryin'. tell me what's the trouble." he forcibly transferred her head from the sand bank to his shoulder, and her tears trickled down his neck. "is it yer finger that's hurtin' ye?" she raised a tear-stained face with a quick smile quivering through at this purely masculine suggestion. "it's not me finger; it's me feelin's," she breathed into his ear. peter tightened his arms around her. "but they're not hurtin' any more," she added with a little laugh. "an' this time we'll be friends f'r always?" she nodded. "gee!" he whispered. "i've been spendin' the week in hell thinkin' ye didn't care nothin' for me." "so uv i," said annie. as they sat watching the rippling path of moonlight on the water, from far down the beach they could hear the voices singing, "it's the spring time of life and the world is all before us." annie laughed happily as she listened. "i was wishin' a while ago that i was miss ethel 'cause she has everything she wants, but i don't wish it any more. she hasn't got you, petey." "and i'm thinkin' she isn't wantin' me," said peter, with his eyes on the beach above them, where miss ethel and mr. harry were coming toward them hand in hand. the two stopped suddenly as they caught sight of annie and peter and hastily dropped each others' hands. then miss ethel ran forward with a conscious little laugh. "annie, you shall be the first to congratulate me--but it's a secret; you mustn't tell a soul." annie looked back with shining eyes. "i'm engaged, too," she whispered. "you dear!" said miss ethel, and she put her arm around her and kissed her. peter and mr. harry stood a moment eyeing each other awkwardly, then they reached out across the gulf that separated them and shook hands. x a parable for husbands blue gipsy's filly had broken two pairs of shafts, kicked a hole through a dash-board, and endeavoured to take a fence carriage and all, in a fixed determination not to become a harness-horse. it was evident that she had chosen her career and meant to stick to it. "break her to the shafts if you have to half kill her," mr. harry had said, but there were some things that mr. harry did not understand so well as peter. "where's the use in spoilin' a good jumper for the sake o' makin' a poor drivin' horse?" peter had asked the trainer, and he had added that the master was talking through his hat. peter had already explained the matter to mr. harry, but mr. harry was very much like the filly; when he had made up his mind he did not like to change. peter decided to talk it over once more, however, before he risked another groom. the first groom had dislocated his shoulder, and he refused to have any further intercourse with blue gypsy's filly. poor peter felt himself growing old under the weight of his responsibilities. three years before he had been a care-free groom at willowbrook; now, since miss ethel had married mr. harry, he was coachman at jasper place, with seven horses and three men under him. occasionally he gazed rather wistfully across the meadow to where the willowbrook stables showed a red blur through the gray-green trees. he had served there eleven years as stable-boy and groom, and though he had more than once tasted the end of a strap under joe's vigorous dominion, it had been a happily irresponsible life. not that he wished the old time back, for that would mean that there would be no annie waiting supper for him at night in the coachman's cottage, but he did wish sometimes that mr. harry had a little more common sense about managing horses. blue gypsy's filly trotting peaceably between shafts! it was in her blood to jump, and jump she would; you might as well train a bull pup to grow up a japanese poodle and sleep on a satin cushion. peter, pondering the matter, strolled over to the kitchen and inquired of ellen where mr. harry was. mr. harry was in the library, she said, and peter could go right through. the carpet was soft, and he made no noise. he did not mean to listen, but he had almost reached the library door before he realized and then he stood still, partly because he was dazed, and partly because he was interested. he did not know what had gone before, but the first thing he heard was miss ethel's voice, and though he could not see her, he knew from the tone what she looked like, with her head thrown back and her chin up and her eyes flashing. "i am the best judge of my own actions," she said, "and i shall receive whom i please. you always put the wrong interpretation on everything i do, and i am tired of your interfering. if you would go away and leave me alone it would be best for us both--i feel sometimes as though i never wanted to see you again." then a long silence, and finally the cold, repressed tones of her husband asked: "do you mean that?" she did not answer, except by a long indrawn sob of anger. peter had heard that sound before, when she was a child, and he knew how it ought to be dealt with; but mr. harry did not; he was far too polite. after another silence he said quietly: "if i go, i go to stay--a long time." "stay forever, if you like." peter turned and tiptoed out, feeling unhappy and ashamed, as he had felt that other time when he had overheard. he went back to the stables, and sitting down with his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands, he pondered the situation. if he were mr. harry for just ten minutes, he told himself fiercely, he would soon settle things; but mr. harry did not understand. when it came to managing horses he was too rough, as if they had no sense; and when it came to managing women, he was too easy, as if they were all sense. peter sighed miserably. his heart ached for them both: for miss ethel, because he knew that she did not mean what she said, and would later be sorry; for mr. harry, because he knew that he did mean what he said--terribly and earnestly. neither understood the other, and it was all such a muddle when just a little common sense would have made everything happy. then he shrugged his shoulders and told himself that it was none of his business; that he guessed they could make up their quarrels without help from him. and he fell to scolding the stable-boy for mixing up the harness. in about half an hour, oscar, the valet, came running out to the stables looking pleased and excited, with an order to get the runabout ready immediately to go to the station. oscar was evidently bursting with news, but peter pretended not to be interested, and kept on with his work without looking up. "the master's going in to new york and i follow to-night with his things, and to-morrow we sail for england! maybe we'll go from there on a hunting trip to india--i'm to pack the guns. there's been trouble," he added significantly. "mrs. jasper's in her room with the door banged shut, and the master is pretty quiet and white-like about the gills." "shut up an' mind yer own business," peter snapped, and he led out the horses and began putting on the harness with hands that trembled. as he drew up at the stepping-stone, mr. harry jumped in. "well, peter," he said, in a voice which was meant to be cheerful, but was a very poor imitation, "we must drive fast if we're to make the four-thirty train." "yes, sir," said peter, briskly clicking to the horses, and for once he thanked his stars that the station was four miles away. a great resolve had been growing in his mind, and it required some time and a good deal of courage to carry it out. he glanced sideways at the grim, pale face beside him, and cleared his throat uneasily. "beggin' yer pardon," he began, "i was at the library door to ask about the filly, an' without meanin' to, i heard why you was goin' away." a quick flush spread over mr. harry's face, and he glanced angrily at his coachman. "the devil!" he muttered. "yes, sir," said peter. "i suppose ye'll be dischargin' me, mr. harry, for speakin', but i feel it's me dooty, and i can't keep quiet. beggin' yer pardon, sir, i've knowed miss ethel longer than you have. i was servin' at willowbrook all the time that ye was in boardin' school an' college. her hair was hangin' down her back an' she was drivin' a pony cart when i first come. i watched her grow and i know her ways--there was times, sir, when she was most uncommon troublesome. she's the kind of a woman as needs managin', and if ye'll excuse me for sayin' so, it takes a man to do it. ye're too quiet an' gentleman-like, mr. harry. though i guess she likes to have ye act like a gentleman, when ye can't do both she'd rather have ye act like a man. if i was her husband----" "you forget yourself, peter!" "yes, sir. beg yer pardon, sir, but as i was sayin', if i was her husband, i'd let her see who was master pretty quick, an' she'd like me the better. and if she ever told me she would be glad for me to go away an' never come back, i'd look at her black like with me arms folded, and i'd say: 'ye would, would ye? in that case i'll stay right here an' niver go away.' an' then she'd be so mad she'd put her head down on the back o' the chair an' cry, deep like, the way she always did when she couldn't have what she wanted, an' i'd wait with a frown on me brow, an' when she got through she'd be all over it, an' would ask me pardon sorrowful like; an' i'd wait a while an' let it soak in, an' then i'd forgive her." mr. harry stared at peter, too amazed to speak. "yes, sir," peter resumed, "i've watched miss ethel grow up, and i knows her like her own mother, as ye might say. i've drove her to and from the town for thirteen years, and i've rode after her many miles on horseback, an' when she felt like it she would talk to me as chatty as if i weren't a groom. she was always that way with the servants; she took an interest in our troubles, an' we all liked her spite o' the fact that she was a bit over-rulin'." mr. harry knit his brows and stared ahead without speaking, and peter glanced at him uneasily and hesitated. "there's another thing i'd like to tell ye, sir, though i'm not sure how ye'll take it." "don't hesitate on my account," murmured mr. harry, ironically. "say anything you please, peter." "well, sir, i guess ye may have forgotten, but i was the groom ye took with ye that time before ye was married when ye an' miss ethel went to see the old wreck." mr. harry looked at peter with a quick, haughty stare; but peter was examining the end of his whip and did not see. "an' ye left me an' the cart, sir, under the bank, if ye'll remember, an' ye didn't walk far enough away, an' ye spoke pretty loud, and i couldn't help hearin' ye." "damn your impertinence!" said mr. harry. "yes, sir," said peter. "i never told no one, not even me wife, but i understood after that how things was goin'. an' when ye went away travellin' so sudden, i s'picioned ye wasn't feelin' very merry over the trip; an' i watched miss ethel, and i was sure she wasn't feelin' merry, for all she tried mighty hard to make people think she was. when they was lookin', sir, she laughed an' flirted most outrageous with them young men as used to be visitin' at willowbrook, but i knew, sir, that she didn't care a snap of her finger for any o' them, for in between times she used to take long rides on the beach, with me followin' at a distance--at a very respectful distance; she wasn't noticin' my troubles then, she had too many of her own. when there weren't no one on the beach she'd leave me the horses an' walk off by herself, an' sit on a sand dune, an' put her chin in her hand an' stare at the water till the horses was that crazy with the sand flies i could scarcely hold 'em. an' sometimes she'd put her head down an' cry soft like, fit to break a man's heart, and i'd walk the horses off, with me hands just itchin'--beggin' yer pardon, sir, to get a holt o' you, for i knew that ye was the cause." "you know a great deal too much," said mr. harry, dryly. "a groom learns considerable without meanin' to, and it's lucky his masters is if he knows how to keep his mouth shut. as i was sayin', mr. harry, i knew all the time she was longin' for ye, but was too proud to let ye know. if ye'll allow the impertinence, sir, ye made a mistake in the way ye took her at her word. she loved ye too much not to be willin' to forgive ye for everything; and if ye'd only understood her an' handled her right, she wouldn't 'a' throwed ye over." "what do you mean?" "i mean, if ye'll excuse me speakin' allegorical like, as she's the kind of a woman as needs a sharp bit and a steady hand on the bridle, an' when she bolts a touch o' the lash--not too much, for she wouldn't stand it, but enough to let her see who's master. i've known some women an' many horses, sir, an' i've noticed as the blooded ones is alike in both. if ye 'll excuse me mentionin' it, miss ethel was badly broke, sir. she was given the rein when she needed the whip, but for all that, she's a thoroughbred, sir, an' that's the main thing." peter imperceptibly slowed his horses. "if ye don't mind, mr. harry, i'd like to tell ye a little story. it happened six or seven years ago when ye was away at college, and if miss ethel is a bit unreasonable now, she was more unreasonable then. it was when the old master first bought blue gypsy--as was a devil if there ever was one. one afternoon miss ethel takes it into her head she wants to try the new mare, so she orders her out, with me to follow. what does she do but make straight for the beach, sir, an' gallop along on the hard sand close to the water-line. it was an awful windy day late in october, with the clouds hangin' low an' the waves dashin' high, and everything sort o' empty an' lonesome. blue gypsy wasn't used to the water, an' she was so scared she was 'most crazy, rearin' an' plungin' till ye would a swore she had a dozen legs--not much of a horse for a lady, but miss ethel could ride all right. she kept blue gypsy's head to the wind an' galloped four or five miles up the beach, with me poundin' along behind, hangin' on to me hat for dear life. "'twas ebb-tide, but time for the flood, and i was beginning to think we'd better go back, unless we wanted to plough through the loose shingle high up, which is mighty hard on a horse, sir. but when we come to the neck, miss ethel rode straight on; i didn't like the looks of it much, but i didn't say nothin' for the neck's never under water an' there weren't no danger. but what does she do when we comes to the end o' the neck, but turn to ride across the inlet to the mainland, which ye can do easy enough at low tide, but never at high. the sand was already gettin' oozy, an' with the wind blowin' off the sea the tide was risin' fast. ye know what it would 'a' meant, sir, if she'd gone out an' got caught. an' what with that unknown devil of a blue gypsy she was ridin', there was no tellin' when it would happen. "'miss ethel,' i calls, sort o' commandin' like, for i was too excited for politeness, 'ye can't go across.' "she turns around an' stares at me haughty, an' goes on. "i gallops up an' says: 'the tide's a risin', miss ethel, an' the inlet isn't safe.' "she looks me over cool an' says: 'it is perfectly safe. i am goin' to ride across; if you are afraid, peter, you may go home.' "with that she whips up an' starts off. i was after her in a minute, gallopin' up beside her, an' before she knew what i was doin' i reaches out me hand an' grabs hold o' the bridle an' turns blue gypsy's head. i didn't like to do it, for it seemed awful familiar, but with people as contrary as they is, sir, ye've got to be familiar sometimes, if ye're goin' to do any good in the world. "well, mr. harry, as ye can believe, she didn't like it, an' she calls out sharp and imperative for me to let go. but i hangs on an' begins to gallop, an' with that she raises her crop an' cuts me over the hand as hard as she can. it hurt considerable, but i held on an' didn't say nothin', an' she raised her arm to strike again. but just at that moment a wave broke almost at the horses' feet, an' blue gypsy reared, an' miss ethel, who wasn't expectin' it, almost lost her balance an' the crop dropped on the sand. "'peter,' she says, 'go back an' get me that crop.' "but by that time i'd got the bit in me teeth, sir, an' i just laughs--ugly like--an' keeps holt o' the bridle an' gallops on. well, sir, then she was 'most crazy, an' she tries to shake off me arm with her fist, but she might as well have tried to shake down a tree. i looks at her, an' smiles to meself impertinent, an' keeps on. an' she looks all around, desperate like, hopin' to see someone within call, but the beach was empty, an' there wasn't nothin' she could do, i bein' so much stronger." "you brute!" said mr. harry. "i was savin' her life," said peter. "an' when she saw she couldn't do nothin' she kind o' sobbed down low to herself an' said, soft like: '_i'll discharge you, peter, when we get home._' "i touches me hat an' says as polite as ye please: 'very well, miss, but we ain't home yet, miss, and i'm boss for the present.' "with that a great big wave comes swash up against the horses' legs, an' lucky it is that i had a holt o' the bridle, for blue gypsy would 'a' thrown her sure. an' after i got her back on her four legs--blue gypsy, sir--an' we was goin' on again, miss ethel throws a look over her shoulder at the inlet which was all under water, an' then she looks down at me hand that had a great big red welt across it, an' she said so low i could scarce hear her over the waves: "'you can take your hand away, peter. i'll ride straight home.' "i knew she meant it, but me hand was burnin' like fire, and i'd got me temper up, so i looks at her doubtin' like, as if i couldn't believe her, an' she turns red an' says, 'can't ye trust me, peter?' an' with that i touches me hat an' falls behind. "an' when we got back, sir, and i got off at the porter-ker-cher to help her dismount, what does she do but take me big red hand in both o' hers, an' she looks at the scar, an' then she looks in me eyes, an' she says, like as ye hit straight from the shoulder, sir, 'peter,' she says, 'i'm sorry i struck you. will ye forgive me?' she says. "an' i touches me hat an' says: 'certainly, miss. don't mention it, miss,' an' we was friends after that. "an' that's the reason, mr. harry, i hate to see ye go off an'--beggin' yer pardon--make a fool o' yerself. for she loves ye true, sir, like as annie loves me, an' i know, sir, if she took it hard before ye was married, it ud near kill her now. ye mustn't mind what she says when she's angry, for she just thinks o' the worst things she can to hurt yer feelin's, but lord! sir, she don't mean it no more'n a rabbit, an' if ye'll give her half a chance and don't act like an iceberg she'll want to make up. me an' annie, mr. harry, we pulls together lovely. i'm the boss in some things, an' she's the boss in others; i lets her think she can manage me, an' she lets me think i can manage her--and i can, sir. sometimes we have little quarrels, but it's mostly for the joy o' makin' up, an' we're that happy, sir, that we wants to see everyone else happy." the horses had slowed to a walk, but mr. harry did not notice it. a smile was beginning to struggle with the hard lines about his mouth. "well, peter," he said, "you've preached quite a sermon. what would you advise?" "that ye go back an' take a firm hold o' the bridle, sir, an' if she uses the whip, just hold on hard an' don't let on that it hurts." mr. harry looked at peter and the smile spread to his eyes. "and then when she drops it," he asked, "just laugh and ride on?" peter coughed a deprecatory cough. "beggin' yer pardon, mr. harry, i think if i was in your place i'd pick it up an' keep it meself. it might come in handy in case of emergencies." mr. harry threw back his head in a quick, boyish laugh, and reaching over he took the lines and turned the horses' heads. "peter," he said, "you may be elemental, but i half suspect you're right." * * * * * _"the books you like to read at the price you like to pay"_ _there are two sides to everything_---- --including the wrapper which covers every grosset & dunlap book. when you feel in the mood for a good romance, refer to the carefully selected list of modern fiction comprising most of the successes by prominent writers of the day which is printed on the back of every grosset & dunlap book wrapper. you will find more than five hundred titles to choose from--books for every mood and every taste and every pocket-book. _don't forget the other side, but in case the wrapper is lost, write to the publishers for a complete catalog._ _there is a grosset & dunlap book for every mood and for every taste_ * * * * * b. m. bower's novels may be had wherever books are sold. ask for grosset and dunlap's list. chip of the flying u. wherein the love affairs of chip and della whitman are charmingly and humorously told. the happy family. a lively and amusing story, dealing with the adventures of eighteen jovial, big hearted montana cowboys. her prairie knight. describing a gay party of easterners who exchange a cottage at newport for a montana ranch-house. the range dwellers. spirited action, a range feud between two families, and a romeo and juliet courtship make this a bright, jolly story. the lure of the dim trails. a vivid portrayal of the experience of an eastern author among the cowboys. the lonesome trail. a little branch of sage brush and the recollection of a pair of large brown eyes upset "weary" davidson's plans. the long shadow. a vigorous western story, sparkling with the free outdoor life of a mountain ranch. it is a fine love story. good indian. a stirring romance of life on an idaho ranch. flying u ranch. another delightful story about chip and his pals. the flying u's last stand. an amusing account of chip and the other boys opposing a party of school teachers. the uphill climb. a story of a mountain ranch and of a man's hard fight on the uphill road to manliness. the phantom herd. the title of a moving-picture staged in new mexico by the "flying u" boys. the heritage of the sioux. the "flying u" boys stage a fake bank robbery for film purposes which precedes a real one for lust of gold. the gringos. a story of love and adventure on a ranch in california. starr of the desert. a new mexico ranch story of mystery and adventure. the lookout man. a northern california story full of action, excitement and love. grosset & dunlap, publishers, new york * * * * * zane grey's novels may be had wherever books are sold. ask for grosset & dunlap's list. the man of the forest the desert of wheat the u. p. trail wildfire the border legion the rainbow trail the heritage of the desert riders of the purple sage the light of western stars the last of the plainsmen the lone star ranger desert gold betty zane * * * * * last of the great scouts the life story of "buffalo bill" by his sister helen cody wetmore, with foreword and conclusion by zane grey. zane grey's books for boys ken ward in the jungle the young lion hunter the young forester the young pitcher the short stop the red-headed outfield and other baseball stories grosset & dunlap, publishers, new york * * * * * james oliver curwood's stories of adventure may be had wherever books are sold. ask for grosset & dunlap's list. the river's end a story of the royal mounted police. the golden snare thrilling adventures in the far northland. nomads of the north the story of a bear-cub and a dog. kazan the tale of a "quarter-strain wolf and three-quarters husky" torn between the call of the human and his wild mate. baree, son of kazan the story of the son of the blind grey wolf and the gallant part he played in the lives of a man and a woman. the courage of captain plum the story of the king of beaver island, a mormon colony, and his battle with captain plum. the danger trail a tale of love, indian vengeance, and a mystery of the north. the hunted woman a tale of a great fight in the "valley of gold" for a woman. the flower of the north the story of fort o' god, where the wild flavor of the wilderness is blended with the courtly atmosphere of france. the grizzly king the story of thor, the big grizzly. isobel a love story of the far north. the wolf hunters a thrilling tale of adventure in the canadian wilderness. the gold hunters the story of adventure in the hudson bay wilds. the courage of marge o'doone filled with exciting incidents in the land of strong men and women. back to god's country a thrilling story of the far north. the great photoplay was made from this book. grosset & dunlap, publishers, new york * * * * * edgar rice burrough's novels may be had wherever books are sold. ask for grosset & dunlap's list. tarzan the untamed tells of tarzan's return to the life of the ape-man in his search for vengeance on those who took from him his wife and home. jungle tales of tarzan records the many wonderful exploits by which tarzan proves his right to ape kingship. a princess of mars forty-three million miles from the earth--a succession of the weirdest and most astounding adventures in fiction. john carter, american, finds himself on the planet mars, battling for a beautiful woman, with the green men of mars, terrible creatures fifteen feet high, mounted on horses like dragons. the gods of mars continuing john carter's adventures on the planet mars, in which he does battle against the ferocious "plant men," creatures whose mighty tails swished their victims to instant death, and defies issus, the terrible goddess of death, whom all mars worships and reveres. the warlord of mars old acquaintances, made in the two other stories, reappear, tars tarkas, tardos mors and others. there is a happy ending to the story in the union of the warlord, the title conferred upon john carter, with dejah thoris. thuvia, maid of mars the fourth volume of the series. the story centers around the adventures of carthoris, the son of john carter and thuvia, daughter of a martian emperor. grosset & dunlap, publishers, new york * * * * * myrtle reed's novels may be had wherever books are sold. ask for grosset and dunlap's list. lavender and old lace. a charming story of a quaint corner of new england. the story centers round the coming of love to the young people on the staff of a newspaper--and is one of the sweetest and quaintest of old-fashioned love stories. flower of the dusk. a crippled daughter struggles to keep up the deception of riches for the comfort of a blind father. through the aid of an heiress and her surgeon lover both father and daughter are cured. master of the vineyard. a pathetic love story of a young girl, rosemary. the teacher of the country school, who is also master of the vineyard, comes to know her through her desire for books. she is happy in his love till another woman comes into his life. but happiness comes to rosemary at last. old rose and silver. a love story,--sentimental and humorous,--with the plot subordinate to the character delineation of its quaint people and to the exquisite descriptions of picturesque spots. a weaver of dreams. this story tells of the love-affairs of three young people, with an old-fashioned romance in the background. a spinner in the sun. an old-fashioned love story of a veiled lady who lives in solitude. there is a mystery that throws over it the glamour of romance. the master's violin. a love story in a musical atmosphere. an old german virtuoso consents to take for his pupil a youth who proves to have an aptitude for technique, but not the soul of an artist. but a girl comes into his life, and through his passionate love for her his soul awakes. grosset & dunlap, publishers, new york * * * * * novels of frontier life by william macleod raine may be had wherever books are sold. ask for grosset & dunlap's list. mavericks a tale of the western frontier, where the "rustler" abounds. one of the sweetest love stories ever told. a texas ranger how a member of the border police saved the life of an innocent man, followed fugitive to wyoming, and then passed through deadly peril to ultimate happiness. wyoming in this vivid story the author brings out the turbid life of the frontier with all its engaging dash and vigor. ridgway of montana the scene is laid in the mining centers of montana, where politics and mining industries are the religion of the country. bucky o'connor every chapter teems with wholesome, stirring adventures, replete with the dashing spirit of the border. crooked trails and straight a story of arizona; of swift-riding men and daring outlaws; of a bitter feud between cattle-men and sheep-herders. brand blotters a story of the turbid life of the frontier with a charming love interest running through its pages. steve yeager a story brimful of excitement, with enough gun-play and adventures to suit anyone. a daughter of the dons a western story of romance and adventure, comprising a vivacious and stirring tale. the highgrader a breezy, pleasant and amusing love story of western mining life. the pirate of panama a tale of old-time pirates and of modern love, hate and adventure. the yukon trail a crisply entertaining love story in the land where might makes right. the vision splendid in which two cousins are contestants for the same prizes; political honors and the hand of a girl. the sheriff's son the hero finally conquers both himself and his enemies and wins the love of a wonderful girl. grosset & dunlap, publishers, new york * * * * * eleanor h. porter's novels may be had wherever books are sold. ask for grosset & dunlap's list. just david the tale of a loveable boy and the place he comes to fill in the hearts of the gruff farmer folk to whose care he is left. the road to understanding a compelling romance of love and marriage. oh, money! money! stanley fulton, a wealthy bachelor, to test the dispositions of his relatives, sends them each a check for $ , , and then as plain john smith comes among them to watch the result of his experiment. six star ranch a wholesome story of a club of six girls and their summer on six star ranch. dawn the story of a blind boy whose courage leads him through the gulf of despair into a final victory gained by dedicating his life to the service of blind soldiers. across the years short stories of our own kind and of our own people. contains some of the best writing mrs. porter has done. the tangled threads in these stories we find the concentrated charm and tenderness of all her other books. the tie that binds intensely human stories told with mrs. porter's wonderful talent for warm and vivid character drawing. grosset & dunlap, publishers, new york * * * * * the novels of winston churchill the inside of the cup. illustrated by howard giles. the reverend john hodder is called to a fashionable church in a middle-western city. he knows little of modern problems and in his theology is as orthodox as the rich men who control his church could desire. but the facts of modern life are thrust upon him; an awakening follows and in the end he works out a solution. a far country. illustrated by herman pfeifer. this novel is concerned with big problems of the day. as _the inside of the cup_ gets down to the essentials in its discussion of religion, so _a far country_ deals in a story that is intense and dramatic, with other vital issues confronting the twentieth century. a modern chronicle. illustrated by j. h. gardner soper. this, mr. churchill's first great presentation of the eternal feminine, is throughout a profound study of a fascinating young american woman. it is frankly a modern love story. mr. crewe's career. illus. by a. i. keller and kinneys. a new england state is under the political domination of a railway and mr. crewe, a millionaire, seizes a moment when the cause of the people is being espoused by an ardent young attorney, to further his own interest in a political way. the daughter of the railway president plays no small part in the situation. the crossing. illustrated by s. adamson and l. bay. describing the battle of fort moultrie, the blazing of the kentucky wilderness, the expedition of clark and his handful of followers in illinois, the beginning of civilization along the ohio and mississippi, and the treasonable schemes against washington. coniston. illustrated by florence scovel shinn. a deft blending of love and politics. a new englander is the hero, a crude man who rose to political prominence by his own powers, and then surrendered all for the love of a woman. the celebrity. an episode. an inimitable bit of comedy describing an interchange of personalities between a celebrated author and a bicycle salesman. it is the purest, keenest fun--and is american to the core. the crisis. illustrated with scenes from the photo-play. a book that presents the great crisis in our national life with splendid power and with a sympathy, a sincerity, and a patriotism that are inspiring. richard carvel. illustrated by malcolm frazer. an historical novel which gives a real and vivid picture of colonial times, and is good, clean, spirited reading in all its phases and interesting throughout. grosset & dunlap, publishers, new york * * * * * "storm country" books by grace miller white may be had wherever books are sold. ask for grosset & dunlap's list. judy of rogues' harbor judy's untutored ideas of god, her love of wild things, her faith in life are quite as inspiring as those of tess. her faith and sincerity catch at your heart strings. this book has all of the mystery and tense action of the other storm country books. tess of the storm country it was as tess, beautiful, wild, impetuous, that mary pickford made her reputation as a motion picture actress. how love acts upon a temperament such as hers--a temperament that makes a woman an angel or an outcast, according to the character of the man she loves--is the theme of the story. the secret of the storm country the sequel to "tess of the storm country," with the same wild background, with its half-gypsy life of the squatters--tempestuous, passionate, brooding. tess learns the "secret" of her birth and finds happiness and love through her boundless faith in life. from the valley of the missing a haunting story with its scene laid near the country familiar to readers of "tess of the storm country." rose o' paradise "jinny" singleton, wild, lovely, lonely, but with a passionate yearning for music, grows up in the house of lafe grandoken, a crippled cobbler of the storm country. her romance is full of power and glory and tenderness. _ask for complete free list of g. & d. popular copyrighted fiction_ grosset & dunlap, publishers, new york * * * * * stories of rare charm by gene stratton-porter may be had wherever books are sold. ask for grosset and dunlap's list [illustration] laddie. illustrated by herman pfeifer. this is a bright, cheery tale with the scenes laid in indiana. the story is told by little sister, the youngest member of a large family, but it is concerned not so much with childish doings as with the love affairs of older members of the family. chief among them is that of laddie, the older brother whom little sister adores, and the princess, an english girl who has come to live in the neighborhood and about whose family there hangs a mystery. there is a wedding midway in the book and a double wedding at the close. the harvester. illustrated by w. l. jacobs. "the harvester," david langston, is a man of the woods and fields, who draws his living from the prodigal hand of mother nature herself. if the book had nothing in it but the splendid figure of this man it would be notable. but when the girl comes to his "medicine woods," and the harvester's whole being realizes that this is the highest point of life which has come to him--there begins a romance of the rarest idyllic quality. freckles. decorations by e. stetson crawford. freckles is a nameless waif when the tale opens, but the way in which he takes hold of life; the nature friendships he forms in the great limberlost swamp; the manner in which everyone who meets him succumbs to the charm of his engaging personality; and his love-story with "the angel" are full of real sentiment. a girl of the limberlost. illustrated by wladyslaw t. brenda. the story of a girl of the michigan woods; a buoyant, lovable type of the self-reliant american. her philosophy is one of love and kindness towards all things; her hope is never dimmed. and by the sheer beauty of her soul, and the purity of her vision, she wins from barren and unpromising surroundings those rewards of high courage. at the foot of the rainbow. illustrations in colors by oliver kemp. the scene of this charming love story is laid in central indiana. the story is one of devoted friendship, and tender self-sacrificing love. the novel is brimful of the most beautiful word painting of nature, and its pathos and tender sentiment will endear it to all. grosset & dunlap, publishers, new york * * * * * the novels of irving bacheller full of the real atmosphere of american home life. the hand-made gentleman. with a double-page frontispiece. the son of a wash-woman begins re-making himself socially and imparts his system to his numerous friends. a story of rural new york with an appreciation of american types only possible from the pen of a humor loving american. darrel of the blessed isles. with illustrations by arthur i. keller. a tale of the north country. in darrel, the clock tinker, wit, philosopher and man of mystery, is portrayed a force held in fetters and covered with obscurity, yet strong to make its way, and widely felt. d'ri and i: a tale of daring deeds in the second war with the british. illustrated by f. c. yohn. "d'ri" was a mighty hunter, quaint, rugged, wise, truthful. he fights magnificently on the lawrence, and is a striking figure in this enthusiastic romance of early america. eben holden: a tale of the north country. a story of the hardy wood-choppers of vermont, who founded their homes in the adirondack wilderness. "eben," the hero, is a bachelor with an imagination that is a very wilderness of oddities. silas strong: emperor of the woods. a simple account of one summer life, as it was lived in a part of the adirondacks. silas strong is a woodland philosopher, and his camp is the scene of an impressive little love story. vergilius: a tale of the coming of christ. a thrilling and beautiful story of two young roman patricians whose great and perilous love in the reign of augustus leads them through the momentous, exciting events that marked the year just preceding the birth of christ. grosset & dunlap, west th st., new york scanned images of public domain material from the google print archive. good references [illustration: "but, please--_please_, let me explain about the references."] good references by e. j. rath author of "sam," "mister ," "the mantle of silence," etc. frontispiece by paul stahr [illustration] new york w. j. watt & company publishers copyright, , by w. j. watt & company contents page chapter i mary decides chapter ii aunt caroline chapter iii engaged chapter iv "the web we weave" chapter v social secretarying chapter vi in search of an idea chapter vii via the night court chapter viii "miss norcross gets the goods" chapter ix "miss norcross" wields a club chapter x the leopard's spots chapter xi the valet in the house chapter xii signor antonio valentino chapter xiii mary resigns chapter xiv references chapter xv to sail the ocean blue chapter xvi three errands ashore chapter xvii the way of a maid chapter xviii castaways chapter xix the spoilers chapter xx the high cost of jealousy chapter xxi the last bottle in larchmont chapter xxii the road to home chapter xxiii home chapter xxiv aunt caroline--referee chapter xxv william develops a will chapter xxvi without references good references chapter i mary decides there was only one man in the office of the brain workers' exchange and he was an obscurity who "kept" the books in the farthest corner of the room. girls of various ages and women of all ages crowded him remorselessly out of the picture, so that when it was possible to obtain even a glimpse of him he served merely as a memorandum of the fact that there are, after all, two sexes. a few of the girls and women sat at desks; they were the working staff of the exchange. one of them was also the owner and manager. outside a railing that divided the room there were a few chairs, very few, because it was not the policy of the exchange to maintain a waiting-room for clients. it was a quiet and brisk clearing house, not a loitering place nor a shop-window for the display of people who had brains to sell by the week or the month. the clients came and went rather rapidly; they were not encouraged to linger. sometimes they were sent for, and after those occasions they usually disappeared from the "active-list" and became inconsequential incidents in the history of the exchange. the exchange had pride in the fact that it made quick turnovers of its stock; nothing remained very long on the shelves. and in times such as these there were no bargain sales in brains. mary wayne paused for a second on the threshold as her eyes swiftly reviewed the details of the picture; then she closed the door gently behind her, conscious of a distinct feeling of encouragement. she had been apprehensive; she had faced an expected sense of humiliation. there had been in her mind an idea that she was about to become one of a clamorous crowd. but things were very much otherwise in the brain workers' exchange--gratefully so. she walked over to a desk, where a small brass sign said "registry," sensing that this must be her first port of call. a young woman who sat at the desk glanced up, saw a stranger, reached for a form-card that lay on top of a neatly stacked pile and dipped a pen. "name, please," she said. "mary wayne." "address?" the address was given; it was that of a boarding-house in the eighties, but mary wayne hoped that it would not be so identified in the mind of the recording angel, if, indeed, she should prove to be such. "married?" "oh, no," hastily. it seemed an absurd question, but the answer went down in a place left blank by the printer. "age?" "twenty-two." "occupation?" "stenographer." the answer had a faint note of defiance. "expert? we handle only experts, you know." "expert," said mary wayne. there were other questions. had she a knowledge of office management? no. of bookkeeping? no. of foreign languages? she knew french; a little spanish. did she understand filing systems? she thought so. education? there had been two years in college; necessity compelled her to give up the remainder. the woman behind the desk surveyed her from hat to shoes in a rapid, impersonal glance, then wrote something in another blank space. mary wildly yearned to know what it was, but checked the impulse to lean forward and see. "now, your references, please." "i have no references." there was a sudden chill in the manner of the recording angel. she pushed the form-card away from her, so that it teetered perilously on the edge of the desk. if it passed the brink there was nothing to save it from the waste-basket below. "all registrants must furnish references. perhaps you did not observe the sign on the wall." mary had not seen it, but she now looked at it, apologetically. "i didn't know," she said. "i'm sorry. but i can explain very easily." "we never deviate from our rule, miss wayne. we have our reputation to sustain. references are absolutely essential." "but don't you see----" "it would only waste your time and mine. we recommend no person for employment unless she can furnish at least two references. we even require employers to furnish them, unless they are known to us." the recording angel was no longer angelic. she was polite, perhaps, yet peremptory. with a little gesture of finality, she tipped the card into the waste-basket. mary caught her breath, almost desperately. references! oh, she had heard that word before. a dozen times it had risen to mock her, like a grinning specter. if asked to spell it, she felt that she would write it thus: "d-o-o-m." "but, please--_please_, let me explain about the references." "sorry. it would be quite useless." "i can assure you i'm absolutely--all right," pleaded mary. "i'm really a good stenographer--an expert. i'm honest, and----" she paused in the humiliation of having to say things that ought to be obvious to anybody. but the woman simply shook her head. "you must listen; oh, surely you will. i suppose i should have explained in the beginning, but it didn't seem necessary. i didn't understand. this is the first time i was ever in--in--an intelligence office." the recording angel stiffened in her uncompromising desk-chair, and mary instantly knew she had given unpardonable offense. "this is _not_ an intelligence office, miss wayne. an intelligence office is a place for cooks, chambermaids, waitresses, laundresses, chauffeurs, gardeners, and stable-hands. this is an exchange which deals in brains only, plus experience and good character. it is not even an employment agency. good day, miss wayne." mary recoiled from the desk, numbed. she had sealed her own fate in two blundering words. she had not meant to say "intelligence office"; it slipped out in an evil moment of inadvertence. it was a forgotten phrase of childhood, come down from the days when her mother employed "help," and now flowing from the tip of her tongue in order to accomplish complete and unmerited disaster. dismay and irresolution held her motionless for a moment, outside the inexorable railing that divided the room. it had not yet occurred to her to walk out of the office of the brain workers' exchange; she was thralled in the inertia of an overwhelming despair. "good morning, miss norcross. thank you for being prompt." a woman who sat at another desk was speaking, in crisp, satisfying tones. mary turned mechanically to observe the person to whom the words were addressed. she saw a girl apparently of her own age crossing the floor with an eager, nervous step; a girl dressed with a certain plain severity that unmistakably helped to give her an air of confidence. mary was easily as well dressed herself; perhaps more expensively. yet she felt herself suddenly lacking in every essential quality embodied in the person who had been addressed as "miss norcross." "we have an excellent opportunity for you," the woman at the desk was saying. "that is why i sent an urgent message. a lady wishes a competent, well-bred young woman to perform secretarial work. it is of a social character. she will pay a good salary to the right person. we are giving you the first opportunity because of the unusually good references you possess." there it was again. references! mary's soul winced. "the lady, miss marshall--here is her address--is known to us by reputation. we have given her an outline of your qualifications. she will wish, of course, to see your references, so take them with you. she expects you to call at three o'clock this afternoon." "oh--thank you!" there was something so fervent in the words that even mary, dulled with her own woes, did not fail to observe it. she was conscious of a faint sense of surprise that such a confident and evidently competent person as this miss norcross should yield to an ardent protestation of gratitude. she had good references; unusually good ones, the woman said. why, therefore, be so eagerly thankful? "it's nothing at all, if you have references," whispered mary to her inner self, as she walked toward the door. it was a bitter, hopeless whisper. once in the outer hall, mary wayne paused. she had closed the door behind which crouched that cold-blooded monster--the brain workers' exchange. again she read the neatly lettered sign. what a mockery it was! brain workers, indeed! it was merely a meeting-place for the elect, for those who had the mystic password to the inner shrine. and she--she had everything but the mere password. abruptly she brushed her hand across her eyes, then began fumbling in a beaded bag. "i'm going to cry," she said, half aloud. "and i _won't_!" yet she would and did, and she certainly was crying when the door of the brain workers' exchange opened again and closed with a joyous click behind the young woman who had the unusually good references. "oh--i'm sorry," said the young woman, looking at mary. mary hated herself and loathed the weakness of her tears. "i saw you inside," continued the person named norcross. "you've had bad luck, of course." it was not a question, but an assertion. mary fought against a sob. "n-no luck," she managed. "never mind. you'll have better luck very soon." "i--i'll never have any luck. i'm doomed. i--oh, it's so silly of me--but i haven't any references." a hand was slipped within mary's arm; she felt a gentle pressure of reassurance. "don't let luck down you," said the lucky one. "it always changes. mine did; so will yours. i've just had a wonderful piece of luck and it doesn't seem right that somebody else should be unhappy." "but you had ref--ref--references. i heard." "yes, my dear; i had references. they're good things to have. come--cheer up. i've simply got to celebrate. please come and have lunch with me. honestly, i insist." mary looked wonderingly at the girl with the magic key. she wiped her eyes bravely, then shook her head. "i'll--i'll be all right. thank you." "you'll be better for lunch; so will i. please come. i want somebody to talk to. my name is norcross--nell norcross." she was still gripping mary's arm, with an insistence that surprised the tearful one, for miss norcross did not appear like a resolute and robust person, but rather one who was somewhat frail and worried, despite all her jaunty assurance of manner. "i'm mary wayne--but--oh, what's the use? thank you, just the same." "come along," said miss norcross. "i know a dandy little place. it's cheap, too. you see, i'm not very strong financially, even if i am getting a job." she walked mary to the elevator and down to the street level they went. mary felt very weak of will, yet somehow comforted, as she suffered herself to be marched for several blocks to an obscure little restaurant in a basement. the strange young woman chattered all the way, but mary had no very clear notion of what she talked about. it was not until they were seated on opposite sides of a table that she began to pay close attention. "you must always have references," miss norcross was saying with an energy that was strangely in contrast with the pale, drawn cheeks and very bright eyes. "you must find a way to get some. people are so silly about them; they think more of references than of what you can really do." "but how can i ever get them?" asked mary. "you see, i've never worked; that is, i never worked for anybody except father. and he is dead. i'm really a very good stenographer; i can do over one hundred and twenty-five words a minute. but there isn't anybody who knows i can. and there isn't a business place that will give me a chance to prove it. i've tried; and every time they ask for references." "my dear, if you can do one hundred and twenty-five you're a better stenographer than i am; lots better. in your case it's only a question of getting started. after that, you'll go like wildfire." "but it's the references," sighed mary. "you've got them, you see." "simply because i've worked before; that's all." miss norcross sipped hastily from a glass of water and shook her head with a little frown of annoyance. "i'm just a bit dizzy; it's my eyes, i think--or perhaps the good luck. the thing for you to do is to get some references; surely there must be somebody who can help you out. now, when i started----" she shook her head again. "when i started----" another drink of water. "it's quite easy if--my dear, i'm afraid i'm going to be ill." she announced the fact with a gasping sigh of resignation. mary arose from her chair, startled, and walked around the table. "i've--i've been afraid of it," said the lucky one of the references. "i haven't been very strong. worrying, i suppose. i worried about a job. it's my head; it aches in such a funny way. just my luck, i suppose. i--i--oh, please don't leave me!" "i shouldn't dream of leaving you," said mary, stoutly. "let me take you home. where do you live?" "it's----" miss norcross whispered an address; mary observed with conscious surprise that it was on the lower east side. "it's written on a piece of paper--in my bag--in case you forget it--or i faint. you'll find money there--for the check. i'm sorry. i----" the sick girl leaned forward and rested her head on her folded arms. "just get me home," she muttered. "after that----" mary took command. she paid the check out of her own purse and sent the waiter out into the street to hunt for a taxi. with responsibility so suddenly thrust upon her there was no opportunity to brood upon her own troubles or the meager state of her finances. this girl had been kindly; she could do no less than be a samaritan herself. the ride in the taxi was swift and, for the most part, through streets whose pavements had deteriorated in keeping with the neighborhood itself. mary sat rigid, her feet braced in front of her, with her arm tightly clasped around the girl of the references, who sagged heavily against her, her eyes closed, her forehead and cheeks cold and damp. the cab stopped at what was evidently a boarding-house; mary could tell a boarding-house through some queer sixth sense, developed out of cheerless experience. it was an acquired faculty in which she took no joy or pride. a nervous and wholly pessimistic landlady assisted in the task of conveying miss norcross to her room, which was up three flights. "i been expectin' it," observed the landlady. "it's been comin'. she ain't been feedin' herself right. i ain't complainin', y' understand; she's paid her bills--so far, anyhow. i hope to goodness it ain't contagious. i got my house to think about. if it's contagious----" "go down and telephone for a doctor," said mary shortly. "it's a good thing she's got a friend. if she has to go to a hospital----" "where is the telephone?" "oh, i'll go. i'll send for my own doctor, too. there isn't anybody better. i'll ask him if it's contagious and----" mary pushed her out of the room and turned to the patient, who was lying on the bed. "don't be a bit frightened," said mary. "i don't believe you're very sick. keep still and i'll undress you." she felt quite composed and wholly in command of herself; it was as if she were doing something entirely commonplace and all planned in advance. "it--it isn't just being sick," said miss norcross weakly. "i'm not afraid of that. it's the job--the money. i need it so. oh, please--don't bother. i can take off my own shoes." "keep still," ordered mary. "we'll have the doctor very soon." "doctor!" moaned the patient. "that's more money." "stop talking about money. be quiet. would you like a drink of water?" when mary returned with a glass she found her patient sitting up, staring at her with frightened eyes that were luminous with fever. "i've got to talk about money!" she exclaimed. "why, i haven't even five dollars to my name." "there, there, my dear," said mary. "don't let it worry you. neither have i." it had cost her nearly three dollars to pay the restaurant check and the taxi-driver, but that pang had passed. she was amazed at her own indifference. "but, don't you understand? i'm going to be sick--sick! and who's going to pay for it all? i _won't_ be a charity patient; i _won't_ go to a hospital. and my job! i've been trying so long and--and just when i get one--such a wonderful chance--i--oh, it's going to drive me mad, i tell you." "never mind; there'll be other chances. perhaps the lady will wait. drink your water." but miss norcross pushed the glass aside. "jobs never wait," she moaned. "people always have to wait for jobs. that's what i've been doing, and now--now--oh, isn't it simply fiendish? and my head aches so!" "of course, dear. but never mind. i'll see you through. perhaps i'll get a job myself, and----" the sick girl gripped mary's arm tensely. "my job!" she whispered. "you'll take mine!" mary smiled rather wanly. "i couldn't do that, of course," she said. "i haven't references--and they're expecting you. but i'll find something else; i'm sure of it." she was anything but sure of it; she was quite certain it would be otherwise. but it was her duty, she felt, to make a brave front. "no, no, no! you _must_ take mine. oh, can't you see----" there was a knock, followed by a doctor. he seemed to be in a hurry, yet for all that he was quite positive about things. no, it wasn't contagious. the landlady vanished from the threshold to spread the joyous news down-stairs. but she was a sick girl, none the less. there would be ten days in bed, at the very least. she needed medicine, of course he would leave prescriptions. and there must be a special diet. there really ought to be a nurse. and--well, he would look in again that evening; he would decide about the nurse then. miss norcross was sitting up again as the door closed behind him. "see!" she cried. "you've just got to do it! what's going to become of _me_--and of you? it's for three o'clock. oh, please go! take my references. take----" she fell back on the pillow in a seizure of weakness. mary wayne walked to the window and looked down into the drab street. would she do it? dared she? had she any right? and if she did---- the sick girl was whispering for water. mary carried it to her, raised her head and steadied the glass at her lips. "oh, please! i'm frightened and worried--and----" mary made a decision. chapter ii aunt caroline bill marshall was home from college. he had fought his education to a finish, after a bitter battle that was filled with grueling rounds of uncertainty, and now he returned in triumph to show his prize to aunt caroline; not that he valued the prize itself, for it was merely a diploma, but because it represented the end of the business of learning things. he was free now; he could turn his mind and his talents to life itself. work! oh, not necessarily. he had not thought about work. bill--he was infinitely too large to be called billy or willie--had great respect for aunt caroline. he wanted her to think well of him. her home was his. there was excellent reason for the expectation that some day her fortune would be his. there was nobody except bill to whom it was likely to be given, except for those modest remembrances that go to the old servants who survive mistress and master. yet bill was neither mercenary nor covetous; he simply accepted conditions and prospects as they stood, taking it for granted that life was going to be good to him and that there was no need for anxious glances into the future. if fate chose to make him a sole heir, why struggle against it? "why go to the mat with destiny?" was the sum of bill's philosophy. "why go out of your class and get trimmed?" aunt caroline marshall lived in a once fashionable brownstone cave on lower fifth avenue. her blood was of the bluest, which made her a conservative. she never "took part" in things. when bill was in college there was nobody in the house except herself and the servants. she used a carriage and team, never an automobile, although she permitted bill to have his own car as a reluctant concession to the times. she was proud of her ancestral tree, wore lace caps and went to church every sunday. she believed that there were still ladies and gentlemen in the world, as well as lower classes. she made preserves and put up her own mince-meat. but for all that there was no severity about aunt caroline. she was rather fat and comfortable and tolerant. she liked young people and somehow she had acquired a notion that bill had a future. "william," said aunt caroline, as she examined the diploma through her gold-rimmed spectacles, "i think you have done very well. if your father were alive i am sure he would say the same thing. i am going to give you a check." "oh, don't bother, aunt caroline," said bill grandly. but he knew she would. "it is so comforting to know that you stood at the head of your class, william." she alone used "william." "why--what?" "that out of two hundred you were the very first," remarked aunt caroline, smoothing her black silk. bill was blinking. was he being joshed by his maiden aunt? "why, aunt caroline, who----" "oh, the young man you brought home told me," and she beamed benevolently. "but the marshalls always have been a modest family. we let our acts speak for themselves. i suppose i should never have found it out if your valet had not told me. his name is peter, isn't it?" so pete had told her that! "he appears to be a rather nice young man," added aunt caroline. "i am glad you brought him." bill was thinking of things to say to pete. "while he is, of course, your valet, william, i think we can afford to be rather considerate toward him. it seems so rare nowadays to find a young man with such high aims." "so?" remarked bill. this was bewildering. "just--er--what did he say about his aims, aunt caroline?" "he explained about his theological studies and how he has been earning his way through college, doing work as a valet. it was kind of you, william, to give him employment." bill was making the motions of swallowing. theological studies! why---- "he takes such a deep interest in the heathen peoples," aunt caroline was saying. "while i hate to see a young man bury himself away from civilization, it shows very high christian principles. there have to be missionaries in the world, of course. he speaks so hopefully about his future life." "why--er--oh, yes; he's an optimist, all right, aunt caroline." bill's large bulk showed signs of considerable agitation, but his aunt did not observe them. "i gather from what he said, william, that he is something more than just a valet to you. he told me about your talks together on theology. i feel sure that he is going to be a very good influence. he told me about how hard you worked in your classes, and the honors you won, and all the temptations you resisted. he did not say that he helped you to resist them, but he did not need to. i could understand." aunt caroline nodded in confirmation of her own statement. "i hope he is orthodox," she added. "i shall ask him about that some time." there was a dull-red in bill's cheeks. suddenly he excused himself and bolted. aunt caroline reached for the very conservative magazine she affected. up-stairs in bill's room a young man was sprawled on a couch. he was smoking a pipe and staring up at the ceiling as bill thundered in and slammed the door behind him. "pete, what in blazes have you been saying to my aunt?" the valet grinned, yawned and stretched. bill jerked a pillow from under his head, gripped him mercilessly by one shoulder and spun him into a sitting posture. "ouch! leggo, you mastodon." "what have you been saying?" repeated bill savagely. "oh, whatever she told you, i suppose. two to one i made it stick, anyhow." mr. peter stearns, who had accompanied bill home from college, smiled benignly. he was a frail-looking young man, utterly unlike bill, whose mold was heroic. he was also mild-looking; there was a baffling depth of innocence in his eyes, a placid expression of peace on his lean features. there was even a hint of piety that might pass current among the unwary. "you filled her up with a lot of bull about me being first in the class and you having religion--you!" "didn't she like it?" asked pete mildly. "of course she did, you fool idiot!" "then why the roar?" "because it's going to make a devil of a mess; that's why. now we've got to live up to things." pete whistled a careless note and shrugged. "that might be a good stunt, too, bill." bill wheeled away in disgust, then charged back. "you know as well as i do that we _can't_ live up to it--neither of us. you've filled her bean with a lot of fool notions. oh, lord, pete! i had no business to bring you." "bill, answer me this: am i making things more exciting?" "exciting! you're making them batty." "did i ever fail you?" "oh, shut up!" "did i ever hesitate to give the best that was in me, bill?" "cut out the bunk; you can't pull it on me. didn't i have enough trouble getting through college at all? didn't i just miss getting the razz from the faculty? didn't they let me through for fear if they didn't i'd come back? and now you butt in and make me the president of the class and one of those magna cum laudæ guys. why, you'll have my aunt caroline writing to the college to tell 'em how happy she is and how much money she's going to leave 'em!" pete made a reassuring gesture. "no, she won't, bill. i'll fix that the next time i talk to her. i'll tell her----" "you won't tell her one damn thing. you've said plenty now. you lay off, do you hear? you--you--divinity student!" pete smiled brightly. "do you know, bill, when i did that i honestly believe i pulled off a new stunt. i doubt if it's been done before. don't sneer, bill, i mean it. and don't you worry about my getting away with it. i'll swing the job; you watch." "but why in blazes did you have to start in telling lies?" "why, i was only making things softer for you, old man. we'll assume your aunt has always been fond of you, although god knows why. anyhow, we'll assume it. but she's more than fond of you now, bill. she thinks you're not only a lovable man mountain, but she also thinks you're the world's leading intellect. why? simply because i told an innocent fib that has harmed nobody." bill grunted savagely. "as for the rest of it," remarked pete, "each of us must carve his own destiny. i carved mine according to such lights as i had at the moment. your aunt is pleased with me; most ladies are. tut, bill; i speak but the simple truth. what there is about me i don't know. something too subtle for analysis, i fancy. but, anyhow, you old rip, she likes me. in giving myself an excellent character i also aid you, which was something i had particularly in mind. i am always your little helper, bill; always and forever. your aunt feels that it confers honor upon you to consort with a young man of religious tendencies. you have risen a hundred per cent, not only as an intellectual, but as a moralist. why, it's almost like having religion yourself, bill." bill marshall shook a stern finger of warning. "you've got to stop it, pete. i won't stand for it. you'll ruin us." "oh, i'll get by," said pete, comfortably. "will you? i think you are riding for a fall. how far will you get if she ever finds out you come from the stearns family?" pete became thoughtful. "she doesn't like us, does she?" "she thinks your whole outfit is poison. understand, pete; i'm only saying what _she_ thinks. i haven't any of the family prejudice myself." "that's nice." "as a matter of fact, i don't know what the trouble is all about, anyhow. it goes away back. it's a sort of an old family feud; i never bothered with it. it's nothing in my life--but it is in aunt caroline's. all you've got to do is to mention the name to her and she broadsides. why, if she knew that i had anything to do with a stearns i wouldn't last five minutes under this roof." "i won't tell her, bill," said pete, soothingly. aunt caroline's heir presumptive packed a pipe and lighted it. for several minutes he smoked ferociously. "i'm afraid i've made a mistake in bringing you here at all," he said. "it's bad enough to have you a stearns, but if she knew you had been expelled from college--well, it can't be expressed. why did you have to insist on being my valet, anyhow? if you'd just come along as a friend, under any old name, it would have been a lot better." "no, bill; i figured that all out. your aunt caroline was suspicious of all college friends; you told me so yourself. she worried about bad company and all that sort of thing. but she won't worry about a poor young man who is working his way in the world and getting ready to reform the heathen. no; i'm better as a valet. besides, i don't have to give any name except peter, which is my own. that keeps you from making breaks and saves me from telling a lie." bill shook his head gloomily. "we're off to a bad start," he grumbled. "i don't like it." "well, let's be gay and bold about it, anyhow," said pete. "to become practical, bill, what sort of accommodations do i draw here? do i room with you?" "in your capacity as my valet i imagine you'll get a room in the servants' quarters. aunt caroline may put you out in the stable." "that's a pleasant way to treat a pal," observed pete. "take my tip and get that pal stuff out of your head. you'll forget yourself in front of my aunt some day." there was a knock at the door and bill found one of the maids standing in the hall. "your aunt would like to see you in the library, mr. william, if it's convenient," she said. "i'll be right down." he turned and glared at pete. "i've got a hunch that she's tumbled to you already," he said. "if she has, you'd better go out by that window; it's only a twenty-foot jump." pete smiled easily. "bet you three to one she hasn't tumbled. now you trot along, bill, and cheer up." bill could not shake off his premonition of trouble as he walked slowly down-stairs. with disquieting clearness he sensed that all was not right with his world. nor did this feeling leave him even when aunt caroline removed her spectacles and looked up, smiling. "it's something i just remembered, william. i wanted to speak to you about your secretary." "secretary, aunt caroline? he's my valet." "oh, no; i don't mean peter. i mean your secretary." bill shook his head to signify he did not understand. "the secretary i am going to engage for you, william." "what secretary? what would i do with a secretary, aunt caroline?" "your social secretary," said aunt caroline. "my social--i'm afraid i don't get you, aunty." "it is very easily explained, william. all persons who lead an active life in society require a secretary." bill stared at his benevolent aunt. "holy smoke, aunt caroline! i'm not in society." "but you will be, my dear nephew." "never!" "oh, yes, william--soon." "but--aunt caroline--i don't want to go into society. i haven't any use for it. i'm not built----" "there, now, william. we must always put our duty before our mere inclinations. it is your duty to enter society." bill almost trembled. this was worse than anything his imagination had conjured. he felt deeply dismayed and, at the same time, excessively foolish. "duty?" he echoed. "duty? why, how in--how can it be a duty, aunt caroline? you've got me knocked cold." she smiled gently and patiently. "it is your duty to the family, william. it is something your father would wish. he had a distinguished position in society. your grandfather's position was even more distinguished. because of the fact that i am a spinster it has not been possible for me to maintain the family tradition. but for you, william--why, the whole world of society is open to you. it is waiting for you." aunt caroline clasped her hands in a spell of ecstasy. "but, my dear aunt, i don't know anybody in society," groaned bill. "a marshall can go anywhere," she answered proudly. "but i don't _want_ to. i'm not fit for it. i'd feel like a jay. i can't dance, aunt caroline, i can't talk, i can't doll up--hang it! look at the size of me. i tell you i'm too big for society. i'd step on it; i'd smother it. i'd break it all into pieces." "william, nonsense!" "it is not nonsense; it's the goods, aunt caroline. why, i couldn't even sneak in the back way." "no marshall ever sneaks in anywhere," said aunt caroline, with a trace of sternness that bill did not miss. when his aunt was stern, which was rare, it was an omen. "the family pride and the family honor are now in your hands, william, and if you are a marshall you will be true to them." "but--oh, i want to do something serious," pleaded bill. "what, for instance?" bill was stalled. he did not know what. it was merely the clutch of a drowning man at a straw. "you will find that society is serious, very serious," observed aunt caroline. "there may be some who think it is frivolous; but not the society in which the marshalls are known. none of us can escape the heritage of our blood, william; none of us should try. if the world of fashion calls you as a leader, it is simply your destiny calling." bill regarded his aunt with horror-stricken eyes. he had never thought of a destiny garbed in the grotesque. for one awful instant he saw himself the perfect gentleman, moving in a wholly polite and always correct little world, smiling, smirking, carrying ices, going to operas, wearing cutaways and canes, drinking tea, talking smartly, petting lap-dogs, handing damosels into limousines, bowing, dancing, holding the mirror to propriety--he--bill marshall--old walloping bill. his knees shook. then he brushed the fearsome picture from his mind. "aunt caroline, it's utterly impossible!" "william, i have decided." for a few seconds he faced her, matching her glance. he was red with belligerence; aunt caroline had the composure of placid adamant. he knew that look. again the dread picture began to fashion itself; there was weakness in his soul. "but listen, aunt caroline; i'm such a roughneck----" "william!" he made a ponderous gesture of despair and walked out of the library. chapter iii engaged out of the library and through the parlor--there was a parlor in the marshall home--strode bill, with each step gathering speed and assuming the momentum of an avalanche. things that were in his way suffered consequences. not that bill was clumsy at all, although he thought he was, as most men do who belong in the oversize class. he was simply for the moment disregardful of property. sometimes he believed in the innate perversity of inanimate matter and comported himself accordingly. he was in a hopeless anguish of mind. oh, that aunt caroline should have pressed this cup to his lips. through the parlor and into the reception-room. a high-backed chair lay in his path. he placed a foot against it and shot it across the floor, the chair moving on its casters as smoothly as a roller coaster. it hit the wall, spun around and a young woman fell out of it. bill halted to stare. "holy smoke!" then he was across the room, picking her up. "oh, i beg a million pardons!" by this time she was on her feet, very pink in the cheeks and with eyes all amaze. bill was steadying her with a reassuring hand, but she drew away quickly. it was quite plain that as soon as her surprise passed she would become angry. bill sensed this in a swift glance. "two million!" he said hastily. she regarded him uncertainly. gray eyes, straight nose, pleasant mouth, but rather large, fluffy sort of hair that might be reddish in a strong light--all these things bill was observing. and then--yes, she had freckles; not aggressive, spacious freckles, but small, timid, delicately tinted freckles--the kind of freckles that are valuable to the right sort of girl. bill liked freckles. "three million," he said, and grinned. "i'll take you at the last figure," she answered. "good. i'm awfully obliged. i suppose there's no use asking if i startled you?" "quite useless. you did." "it was very childish of me," said bill, more humbly. "you see, the chair was in my way." "and you refused to be thwarted," she nodded gravely. "i certainly did. i was angry about something and--say are you kidding me?" this time she smiled and bill grinned again, sheepishly. "anyhow, the chair wasn't where it belonged," he said. "and when you sit in it your head doesn't even stick over the top. i had no idea there was anybody in it, of course." "of course," she assented. there was a funny little wrinkle at the corner of her mouth. "see here," said bill sharply. "you _are_ kidding me, and--well, i'm glad i kicked the chair." "but really, i don't think either of us was to blame," said the young woman. "i knew the chair wasn't in its regular place. it was moved over here for me." "what for?" "so i could look at the ancestors." bill glanced at the wall, where grandfather and grandmother marshall hung in their golden frames. "now, who in blazes did that?" he demanded. "i don't know. some young man." she spoke as if young men were articles. "i called to see miss marshall and a maid left me here for a few minutes. and then this young man came into the room. he asked me if i was interested in ancestors; that was the very first thing he said. and i said i was!" "are you?" "certainly. so he moved the chair to the center of the room and made me sit in it. he wanted me to be where i could get a proper light on the ancestors, he said. and then he explained them to me. he was very interesting." "he is interesting," admitted bill. "but he is an awful liar!" "isn't that too bad!" "oh, not necessarily. it's really not very important whether he tells the truth or tells lies. you see, he's only a servant." "oh." "my valet." "i see," she said slowly. "it was very impertinent of him," said bill. "he is an exceptionally good servant, but he is rather erratic at times. i shall speak to him about it." "oh, please don't. he really didn't offend me." "doesn't make any difference," declared bill, sternly. "i won't have him forgetting his place. won't you sit down again? i won't bother you to look at the ancestors." but scarcely had she seated herself than they were interrupted. a maid came in to say that miss marshall would see her. to bill it seemed that the stranger became suddenly preoccupied. she was chewing her lip as she walked out of the room and did not even nod to him. "more of her later from aunt caroline," muttered bill. "and now for a brief word with pete stearns." * * * * * when mary wayne stood in the presence of aunt caroline she wondered if she looked as guilty as she felt; it seemed as if "fraud" must be blazoned in black letters across her forehead. but aunt caroline did not appear to discern anything suspicious. she smiled cordially and even extended a hand. "please sit down," she said. mary sat down. she knew that a social secretary ought to be at ease anywhere, and she was trying hard. back in the reception-room, where she had encountered two odd young men, she had been surprised at her own poise; for a brief interval all thought of her deception had been driven from her mind. but now, sitting face to face with a kindly old lady who accepted her at face value, mary was suffering from conscience. she found herself gripping the arm of her chair tensely, girding up her nerves to meet some sudden accusation. "miss norcross, i believe," said aunt caroline. "ah--yes." there! the thing was done. she had not done it very confidently, but the lie evidently passed current. when it became apparent that aunt caroline had no thought of thrusting a stern finger under her nose, mary breathed again. "the people who sent you speak very highly of you," remarked aunt caroline. "did they explain to you the nature of the work that would be required?" "you wished a secretary, i understood." "a social secretary." "yes; they told me that." "would you mind giving me some idea of your experience?" mary hesitated. she had not prepared herself for this; she was neither forehanded nor wise in the ways of fraud. "perhaps," she managed to say. "you would like to see some references." she tried to placate her conscience in that speech; it seemed a smaller lie than saying "my" references. "if you please," and aunt caroline adjusted her spectacles. the references came out of mary's bag. as the mistress of the marshall mansion took them mary was thinking: "now i am a forger as well as a liar." aunt caroline read the first slowly and aloud, and looked up to find her caller blushing. "oh, i am sure it must be honest praise, my dear. do i confuse you by reading aloud?" she passed to the next, glancing first at the signature. "why," exclaimed aunt caroline, "it's from mrs. rokeby-jones. is it _the_ mrs. rokeby-jones?" now, mary had never heard of the lady. she did not know whether she was "the," or merely "a," and to cover the point without committing herself to the unknown she nodded. aunt caroline nodded in return and read the reference. "i am very pleasantly surprised, miss norcross," she said. "this is what i should call a very distinguished reference. of course, we all know mrs. rokeby-jones; that is, i mean, by reputation. personally, i have never had the pleasure of meeting her. you see, my dear, i am rather old-fashioned and do not go out very much. mrs. rokeby-jones. dear me, why everybody knows her." mary almost said "do they?" the name of rokeby-jones meant nothing to her. "she speaks remarkably well of you," observed aunt caroline, again glancing at the reference. mary had not even read it. she was too much of a novice for that, and there had been too many things to distract her. "quite a cultured lady, i am told, miss norcross." "yes--quite." aunt caroline was about to pass to the next reference, hesitated and glanced up. "you know, we women are curious, my dear. i should like to ask you something." mary was gripping the chair again. what now? aunt caroline leaned forward and lowered her voice. "is it really true--what they say about her daughter?" the candidate for social secretary somehow felt that the bottom was dropping out of things. what ought she to say? what could she say? and what was it that anybody said about mrs. rokeby-jones's daughter? "i mean the older daughter," added aunt caroline. so there were two. mary was staring down at her lap, frowning in bewilderment. how would she find mrs. rokeby-jones's elder daughter--guilty or not guilty? if she only knew what people said about her. probably it had been in the newspapers. oh, why hadn't she seen it? "i admit i merely ask from curiosity," said aunt caroline, yet hopefully. mary looked up and made her decision. even the meanest prisoner at the bar was entitled to the benefit of a doubt. why not mrs. rokeby-jones's daughter? "personally, i have never believed it," said mary. aunt caroline sighed happily. "i am so glad," she said. "that means it isn't true, because you would know. it always seemed to me it was such a strange and cruel thing to say. of course, i understand, that there are certain family traits on the rokeby-jones side. but it doesn't follow, even then. just how did the story ever come to get about, my dear?" "i--really, i---- would you mind if i didn't discuss it, miss marshall?" aunt caroline hastily put away the reference and passed to the next. "you are perfectly right, my dear," she said. "i ought not to have asked you. i think you show a very fine sense of honor in not wanting to talk about it. i'm quite ashamed of myself. still, i'm very glad to know it isn't true." she examined the remaining references, obtaining fresh satisfaction from the discovery that the famous mrs. hamilton was fully as ardent in her encomiums as mrs. rokeby-jones. "i must say that your references please me extremely," said aunt caroline, as she finished reading the last one. "your trip abroad with mrs. hamilton must have been a charming experience. i shall ask you to tell me about it some time. when will you be able to come?" and thus mary knew that she was engaged. "i can start any time," she said. "to-morrow?" "yes, miss marshall. "that will do excellently. you will send your trunk here, of course. i should prefer to have you live with us." this was something mary had given no thought, but it sounded wonderful. no more boarding-house. and it would save money, too; there was no telling how much would be needed for the sick girl on the east side. aunt caroline rang a bell and asked the maid to serve tea. "we'll have a little chat about terms and other things," she said comfortably. the little chat lasted the better part of an hour, but it passed without embarrassments. the terms were beyond mary's hopes. as for aunt caroline, she was quaint and captivating. strange to say, she did not ask many more questions. for the most part, she talked about herself; occasionally she reverted to mary's references which, it was obvious, had made an indelible impression. mary discovered a prompt liking for the old lady, and the more she liked her the more shame she had in the masquerade she was playing. only the desperate plight of a sick girl kept her nerved to the ordeal. she was taking her leave when aunt caroline remarked casually: "i feel sure that you will not find my nephew unduly exacting in the work he expects of you." "nephew?" asked mary. "how odd, my dear. i didn't tell you, did i? i'm afraid i forget things sometimes. you see, you are not my secretary at all. you are to be secretary to my nephew." mary stared. "why--i----" "oh, miss norcross! you mustn't say you can't. you will find him most considerate. he is really a brilliant fellow. he stood first in his class at college, and he is even interested in religious matters. he has a very promising social career ahead of him." something was whirling in mary's brain. she felt as though she were shooting through space, and then bringing up against a wall at the farther end of it, where a large and grinning person stood offering apologies by the million. she was going to be secretary to _him_--she knew it. "say that you will try it, anyhow," pleaded aunt caroline. "i insist." too late for retreat, thought mary. besides, what difference did it make, after all? the money had to be earned. and she felt quite sure that he would not dream of asking her about mrs. rokeby-jones's daughter. "i shall report in the morning," she said. chapter iv "the web we weave" it was an excellent morning for a grouch, there being a drizzle outside, and bill marshall's grouch was carefully nursed by the owner. he had breakfasted alone, aunt caroline rarely taking that meal down-stairs. it would have been a comfort to have had pete at breakfast, for pete was entitled to the full benefit of the grouch; but a man cannot eat with his valet and preserve caste with the remaining servants in the house. up-stairs again in his own rooms, bill was railing at life, which now stretched before him as cheerless as a black void. "society! i'm ruined if it ever gets back to the gang." "you'll get to like it," pete assured him. "they all do." "oh, stop lying. do i look like a rollo?" "but you'll change, bill. you won't keep on being uncouth. influence of environment, you know." "cut out the rot, pete. can't you take this thing seriously? i tell you, it's going to ruin me." "and you so young," commented pete. "bill, i'll admit it looks tough just now. but what the deuce can you do about it? there's aunt caroline, you know." a rumbling growl from bill. "she cuts quite a figure in your scheme of existence, bill. you've got to play along with her, up to a certain point--or go to work. and what would you work at? they wouldn't start off by making you president of anything. i know that much about business myself." "i'm not afraid to take a chance at work." "not you. but how about the fellow that gives out the jobs? and, besides, aunt caroline hasn't said anything about your going to work, as i understand it. she's got higher ideals right now." "pete, i tell you i'm not going to stand for this without a fight. i haven't promised anything yet." pete grinned. "maybe you didn't promise, but you marched off the field, and aunt caroline didn't. you went through all the motions of taking a beating. bill, she hung the indian sign on you right then. they never come back after the champ puts 'em away. i'll string a little bet on aunt caroline." bill growled again, seized the morning paper, essayed to read it, then flung it across the room. "never on the front page, bill," said pete. "they always print it opposite the editorial page." "what?" "the society news." "oh, go to blazes!" bill's grouch was as virile as himself. "and see here, pete. i'll beat this game yet. they can't put me into society without a secretary, can they? well, you stand by and see how long any willy-boy secretary holds a job with me. you keep time on it. the main part of his job will be his exit. and, believe me, he'll _want_ to go." bill towered importantly in the center of the room. "if he's my secretary he takes orders from me, doesn't he? and i have to have my daily exercise, don't i? well, his first job every day is to put on the gloves for half an hour. after that he can open the mail, if he's able." pete smiled a tribute of admiration. "it's good as far as it goes, bill. yes, you can lick a secretary. there isn't any doubt he'll take the air as soon as he comes to. but then you've got nothing between you and the old champ. and, as i said before, i'm stringing with aunt caroline." pete strolled to the window and observed the drizzling morning. also, he observed something else--something that caused him to turn about with a show of genuine enthusiasm. "bill," he whispered loudly, "she's in again." "who?" "little gray eyes." "_who?_" "man dear, the girl. the mysterious lady. the one that took a liking to me. the one----" bill strode to the window. "oh, she's inside now," said pete. "i heard the door closing. bill, i must have made a hit." he went over to the dresser, picked up bill's brushes and began work on his hair. "pete, you can cut that out right now. you don't leave this room. understand?" "but maybe she's back to look at the ancestors again. she liked the way i talked about 'em, and----" bill pushed his valet violently into a chair. "pete, you've got to behave. i had trouble enough explaining about you yesterday. my aunt caroline's friends don't call here to see the servants--and you're a servant. get me?" "don't be a snob, bill." "i'm not. but i'm your boss; that is, while you're in this house. if you don't like it, blame yourself. you invented this valet stuff. now live up to it. keep your own place or you'll have everything coming down in a grand smash." pete looked up at him sourly. "bill, you act jealous." "who? me? bull!" "bill, you _are_ jealous." "don't be an ass. i don't even know the lady. she's nothing to me. but i intend to protect aunt caroline's guests----" bill was cut short by a knock and a message from a maid. following its receipt, he walked over to the dresser and examined his scarf. "brush me off," he commanded. "go to the devil," remarked his valet. "and look here, bill; play this square. don't you go taking advantage of my position. be a sport now. and if gray eyes----" bill was out of the room. down in the library he found aunt caroline--and the young woman with the gray eyes. the freckles were there, too; he saw them in a better light now and decided they were just the right shade of unobtrusiveness. "william," said aunt caroline, "this is miss norcross." mary wayne had arisen from her chair. it seemed to bill that she lacked something of the poise that he had remarked on the afternoon before. there was uncertainty in her glance; an air of hesitation rather than of confidence was asserting itself. when he upset her chair in the reception-room she had rallied with discomforting assurance; now she betrayed timidity. "mighty glad to meet you," said bill, with a large, amiable smile. he found it necessary to reach for her hand, and when he had possessed himself of it he discovered that it was trembling. she murmured something that he did not catch; evidently it was a mere formality. bill regarded her with faint perplexity; she was behaving quite differently this morning. he wondered if it would be a good idea to say something about yesterday. had she told aunt caroline? no; probably not. if she had, aunt caroline would certainly have chided him for working himself into a childish fury. perhaps it would be embarrassing to mention the matter. he decided to let "miss norcross" take the initiative. "miss norcross is ready to start this morning," explained aunt caroline. was she? thought bill. start what, or where? "too bad it should be raining," he observed. then he could have chastised himself; it was such a futile commonplace. pete would never have said anything so stupid. "i think it will be more convenient for both of you to use the sun-parlor room on the second floor," said aunt caroline. "here in the library there are so many interruptions." "er--yes; interruptions," said bill. well, what interruptions? what was all this about, anyhow? from aunt caroline he turned to the girl. evidently she did not think it was for her to explain; she avoided his glance. "oh, perhaps i forgot to explain, william." aunt caroline smiled at her own omission. "miss norcross is your secretary." bill started to whistle, but it died on his lips. truth, out in the light at last, was overwhelming him. he looked again at his secretary; this time she did not avoid his eyes, but her expression puzzled him. as nearly as he could read it, there was a pleading there. as for bill himself, he knew that his face was growing red. this girl--his secretary! all his hastily conceived plans were crashing. aunt caroline had spiked a gun. "miss norcross has some remarkably fine references, william, and i see no reason why you should not get along very well," added aunt caroline. "ah--none whatever," he said clumsily. "i think now you might show her the way up-stairs, william." without a word, bill turned and led the way. he wondered if his ears were red, too, and if she could notice them from the back. he had a mad desire to run. he actually did start taking the stairs two at a time, then remembered and fell into a dignified pace. a girl secretary! oh, aunt caroline! "how'll i get rid of her?" thought bill. "i can't beat her up. i can't swear at her. and why does she have to be a secretary, anyhow? it isn't a square deal. if this ever gets out--oh, boy!" mary wayne followed primly, although she was in a tumultuous state of mind. of course she had had a night to dwell upon it, but now that she was really entering upon the adventure it seemed more formidable than ever. what an amazingly large person he was; it seemed contradictory, somehow, that a brilliant society man, such as described by aunt caroline, should run so aggressively to bulk. and he seemed embarrassed; he was not at all like the man who kicked her chair across the room. bill, with the air of a man about to face a firing squad, moved grimly along the upper hall in the direction of the sun-parlor room. there was nothing heroic in his bearing; rather, there was the resignation of despair. and then something happened to awaken him. pete stearns, coming down from the third floor, spotted him. "say, listen----" then pete spotted the girl and the sentence froze. he stood with his mouth agape, staring at the procession. bill jerked his head higher and set his shoulders. pete stearns wouldn't get any satisfaction out of this, if he knew it. he eyed his valet coldly. "don't forget to sponge and press those suits, and hurry up about it," he ordered roughly. "when you've done that i may have some errands for you. look sharp." he strode past pete, and mary wayne followed. she did not even glance at the amazed valet. pausing at a door, bill opened it and held it wide. "this way, if you please, miss norcross," he said, with a bow whose courtliness astonished himself. she entered the sun-parlor room. bill followed--and closed the door. out in the hall pete stearns was leaning against the wall. "i'll be damned!" he whispered. "the lucky stiff." beyond the door bill was facing nemesis. she looked neither perilous nor forbidding; she was just a girl with a lot of nice points, so far as he could see. the encounter with pete had braced him; perhaps it had even elevated him somewhat in her eyes. he felt the need of elevation; aunt caroline had managed to give him a sense of pampered unmanliness. evidently the girl was waiting for him to begin. "i guess you didn't tell aunt caroline how i booted you across the room last night," said bill. "no," she answered. "that's good." and he felt that it was good. this mutual reticence, so far as aunt caroline was concerned, tentatively served as a bond. he waved her gallantly to a chair, and she sat first on the edge of it; then, remembering that a social secretary should be a person of ease, she settled back. "what has my aunt been telling you about me?" he demanded suddenly. "why--er--nothing. that is, she told me you wanted a social secretary." "she did, eh? she said i _wanted_ one?" mary hesitated for a second. "perhaps she did not put it exactly that way--mr. marshall. but of course i understand that you wanted one. i was engaged for that purpose." "did she tell you i was in society?" "i don't remember that she did. but i took that for granted." "do i look as if i was in society?" "i--i can't say." she found the young man somewhat disconcerting. "aren't you?" "no!" bill thundered it. "oh!" "i'm not in society, and i'm not going in. i wouldn't go into society if they closed up everything else." mary experienced a pang of dismay. "then i'm afraid there's some mistake," she faltered. "i'm sorry." "wait a minute," said bill, drawing up a chair for himself and facing her. "don't worry, now. let's get this straightened out. i'll explain. my aunt wants me to go into society. i want to stay out. she's got a lot of ideas about keeping up the family reputation. i'd sooner go get a new one. so she hires a social secretary for me--and take it from me, miss norcross, i don't need a social secretary any more than i need crutches. i don't need any kind of a secretary." mary's heart was sinking. this was the end of her job; it had all been too good to be true. he must have read this thought in her eyes, for he continued hastily: "now, don't get scared. i'm trying to figure this thing out so it'll suit all hands. you see, this has sort of taken me by surprise. i wasn't expecting you as a secretary; i was expecting a man." "oh," said mary faintly. "and i was going to get rid of him--pronto. i had it all doped out. but----" bill grinned--"i can't get rid of you that way." mary suddenly stiffened. she was not accustomed to having men get rid of her; she would get rid of herself. she arose from her chair. bill reached forth a long arm and calmly pushed her back into it. she flushed angrily. no matter how badly she needed work she did not intend to be treated as a child. but again he was employing that disarming grin. "easy now--please. i guess i'm rough, but i don't mean it that way. i suppose you need a job, don't you?" mary considered for an instant. "of course," she said, with a touch of dignity, "i should not have applied for a place i did not need." "sure; i get you. listen, now: you can hold this job as long as you like; you can be social secretary or any other kind--only i'm not going into society." "will you please explain that?" "it's easy. so long as my aunt thinks i'm going into society--fine. so long as i stay out of it--fine. i haven't any objections to having a secretary, on that basis." mary shook her head. "that would be practicing a deception on your aunt," she said. oh, mary! but what mary had in her mind was not the drawing of a fine distinction between one deception and another. she had not forgotten that already she was a deceiver. what troubled her was this: she liked aunt caroline. thus far she had done that nice old lady no harm, even though she posed as nell norcross. but to take aunt caroline's money and give nothing in return was very different. that would be stealing. and, besides, she felt that the acceptance of bill's idea would put her in an equivocal position toward him. "but aunt caroline will never know," said bill, who had no scruples on this point. "and you will be able to keep right on in your job." again mary shook her head. she would have risen but for the fear that he would push her back into the chair a second time. "i would be accepting charity," she declared firmly. "i do not need to do that." even her thought of the sick girl in the boarding-house did not prevent her from making this renunciation. not even to supply nell norcross with a doctor, a nurse and medicine would she accept charity. "i had better go down and explain the situation to miss marshall and then go," she added. when she said that she did not realize how vulnerable was the spot in which she attacked him. bill sensed the blow instantly. "no, no!" he almost shouted. "you can't do that. you couldn't explain it to her in a million years." bill was worried. he did not know that young women were so difficult to please. he was worried about what aunt caroline would say. he knew that she was not only determined he should have a social secretary, but he divined that she wished him to have this particular secretary. more than that, on his own account, he was not yet ready to see the last of this young person. still further, there was the desirable project of humiliating pete stearns in even greater degree. "then you may explain it to her," suggested mary, clinging desperately to her remnant of conscience. "i can't explain it any better than you can," groaned bill. "i tried to, yesterday, and flivvered." there was half a minute of silence, conversation having ended in a _cul de sac_. both turned toward the door with a breath of relief when it opened softly, after a premonitory knock. pete stearns stood on the threshold. he glanced not at all at bill; his eyes were for mary alone. "well?" demanded bill. "i thought, sir," said pete, still watching mary, "that unless you were in a hurry about your clothes----" bill cut him short with a gesture. "i am in a hurry," he snapped, glaring at his valet. "what's more, i do not wish to be interrupted when i am busy with my secretary." pete's eyebrows went up nearly an inch. the news was staggering--but it solved a mystery. unmistakable hints of a smile lurked on his lips. then he bowed deeply--at mary. "very good, sir," he said, and closed the door. bill turned again toward his secretary. "ultimately, i'm going to assassinate that valet," he said. "i'm only waiting in order to get my alibi perfected." mary found herself smiling. "now," said bill, "let's talk business again. i think i know a way to straighten this out." chapter v social secretarying when half an hour had passed bill was still talking, and mary had confirmed certain tentative impressions concerning his respect for the opinions of aunt caroline; or, rather, not so much for her opinions as for her authority. she saw that bill had substantial reasons for at least an outward semblance of acquiescence in his aunt's plans. bill found that it was quite easy to talk to his secretary. she was an attentive, accurate listener; she seldom interrupted him with questions. she simply sat and absorbed things, with her hands folded in her lap and her whole posture that of trained concentration. out of her gray eyes she would watch him steadily, but not in a disconcerting way. there was nothing in her eyes that should not have been there, not even one of those quizzical flashes that had temporarily unsettled him the afternoon before. to say that she was demure might, perhaps, suggest the artificiality of a pose; therefore, she was not demure. she was simply decorous, in a perfectly natural way. "so, then," bill was saying, "my idea is this: not being in society, and never having been there, naturally i can't take a running jump into the middle of it. an outsider has to be eased in, i don't care who his family is, unless he's a foreigner. in my case it ought to take some time to fight my way through the preliminaries. now, i'm not saying yet that i'll go in, mind you. but i'm willing to see the thing started. i don't want you to get the idea that i'm pigheaded. i might change my mind." he knew that he wouldn't, but mary nodded. "so, why not go ahead with the job and see what comes of it? that's playing square with aunt caroline, i'm sure. later on, if the time comes when it's all off, we'll go and tell her so and ask for a new deal. how about it? fair enough?" "yes," said mary, slowly, "that seems to be fair--provided you're sincere." "miss norcross, i'm the soul of sincerity." for that protestation she suspected him, yet she did not feel justified in pressing scruples too far. she was not a hypocrite. "if you are really going to try it, then, i suppose you will have need of a secretary." "my idea exactly," said bill heartily. "shake." she shook. "i'm glad that's settled," he declared, with a comfortable stretch. "now we can talk about something else." mary's eyebrows went up almost imperceptibly. "seen the 'follies' yet?" asked bill. "no? say don't miss it. i've been twice. think i'll go again, too. lot of good shows in town, but i'm 'way behind on them." he was regarding her with such a speculative eye that mary felt the need of a change of subject. she arose and began removing her hat. "i think i had better go to work," she said. "work? oh, sure; i forgot. certainly. er--what at?" "we might start on your correspondence," she suggested. "i'm game. who'll we write to?" "why--how should i know, mr. marshall? that's for you to say." bill rubbed his ear. "hanged if i know who to write to," he mused. "i never had the habit. i suppose it's done regularly--in society." "it is considered quite important to attend promptly to all correspondence," said mary. that was a safe generalization, she thought, applicable to society as well as business. bill began fumbling in a coat-pocket and eventually drew forth some papers. "i haven't had a letter in a week," he said. "you see, what i get mostly is bills. aunt caroline attends to those. but here's a letter i got last week; we could begin on that, i suppose." he drew it out of the envelope and then shook his head. "too late, i'm afraid. the party was last night. i had another date and didn't go." "but you sent them word, of course." "no, indeed; never bothered about it." mary looked disturbed; her sense of order was really offended. "i think that was very wrong," she observed. "oh, they'll get over it," said bill easily. "it was only a poker outfit, anyhow." "oh." bill finished examining his papers and tossed them into the fireplace. "not a thing in the world that needs an answer," he sighed contentedly. "ever occur to you, miss norcross, that there's a lot of paper wasted? if people would only put letters in their pockets and carry them for a couple of weeks, nine-tenths of them wouldn't need to be answered." mary was frowning. "after this i hope you'll let me take charge of your mail," she said. "it's all yours," said bill generously. "i never get anything interesting, anyhow. now, what'll we do?" the situation was perplexing to her. she could not sit all morning simply talking to him; that might be social but not secretarial. there was a business relation to be preserved. "you might plan out things," she suggested. "give me your ideas about your--your----" "career?" he asked, with elaborate irony, and she nodded. "not for anything," said bill. "i haven't any ideas. that's your part of it. i'm going to let you handle the planning along with the correspondence. you've got more dope on it than i have. you're the manager, or maybe the chaperon. i'm only the débutante." as mary regarded this large and impossible débutante the mere suggestion of chaperoning him appalled her. "but surely you've got some suggestions," she said. "not a solitary one. where would i get any? i've been on the outside all my life, not even looking in. is it all right for me to smoke? thanks. no; it's up to you. but remember--there's no rush. don't get the idea i'm driving you. why, you can take all the time in the world. take six months; take a year. think it over." "a year!" echoed mary. "but you ought to start right away." "why?" "why--so you can enjoy the--er--advantages of society." "well, mr. bones--i mean miss norcross, of course--what are the advantages of society?" he stood against the mantel, his feet spread wide, his hands deep in his pockets, staring down at her with a challenging grin. mary became confused. her soul was crying out in protest at the unfairness of it. what did she know about the advantages of society? and yet she must know. was it possible he suspected her? any social secretary ought to have the advantages of society at the tip of her tongue. "it seems to me they're obvious," she said, with desperate carelessness. "i shouldn't think it would be necessary to make a list of them." "it is with me," said bill mercilessly. "i've got to be shown. come on, now; you're an expert. we'll take them one at a time. what's the first?" "--i wouldn't know which to put first." "take 'em in any order you like, then. name the first you happen to think of." mary was growing pink under the freckles. never in her life had she felt so helpless or so absurd. it was deliberate teasing, she knew; but she must not permit herself to be teased. she must have poise and self-possession; literally, she must know everything he asked, or at any rate have an answer. "shoot," said bill cheerfully. "i'm all attention." that was just the trouble, thought mary. she was fearing now that she would fly into a temper, which would ruin everything. "well," she said slowly. "i would say that one of the advantages is in meeting people who are trained to be considerate of your feelings." nor was she ready to bite off her tongue after she said it. he had no right to treat her that way. she hoped he would understand. and bill did. his eyes widened for an instant and his cheeks reddened. then he laughed. "that one landed good and plenty," he said admiringly. "i like the way you snap your punches. next time i'll know when it's coming. a second ago i wasn't sure whether you were going to continue the footwork or step in and hang one on me." "what in the world----" mary faltered in her bewilderment. "it's just a way of apologizing," he explained. "it's what you might call an allegorical apology. i don't know just how they would say it in society, but whatever they say goes. i'm sorry if i hurt your feelings by teasing you." "oh, it's all right," said mary hastily, although she noted that he was sorry for hurting her feelings, not because he had been teasing. "i'll try to remember after this," continued bill. "of course, you really stirred things up yourself by saying i ought to start right away. you don't seem to realize what a job it's going to be. i can't help you any. when i think of the amount of creative work that's falling on your shoulders i stagger in sympathy, miss norcross. honestly i do. no; i'm not joshing you again. i'm serious. where do you begin to get a guy like me into society? how do i pry in? what have i got to do to be saved?" mary smiled in spite of a determination to maintain a dignified view-point. "it will not be so difficult as you think. i'm quite sure of that, mr. marshall. if i may suggest----" as she stopped she was looking in the direction of the door. bill turned and beheld his valet, standing well inside the threshold. pete was meek and smug, his hands clasped in front of him, as he fetched an obsequious bow. "knock before you enter a room," said bill sharply. "i did, sir." bill knew that he lied, but the point was not worth arguing. "i have finished with your clothes, sir." "well, why disturb me about it." "you said you were in a hurry, sir." pete gave the "sir" an annoying twist. also, he had a way of fixing his gaze upon mary, not boldly or offensively, but with a sort of mild persistence that had an even more irritating effect upon bill marshall. "you said something about errands, sir, after i finished with your clothes," pete reminded him. "i'll talk to you about that later. you needn't wait." but pete lingered. the social secretary turned away and began examining a book that lay on a table. as she did so, bill made a violent gesture to his valet. it was intended to convey a demand for instant exit, also a threat of events to come if it was not obeyed. pete favored him with a wide smile and a wink. mary moved across the room to examine a picture, bringing the valet again within her range of vision. the smile vanished instantly. "may i make a suggestion, sir?" "well?" bill demanded. "i could not help but overhear a part of the conversation, sir," said pete. "it was about the difficulties of getting a social introduction." both bill and mary were regarding him speculatively, and each was wondering how long he had been listening. but the valet remained unabashed. "well?" repeated bill ominously. "i might say, sir, that i agree with the young lady--that it will not be so difficult as you think. if i may make bold, sir----" bill halted him with a sternly raised hand. he would have preferred to choke him, but valets were not commonly choked in the presence of young ladies. he could do it much better later. "that will be all from you," barked bill. "i do not wish any advice from the servants. leave the room." but pete lingered. he even sent an appealing look in the direction of mary, who showed obvious signs of puzzled interest in the encounter. "leave the room!" bill followed the remark with a stride. he felt both angry and ridiculous. but pete was holding his ground with an air of sleek and pious fortitude. "your aunt, sir, thought there was much promise in the idea," he said. bill halted. "what idea?" "a suggestion that i made about you, sir." bill groaned in the depths of his soul. now what had happened? what new devilment had been set afoot by pete stearns? well, he would soon find out, but not here--not in the presence of his social secretary. he must brazen it out for the moment: "you mean to tell me you have dared discuss my affairs with my aunt?" "at her request, sir," answered pete, lifting a deprecating hand. "i should not have dreamed of volunteering, sir." bill was almost ready to believe him; yes, in all probability it was a horrible truth. doubtless aunt caroline had actually asked for his advice. she was capable of that folly since she had acquired the notion that pete stearns was an uplifting influence. "well, you won't discuss them with me," roared bill. "get out!" the valet shrugged and looked sorrowful. "perhaps if i talked the matter over with the young lady, sir----" bill made a rush, but his valet was several jumps in the lead as he sped out into the hall. the pursuer stopped at the threshold and turned back into the room. "oh, damnation!" he cried. "oh, why in---- say, wait a minute! please, miss norcross. awfully sorry; forgot you were here. i apologize. i didn't mean----" but she, too, was gone. not for the reason that bill feared, however. she was hurrying to see aunt caroline. she wanted an idea. she never needed an idea so badly in her life. chapter vi in search of an idea bill hunted for his valet with commendable industry. he searched his own rooms, the servants' quarters and every part of the house where pete by any possibility might be concealed. he went out to the stable and garage. he made inquiries among the maids. but he did not find pete, which was an excellent turn of fortune for that young man. bill was more than angry; he was primed for conflict. "i'll stand anything within reason," he told himself, "but if pete stearns thinks he can ruin me offhand he's got to lick me first." he gloomed around in his room until it was time for luncheon, and went down-stairs to find aunt caroline and mary already at the table. bill held them both under suspicion as he took his seat. he glanced from one to the other, searching for some sign that would betray a conspiracy. but aunt caroline appeared to be her usual placid self, while mary wayne neither avoided his glance nor sought to meet it, nor did she in any wise behave as might a young woman who had guilt on her soul. bill ate stoically. curiosity was burning within him; he wanted to know what pete stearns had been saying to aunt caroline. but he feared to ask; somewhere there was a flaw in his moral courage whenever he was in the presence of his aunt. he really had a morbid desire to know the worst, but lacked the hardihood to seek the knowledge boldly. so for a while there was nothing but perfunctory conversation between aunt caroline and the social secretary, with bill affecting preoccupation but listening to every word. "miss norcross tells me you have been discussing plans, william," said his aunt, suddenly turning the talk. "huh? oh, yes; certainly." he directed a sharp glance at mary, but it did not reveal to him anything that suggested an uneasy conscience. "i am glad that you are losing no time," continued aunt caroline. "have you decided on anything definite?" "why--nothing's positively settled, aunt caroline. takes time to get started, you know. it's a sort of closed season in society, anyhow. isn't that so, miss norcross?" "it is not as active as it might be--in town," said mary diplomatically. "i suppose it is true," observed aunt caroline. "yet, of course, opportunities can be found. i had what seemed a really excellent suggestion this morning." bill laid his fork on his plate and waited grimly. "it came from that nice young man of yours, peter." the social secretary was diligently buttering a piece of toast; she did not appear to be interested. bill knew what that meant--aunt caroline had already told her. everybody was taking a hand in planning his career except himself. it was enough to make a red-blooded american explode. "well, i'll bite, aunt caroline. what did he say?" "william, please avoid slang. why, he spoke about the social possibilities that lie in charitable and religious work." bill gripped the edge of the table and held on. he felt certain that his brain had flopped clear over and was now wrong side up. "what he had in mind," continued aunt caroline, "was killing two birds with one stone. it would give you an opportunity to combine society with other worthy enterprises. as i myself know, there are many people of very fine standing who are interested in the various religious and charitable organizations, while the extent of peter's knowledge of the matter really surprised me. through the medium of such organizations he assured me that it would be possible for you to meet some of the most socially desirable families. of course, you would also meet other persons whom it is not so important for you to know, but that is a detail which would regulate itself. at the same time, you would have an opportunity to do some morally uplifting work." bill moistened his lips and stole a horrified glance at mary wayne. this time she was stirring her tea. "well, william, what do you think of the idea?" "preposterous!" aunt caroline was frankly surprised. "absolute nonsense! drivel!" "william!" "well, it is. it's nothing but sanctimonious bunk." "now, william, control yourself. consider for a moment----" "aunt caroline, i can't consider it. gee whiz, if i've got to go into society i'm not going to use the family entrance. i'm going in through the swinging doors or i don't go in at all. and i'd like to know what business my valet has butting into my affairs." aunt caroline displayed a mild frown of disapproval. "you must remember, william, that he is something more than a valet. he has been a companion in college and is a young man of very high ideals." "i don't care what his ideals are--high up or low down. let him mind his own business." "but william, he has your very best interests at heart," persisted aunt caroline. "i consider him a very fine influence." "well, he can't meddle with me." "nobody is meddling, william. we are all trying to help you--miss norcross, peter, myself--everybody." "say, who's trying to run me, anyhow? what is this--a league of nations, or what?" "william!" but bill was becoming reckless. the more he heard of this diabolical plot the more he was determined to wipe pete stearns summarily out of his life. how many were there in this scheme? he glared accusingly at his secretary. this time she met his glance steadily. there was something so purposeful in her gaze that it held his attention. her gray eyes seemed to be telegraphing, but he could not read the message. she flashed a side glance toward aunt caroline. with no apparent purpose she lifted her napkin, but instead of putting it to her lips she laid her finger across them. bill raged. so they had dragged her into the plot, too. her part, it seemed, was to put a soft pedal on protests. "i'm not going to be charitable and i'm not going to be religious," said bill, defiantly. "and if you don't lay off me i'm not going into society, either. i'd sooner go to the devil; all by myself, if i have to." "william marshall!" bill was not looking to see how much aunt caroline was shocked; he was again looking at his secretary. her finger went to her lips once more, and this time she also shook her head. she was slightly frowning, too. well, what was the idea? what difference did it make to her whether he spoke his mind or kept a craven silence? probably she was afraid of losing her job. "society!" jeered bill. "personally conducted by my valet! me--hopping around in a pair of patent-leather pumps, lugging lemonade for a lot of giggling boneheads and saying 'ain't it great!'" aunt caroline was passing the point where her sensibilities were merely outraged; she was growing angry. her fingers were drumming nervously on the cloth and in her eyes was an expression that bill had seen there before. but this time he seemed to miss it. mary wayne did not miss it, however. she sent him a frown of warning. and then she spoke. "miss marshall, wouldn't it be a good idea if your nephew and i discussed this matter up-stairs?" aunt caroline sternly regarded bill and hesitated. bill began bracing himself for combat. "i think perhaps he doesn't fully understand the idea," continued mary, hastily. "perhaps there are some features of it that can be--modified. i'd like to have a chance to explain it to him more fully." aunt caroline arose from the table. "very well," she said. "but you needn't go up-stairs to discuss it, my dear. you can discuss it right here; that is, if you are able to talk to him at all, which i am not." she walked stiffly out of the dining-room, leaving mary and bill facing each other from opposite sides of the table. "well?" demanded bill. she leaned forward and regarded him with complete disapproval. "you nearly spoiled everything," she said. "oh, please--please can't you be more reasonable, mr. marshall?" "reasonable! do you call that stuff reason?" "i haven't called it anything. but don't you see that it only makes these things worse to quarrel about them?" "you don't even want to give me a chance to defend myself," accused bill. "you tried to shut me up." "i was trying to warn you to be more diplomatic." "what's the sense of being diplomatic when somebody sticks you up with a gun? that's what it was; it was a stick-up." mary made a patient gesture of dissent. "i don't think you handled it in the right way at all," she said, firmly. "you didn't accomplish anything, except to offend your aunt." "well, i'm not going to stand for it, anyhow. so what was the use of pussy footing? you're all against me--the whole three of you." mary studied him for several seconds. "whose secretary am i?" she demanded. "why--mine. that is, you're supposed to be." "well, am i or am i not?" "of, if it comes to that, you are." he said it reluctantly and suspiciously. "very well. then whose interests do i look after?" bill hesitated. he was by no means certain on that point. "you're supposed to look after mine, i should say." "i'm not only supposed to, but i do," declared mary. "and i don't think that thus far you have any good reason to doubt it. i don't think it's fair for you to doubt it." bill was beginning to feel uneasy. it would be very embarrassing if she started to scold him. "i'm not doubting it," he said, but none too graciously. "all right, then," said mary. "as your secretary i am looking after your interests first of all in this matter." "but you've got a wrong idea of my interests, miss norcross. they've got you in on this scheme and----" "who said i was in on it?" she interrupted. "but aren't you?" "i am not." bill stared incredulously. "but you're in favor of it, anyhow." "i am not." he spent a few seconds trying to grasp that. "you're against it? on the level?" he gasped. "on the level," she said calmly. "then why in blazes didn't you say so?" he cried. "because it wasn't the time or the place to say so, mr. marshall." he was rubbing his ear in a puzzled way. "does my aunt caroline know you're against it?" "i think not. we merely discussed it. i didn't express any opinion." bill rose and took a turn about the room. he stretched comfortably. he was breathing normally again. "gee!" he exclaimed. "i'm glad they haven't got you hooked up on it. but you certainly had me guessing for a while." mary was smiling faintly as she watched him. "you stick by me and i'll stick by you," he said, walking back to the table. "we'll put rollers under aunt caroline yet." "oh, no, mr. marshall. remember, you promised to make a beginning." "well, we'll put that valet on skids, anyhow." mary pursed her lips and considered. "he has a certain ingenuity," she remarked judicially. "what?" "i think so. and when you come to think of it, there are really possibilities in his idea." "oh, glory! and you just told me you were against it." "i am--in your case," said mary. "but that doesn't condemn the idea. it simply means it might not work in a particular instance." "i take it you couldn't quite see me breaking in from the religious angle." "not quite," she answered, and bill thought her emphasis was unnecessary. but he did not dwell upon the matter of emphasis, because he was still overwhelmed with gratitude at the discovery that she did not belong to the cabal that had been organized against him. "you see," explained mary, "i did not take any side in the matter because i felt it was necessary first to find out what you thought about it. but you ought not to have been so emphatic. i haven't been here very long, of course, but i have already learned that that is not the best way to deal with your aunt, mr. marshall." bill was studying his secretary with new respect. he knew that she spoke the truth about aunt caroline, but he had never been able to put into practice the best method of dealing with her. "i think we can let the matter rest for a while," she added. "although, of course, it depends a good deal on whether we can make progress in some other direction. it's imperative to make a start." "keep me out of the charitable and religious game and i'll leave it all to you," said bill, fervently. "but listen: don't start in with the idea that that valet is any friend of mine. he's dangerous." "then why do you keep him, mr. marshall?" "why? oh, i'm--well, i'm sorry for him, you know. and i knew him in college, which makes it hard to turn him down. he sticks around in spite of me." to mary wayne this explanation did not cover the situation. peter the valet impressed her as a somewhat mysterious retainer in the marshall household. but she did not press her inquiry. instead, she asked bill if it would be convenient for her to leave the house for a couple of hours that afternoon, as she had an errand to perform. bill assured her that it would; he volunteered to drive her wherever she wanted to go, an offer that mary declined with prim and hasty thanks. not long after that she was sitting at the bedside of nell norcross. the sick girl regarded her with feverishly bright eyes. "i mustn't disturb you, of course," said mary, "but the doctor says it is all right for you to talk a little. i need some advice." "about what?" asked nell. "about how to get a young man into society when he doesn't want to get there. a rather violent young man, i'm afraid." "a man!" "i didn't explain to you last night, did i? you were too sick. well, i'll tell you what has happened." mary sketched the affair as briefly as she could. nell norcross, rightful owner of the magnificent references, showed flashes of interest, but for the most part she lapsed into listlessness. her head still ached and the medicine that she took every two hours tasted frightfully. "now, what would you do with a young man like that?" asked mary. "i--i don't know. i'll have to think." nell turned wearily on the pillow and closed her eyes. "i--i'm afraid i can't think now." "any suggestion might help," said mary, encouragingly. nell groaned and asked for a drink of water. mary fetched it and again sat by the bedside. "just a single idea as a starter," she urged. "oh, give a party," answered nell, irritably. "they all do that." "what kind of a party?" "oh, any kind. i--oh, i'm so tired." "never mind," said mary, soothingly. "i'm sorry, my dear. i won't bother you now. perhaps i can think----" she paused as an inspiration came to her. "i know what i'll do. i'll call up one of your references on the telephone and explain that i need a little advice." nell turned quickly and stared at her. "oh, no," she muttered. "you shouldn't do that." "but, don't you see----" nell was shaking her head, then groaning with the pain it caused her. "very bad form," she managed to say. "it's never done." mary subsided into a perplexed silence. if it was bad form of course she would not do it. she must be scrupulous about matters of form. more than ever she felt herself a neophyte in the social universe; she knew neither its creed nor its ritual. "all right; i won't do it, my dear. there now, don't worry. the doctor says you're going to come out all right, but it will take a little time." "you've--you've got to hold the job," whispered nell. "of course; i'll hold it. i'll manage to get along. they're paying me very liberally and it's all yours, every cent. you see, living there i can get along quite a while without any money of my own. i don't even need to buy any clothes just yet. we can afford a nurse for you, i think." but nell shook her head stubbornly; she did not want a nurse. all she wanted was to be left alone. mary was saying good-by when something else occurred to her. "it's just one question," she explained. "in case i should be asked about it again i ought to know. and i'm really curious on my own account, although it isn't any of my business. what is it that they say about mrs. rokeby-jones's daughter?" nell stared at her dully. "the elder daughter," added mary. nell was shaking her head again and reaching for the glass of water. "is it really something--awful?" "yes--awful," faltered nell. "i--oh, please----" "i won't say another word," declared mary, hastily, but there was a note of disappointment in her voice. "if i should be asked again i'll give the same answer i did before." "what was that?" mumbled the voice from the bed. "i said i didn't care to discuss it." "that's--best. i never did, either." "and i said that personally i never believed it." nell answered with a gesture of dismissal and mary left her. as she descended the dark staircase of the boarding house she shook her head as if dissatisfied about something. "i'm just as curious as aunt caroline," she thought. "i ought to be ashamed of myself. but just the same i'd like to know what it is that they say--and some day i'm going to find out." chapter vii via the night court matters were not going ahead to suit the liking of mary. aunt caroline was displaying mild symptoms of impatience because the ship that represented bill's society career still hung on the launching ways. bill himself would pay no attention to the business of getting it off. he was never at home at night and it seemed to mary that he slept very late in the mornings. pete stearns was also missing from the household nearly every time that bill disappeared. he was probably taking covert advantage of his employer's absences, mary thought. thus she was left very much to her own devices, save for occasions when she found it advisable to consult aunt caroline. in the case of the latter, mary observed a threatening tendency to revert to the launching plans that had been conceived by pete. whenever she found opportunity she tried to impress upon bill the fact that unless he helped to devise something else he would find himself forced to follow the charitable and religious route into society. but he waved all that aside in the most optimistic fashion. "you take care of it," he said. "you're against it yourself; i'm counting on you." the valet still puzzled mary. he had an annoying way of appearing when bill was not around, always ostensibly looking for bill and always lingering when he did not find him. she could not deny that he interested her; he possessed an element of the mysterious, whereas bill was as transparent as air. it was not easy to establish the precise status of pete; aunt caroline contributed to that difficulty by lending him a willing ear on any subject to which he chose to devote his fluent tongue. his rank was that of a domestic servant; he even ate with the servants, which was something of which he bitterly complained to mary. she could not help feeling that there was some merit in the complaint. yet she could not and would not accept him on a plane of social equality, although she did not wish to appear snobbish. the relative values of their positions in the household must be preserved, if only for the sake of discipline. she would not have minded an occasional chat with her employer's valet if he did not constantly convey the idea that he was about to step out of his character. he never actually presumed upon her friendliness, but he always made her feel that he was about to presume. she had a sense of something like espionage whenever pete was about, coupled with an idea that he viewed her work with suspicion and even derision. certainly the impression that he made upon mary was quite different from that upon aunt caroline. he never talked theology to mary, although to aunt caroline he would discourse upon it until the dear old lady actually became sleepy. as for affairs between bill and pete, there had been a truce ever since the former threatened to throw his valet out of the house by way of the skylight if he dared to discuss any more social projects with aunt caroline. they did very well together so long as it was not necessary for them to play the parts of master and man for the benefit of the household; it was on those occasions that the ever-lurking devil within pete stearns took charge of his actions and speech. outside of the house, of course, all barriers between them were down--and they were outside a great deal. it was late in the evening of a difficult and dissatisfying day that mary sat alone in the library, quite vainly trying to scheme something practical for the social launching of bill. the only thing that cheered her was a faint hope that he would bring home an idea of his own, for he had told her that he was to spend the evening at a private and very exclusive affair. aunt caroline had gone to bed early, as usual, and even the valet had disappeared. "i do hope i'll be able to do something very soon," mused mary, frowning at a book she had been trying to read. "poor nell! she's too sick to help, and even in her bright moments she doesn't seem to want to talk about it. i never dreamed it could be so difficult. it's not fair, either. i came here to be a secretary and they're trying to make me a manager. and he simply won't be managed and--and i don't know how to manage him, even if he would." "ps-s-s-st!" mary jumped half out of her chair as she looked up and saw the valet standing in the doorway. "please make a noise when you walk, or knock, or do something," she said, sharply. "you startled me." pete made a gesture for silence, stepped into the room and swiftly surveyed it. "where is aunt--where is miss marshall?" he whispered. "she went to bed long ago." "good! come on, then; we need help." "who needs help?" demanded mary, impressed more by the mystery of his manner than by his words. "what's the matter?" "the boss is in the hoosegow," answered pete, his voice tragic. "what!" "mr. marshall--he's in jail." mary leaped to her feet and stared with incredulity. "in jail! what for? how?" "caught in a raid. come on; we've got to hurry." "how horrible!" exclaimed mary. "is he hurt?" "only in his feelings," said the valet. "get your hat; you're needed." "but--where do you want me to go? what can i do?" "bail him out; get him home. we can't let his aunt know about it, can we? we've got to produce him at breakfast, haven't we?" mary felt appalled and helpless. "but how can i bail him?" she asked. "i haven't any property, or any money, or----" "i'll put you wise to the ropes," said the theological valet in a hurried voice. "come on. aren't you willing to help?" "of course i am," said mary, indignantly. "i'll be ready in a jiffy." when she came down-stairs again pete was waiting at the front door, which he closed gently behind them. in front of the house stood a taxi, into which he thrust her with much haste, following himself, after he spoke an order to the driver. "where are we going?" asked mary, as the taxi gathered speed. "jefferson market--it's a police court." she could not repress a shiver. "you said a raid? what--what kind?" "listen," said pete. "now this is what happened: the boss went to a scrap--a prize-fight." mary, sitting in the darkness of the taxi, compressed her lips. he had made her believe that he was going into society! "fights are against the law in this state," continued the valet. "while it was going on somebody told the police. and the police came and, among others, they got the boss. he got stuck in the window that was too small for him." "oh!" gasped mary. "they'll be taking him to the night court by the time we get there. and we've got to bail him out." "how?" "we get a bondsman. there'll be one of 'em there; i've got it arranged. he's in the business; professional bondsman, you know. only he won't put up a bond on my say-so. i'm only the valet, you understand; it takes somebody higher up, like a secretary. we'll get it across all right, if you put up a good front. got any money with you?" "a little," said mary. "about twenty dollars, i think." "that'll help with what i've got. we've got to give this bird some cash down." mary was bracing herself as rigidly as she could in a corner of the seat. it was difficult to prevent a rising tide of indignation from overwhelming her, although she realized it was a time to keep her head. of course, there was but one thing to do--get bill marshall out of jail. but after that she felt that she would be entitled to a reckoning. how awful it was! her employer--her social climber--her débutante--in jail after a raid on a prize-fight! at jefferson market she was hustled out of the taxi, across the sidewalk and up some steps that led to a badly-lighted corridor. "wait here; i'll get him," whispered pete. mary shrank herself as small as possible against a wall and waited. the valet was not long in returning. with him was a middle-aged, stout, red-faced person who swiftly inspected mary with a piercing pair of eyes. "this the dame?" he asked, in a casual tone. mary stiffened at the question. "this is the lady i told you about," said pete. then addressing mary: "this is the gentleman who is going to bail mr. marshall." "don't travel too fast," said the bondsman. "maybe i am and maybe i'm not. who are you, anyhow?" he was looking at mary with another critical glance. her cheeks had become red by this time; to pete she seemed to be growing taller. "i am secretary to mr. william marshall," she said. "my name is miss norcross. and i do not wish to be addressed in the manner that you now assume." there was a flash of dismay in pete's eyes, to be succeeded by one of admiration. as for the bondsman, he stared for several seconds in a sort of dull surprise. "oh, no offense," he said. "got anything to identify you?" mary opened her bag and drew forth some letters, which she handed to pete. she would not permit this creature to receive them from her own hand. he seemed to sense the import of this employment of an intermediary, for he surveyed her once more, this time with what was obviously a more respectful curiosity. then he began reading the letters. even a professional bondsman is permitted to have knowledge of the upper world, and this one was not wholly ignorant of names in the social register. his eyebrows went up as he read, and mary was once more made aware of the potent magic of references. she continued to grow taller. when he made a move to return the letters she indicated that he was to hand them to the valet, which he did. "i guess it'll be all right," he said. "the bond'll be for a thousand. the prisoner himself is good for it, but i got to have additional security. i'll want to see the prisoner when he's arranged, and if he ain't the right one, tip me off. and i'll take fifty bucks now." mary brought forth what she had and handed it to pete. he played up to the situation by palming his own resources as he received mary's contribution, and then began counting off bills that were apparently all supplied by her. the bondsman pocketed the money. "sign here," he said, producing a paper from his pocket. mary received the paper from pete and examined it. for all she understood of its contents it might have been printed in chinese. but nowhere did it mention bill marshall. it dealt with a defendant named "henry smith." she was being swindled! "give me a proper paper," she said, sharply. "this has nothing to do with mr. marshall." the bondsman grinned and pete made the explanation. "that's the name he gave on the police blotter. it's all right, ma'am." so mary produced a fountain pen and signed, dimly aware that she was probably committing one of the varied degrees of forgery. when she had finished, it appeared nowhere that mary wayne was going to the rescue of one william marshall, but rather that nell norcross had undertaken to guarantee a bond that would open the jail doors for henry smith. "now we'll go up to court," said the bondsman, and he led the way. mary had never been in a court before, much less a night court, which is peculiar to itself in atmosphere and characters. she slipped into a place on a rear bench, anxious now to lose something of that stature she had attained during her interview in the corridor. the bondsman and pete went forward and stepped inside a railing. mary waited and watched. the judge who sat behind a high desk was yawning. two persons whom she took to be clerks were fumbling over papers. there were several policemen in uniform. on the benches about her were numerous and, for the most part, unpleasant persons. two women were led through a side door, evidently to be "arranged," as the bondsman said. they seemed at ease. a policeman said something, the judge said something, the clerks did something, and they passed on, still in custody. then came a man, who followed the same routine; then another woman. and then out of the side door, which was constantly guarded by a policeman, came several men--and among them bill marshall, towering almost proudly, it seemed to mary. she listened breathlessly, but could not hear a word; everybody was talking in low tones. all she knew was that bill was standing in front of the judge, and evidently unashamed. pete and the bondsman were there, too, and presently the group moved over to the clerk's desk. this, it seemed to mary, was a critical instant. she knew that they must be examining the bond; she felt as though she, too, ought to be standing there with bill marshall, a defendant at the bar. a sense of guilt was overwhelming her; if anybody had touched her on the shoulder she would have screamed. and then it was over, in a most perfunctory and undramatic manner. "henry smith" was not returning to the place beyond the side door, but was passing through the swinging gate that led to the space reserved for benches. his valet was at his heels. the bondsman showed no further interest in them. he stayed inside the rail, where he chatted with a policeman. up the center aisle came bill, swinging along jauntily. as he neared the bench on which she sat, mary became aware that a young man who had been occupying a place beside her was as much interested in bill as herself. this person suddenly sprang into the aisle, gripped bill's hand and then linked arms with him. together they passed out of the court-room. mary, too, had risen, and now the valet was beckoning to her. she followed him out beyond the swinging doors. there in the corridor she observed bill marshall in one of his intimate and happy moments. he was laughing with a wholesome lack of restraint and was slapping on the shoulder one of the most ill-favored persons that mary had ever seen. this was the young man who had joined bill in the moment of his triumphal exit. he was not over five feet six, but he was somewhat broader in the shoulders than most youths of that stature. his clothes seemed too tight for him, although they were not a misfit, but rather, the product of a tailor who must have received his inspiration from a brass band. his skin was swarthy; his dark eyes small and bright. his nose appeared to have undergone a flattening process, in addition to which, it displayed a marked tendency to point to the left. one of his ears mary observed with particular attention; it had been twisted into a knotty lump and stood out from his head in an aggressive effort at self-advertisement. it was not within mary's province to know that this was a singularly perfect specimen of cauliflower, or "tin," ear. "oh, it's all right now, bill," the young man was saying, "only if you'd 'a' took my tip an' follored me you wouldn't 'a' been pinched at all. gee! i had an easy getaway." "you always did have speed, kid," remarked bill. "oh, well, it's nothing in our young lives. where do we go from here? where's pete?" he glanced around and beheld not only pete, but mary wayne. bill slowly flushed a fiery red and his eyes widened to almost twice their size. he faltered for an instant, then rushed forward. "miss norcross! why, what in thunder----" "i had to bring her, sir," said pete, hastily dropping into character. "they wouldn't accept me as additional security, sir." bill hesitated. the cool gaze of his secretary upset him far more than if she had flung scorn in her glance. "oh, i'm awfully sorry," he began. "i wouldn't have had you come here for all the world. it isn't right. it's a shame! why---- peter, how dared you bring miss norcross to this place? no; don't try to make any excuses. you ought to be thrashed for it." "your valet was not to blame in the least degree," said mary, in a frosty tone. "it appears that it was necessary for me to come." "yes, sir," echoed pete. "i don't care," stormed bill. "it's no place for her. i won't have it. i'd sooner lose a leg than have miss norcross come here." but in his soul he was really not so much disturbed over the fact that she visited a police court as he was over her discovery of bill marshall as a prisoner at the bar, although he was not at the time capable of analyzing his emotions very accurately. he was ashamed, confused, angry at the presence of mary wayne, whereas but a moment before he was enjoying the relish of an adventure and a joke. "shall i get a taxi, sir?" inquired pete. "i'll get it myself. wait here, miss norcross." anything to escape even for a moment from the level gaze of those accusing eyes. he dashed down a staircase, followed by pete, who had a word he wished to say in private. mary now observed that the young man with the tin ear whom she had heard addressed as "kid" was watching her attentively. as her look settled upon him he stepped forward, swiftly tipped a derby, swiftly replaced it on his head and favored her with a confident and confidential smile. "friend of bill's, it seems," he observed. "well, we had a nice evenin' for it." "i do not seem to know you," said mary. he stared in honest astonishment. "y' don't know me?" he echoed. "i do not." "y' mean to say bill never told y' about me?" "he never did--and i do not think i am interested." his small, black eyes blinked at the astounding news. "why, i'm kid whaley. everybody knows me. bill's my best friend. wot? y' never heard of kid whaley? say, are y' kiddin' me? why, it's only last week i put away battlin' schwartz. knocked 'im dead in five rounds, over in trenton. say, don't y' read the papers? aw, y' must've heard of me. sure y' have. why, i'm gonna be the next champ. ev'ry-body knows that. an' take it from me, th' champ knows it, too. you ask bill; he'll tell y' right." during this outburst of sincere protestation mary stood stiffly where bill had left her. she would have preferred to walk away, but for the fear that this voluble young man would follow her. "aw, g'wan," he added, as he playfully poked a finger into her arm. "you're givin' me a josh. any friend o' bill's knows me. why, he's crazy about me. i ain't been inside th' ropes once in a whole year that bill didn't have a roll bet on me. why, him an' me----" he paused for an instant as he sighted the returning bill, only to break forth: "hey, bill; get this. here's a dame never heard o' kid whaley. whadda y' know about that? an' she's a friend o' yours." "shut up!" snarled bill savagely. kid whaley stared in bewilderment. "come, miss norcross; there's a taxi waiting." he seized her by the arm and urged her rapidly toward the staircase. mary went willingly; escape from the kid was the immediate necessity. "hey, bill; y' comin' back? hey, bill----" they lost the remainder of the kid's plea as they hurried toward the street. pete stearns was standing guard over a taxi as they emerged from jefferson market and, as he sighted them, he flung the door open. mary permitted herself to be propelled into the vehicle with more force than grace, and bill followed. pete was about to make a third member of the party when his benefactor placed a determined hand against his breast and pushed him half-way across the sidewalk. then bill leaned out, shouted a direction at the driver, slammed the door and settled back with a sigh, prepared to receive whatever his social secretary might decide was coming to him. chapter viii "miss norcross gets the goods" as minutes passed the silence became more than he could endure. why didn't she say something? why didn't she flay him alive and be done with it? he could stand that; it would not be pleasant, of course, yet it could be borne. but no; she sat staring straight in front of her, wordless, even oblivious. "oh, say--go to it!" he blurted. "i beg your pardon." "have it out; hand it to me--mop me up." she turned to look at him briefly as they passed a brightly lighted corner, then resumed her former pose. "well, aren't you going to?" he pleaded. "i don't know that there is anything for me to say," she answered. "yes, there is; you're full of it," insisted bill. "i can tell by the way you're acting. i'll stand for it. go on." "i'm not sure that i care to, mr. marshall." her voice was not frigid; rather, it merely conveyed an idea of remoteness. it was as if she were at the other end of a thousand miles of wire. "anyhow, i'm sorry," he said. to mary that seemed to require no answer. "mighty sorry, miss norcross. i wouldn't have put you in that position for anything. i--i apologize." but it appeared that she had again retired into the silences. "oh, be reasonable about it," he said in a begging tone. "bawl me out and let's have it over with. that's the way aunt caroline and i do it." "i am not your aunt caroline, mr. marshall." "i know. but you're thinking just what she would think, so it amounts to the same thing. please bawl me out." "i don't know that it is one of my duties to do so," observed mary. "i think perhaps we had better not discuss it at all." bill squirmed for the twentieth time. the air within the taxi was oppressive; he opened the window on his side with violent hands. "well, i apologized," he reminded her. "you might at least say whether you accept it or reject it or what." "why, i accept it," she said. "what else is there to do?" "you might have left off the last part," he grumbled. "you don't have to accept it unless you want to. i'd sooner you didn't." "but i already have." "well, you needn't." "it's done, if you please." bill felt peevish. this was not a fair way of punishing him. "if you're going to act that way i'll withdraw the apology," he declared. "it is already accepted, so it is too late to withdraw anything, mr. marshall." he was uncertain as to the soundness of this position, but it baffled him, nevertheless. "oh, all right," he agreed lamely. "have it any way you like. i--i suppose aunt caroline will raise the devil, so i'll get it good from somebody, anyhow." "you will tell her about it, then?" she asked. "who? me? do i act crazy?" "then you will leave it to your valet, perhaps," suggested mary. bill involuntarily tensed his shoulder muscles. "pete? he doesn't dare. i'd slaughter him." "then how is your aunt going to know, mr. marshall?" bill turned and stared down at her. "why--why, you'll tell her!" he exclaimed. it was mary's turn to look upward at bill, which she did steadily for several seconds. "once again, mr. marshall, i ask you, whose secretary am i?" "miss norcross! you mean----" "i mean that i do not peddle gossip," she said sharply. bill had seized her hand and was crushing it; when she managed to withdraw it her fingers were aching. "you're an ace," he said joyously. "i thought, of course----" "i do not think you had any business to believe i would tell," said mary. "if i have given you any cause to think so i'm not aware of it." "you're a whole fist full of aces!" he declared fervently. but mary had no intention of relinquishing any advantage that she held. "i think i have been quite frank with you, mr. marshall, ever since i entered your employ. and that is more than you have been with me." "huh? how's that?" "have you forgotten what you told me this afternoon? you--you said you were going to a very private affair--very exclusive, you said." bill managed to twist a smile. "so it was, until the police butted in." "i assumed, of course, it was social," said mary coldly. "but i didn't say it was. now, did i?" "you allowed me to infer it. and that is the worst way of deceiving people." "oh, well, i'll make an apology on that, too. but if i'd told you the truth you'd have tried to stop me. you'd have roasted me, anyhow." "i should have tried to persuade you not to go," she conceded. "sure. i knew it." and bill grinned. the taxi stopped in front of the marshall home. he helped her out, paid the driver and followed her up the steps. his night-key effected a noiseless entrance. once inside, bill beckoned her to the library. "i want to thank you for doing all you did," he said humbly. "i feel awfully mean about it." "about getting arrested?" "no. that's nothing. about dragging you to court. it was a mighty square thing for you to do. i'm grateful--honestly." "i simply did it for business reasons, mr. marshall." "business?" he repeated, with a frown of disappointment. "of course. don't you see the point?" he shook his head. "it's quite plain," she said. "my business is to see that you enter society. that is the reason for my employment. anything that would interfere with that is naturally also my concern. if you participate in a brutal prize-fight----" "oh, wait. i wasn't in the ring, miss norcross. i was only looking on." "if you attend a brutal prize-fight," she corrected, "and are arrested, and the papers are full of it, and your aunt learns of it, what becomes of your chances to enter society?" "i see what you're driving at," he said slowly. "your chances would be nothing, of course. and with your chances gone you would have no need for a social secretary. therefore, i would lose my position. so you will understand that i had a purely business interest in the matter, mr. marshall." confound her! she did not need to be so emphatic about putting it on that basis, thought bill. he was trying to make her see that she had done something generous and fine, but she stubbornly insisted on having it otherwise. "well, anyhow, i'm much obliged," he repeated. "next time i won't bother to send for bail." "_next_ time?" "certainly. i'll just stay in the lockup, let the newspapers fill up on it and then i won't be able to get into society if i try. that's not a bad idea, come to think of it. much obliged." if she insisted on being unpleasant about this, he would show her. for the moment, bill was very much of a spoiled child. "well," retorted mary, "there isn't much danger of your ruining your social career so long as you follow your--other--career under a false name." bill glared. "oh, i guess you'd do the same thing if you got in a tight place." mary began to turn pale under the freckles. bill had startled her without himself being aware of it. he didn't know; he didn't suspect; it was nothing but an offhand and ill-tempered retort. but it awakened in mary something she had been studiously endeavoring to forget; it had been flung so suddenly at her that it sounded like an accusation. "take it from me," he added, "there's many a sanctimonious high-brow in this burg who sports an alias on the side. i've got plenty of company." mary was seized with a fit of choking that compelled her to turn her head. she was rapidly becoming confused; she did not dare trust herself to speech. why, she might even forget her wrong name! bill watched her for a moment, then shrugged and yawned. "well, i guess i'll call it a day, miss norcross. you can give any reason you like for what you did, but i'm going to keep on being much obliged." his voice had taken a more generous tone. "you're all right. good night." mary watched his exit from the library, a curious expression in her eyes. then suddenly she sat down and began to laugh, very quietly, yet rocking back and forth with the intensity of the attack. "oh, what a job i've got!" was the burden of mary's thought. she was in no hurry to go up-stairs to her room and the reason for this was evident when she caught the faint sound of the latchkey turning in the front door, which brought her to her feet and sent her running softly into the hall. she intercepted the valet as he was about to make a stealthy ascent of the staircase and motioned him into the library. "where's the boss?" whispered pete. "he has gone up-stairs. i want to talk to you a moment." "yes, miss." mary looked at him sharply; whenever he addressed her in that manner she was filled with a sensation of being mocked. "does mr. marshall attend many prize-fights?" she inquired. pete clasped his hands and pursed his lips. "well, between you and me, miss," he said, after an instant of deliberation, "i'm afraid he attends about all there are." "has he ever been arrested before?" "not that i can recall, miss. i'm quite sure this is the first time since i have been in his employ." "is he in the habit of associating with pugilists?" pete sighed and hesitated. "if it's just between us, miss, why i'll say that he has his friends among such people. it's a very shocking thing; i've done my best to keep it away from his aunt. so far i think i've succeeded. i've tried very hard to persuade him to change his ways. i've labored with him; i've tried to get his mind turned to different things." "theology?" suggested mary. "exactly," answered the valet. "but it's not an easy matter, miss. mr. william is very set in his ways." "but i thought you had told his aunt that he was interested in higher things." "to encourage her," said pete, glibly. "it was not what you'd call a falsehood. there had been times when he seemed interested, but never for very long. still, i've always had hopes. his aunt is good enough to believe that i have a desirable influence over him. i hope it's true; i hope so." it always puzzled mary when the valet pursued this strain, and it puzzled her now. ninety-nine out of a hundred men who talked thus she would have classed as hypocrites, but pete did not seem to her to be exactly that. she viewed all his excellent protestations askance, yet she was not satisfied that hypocrisy was the true explanation. "it seems a shame," he continued, "that it was necessary to bring you into touch with such an affair as to-night's. i wouldn't have thought of it if there had been any other way. i knew that you would be very much shocked, miss; very much surprised, too." he watched her so closely that mary wondered if he really suspected the truth--that she was neither quite so much shocked nor surprised as both he and bill seemed to believe. that was her own secret and she intended to guard it at all costs. "this affair of to-night," she observed, "was it particularly brutal?" "no; i wouldn't say that," replied pete, reflectively. "had it been going on very long?" "not very long, miss." mary thought for a moment before she framed the next question. "just an ordinary vulgar brawl between two ruffians, i take it?" pete unclasped his hands and made a quick gesture of dissent. "not at all; not at all. why, it was a pip----" he pulled himself up short and coughed. there was a gleam in mary's gray eyes. "fortunately, it had not progressed far enough to become actually brutal," said pete, and he showed for the first time since she had known him a trace of confusion. "what were you doing there?" she demanded. pete soothed out a wrinkle in the rug with the toe of his shoe before he decided to meet her glance. "it happened this way: i knew where he was going and i was trying to persuade him to stay away. you see, his aunt expects a great deal of me, miss, and i didn't want to do anything less than my duty. i followed him; i argued with him. in fact, we argued all the way to the place where it was being held." and pete was telling the literal truth. he and bill had argued, heatedly. bill had stubbornly asserted that the harlem holocaust would not last four rounds with jimmy jenkins, the tennessee wildcat, while it had been the contention of pete that in less time than that the wildcat would be converted into a human mop for the purpose of removing the resin from the floor of the ring. "failing to convert him, i take it that you went inside with him," remarked mary. "exactly. as a matter of loyalty, of course. so long as there seemed to be any chance i would not desert. i am not the kind, miss, who believes in faith without works." which was again true, for pete had translated his faith in the harlem holocaust into a wager that would have left him flat had the contentions of bill reached a confirmation. unfortunately, the police had canceled the bet. "and how is it that you were not arrested, as well as mr. marshall?" "there was much confusion. we became separated. i found myself running; i was carried along in the rush of the crowd. before i knew it i was in the street again. and besides"--pete made a gesture of appeal "it was necessary for somebody to see about obtaining bail, miss norcross." "i'm sure it was very fortunate you were there," said mary. "you seemed to understand exactly what to do." but pete declined to be further disconcerted. he was able to look at her without flinching this time. "just one more question," added mary. "is this mr. whaley whom i saw at court a particularly close friend of mr. marshall's?" pete drew a deep breath and launched upon another speech. "it seems, miss, as nearly as i can learn, that for quite a long time the whaley person has been known to mr. william. i frequently took occasion----" mary interrupted him with a gesture. "never mind," she said. "i understand. you labored with him on that matter, also. i have no doubt that you prayed with him and preached at him. i am sure you did everything in your power. i won't embarrass you by asking for the details. some day i feel certain your efforts to exert a good influence over mr. marshall will have better success." "thank you, miss," and pete bowed. "but meantime----" and as mary leaned forward her knuckles were tapping firmly on the arm of the chair. "meantime, if i may make a suggestion, it would be an excellent plan for you to remain away from prize-fights." "yes, miss." "and it would be a very good thing for mr. marshall to do likewise--very good." pete bowed again and made a note of the fact that she had a significant way of tightly closing her lips. "you're quite sure you understand?" "oh, quite--quite." "good night," said mary. dismissal was so abrupt that there was nothing to do but accept it. and pete was not in the least sorry to terminate the interview. in spots he had enjoyed it, but the spots had been infrequent. he was dissatisfied because he had never for an instant been master of it. talking to aunt caroline was easier than talking to bill's secretary, who did not seem to place a proper value on theology. hang the business of being a valet, anyhow! such were the reflections that crowded into his agile mind as he bowed himself out. he paused on the staircase to consider the matter further. the more he thought about this interview with the social secretary the more it disturbed him. it had not been a matter of mere suggestions on her part; it was very like orders. he recognized a threat when he heard one, even though the threat might be veiled with ironical advice. "confound her!" muttered pete. "that little bird is wise--too wise. i wouldn't object to her simply getting the deadwood on us, if she seemed willing to let it go at that. but she served notice on me that she might make use of it. and i believe she'd do it, if she once took it into her head. what samson did to the pillars of the temple isn't a marker to the house-wrecking job she can do, once she decides to get busy at it." up-stairs, he opened the door to bill's apartments and thrust his head inside. "bill!" he said, softly. "she's got the indian sign on us." "come in and shut the door," growled a voice. "what did she say to you?" pete summarized the conversation that had taken place in the library. "she's swinging a big stick," he said, in conclusion. "the worst of it is, she's got the goods. it isn't me alone who is supposed to stay away from prize fights. it's you." "she can't dictate to me," declared bill, sourly. "don't be too certain. she can always carry it up to the supreme court." "who? aunt caroline?" bill considered the suggestion. "no; i don't believe it. i don't think she's mean, whatever else she may be. in fact, she told me----" he paused. it did not seem necessary to take pete entirely into his confidence concerning conversations with his secretary. "no, pete; i don't believe she'll say anything. that is--not this time." "maybe," assented pete, pessimistically. "i don't expect she will, either. but how about the next time? are you figuring to reform?" bill made a scornful gesture of denial. "but she expects us to reform, bill. that's where the danger comes in. and she'll be keeping her eye on us." "well, i guess we're as clever as she is, if it comes to that." "that so?" remarked pete. "well, i'm not so sure. if you think it's going to be easy to pull wool over the eyes of this secretarial lady i want to go on record with a dissenting opinion. i'd just about as soon try to slip a fake passport over on st. peter." "well, i'm not going to be threatened," declared bill. "brave words, lord and master. only it happens you _are_ threatened." * * * * * mary sat for some time in the library, isolated with her thoughts. occasionally she smiled. at other times she frowned. there were also brief periods when perplexity showed in her eyes. but at the last, as she went up-stairs to her room, she was smiling again. chapter ix "miss norcross" wields a club nell norcross--the real one--was sitting up in bed, unmistakably convalescent. she had been listening to the adventures of mary wayne; not all of the adventures, for mary did not believe it was wise to subject a patient to too much excitement, yet enough to convey the idea that the introduction of bill marshall into society was not an affair of mere toast and tea. "i feel," said mary, "that at last i'm in a position to accomplish something. i feel more established than i did at the beginning." "more influential," suggested nell. "exactly. you see, i have such strong moral support from miss marshall." "and from this valet you speak about," nell reminded her. "i'm not so sure about him. he puzzles me." there was a calculating look in mary's eyes. "he keeps telling me that he wants to help, but i'm always doubtful as to just what he is really driving at. but he won't block me, at any rate; i'm able to take care of that." "then everything looks quite simple, doesn't it?" "no, nell; everything doesn't. that's the trouble. i'm in a strategic position, if that's what you'd call it, but i don't know how to take advantage of it." "then wait for an opening," advised nell. "one is bound to come." mary shook her head. "i can't afford to wait," she said. "i could wait forever, as far as mr. marshall is concerned, but i can see that his aunt is becoming impatient. she thinks it is time that something really began." "what does she suggest, my dear?" "nothing. that's the worst of it. she leaves it all to me. she is so confident that i know everything there is to know about such matters. she wants me to go right ahead with anything i decide upon. and if i ever express any doubt about what to do first, she begins talking about those wonderful references of mine--yours--and says that any young woman with such an experience is competent to take full charge without suggestions from anybody. and i don't know how to start, nell, or what to do." "she is really impressed by the references, is she?" mused nell. "tremendously." "then it's certain you've got to make good." "oh, absolutely. so that's why i've come to bother you." nell was thoughtfully regarding a plate of white grapes that lay on her lap. "so tell me how to start him off," said mary. "h-m; let's see now. i never launched a man in society," said nell, wrinkling her nose. "i never was secretary to a man, you know. i imagine they may be more difficult than girls." "this one is," affirmed mary, with an emphatic nod. "he's so--so big, for one thing." "men are awfully awkward to handle," philosophized nell. "i didn't say he was awkward; you misunderstood me. i merely said he was big; he thinks he's too big for society. of course, he isn't at all. he handles himself very well." "can he dance?" "he says not. but i'm not sure." "why don't you try him out?" "i'd rather not," said mary hastily. "i don't think that's one of my duties." "anything is your duty that will get him into society, my dear." "we-e-ell, possibly. but we're getting off the track, nell. what am i to do with him?" "now, if he were a girl débutante, just being introduced, why---- there! it's the very thing for him! give him a coming-out party." "i'm afraid he wouldn't endure it," said mary. "he's terribly afraid of being mistaken for what he calls rollo boys. if i planned a coming out party he'd probably disappear for a month. the very name would make him explode." "don't call it by that name," said nell. "don't call it any name particularly. just have a party; at the house, of course. invite all the nice people you can get hold of. let's see; there ought to be some particular reason for the party. i've got it! he's about to make a tour of the world, having finished his studies at college. this gives him an opportunity to meet and entertain his friends before he starts, and also furnishes something for everybody to talk about." mary nodded as she listened. the idea sounded promising. but---- "who will we invite, nell?" "his friends, of course." "i'm afraid his friends are not in society," sighed mary, as the vision of a tin ear flashed into her mind. "then his aunt's friends. she must know a lot of society people." "i don't think she has kept up her acquaintances." "that won't make a particle of difference, my dear. miss caroline marshall bears a name that will get her anywhere she wants to go. and it will do as much for her nephew, too. it's a key that will open any society lock; don't worry about that. why, you could invite people that miss marshall never met, and nine out of ten of them would jump at the chance. give him a party and it can't fail." "i really believe it can be done," said mary thoughtfully. "easiest thing in the world." "it will be a party, then. and now tell me all about the details." but when it came to details, nell was less satisfying. she pleaded that she was sleepy; the doctor had told her she must not talk too long. besides, anybody could work out the details. "the main thing is the idea," she said with a careless gesture. "i've given you that. all you have to do is to develop it. make him help you; he'll probably have a lot of suggestions of his own." "you haven't met him," declared mary. "i'd like to. he must be an extraordinary character." "i never said so, did i?" "no. but judging by the way you're all fussed up over this thing----" "bosh!" said mary, rising. "i'm not a bit fussed. it's as easy as anything." but all the way back to the marshall home mary was reflecting upon the difficulties, rather than the ease of the problem. the first thing to do was to obtain the consent of bill marshall. it would be no use to consult aunt caroline; that good lady would simply tell her to go right ahead and do exactly as she pleased. she might, of course, call upon aunt caroline to give bill his orders in case he balked; but that would be a confession of her own weakness. "i've got to persuade him myself," she decided, "even if it comes to being ruthless." just as she had foreseen, bill objected strenuously and at once. he did not want a party; he was not going around the world. but if she insisted on having a lot of silly people at the house, he would start around the world before they arrived, and he would never come back. mary argued with much patience. she even pointed out the danger that his aunt might be driven back upon the plan suggested by his valet, peter. but bill was in a particularly obdurate mood. faced at last with a definite project, he quailed. "we'll just let things drift a while," he told her. "no," said mary. bill grinned at her in an amiable way and said he thought he would go out for a ride. "we're going to settle it," she declared. "you promised you'd let me start." "but i never said when." "well, this is the time, mr. marshall. we'll start now." bill shook his head. mary, who faced him across the table in the sun parlor, tapped a forefinger on the writing-pad and looked him in the eye. "mr. marshall," she said, "if you do not consent i shall be compelled to go to your bondsman, withdraw from your bond and advise him to surrender you to the court." bill gasped. he swallowed. he stared. "and i shall do it this very afternoon," said mary. "it isn't fair," he cried. "why, you agreed----" "i simply agreed not to say anything to your aunt," she reminded him, coldly. "and i shall not, of course. but i am entirely at liberty to go to your bondsman. if your aunt should happen to hear about it when they come to arrest you again, why that would be unfortunate. but it would be something that could not be helped." bill rose from his chair and leaned heavily on the table. he was red in the face and glaring, but his secretary did not even wince. "you're threatening me!" he almost shouted. mary shrugged. "it's blackmail, i tell you!" "on the contrary, it will all be strictly according to law," said mary with appalling calmness. "pete put you up to this!" "i am not in the habit of discussing social affairs with your valet." "then it's aunt caroline." "no. your aunt left everything to me." bill began shaking a formidable finger, but the table was between them and mary felt no immediate cause for apprehension. "i'll never stand for it. i won't have a party. i won't be here when it happens. you're swinging a club on me. and last night i thought you were a good sport!" "i merely intend to earn my salary," said mary. "i make no pretensions to being a sport. i could never hope to equal---- well, we won't go into the sporting phase of it, if you please." bill was momentarily brought to halt. then came another inspiration. "call this off and i'll double your salary," he announced. mary shook her head. "that's offering me a bribe," she said. "besides, i believe your aunt pays my salary." "i'll make up the difference out of my allowance." "no, thank you." bill had never learned the science of dealing with women. there are about , , grown men in the world, all exactly like bill. so, while he felt that he had been singled out as the sole victim of a machiavellian female, in reality he had all mankind for a companion. the sheer hopelessness of his plight made him calm again. "you admit that you're my secretary, don't you?" he asked. mary nodded. "then i'm entitled to your advice. isn't that so?" "yes," answered mary, cautiously. "i wouldn't volunteer advice, but if you ask it, that's different." "all right; i ask it. advise me how i can duck this party." mary laughed outright. "i couldn't possibly. i can only advise you that there isn't any way in the world to duck it. and that's honest advice, mr. marshall." he resumed his chair and began drawing diagrams on a sheet of paper. this occupation absorbed all his attention for several minutes. when he glanced up he was grinning helplessly. "some day i'll get even for this," he said, "but right now i'll admit you've got me. go ahead, but don't rub it into me any more than you have to." "why, of course i won't," declared mary heartily. "all along i've been trying to save you from getting into society another way." bill nodded an acknowledgment of the fact. "what date shall it be?" she asked. "the quicker the better. i never got warmed up standing on the edge of a swimming tank, wondering how cold the water was." "we'll make it as early as possible, then. do you think it ought to be a large party?" "no!" "neither do i," agreed mary. "but it ought to be exclusive--very exclusive." "are you reminding me of something?" "no," laughed mary. "i wasn't thinking of that. now, about the invitations: do you think they should be engraved, or would it be a little better to write personal notes to everybody?" "that's your end of the job. how do i know?" "i think perhaps i'd better consult one or two of the fashionable stationers," said mary. "i want to find out just what they're doing this season." bill looked at his watch. "all right; let's go and see the stationers now." "it's almost lunch-time, isn't it?" "almost. that's why i want to go and see the stationers." "oh," said mary. "come along. you owe me something after what you've done." she smiled at that, although she was not quite certain whether she ought to go. still, he had really surrendered, and she felt rather grateful to him. "all right; i'll get my hat," she said. five minutes later they were moving up fifth avenue in bill's car. "would you honestly have turned me over to the bondsman?" he asked suddenly. "let's talk about stationery," she reminded him. "i suppose for a man it ought to be plain white." bill turned to study her and bumped fenders with a taxicab. "pink," he declared. "pink! for a man?" "pink, with little freckles on it," he said, taking another look. mary lifted her chin and watched the traffic. presently he turned into a side street and ran on for half a block. "anyhow, here's where we take lunch," he announced. chapter x the leopard's spots pete hitched the largest chair forward, lifted a foot to the top of bill's writing-table, crossed the other upon it and glared sourly at the wall in front of him. "you'll get to like it yet," he predicted. "bull!" observed bill. "i'm a leopard. i can't change 'em." "you can have 'em changed for you all right. many a good leopard has been skinned, bill." "what are you beefing about? you're responsible for getting me in on this more than anybody else." "oh, go ahead; lay off on me. it's a grand joke because you see i'm down. where do i come in?" "where does anybody's valet come in?" countered bill, as he stropped a razor. "you said it. that's just the point. you're copping all the cream. i'm a servant, that's all. it isn't neighborly, bill. gosh hang it, it isn't democracy! do you call it a square deal, sneaking her off to a lunch?" "that was business, pete. we had to look at stationery. beside, don't i give you my evenings?" "is it right that i eat in the servants' dining-room? is it right that i sleep in the servants' quarters? me--your guest! is that a way to treat a guy who passed your college exams for you? and _she_ thinks i'm a servant, too. i'll leave it to you if it's right." "but aunt caroline puts you in a class by yourself," observed bill. "aunt caroline doesn't misjudge you, pete, even if you do claim to be a valet." pete allocated aunt caroline according to his idea of where she would do the most good. "but _she_ treats me as if i was somebody to take orders from her," he grumbled on. "she's losing her respect for me." "oh, forget miss norcross." "what? forget gray eyes? forget little nell? why don't you try it yourself, bill?" "i don't have to. she's my secretary," said bill maliciously. "she's your dancing-teacher, you mean. i've seen you at it; the two of you. getting ready for the party! bill marshall, you're losing your character and your self-respect." bill grinned complacently. "it isn't as if you needed to learn to dance," added pete, as he kicked a book off the table. "you can dance rings around her, if you want to. but you're deceitful, bill. she's got you one-twoing and three-fouring all over the library, and you making believe it's all new stuff. it's a gol darned shame, and i'm going to tell her so." "you're going to mind your own business or get busted," predicted bill. "it doesn't make any difference what i used to know about dancing; i need practice. besides, you can always go and talk theology to aunt caroline. she's never busy." pete groaned. "i'm laying off it--when she'll let me," he said miserably. "she's getting interested in it, bill. yesterday i had to go and bone up some more in the encyclopedia; i was all run out of stuff." "all right, son; only don't accuse me." pete subsided into silence and bill shaved. the young man who would be a valet was not enjoying a happy morning. part of it was because of the night before, but some of the unhappiness lay rooted in the fact that bill's secretary persisted in taking him at face value. at the same time pete was convinced that she knew better; that there was a mocking deliberation in the way that she held him to his bargain. "confound it, bill! that girl's no fool." "i said it first," bill reminded him. "i said it days ago." "she knows darn well i'm something more than a valet." "she never said it to me, pete; never even hinted at it. i don't believe she even suspects." "bill, that's an insult. if you say she doesn't even suspect, i'll poison you. why, any girl with good sense would suspect. do i look like a valet?" "sure." bill had finished shaving, so it was easy enough to dodge the book. there had been a good deal of talk like that ever since the party became a fixed project. pete stearns was discovering that the business of flinging gibes had become less profitable; either bill's hide was getting thicker or his perceptions were becoming dulled. it was no longer possible always to get a rise; sometimes it shocked him to find that he was rising himself. and then there was that secretary; she had annoying moments of superiority. she was in a fair way to become a snob, thought pete, and just because she could not recognize the difference between a real social gulf and one that was self-imposed. some day he was going to cross that gulf in a wild leap and make her feel silly. "where you going now?" he demanded, as bill made for the door. "business, old dear. cheer up." bill's business was in the office on the second floor. it, or she--or both--had been making a good many demands on his time. he bore them with a fortitude that made him proud of himself. "good morning," said mary, looking up. "any more names to suggest?" "haven't we dug up enough?" "we should have a margin to allow for declinations. there are bound to be a few, you know. even some of the people who accept don't come." "i don't think of anybody else," said bill. "you've got a whole lot of people now that i never saw or heard of." "i'm quite proud of the list," she said. "some of it is really distinguished. and---- oh, by the way, mr. marshall. your aunt gave me another name; you must know him, of course. bishop wrangell." "what! that old dodo?" "he's a bishop; a very old friend of your aunt's. and bishops are very exclusive. i think it's fine to have a bishop." "he's a dodo," reaffirmed bill. "he'll crab it all. cut him off." "but i've already invited him," said mary. "it's in the mail." "he'll talk everybody to death," groaned bill. "i know him; he's been here to dinner. it's a curse to have a party, but bishops are damnation." "you surprise me," observed mary. (he did not.) "but you don't know this bird and i do. he's so dry that the dust flies out of him when he talks." "well, i'm sorry, but it's done. i couldn't very well refuse your aunt." "oh, i suppose not. just because he's a bishop aunt caroline thinks he's going to put her on the free-list when she hits heaven. a bishop! what are we going to have at this party? prayers?" mary bent over her work until she was sure that she had command of herself. "say!" exclaimed bill. "i know a stunt. would it be all right to invite my valet?" "no; i should think not," answered mary. "you mean as a guest? why in the world do you want him?" "he could entertain the bishop. we could make that his special job. come on; let's do it." mary smiled, but shook her head decisively. "your guests would never forgive you if they discovered that you had invited your valet. you see, such things are not done." she had slipped into the employment of that little phrase until it came to her lips as a reason for almost any prohibition that dealt with the social code. "but i want to do it as a special favor to pete," urged bill. "or as a special penance, perhaps," said mary, with a wise look. "no; and besides, your valet will doubtless have his duties that evening. he'll be needed in the gentlemen's dressing-room." bill picked up a morning paper and turned to the sporting page. suddenly he looked up. "say, if you can squeeze a bishop in at this stage of the game i ought to be entitled to invite somebody else, hadn't i?" "of course. i asked for suggestions." "well, i want to invite a very, very good friend of mine." "who?" asked mary cautiously. "he's an italian." she raised her eyebrows and wrinkled her forehead into an inquiry. "an artist," added bill. "oh! now that sounds promising." "a wop artist. his name is valentino." "why, of course we've got room for him," she said. "i think it's a splendid idea, mr. marshall. i hadn't any notion that you had friends in the art world. i'm very much interested in art myself. what does he paint?" "he's a sculptor," said bill. "better yet. that's even more distinguished. he must have the true temperament." "oh, barrels of it." "an impressionist or a realist." bill considered. "i'd say he was a little of both. he's very strong on impressions, but he produces them in a realistic way, if you can get what i mean." "his work has strength," commented mary, with a nod of understanding. "you've got it. that's exactly it, miss norcross. he's young, but he's already made a name for himself. he makes a specialty of working on heads and busts." "his full name?" inquired mary. "antonio valentino." "oh, i like it," she exclaimed. "he's the only artist we'll have. perhaps another time we can get him to bring his friends. what is the address, please?" "he has a studio over on the east side. wait a second." bill searched a pocket and discovered a memorandum of the address. "and when you write," he advised, "don't address it to 'mister,' make it 'signor.' he's accustomed to that and it'll please him." "signor antonio valentino," said mary, reading from her list. "quite the most distinguished name at the party, mr. marshall. that's the best suggestion you've made yet." bill smiled as though he had done a full morning's work. "and now, if you've nothing more for the present, i have errands to do," she announced. "will you excuse me?" "don't i get another dancing lesson? i thought you said----" mary shook her head as she gathered up some papers. "i've been thinking about your dancing," she said. "and i've come to the conclusion, mr. marshall, that there isn't anything more i can teach you. you've done so well that sometimes i suspect----" that seemed a good place to end the sentence and she walked out of the room, leaving bill to wonder whether pete had not already played him false. on her way out mary remembered that she wanted to speak to aunt caroline about the florist, but at the threshold of the library she paused. aunt caroline was engaged. "i wish you'd continue where you left off yesterday," she was saying. "about what, madam?" it was the voice of the valet. "why, it was about theology." "ah, yes. but you see there are so many kinds. do you remember just which we were discussing? speculative, philosophical, practical or dogmatic?" "mercy, peter; how should i know? but it was interesting, so please go on." "very good, madam. i think we might go into the catechetical school for a bit, and that will lead us up to the doctrine of penal substitution." "splendid!" said aunt caroline. mary tiptoed down the hall, holding a gloved hand tightly over her lips. when she reached the street she let the laugh have its way. "now what do you know about that?" she murmured. and mary was not an adept in the use of slang. some hours later she was discussing final preparations with nell norcross, who had convalesced to the point where she was sitting up in a chair and taking a vivid interest in everything that concerned the social fortunes of bill marshall, débutant. "and now i have a surprise for you," said mary. "you're coming to the party yourself!" "i?" exclaimed nell. "you're quite well enough, and i'll need your help, my dear. i'm counting on you." "but, mary--oh, i can't." "nonsense. i've spoken to miss marshall about it. i explained i had a friend who had also done secretarial work and who really knew a great deal more about it than i do, and she said by all means to bring you. there won't really be anything for you to do, but you'll just be there in case we need some expert advice." "i don't believe i'm strong enough," demurred nell. "yes, you are. i asked the doctor. he said it would do you good." "but i haven't a dress, mary." "yes, you have. i've ordered one--one for you and one for me. they're with the compliments of miss marshall, they're perfect dreams and we're the luckiest people alive." "you're a conspirator," complained nell. "honestly, mary, i don't think i ought to go. i'm sure i shouldn't." one of those determined looks flashed into mary's face. "nell norcross, you've got to go. i won't let you stay away. it's time you did something. here i've been skating along on thin ice, bluffing and pretending and telling fibs until i hardly know which is my real name--yours or mine. now i've reached the very climax and you've got to see me through. i'm going to be adamant." nell sighed. "you're a whole lot bossier than you were the day i met you in the brain workers' exchange," she said petulantly. "don't ever mention that place," and mary made a grimace. "it gives me crawly little chills." "will i have to bring any more references?" "no, you silly thing. references, indeed! why, nell, you won't go to this party on references. you'll go on my reputation!" "mary wayne, i'm in awe of you." mary laughed. "you wouldn't be if you knew how much i feel like a charlatan. it's all on the outside, nell. i am just hollow emptiness; the shell is the only thing that holds me together." nell made a gesture of reluctant assent. "i'll go if you'll let me meet the italian sculptor," she said. "i adore sculptors." "you can meet the sculptor and the bishop both," promised mary. "and if you're very good i'll let you meet the valet." "but not, of course, mr. marshall." "pooh! that's nothing exciting. anybody can meet him, my dear." "mary," said nell, "inside of the marshall house you may be a marvelous liar, but outside of it your work is really very poor." chapter xi the valet in the house a small, thin girl with large, vivid eyes, a blue dress and collar-bones, who was zooming up-stairs two steps at a time, ran head on into bill, who was coming slowly down. her head struck him at the waist line and bill sat down on a step. she immediately sat beside him. "isn't this the funniest party!" she exclaimed. "did i hurt you?" "it is, and you didn't," answered bill. he had never seen her before. "i haven't seen a soul i know, except mother, who brought me here." "neither have i," said bill, glancing down-stairs at the crush. "heaven knows why they invited us. mother says that father used to know somebody in the family years and years ago. she says they're really all right, too. we just came because things have been so terribly dull in town that we've been sitting home screaming. do you ever feel like screaming?" "right now." "go ahead," she advised. "i'm sure it will be all right. anyhow, we came. they have perfectly lovely things to eat. and the house is so beautiful. but it's funny, just the same. did you know there was a bishop here?" "i heard so." "there is; he shook hands with me. he was so solemn; it seemed like shaking hands with god. and there are piles of middle-aged people here, aren't there? i don't mean there aren't any young ones, for of course there are--just millions. but there are more middle-aged ones. still, the music is just wonderful. who is the queer old lady who wears the little cap?" "i believe she lives here," said bill. "well, she's perfectly dear. she patted me on the head and asked me if i was henry kingsley's little girl. i told her i was; i didn't want to disappoint her. but i'm not; i'm arnold gibbs's little girl. and--somebody's else's." she chirped her way through the conversation like a voluble bird. "engaged," she added, holding up a finger. "but he's not here, so it's all right for me to sit on the stairs with you. here's something else that's funny: i haven't met the man they're giving the party for. isn't that a scream? somehow, we got in late, or something or other. he's awfully high-brow; oh, yes, i heard that the first thing. you're not high-brow, are you?" bill shook his head. "it's comfortable to know you're not," she said. "whenever i meet an intellect i make a holy show of myself. did you know that he's sailing for australia to-morrow? uhuh! he's going there to study something or other. they told me that down-stairs, too. let's see; what is it he's going to study? crustaceans! that's it. what are they? negroes?" "i'm not up on them," said bill. "maybe." "anyhow, he's going to study them. and then he's going to write volumes and volumes about them. he's a scientist. isn't it funny to be at a scientific party? and--oh, yes; it seems there's been an affair in his life. he's going away to bury his heart while he's studying the thingamajigs. did you ever hear of anything so romantic?" bill turned his head for a better survey of the young person with the astonishing information. "where did you pick up all the info?" he inquired, as carelessly as he could. "from a young man who knows all about him," answered arnold gibbs's little girl. "what sort of a young man?" "oh, a nice one. he's kind of thin and pale and he has baby-stare eyes." "does he have funny wrinkles at the corners of them when he laughs?" asked bill. "that's exactly what he has!" she exclaimed. "how beautifully you describe. are you a detective? they have them at parties, you know." "no, i'm not a detective. i--er--just happen to know him, i think." bill wiped his forehead with a handkerchief and stared straight ahead. "where did you meet him?" he asked, after a pause. "oh, down-stairs. you can meet anybody at a party, you know. it's perfectly all right. if people weren't perfectly all right they wouldn't be invited. he dances beautifully." "you mean to say----" "twice. we danced out in the conservatory. it seems he's bashful; he wouldn't go into the big room for fear he'd bump me into people or step on their feet. he isn't sure of himself. but i don't see why, because he dances excruciatingly well. but he wouldn't believe i was engaged, so i had to run away from him." "i don't quite get that." "kissed me," she sighed. "oh, well, a party's a party. but i wouldn't let him do it again." "would you like to have me lick him?" asked bill, his voice slightly trembling. "lick him? what in the world for? because he didn't know? why, what a queer person you are!" bill felt that he was, indeed, a very queer person. he was the owner of a party at which his valet had danced twice with one of his guests and kissed her as an additional token of democracy! he did not know whether to rage or laugh. but--oh, if aunt caroline ever heard of it! or his secretary! "perhaps you'd like to dance with me," she added. bill was startled. but he mumbled an affirmative. "let's go, then," and she trotted down-stairs ahead of him, as eager as a kitten chasing a paper ball. in the lower hall bill felt a touch on his arm and turned to face mary wayne. "may i interrupt just a moment?" she asked. then to the girl: "i know you'll excuse me. i won't keep mr. marshall a minute." the small one in the blue dress gave a frightened stare at bill, shrieked and fled into the crowd. "have i offended her?" asked mary, anxiously. "i'm sorry. i don't seem to place her, although i've been trying to remember all the guests." "that's arnold gibbs's little girl," explained bill. "she's been telling me things about my party and now she's just discovered who i am." "oh! and you let the poor child go on and on, of course. how awfully mean of you. will you never learn?" mary frowned at him with all the severity of a sister. "but that's not what i wanted to speak to you about. you've been hiding--and you mustn't! people are asking where you are. please--please don't spoil things. it's your party and you've just got to be present at it." bill made a face. "i'm tired of being exhibited," he growled. "i'm tired of meeting people who say: 'so this is little willie marshall. mercy, how you've grown! i haven't seen you since you wore knickerbockers. but you're a marshall, sure enough; you're the image of your father.' i tell you, i'm sick of it!" "but it's only for once," pleaded mary. "now they've met you they won't do it again. but what i want you to do now is to go in and dance with some of the young people. there are some lovely girls in there, and they're just sitting around. come; i'll introduce you, if you haven't already met them." but bill hung back. he did not want to dance at all; he was grateful because his secretary had inadvertently saved him from arnold gibbs's little girl. there was woe in his eyes as he looked at mary. there was every sound reason why his expression should have been different, for mary, in her party gown from aunt caroline, inspired anything but woe. even she herself was conscious of the fact that she looked nice. bill was becoming slowly conscious of it himself, although he could not drive the gloom out of his soul. "come," she said, peremptorily, hooking her arm in his. "i'll dance with you," he offered. "that won't do at all. i'm not a guest." "if i can't dance with you i won't dance with anybody." she shook her head impatiently. "please be sensible, mr. marshall." "you first," declared bill stubbornly. "no! it's not the thing for you to do at all. perhaps later; but----" "we'll go out in the conservatory and dance." "but nobody is dancing out there." "come on, then." bill started, with her arm prisoned in a grip that forbid escape. "well, if i dance with you," said mary, as she was dragged along, "then afterward you must promise to----" "maybe." they stood at the entrance to the conservatory, mary still scolding in an undertone. suddenly she pinched his arm violently and pointed. an animated couple were swinging into view from behind a patch of palms. his valet--and arnold gibbs's little girl! "oh, heavens!" said mary. she fled, with bill trailing in her wake. even at that, it was not a bad party. it was somewhat overwhelmed with descendants, it is true; descendants of relatives and of old friends and of persons who were intimates of bill marshall's grandfather. but some of the descendants were young and were managing to have a good time. aunt caroline had her own circle, a sort of little backwater, into which descendants eddied and tarried a bit, and from which they eddied out again. in fact, aunt caroline had a party within a party. her permanent guest seemed to be the bishop; once caught in the backwater he never escaped into the stream. he stayed there with aunt caroline, while the descendants whirled gently around them. but the bishop was amiable in his dusty way, while his dignity was unimpeachable. he had made an impression on arnold gibbs's little girl, and what more could any bishop do? nell norcross, known to the household and its guests as "miss wayne," did not prove to be such a reliance as mary hoped. perhaps it was because she was a convalescent and did not feel equal to the ordeal of plunging boldly into affairs; perhaps it was due to a natural diffidence among strangers. but whatever it was, mary discovered that she was almost wholly upon her own resources; that nell was not rising capably to the emergency; that she edged off into the middle distance or the background with irritating persistence; that, in short, nell, with all her wealth of experience and all her highly attested worth as an expert, was unable to adapt herself to the situation so well as the amateur secretary. nell even admitted this shortcoming to mary. "i feel strange because i'm being called by your name," she offered as an explanation. "mercy," said mary. "how about me?" "but you've become accustomed to it, my dear. never mind; i'm sure i'll brighten up as soon as the sculptor comes." "there! i'd forgotten him. oh, i hope he doesn't fail. i must find mr. marshall and ask him if he's heard anything. have you seen him? i'll hunt around for him. i suppose he's trying to hibernate again." and once more mary started on the trail of bill marshall, for the double purpose of dragging him back into society and inquiring as to the whereabouts of the _signor_ from italy. pete stearns was in purgatory. he had been sent for by aunt caroline, discovered by a servant and haled to the backwater, into which he was irresistibly sucked. "bishop," said aunt caroline, "this is the young man of whom i spoke." the bishop took pete's hand, pressed it gently and retained it. "my young friend," he said, "you are on the threshold of a career that offers you priceless opportunities. have you looked well into your heart? do you find yourself ready to dedicate your whole life to the work?" "sir," replied pete, with a shake in his voice, "it is my ambition to become nothing less than a bishop." "there! i told you so," said aunt caroline. "have you a sound theological foundation?" asked the bishop, still holding pete's hand. "i should say he had!" exclaimed aunt caroline. "what was it you were telling me about yesterday, peter? the cat--cat----" "the catechetical lectures of cyril of jerusalem," said pete smoothly. "from that we go on to the doctrines of arius of antioch." "that would be going backward," commented the bishop. "huh! oh, certainly, sir, strictly speaking. but we have been skipping around a bit, if i may say it, sir. hitting the high--that is, sir, taking up such matters as interest us. theistic philosophy, ethical rationalism, harnack's conception of monophysticism, gregory of nyssa, anselm of canterbury----" "who wrote the 'canterbury tales,'" interrupted aunt caroline. "wasn't that what you told me, peter?" but peter was hurrying on. "miss marshall has been good enough, sir, to show some small interest in my work; it has been a great encouragement to me. i may say that in the field of philosophical and speculative theology----" "stick to the dogmatic, my friend," advised the bishop--"the dogmatic and the special dogmatic. be sound, whatever you are. now, here is a test i apply to every young man; it shows the trend of his thought, it tells me whether he has embarked upon the proper course; give me, my young friend, an outline of your views on diophysite orthodoxy." pete coughed and lifted his glance to the ceiling. "confound the old coot!" he was telling himself. "he has me out on a limb. what will i do? how in----" and then--rescue! a small person in a blue dress floated into the backwater. "oh, here's my nice man," she said, as she possessed herself of pete's arm. "bishop, let go of his hand. he's going to teach me that new vamp thing. hurry, teacher; the music started ages ago." and as pete was towed out of the backwater by arnold gibbs's little girl the bishop and aunt caroline stared after him. "i greatly fear," observed the bishop, "that our young friend is somewhat in the grip of predestinarianism." "bishop, you frighten me," said aunt caroline. "but i'll take it up with him in the morning." when another partner had invaded the conservatory and claimed the little girl in the blue dress, pete stearns sighed. "there goes the only one who doesn't suspect me," he said. "the only real little democrat in the place. although it's only ignorance in her case, of course. oh, well, it's not so bad; i'm doing better than bill at that." somebody tapped him on the arm. "i've been waiting for an opportunity," said nell norcross. "i do not wish to make a scene. but i understand that you are mr. marshall's valet. is that correct?" pete looked her in the eye and speculated. "i think i am not mistaken," said nell, after she had waited sufficiently for an answer. "may i ask, then, if it is customary for valets to dance with the guests of their employers?" "madam," said pete, "may i in turn ask by what authority you question me?" "there is nothing mysterious about my position in this house," replied nell. "i am here as an assistant to miss--norcross." it was annoying to stumble over the name. "miss marshall understands perfectly; i am here at her request. i think you will do a very wise thing if you retire to the gentlemen's dressing-room and remain there. am i clear?" it was pete's first glimpse at close hand of the social secretary's aide. it did not bore him in the least. he might have described her pallor as "interesting," had he been prone to commonplaces. her eyes, he thought, were even better than those of arnold gibbs's little girl; they were not so vivid, perhaps, yet more deeply luminous. "let us debate this matter," he said. "will you sit down?" "certainly not!" "aw, let's." he spoke with a disarming persuasion, but nell refused to be seated. "will you go up-stairs at once?" she demanded. pete placed a finger against his lips and glanced from side to side. "suppose," he said, "i were to tell you a great secret?" "go at once!" "suppose we exchange secrets?" he whispered. that startled her. what did he mean? did he know anything--or suspect? "suppose----" he stopped, turned his head slightly and listened. "something is happening," he said. "let's run." and before nell norcross knew it she was running, her hand in his, for all the world like _alice_ in the looking glass country dashing breathlessly along, with the _red queen_ shouting: "faster! faster!" chapter xii signor antonio valentino as they reached the front of the house they heard the voice of the announcer: "signor antonio valentino." they saw mary wayne dexterously crowding her way forward; they saw her look, gasp, utter a faint cry and freeze into an attitude of horror. and then they saw bill marshall, wearing a whole-hearted grin of delight, rush forward to greet his friend, the eminent artist from italy. signor valentino was short and dark. he had a flattened nose that drifted toward the left side of his face. he had a left ear that was of a conformation strange to the world of exclusive social caste, an ear that--well, to be frank, it was a tin ear. he had large, red hands that were fitted with oversize knuckles. his shoulders rocked stiffly when he walked. his eyes were glittering specks. "h'lo, bill, yo' old bum," said the signor. "kid, i'm glad to see you. you look like a million dollars." and bill seized kid whaley's hand, pumped his arm furiously and fetched him a mighty wallop on the shoulder. the signor did, indeed, look like a million dollars. he wore the finest tuxedo coat that could be hired on the east side. his hair was greased and smoothed until it adhered to his bullet head like the scalp thereof. there was a gold-tipped cigarette between his lips. the bow tie that girded his collar had a daring pattern of red. in a shirt front that shone like a summer sea was imbedded a jewel whose candle-power was beyond estimate, so disconcerting was it to the unshielded eye. a matchless brilliant of like size illuminated a twisted finger. his waistcoat was jauntily but somewhat sketchily figured in dark green, on a background of black. "i got everythin' but th' shoes, bill," confided the signor in a public whisper. "they gimme a pair that was too small an' i chucked 'em." thus it was that the signor wore his own shoes, which were yellow, and knobby at the toes and had an air of sturdiness. "you're great," said bill, as he pounded him again on the shoulder. "what made you so late?" but the signor did not seem to hear. his glance was roving, flashing here and there with a shiftiness and speed that bewildered. "some dump and some mob," was his ungrudging tribute. "what's th' price of a layout like this, bill? i'm gonna get me one when i lick the champ." the rigid pose of mary wayne suddenly relaxed. she appeared to deflate. her muscles flexed; her knees sagged. she backed weakly out of the crowd and found support against the wall. as for pete stearns, there was a rapt stare of amazed admiration on his face. he turned and whispered to nell, whose hand he still gripped: "the son of a gun! he held out on me. he never tipped me a word. but, oh, boy, won't he get his for this!" as for bill marshall, he was presenting signor antonio valentino to his guests. some of the bolder even shook hands, but the uncertain ones bowed, while those of unconcealed timidity or ingrained conservatism contented themselves with glances which might have been either acknowledgments or a complete withdrawal of recognition. the signor was unabashed. the days of his stage fright were long past; to him a crowd was an old acquaintance. he turned to bill with a bland grin. "gee, bill, ain't it funny how i'm a riot anywhere i go? y' don't even have to tell 'em i'm kid whaley." bill tucked the signor's arm under his and was leading him through the reception-room. in his own mind there was a faint twinge of misgiving. it was a great adventure, yes; it represented his defiance of aunt caroline, of the social secretary, of the career that they were carving for him. it was not open defiance, of course; bill had intended that it should be subtle. he was undermining the foundations, while at the same time appearing to labor on the superstructure. presently the whole false edifice would crash and there would be no suspicion that he was the author of disaster. that was the reasoning part of his plotting. the remainder--perhaps the greater part--was sheer impulse. he was cooperating with the devil that lurked within him. now the real test was coming. he summoned his moral reserves as he leaned over and whispered: "kid, you're going to meet my aunt. watch your step. spread yourself, but be careful. do you remember what i told you?" "sure," said the kid, easily. "i'll put it over. watch me." "if you fall down i'm gone." "i ain't ever fell down yet. ring the gong." aunt caroline and the bishop were still in the backwater as bill arrived with the new bit of flotsam. the amiable old chatelaine glanced up. "mercy!" she murmured. "signor antonio valentino," said bill, with a bow. instantly aunt carolina smiled and extended her hand. "oh! why, we had almost given you up. i'm so glad you did not fail us. william has told me----" "wotever bill says is right," interrupted the signor. "he's a white guy. pleased t' meetcha." aunt caroline's hand crumpled under the attack, but she suffered without wincing and turned to the bishop. "bishop, this is the sculptor of whom i spoke." the bishop was staring. his eyebrows were rising. for an instant only he was studying bill marshall. "pleased t' meetcha, bish." it was a greeting not according to diocesan precedents, nor was the shaking of hands that followed it, yet the bishop survived. "it is very interesting to know you, sir," he murmured, non-committally. aunt caroline was devoting her moment of respite to a study of signor valentino. she knew, of course, that it was not polite to stare at a man's ear, or at his nose, but these objects held her in a sort of wondering fascination. in advance she had formed no clear picture of what a sculptor should be; he was the first she had met. yet, despite her inexperience and lack of imagination, she was conscious that this sculptor did not match very closely even the hazy ideal that was in her mind. bill nudged the signor, and the signor suddenly remembered. he was expected to explain, which he could do readily. it was merely a matter of feinting for an opening. ah--he had it. "it's cert'nly a grand little thing t' break trainin', lady. this here sculptor game is a hard life. y' been pipin' me ear, ain't y'?" aunt caroline lifted a hand in embarrassed protest and tried to murmur a disclaimer. "w'y, it's all right, lady," said the signor, with generous reassurance. "it's one o' me trade-marks. say, y'd never guess how i got it. listen: i landed on it when i did a brodie off a scaffold in th' sixteenth chapel. uhuh; down in rome." "sistine!" it was a violent whisper from bill. "sistine," repeated the signor. "that's wot hung it on me, lady. i was up there a coupla hundred feet--easy that--copyin' off one o' them statues of mike th' angelus. you know th' guy; one o' th' old champs. all of a sudden, off i goes an' down on me ear. gee, lady, it had me down f'r nine all right; but i wasn't out. ain't never been out yet. so i goes up again an' finishes th' job in th' next round. that's th' kind of a bird i am, lady." aunt caroline nodded dumbly. so did the bishop. "i got th' twisted beezer in th' same mixup," added the signor, as he scratched his nose reflectively. "first i lit on me ear an' then i rolled over on me nose. but, gee; that's nothin'. guys in my game gotta have noive." "it would appear to require much courage," ventured the bishop. "you said it," advised the signor. "but y' gotta have noive in any game, bish. yes, ma'am; y' gotta have guts." aunt caroline steadied herself against the bishop's arm. "the signor," explained bill, "unconsciously slips into the vernacular." "slippin' it in on th' vernacular is one o' me best tricks," assented the signor. "lady, i remember once i caught a guy on th' vernacular----" bill was pinching him. the signor remembered and shifted his attack. "see them mitts?" he asked, as he held forth a pair of knotted hands. "all in the same game, lady. y' see, i got a studio in naples, just like th' one i got over on th' east side. this is th' way i get from handlin' them big hunks of carranza marble." again bill pinched the sculptor, who inclined his tin ear for counsel. "cheese it, kid; you're in mexico. get it right--carrara." "sure," observed the signor, undisturbed. "this here carrara marble, lady, is all heavyweight stuff. it's like goin' outa y'r class t' handle it. i don't take it on regular." "i--i've heard so much of the carrara marble," said aunt caroline. "there ain't nothin' better f'r hitchin' blocks, pavin' stones an' tombstones," declared the signor. then, with an inspiration: "an' holy-stones, too. get that, bish? holy-stones. ain't that a hot one? hey, bill, did you get it? i'm tellin' the bish they take this here carranza marble----" bill interrupted firmly. "i doubt if the bishop would be interested in the details, signor," he said. "your work speaks for itself. you see"--to the bishop--"while the signor fully understands all the purposes for which carrara marble may be used, he is really a specialist on heads and busts." "portrait work," suggested the bishop, still a trifle dazed. "exactly. the expression that he can put into a face is often marvelous." "do you think," inquired aunt caroline, hesitating as though she were asking the impossible, "that he would consent to show some of his work here?" "any time, lady; any time," said the signor heartily. "only i ain't brung me workin' clothes an'----" he broke off as his glance enveloped a figure standing in a doorway that led to the hall. "my gawd! it's pete!" and signor valentino was gone in a rush of enthusiastic greeting. "why, he knows your valet, william," said aunt caroline. "i have had peter over at his studio; he's interested in ecclesiastical art, you know." "of course; i might have known." aunt caroline hesitated for an instant, then: "william, does he always talk in that curious manner?" bill nodded and sighed. "it's due to his spirit of democracy," he explained. "he chooses to live among the lowly. he loves the people. he falls into their way of speech. i'll admit that it may sound strange, aunt caroline----" "oh, i wasn't objecting," she said, hastily. "i know so little about the foreign artists that i am ignorant; that's all." "some time, aunt caroline, i should like to have the signor bring some of his fellow-artists here. at a small affair, i mean." "and you certainly shall, william. by all means." now, bill was not wholly satisfied with this. he had been relying upon the kid to do him a certain service. he was using him in the hope of destroying aunt caroline's illusions concerning art, society and other higher things. he had no idea that the kid would score anything that resembled a triumph. but now it was evident to him that in certain phases of life he had never sufficiently plumbed the innocence of his maiden aunt. "he seems to interest you," he ventured, with a view to exploration. "strength and endurance are qualities always to be admired in a man," said aunt caroline, as glibly as if it came out of a book. "i had never dreamed that art developed them. bishop, were you aware of it?" the bishop was staring pointedly at bill. "i--er--no. that is--well, it is probable that i have never given sufficient attention to certain of the arts." he continued to stare at bill, until that gentleman began to feel that the bishop was not so unsophisticated as he seemed. "if you'll excuse me, aunt caroline, i'll hunt up the signor. i wouldn't have him feel that i am neglecting him." but the signor was no longer standing in the doorway, talking to pete stearns. nor was he out in the hall, where bill immediately searched. a hasty exploration of the dining-room did not discover him. "now, where in blazes did he go?" muttered bill, in an anxious tone. he started on a run toward the front of the house and barely managed to avert a collision with his social secretary. "say, have you seen----" she checked him with a stabbing glance. "do you know what you've done?" she demanded. "why, i----" "are you sane enough to realize?" bill had never seen quite such an expression in her eyes. they fascinated him; almost they inspired him with awe. he even forgot the freckles. "but i'm looking for the signor." "signor!" she echoed. "well, never mind him. he's gone. just for the moment, there's something else----" "gone? but he just came!" mary's jaw had developed an angle of grimness. "i had him put out of the house," she said. "yes, and i helped! i had him thrown out by servants. do you know what he did?" bill experienced a sudden shrinking of the skin at his throat and down the sides of his neck. "he met my friend--miss wayne--and----" mary beat a clenched fist into her palm. "because she spoke pleasantly to him he--he seized her! and he kissed her! and--now do you see what you've done?" "i'm sorry," said bill, in a stumbling whisper. "sorry!" mary's face was aflame. "sorry! but never mind that now. she has fainted. she was just recovering from an illness. it will probably kill her. do you understand? i'll have to send for an ambulance. i'll----" bill led the way at a run and reached the second floor. "where is she?" he demanded. "you mean the sick lady?" asked the up-stairs maid. "peter has taken her home, sir. he asked me to tell you that he would use your car." "better, was she?" "a little hysterical, sir; but she could walk." bill breathed more comfortably. he turned to mary wayne. "everything's all right, i guess," he said. "you think so?" she inquired icily. "you are easily reassured, mr. marshall." bill shrugged. "oh, well; i'm sorry it happened, of course. i guess i'd better go back to the party, perhaps." not that he wanted to go back to the party; he simply wanted to get away from those awful eyes of mary wayne. "there will be no need for you to do that," she said. "everybody is going. everything is ruined! everything--oh, how could you?" "i'll take a look around, anyhow," he said. she reached forth a hand and seized him by the sleeve. "you will not!" she said, hotly. "you won't look around anywhere. you'll come straight into the office and talk to me!" "but----" "at once!" so he followed her. chapter xiii mary resigns when the car reached a clear block, pete turned his head for a hurried glimpse at the partly-huddled figure at his right. "air doing you any good?" he asked. "i--i think so." miss norcross spoke uncertainly. she was not quite clear concerning even such a matter as air. pete skillfully lighted a cigarette without checking the car's pace. he smoked in silence for several blocks. "how did you like our little party?" he inquired. no answer. "he didn't mean any harm; that was only his way of being democratic." there was no comment from miss norcross. "of course," mused pete, "when you take the warm and impulsive neapolitan nature and stack it up against the new england conscience you produce a contact of opposites. looking at the matter impartially----" "please stop talking to me." "why?" "for excellent reasons." "because i am a valet?" "because you choose to forget your position," said nell, sharply. pete sighed mournfully. "everywhere it's the same," he said. "they all draw the line. it'll haunt me even when i'm a bishop. did you know i was going to be a bishop? i am. but, of course, being once a valet will have its advantages as well as its drawbacks. i'll be able to clean and press my own robes. i'll be a neat bishop if i'm nothing else. if there's one thing i dislike it's a dowdy bishop. you just run over all your bishop friends and you'll appreciate what i mean." "stop talking!" "i don't believe you mean that, miss wayne. i believe that you have a secret liking for my conversation. most people have. you see, it's like this: when i was a young boy----" nell sat up abruptly and looked about her. "where are you taking me to?" she demanded. "i thought i'd drop you at the ritz. that's where you live, isn't it? you have the ritz manner." "we've got to go back," she said furiously. "i don't live up this way at all. i live down-town." "well, you didn't tell me," said pete, mildly. "you just let me go right on driving. i never dreamed of taking you anywhere except to the ritz." she told him the address and huddled back into her seat. pete merely elevated an eyebrow as he turned the car. "to return to our discussion of the party," he said, "it is unfortunate that you fainted before signor valentino took his departure. there were features connected with his exit that were unique. but i am greatly afraid that my master, mr. marshall, will have difficulty in making explanations. to bring your dearest friend to your house and then----" "if you don't stop talking i'll shriek." "we shall see. to make it interesting, i'll bet you five dollars that you don't." and he continued to talk, smoothly, placidly and without cessation. she did not shriek. she did not even whimper. she sat in outraged silence, her hands clenched, her brain swimming with the futility of trying to puzzle out this mystery of bill marshall's valet. "and so we arrive," said pete, as he stopped the car in front of the boarding house and glanced up at its gloomy front. "no shrieking, no police whistles, no general alarm. allow me." he assisted her from the car and escorted her across the sidewalk. "you need not come up the steps," she said. but already he was urging her up the steps, with a firm yet considerate grip on her arm. also, he rang the bell. "thank you," said nell, hurriedly. "that will be all, if you please." "suppose they should not hear your ring? suppose you had to sit on the top step all night? no; i should never forgive myself. it is my duty to remain until---- ah! the concierge." the door opened and the landlady peered out into the vestibule. "madam," said pete, removing his hat, "i have the honor to leave in your charge miss wayne. may i ask that you show her every consideration, inasmuch as she is somewhat indisposed?" "miss wayne?" echoed the landlady. "there's nobody here----" and then, in a flicker of light that came from the hallway, she established an identification. at the same instant nell pushed weakly past her and stumbled into the house. "there! i told her she wasn't fit to go out," declared the landlady. "i warned her. i knew she'd pay for it. but you can't drill sense into some people; not a particle." she seemed to be soliloquizing, rather than addressing the stranger on her doorstep. but pete was not interested in the soliloquy. there was a matter that mystified him. he interrupted. "when i presented miss wayne did i understand you to say----" she suddenly remembered that he was there. "none of your business, young man. and don't stand around on my front stoop." then she was gone, with a slamming of the door that echoed through the lonely block. pete decided that her advice was sound; there was nothing to be achieved by standing there. he walked down the steps, climbed into the car and drove slowly off. "something is peculiar," he observed, half aloud. "let us examine the facts." all the way back to the marshall house he examined the facts, but when he backed the car into the garage he had reached no conclusion. another conversation had been in progress during the time that pete stearns was playing rescuer to a stricken lady. it took place in the "office," a term that mary wayne had fallen into the habit of applying to the sun parlor where she transacted the affairs of bill marshall. for a considerable time all of the conversation flowed from one pair of lips. to say that it flowed is really too weak a characterization; it had the fearsome speed and volume of an engulfing torrent. bill walked during most of it. he could not manage to stay in one place; the torrent literally buffeted him about the room. he felt as helpless as a swimmer in the niagara rapids. never before had he realized the conversational possibilities of a social secretary. he was particularly disquieted because she did not rant. she did not key her voice high; she did not gesture; she did not move from her chair. she simply sat there, pouring scorn upon him in appallingly swift and even tones. she drenched him with it; she seemed in a fair way to drown him. at last, inevitably, there came a pause. there was awe as well as surprise in the gaze with which bill contemplated her. she sat stiffly on the edge of her chair, pinker in the cheeks than he had ever seen her before, with her lips tightly set and her eyes glowing. "that's more than i ever stood from anybody," he said slowly. "then you have been neglected in the past," was the comment she shot back. "my aunt never went as far as you have." "she would if she appreciated what you have done. when i think of the way you have deceived that dear old woman it makes me want to be an anarchist. even now she doesn't understand what you've done. she doesn't know that you deliberately ruined everything; she's too innocent to suspect. all your guests know; all the servants know--everybody knows except your poor aunt. but you've imposed on her, you have deceived her, you have lied to her----" "oh, hold on there, please." "well, you have!" cried mary. "and you've lied to me." "how?" he demanded. "you ask me that! do i need to remind you? you said you were bringing a friend, an artist. you even lied about his name. and then you had the effrontery to bring into this house a disreputable bruiser----" "now, wait a minute," commanded bill. "i didn't lie about his name. i told you the truth. his name is exactly as i gave it--antonio valentino." "i don't believe a word of it." "simply because you're ignorant about a lot of things. probably you don't know that nearly every wop fighter in new york city goes into the ring under an irish name. it's done for business reasons mostly. this man's name is valentino; he was born in italy. but when he fights it's kid whaley. and if you don't choose to believe me, write to any sporting editor and he'll tell you." but mary was not to be thrust aside. "it makes no difference what his real name is, you concealed his identity. you deliberately deceived me. not that _i_ care," she added bitterly. "i'm thinking of your aunt and the reputation of her home." "how could i help it if you misunderstood me?" demanded bill. "i said he was an artist, didn't i? well, he is. he's next to the top in his line, and it won't be long before he takes first place. if you ever saw him fight you'd understand what art is." "you said he was a sculptor." "well, he is, too, in a way. that may be a bit of artistic license, but he's a sculptor. i've seen him take a man, go to work on him, carve him up and change him so that you couldn't identify him with anything short of finger prints. he's a sculptor of human beings. he works on heads and busts; i said he did, didn't i? and i said he was an impressionist and a realist rolled into one. and he is. a man can do impressionistic work with a pair of six-ounce gloves just as well as he can with a paint brush or a chisel. and you yourself suggested that his work must have strength, and i agreed with you." bill rather hoped that this would settle it; not that he banked heavily on the soundness of his defense, but rather because he felt that it was technically adroit. mary simply curled a lip and regarded him with fresh scorn. "that's what i call a very cowardly explanation," she said. "you know as well as i do that it's worthless. it doesn't explain the fact that you let me deceive myself and made me the instrument for deceiving your aunt. i'd have more respect for you if you came out boldly and admitted what you've done." bill was beginning to glare. "if you think i'm going to throw down my friends in order to get into society, then i'll stay out." "you'd better change your friends," she advised. "so long as you have friends who are an offense to decent people----" "stop right there!" warned bill. "i pick my own friends and i stick by 'em. the kid has been a good friend of mine and i've tried to be a good friend of his. he's helped me out of more than one hole. and i've helped him. i backed him in his first big fight and got him started on the uproad. i've backed him more than once and i'll back him again, if he asks me to. why can't you be reasonable about this? suppose he is a fighter. he's a friend of mine, just the same. and what's a little scrap now and then between friends?" mary stared at him in cold silence. he mistook it for wavering. he felt that it was time to fling back the tide. "i didn't choose to go into society, did i? i was dragged into it--and you were hired to drag me. now you take the job of trying to come between me and my friends. you try to make a rollo out of me. would any self-respecting man stand for that?" bill was working up to it as he went along. "i think you'd better remember your position and mine. if i were you, i'd bear in mind that you're my secretary--not my boss. if i were you----" mary sprang to her feet. "i'm _not_ your secretary!" she cried, in a trembling voice. "oh, but i think you've already admitted that," he said, with an angry laugh. "well, i'm not now! i was, but not any more. i resign! do you hear? _i resign!_" saying which, she sat down again and burst into tears. the wrath in bill's eyes faded slowly. in its place came a look of dismay, of astonishment, of clumsy embarrassment. he began shifting his feet. he took his hands out of his pockets and put them back again. he chewed his lip. "aw, hell!" he muttered under his breath. mary did not hear him. she was too much preoccupied with her sobs. she began searching blindly for a handkerchief, and was not aware of what she did when she accepted bill's, which he hastily offered. "don't cry," he advised. he might as well have advised the sky not to rain. "oh, come, miss norcross; please don't cry." "i--i _will_ cry!" "well, then, don't resign," he said. "i _will_ resign!" "let's be reasonable. don't let's lose our tempers." mary swallowed a sob and shouted into the handkerchief: "i resign! _i resign!_ i resign!" bill gritted his teeth and planted himself threateningly in front of her. "i won't have it! understand me? i won't let you resign. i refuse to accept your resignation." "you c-can't." "well, i do." "i--i w-won't endure it! i've already resigned. i'm through. i'm----" right there she had a fresh paroxysm. bill knew that he must be firm, at all costs. if only on account of aunt caroline she couldn't be allowed to resign. and then there was his own account to be considered. any girl with such nice freckles---- he was in a state of inward panic. "see here; i'll try to do better," he promised. "i'm sorry. i didn't mean to hurt your feelings." "it's too--too l-late now," sobbed mary. "no, it isn't. we'll start all over again. come, now." she shook her head miserably. "pup-pup-please!" she wailed. "i--i want to resign." bill watched her as she curled up in the chair, tucked her feet under her party dress and hunted for a dry spot on the handkerchief. "i wonder if it would be all right for me to cuddle her," he mused. "the poor kid needs it; maybe she expects it. well, such being the case----" * * * * * a knock, a door opening, and pete stearns. he sensed the situation at a glance and winked at bill. "i just wished to report, sir, that i escorted miss wayne to her home and left her feeling somewhat better." mary hastily dabbed her eyes and looked up. "she's all right? you're sure?" "miss wayne is quite all right, ma'am." he accented the name, watching mary as he spoke. "thank you very much, peter," she said. "once she got out into the air, ma'am----" bill interrupted him with a peremptory gesture. pete winked again and backed out. * * * * * ten minutes later mary wayne was more concerned about the probability that her nose was red than she was about her status as bill marshall's secretary. bill was smoking a cigarette and looking thoughtful. he did not know whether it would have been all right to cuddle her or not. the inopportuneness of pete stearns had left the question open. "i think i'll go to bed," said mary. bill went to the door and paused with his hand on the knob. "that resignation doesn't go, you know," he said. "good night," answered mary. "do you withdraw it?" "i--i'll think about it. will you open the door, please?" he opened it a little way. "i've got to know definitely," he said, with great firmness. "well, perhaps--if you really want----" "atta boy," said bill, with a genial patting of her shoulder. "i mean, atta girl. but listen: if you ever pull a resignation on me again i'll----" mary looked up, a question in her eyes. would he really accept it--really? "why, i'll spank you--you freckle-faced little devil." mary yanked the door full wide and ran down the hall. bill watched hopefully, but she never looked back. chapter xiv references to the horror of bill marshall, the undisguised wonder of pete stearns and unexpected joy of mary wayne, aunt caroline announced herself as much pleased with the party. there were a few things she did not understand, others that she did not know--such as the manner of signor valentino's leave-taking--and, therefore, between unsophistication and ignorance, she thoroughly enjoyed matters in retrospect. upon mary she heaped praise, upon bill gratitude, while to peter she confided the impression that the bishop was well disposed toward him and would doubtless supply him with any theological hints that he might find necessary in the pursuit of his life-work. as for bill and mary, they were on terms again. mary had not forgotten what he called her as she fled to her room; it was the second time he had alluded to her freckles, which hitherto she had been wont to regard as a liability. nor had she forgotten the storm and the tears. it was all very unsecretarial, she realized, and it might easily have been embarrassing if bill had not displayed a tact and delicacy that she never expected of him. he made neither hint nor allusion to the matter; he behaved as if he had forgotten it. he had not, of course, and mary knew he had not; and bill himself knew that it was still vivid in mary's mind. it was a shunned topic, and underneath this tacit ladies' and gentlemen's agreement to shun it, it survived as an invisible bond. in fact, a sort of three-cornered alliance had grown out of bill's party, so that pete came to be included in the triangle. this was also tacit as between pete and mary, although it was directly responsible for certain covert inquiries that pete made from time to time concerning "miss wayne." his anxiety as to her health appeared to do great credit to his goodness of heart. between bill and pete there was always frank discussion, in private, although on the subject of the social secretary it flowed with perhaps a trifle less freedom. so greatly had the party furthered the innocent dreams of aunt caroline that she lost no time in urging further assaults and triumphs in the new world that had been opened to her nephew. "my dear," she said to mary, "i think it would be well to give a small dinner--very soon." mary agreed that it would be very well, indeed. "i confess that i have certain ambitions," said aunt caroline. "i would like to have william extend his circle somewhat, and among people whom it would be a very fine thing for him to know." mary carelessly approved that, too. "it would be wonderful, my dear, if we could have mrs. rokeby-jones as a guest." mary glanced sharply at aunt caroline. she was suddenly trembling with a premonition. "but do we know mrs. rokeby-jones?" she asked. aunt caroline smiled confidently. "you do, my dear." to which, of course, mary was forced to nod an assent. "i believe it would be all right for you to speak to her about it," added aunt caroline. "she thinks so highly of you that i am sure she would not consider it strange in the least. and besides, there is always the marshall name." the marshall name was aunt caroline's shield and buckler at all times, and since bill's party she had come to regard it as a password of potent magic. mary felt suddenly weak, but she fought to avoid disclosure of the fact. mrs. rokeby-jones! what could she say? already, in the case of bill's party, threads of acquaintanceship that were so tenuous as scarcely to be threads at all had been called upon to bear the strain of invitations, and, much to her astonishment, they had borne the strain. thereby emboldened, aunt caroline was now seeking to bridge new gulfs. but why did she have to pick mrs. rokeby-jones? was it because---- mary tried to put from her mind the unworthy suspicion that aunt caroline was still delving as to the facts concerning what they said about the elder daughter. but whatever the motive, whether it be hidden or wholly on the surface, booted little to mary. it was an impossible proposal. "she will recall you, of course," aunt caroline was saying. "and i am sure that she knows the marshalls. in fact, i have an impression that at one time william's mother----" "but are you sure she hasn't gone to newport?" asked mary, desperately. "i saw her name in the paper only this morning, my dear. she was entertaining last night at the theater." mary began wadding a handkerchief. "and perhaps she could suggest somebody else," added aunt caroline. "at any rate, suppose you get in touch with her and let me know what she says." mary went up-stairs to nurse her misery. it was out of the question to refuse, yet she dreaded to obey. she could not call upon mrs. rokeby-jones; even a blind person could tell the difference between nell norcross and mary wayne. she could not get nell to go, for nell was still overcome by her adventures at the party. she could not send a letter, because the writing would betray her. she could telephone, perhaps; but would mrs. rokeby-jones detect a strange voice? and even if she succeeded in imposture over the wire, how was she to approach the matter of an invitation to the home of a stranger? after much anguished thought, she decided upon the telephone. "but even if she consents," murmured mary, "i'll never dare meet her face to face." a connection was made in disconcertingly short time and mary, after talking with a person who was evidently the butler, held the wire, the receiver trembling in her fingers. and then a clear, cool voice---- "well? who is it?" "this--this is miss norcross talking," and then mary held her breath. "miss who?" "norcross. miss norcross." "do i know you? have i met you?" said the voice on the wire. "this is nell norcross." mary was raising her voice. "yes; i hear the name. but i don't place you." "miss norcross--formerly your secretary." there was an instant's pause. then the cool voice again: "perhaps you have the wrong number. this is mrs. rokeby-jones talking." "then i have the right number," said mary, wrinkling her forehead in perplexity. "i used to be your secretary--miss norcross." "but i have never had a secretary by that name," said mrs. rokeby-jones. mary gasped. "but the reference you gave me! don't you remember?" "i have an excellent memory," the voice said. "i have never employed any person named miss norcross, i never knew anybody by that name and i certainly never supplied a reference to any such person. you are laboring under some mistake." "but--but----" "good-by." and mrs. rokeby-jones hung up. mary slowly replaced the receiver and sat staring at the telephone. a blow between the eyes could not have stunned her more effectually. mrs. rokeby-jones had repudiated her reference! presently she rallied. she ran to her own room and began dressing for the street. she felt that she must escape from the house in order to think. at all costs she must avoid aunt caroline until she had been able to untangle this dismaying snarl. a few minutes later she made certain of that by slipping down the rear staircase and leaving the house by a side entrance. fifteen minutes later she was at nell's boarding-house, impatiently ringing the bell. nell was propped up in a rocker, looking very wan as mary entered, but brightening as she recognized her visitor. mary drew a chair and sat opposite. "a most embarrassing thing has happened," she said. "i have just had mrs. rokeby-jones on the telephone." nell stifled an exclamation. "and she doesn't remember me--or you, rather--or anybody named norcross!" "oh, my dear!" "it's the truth, nell. oh, i never felt so queer in my life." nell moistened her lips and stared with incredulous eyes. "what--what made you call her up?" she faltered. "because i couldn't help it. i was forced to." and mary explained the further ambitions of aunt caroline and what they had led to. "oh, it was shocking, nell! what did she mean? how dared she do it?" "i--i---- oh, mary!" "but how could she?" persisted mary. "that's what i don't understand. even if my voice sounded strange i don't see how she could. why did she deny that she ever wrote a reference?" nell norcross pressed a hand to her lips to keep them from quivering. in her eyes there was something that suggested she had seen a ghost. slowly she began to rock to and fro in her chair, making a gurgling in her throat. then she whimpered. "b-because she never wrote it!" she moaned. "why--nell. oh, heavens!" mary suddenly seemed to have become as frightened as nell. she glanced quickly over her shoulder, as though expecting to face an eavesdropper. then she sprang up, went to the door and locked it. "nell norcross, tell me what you mean!" "she--she didn't write it. oh, mary! oh--please!" for mary had taken her by the shoulders and was pushing her rigidly against the back of the chair. "who wrote it?" demanded mary. "i did." it required several seconds for mary to absorb this astounding confession. then: "you forged it?" "i--i wrote it. it isn't forgery, is it? i won't go to jail, will i? oh, mary, don't let them----" mary shook her somewhat roughly. "tell me more about it," she commanded. "did you lose the reference she gave you? or did she refuse to give you one?" nell shook her head miserably. "it's worse than that," she sobbed. "i--i never set eyes on the woman in my life." mary collapsed into her own chair. she seemed to hear the cool, clear voice of mrs. rokeby-jones calmly denying. now it was taking an accusative tone. she flushed to a deep red. the memory of that telephone conversation appalled her. "but the other references?" she managed to whisper. "all the same." "all! you wrote them yourself?" nell answered with a feeble nod. "every one of them?" "every one." "and do you know any of the women who--whose names are signed?" "two--one of them by sight." "nell norcross!" but nell had reached a fine stage of tears and there was nothing to be had out of her for several minutes. then mary managed to calm her. "now, tell me about it," she said. "and stop crying, because it won't do a bit of good." nell swallowed a sob and mopped at her eyes. "i--i was in the same fix that you were," she said shakily. "only i guess i was that way longer. i didn't have any job, and i couldn't get one--without references. you understand?" mary nodded. indeed she did understand. "i worked in a furrier's; one of the fifth avenue places. stenographer, and i helped on the books, too. and then--well, i had to leave. it wasn't my fault; honestly, mary. i couldn't stay there because of the way he acted. and of course i wouldn't--i couldn't--ask him for references." nell was quieting down, and mary nodded again, to encourage her. "well you know how it is trying to get a job without any references. no decent place will take you. i kept it up for weeks. why, i couldn't even get a trial. when i couldn't get references, or even refer them to the last place, they'd look at me as if i were trying to steal a job." "i know," murmured mary. "they'd look at me, too." "so i got desperate. you know what that is, too. i had to have a job or starve. and i had to have references--so i wrote them!" "oh, nell!" nell looked up defiantly. "well, what else could i do? and i didn't harm anybody, did i? i didn't say anything about myself that wasn't true. all i did was to use some good names. and not one of them would ever have known if you hadn't called that woman up on the telephone. they were all customers of the place where i worked. i knew their names and addresses. i couldn't go and ask them to give me references, could i? i couldn't even do that with the one i'd spoken to. so i got some stationery and wrote myself references--that's all." mary pondered the confession. "if it had only been one reference," she began, "but you had five or six." "i only intended to write one," declared nell. "but what was the use of being a piker, i thought. so--well i plunged." "yes; you plunged," agreed mary. "and now look at the fix i'm in." "but you've got a wonderful place!" mary smiled bitterly. "oh, yes; it's wonderful enough. i'm not only holding it under a false name, but now it turns out that even the references were false. and"--she looked sharply at nell as something else occurred to her--"perhaps it doesn't end even there. tell me--is your name really nell norcross?" "why, mary wayne! of course it is!" "well, how could i be sure. i'm false; the references are false. why couldn't your name be false, too? that would be the finishing touch; that would leave me--nowhere. and i'm just about there, as it is." "but i _am_ nell norcross, i tell you. i can prove that." "oh, i suppose so," said mary, wearily. "so am i nell norcross, according to the references. if you've committed a crime, i suppose i have, too. they call it compounding it, don't they? oh, we're both in; i dare say i'm in deeper than you, because i've been taking money for it." "you haven't cheated them, have you? you've worked for it." "yes, i've worked. but--why, in heaven's name, nell, didn't you tell me all this before i started?" "i was too sick." "you weren't too sick to give me the references and send me off to take the job." "but i was too sick not to have you take it," said nell. "one of us had to go to work. and if i'd told you, you wouldn't have done it." "that's true enough," assented mary. "i wouldn't have dared. it took all the nerve i had, as it was. but now what am i going to do?" "why, you'll go right on sticking to your job, of course." "and keep on being a liar, and a hypocrite, and a falsifier, and maybe some kind of a forger---- why, i believe i am a forger! i signed your name to some kind of a bail bond!" "oh, well; you told me the case was settled, mary. so you don't have to worry about that." "i can worry about my conscience if i like," declared mary, resentfully. "yes; but you can't eat your conscience, or buy clothes with it, or hire a room--or anything." mary stared down at the floor for a while. "i suppose i've got to keep on taking care of you until you're well," she remarked. nell winced. "i--i hate to be a charity patient," she faltered. "i'll make it all up to you some time. but if you'll only keep on for the present----" mary reached forward impulsively and took her hands. "i don't mean to suggest that," she said. "you're not a charity patient; you got my job for me. of course i'll look out for you, nell. i'll see it through somehow, as long as it's necessary. there; don't worry, dear. i'm not angry. i'm just staggered." nell leaned forward and kissed her. "you're a darling!" she said. "and just as soon as i'm strong i'll get a job for myself." mary looked at her thoughtfully. "yes," she said slowly, "i suppose you might write yourself some more references." "mary wayne!" chapter xv to sail the ocean blue mary wayne was in weak, human fear. the confession of nell norcross had not merely served to revive half-forgotten apprehensions, but had overwhelmed her with new ones. she wanted to quit. she did not dare. for where could she get another place, and who would take care of nell? circumstances were driving her toward a life of perpetual charlatanism, it seemed, but for the present she could not even struggle against them. mary was neither a prude nor a puritan, so it may as well be said that what troubled her most was not the practice of deception. it was the fear of discovery. she now lived with an explosive mine under her feet. at any instant aunt caroline, for all her innocence and abiding faith, might inadvertently make the contact. then--catastrophe! even that queer valet might make a discovery; she was by no means certain that he was without suspicion. bill marshall himself might blunder into a revelation; but mary feared him least of all. she did not regard him as too dull to make a discovery, but she had a feeling that if he made it he would in some manner safely remove her from the arena of disturbance before the explosion occurred. all the way back to the marshall house she was seized with fits of trembling. the trembling angered her, but she was unable to control it. suppose aunt caroline had taken it into her head to seek a personal talk with mrs. rokeby-jones! or, even if matters had not gone that far, what would she say when aunt caroline asked for the result of mary's interview? "the city of new york is not large enough for mrs. rokeby-jones and me," declared mary. "i feel it in my bones. one of us must go. which?" she had reached a decision when the butler opened the front door and informed her that mr. william would like to see her. he was the very person that mary wanted to see. she found him in the office. "say, what's this i hear about a dinner?" demanded bill. "has your aunt been speaking to you?" "uh, huh! i don't want any dinner. good lord, they'll ask me to make a speech!" mary smiled for the first time in hours. "of course," said bill, uncomfortably, "i promised to do better and all that sort of thing, and i don't want to break my word. but a dinner--oh, gee!" "i don't favor the dinner idea myself," said mary. "but it looks like aunt caroline was all set for it. what's the answer?" mary laid her gloves on the desk and removed her hat. "it seems to me," she said, "that the thing to do is to go out of town for a while." bill looked at her with a hopeful expression. "you see, mr. marshall, the town season is really over. most of the worth-while people have left the city. it's summer. there will be nothing of importance in society before the fall; nothing that would interest you, at any rate. so i would advise doing exactly what the other people are doing." bill rubbed his nose thoughtfully. "trouble is, we haven't got a country house," he said. "we don't own a villa, or a camp or any of that fashionable stuff." "i understand," said mary. "but how about a yacht?" "don't even own a skiff." "but we could hire one, couldn't we?" mary had unconsciously adopted the "we." bill regarded her with sudden interest. he stopped rubbing his nose, which was always one of his signs of indecision. "say, where did you get that idea?" he demanded. "why, it's a perfectly obvious one to arrive at, considering the season of the year." "have you spoken to my aunt about it?" "not yet. i wanted to consult you first, of course." bill liked that. it was another way of saying that she was still _his_ secretary. "you've got a whole beanful of ideas, haven't you?" he exclaimed, in admiration. "well, i'm for this one, strong!" mary breathed a little more deeply. it seemed as if she had already removed herself a step further from mrs. rokeby-jones and other perils of the city. "i'm glad you like it," she said. "like it! why, man alive--i mean little girl--well, anyhow, it's just the stunt we're going to pull off." "it's not really a stunt," mary reminded him. "it's not original at all. we do it simply because it is the right thing to do. everybody of any account has a yacht, and now is the time for yachting." "now, don't you go crabbing your own stuff," said bill. "this thing is a great invention, secretary norcross, and you get all the credit. i wouldn't have thought of it in a billion years. now, what's your idea about this yacht? do we want a little one or a whale? where do we go? when? and who's going along?" "well, i don't know much about yachts," confessed mary. "but it seems to me that a medium-sized one would do. we're not going across the ocean, you know." "we might," declared bill, hopefully--"we might start that trip around the world. i'm supposed to be on my way to australia, you know, studying crustaceans." mary laughed. "do we cart a gang along?" mary had a vision of a tin ear. she shook her head. "i see no occasion for a large party, mr. marshall. we might ask one or two besides the family; the bishop, for instance." "now you're joshing me. into what part of the world do we sail this yacht, if you don't happen to be under sealed orders." he was traveling somewhat rapidly, mary thought; and she was right. bill was already cleaving the high seas, perched on his own quarter-deck and inhaling stupendous quantities of salty air. "i think we'd better obtain your aunt's approval before we plot out a cruise," she advised. "also, there's the problem of getting a yacht." "we'll get one if we steal it," bill assured her. "i'll talk to pete about it. he's amphibious. he's a sort of nautical valet. he knows all about yachts." "i dare say. he seems to have a wide range of information. suppose you consult him, while i speak to your aunt." a frown clouded bill's face. "do you suppose aunt caroline will want to go?" he asked. "want to? why, she must." "i don't see why. i don't believe she'd enjoy it a bit. we can have a barrel of fun if aunt caroline doesn't go. let's leave her home." mary shook her head decisively. "that's out of the question. of course she'll go. "but, listen; i don't need any chaperon." "well, perhaps i do," said mary. "oh!" bill was still scowling. "why couldn't we let pete be the chaperon?" mary squashed that suggestion with a glance. "then don't blame me if she turns out to be a bum sailor," he warned. "i think i'll speak to her now," said mary. aunt caroline was frankly surprised. it had never occurred to her that there were times when society went to sea. yet, to mary's great relief, she did not prove to be an antagonist. she merely wanted to be shown that this cruise would actually be in furtherance of bill's career. "of course it will," urged mary. "it's the very thing. we'll take the regular summer society cruise." "and what is that, my dear?" mary bit her lip. she did not have the least idea. "oh, i suppose we'll stop at newport, narragansett, bar harbor, and such places," she said, dismissing the details with a wave of her hand. "we'll make all the regular society ports--that is, of course, if you approve the idea, miss marshall." aunt caroline smiled. "certainly i approve it, my dear. although i admit it perplexes me. what sort of yachting flannels does an old lady wear?" "oh, they dress exactly like the young ones," said mary, hastily. "which reminds me that we'll both need gowns. so, please order whatever you want." "you're awfully generous with me," and mary laid an impulsive hand on aunt caroline's. she felt very small and mean and unworthy. "i want you to be a credit to the family, my dear. so far, you're doing beautifully! have you spoken to william about buying the yacht?" "oh, we don't have to buy one! we just hire one--charter it, i think they say." "it sounds like hiring clothes," said aunt caroline. "still, i leave it all to you and william. but if it's necessary, buy one. and please get it as large as possible. we wouldn't want to be seasick, you know." "we'll only sail where it's nice and calm," mary assured her. "and where there are the proper sort of people. very well, my dear. and, oh, i've just remembered: have you done anything yet about mrs. rokeby-jones?" that lady had passed completely out of mary's head. "why--er--you see, this other matter came up, miss marshall, so i haven't done anything about her as yet." "never mind the dinner, then," said aunt caroline. "i'm afraid we wouldn't have time for it," agreed mary. "probably not, my dear. we'll do better. we'll invite her to sail with us on our yacht." mary groped her way out of the room. the business of fleeing the city went surprisingly well, notwithstanding aunt caroline's obsession on the subject of mrs. rokeby-jones. bill consulted pete stearns, who numbered among his friends a marine architect. the marine architect believed that he knew the very boat they needed. she was not a steam-yacht; most of the steam-yachts, he pointed out, were too large for a small party and a lot of them were obsolete. what they wanted was a big cruiser with diesel engines, that ran smoothly, noiselessly and never smokily. so through the offices of the marine architect, who made a nice commission, of which he said nothing at all, bill marshall became charterer of the yacht _sunshine_, an able yet luxurious craft, measuring some one hundred and twenty feet on the water-line, capable of all the speed that was required in the seven seas of society and sufficiently commodious in saloon and stateroom accommodations. mary wayne was delighted. any craft that would sail her away from new york city would have been a marine palace, in her eyes. she would have embarked on a railroad car-float, if necessary. there was a vast amount of shopping to be done, which also pleased mary. aunt caroline insisted upon being absurdly liberal; she was in constant apprehension that the ladies of the party would not be properly arrayed for a nautical campaign. so mary presently found herself the possessor of more summer gowns than she had ever dreamed of. even when it came to the business of seeing that bill marshall was adequately tailored for the sea aunt caroline proved prolific in ideas. somehow, she acquired the notion that bill would need a uniform; she pictured him standing on the bridge, with a spy-glass under his arm, or perhaps half-way up the shrouds, gazing out upon the far horizon; although there were no shrouds on the _sunshine_, inasmuch as there were no masts. but aunt caroline did not know that. to her, bill would not merely be the proprietor and chief passenger of this argosy, but the captain, as well. mary saved bill from the uniform. she did it tactfully but firmly, after explaining to aunt caroline that only the hired persons on board would wear uniforms. nevertheless, aunt caroline insisted on such a plethoric wardrobe for her nephew that for a time she even considered the advisability of an assistant valet. pete fell in with that idea instantly, but again there was a veto from mary. one valet was trouble enough, as she well knew. when it came to the matter of mrs. rokeby-jones, however, mary was hard put for a suitable defense. aunt caroline mentioned the lady several times; she hoped that the negotiations were progressing favorably; in fact, she at last reached the point where she decided upon two additional evening gowns for herself, because she was certain that mrs. rokeby-jones would come arrayed like the queen of sheba. poor aunt caroline did not know that the queen of sheba, in these times, would look like a shoddy piker beside even the humblest manicure in new york. mary had consulted bill about mrs. rokeby-jones. she could not explain as fully as she would have liked just why it was impossible for her to transmit aunt caroline's invitation; but she did not need to. bill was flatly against his aunt's scheme. he declared that he would back mary to the uttermost limit of opposition. "but opposition is exactly what we must avoid," said mary. "we mustn't antagonize--and yet we must stop it. oh, dear! it seems a shame for me to be plotting this way against your aunt; she's been so wonderful to me. but there's no way to make her see that a perfect stranger is hardly likely to accept an invitation to a yachting party. of course, your aunt is relying on the marshall name." bill nodded. "and names don't get you anywhere; except, perhaps, in society. i knew a youngster who called himself young john l. he kept at it for quite a while, but the only thing he was ever any good at was lying on his back in the middle of the ring and listening to a man count ten. that's all his name ever got him." "but to get back to mrs. rokeby-jones," said mary, with a slight frown. "we've got to appear to want her, but we mustn't have her." "we won't; don't you worry. we'll count her out or claim a foul. we'll leave her on the string-piece, if it comes to the worst." "it isn't quite so simple as that, mr. marshall. do you know what your aunt did to-day? she wrote her a note--personally." "i know it," said bill. "she told you?" "no; but here's the note." he delved into a pocket and produced an envelope. mary's eyes became round. "why, how in the world----" "you see, the letters were given to pete, to put stamps on and mail. and--well, he thought i might be interested in this one." "but--that's a crime, isn't it?" "why do you have such unpleasant thoughts, secretary norcross? pete says it's no crime at all; not unless it's been dropped in a letter-box. but if you feel finicky about it, why here's the letter. mail it." mary shook her head. "i'd be afraid to touch it." "thought so," said bill, as he returned the letter to his pocket. "i'll hold it for a while." "if the boat was only sailing now!" exclaimed mary. "that's a good suggestion. i'll hold it till we sail." "why, i never suggested anything of the kind, mr. marshall." she made a very fair show of indignation, but bill simply winked at her. mary turned away for fear of betraying herself. nevertheless, she knew that it was all very discreditable and she was not in the least proud of herself. it was a comfort, though, to have somebody else sharing the guilt. the day came for the sailing of aunt caroline's armada. the _sunshine_ lay at anchor in the hudson. from early morning a launch had been making steady trips from wharf to yacht, carrying trunks, boxes, grips, hampers, and packages. a superficial observer would have been justified in assuming that the _sunshine_ was documented for the philippines, or some equally distant haven. all of aunt caroline's new gowns, all of mary's, all of bill's wardrobe, all of pete's, and many other things that might prove of service in an emergency went aboard the _sunshine_. at the last moment there was great difficulty in persuading aunt caroline to leave the house. there had been no word from mrs. rokeby-jones, and the good lady who was determined to be her hostess insisted that she would not depart without her. bill fumed; mary twisted her handkerchief. aunt caroline was displaying stubborn symptoms. "madam, i telephoned myself, only half an hour ago," said pete. "she was not at home." "she's probably on her way to the yacht," said bill, with a glance at mary. "we'll wait a while and telephone again," announced aunt caroline. "but if she's on her way," said mary, "wouldn't it be better for you to be there to receive her?" aunt caroline hesitated. it was pete who saved the day. "if i may make bold to suggest, miss marshall, you could go to the yacht at once. if mrs. rokeby-jones has not arrived you could then telephone from the boat." mary turned away and stuffed her handkerchief into her mouth. bill went out into the hall to see if the taxis had arrived. "peter," said aunt caroline, "that's a most sensible suggestion. i never thought of the telephone on board." chapter xvi three errands ashore if aunt caroline had been bred to the sea, and familiar with its customs that have practically crystallized into an unwritten law, she would have written in her log: aboard the yacht _sunshine_--latitude, ° ' north; longitude, ° ' west. weather, clear; wind, ssw., moderate; sea, smooth. barometer, . . but not being a seafaring lady, she phrased it in this way in the course of a remark to her nephew: "william, isn't it lovely to be sitting here aboard our own yacht in the hudson, and isn't the weather superb?" the _sunshine_ still lay at her anchorage, with every prospect auspicious, except for the fact that nothing had been heard from mrs. rokeby-jones. the sun had set somewhere in new jersey and the lights of new york were shining in its stead. there was a soft coolness in the air, so that aunt caroline found comfort in a light wrap. bill had decided that they would not sail until later in the evening. this was not because of aunt caroline's anxiety concerning the missing guest, but for the reason that he had an errand ashore which he had been unable to discharge during the busy hours of the day. it was an errand he could trust to nobody, not even to pete stearns. in fact, he did not consider it wisdom to take pete into his confidence. aunt caroline had, indeed, discovered a telephone aboard the _sunshine_. it was in the owner's stateroom, which had been set apart for her because it was the most commodious of all the sleeping apartments. three times she had talked into this telephone, on each occasion giving the correct number of the rokeby-jones house, of which she had made a memorandum before leaving shore. but each time she was answered by the voice of a man, always the same voice. the second time he laughed and the third time he hung up with a bang! so aunt caroline, after vainly trying to lodge a complaint with "information," made a personal investigation and discovered that the other end of the telephone system was in the cabin of the sailing-master. she made an instant complaint to bill, and bill referred her to pete. the latter explained it very easily. "you see, madam, through a mistake the telephone company was notified that we were sailing several hours ago, so they sent a man out in a boat to disconnect the shore wire. i'm very sorry, madam." aunt caroline accepted the explanation, as she had come to accept anything from pete stearns, although it did nothing to allay her anxiety as to mrs. rokeby-jones. dinner had been over for more than an hour and darkness had settled upon the river when bill marshall announced that he was going ashore. he said that it was expressly for the purpose of pursuing aunt caroline's thwarted telephone inquiry and that he would not come back until he had definite news. his aunt thanked him for his thoughtfulness, settled herself for a nap in a deck-chair and bill ordered the launch. he was about to embark upon his errand when it occurred to him that perhaps his secretary would also like to go ashore. bill had it in the back of his head that there might be time to pay a short visit to a roof-garden or seek some sequestered place for a chat. he had been trying for some time to have a confidential chat with mary wayne, but she had an annoying way of discovering other and prior engagements. "you mean the young lady, sir?" said the second officer. "she went ashore an hour ago, sir. i sent her across in the launch." bill became thoughtful. why hadn't she mentioned the matter to him? and who was the boss of this yacht, anyhow? could people order up the launch just as if they owned it? he made a search for pete stearns and could not find him. again he spoke to the second officer. "oh, the young man, sir? why, he went ashore at the same time. i believe i heard him say that he had a few purchases to make." bill gritted his teeth. here was a piece of presumption that no owner could tolerate. they had gone away together, of course; they had been very careful not to say a word to him. what for? what sort of an affair was in progress between his valet and his secretary? the more he thought about it the higher rose his temper. "i'm going ashore myself," he said shortly. "please hurry the launch." ten minutes later he was hunting for a taxi along the manhattan waterfront, deeply disturbed in mind and with a fixed resolution to demand explanations. but the suspicions of bill marshall did injustice at least to one of the missing persons. mary wayne had gone ashore on a purely private mission, and she was not only surprised, but annoyed when her employer's valet also stepped into the launch. "if you don't mind, miss," said pete, apologetically, as the launch was headed for the wharf, "i have some purchases to make for mr. william." mary answered, of course, that she did not mind, and after that she kept her thoughts to herself. where the wharf entrance opened on twelfth avenue, pete lifted his hat respectfully, bid her good evening, and went off in an opposite direction. but he did not go far; merely far enough to conceal himself in a shadow from which he could watch without fear of discovery. mary was without suspicion; she walked briskly eastward, glad to be so easily rid of her fellow passenger. when he had permitted her to assume a safe lead, pete stepped out of his shadow and followed. it was fortunate that there were two taxis at the stand which mary discovered after a journey of several blocks through lonely streets; that is, pete considered it was fortunate. he took the second one, giving the driver the order and promise of reward that are usual in such affairs. this nocturnal excursion on the part of mary wayne had piqued his curiosity. he knew that she had not spoken to bill marshall about it; he doubted if she had said anything to aunt caroline. the clandestine character of mary's shore visit impressed him as warranting complete investigation. the two taxis had not been in motion for many minutes when pete became convinced that he could name mary's destination almost beyond a question. they were headed down-town, with occasional jogs toward the east side. so certain was pete of his conclusion and so anxious was he, purely for reasons of self-gratification, to prove the accuracy of his powers of deduction, that he halted his taxi, paid off the driver and set off at a leisurely walk, quite content in mind as he watched the vehicle that contained mary wayne disappear from view. twenty minutes later pete found himself vindicated. in front of the boarding-house where nell norcross roomed stood a taxi. sitting on the top step of the porch were two figures. as he strolled slowly by on the opposite side of the street he had no difficulty in recognizing mary wayne's smart little yachting suit of white linen. of course, there was no doubt as to the identity of the second person, even though the street lights were dim and there was no lamp-post within a hundred feet of the boarding-house. pete walked as far as the corner and posted himself. the conversation between mary and nell proceeded in low tones. "we shall be in larchmont to-morrow," mary was saying. "i'll try to send you a note from there. after that i'll keep you informed as well as i can concerning the rest of the trip, so you can reach me, if it's necessary. we are not traveling on any fixed time-table." "i'll feel dreadfully lonely, mary." "i'd have brought you if i could, nell; but there wasn't any legitimate excuse. and besides, i don't think you're strong enough to attempt it." "if there was only somebody staying behind that i knew," nell sighed. "i'll be so helpless." "nonsense. besides, who would stay behind?" nell did not answer, but if pete stearns could have read a fleeting thought from his point of observation on the street corner his waistcoat buttons would doubtless have gone flying. mary wayne, however, read the thought. "you don't mean that valet who brought you home from the party?" she demanded suddenly. "oh, i didn't mean anybody particularly," answered nell, guiltily. "but of course even he would be better than nobody." "nell norcross, don't let that young man get into your head. there's something mysterious about him. he may be only a valet, but i'm not certain. i'm suspicious of him. he has a habit of forgetting himself." "i know," assented nell, nodding. "oh, you do, do you? i might have guessed it. take my advice and give him a wide berth." nell regarded her friend with a look of speculative anxiety. "of course, mary, i don't want to interfere with you in any way. but----" "interfere with me?" exclaimed mary sharply. "do you think i am interested in valets?" "but you thought he might be something else. at least, you hinted it. he's a divinity student, isn't he?" "divinity!" mary summoned all her scorn in that word. "oh, very likely. but what sort of a divinity is he studying? perhaps you're a candidate for the place." "mary wayne, you're mean! i think that's a nasty remark." "oh, well; i didn't mean it. but you'd better take my advice, just the same. i've seen much more of him than you have." nell sighed again. "now, my dear, i must be going back. they'll be sending out a general alarm for me, i suppose. i didn't ask anybody's permission to come, you see." "there isn't much doubt mr. marshall will be alarmed," remarked nell, who was not above seeking a legitimate revenge. "you're in a rather silly mood this evening," said mary. "well, good-by. i'll send you some more money as soon as i'm paid again." nell looked gratefully at a small roll of bills that lay in her hand. "you're awfully good to me," she murmured. "good-by. and if you see----" but mary ran down the steps, popped into the taxi and was driven off. pete stearns aroused himself, crossed the street, and walked briskly in the direction of the boarding-house. he arrived in time to intercept nell, who had risen to go in. she sat down again in sheer surprise, and pete seated himself without invitation on the step below. "it's a fine night, isn't it?" he said. "now what's your real name?" nell gasped and could only stare. "is it wayne?" he demanded. "of--of course, it is!" "i just wanted to see if i'd forgotten. sometimes my memory walks out on me. amnesia, you know. it's lucky i never suffered from aphasia. a bishop with aphasia wouldn't be able to hold his job. let's talk about the bishops." and he did, for ten solid minutes, until nell began seriously to wonder if he was in his right mind. suddenly he dropped the subject. "you said your name was wayne, didn't you?" "why in the world do you keep asking that?" she parried. "it's the amnesia. excuse it, please. now let's talk about ourselves." eventually he said good night; he would be delaying the yacht, he explained. but he promised to write, which was something that had not even been hinted at during the conversation. he also shook hands with her, begged her to have faith in him, urged her to believe nothing she might hear, reaffirmed his purpose to become a bishop and perhaps even an archbishop, told her that she inspired him to great things, as witness--a kiss that landed on the end of her nose. then he ran. nell norcross was still sitting on the top step half an hour later, trying to muster sufficient confidence for the climb up-stairs. at about the same time bill marshall was taking leave of a friend in the back room of a hostelry that had descended to the evil fortunes of selling near-beer. "i'm sorry i won't be able to be there, kid," he said, "but go to it and don't worry about any cops butting in to bust up the game." "i'll run it strictly q. t., bill. doncha worry about nothin'." "i won't. but i owe you that much for the way they chucked you out of the house the other night." "'sall right, 'sall right," said kid whaley with a generous wave of his hand. "they didn't hurt me none." bill handed him something, and the kid pocketed it with a wink. "i'd like to take you with me, kid; but you understand." "aw, sure. sure--i'm wise. i ain't strong for yachtin', anyhow. that's why i blew me roll in a buzz-wagon. well, s'long, bill. this here little scrap's goin' t' be a bird. i'll tell y' all about it." when mary wayne arrived at the wharf there was no sign of the launch. she remembered that she had said nothing about the time of her return. out in the river she could see the riding lights of the _sunshine_ and the glow from the saloon windows. but she had not the least idea of how to make a signal, nor any notion that they would understand a signal. the wharf was lonely. it seemed to her, as she seated herself on the string-piece, that she was as remote from civilization as though she were sitting at the north pole, although she knew there were seven or eight million people within a radius of a few miles. there was nothing to do but wait, even if it was a creepy place for waiting. she had been sitting there for what seemed like half the night when a sound of footsteps startled her. out of the murk a figure was approaching. an instant later, to her relief, she perceived it to be the valet. he bowed in his mock deferential way and seated himself beside her. "no launch?" he inquired. "i forgot to speak to them." "so did i. well, the yacht's there, anyhow, miss. they won't leave without us. is miss wayne better?" mary experienced a shock. she leaned closer toward him and stared through the gloom. "you followed me!" she exclaimed. "i'd hardly say that, miss. you see, i was quite certain where you were going." she had an impulse to sweep him off into the water. "i shall speak to mr. marshall about this," she said hotly. "i do not propose to be spied upon by a servant." pete made a gesture of deprecation. "why be nasty, miss? let's talk about something pleasanter. you know, if we both started telling all we knew there might be a great deal of embarrassment." "just what do you mean by that?" she demanded. "i leave it to your imagination," he said cryptically. "i can tell things myself," she said savagely. "exactly, miss. so why shouldn't we be friends? why can't we establish a real democracy? i won't always be a valet; some day i'll be a bishop." "i believe you're nothing but a fraud!" "well, now," observed pete in a mild tone, "i might remark, on the other hand--but i think the master is coming." mary jumped to her feet with a sense of confusion. there was no doubt that the large figure emerging out of the darkness was that of bill marshall. how was she to explain the valet? "oh, hello!" said bill as he identified her. "waiting here all alone, eh? well, that's a darn shame. hasn't the launch--oh!" he discovered the presence of pete stearns. "didn't know you had company," he added, his tone altering. "beg your pardon." "i--i haven't," said mary, defiantly. "i'll see if there's any sign of the launch." bill walked to the end of the wharf, where he stood staring at the river, raging with and almost bursting with questions that he scorned to ask. "why didn't you explain to him?" snapped mary, whirling upon pete. "i pass the question back to you, miss." and pete lighted a cigarette, the glow of the match illuminating for an instant a pair of eyes that were regarding her with unveiled amusement. when the launch came, after an uncomfortably long interval, bill helped her into it, with cold courtesy. the valet scrambled aboard and took himself off to the bow. all the way to the _sunshine_ the three sat in silence--bill smoldering with anger and curiosity, mary humiliated and resentful, pete content because they were as they were. the social secretary hastened to her stateroom as soon as she stepped aboard; she did not pause to speak to aunt caroline, who was dozing in her chair. pete disappeared with like alacrity. it remained for bill to arouse his aunt and suggest that it was time for her to retire. "but mrs. rokeby-jones?" asked aunt caroline. "had her on the wire; she can't come," said bill. "says she wrote a note, but it must have gone astray. very sorry and all that sort of thing." aunt caroline sighed. "at any rate, i have done my duty, william. when do we sail?" "soon." bill went forward to give an order to the sailing-master. chapter xvii the way of a maid larchmont harbor! it was fair even to the eyes of bill marshall, as he stood under the after awning of the _sunshine_, staring out over the shining water, as yet untouched by so much as a breath of breeze. he was in no pleasant mood this morning, but he could not deny the serene, luxurious charm of the harbor. at another time it might have awakened the spirit of the muse within him; pete always insisted that far under the surface bill was a poet. but now its influence was not quite so potent as that; it merely laid a restraining spell upon him, soothing him, mollifying him, yet not lifting him to the heights. there were many yachts at anchor, with club ensigns and owners' flags drooping limp in the sluggish air. bill watched them for signs of life, but it was still an early hour for larchmont. occasionally he saw a hand scrubbing a deck or polishing a brass, but he discovered no person who resembled an owner or a guest. a warm mist had thinned sufficiently to show the rocky shore, and beyond it, partly sequestered among the trees, the summer homes and cottages of persons who still slept in innocence of the designs of aunt caroline. the harbor was not even half awake; it was yet heavy with the unspent drowsiness of a summer night. bill was on deck early because he had slept badly. the affair of mary wayne and pete stearns, as he interpreted it, rankled. the yacht had been clear of hell gate before he went to his stateroom, and even then it was a long time before he closed his eyes. the fact that bill was jealous he did not himself attempt to blink; he admitted it. "he's not a valet, of course," bill was muttering, as he continued to watch the harbor. "but she doesn't know that. why does she have to pick a valet? and if she wanted to go ashore with him, why didn't she say so, instead of sneaking off? i wish i'd stayed home. damned if i'll go into society, either by way of the steamboat route or any other way." a steward brought breakfast and served it under the awning. bill greeted it with his usual sound appetite; nothing ever seriously interfered with his breakfast. "good morning!" he looked up from the omelette at mary wayne, who stood there all in white, fresh, clear-eyed, a part of the morning itself. bill arose and drew another chair to the table; he could do no less. "good morning," he said. "doesn't it make you just want to shout?" she exclaimed. "i was watching it from my stateroom window while i dressed. it's larchmont, isn't it? i love it already." bill pushed the coffee pot toward her and rang for the steward. "yes; it's larchmont," he said. "aren't you just glad all over that we came?" "not particularly." mary studied him more carefully. "oh," she said. bill continued to eat in silence. the steward brought another omelette and she helped herself sparingly. "how long shall we stay here, do you think?" she ventured. "what have i got to say about it?" "i should think you'd have quite a lot to say. i would if i was in command of a yacht." "suppose you weren't sure who was in command?" "i'd make sure," she answered promptly. bill glowered sullenly. the spell of the morning was loosening its grip. "well, aboard this yacht it appears that everybody does as he pleases," said bill, helping himself to more coffee and ignoring her proffered assistance. his mood pleased her. she would not, of course, show him that it did; but her innermost self accepted it as a tribute, no matter how ungraciously the tribute might be disguised. "that's something new, isn't it?" she inquired. "at sea i always thought the captain was a czar. have we a soviet, or something like that?" "i'm not sure we have even that much. more coffee?" "no, thank you." he appeared determined to relapse into a silence, but mary would not have it so. she had not been wholly tranquil when she came on deck; she was somewhat uncertain about the night before. but now everything suited her very well. "do you go ashore here?" she asked. "don't know." "will any of us be permitted to go ashore?" "why ask me?" "because you don't seem to want us to use the launch." bill gave her a measuring glance. "did i say so?" "not exactly; that is, not in so many words. but last night----" "we won't talk about last night, if you don't mind." she was becoming better pleased every minute. when she had retired the night before she made up her mind that it would be necessary to make a clear explanation concerning peter, the valet. now she knew that she would never explain. "well, if we're not permitted to go ashore here, do you think we can get permission at newport?" she asked. "confound it! i didn't say you couldn't go ashore. you can go ashore any time you want. you can----" bill excused himself abruptly and walked forward. mary beamed at his retreating back and poured another cup of coffee. "he was going to say i could go to hell," she murmured. "oh, lovely!" aunt caroline had breakfast served in her stateroom and then sent for mary. after a satisfactory conference, she dismissed mary and sent for bill. "how soon are you going ashore, william?" she asked. "i didn't know i was going." "why, of course. you have friends here. you can't leave larchmont without calling. that's what we came for." "who are the friends, i'd like to know." "well, in the first place, i believe bishop wrangell is staying here--with the williamsons. it will give you an opportunity to meet them; they're very desirable. and then the kingsleys have a cottage here, or did, at any rate. you remember the little kingsley girl at the party--the one in blue?" bill remembered. only she was not the kingsley girl; she was arnold gibbs's little girl. "you must look them up, too. they'll probably have some people visiting them, too; the kingsleys always did entertain, and they have a very good position. and miss norcross thinks it just possible that the humes have opened their house. you've never met mrs. hume, but if you just mentioned that you're a marshall, she'll be delighted to see you. she knew your mother." bill groaned. "talk to miss norcross about it," added aunt caroline. "she'll know exactly what you should do." "good lord, aunt caroline! don't you think i know how to behave without getting tips from miss norcross? you'll be wanting me to consult peter next." "and a very good idea it would be, william. i suggest it. and now see if you can find last night's _evening post_; i haven't seen it yet. after that i think you'd better start." bill walked out like a surly child. he could not find the _evening post_, but he picked up a copy of _devilish stories_, gave it to a maid and told her aunt caroline wanted it. then he went on deck and ordered the launch. he had no intention of calling on anybody. he might ring up kid whaley on the 'phone and see if everything was all set for that little affair. but what he wanted principally was a change of environment. mary saw him sulking at the rail as he waited for the launch to be brought around to the gangway. she smiled, bit her lip and approached. "you're going ashore?" "uhuh." "you have cards with you, i suppose? your aunt's also?" bill faced her savagely. "stacks of cards," he barked. "mine and my aunt's and my valet's and my secretary's and the steward's and everybody else's. and my shoes are clean and i've washed behind my ears and brushed my hair in the back. anything else?" "i don't think of a thing, unless you've forgotten a handkerchief," she said, sweetly. the launch arrived and bill boarded it. at the final moment it occurred to him that he had, perhaps, been ungracious. "want to come along?" he asked, looking up at the rail where mary stood. he really hoped she would say yes. mary shook her head and smiled like the morning. "i'm afraid i've too many things to do," she answered. "but thank you, just the same. you won't forget to call on mrs. hume, if she's here." "i won't forget to take you by the neck and pitch you overboard," was what bill had in his mind, but he did not give utterance to it. he merely scowled and turned his back. mary watched the launch as it headed for the yacht club landing and, when it had moved beyond any possibility of hearing, laughed outright. "the poor man!" she said. "i'd better watch myself. back in new york i felt as if i were living in a reign of hidden terror. now the pendulum is at the other extreme and i feel as if i could do anything that pleased me. it's a time for caution, probably. but he is so funny!" bill was gone for several hours. he was late for lunch when the launch drew alongside the _sunshine_; in fact, everybody else had had lunch long ago. his visit ashore had not been satisfactory and was only prolonged because he felt that the shore, however strange and lonesome, was more congenial than the deck of his yacht. he spied aunt caroline in an easy chair. "nobody home, aunt caroline!" he said. "oh, i'm sorry, william. well, there's no hurry, of course; we can stay over indefinitely. probably you'd better go back this afternoon." bill had no intention of going back. he had not visited a single house; he had done nothing beyond making several futile attempts to get a telephone connection with kid whaley. he glanced about the deck and saw nobody but a couple of hands. "where's miss norcross?" he asked. "she went swimming," said aunt caroline. "swimming!" "right off the yacht, william. do you know that she's a very remarkable swimmer. i was completely astonished." william went to the rail and surveyed the harbor. he saw no sign of a swimmer. "where is she?" he demanded. "oh, somewhere out there," said aunt caroline, with an easy gesture. "she's perfectly safe. peter is with her." "what!" "they went swimming together. i wish you could have seen them, william. they were just like two children. they've been swimming all around among the yachts. where they are now i haven't the least idea; but they'll be back." bill struck the rail savagely and once again glared out at the harbor. so this was the reason his secretary did not want to go ashore; she had an engagement to go swimming with his valet. but if bill was disturbed, not so aunt caroline; she was once more absorbed in her magazine. the boss of the yacht _sunshine_ walked forward, where he found the second officer superintending the cleaning of brasswork. "where's that swimming party of ours?" asked bill, carelessly. "now, there's a question you might well ask, sir," said the second officer. "where aren't they? seems to me they've been all over the harbor, sir, as far as i can make out. never saw anything like it." "is there any boat following them?" "boat, sir?" the second officer laughed. "i don't know what they'd be doing with a boat. the last time i saw them they looked as if they were fit to swim to europe. and the young lady, sir!" he made what was intended to be an eloquent gesture. "what about the young lady?" "a fish, sir; a fish, if ever one lived. first off they did a lot of playing around the yacht, sir. climbing aboard and diving off again. i give you my word, sir, the whole crew was on deck watching. the young lady--well, she's a little thing, but she's nicely set up, sir. she'd think nothing of making a back dive off the end of the bridge. and the young gentleman was no ways behind her, sir. you'd think there was a couple of porpoises in the harbor." bill's soul was growing blacker and blacker. "i've seen swimmers in my time, but never the beat of that pair, unless it was professionals," added the second officer, in a musing tone. he glanced out at the water, then gestured quickly. "look, now! there they go." bill looked. there was a commotion in the water a hundred yards distant. two heads were moving rapidly in parallel courses; one was conspicuous in a scarlet bathing cap. he could see a flashing of wet arms; the sound of a familiar laugh came to him. a race seemed to be in progress. he ran up on the bridge for a better view and evidently the red cap sighted him, for there was an instant of slackened pace and the joyous wave of a white arm. and then she was again leaving a wake behind her as she sped in pursuit of the second swimmer. bill gritted his teeth and watched. they were not returning to the yacht; rather, they were increasing their distance from it with every stroke. he stared until they passed from sight behind a big sloop that lay at anchor, and then the harbor seemed to swallow them. evidently they were again exploring the yacht anchorage, which was crowded with craft. bill slowly returned to the deck. "they've been at it over an hour," volunteered the second officer. "get the lady to dive for you when they come back, sir. she'll surprise you, if i don't mistake." bill made no answer, but walked aft, where he plunged himself heavily into a wicker chair. aunt caroline had retired to her stateroom for a nap and he had the deck to himself. "i'll not stand for it!" he muttered fiercely. "last night they were sneaking off to town together and now they're making a holy show of themselves here. what does she think she can put over on me, anyhow? as for pete stearns, i'll drown him." in fact, bill for a time had been minded to get into his own bathing suit and pursue them, but his dignity intervened. no; if his secretary chose to run away with his valet, let her do so. what made it worse, she knew he was aboard; she had seen him; she had waved her arm at him. and then, deliberately, she had turned her back upon him. after half an hour of glooming he went to the rail again and once more searched the harbor with his glance. he saw no flashing arms; no red cap. "i won't stand much more of this," he said, grimly. "i'll show them where they get off." he went to his stateroom and mixed a drink, and after that he mixed another. presently he returned to the deck, this time with a pair of binoculars. the glasses showed him no more than he had been able to see without them. he fell to pacing, his hands clasped behind him, his glance directed at the canvas-covered deck beneath his feet. napoleon could have done it no better; lord nelson would have been hard put to outdo him. the afternoon was as fair as the morning, but bill took no account of its glory. he was wholly absorbed in plumbing the gloomy depths of his mind. "they think they're putting it over on me," he sneered. "all right. let 'em see what happens." once again he swept the glasses in a circle of the harbor. no scarlet cap. he glanced at his watch. "well, i'm through. time's up." slipping the glasses into their case, he strode forward and banged on the door of the sailing master's cabin. a sleepy-eyed officer answered the summons. "we're going to pull out of here at once," said bill. "everybody aboard, sir?" "everybody that's going." "very good, sir. which way are we heading?" "i'll tell you when we get outside the harbor. i'm in a hurry." the sailing master ducked back into his cabin, shouted an order through a speaking tube that communicated with the engine-room and then ran forward along the deck. a minute later the winch was wheezing and the yacht _sunshine_ was bringing her mud-hook aboard. bill retired to his stateroom and poured another drink. chapter xviii castaways two swimmers rested for breath at an anchorage buoy and smiled at each other. "where did you learn to swim, anyhow?" demanded pete stearns. "you never said a word about it until this afternoon." "i don't tell all i know," said mary, tucking a wet lock under the scarlet cap. "i believe you. but there's only one thing i'd criticise; you'd get more out of that trudgeon of yours if you watched your breathing." "i know it," she answered, with a nod. "but i don't take it so seriously as all that. i've always managed to get along, anyhow." pete blinked the salt water out of his eyes and studied the social secretary with new respect. "you haven't ever been a diving beauty or a movie bathing girl or anything like that, have you?" mary laughed. "not yet, thank you. i never made any money out of swimming." "oh, they don't swim," said pete. "they just dress for it." "well, i never did that, either." "but you could if you wanted to." "that will do," said mary. even in the democratic embrace of larchmont harbor she did not think it advisable for her employer's valet to venture into the realm of personal compliment. besides, she was not wholly convinced of the validity of his status as a valet. for one thing, she had never heard of a valet who could swim, and by swimming she meant more than the ordinary paddling about of the average human. for mary could swim herself and she had discovered that pete was something more than her equal. "well, anyhow," he said, "you're a first-class seagoing secretary. did you notice mr. marshall standing on the bridge? i think he saw us." "i'm quite sure he did. and i believe we'd better be starting back." "is it a race?" "you never can tell," said mary, as she slid off the buoy like a seal and shot along under the surface for a dozen feet. pete fell in beside her and let her set the pace. it was a smart one and he did not try to take the lead; he was saving himself for the sprint. for several minutes mary attended strictly to her work. they were reaching mid-harbor when she eased up and raised her head to take a bearing for the _sunshine_. then she ceased swimming altogether and began to tread. "why, where's the yacht?" she said. pete also paused for a survey. "they've moved it, haven't they? well, i'll----" he made a slow and deliberate inspection of the horizon. "is that it?" and mary pointed. pete studied a stern view of a somewhat distant craft, shading his eyes from the sun. "that's it," he announced. "and it's still moving." "they must be going to anchor in another place. i think they might have waited until we reached them. shall we follow?" she did not wait for an answer, but fell once more into a steady trudgeon stroke that served her extremely well. then she paused for another reconnaissance. "the darn thing is still moving," declared pete. "it's further off than when we first saw it. now, what do you make out of that?" mary wrinkled her forehead into a moist frown as the water dripped from the tip of her nose. "it's perfectly silly to try to catch it by swimming," she said. "they must have forgotten all about us. why didn't they blow a whistle, or something?" there was no question that the silhouette of the _sunshine_ had receded since their first observation. pete tried to judge the distance; it was more than half a mile, he was certain. "well, what'll we do? paddle around here and wait for it to come back?" "i don't mind admitting that i'm a little bit tired," said mary. "i'm not going to wait out here in the middle of the bay for mr. marshall to turn his yacht around. how far is it over to that shore?" "it's only a few hundred yards. shall we go?" "we'll go there and wait until we see what they're going to do." several minutes afterward pete stood waist deep on a sandy bottom. there was a tiny beach in front of them, where a cove nestled between two rocky horns. he gazed out into the harbor. "it's still going--the other way," he reported. mary was also standing and staring. the _sunshine_ looked discouragingly small. "oh, well, we'll sit on the beach and get some sun. if bill--if mr. marshall thinks he's having fun with us he's greatly mistaken. i'm having the time of my ecclesiastical life." he waded ashore and sat down on the sand. but mary did not follow. she stood immersed to her waist, biting her lip. there was a look of annoyance and a hint of confusion in her eyes. "you'd better come ashore and rest," called pete. "you'll get chilled standing half in and half out of the water." "i--i can't come ashore very well," said mary. "what's the matter?" she was flushing under her freckles. "when we decided to swim around the harbor," she said, slowly, "i--er--slipped off the skirt of my bathing suit and tossed it up to one of the deck-hands to keep for me until i got back. and it's aboard the yacht now." pete stifled a grin. "it--it wasn't a very big skirt," she added. "but it was a skirt." "oh, forget it," he advised. "don't mind me. come on out of the water." but mary was again studying the retreating yacht. at that instant she would have liked to have laid hands on bill marshall. not only the skirt of her bathing suit, but every stitch she owned was aboard that yacht. "i'm only a valet," pete reminded her. mary was not at all certain about that, but she decided not to be foolish any longer. she waded ashore. there was something boyish about her as she emerged full length into the picture, yet not too boyish. not only was she lacking a skirt, but also stockings, for when mary went swimming she put aside frills. the scarlet bathing cap gave her a charming jauntiness; although she was anything but jaunty in mood. "my, but the sun is comfortable," she said, as she sat down and dug her toes into the sand. "it'll warm you up," said pete, affecting to take no notice of her costume. "say, what do you make out of that yacht, anyhow?" "it seems to be still going. it looks awfully small to me." they watched it for another minute. "there's another landing down that way, where they're headed," said pete. "maybe they want to send somebody up to town for something." "you've been here before, haven't you?" "oh, i've valeted 'round a bit in the summers, miss." she gave him a swift, sidelong glance. out in the harbor he had dropped the "miss"; the water seemed to have washed away his surface servility. now he was falling back into the manner of his calling. "they can't go much farther in that direction," he added. "they've either got to anchor, turn around or stand out for the mouth of the harbor. we'll know in a minute or two, miss." "please stop calling me 'miss,'" she said, sharply. "why?" he turned innocent eyes toward her. "it annoys me." "oh, very well. but i didn't want you to feel that i was forgetting my place. once you reminded me----" "never mind, if you please. i think one of your troubles is that you are too conscious of your 'place,' as you call it. you make other people conscious of it." "i'm unconscious from now on, miss way--miss norcross." she whirled around upon him in fair earnest. "excuse me," said pete. "i get the names mixed. i'm apt to do the same thing when i'm with your friend miss wayne." she studied him with uneasy eyes. how much did he know? or was he just blundering clumsily around on the brink of a discovery? last night he had flung a pointed hint at her; it came to her mind now. well, if there was to be a battle, mary felt that she was not without her weapons. she knew of a divinity student who followed the prize ring and who kissed the house guests of the master to whom he played valet. "she's swinging around," said pete, abruptly, pointing out into the harbor. the _sunshine_ was turning to port and now showed her profile. but she was not turning far enough to cruise back in her own wake. her new course was almost at a right angle to that she had been following, and she seemed bent upon pursuing it briskly. pete gasped and leaped to his feet. "come on!" he cried. the rocky promontory that sheltered one end of their little beach was cutting off a view of the yacht. he raced along the strip of sand, with mary at his heels, quite unconscious of her missing skirt and certainly a gainer in freedom of movement through the lack of it. pete climbed the rocks at reckless speed and she followed him, heedless of the rough places. he was poised rigidly on an eminence as she scrambled up beside him. "damnation!" he said it so fervently that it seemed to mary the most sincere word he had ever spoken. "do you see what they're doing?" he cried, seizing her arm. "look! they're heading out of the harbor!" "you mean they're leaving us?" he shook her arm almost savagely. "can't you see? there they go. they're headed out, i tell you. they're going out into the sound!" the yacht seemed to be gaining in speed. "but i just can't believe it," she said, in a stifled voice. "you'd better, then. look!" "but i'm sure that mr. marshall wouldn't----" "oh, you are, are you? well, i'll prove to you in about one holy minute that he'll do whatever comes into his crazy head. take your last look. they're on their way." nor had they long to wait in order to be convinced beyond argument. even at the distance that separated them from the _sunshine_ they could see the white bone in her teeth as she continued to pick up speed. and then she was gone, beyond a jutting point that barred their vision. pete looked at mary. mary looked at pete. both looked again toward the spot where they caught their last glimpse of the sunshine. then, with one accord and without speech, they slowly descended to the beach and sat in the sand. a thin, blue cloud of rage seemed to have descended upon them. minutes afterward she flung a handful of sand at an innocent darning needle that was treading air directly in front of her. "oh, say something!" she cried. "you'd censor it, mlle. secretary." "i wouldn't!" pete lifted his eyes to the heavens and swore horribly. "that's better," she said. "but you needn't do it any more. now what are we going to do?" "wait for the commander-in-chief to get over his practical joke, i suppose." "then, this is your idea of a joke, is it?" "not mine; his," said pete. "and it's not so bad, at that." mary tried to wither him with a look. "i believe you don't care," she said, stormily. "oh, yes, i do. but i'm all over the rage part of it. what's the use?" "well, think of something, then." "i don't think it even requires thinking. what is there to do but sit here and wait?" mary gritted her teeth. "that may be all right for you," she said, coldly. "but it seems absolutely futile to me. we don't know whether they'll ever come back." "oh, they're bound to." "they're not, anything of the kind! he's done it deliberately; i'm sure of it. i wish i had him here for about two minutes." "i wish you had," said pete, earnestly. "i'd pay for a grand stand seat." "i'd tell him what i think of him." "you sure would." "i never felt so helpless in my life. all i'm doing is getting sunburned. i'll be a fright." "if it's freckles you're worrying about, he likes 'em." "oh, don't talk about them." she had a sudden craving for a mirror. but beyond that boyish bathing suit and the scarlet rubber cap, mary did not even possess so much as a hairpin. she would have given a million dollars for a kimono and a vanity bag. "at a rough guess," mused pete, "i'd say we're the first persons who were ever shipwrecked on a society coast. didn't you ever feel a yearning to be marooned?" "never--and i never will, after this." "well, we're better off than a lot of castaways. we're not on an island. we can walk home, if it comes to that." "walk! dressed like this?" "swim, then." mary relapsed into a fit of exasperated silence. if pete's rage had cooled, her own was still at cherry heat. she felt ready to take the whole world by the throat and shake revenge out of it, particularly out of bill marshall. but she was helpless even to start upon the warpath. a girl in a bathing suit, the skirt of which had been carried to sea by a ruthless yacht, is not panoplied for a campaign. she felt shamed, outraged, desperate to the point of violence--and futile. it seemed quite possible, as she viewed it then, that she might be compelled to sit on that beach for the remainder of her life. certainly she did not intend to walk around larchmont in a costume designed only for the australian crawl. pete was devoting time to a survey of their immediate environment. the beach was not more than ten yards in breadth; it was bounded on either side by the little capes of rock, and behind them by a low stone wall. a well-rolled and clipped lawn came down to the edge of the wall; it was studded with trees and shrubs. the gable of a dwelling was visible through an opening. as pete studied the landscape a figure appeared from among the trees. it was that of a young man in white flannels. he approached to the top of the stone wall and observed them carefully. "this is a private beach," said the young man, speaking in a peculiar drawl that pete immediately identified with the world of exclusive society. mary, until then unaware of the presence of a third person, turned quickly, observed the speaker and huddled her knees under her chin. "well, we're private citizens," said pete. "we do not permit trespassing," said the young man. "do you by any chance permit divine providence to deposit a pair of shipwrecked castaways on your seacoast?" inquired the valet. the young man in flannels appeared to be puzzled. he was now studying mary with particular attention. then he glanced quickly from side to side, as though searching for something else. "we never permit motion pictures to be taken here," he said. "oblige me by going away." "my dear sir," said pete, who had risen to his feet, "we are not in the movies. we are not here for fame or for profit. we do not occupy your beach either in the interests of art or health. we are merely here as the result of a contingency, a hazard of fortune, a mischance of fate." "well, go away." the young man stepped down on the beach and approached for a closer view. pete turned and whispered to mary: "shall we steal his beautiful clothes and divide 'em up?" "hush!" she said. the owner of the white flannels, which pete was coveting with envious eyes, studied mary until she began to blush. "we do not wish to have this kind of a display on our private waterfront," he remarked. "you must leave at once." mary sprang up, her gray eyes dangerous. "can't you see that we're in distress?" she cried, hotly. he surveyed her deliberately--her legs, bare from the knees down, her skirtless trunks, her white, rounded arms. "i can see very little of anything," was his comment. "why, you----" but even though she choked on her words, there was no need for her to finish them. pete stepped to within a yard of the stranger. "i don't like the color of your hair," he said, "and that, of course, leaves me no alternative." so he tapped the young man on the nose, so unexpectedly and with such speed and virility that the owner of the nose lost his balance and sat in the sand. pete turned and seized mary by the hand. "run like hell," he counseled. "but where?" "overboard." he dragged her across the sand and out into the water. waist deep they paused and looked back. the young man in flannels had followed to the edge of the water, where he stood holding a handkerchief to his nose and shaking a fist. "you come ashore!" he yelled. "we can't, sir. it's private," said pete, with a bland grin. "come back here. i'm going to thrash you!" "we can't come back," said pete, "but we invite you to join us, dear old thing." the young man stood irresolute, glaring at them. then he looked down at his flannels and edged backward a step from the water. "i'm going to have you arrested!" he cried, as he turned and ran in the direction of the house. pete waved him a gay salute. "well, come on," he said to mary. "where?" "to a more friendly coast. we can't use this one any more." he struck out into the harbor and mary followed. chapter xix the spoilers they followed the shore for a while and presently a bend in its contour hid their view of the unfriendly harbor. it was an aimless journey. they were safe from the revenge of the young man in white flannels, but they were as far as ever from any project of rescue. mary swam in a listless, automatic fashion; there was no longer any zest of sport. she was not tired, but her enthusiasm had oozed away. as for pete, he also felt that there had been enough swimming for a day. "shall we try that place in there?" she asked, lifting her arm above the water and pointing. "i'm for it," he answered, with a nod. "i'm not going to be a poor fish any longer. i don't care if they meet us with a shotgun committee." their second landing place was devoid of a beach, but it had shelving, sunwarmed rocks, upon which they climbed out and sat down. "i never suspected you were a fighter," observed mary, the recent picture still fresh in memory. "i'm not. i'm a baseball player, by rights. that was what they call the hit-and-run play." "well, i think you did excellently, peter. i was just getting ready to do something like that myself. was his nose bleeding?" "here's hoping. while i don't claim to be within a mile of signor antonio valentino's class, i have a fixed impression that by this time the young gentleman has a beak like a pelican." mary glanced appreciatively at her knight. "i'm glad mr. marshall wasn't there," she said. "why?" "if he had hit him the young man would probably be dead, and then we'd have lots of trouble." "now, that," said pete, in an aggrieved tone, "is what i call ungrateful. i hit the bird as hard as i could, didn't i? i don't see any need of dragging the boss into this, by way of comparison. of course, if you can't get him out of your head----" "nonsense! he's not in my head. i said i was glad he wasn't there, didn't i? and i explained why. i didn't mean to take any credit away from you at all. don't be so sensitive. are you hungry?" pete groaned. "there! now you've done it. i've been busy trying to forget it and you've deliberately made me remember it. of course i'm hungry. if i don't eat i'm going to die." "so am i." pete stood up and looked about him. "i don't see any cocoanut palms or breadfruit trees," he said. "that's what we're supposed to live on, isn't it? i don't even see a drink of water. it's an awful come-down for a pair of robinson crusoes, but it looks as if i'd have to go to somebody's kitchen door and ask for a handout." "never," said mary. "i'll starve first." "i don't think that's a very clever revenge. i'm still pusillanimous enough to eat. i'll scout around." "no!" "but why not?" "because i feel ridiculous enough as it is," she declared, frowning at her costume. "but i might be able to locate some of our society friends. we're supposed to have friends here, aren't we?" "i wouldn't dream of appealing to them." pete shook his head helplessly. "do you expect to sit here for the rest of your life?" "i don't care. i'm not going to humiliate myself any further. we might meet another man and----" "but i'll soak him for you. honest." "we might meet several." "it doesn't take you long to collect a crowd, does it?" he said. "you can invent whole armies right out of your head. be cheerful and take it the other way around; we may not meet anybody at all." but mary wiggled her toes in the sun and shook her head. "you stay here, then, and i'll reconnoiter." "no! i don't intend to be left alone." "let's hoist a signal of distress, then. that's always been done and it's considered perfectly good form." "no." "all right. starve!" pete made no effort to hide exasperation. "i don't believe you'd care if i did." his only answer to that was a gesture of despair. who was it who claimed to understand woman? pete would have been glad to submit this one for analysis and report. he sat with his knees drawn up under his chin, staring out at the harbor. he was hungry. he was thirsty. he wanted a cigarette. he wanted to stretch his legs. he wanted to do anything except remain glued to a rock, like a shellfish. why did she have to be so fussy on the subject of conventions? he knew that many a martyr had died cheerfully for a cause. but did ever one die for a cause like this? after half an hour of silence he was about to renew the argument when he discovered that she was asleep. she had curled herself up in a sunny hollow of the rocks, made a pillow out of an arm and become quite oblivious to larchmont harbor and all the world beyond and around it. pete arose cautiously. he climbed further up on the rocks, then paused to look back. she had not moved. he went still farther inshore, moving noiselessly on all fours, then straightened up and walked as briskly as a man may who is not innured to going barefoot in the rough places. "if she wakes up, let her holler," he muttered. "i'm going to take a look around." half an hour later he was back again, munching an apple. he had several more that he placed on the rock beside mary, who still slept as dreamlessly as a baby and who had not stirred during his absence. pete regarded her with severe eyes. "shall i wake her? no. let her sleep the sleep of starvation within arm's reach of food. never was there any justice more poetic. if she wants to be stubborn let her find out what it is costing her. perhaps i'd better eat all the apples. no; i won't do that. then she'd never know what she missed. i might leave a little row of cores for her to look at. that's a good idea, but--oh, she'd murder me. i think she could be dangerous if she tried." mary did not look dangerous. she seemed more like a tired little child. once she stirred, but did not awaken, although she smiled faintly. "dreaming of bill," was pete's comment. "which reminds me: wonder where bill is?" several yachts had entered the harbor; others had left. but although he made systematic survey of the entire anchorage there was no trace of the _sunshine_. the sun disappeared, and there followed a perceptible cooling of the air. pete reached mechanically for his watch, then remembered and laughed. the laugh awoke mary. she sat up in a daze, staring at him. "we're in larchmont, sitting on a rock and trying to be dignified in the midst of preposterous adversity," he reminded her. "have an apple?" she seized one and bit into it, then eyed him accusingly. "you did go away, didn't you?" "oh, hear the woman! certainly i did. i sneaked off as soon as you hit the hay. i'm not cut out for a martyr. but i notice you're not above accepting the fruits of my enterprise. now, are you ready to be reasonable?" "i'm always reasonable," she mumbled through a large mouthful. "so? well, listen, then: i have made discoveries." mary stopped chewing and stared expectantly. "those apples come from a toy orchard. the orchard is part of the backyard of a house. this place where we are sitting is part of the waterfront adjoining that house. so much i have learned by being cautious as well as intrepid. do i bore you?" "hurry!" she commanded. "in the other part of that backyard, nearest to the house, is something even more important than food. can you guess?" "clothes?" "not exactly the word," said pete. "it is better to say the week's wash. my dear seagoing secretary, there is wash enough in that backyard not only for you and me, but for the whole crew of the _sunshine_, if they had happened to be cast away with us." "well, if there are clothes there, for heaven's sake, why didn't you bring some? i'm getting chilly." "wash, i said; not clothes. you'll understand when you see. the reason i didn't bring any is simple: it was still broad daylight. back in the orchard i had partial concealment among the trees, but i took chances, even there. to have invaded the raiment department would have been foolhardiness, for which i have never been celebrated. so i merely located the outfit and provided myself with food." he glanced out at the harbor. "in a very short time it will be twilight, and when twilight comes we will see what can be done to remove a rival from the path of annette kellerman." mary was too deeply interested in these disclosures to pay any attention to this reference to her present costume. he had brought a new hope into her life. clothes at last! after that--well, clothes came first. except, of course, the apples. she began to eat another. never had a twilight gathered so slowly. just as she had been immovable before, now it was difficult to restrain her impatience. she was for starting at once. "i'm getting chillier all the time," she complained. "patience," he counseled. "give us fifteen minutes more. if you're cold you might spend the time doing setting-up exercises." he took his own advice and began a series of exercises that were highly recommended to the pupils of kid whaley's gymnasium. mary watched for awhile and then emulated him, so that two figures were presently engaged in an occupation that suggested nothing so much as a pair of railroad semaphores gone mad. eventually they paused breathless. "i think we'd better go," said pete. "a man on that nearest yacht seems to be trying to answer us with a pair of wigwag flags. you didn't happen to be telegraphing him anything, did you?" mary squealed and began scrambling up the rocks. "you'd better let me take the lead," he said. "i know the way. follow close behind me and do whatever i do. if i flop down on my stomach, you flop. if i duck behind a tree, you duck. if i run, run." "and if we get caught?" she asked. "that's one thing we won't permit. don't suggest it. take to the water again, if it comes to that." the ledge of rock along which they picked their way ended at a grassy bluff, where there was a grove of small evergreens. in among the trees pete paused to look and listen. then he beckoned her to follow. dusk was thicker in the grove, and mary felt more comfortable in its added security, although she hoped it would not be long before they came to the land of promised raiment. pete moved stealthily and she imitated his caution. they skirted along close to the edge of the bluff, keeping within the shelter of the evergreens. through a vista she glimpsed a house, and pointed, but pete shook his head. evidently it was not the right one. presently they arrived at a tall, thickly grown hedge. he got down on all fours in front of it, thrust his head into an opening and, with a series of cautious wriggles, began to disappear from her sight. when he had completely vanished, mary undertook to follow him. the hedge was rough and stiff, and the aperture through which he had passed was uncomfortably small. with head and shoulders through, she looked up and found him beckoning. "it scratches awfully," she whispered. "s-sh! never mind the scratches." she wriggled a few inches farther. "ouch! i'm afraid i'll tear----" "let it tear." he seized her hand and dragged her completely through, mindless of her protest that she was being flayed. "don't talk so loudly," he warned. "you're in the orchard now. it's only a little way to the raiment. remember: this is no deserted house. the folks are home. i'm banking on the fact that they're at dinner, and that the servants are busy. come on." he now began to advance by a series of short rushes, each rush taking him from the shelter of one tree to the next. mary followed, establishing herself behind a tree as soon as he had vacated it. it seemed to her that the trees were intolerably meager in girth; she felt as if she were trying to hide behind a series of widely placed lead pencils. but the dusk was continuing to thicken, which was welcome consolation. they were within easy view of the house now. it was something more than a house; it was a mansion, filled with innumerable windows, it seemed to mary, and out of each window a pair of accusing eyes probably staring. where the orchard left off there was an open space, and beyond that a yard full of fluttering garments, suspended from a clothes line. between the yard and the house was another hedge, and pete was counting upon that hedge as a screen. they paused at the edge of the orchard. "for the next few minutes we are in the hands of providence," he whispered. "want to come with me, or will you trust me to pick out a costume?" "i--i'll trust you," said mary. "stay right here, then. here goes." out into the open, where there was still an ominous amount of daylight, dashed bill marshall's valet, bent as low as he could manage without sacrificing speed. mary held her breath and watched. a few seconds and he vanished behind a white curtain that represented a part of the family wash. to mary it seemed that there was an interminable interval. then, with a spooky flutter, the white curtain that hid him seemed to sink into the ground. another instant and the flying figure of pete stearns was approaching. he seemed to be pursued by a long, white snake, writhing close at his heels. and then he was back in the shelter of the trees. "help pull on this!" he panted. and mary identified the white snake as a clothes line to which was attached garment after garment of ghostly hue. she seized the line and together they raced back toward the rear of the orchard, the snake following. "found a sickle and cut the whole line!" he explained. "quickest way. help yourself. i'll begin at the other end." mary was pulling clothes-pins as rapidly as she could make her fingers fly. "don't stop to choose anything here," he warned. "take everything. we've got to beat it." so they took everything. pete made two hasty bundles, thrust one into her arms, picked up the other and started at a lope through the orchard, in a direction opposite to that from which they had come. they came to another hedge that was as forbidding as the one through which they had passed. he dropped his bundle, dove half-way through the hedge, made a swift inspection of what lay beyond, and then hauled himself back again. "it's all right," he said. picking up his bundle, he tossed it over the hedge. he seized mary's and repeated. "now for you!" before she could protest, even had she been so minded, pete was wedging her into a dense, prickly obstruction and ordering her to scramble with all her might. she landed head down on the other side of the hedge, and was picking herself up when he joined her. he seized both bundles and started running again. they were still among evergreens, but the property was evidently that of a neighbor. pete had made an observation of it on his previous journey. he knew exactly where he was going. right on the edge of the bluff, which still followed the line of the shore, stood a summer pavilion. into its shadowy shelter he dashed, with mary wayne close behind. "there!" he gasped, tossing the bundles to the floor. "now doll yourself up." five minutes later she looked at him in dismay. "why, it's nothing but lingerie!" she exclaimed. pete was holding out a pair of silk pajamas at arm's length, for better inspection. "what did you expect? a tailor-made suit?" he demanded. "i'm going to be satisfied with these." "but lingerie! and it's----" "put on plenty of it and it'll keep you warm." "you don't understand," she said. "oh, we've done an awful thing!" she spread out a long, lacy garment and viewed it with awe in her eyes. "do you know lingerie when you see it?" she demanded. "why, this is so beautiful that i'm afraid of it. i never dared buy anything like this for myself." "is that's what worrying you?" "but it's perishable--fragile! and i'm afraid i've torn some of it already. you're not a woman and you can't understand--but what i'm doing is almost a sacrilege. i feel like a vandal." "here's some more," said pete, tossing additional articles out of his pile. "what do you care? pile it on." he discovered a second suit of pajamas as he rummaged further, and added them to his collection. "give you five minutes to dress," he said, as he stepped outside the summer-house, the pajamas tucked under his arm. pete dressed on the edge of the bluff, putting on one suit of pajamas over another, and keeping a wary eye for possible intruders. so concerned was he lest they be discovered that he was unaware, until he had finished dressing, that his outer covering consisted of the coat of one suit and the trousers of another. the coat was striped in purple and green, the trousers in a delicate shade of salmon pink. but the effect did not dismay him; rather, it appealed to his sense of color. as he approached the summer-house he saw an apparition in the doorway. mary wayne had taken his advice; she had piled it on. "jehosaphat!" he exclaimed in a low voice. "you look like something out of rider haggard, or grand opera, or---- why, you're barbaric!" "isn't it awful!" she whispered. "awful? why, it's magnificent! you're not dressed--you're arrayed! you're a poem, a ballad--a romance! you're a queen of egypt; you're something from the next world! you're--oh, baby!" he spread his hands and salaamed. "hush, for heaven's sake! i just can't wear this. it's impossible!" "you're a hasheesh dream," he murmured. mary shook her head angrily. "i've no shoes," she said. "and the stockings are not mates." "you're a vision from heaven," said pete. "shut up! don't you see i'm no better off than i was before? neither are you." "we're warmer, anyhow." "oh, be sensible." "and we're more beautiful," he added, stroking his silken coat. "but we can't go anywhere in these things!" she cried. "we'll be arrested. we haven't any money. we'll be taken for lunatics. and then they'll find out we're thieves. and then---- oh, i wish i'd never come on this awful trip!" pete shook off the spell of his gorgeous imagination. "you're a hard lady to please," he said. "but i'll see what i can do. go back in the summer-house and wait for me. if anybody bothers you, jump at them and do some kind of an incantation. they'll leave you alone, fast enough." "where are you going now?" she demanded. "well, having stolen a classy outfit of society lingerie for you, i'm now going to see if i can steal you a limousine." "peter! don't you leave me here. come back! i----" but he was gone. chapter xx the high cost of jealousy bill marshall, leaning on the after rail of his yacht and watching the churning, white wake of her twin screws, was not sure but the best way to mend things was to jump overboard and forget how to swim. jealousy and rage were no longer his chief troubles. remorse had perched itself on his already burdened shoulders. and then came shame, piling itself on top of remorse. and soon afterward fear, to sit on the shoulders of shame. truly, his load was great. to steam his way out of larchmont harbor had been a magnificent revenge. but with bill, vengeance was never a protracted emotion; when its thrill began to fade it left him chilled. even jealousy did not suffice to warm him. and then came crowding all the other emotions, to thrust him down into a bottomless mire of despondency and irresolution. the sailing master of the _sunshine_ had reached the opinion that his owner, in which relation, as charterer, bill stood for the time being, was either extremely absent-minded or slightly mad. when the yacht cleared the harbor he asked for further orders. bill told him to stand across the sound for awhile. when it was no longer possible to hold that course, because of the presence of long island, he again asked for a course. bill advised him to sail east awhile, then west awhile, but on no account to bother him about the matter any further. so this was done, while the sailing master and his two officers held whispered consultations on the subject of their owner. while these somewhat peculiar maneuvers were being carried into execution, bill endeavored to reach a decision. should he go back to larchmont and hunt for the missing ones? no; their punishment was not yet great enough. even if he went back, was there any chance of finding them? had they gone ashore? had they been picked up by a craft? had--he shivered--anything worse happened to them? of course nothing had happened to them; of course. he assured himself of that over and over again. and yet--well, things did happen, even to the best of swimmers. and if anything had happened, what could he do now? would he be responsible? would he be a murderer? nonsense; certainly not. yet he would feel himself a murderer, even if the law demanded nothing of him. why, if anything happened to that little girl---- he gripped the rail and tried to pull himself together. well, even if the worst happened, it would put an end to his society career. there might be consolation in that, he thought; but much as he sought to draw upon this source of comfort, it yielded little. "any further orders, sir?" asked the sailing master. "not yet; keep on sailing." "but which way, sir?" bill glared. "forward, backward, sidewise--suit yourself." the sailing master went away with deep wrinkles in his forehead and, for a change, the _sunshine_ began to describe wide circles. she was still circling, like a destroyer waiting to pounce upon a submarine, when aunt caroline, fresh from her nap, came on deck. she found bill still standing at the stern. "have you seen miss norcross, william?" "not for some time." "i've been looking for her. i can't imagine where she is." "neither can i." aunt caroline looked at him inquiringly. "you haven't quarreled with her about anything, have you, william?" "quarreled? no, indeed; there's been no quarrel." "i'm glad of that," said aunt caroline. "she's too nice a girl to quarrel with." now, for the first time since her arrival on deck, she took note of the fact that the _sunshine_ was moving; also, that their environment had completely changed. "why, we're sailing again, william!" "we're just out in the sound a ways; i got tired of staying in one place." the answer seemed to satisfy her immediate curiosity. bill wished that she would go away, so that he might drown himself in peace, but aunt caroline appeared to be taking an interest in things. "i don't think they keep the yacht quite as tidy as they might," she remarked. "there's a chair lying on its back. the magazines are blowing all over the deck, too. there ought to be paper-weights. dear me, william; they need a housekeeper." suddenly she walked across the deck and bent over to study a dark object that lay near the opposite rail. "more untidiness," said aunt caroline resentfully. "one of the sailors has left a wash-rag here." she stooped and picked the thing up between thumb and forefinger. as she shook it out drops of water flew from it. aunt caroline's eyes became round with amazement. "why, william! it's the skirt of her bathing-suit!" bill stared at the thing, fascinated. "how on earth did it ever come to be lying here on the deck?" exclaimed aunt caroline. "she must have taken it off," he mumbled. "and came on board without it? william, she is not that kind of a girl." what was the use of hiding things any longer? bill looked aunt caroline in the eye. "she didn't come on board," he said. it required several seconds for that to sink in. "not on board?" she repeated. "why, what do you mean? where is she?" he waved his hand in the direction of larchmont harbor. "having a swim, i guess," he said, with an effort at nonchalance. "william marshall! you mean to say she didn't come back to the yacht?" "she hadn't at the time we left." "or peter?" "nope. peter didn't come back, either." "then what in the world is this boat doing out here?" demanded aunt caroline. "it got tired of waiting." "you don't mean to tell me that you left them back there in the water?" "that's about it." aunt caroline was puffing out. "why, william! are you insane? to leave that girl back there with nothing----" she looked down at the little wet skirt and shuddered. "oh, i can't believe it!" "well, it's true, all right," said bill sullenly. "they didn't seem in any hurry to come back, and i didn't think it was up to me to wait all day." "it's unheard of. it's shocking! why, she isn't dressed to go anywhere. she isn't even properly dressed for--for bathing." aunt caroline for an instant was trying to put herself in the place of any fish who might chance to swim in the vicinity of mary wayne. "william marshall, there ought to be some terrible way to punish you!" bill thought a way had been discovered; he had been punishing himself for the last two hours. "you turn this yacht right around and go back to larchmont and find them," she commanded. in one respect, bill found a slight measure of relief in his aunt's view of the situation. evidently it did not occur to her that mary and pete might be drowned, and if such a possibility had not occurred to her very likely it was extremely remote. "what's the sense of going back now?" he asked. "it'll be dark in half an hour." "nevertheless, you turn this boat around." "oh, they're all right by this time," he said carelessly. "well, if they are, it's not because of anything you've done, william marshall." aunt caroline's eyes were beginning to blaze. "you've done your best to disgrace the girl. oh, that poor child! i don't approve of her taking off her skirt, understand me; i never could bring myself to that. i never did it myself, when i was a young woman, and i wouldn't do it now. but that doesn't excuse you. it simply makes it worse that you should have gone away and left her. you did quarrel with her, of course; i can understand, now. you let that childish temper of yours govern you. oh, that i should ever have had such a nephew. i'm ashamed of you!" bill felt that he was on the verge of disinheritance, but aunt caroline abruptly changed her line of thought. "thank goodness she's in charge of a responsible person!" she exclaimed. "who? my valet?" "certainly. if it were not for that i should be dreadfully frightened. but he'll take care of her, of course. he's just the kind of young man she ought to be with in such an awful predicament. if she were my own daughter i wouldn't ask anything better, under the circumstances." bill sneered elaborately. "he's so absolutely safe," declared aunt caroline. "he has such fine, high principles." "oh, bunk, aunt caroline." "william, don't you try to disparage that young man. i only wish you had his pure ideals. that's what makes me feel safe about miss norcross. he's so sound, and religious, and upright. why, his very character is sufficient to save the girl's reputation." bill was growing restive under the panegyric. "her reputation doesn't need any saving," he declared. "not with you or me; no. that's perfectly understood. but with the world--that is different. the world will never understand. that is, it would not understand if her companion were anybody but peter. but when it is known that it was he who guarded her and watched over her----" "aunt caroline, lay off." she stopped in sheer amazement and stared at her nephew. bill was in a mood to throw caution to the winds. "i'll agree with you she's safe enough," he said, "but for the love of mike cut out that bull about pete. he hasn't got any more principles than i have. i'm sick and tired of hearing you singing psalms about him." aunt caroline gasped. "why, confound him, he hasn't any more religion than a fish. he never studied theology in his life." "william, i don't believe a word you say." "you might as well," said bill scornfully. "why, aunt caroline, he doesn't know any more about theology than you do about dancing the shimmy." "but he talked to bishop wrangell----" "oh, he talked, all right. he's a bird at that. but it was just words, i tell you, words. he got it all out of the encyclopedia home. he's been stringing you--you and the bishop. that's just where he lives--stringing people." "i--don't--believe--it!" but there was a trace of alarm in aunt caroline's voice, despite her brave insistence. "oh, all right; don't. but if you'd ever known that wild aborigine in college you wouldn't swallow that theology stuff, hook, line and sinker." "it simply cannot be true, william marshall." bill laughed recklessly. "why, if you'd ever seen pete stearns----" "peter who?" "stearns." aunt caroline was sniffing, as though she scented danger. "what stearns?" she demanded. "oh, you know 'em, all right, aunt caroline." she seized bill by the arm and backed him against the rail. "of the eliphalet stearns family?" she demanded. "that's the bunch," affirmed bill, wickedly. she put her hand to her throat and retreated a pace, staring at bill through horrified eyes. "you stand there and tell me he is a stearns?" she whispered. "and you say it without shame, william marshall? you have brought a stearns to my house, when you knew---- oh, william!" "as a matter of fact," said bill with sudden generosity, "pete's all right in his own way, but he's no divinity student. as for his being a stearns----" aunt caroline stopped him with a gesture. "answer my question," she said sharply. "is he a grandson of eliphalet stearns?" "uh huh." "a son of grosvenor stearns?" "that's pete." she seemed to grow suddenly in stature. "then," she said, "you have disgraced the house of marshall. you have brought under my roof, in disguise, the son of an enemy. a stearns! you have done this thing with the deliberate purpose of deceiving me. had i known, had i even suspected, that you had ever associated with such a person, i should have disowned you, william marshall." "but his name is pete, all right, aunt caroline. and you never asked me for his last name." "you would have lied if i had," she said, in a voice that trembled despite its sternness. "you did all this knowing full well my opinion of the stearns family. eliphalet stearns! he was your grandfather's worst enemy. grosvenor stearns! your father and grosvenor stearns never spoke to each other from the days when they were boys. and now--now it remains for you to bring into my house another generation of a people who are beneath the notice or the contempt of a true marshall. it is unspeakable!" and yet she found herself able to speak with much freedom on the matter. "oh, what's the use of all this medieval history?" demanded bill. "just because my grandfather and old man stearns had a blow-up, i don't see why i've got to go on hating the family for the rest of my days. that old row isn't any of my funeral, aunt caroline." "have you no regard for your family honor and pride, william marshall? have you no loyalty to the memory of your ancestors? have you no thought of me? must you insult the living as well as the dead?" "i should think," grumbled bill, "that if you believed in theology you'd go in for that business of forgiving your enemies." "but not a stearns," she said vehemently. "and as for believing in theology--oh, how can i believe in anything after this?" "well, if you hadn't gone so daffy over him i wouldn't have said anything about it." "daffy?" echoed aunt caroline. "are you insinuating----" "you've been throwing him up to me as a model of holy innocence ever since he came into the house," said bill angrily. "just now you've been preaching about how safe she was with pete, and all that sort of poppycock. i tell you, i'm sick of it, aunt caroline." aunt caroline suddenly remembered. she groaned. "oh, that poor girl! heaven knows what will become of her now. out there----" she gestured wildly. "with a stearns!" "oh, he'll do as well by her as any sanctimonious guy." "the child's reputation is gone! gone!" "that's nonsense," said bill sharply. "if it comes to that, she can take care of herself." "no girl can take care of herself, william marshall. no proper girl would think of attempting it." aunt caroline bridled afresh at the very suggestion of feminine independence. "this is the end of the poor child. and you are responsible." "oh, piffle." "a stearns!" murmured aunt caroline. "bunk!" "a _stearns_!" "but suppose he was really trying to live down the family name and lead a better life?" suggested bill. "not a stearns, william marshall. there are some things in this world that cannot be done. oh, that unfortunate girl!" bill sighed irritably. "all right; we'll go back and hunt her up," he said. he was, in fact, rather pleased to have an excuse. "and see to it that she is properly married to him," added aunt caroline. bill looked like a man about to choke. "what!" he shouted. "certainly," said his aunt. "he's a stearns, i know; but what else is there to do? even a bad name is better than none." "aunt caroline, you're crazy!" "i was never more sane in my life. william. the poor child _must_ marry him. i'm sorry, of course; but it is better than not marrying him at all." "marry pete stearns?" bill resembled a large and ferocious animal, perhaps a lion. "_marry_ him? not in a million years will she marry him!" aunt caroline studied her nephew in astonishment. "would you deny her the poor consolation of a name?" she demanded. "of course she will marry him. i shall personally attend to it." "you'll do nothing of the kind," said bill savagely. "you'll keep out of it." "order the boat back to larchmont at once," was aunt caroline's answer. "not for that purpose." "to larchmont!" had she been taller, aunt caroline at that moment would have been imperious. she gestured with a sweep of the arm worthy of a queen. the gesture, it happened, was not in the direction of larchmont at all, but she did not know that. bill shook his head grimly. "william marshall, i propose to be obeyed." ordinarily, when aunt caroline reached that point, bill yielded the field to her. but this was no ordinary occasion. she proposed to marry her social secretary to pete stearns--_his_ secretary! where was ever such an outrageous idea conceived? again he shook his head. he could find no words to voice his scornful defiance. suddenly aunt caroline wilted into a deck chair. "i wish to go to my stateroom," she said, in a weak voice. "i feel faint. send for my maid." bill departed on a run. the maid brought smelling salts, and after a minute of sniffing aunt caroline arose and walked slowly toward the saloon entrance, through which she disappeared. she ignored bill's offer of an arm. the boss of the yacht _sunshine_, having satisfied his lust for defiance, ran forward and mounted the bridge two steps at a time. "back to larchmont!" he commanded. he was still standing on the bridge as they entered the harbor. by the time they were well inside, darkness had fallen. "are we to anchor, sir?" inquired the sailing master. "i don't know," said bill shortly. "take a turn up where we were moored a while ago." but before they had proceeded very far up the harbor he realized the futility of it. no sane persons would be swimming about after dark looking for a yacht whose return was purely conjectural. "head her outside again," ordered bill. the sailing master shrugged, gave a command, and the _sunshine_ began swinging in a circle. "after we get outside, sir, which way?" "i don't know. i haven't decided. i'll tell you later. damn it, don't ask so many questions." chapter xxi the last bottle in larchmont when pete stearns went in quest of a limousine he had, of course, merely employed a figure of speech that seemed to befit the raiment of his fair charge. in his practical mind he knew that it did not matter whether it was a limousine or a lizzie, so long as it was capable of locomotion and was not locked. the grounds through which he now walked were less familiar to him than those which contained the orchard on the other side of the hedge, yet he sensed the general direction of the house that he knew they must contain. through the darkening shadows he wended his way confidently; he felt sure that if there was danger ahead he would detect it before falling a victim. at last he emerged from the grove and stepped upon a lawn, where he paused for reconnaissance. fifty yards from him stood a house. it was large and dark and quiet. for two or three minutes he observed it carefully, but detected no sign of life. there was no other building to be seen; if there was a garage it was probably on the farther side of the house. he was more interested in discovering a garage than anything else. he walked rapidly across the lawn, intending to pass in what seemed to be the rear of the dwelling. the path he chose carried him near to the end of a broad porch, from which half a dozen steps descended to the lawn. close to the edge of the top step his watchful eyes observed an object that caused him to slacken pace, then stop. it was a hat. "i need a hat," thought pete. his bare feet were soundless on the steps as he ascended lightly and captured the object of his desire. it was a straw hat with a striped ribbon and by good chance it was an excellent fit. "i ought to get her a hat," he murmured. "she'll expect it." it seemed quite safe to explore the porch a bit further, so he moved softly along, avoiding a hammock, a table and several chairs. he was midway the length of the house when he became aware that there was a light within. its mellow glow reached him through a curtained window. pete held his breath as he came to a halt, and decided that his next move would be a retreat. and then he found himself bathed in a flood of illumination that came from directly overhead. some one within the house had switched on the porch-light! "run!" he whispered to himself. too late! in front of him a french window was slowly opening. pete stared at it hypnotically. wider and wider it swung as he stood there inert, as incapable of flight as though his bare feet were nailed to the porch floor. and then from out the window stepped a stout gentleman of middle age whose face wore an innocuous and cordial smile. he did not seem to be smiling at anything in particular, but rather at the whole world. evidently it had been warm in the house, for he was coatless and collarless and his shirt was unbuttoned at the throat. hugged against his bosom with one hand was a bottle in which there was no cork. swinging loosely in the other hand was a carbonated water siphon. the stout gentleman's glance rested upon pete with the utmost friendliness. his smile ceased to be a generalization and became a greeting. he bowed. he winked slowly and ponderously. the winking achievement pleased him so well that he repeated it, and afterward tried it with the other eye, where he again succeeded to his still greater satisfaction. "prince," said the stout gentleman, "have a drink." pete indulged in a deep sigh of relief. "sir," he said, returning the bow, "your hospitality charms me. i don't mind if i do." "hold 'em," said the gentleman, proffering the bottle and the siphon. "have a chair, prince. back in a minute." he turned and disappeared through the french window. there was a barely perceptible unsteadiness in his gait, but it did not interfere with his efficiency, for he returned within a few seconds, bearing two glasses. pete and the gentleman drank to each other punctiliously, the latter waving his glass with a grandiose flourish before he put it to his lips. "lil private stock, prince," and the gentleman winked again, this time with the original eye. "nectar, sir, if you will permit me to say so," affirmed pete, with another bow. "but i regret to say that you have made a slight mistake. i am not a prince." the gentleman smiled knowingly and made a gesture of deprecation. "'sall right, old man. my mistake. liable to run into princes any time round here. had prince callin' on my daughter 'safternoon. just as soon have prince round as anybody. i'm liberal. have li'l drink?" pete declined regretfully. his host placed bottle and siphon on a table with meticulous care. "listen, prince." pete checked him with an upraised hand. "merely a viscount, sir." "listen, viscount. play a li'l cowboy pool?" pete considered. clearly it would be inconsiderate to treat so benevolent a host in a churlish manner; yet there was a lady all in lace, sitting in a gloomy summer-house among the trees, who doubtless awaited his return with impatience and perhaps alarm. "i fear, sir," he said, "it would be an intrusion upon your family." the stout gentleman shook his head earnestly. "nobody home, viscount. no family; no servants. everybody gone away somewhere. everybody on a party. i'm on party; you're on party. you and me play li'l cowboy pool." so saying, he linked his arm affectionately into one of pete's and led him firmly into the house. he led him through several rooms, pausing in each to press buttons, so that the apartments through which they strolled became ablaze with lights. no ordinary summer cottage was this, pete learned, as his eyes appraised each successive revelation; it was a mansion. "family all in society, viscount," confided the stout gentleman, as he clung to pete's arm. "all hittin' high spots. wife, society; daughter, society; son, society. old man, cowboy pool. c'mon." while pete stearns was conscious of his own informalities of costume, it seemed that his host had not given the matter a thought. the purple and green coat of silk did not appear to have attracted his attention, nor the other garment, that was striped in salmon pink. if the stout gentleman owned the straw hat that pete had discovered on the porch, he displayed no sign of recognition. he was, in fact, surprised at nothing whatever. in the billiard room the shaded lights that were suspended over the table did not satisfy him, for he made a complete circuit of the apartment, turning on all the lights in the wall sockets. "'smore cheerful," he explained. "find a cue, prince." "viscount, sir." "my mistake, viscount. find a cue." pete found a cue that suited as to weight. his host bowed until he rocked on his heels and assigned him the honor of opening the game. for some fifteen minutes they played in silence, the stout gentleman revealing a measure of skill and technique that quite astonished his antagonist. his difficulties seemed to be wholly in measuring angles with the eye; otherwise his game was well nigh faultless and his control of the cue masterly. it was the eye difficulty that eventually compassed his defeat, although pete was hard put, even with the employment of all his own skill, to nose out a winner. with the shot that settled the game the stout gentleman flung his cue on the table and embraced his conqueror. "viscount," he said, "you're a prince. firs' man beat me cowboy pool all summer." "it was but an accident, sir," said pete modestly. "nope. no accident. strictly on merits. 'sall right; pleasure all mine. firs' time ever stacked up against gentleman from arabian nights." from which remark pete perceived that his host had not been wholly insensible of his costume, although it was evident that he was in no whit surprised by it, nor did he regard it as in any way incongruous. "i think, sir, if you will pardon me, that i should be taking my leave," observed pete, as his eye chanced upon a tall clock that stood in a corner. "what's hurry, prince? have li'l drink." but pete, even under the warm pressure of hospitality, had not forgotten the lady in the summer-house. he felt certain that she was becoming alarmed; he feared that she might even attempt an exploration on her own account. "viscount," observed the lord of the manor, once more linking arms, "you're greates' cowboy pool player in world. extraord'nary! i'm next greates'. any gentleman beats me welcome anything i got." they had progressed as far as the library, where his host halted. "anything i got," he repeated, with a wave of his arm. "'sall yours. anything you see--'s yours. what'll it be?" it occurred to pete that so generous an invitation to trespass further upon hospitality should not be ignored. "if you could loan me a pair of shoes," he suggested, "i would be greatly indebted to you." "dozen pair shoes!" said the stout gentleman earnestly. "and a hat--a lady's hat." "lady's hat? lady's----" his host looked him in the eye, placed a finger alongside his nose and winked roguishly. "lady's hat--for princess?" "for the viscountess, sir." "dozen hats!" exclaimed his host warmly. "dozen hats for viscountess. back in a minute." he rushed up-stairs at an alarming speed and pete heard him charging around on the floor above. the gentleman had an unaccountable way of keeping his word almost to the letter. it was little more than a minute before he was back again, his arms full of hats and shoes. he dumped them all on the floor and bowed. "all yours, prince." pete was not long in finding a pair of shoes that would stay on his feet, but the selection of a hat from among the fragile heap was a task that perplexed him. his difficulty was not ignored by his host, for the stout gentleman suddenly reached into the pile, yanked forth something that was broad brimmed and lacy and thrust it into his hands. "there's hat for princess!" he exclaimed. "my compliments. have a li'l drink?" he hugged pete's arm delightedly as he led the way back to the porch. the bottle and the siphon inspired him to confidences. "viscount, observe bottle, please. listen. last bottle scotch in larchmont." he lifted the bottle and stroked it gently. "last bottle anything in larchmont," he added. pete viewed the bottle with a new and reverent light in his eyes. "sir," he said, "knowledge of that fact overwhelms me with the true measure of your hospitality." "'sall right, prince, old man. 'sall yours. take bottle." but there were some things that even pete stearns could not bring himself to do. he sighed and shook his head. to what unknown heights of generosity might this genial gentleman arise--this gentleman who would even renounce the last bottle in larchmont? "have li'l drink, anyhow." and it was a very small drink that pete poured for himself, for he had discovered that within him lay a conscience. "where's princess?" demanded his host abruptly. pete answered with an indefinite wave of the hand. "she awaits me," he said. the stout gentleman winked again, knowingly, and thrust an elbow into the ribs of his guest. he was clinging to pete's arm. pete hesitated. he wanted something more; in fact, he had not yet obtained that for which he had gone in search. yet why hesitate? surely a gentleman who offered his last bottle would not quibble over an automobile. "do you happen, sir, to have a car that i could borrow for a short time?" "car? le's see." his host thought for several seconds. "nope, all cars out with family. all cars out in society. all cars----" he paused, then smiled broadly yet mysteriously. "sh! this way, prince." although there was nobody in the house, the owner thereof tiptoed his way carefully along the porch toward the rear, with a constant beckoning and a warning for caution. he created in pete the impression that they were now upon an errand of distinctly clandestine character and must manage the affair accordingly. down the steps to the lawn and around the corner of the house they went, in single file. the stout gentleman paused near a small porch that evidently constituted an entrance to the kitchen. he looked around cautiously in the semidarkness. bidding pete to remain exactly where he stood, he stole across to the side of the porch with catlike steps, fumbled there for a moment, and returned, trundling a vehicle. it was a motor-cycle, and attached to it was one of those peregrinating bath-tubs known as a side car. "sh! last car in larchmont, viscount. belongs to gardener. 'sall yours." in the dim light pete examined it hastily. he mounted the saddle and threw the switch. he pumped the starting pedal. at the third thrust there was a sharp explosion, and then a rapid fire that cut the night. he let the engine race for half a minute, then throttled down and leaned over toward his benefactor. "sir," he said, "you are the noblest of men. you do not know just what you have done, but it is a service far beyond price." "viscount," answered his host, with a deep bow, "pleasure's all mine. any gentleman beats me cowboy pool--any gentleman honors me cowboy pool--any gentleman from arabian nights----" a thought occurred to him. "want you to meet family. stay and meet family. stay and meet society. stay----" pete interrupted him hastily. "at any other time, sir, i should be charmed. but, as i told you, there is a lady awaiting me." "forgot lady. my apologies. forgot all about lady. my apologies to lady." "and so i bid you good night, sir. and may heaven reward you," said pete fervently. the stout gentleman clung to his hand. "want to see princess," he observed. "want to salute princess. want to extend hospitality----" "if you will go up on your porch," said pete, "i will drive the princess by. she will be charmed to see you, sir, and in her behalf i now thank you for all your goodness." he threw in the clutch and the motor-cycle started forward with a leap. straight across the lawn pete headed it, bringing it to a halt at the edge of the grove. leaving the engine running, he leaped from the saddle and ran in among the trees, in the direction of the summer-house. mary wayne was standing in the doorway as he approached. "where--where have you been?" she demanded. "i'll explain later," he answered briefly. "hurry. i've got a car." "you stole----" "it was presented to me. come on." he seized her hand and urged her forward at a run. as they reached the panting machine, mary uttered an exclamation of dismay. "that thing!" "what do you want for nothing. get in. it's all right." "but it's so conspic----" he lifted her and dumped her into the bathtub. "that thing down at your feet is a hat," he said. "put it on. now, there's a gentleman waiting to wave good-by at us. he's the most important man in the world. he thinks you're a princess. as we go past, i want you to kiss your hand to him. it's highly necessary. he expects it." the motor-cycle was under way again. pete guided it in a wide curve until he was headed toward the house. then he dashed with full speed, straight for the illuminated veranda. standing at the edge of the porch was the stout gentleman, his body gently swaying. his arms seemed to be engaged in an incantation, for they waved rhythmically. in one hand was the bottle. pete swerved the machine within a few feet of the porch and waved elaborately. the gentleman was saying something, but they could not hear him. mary waved her hand as they swept by. "throw him a kiss!" ordered pete sharply. "confound it, you're a princess! wait, now; i'll make a circle and go by again." the machine curved out across the lawn and pete laid a course that would once more enable them to pass in review. the gentleman on the porch continued his incantation. he was chanting, too. as they slowed down opposite him, mary half rose from her seat and threw him a kiss. the waving arms halted abruptly. the stout gentleman's eyes became round with pleasure. he gripped the rail and leaned forward. "princess----" he made a courtly gesture and a treasured object flew from the gesturing hand. there was a crash of glass on the gravel walk below. the gentleman blinked, lurched forward, swung back and sat heavily on the floor of the porch. he leaned his forehead against the rail and burst into manly tears. pete gave his chariot a full charge of gas. "the last bottle in larchmont!" he gasped chokingly. chapter xxii the road to home the motor-cycle was behaving excellently. as pete began to get the feel of his steed he experimented a bit with the throttle, twisting the hand grip that controlled it farther and farther, until the machine responded with a burst of speed that alarmed the lady in the bathtub. she clung to the edges of the car and shut her eyes against the wind, bracing her feet with the instinctive effort of trying to apply brakes. pete knew only in a general way the direction of the main road, which he was seeking. when they emerged from the private grounds of the gentleman who owned the last bottle, he turned the car in what seemed to be the proper course and raced along a road that was bordered with villas. it ended at a cross-road, where he was forced to make a change of direction. then, for the next five minutes, he was alternately covering short stretches of straightaway and turning corners. the residential section devoted to summer dwellers seemed to pete to have been provided with streets that were designed on the plan of a labyrinth. it baffled escape. they passed people on walks and cars in the roadways, passed them at a nervous speed. mary wayne was huddled as low in the bathtub as she could squeeze herself, but pete was astride a saddle in the open, and he had an annoying sense of conspicuity. he doubted if the ordinary citizen of larchmont would accept his pink-striped pajamas with the complete equanimity that had characterized his late host. the silk garments wrapped themselves tightly around his shins, but streamed out in the rear like pennants in a gale. the rush of air sculptured his high-priced haberdashery until he resembled the winged victory of samothrace. mary reached both hands to her head with a little cry, but too late. the picture hat had been snatched by a gust and went sailing into a hedge. "can't stop!" he yelled. "mine went long ago." she shook her head to signify that she did not want him to stop. still the labyrinth held them. one of its trick passages brought them into a cul de sac, where he was forced to slow down and turn in his tracks. a man on the sidewalk shouted at him, but pete did not answer. mary huddled closer in her refuge. they turned another corner and came to a dead stop, with a screeching of brakes, in order to avoid collision with a touring-car approaching in the opposite direction. the touring-car also stopped. its driver uttered an exclamation, and an instant afterward switched on a spotlight. mary shrieked as the merciless beam fell upon her. somebody in the car tittered. "when did they turn the club dance into a masquerade?" asked a voice. "ages ago," answered pete promptly. "swing your car; you're on the wrong side of the road." there was more laughter; the spotlight still held its victims. "he looks like the sultan of sulu," commented the voice behind the spotlight. "running away with marie antoinette," said a second voice. and then, in a sharp, feminine treble: "jack, look at that thing on her shoulders! why, it's just exactly like my----" mary hid her face and shuddered. pete slipped in the clutch and made a reckless detour that came within an ace of landing the side-car in a ditch. they shot away again with an echo of excited voices in their ears. "we've got to get out of here quick!" shouted pete. "i think they've got our number." mary knew it to a certainty. no woman who owned the piece of lingerie that graced her shoulders would ever fail to recognize it. "try the road to the left," she urged, as she looked back. "i think they're turning the car around." he acted on the suggestion, for want of anything better, and shot into a new road that possessed the grateful advantage of poorer illumination. fear of pursuit caused him to forsake it after a few hundred yards, and after that he spent several minutes dodging into one street after another, until he felt that the touring car must have abandoned pursuit. every time they passed a street light he accelerated speed, regardless of all considerations save a resolve not to linger in the illuminated places. mary was grim. she had abandoned hope of ever escaping from the hated town; she felt that she was the helpless prisoner of a nightmare, unable to loose the invisible shackles. they would either be dashed to pieces or fall afoul of the law, and between these alternatives she attempted to make no choice; one was as unhappy as the other. yet during all this maddening and futile whirl she found a corner of her mind sufficiently detached from imminent perils to give its entire attention to the hating of bill marshall. he, and he alone, had done this thing, she told herself over and over again. oh, how she hated him! and then came sudden liberation from the labyrinth. they shot out of a narrow lane upon what was unmistakably the main road, missed a juggernaut limousine by inches, careened sickeningly as their machine straightened out in the direction of the city, and then gathered speed to put behind them forever the place of their undoing. "we're all clear, now," he called, bending his head toward her. "making out all right?" "go on," was her only answer. there was but one goal in the mind of pete stearns--the marshall mansion in lower fifth avenue. it was of no avail to stop short of that; they had no money, no friends, no spare wardrobe elsewhere. a return to larchmont was not for an instant to be considered. probably the _sunshine_ was back in the harbor, looking for them. well, let bill marshall look--and then worry when he did not find them. the same thought was in the mind of mary wayne; she prayed that bill might now be in a frenzy of fright and anxiety. in a general way, pete knew the main road; if he had not, the volume of traffic easily served as a guide. they passed anywhere from a dozen to twenty cars every mile, and inasmuch as speed was their one available refuge from curious eyes, pete employed it. it would have been better for peace of mind to make their way to the city by sequestered roads, but he did not know all the byways and turnings of the westchester highway system, and there was the risk of getting lost in unfamiliar paths. the labyrinth of larchmont had been a sufficient lesson in that. the evening was warm, yet pete found that two sets of silken pajamas were none too much for comfort, for the motor-cycle created its own little gale. mary sat crouched in her lingerie, trying desperately to keep everything in place, yet discovering every little while that a homeward-bound pennant of filmy stuff was whipping the air half a dozen feet behind her. new rochelle flew past them in a blur of light. pelham manor came and went in a flash. mount vernon was little more than a brief burst of illumination. "safety first," whispered pete to himself. "that means speed." they were crossing the harlem, still at a pace that was barred by all law save the primitive one to which alone they held allegiance--self-preservation. riverside drive! should they risk it or seek less traveled paths? "stick to the drive," urged the guiding spirit. pete stuck to it. better to come to grief boldly on the highway of pleasure and fashion than to meet disaster ignominiously along some furtive route. but even the desperate urge of speed could not be completely satisfied now. there was the summer evening's traffic to be considered, and often it slowed them to a maddeningly moderate pace. mary was aware of the fact that they were not without observers. with another driver she felt that her own costume would have escaped notice; she was making herself as small as possible, wrapped tightly in her raiment. but pete stearns, astride the saddle, flaunted himself. he could not help it. the coat of purple and green shone in the city's glare like the plumage of a peacock. as for the trousers striped in salmon pink, they shrieked like a siren. people in cars stared and turned to stare again. people atop the buses gesticulated and waved. people on the sidewalks halted in their tracks and blinked. a million eyes, it seemed to mary, were boring into her from all sides. oh, wait till she laid hands on bill marshall! fifth avenue! the traffic increased; the pace slackened perforce. mary gripped the edges of the car and closed her eyes. why had they risked it? why hadn't she urged him to seek a hiding place until long past midnight? too late now. the machine came to a stop. she opened her eyes long enough to photograph the awful picture on her mind. fifth avenue and forty-second street--with the east and west traffic holding the right of way! a bus towered above them on the curb side. a millionaire touring-car flanked them on the left. ahead were most of the automobiles in the world; of that she was certain. she did not dare to look behind. her eyes were shut again, but her ears were open. she could hear voices, laughter, a screeching of horns. somebody flung a question; a dozen followed. and pete stearns was flinging answers! oh, why didn't he keep still? the traffic moved again, and with it the little chariot that had become their ark of preservation. mary felt it bumping across the tracks on forty-second street. somebody shouted; she knew without looking that it was a policeman. there was a shrill whistle. the motor-cycle plunged forward. "hold fast!" yelled pete, bending over. "that guy wants us, but he'll have to step some. no more traffic stops for mine!" just what they did after that mary never knew. nor was pete himself particularly clear. they lurched, swayed, dodged; they scraped mudguards right and left; they shot behind, in front of, and around automobiles that were stupidly content to keep within the law; they scattered pedestrians; they ran past traffic semaphores that were set against them; they mocked cross-town trolleys by dashing across their paths; and all this to a constant din of shouting people and piercing police whistles. the home of miss caroline marshall stood on a corner, and the entrance to the garden and stable yard in the rear was on the side street. as pete swerved from the avenue, mary opened her eyes again and gasped incredulously. they were home! he had leaped from the saddle, crossed the sidewalk, tried the tall, iron gate that barred the driveway and was back again before she could move her cramped body from the position into which she had twisted it. "gate's locked!" he cried. "we haven't any keys. got to climb the wall. hurry!" saying which, he seized her by an arm and dragged her out of the little bathtub. the brick wall that flanked the marshall garden on the street side stood about seven feet in height. pete reached for the top, chinned himself, and squirmed astride it. "gimme your hands!" mary lifted them, felt them seized, and found herself slowly rising from the sidewalk. for bill marshall she would have been a feather; for pete stearns she was a burden. he gritted his teeth and lifted until his muscles cracked. inch by inch he raised her. mary tried to dig her toes into the bricks, but they offered no foothold; all she accomplished was to tangle her feet in the lingerie. two people across the street stopped to stare. pete sighted them and gave another grim hoist. then victory. she was sitting on top of the wall, swinging her feet on the garden side, as he leaped down into a flower-bed and reached for her. "oh! the rose-bushes!" she cried, as he caught her and deposited her in the flower-bed. "damn the roses!" "but it's me! the thorns!" "forget it." some of her raiment was clinging to aunt caroline's treasured plants as she stepped painfully out on the grass. "now to get into the house," he said briskly. "we'll have to break in. there isn't a soul home." "thank goodness," murmured mary. the house was dark, but never had mary seen it when it looked so friendly and sheltering. the nightmare was over. they were really home! pete ran to the kitchen entrance. locked, and undoubtedly the stout bar on the inside was also in place. it was not worth while to try the window-catches, for even if he were able to raise a sash there were stout steel bars through which they could not pass. he went to the cellar entrance, turned the knob in the door, and threw his weight against it. nothing budged. he stepped back on the lawn and made a survey of the rear elevation of the house. all of the windows that lacked bars were beyond his reach or that of any ordinary climber. if he could find a ladder---- he ran back to the stable, but discovered it to be as stoutly resistant to intrusion as the house itself. mary beckoned to him. "i should think you could climb up on the wall," she said, pointing, "right where it joins the house, and then make a jump for that nearest window." pete looked at her severely. "do you think i'm a trapeze performer? do you want me to break a leg?" mary measured the jump with her eye. "mr. marshall could do it," she said. "rot!" "but he could. and he'd be willing to try, too." pete's glance had turned into a glare. "there's gratitude for you! that's a fine thing to throw up in my face. just because i'm not an overgrown brute you think it's a lot of fun to stand there making dares." "if you think i'm having any fun," she said sharply, "you're tremendously wrong. i'm all stiff and scratched up from those rose-thorns--and i'm hungry. and thirsty! and mr. marshall may be large--but he is not an overgrown brute." "oh, that's it, is it? you're singing another tune. the last time you mentioned him it was in connection with murder, i think." "never mind. he could get in that window, just the same." pete eyed her for an instant, then walked toward the garden wall. "wait till i'm lying crushed at your feet," he said bitterly. "you're driving me to suicide." "pooh!" said mary. he climbed the wall and tested his reach in the direction of the window. the sill was at least a foot beyond the tips of his fingers. "jump for it," she said from below. "it looks easy." "does it?" he said scornfully. "you ought to see it from here." "i can see it perfectly well. i could do it myself." pete stearns marveled. why had she turned on him thus? had he not been playing the hero since mid-afternoon? had he not brought her out of the jaws of larchmont and into the sanctuary of aunt caroline's back yard? and now she taunted him, mocked him, dared him to take a senseless hazard. "are you going to stand on that wall all night?" she demanded. "everybody in the street can see you." he turned and faced the window desperately. he stepped back a pace and viewed it again. he considered the relative advantages of a standing or a running jump and decided upon the former. he crouched. he straightened and again measured the distance with his eye. "well?" asked the pitiless voice from below. "oh, give me a chance to figure it out," he retorted. "stop staring at me. you make me nervous." so mary looked away. she even walked away. her steps carried her to an asphalt driveway, where she paused, staring down at a metal disk that lay directly in front of her. it was about two feet in diameter, and fitted closely into an iron rim that was embedded in the pavement. she recognized the thing instantly. it was the cover of the coal hole. aunt caroline had objected to coal wagons unloading at her curb; and being the possessor of a back yard, into which wagons could be driven, she had built a chute from that point directly into the bins. mary remembered that she had seen ton after ton of coal poured down that very hole. she turned and glanced toward the adventurer on the wall. he was still staring up at the window, now crouching, now standing erect, now advancing, now retreating, but never leaping. with an exclamation of disdain, she stooped and laid hold of the cover of the coal chute. as she tugged at the handle it moved. she applied both hands to the task. the disk came out of its rim and she dragged it clear of the aperture. she glanced downward into the depths. she might as well have closed her eyes, for the darkness within that coal chute was total. it was spooky. yet her common sense told her that there was nothing spooky about it; it was merely a coal chute that sloped at an easy angle into a cellar bin. she looked again to see what progress pete had made; she could not observe that he had made any. he was still standing on top of the wall, making calculations and having visions of a little white cot in an emergency ward. "he's afraid," she said. "i'm not!" but she was, despite the brave boast--she was dreadfully afraid. yet fear did not prevent her from sitting down and letting her feet dangle into the hole. of course, she could summon pete stearns and bid him plunge into the stygian shaft. but she scorned that; she was minded to show him what a little woman could do. he was still fiddling on top of the wall when she glanced up. "oh, don't bother," she called. "if you're so afraid----" "i'm not. i'm just taking precautions. if you'll leave me alone a minute----" "i'm tired of waiting. you don't seem to be able to make up what you call your mind." "if you'd stop talking to me----" he turned to glare down at her. zip! she was gone. he blinked rapidly and stared again. what---- how---- he rubbed his eyes. only an instant before she was there; she was sitting in the middle of the driveway. her white figure had been perfectly distinct; there could not be a possible doubt about it. and then the earth swallowed her! hastily he scrambled down from the top of the wall and ran across the yard. the open coal chute yawned at his feet. he stooped and listened. there was no sound. he called into the depths. there was no answer. "the son of a gun!" he muttered in an awed whisper. he was still standing there, dully contemplating the hole in the earth, when a flicker of light caused him to lift his head. she was in the kitchen. he heard the lifting of the bar and the turning of the key in the lock, followed by a rattle of bolts. as he approached the door it opened. mary wayne looked as weird as the witch of endor. her white robes were streaked with black. her face was smeared with coal dust; her hands, her hair. out of a sooty countenance gleamed two dangerous gray eyes. "you coward!" she said. "see what you've done!" "but if you'd waited----" "you've just made me ruin the loveliest things i ever wore in all my life. look at this peignoir. it's ripped, it's torn, it's---- oh, don't stand there! i'll slam the door in a second, and then you can stay out or else come in by way of the coal bin." pete entered meekly and closed the door behind him. single file they mounted the back stairs that led to the servants' quarters. chapter xxiii home pete stearns, dressed once more like a citizen of the united states, descended again to the lower floor by the back stairs and began a search of the pantry. he foraged some crackers, a jar of cheese, and some potted tongue, and with these he returned to the second floor, where he found the social secretary awaiting him in the sun parlor. mary wayne was a normal person again. the soot of the coal chute had disappeared, as well as the fragile vestments; she had not taken her entire wardrobe aboard the yacht. pete was still grumbling over her treatment of him. it was ungenerous, unfair, he contended; she was coldly ignoring all his prowess of the afternoon and evening and dwelling only upon a single incident in which he felt entirely justified in exercising reasonable precaution. "i'd have gone down the coal chute myself if you'd only waited a minute," he said. "you didn't give me a fair chance." "i notice you didn't follow me," she answered contemptuously. "you waited for me to find my way out of the cellar and open the kitchen door." "well, what was the use----" "please open that can of tongue. do you want me to die of hunger?" he shrugged gloomily and attacked the can. mary picked up the telephone instrument and called for a number. presently she was talking. "send miss norcross to the telephone." pete repressed a start and worked steadily with the can-opener. but his ears were alert. as for mary, she appeared to have forgotten his presence. "oh, nell; is that you? this is mary talking. no; i'm not in larchmont. i'm _home_. oh, yes; we were there. but something awful happened. i want you to come around here right away. i've just got to talk to you; i need your advice. what? no; i can't tell you about it over the 'phone; it would take too long. please hurry; it's important. i--i want your moral support. i'm afraid the beginning of the end is here, and you just can't desert me now. you've _got_ to come. all right. take a taxi, if you can find one. but hurry, anyhow." as she replaced the receiver pete stearns was facing her. and then she remembered. a slow flush came into her cheeks. "i've been guessing for a long time that there was something queer about you," he observed, with a cynical smile. "so it's 'miss norcross' at the other end of the wire, is it? and who are you?" "you had no business to listen to a conversation," she said angrily. "strikes me it was stupid of you to forget i was here, miss norcross--wayne--or whoever you are." he eyed her maliciously. "so it's the beginning of the end, is it? well, let me in on it." mary returned her glance defiantly. "i have nothing to say to _you_," she said. "it isn't any of your business." "but, of course, you don't deny you're an impostor?" "well, if it comes to being an impostor, mr. valet, i don't believe you'll stand very much investigating." pete regarded her calmly. "let's form an alliance," he suggested. "an alliance of what? fraud?" "something like that. i see you confess it." "i confess nothing," she retorted hotly. "and i don't care for an alliance." "it might pay," he said, thoughtfully. "if we keep up the teamwork i believe we can get by yet. between my ingenuity and your references----" "stop!" mary was shuddering at the allusion to references. not only the thing itself, but the very word, had become hateful. "don't talk to me," she ordered. "i won't discuss anything with you." pete shrugged and pushed a plate of crackers and cheese toward her. "let's talk about your friend, anyhow," he suggested. mary rose to her feet abruptly and ran toward the door that opened into the hall. she opened it half-way and stood there, listening. then she turned and beckoned mysteriously. when he had joined her she whispered: "i thought i heard something--down-stairs. listen." for half a minute neither spoke. "sounds like somebody talking," he said, in a low voice. "but it seems far away. maybe it's out in the street." she shook her head. "i'm positive it's in this house. it's down-stairs. there! hear it?" he nodded. "maybe aunt caroline and the rest of 'em have come home again," he suggested. "no; it's a man's voice, but it's a strange one. it's--burglars!" "it might be, of course," he assented. "let's telephone for the police. hurry!" "no. let's investigate first. we can telephone afterward." he stepped softly out into the hall and started toward the front of the house. mary seized his arm. "isn't there a pistol--or something--that we could take?" she whispered, nervously. "don't believe there's a gun in the house. bill doesn't own one--except a shotgun." "get it." he tiptoed toward bill's room and reappeared with a double-barreled weapon, the mere sight of which gave mary a thrill of reassurance. it was unloaded, but pete did not disclose that fact. in single file, with pete leading, they moved cautiously along the hall in the direction of the main staircase. at the top of the flight they paused. there was a light burning in the lower hall. mary pinched him and pointed at it. "i'm going back to telephone the police," she said. "not yet. wait!" he started gingerly down the staircase, the shotgun thrust boldly forward in order not to betray its utter unpreparedness. mary hesitated, but when he had descended half a dozen steps she followed, curiosity overwhelming her. they heard the voice again, more clearly now: "understand, now; no noise. if we make a racket we'll have the bulls here. the first man makes a noise gets what's comin' to him." pete and the girl exchanged glances. "a whole gang of them!" she said, in a frightened whisper. pete placed his finger against his lips and descended half a dozen steps more. she crept along behind him, clinging to the banisters. the marshall mansion was of old-fashioned construction. over many of the doors there were transoms. this was true of the door that separated the library from the lower hall. as the pair of adventurers halted again and leaned stealthily over the railing they could see that there was a light in the library. the door was closed, but the transom stood open nearly to its full width. through the transom they could view a rectangular section of the library floor. ordinarily, from where they stood, a table would have been visible, a chair or two, and a rug. but now table, chairs and rug had vanished and there was nothing but smooth parquetry. "they're packing up the things!" gasped mary. pete answered with a gesture imposing caution. as they watched the open space in the library a man stepped into view. he came to a halt and, from where he stood, was visible to them from the waist up. he did not look exactly like a burglar; he was too well dressed to fit mary's notion of the fraternity. he was too stout, also, for mary's idea of a burglar called for a lean and hungry cassius. as he paused in the center of the library, he made a commanding motion with his arms. it was a sign for silence on the part of persons who were invisible to the watchers on the staircase. then he began to speak again. "now, what i said about keepin' your lips buttoned goes. get me? i'm runnin' this and i don't want to have any trouble. there ain't goin' to be any yellin' or stampin' or any other kind of noise, except what can't be helped. everybody understand that, now?" there was a murmur from an unseen throng, and evidently an assent, for the speaker nodded. "and i want everybody to be careful not to break nothin'," he continued. "you don't want to break no chairs or tables or nothin' like that. and be careful of them pictures on the walls." "why, they're going to take every single thing!" murmured mary, in a shocked voice. "s-sh. wait!" answered pete, staring wide-eyed at the man whose body was framed in the transom. "all right, then," the man was saying. "only don't forget. the gentleman who give us the use of this house is a friend of ours and we don't want to get him into no trouble." "aw, we're wise; we're wise," remarked a voice whose owner they could not see. "start somethin'." mary was clutching pete's arm and staring at him with widely questioning eyes. the gentleman who gave the use of the house! why---- "now, the winner of this bout, gents----" the beefy man was talking again. "the winner of this bout is goin' to be matched against the champion. everything here is strictly on its merits. the men will wear six-ounce gloves, accordin' to regulations. both of 'em was weighed in this afternoon at three o'clock, with the scale set at one hundred and thirty-five, and neither of 'em tipped the beam. and the bout goes to a finish." there was a rumbling chorus of satisfaction from the invisible audience, and the speaker checked it sharply. "lay off the noise, now. that's just what we ain't goin' to have. you guys paid your good money to get in here and i guess you don't want trouble any more'n i do. now, in this corner is charley collins, the trenton bearcat, lightweight champion of new jersey." as he spoke another person stepped into the field of vision. it was unquestionably the bearcat. he was a blond-haired youth of sturdy proportions, clad in a breech clout, a pair of shoes and two six-ounce gloves. he nodded carelessly in response to the introduction and began testing the floor with his feet. "in this corner," continued the stout man, "is kid whaley, pride of the east side." whereat came briskly into view signor antonio valentino. he was grinning cheerfully and bowing right and left. there was a suppressed murmur of admiration. whatever his omissions as a sculptor of carrara marble, the kid had neglected nothing that would make his own body a living statue of grace and brawn. save for the twisted nose and the tin ear, he was an undeniably fine specimen. his attire matched that of the bearcat. "now, when i say 'break,'" remarked the master of ceremonies, addressing himself to the kid and the bearcat, "i want you to break. understand! hittin' with one arm free goes, but no rough stuff in the clinches. and when you break, break clean and step back. no hittin' in the breakaways. all set?" the two young gentlemen in breech clouts nodded nonchalantly. "go to your corners." the kid and the bearcat stepped out of sight, and likewise the beefy man. "it's--it's awful!" stammered mary wayne to her companion on the staircase. "make them stop it!" pete viewed her with a look of amazement. "stop it?" he echoed, incredulously. "what for? why, this is a bout they've been trying to pull off for the last two months. stop it? why, we're lucky to be in on it!" there was nothing but horror in mary's eyes. "then i'll get the police to stop it!" she hissed. "i'm going to telephone now." "and get bill marshall into all kinds of trouble?" she hesitated. doubtless it would make a great deal of trouble for bill marshall, not only with the authorities of the law, but with aunt caroline. he deserved the worst, of course, and yet---- ever since the middle of that afternoon she had felt that the administering of justice to bill was something that lay properly in her own hands. if she had cared to analyze the matter closely she would have found that it was not justice she sought so much as vengeance. and while she still hesitated at pete's reminder, a bell sounded in the library. she looked again toward the open transom. the kid and the bearcat were in view again, no longer nonchalantly inert, but in animated action. their bodies were tense and swaying, their arms moving in a bewildering series of feints, their feet weaving in and out in a strange series of steps that seemed to have an important relation to their task. the bearcat was grim, the kid smiling contentedly. suddenly the blond one shot an arm forward and behind it lunged his body. mary clutched the banister. but signor antonio valentino, still smiling, merely flirted his head a few inches and the gloved fist went into space across his shoulder. at the same time, he seemed to be doing something himself. mary could not, with all her inexperience, discern exactly what it was, but she saw the bearcat's head snap backward and she heard him grunt audibly as he clinched. "the kid'll eat him," whispered pete. "gee, i wish i had a bet down!" mary shuddered. she decided to go up-stairs, but somehow she could not release her grip on the banisters. she felt that she ought to go away and hide from this horror in aunt caroline's library. even if she could not move, at least, she thought, she could close her eyes. but when she tried to close them, somehow they persisted in staying open. the two young sculptors on the other side of the transom were now entering upon their artistic task with amazing speed and zest. sometimes it took them entirely beyond the vision of the watchers on the staircase. then they would come zigzagging back into view again; first their legs, then their bodies, then their flying arms and low-bent heads. there was a constant smacking and thudding of gloves, a heavy padding of feet on the parquet floor. now and then mary heard the sharp voice of the beefy man: "break! break clean!" once she saw him stride roughly between the panting pair reckless of his own safety, fling them apart with a sweep of his arms and say something in a savage tone to the bearcat. but no sooner had he passed between them than they met again behind his back; the bearcat swinging a glove that landed flush on the celebrated tin ear. the bell rang again. kid whaley stopped an arm that was moving in mid air, dropped it to his side and walked quickly away. the bearcat also walked out of sight. mary felt as if she could breathe again. "thank heaven, it's over!" she said. pete looked at her pityingly. "it's just begun," he explained patiently. "that was only the first round. there may be a dozen or fifteen, or twenty, or lord knows how many yet before they finish it. it won't end till one of 'em goes to sleep." "to sleep? how can any man fall asleep when somebody is pounding him all over the head and body?" "wait and see," answered pete with a grin. but mary was not minded to wait and see. all that filled her mind was resentment and horror that aunt caroline's library should have been loaned by her unredeemed nephew for such an awful purpose. she had a new account to square with william marshall. she did not intend to tell aunt caroline; she would spare that shock to her benefactress. she phrased a little silent prayer of thanks because aunt caroline was safely removed from the scene of blood and violence. but there would be no softening of the blow when she came to deal with bill. "i'm going down to stop it," she said suddenly. pete seized her arm and held it. "you can't think of it!" he said, in a shocked whisper. "you'd only be insulted and laughed at. and besides----" he was about to remark that it was too excellent to stop when the bell rang for the second round. to mary it seemed no different from the first round. the two young men in breech clouts alternately flailed and hugged each other, the referee constantly danced between them crying, "break!" and the stamping of swiftly shifting feet echoed again through the darkened recesses of the big house. then another bell and another period of waiting. "this bearcat is good," explained pete, carefully. "he's better than i figured him. the kid'll get him, but it may take him some time. do you notice the way the kid handles that left? isn't it beautiful?" "it's--it's horrible." "oh, not at all; it's clever. this other boy has a pretty neat left himself. but it's his right that the kid's watching, and he'd better, for it's wicked. only trouble with the bearcat is he telegraphs every punch. now, when they come up again i want you to notice---- s-sh! there's the bell." mary, still gripping the banister, gazed with horrid fascination at the further desecration of aunt caroline's black walnut library. and yet, while the spectacle outraged her eyes and violated all the standards by which she measured domestic life in the american home, a subconscious partisanship was breeding within her. she hated this whaley, almost as much as she hated bill marshall. why didn't the blond bruiser annihilate him forthwith? why didn't he make an end of the thing at once? why wasn't kid whaley beaten ruthlessly to the floor and stamped under foot, as became his deserts? she lifted her hand from the banister and clenched her fists. she was not aware that the cave woman was awakening within her, but it was. she thought she was still horrified; and so she was--in the civilized part of her. but mary wayne did not possess a hundred per cent of civilization, nor do any of her sisters, although she and they may be ignorant of the lesser fraction of savagery that hides within. the third round was followed by a fourth, a fifth and a sixth, and still she stood on the stairway, with a conscience that cried aloud in behalf of aunt caroline and a surge of primitive rage that demanded victory for the trenton bearcat. pete stearns was wholly given over to the spell of the battle. came the seventh round, more furious than any that went before. the invisible crowd in the library was becoming vocal. throaty voices were demanding blood. and blood there was, for the bearcat's crimson nose paid tribute to the efficiency of the kid, while over one of the kid's eyes was a cut that witnessed the counter prowess of the bearcat. some of the blood was dripping on aunt caroline's parquet floor, but not enough for the crowd. round eight. the kid sent two lefts to the face without return. they clinched. the kid uppercut to the jaw in the breakaway. the bearcat swung right and left to the head. the kid landed a right to the body, and followed it with a hook to the jaw. the bearcat came back with a volley of short-arm jabs, rocking the kid's head. the kid rushed, sending right and left to the face. they clinched. the kid swung a left to the jaw. it shook the bearcat. the kid---- mary wayne, following all this with blazing eyes and panting bosom, wholly free to sense the combat in its larger aspects because she knew nothing of its superb technique, was leaning half-way across the banisters, a battle-cry hovering on her lips, when her quick ear caught the sound of a key turning in a lock. it had the effect of a cold shock. she was the civilized woman again. fear and apprehension turned her eyes in the direction of the front door. yes, it was opening. police? _no!_ aunt caroline marshall, bill marshall, the butler, and a file of the marshall servants! chapter xxiv aunt caroline--referee as bill stepped into the hall he glanced in dull surprise at the single light that was burning there. and soon he became aware of a din in the library. for an instant his bewilderment increased. then came sickening comprehension. the kid was pulling it off to-night. he had changed the date. why? and why, again, had fate summoned aunt caroline to the feast? bill put a hand against the wall to steady himself. he turned fearful eyes toward his aunt. she was already in action. on occasion she was a brisk lady, despite her years; she was not timorous. something she did not understand was taking place in her house. she proposed to look into the matter herself. before bill could clutch her arm she darted along the hall and flung open the door of the library. she never really appreciated the beauty of what she saw. like mary wayne, she was untutored in its scientific nicety and its poetic movement. she merely sensed that it was red carnage, titanic, horrific. just what happened is most easily described by referring to the official version of the eighth round, which was uncompleted in the last chapter. the kid rushed again, landing left and right to the head. the bearcat wobbled. the kid stepped back, measured his man, and sent a right to the body. the bearcat's hands dropped to his side. the kid drove a terrific blow to the jaw, and the bearcat crashed over on his back, completely out. the official version does not say that when the bearcat prostrated himself in dreamless slumber he did so with his head lying at the feet of aunt caroline, who drew aside her skirts with housewifely instinct and stared down at his battered, yet peaceful countenance. the bearcat never slept more soundly in his life; so profound was his oblivion that aunt caroline, in her inexperience, thought he was dead. she looked up and saw a stout man waving an arm up and down and counting. she saw signor antonio valentino, poised and panting, waiting in vain for the bearcat to rise again. beyond she saw, through a haze of smoke, the faces of strange men. none of these persons whom she saw as yet appeared to be aware of her own presence, or that of bill marshall, who was now staring over her shoulder. they were all too utterly absorbed in the slumberous bliss of this young man from trenton. "ten!" said the stout man triumphantly, as though it were an achievement to count as high as ten. then he seized kid whaley's right arm and held it high in air. there was a hoarse roar of joy from the crowd. two young men whose bodies from the waist up were clad in sleeveless jerseys rushed forward and hugged the kid deliriously. they upset a bucket of water in their agitation, and it flowed across the parquetry, to mingle with the powdered rosin. two other young men, similarly attired, sprang into the picture, seized the trenton bearcat by the heels and dragged him into an open space, where they could more readily lay hands upon him. and then everybody at once--except, of course, the bearcat--seemed to observe aunt caroline marshall, standing in the doorway. they froze and watched. slowly she raised a finger until it pointed at the breast of the kid. "murderer!" she cried. the kid blinked in amazement. "murderer!" the stout man who had counted so excellently shook himself and spoke. "there ain't nobody been murdered, ma'am. everythin's all right. he won't be asleep more'n a coupla minutes." aunt caroline turned upon him in a blaze. "who are you? who are all these men? what have you been doing? how do you come to be in my house?" she surveyed her library--the wet and rosined floor, the rugs heaped in a corner, the chairs piled against the wall, the tables with men standing on their polished tops. was it really her house? yes; it must be. there was no mistaking that portrait of her grandfather, still looking down from its accustomed place on the wall. she centered her gaze once more upon signor valentino, advancing as she did so. the signor backed away, plainly nervous. "what is the meaning of this?" she demanded. "how dare you break into my house?" the bearcat had been propped up in a chair, and his seconds were squirting water over him, employing a large sponge for the purpose. he had not yet responded to the reveille. there was an uneasy stir among the crowd. the men were trying to unfasten a window. aunt caroline was still advancing when mary wayne pushed bill marshall aside and darted into the room. "come away! please!" she cried, seizing aunt caroline's arm. the mistress of the marshall mansion turned a dazed glance upon the social secretary, uttered a little shriek of recognition and embraced her. "oh, my dear child! you're safe!" "of course. please come up-stairs." suddenly aunt caroline stiffened and thrust her away. "what do _you_ know about this?" she demanded. "nothing--absolutely nothing. oh, _please_ come away. you mustn't stay here." "i am entitled to remain in my own library," said aunt caroline, in stern tones. "and i propose to stay here until i discover exactly what this means." and as she stood in the middle of the cleared space, she looked far more like a conqueror than kid whaley. bill marshall, who had been standing in an awed trance at the doorway, abruptly came to life. he leaped forward with a yell. aunt caroline, the kid, the bearcat, the seconds, the crowd--all had vanished from his vision. he saw nobody but the social secretary. her he gathered into his arms, lifted clear of the floor and hugged violently to his breast. "oh, girl," he muttered. "oh, girl, but i'm glad to see you." mary gasped. she struggled. she tried to push herself free. but bill was oblivious to all but his honest joy. "oh, girl!" he murmured, over and over again. the crowd, which had been moving restlessly, became immobile again. it forgot even aunt caroline. mary wayne writhed frantically in the grip that held her. her feet, inches clear of the floor, beat the air impotently. she worked an arm free and tried to strike, inspired, perhaps, by a memory of the battle; but a series of futile slaps was all that resulted. she stormed at him; she tried to slay him with her eyes. but bill marshall only smiled happily, bent his head and kissed her on the freckles. "oh, girl!" at last he set her free, placing her gently on her feet and gazing at her with an intensity of admiration that ought to have made any woman proud. but mary was in a cyclonic state of rage and consternation. she swung an open hand against his ear with a crack that resembled a pistol-shot, and fled ignominiously from the room. bill looked after her, nodding his head proudly and grinning wide. "oh, girl!" he whispered. aunt caroline tapped him sharply on the arm. "william, do _you_ know what this means?" bill rallied from his ecstasy and began to scratch his chin. he neither knew how to approach nor to evade explanation. kid whaley went generously to the rescue. he had draped a bath-robe over his shoulders, and now accosted aunt caroline with the assurance of a gentleman who regards himself fittingly garbed for an occasion. "it's like this," said the kid. "we got t' have a place t' pull off this mill, see? so bill says th' fam'ly's goin' off yachtin', an' we c'n come over here, where it's all quiet an' no bulls t' horn in, an' go as far as we like. he gives me th' keys an'----" aunt caroline halted him with a peremptory hand, and turned to bill. "william marshall, is this true?" bill drew a deep breath and managed to look her in the eye. "yes, aunt caroline." "you gave this creature permission to conduct a prize-fight in _my_ house?" "i'm afraid i did." "and then you brought me home to be a witness----" kid whaley interrupted her. "nothin' like that," he said. "bill didn't know we was pullin' it off t'-night. it wasn't comin' till next week. only i got trained down kinda fine, see? i was li'ble to go stale. so th' bearcat, he don't mind, an' we touches it off t'-night. y' wouldn't expect a guy t' wait till he gets stale, would y'? i ain't makin' myself a set-up f'r nobody." aunt caroline eyed kid whaley from head to foot. "you have never been a sculptor, of course," she said in a bitter tone. "i might have known better. of course, i placed confidence in my nephew. i shall take care never to do so again. you are nothing but a low prize-fighter, it appears." the kid was beginning to glower. there is a dignity that attaches to every profession, and those who rise high should always endeavor to maintain it. "i'm a pr'fessional athalete," said the kid, wrapping his robe about him. "there ain't nothin' low about me. i'm goin' t' fight th' champeen." aunt caroline studied him with narrowing eyes. "bill, y' oughta been here," continued the kid, turning to his patron. "y' oughta seen th' mill. take it from me, this bearcat is good. he gimme a run. i got nothin' against him f'r it. knocked him stiff in eight rounds, bill. say, if i'd had th' champ in here t'-night i'd 'a' done th' same thing. bill, i'm gettin' better every time i put on th' gloves. six months from now i'm gonna be champeen, bill. get me! _champeen!_" the kid expanded his chest under his frowsy toga and glanced condescendingly at aunt caroline. it was time she acquired a proper perspective concerning his exact status, he thought. "out of my house!" she said sharply. "out of my house--everybody!" there was a sudden movement of the crowd, a slacking of tension. men started crowding through the door into the hall. the trenton bearcat, groggy as to head and legs, went with them, supported on either side by his seconds. the stout man who had been general manager, announcer and referee, seized his coat and elbowed his way toward freedom as though seized with panic. a window had been opened and part of the crowd began flowing out through that. kid whaley turned nonchalantly, sought a chair and began unlacing his fighting-shoes. "leave my house--at once!" commanded aunt caroline. he glanced up with a confident grin. "y' don't think i'm goin' out th' way i am?" he inquired. "i got chucked outa this house once; i'm goin' when i get ready now." aunt caroline turned to her nephew. "william, i want this person out of the house--immediately." "beat it, kid," said bill tersely. kid whaley regarded his patron with faint surprise. "what's th' idea?" he asked. "y' gimme th' run o' th' place. y' gimme th' keys. now y' want t' gimme th' bum's rush." bill marshall was suddenly sick of the whole affair. he had no pride in his exploit. he was even acquiring a dislike for antonio valentino. and all this revulsion was quite apart from his fear of consequences at the hands of aunt caroline. he wanted to be rid of the whole business; he wanted a chance to go up-stairs and explain things to mary wayne. "beat it--the way you are," he ordered. "go on, kid." kid whaley twisted his lip into a sneer. "gettin' cold feet, eh? that's th' way with all you rich guys. puttin' on th' heavy stuff. oh, well; i guess i got nothin' t' worry about. i'll be champeen in six months." "move quick!" said bill sharply. "what f'r? just because th' old dame----" bill reached forth, seized the kid by an arm and brought him to his feet with a single heave. he was beginning to get angry. "get out of this house," he said, shaking him. "do you understand me?" the kid wrenched himself free and swung an upward blow that landed on bill's ear. "william!" cried aunt caroline. "don't worry about me, aunt caroline," said bill grimly. "just leave the room, please." "i shall not leave the room. i want you to----" "i'm going to." and he made a rush for kid whaley. bill marshall was a large young man. so far as the kid was concerned, he had every advantage that goes with weight. he was also something better than a mere novice in the use of his hands. but he did not have the skill of antonio valentino, nothing like it; nor his experience, nor his generalship. he simply had a vast amount of determination, and he was angry. he missed a good many blows, whereas the kid seldom missed. but the more often bill missed the more resolved was he that kid whaley should leave the house a chastened artist. one thing that encouraged him was the fact that the kid was not really hurting him. for several minutes they utilized all the available floor space. aunt caroline had retreated to a corner, where she was standing on a chair, her skirts gathered about her. frightened? no. she was giving bill marshall plenty of room. there was a battle-light in her eyes. and bill, busy as he was, began to hear her voice, coming to him as though in a strange dream: "will marshall, don't you let that creature beat you! do you hear that? william! look out! don't you way. i expect you to thrash him, william marshall. i want him thrown out of this house. _thrown_ out! do you hear that? william! look out! don't you see what he's trying to do? there! strike him again, william. harder! again, william; again!" aunt caroline was stepping around on the chair-seat in her agitation. her fists were clenched; her eyes blazing; her nostrils dilated. the butler and the servants and pete stearns, who had crowded to the doorway, looked at her in amazement. "keep on, william; keep on! i want him punished. do you understand? i want him beaten! harder, william! there! like that--and that! oh, dear; i can't think---- oh, what is it i want to say?" what dear old aunt caroline wanted to say was "atta boy!" but she had never learned how. she wanted to say it because matters were suddenly going well with bill. kid whaley, shifty as he was, had been unable to stem the tide of bill's rushing assault. a right caught him on the tin ear, and he went down. he was on his feet in a flash. another right caught him, and he went down again. this time he lingered for a second or two. when he got up bill managed to land a left on the jaw. down went the kid. but he was game. once more he got to his feet. there was a shrill call from aunt caroline, who was now dancing on the chair. "william, remember that you are a marshall!" bill remembered. the kid went down. he got up. he went down. he got up. he went down--and stayed. bill marshall stepped back and surveyed his work grimly. two young men in jerseys came slinking forth from a corner and moved toward the prostrate warrior. bill greeted the nearest with a critical inspection. "are you one of his seconds?" he asked. "uhuh." bill calmly let fly a punch that knocked him over two chairs. he turned to the other youth. "are you a second, too?" "no, sir," said the youth, hastily. "you're a liar," said bill, and knocked him over three chairs. he stooped, lifted the quiet form of the kid and tucked it under his arm. as he made for the door the servants gave way to him. through the hall he marched solemnly, bearing the burden of his own making as though it were merely a feather pillow. through the front door, down the stone steps and across the sidewalk he carried it. pausing at the curb, he dropped signor antonio valentino into the gutter. as he reentered the house, his mood gravely thoughtful, two young men who had waved towels for the conqueror of the trenton bearcat slid out a side window and hurried around the corner to see what had become of their hero. bill encountered his aunt in the front hall. he regarded her doubtfully. "i am very sorry, aunt caroline," he said quietly, "that you had to see this thing. i asked you to leave the library, if you remember." aunt caroline clasped her hands and looked up at him. "why, william marshall! it was perfectly splendid!" bill scratched his ear and shook his head helplessly. "i give it up," he said. chapter xxv william develops a will then he remembered something that had been on his mind all afternoon and evening. he wanted to see pete stearns. although he had not encountered him, he took it for granted that pete must be in the house, inasmuch as his secretary was there. "where's pete stearns?" he demanded of the butler. "you mean your valet, sir?" "yes." "he was here a moment ago, sir. shall i look for him?" "tell him i'm going to lick him. no; wait. i'll look for him myself." with stern deliberation bill made a search of the first floor, then went up-stairs and began on the second. in his rooms he discovered the man he wanted. "put up your hands," said bill quietly. "i'm going to lick you." "why, bill!" pete was never more profoundly astonished. "hurry up," said bill. "haven't you licked three men already? what in blazes do you want to lick me for?" demanded pete. "for running away with my girl." "but i didn't do anything of the kind. instead of running away with her i brought her home, bill. you don't understand." "you bet i don't. ready?" "no, i'm not ready." and pete sat on the couch, crossed his legs and clasped his hands around one knee. he knew that bill marshall would not open hostilities against a defenseless opponent. but he knew also that in order to avert ultimate castigation he must make an excellent explanation. he decided to tell the exact truth. "stand up and be a man," ordered bill. "we're going to settle things right now." pete shook his head firmly. "not on your life, bill. i'm going to tell you a story first. after that----" he shrugged. "well, after that, if you decide to lick me, you can do it. but if you ever do lick me, bill marshall, remember this: i'll poison your coffee some day, if it takes me the rest of my natural life. i'm not going to be a worm. now, listen." while pete was making his explanations up-stairs, mary wayne and aunt caroline were below, viewing the wreck of the library. "part of it was done by my nephew," remarked aunt caroline, as she pointed toward several overturned chairs. mary blushed at the mention of aunt caroline's nephew. her humiliation in the presence of a crowd of strange men still rankled deep. "it was awful of him," she said indignantly. "not at all," said aunt caroline. "not at all, my dear. but you were not here when it happened, so you cannot be expected to understand. do you see those chairs? my nephew knocked two men clear across them." she viewed the wreckage almost affectionately. "and before he did that he thrashed a prize-fighter. yes, my dear; thrashed him and carried him out of the house. right in my presence he thrashed three men." mary wayne opened her eyes wide. was it possible she had never discovered the real aunt caroline before? "he thrashed them completely," added aunt caroline, with a slight lift of her head. "it was most thoroughly done. i do not believe anybody in the world could have done it better than my nephew. he is very like his father." mary gasped. "my nephew is a true marshall. i am very much pleased." "i--i'm so glad to hear it," said mary faintly. "yes, indeed, my dear. why, do you know----" aunt caroline paused to indicate the spot on the floor. "right where you see me pointing he struck this vulgar prize-fighter senseless. oh, it is absolutely true. i saw it all. i was standing on that chair over there. my nephew was here." she indicated. "the other man was standing here. it happened exactly as i am going to show you." and aunt caroline proceeded to enact in pantomime the events that led to the downfall of kid whaley, reproducing as nearly as she could the exact methods employed by her conquering nephew. her cheeks were flushed and her eyes bright when she had finished. mary wayne was overcome with astonishment. "but--but the prize-fight that took place before?" faltered mary. "that is another matter," said aunt caroline, with a wave of her hand. "a minor matter, i think. now, are you sure you understand exactly what my nephew william did?" she was preparing to reenact the scene, when they were interrupted by a ringing of the door-bell and a few seconds later by the arrival of nell norcross in the library. nell viewed the wreckage in one swift glance and ran forward with a cry. "mary wayne, whatever in the world has happened?" aunt caroline glanced quickly from one girl to the other, then smiled. "you two young people are so excited over this thing that you are getting your names mixed," she said. nell clapped a hand to her mouth, consternation in her eyes. mary sighed, looked at aunt caroline and shook her head. "no; we haven't mixed our names," she said. "you may as well understand all about it now, miss marshall. i'm--i'm an awful impostor." aunt caroline showed more evidence of perplexity than alarm. "this is nell norcross," said mary, in a miserable voice. "i am mary wayne." "dear me!" said aunt caroline. "more things to be explained. well, come back into the sitting-room, both of you. i suppose somebody has been making a fool of me again. but whoever you are, my dear, don't let me forget to tell your friend about my nephew william." she led the way to the sitting-room. mary and nell exchanged glances as they followed. aunt caroline was bewildering. when they returned to the library half an hour later bill and pete stearns were standing there, the latter rendering a vivid narrative of the great battle between kid whaley and the trenton bearcat. aunt caroline walked directly over to the valet. "i understand you are a stearns," she said. pete made an acknowledgment. "a grandson of eliphalet stearns?" "yes, madam." "don't 'madam' me. you have done quite enough of that. a son of grosvenor stearns?" "yes, aunt caroline." she glowered at him for an instant, then her lips began to twitch. but she rallied herself. "your grandfather and your father were enemies of my house," she said. "they were both very bad men. i still think so." pete wore a pained look, but made no answer. "but i believe there is some hope for you. not, however, in the field of theology. in that connection, i will say that i expect you to make a personal explanation to the bishop. i never can. my nephew's secretary has been telling me something of what happened at larchmont and also on the way home from larchmont. for a stearns, i think you have done fairly well." "thank you--aunt caroline." miss marshall bit her lip. "i think you may omit that," she said, but not with the severity that she intended to convey. "as i said, you did fully as well as could be expected of a stearns. for your deception of me i shall never forgive you. that is understood. but i shall not let that stand in the way of safeguarding the reputation of my nephew's secretary. it will be necessary, of course, for you to marry her." aunt caroline was serious again. she meant what she said. she had certain rooted ideas concerning proprieties and they had not been dislodged by the events of a day given over to the shattering of ideals. bill marshall choked. pete gaped. nell norcross went white at the lips and turned away. "but," began pete, "it seems to me----" aunt caroline raised her hand. "it is unfortunate, of course, that she must marry a stearns. it is not what i would have chosen for the girl. but there shall be no such thing as gossip connected with any person in my household; i will not endure it. you owe her the name of stearns, poor as it is. i have not discussed the matter with her, but i feel that she will see it as i do." bill was watching mary wayne with horrified eyes. his knees grew suddenly weak when he saw her nod. "i have no doubt it is the best thing to do," said mary. as she said that she cast a swift glance at bill marshall, then bent her head. nell had crossed the room and was staring out of a window. she was holding a handkerchief to her lips. pete stearns was plainly frightened. he looked in the direction of nell, then at mary, then at aunt caroline, and last of all at bill. "there need be no immediate hurry about the wedding," observed aunt caroline, "so long as the engagement is announced. i have no doubt the bishop will be glad to perform the ceremony." turning to mary: "you can attend to the announcement yourself, my dear." mary slowly raised her eyes. her glance met that of pete stearns. it wandered to the figure of nell, then back to pete. and then--could he be mistaken?--one of mary's eyes slowly closed itself and opened again. "i'll make the announcement whenever you wish, miss marshall," said mary. "to-morrow," said aunt caroline. bill marshall emerged from his coma. "not in a million years," he cried. aunt caroline lifted her eyebrows. "not while i'm on earth." nell norcross, still standing by the window, half turned and glanced toward the group. she was very pale. pete stearns was trying to catch her eye, but she was looking only at mary. "why, william!" said aunt caroline. "i do not see how the matter concerns you at all." "nor i," said bill's secretary, throwing him a defiant glance. "well _i_ know how it concerns me," shouted bill. "before she marries pete stearns there's going to be red, red murder! understand?" "but, william, she has already said she is willing," said aunt caroline. "i don't care what she says. she doesn't know what she is talking about. she's crazy. there isn't a chance in the world of her marrying pete stearns. i'll not stand for it." pete again intercepted mary's glance. "if she is willing to marry me," remarked pete, "i don't see where you have any ground for objection." bill swept him aside with an arm-thrust that sent him a dozen feet across the room. "from now on i'm going to manage my own affairs," he announced grimly, "and this is one of them. i'm tired of taking doses that somebody else prescribes for me. i'm through running for society on the opposition ticket. i'm going to do as i please." "william!" he glanced at aunt caroline, then shook a finger directly under her nose. "see here, aunt caroline--i'm not going to let you marry her off to pete stearns, and that settles it. there isn't going to be any argument about it. she's going to marry _me_!" "mercy!" exclaimed aunt caroline. "why, my dear, is this true?" she turned to mary wayne, who met her with innocent eyes. "of course it is not true," answered mary. "i never thought of such a thing." "then you'd better begin thinking of it," warned bill, "because that's exactly what's going to happen. this is my affair and i'm managing it." mary did not deem that it was a politic time to discuss compromises. she had too long a score against bill marshall. inwardly, she was having a glorious time, but it would never do to let bill know it. "do you think that marrying me is _entirely_ your affair?" she demanded. "absolutely." "that i have nothing to say about it?" "nothing whatever," said bill sternly. "not a word." "why, you----" for an instant mary feared that she was really going to be angry. this was more than she expected, even from bill marshall. "i won't be talked to in that manner!" she exclaimed, stamping a foot "i--i'll marry mr. stearns." bill sent a dangerous look in the direction of his valet. "if you want to see him killed, just you try it," he said. "we've had enough nonsense about this thing. there's going to be no more argument." even mary could not but marvel at the change in bill marshall. he seemed suddenly to have grown up. he was not talking with the braggadocio of boyhood. rather, he had become a man who was desperately resolved to have his own way and would not scruple to get it. but her time had not come yet. "i'll marry mr. stearns," she repeated perversely. "aunt caroline," said bill quietly, "it's all settled. miss norcross and i are to be married." there was an exchange of glances between pete, mary, nell, and aunt caroline. the latter smiled at her nephew. "of course," she said, "if miss _norcross_ wishes to marry you, william, that's different entirely. but this isn't miss norcross, you know; this is miss wayne." and she laid a hand on mary's arm. bill devoted seconds to an effort at comprehension, but without avail. he found four persons smiling at him. it was disconcerting. "your name is not norcross?" he demanded. mary shook her head. "it's wayne?" he faltered. "mary wayne." "but, how the----" he paused again to consider the astounding news. somebody had been playing tricks on him. they were laughing even now. suddenly his jaw set again. he transfixed mary with steady eyes. "well, leaving the name part of it aside for a minute, let me ask you this: whose secretary are you?" "yours," answered mary. "no argument about that, is there?" "none at all. i always made it perfectly clear that i was your secretary." "good," said bill. "i have a matter of business to be attended to in the office. come along, miss secretary." he picked her up, tucked her under one arm and walked out of the library. mary was too amazed even to struggle. aunt caroline stared after them and shook her head. "do you know," she said, turning to pete, "i have a notion that william will have his way about this matter." "you're damned right he will, aunt caroline," said the theological student. chapter xxvi without references the transaction of bill marshall's business required upward of half an hour. when it came to driving a bargain, mary wayne admitted that he was ruthless and inexorable. he rode rough-shod over opposition; he crushed it. "you're worse than a trust," she said, wrinkling her nose at him. "i'm a monopoly," he admitted. "i've got the whole world." mary sighed and began straightening his tie. "but you treated me so badly," she complained. "because i loved you," he said, kissing her some more. "do i have to explain that all over again?" "oh, well, bill marshall; if you object to explaining----" "confound it! did i say i objected? i _don't_ object." "then let me see if you can explain it twice in the same way." so bill explained all over again. the explanation may not have been in identical words, but it amounted to the same thing. it rumpled mary's hair all over again and left her freckles swimming in a sea of pink. "oh, bill!" she whispered, hiding her face. when they came down from the skies and recognized the familiar details of the office, mary asked a question. "bill, do you think peter is really serious about nell?" "why?" "because she is--terribly." "well, then, if he isn't i'll break his neck." "that's dear of you, bill; i want her to be happy." a moment afterward: "bill?" "yes?" "what do you think your aunt will say about--us?" "let's find out." they discovered aunt caroline in her sitting-room. she glanced over the top of her gold rims and marked her book with her finger. "well, what now?" she demanded, but her tone was patient. "have you attended to your business affairs?" "yes, aunt caroline," assented bill. "i've decided to give up society." "william, i think possibly society has given up you. but i have no complaint to make. i have been thinking it over, and it seems to me that if you care to go into business----" bill interrupted her. "aunt caroline, you're stealing our stuff. we've already decided that. i am going into business. i don't know just what--but i'm going." "that can be decided later," said his aunt. "i'm very glad, william. i think perhaps i made a mistake in attempting---- but we won't discuss that any more." mary wayne was fidgeting. "i have also decided to abandon my interest in art," observed bill. aunt caroline regarded him suspiciously. "william, be careful. are you sure you are quite well?" bill laughed. "never better. now, as to pete stearns----" mary, who had been growing more and more restless, placed a hand over his lips. then she ran forward, dropped to her knees and buried her head in aunt caroline's lap. "he's teasing us--both of us," she said in a muffled voice. "that isn't what we came to say at all." aunt caroline stroked the small head. "and what is it you want to say?" she inquired. mary looked up suddenly. "will--will you let me marry bill marshall--aunt caroline?" the eyes behind the spectacles were smiling. "just for calling me 'aunt caroline,'" she said, "i believe i will, my dear." mary hugged her. presently she and bill went to hunt for pete stearns and nell, who were reported to be in the conservatory. as they departed, aunt caroline called: "if william requires you to give references, my dear, just come to me." mary uttered a small shriek. "references! oh, please! if anybody ever says 'references' to me again i'll just die. bill, you'll have to take me without any at all." bill took her. aunt caroline readjusted her spectacles and opened her book. "there is only one thing that really upsets me," she said, half aloud. "i shall never find out what they say about mrs. rokeby-jones's elder daughter." the end [illustration: the glories of the kitchen.] hints to servants: being a poetical and modernised version of dean swift's celebrated "directions to servants;" in which something is added to the original text, but those passages are omitted which cannot with propriety be read aloud in a kitchen. by an upper servant. "safe from the bar, the pulpit, and the throne, yet touched and shamed by ridicule alone!" pope. illustrated with twelve original designs, by kenny meadows, engraved by john jackson. london: effingham wilson, royal exchange, t. and w. boone, new bond street, . london: printed by maurice and co., howford-buildings, fenchurch-street. preface, addressed to all my fellow-servants. once on a time a rev'rend dean there lived, (and you know whom i mean,) keen as a hawk each fault to seize, and _swift_ to blame, as slow to please; swell'd up with pride to height of tumour, though all admired his dogged humour. but since our pompey knew not how to speak, as 'twere, but in 'bow wow!' the muse invites me to rehearse his constant bark in doggrel verse: keen irony can't hope to chime without some small relief from rhyme, though where you'd feel the sharpest tingle, you lose the smart amidst the jingle! doubtless (like swift) we've now-a-days both lords and ladies shy of praise, of errors, ills, for ever mumbling, yet love 'em for the sake of grumbling. had swift known how to hold his dish up, i'm told he might have been a bishop. i've tried to make him look more recent, and dock'd him where he's quite indecent. on one thing you may quite rely,-- i am no busy, base paul pry. my best advices really flow from what i really 'happ'n' to know, nor could escape in any wise, save shutting both my ears and eyes. my book may sell, or fall dead flat,-- yet meadows makes me safe from that; since, to inspire, i've given him some of master's truly 'precious rum,' deeming him best of all the bunch-- but mum! for what relates to 'punch!' and may each critic's 'ifs and buts' but vie with his good-humoured cuts: for i profess the constant aim of yielding ev'ry one i name (thus pleasing all, e'en to the letter) either a laugh--or something better. now if i've well explained my plan, why, farewell master! farewell man! and free from fuss, i make no bones to sign, yours thoroughly, john jones. contents. _page_ the butler the cook the valet the waiting-woman the footman the housekeeper the chambermaid the porter the housemaid the steward the groom the coachman the nursery maid the dairy-maid the wet nurse the laundress _ib._ the governess general rules [illustration: the butler.] the butler. of servants, whether best or worst, the butler seems to rank the first; whose sparkling aid calls up the nine,-- such virtue dwells in rosy wine. there's none can draw a cork like you, you're such a perfect 'thorough screw.' who else can keep within the tether mirth and economy together? at home for ever to a shaving, in all the honest arts of saving. since those who dine at the same table are friends, why shouldn't you be able to make one glass, or two at most, serve for both company and host? thus saving both fatigue and breaking, and, most of all, the wine they're taking. serve not one guest amidst the feast, till he has call'd three times at least; further his temp'rance you may fix by sundry nasty little tricks, more fit, because your own invention, for you to use than me to mention. on your behaviour stands confest the pain or ease of ev'ry guest; you can ensure a hearty greeting, or make it like a quakers' meeting. from what your master seems to do, you and the footmen take your cue; at least your lady'll teem with praise, you've got such 'shrewd, discerning ways.' should any one desire small beer, the end of dinner somewhat near, gather the droppings (exc'lent fun) of all the glasses into one. this you may do and none perceive, "the eye don't see, the heart won't grieve:" thus you may make a mighty chatter of saving in the smallest matter. but when they chance to call for ale, more bright the joke more brisk the tale, down to the vaults, and if not filling the largest tankard till o'erspilling, then you're not fit to hold your station, not fit to fill--your situation: the company just drink two glasses, and you the rest amongst the lasses. the same thing with respect to wine; it's only just the whilst it's fine it suits our masters: good, i'fegs! so half the bottle goes for dregs; ha! ha! we're then, instead of napping, like the woodpecker,--always 'tapping.' of course, occasion'ly you tell o'er the true contents of all the cellar. again of course, the choicest bottle scarce greets at all your master's throttle. the deuce a bit (if you've the tact) you care, if he suspects the fact; then, to ensure his constant favour, treat him, sometimes, for good behaviour! wipe knives, rub tables, clean your plate,-- what can be more appropriate? with table-cloths: 'tis bold, and dashing, but saves in dusters and in washing. in cleaning plate some talk of 'tricks,' leaving the whiting in the nicks; the same with things in brass and copper: but i contend it's right and proper; shows that you never kept aloof on't, but did the thing--and left a proof on't! i know no writer yet that handles the saving article of candles; but whilst convinc'd how much depends on ev'ry mortal's private 'ends' the subject, i'll not wholly doff it, it yields us all such glaring profit. nor light them soon nor burn them low, and part upon the cook bestow; no wretch alive would be that despot, to go to rob the woman's grease-pot! though some may say you rob their pockets, by what is wasted in the sockets: a plague on all such meanness! scout it, and never vex your sconce about it. the noblest task in all your line, is bottling off a pipe of wine; not that you drink wine from the vat, you know a 'trick worth two of that,' but that it makes you (yet no stealer) a reputable private dealer. choosing small bottles,--no large lumber, your master gets his proper number; whilst, mod'rate in your views of pelf, you get six dozen for yourself,-- nay, were your master quite a miser, pray 'who's to be a bit the wiser?' make from the cask your brethren cosey, of course not drunk, yet vastly dozy: if fault be found you drain his wealth, 'twas all with 'drinking master's health.' put 'em to bed to sleep it off, say they've a cold--a shocking cough; 'tis ten to one your mistress orders what _you_ think good for all disorders, at which, before, you've often laugh'd,-- a more and more composing draught! follow all guests towards the door, if they have slept a night or more; 'tis ten to one you've half-a-crown,-- else 'show 'em up,' instead of down. if they rebel and still resist, get all the servants to assist; whilst other plans you yet may try, as i shall show you by and by. good butlers always break their corkscrew, so that it won't the lignum work through, or do the job for which intended, yet ne'er have time to get it mended: the jovial service never balk, perform it with a silver fork! now for the gent who often dines, and eats your meat and drinks _your_ wines, yet gives no vails,--torment him thence 'no end of ways' for the offence. he calls, but you seem not to hear; if asking wine, present him beer, and, to prolong the pleasing strife, a spoon when he desires a knife. at last he'll do what fits his station,-- or never more get invitation. whoe'er comes in, whoe'er goes out, your game is sure for ball or rout. to fortune straight you'll make your way, if once your lady takes to play; it pays beyond all formal dinners, only pay homage to the winners, which i'll be bound you always do, at least i would if i were you. now if i've told you e'er a thumper, fine me, when next we meet, a bumper: yes, give us truth without a sting, a bottle of the old 'bee's wing.' [illustration: the cook.] the cook. although french cooks be much too common,-- i speak now to an english _woman_,-- _you_ would not wish to learn from books, how you might _stock_ the pastry-cooks, and make my lord pay carriage hence, for gimcracks made at his expense! although, quite fearless of detection, some have 'arrived' at this perfection; and yet, i fear, i must conclude there's nothing of the kind in ude, and therefore you must farther look, if wanting a "_complete_ french cook!" be with the butler always 'friends,' and so make sure of both your 'ends.' when all the rest are safe in bed, as silent as if all were dead, you find the butler dainty prog, repaid as sure with luscious grog; but still, if you outrun your tether, 'tis odds you 'bundle' both together. avoid it,--treat him like a brother, for you may 'never like another.' _you_ can make friends with every one, so mind how my instructions run: my lessons suit both town and country, if you've the requisite effrontery. be sure to send up nothing 'cold,' unless particularly 'told;' get rid of it to some dear crony, no matter whether fowl or coney. if miss'd, then lay it to the _rats_, strange greyhounds or domestic cats: (poor things! 'tis hard that you should scout 'em,) but harder still to do without 'em. then talk of 'magpies' for blue moons, when 'maids' run short of forks and spoons: i must confess how i do glory, in that most true, most 'moving story.' if there's no paper for your use to light a fire or singe a goose, swear by the poker, tongs, and shovel, you'll tear some from the 'last new novel.' if forc'd to own that you're the thief, say you'll "turn over a new leaf:" nay, should you rob (no new proceeding) the very work your master's reading, say that 'there's more besides the cook,' should take a "leaf from master's book." if you should serve a family so rich, they don't live crammily, broils you may have--nay, constant broiling, yet free from common roasting, boiling: but stews and hashes bring much bother,-- encourage neither one nor t'other; good cooks still hate all diddle-daddle, constant, eternal fiddle-faddle. but snipes and larks, that come as presents (instead of partridges and pheasants) placed in the pan, (a sort of toasting,) will cook themselves, whatever's roasting: 'plague on't!' you wish the paltry elves would 'keep their presents to themselves.' and so for once i catch you tripping,-- you long again for joints and dripping. would i be called on of a sudden to make a plaguy 'sparra' pudden?' i say at once, then, downright "no! i'd see'em all at jericho!" and if they grumble, then give warning, 'as sure as eggs is eggs,' next morning; and beg they'd please, in lieu of more freaks, to "suit themselves as that day four weeks." who cares for their 'contempshus looks,' their "god sends meat, the devil cooks;" they're only better sort of 'varments,' i says, "good masters makes good sarvants." if you're allow'd the kitchen stuff, be sure the meat's done _quite_ enough; but if your mistress 'claps _her_ paw,' then serve it up downright 'red raw.' if fault be found, though, 'aither way,' "it shan't be so another day;" and still, against each new desire, keep up a brisk and roaring fire. let red hot coals the dripping savour, to give the meat a 'foreign flavour;' and say, whatever falls upon it, "the more there's in't, the more there's on it." when 'all behind,' and time the winner, 'regarding sending up the dinner,' alter the clock when you begin it, and you'll be ready to a minute. one secret now i'll not conceal,-- whene'er you roast a breast of veal, the sweetbread is the butler's luncheon, whoever may go short of munching. if it be 'asked for,' make excuses for what so many sweets produces; yet, o beware, his faith to prove, beware, beware of cupboard love! sops in the pan but feed desire, till "all the fat is in the fire:" in freedom's cause both risk your peace and, byron-like,--expire in grease! [illustration: the valet.] the valet. my author is not merely blameful to leave _you_ out--'tis downright shameful! affording you no condescension, beyond an incidental mention; since none like you, one must suppose, can take a noble by the nose; whilst lofty thoughts you well may harbour, having been always 'quite the barber:' and rising thus, with perfect ease, to almost any thing you please. if you're with some good-natured duke, why, free of course from coarse rebuke, you take upon, and call about you, knowing he can't get on without you; so clever keeping out the duns, and ushering the 'priests and nuns!' 'airs' may not suit his 'grace's' whim, and so you lord it over him! if friends remonstrate, he will say, "i fancy it's the rascal's way." if he be _deaf_, you'll keep him under by making signs, else let him wonder: if dim of sight, still all the better, you'll more than peep in every letter; nor will it be by you denied, most lords have more than one 'blind side.' to some good tune you've owned this blessing, whilst idolized for taste in dressing, since the whole wardrobe's varied range is yours, by turns, to 'sell or change!' urged by the winning approbation or of a solomons or nathan, you can estrange each 'chosen' waistcoat, and alienate his dearest dress-coat! or, by the use of 'fitting' phrases, stock half the shops with 'misfit' jaseys. you 'try it on:' howe'er becoming, if you begin just 'ha-ing, humming,' it puts him straight in such a fume, he kicks it up and down the room; though you've "no wish to seem capricious, there's something _in it_ not judicious." then for new suits you feel his pulse, the measure answers,--"send for stultz!" "our stock of boots is far from nobby:" "well! where the d----l, sir, is hoby?" get but the measure of his foot, you've clothes, wigs, _jewels_, all 'to boot!' the more you crave the more he's frank for't, though chiefly you've yourself to thank for't. thus whilst whole cargoes you command, at once as 'good as' second-hand, yet (on the other hand) 'tis true, they're 'not inferior' to new. sweet interchange! yourself so fervent, a sample of the 'perfect servant;' without one wish to take it 'cooler,' having so 'exquisite' a ruler! if vastly nice in his amours, still all goes nicely on all fours. large though your meed for nice attention, the gross amount one need not mention; prove that he made you once a _present_, and _help yourself_ all nice and pleasant! good judges will applaud the fun, and own the thing was nicely done. now, as your mind acquires expansion, you'll build yourself a tidy mansion; the tradesmen freely will afford,-- by way of _samples_ for your lord, (your delicacy not to shock it,) both prog and furniture to stock it. thus some opine some odd disaster, so blends the servant with the master, that they might doubt, amidst the pother, whether they dined with one or t'other! allow me now the leave to ask you,-- supposing i'd the right to task you,-- would you be clergyman or doctor, attorney, barrister, or proctor? be famed in arms, or shine in arts, upon the whole a man of parts rais'd to high fortune by the palette? before them all--a 'lying valet!' joking apart, here be some traces, of what are called 'good valets' places.' and now, if these be fitting words pertaining but to dukes and lords, how shall the muse presume to sing of those who serve a prince or king? sweet goddess! bring th' event about, and 'place' thy 'servants' out of doubt! we'll say you mayn't have had the gumption to make this galloping consumption of half his wealth, without a rumpus,-- or say a quarter (within compass); still as to have, you've still been known, the devil's luck besides your own, the king or prince a visit pays to your grandee for some few days. you're introduced, somehow or other, and 'somehow' set aside your brother, who, e'en unsafe in his own skin, forced to jump out,--why you jump in! all your 'attentions' are so striking, at once they catch the royal liking. your master feigns a 'deep regret,' well knowing what himself shall get: you (bless your _stars_ for such a barter) are bought and paid for with--the garter! and having got just what you wish'd for, no secret make of what you _fish'd for_. fortune can go but one step higher, you're made a page, and dubb'd esquire; and then you'll turn upon your heel, prouder than wellington or peel, since you yourself can hardly know how far your influence may go. and now your almost only care, amidst the all-attractive glare, is to ward off all applications from seedy friends and poor relations; while you've no end of fun and sport when clumsy people come to court. the king will do whate'er you crave him, if you'll but just agree to 'shave him;' which you most certainly will do more ways than one, and closely too! [illustration: the waiting-woman.] the waiting-woman. i pity you with all my heart! your ladies play so mean a part, as now-a-days old clothes to barter for china, trinkets, scented water, or use them up for chairs and screens, less'ning an honest servant's means; besides yet shabbier plans than these, the prevalence of locks and keys! making you live, all hugger-mugger, on bohea slops and coarse brown sugar. there's yet another 'plaguy way,' with ladies of the present day, of lessening your hilarity-- by 'giving way' to charity! to make it up there's ways for certain,-- not that i'd peep behind the curtain. perchance your lord, if in his hey-day, may like you better than his lady, though she's an angel,--vastly stupid! but that's a freak of master cupid, (to whom, of course, you constant pray, and offer vows both night and day). he makes too free in hapless hour, and from that moment's in your power. to keep your countenance endeavour, lift up your hands, cry "well, i never! in all my life knew such assurance; this cruelty is past endurance." swear that you'd neither bring disgrace upon a poor, but virtuous race, "nor have an 'impetation' hurl'd 'aginst' your honour, for the world!" then see that ready cash enhances what he may choose to call 'advances.' five guineas for the least gradation that leads to aught like adoration; and have at least a hundred down for 'little journeys out of town!' and don't, without loud indignation, be 'throw'd in such a flusteration;' make him fork out, or (ruthless lingo), you'll "tell your lady,--yes, by jingo!" in such a family, if handsome, some one will offer for your ransom; if stricken deep, the effects will show forth in chaplain, steward, gent, and so forth. if from my lord you've apprehension of what you can't genteelly mention,-- you must consider, with all def'rence, to which of 'em to give the pref'rence: my lord's own gentleman, we'll say, you've sense enough to keep at bay, because you stand of sin in fear, and think him also insincere. only one caution, and i've done; beware of--my lord's eldest son! you may, if you've sufficient gnous, be future lady of his house; but if a common rake, then shun him, or you'll regret you either won him, or thought him worth the least attention, entailing ills too bad to mention! but whilst i feel this anxious strife about your settling well in life, still let us both remember, that of some other things we ought to chat of. perchance some morn your lady's ill, and should be kept exceeding still; yet footmen call from friends of wealth, to make inquiries of her health. go bolt up stairs; if not awake, give her at least a gentle shake: if she's offended, blame her blindness to such a lord or lady's kindness; 'tis time enough if fiercely curb'd, to say, "she cannot be disturb'd." if your young mistress be an heiress, 'jimini!' what a chance then there is. if you don't get five hundred cool when she gets married, you're a fool. ask where's the mortal can resist her? though none can, like yourself, assist her, yet make her fear that still you shan't, unless you're call'd a '_confidante_.' put her in mind she's rich enough to please herself,--has got the stuff; can choose from all mankind her prize, where'er she deigns to cast her eyes; that friends are apt to feign rebuke for _love_ bestow'd e'en on a duke; that love's the dearest, sweetest thrall-- almighty love is all in all! that worlds of gentlemen complete would die to languish at her feet; that spite of fortune, or of birth, "love's--love's a heaven upon earth!" then a long string of rhymes run o'er from byron and 'dear tommy moore,' wishing--so much you dote upon 'em-- that you could recollect 'more _on_ 'em.' then while your rhapsody she blames, though plain you've set her all in flames, of which, when giving some intense sign, tell her you know the sweetest ensign, "who'd bleed to death to own her sway down on his knees, that very day." how to her honour 'twou'd redound, to give him forty thousand pound! till in the dreams of 'sweet fifteen,' she feels half way to gretna green. take care that ev'ry body know shall the sort of goods at your disposal; how great a favourite you are,-- consulted with the utmost care. oft to the park a visit pay, the fellows will find out the way, and oftentimes, when much distrest, confide their secrets to _your_ breast; there place a note,--away you bound! and fling it back upon the ground, unless the truly sapient ninnies shall with it lodge at least two guineas: yet still, to make it seem more funny, pretend you never found the money. you drop the note; your lady'll find it, is angry,--deuce a bit you mind it. then swear, to make the joke the better, you never knew you had the letter; you only just remember this, a saucy fellow snatch'd a kiss, and must, without the 'slightest leave,' have left it, 'somehow,' in your sleeve. another way you yet can turn it; she needn't read it,--she can burn it. not so: she'll just reverse the case, and burn some other in its place,-- nay, howsoe'er she seem to frown, swallow it whole, when you've gone down. follow this rig with each fresh man, as often as you safely can; and make out him who _tips_ the best, more and more handsome than the rest. indignant seem, if you detect a letter coming indirect: if thus a footman interfere, off with him! off! with flea in ear; call him rogue! villain! 'out of place!' and bang the door right in his face: thus it will seem you scorn to league in e'er so harmless an intrigue. 'tis one thing this, but quite another if slight flirtations please the mother. 'twould fill a volume to impart the intricacies of your art: now is the time, i must insist, for you to play the moralist, and use, as heretofore, your forces to favour wedlock--not divorces! whilst you abhor, beyond denial, the witness-box upon a trial. you can detect each would-be 'rover' from the sincere platonic lover; yet stir up jealousy's sensation among the 'lords of the creation,' causing the spouse compunctuous rubs, who dines too often at the clubs. some one or other always spelling to know the secrets of the dwelling, your plan must be (again confest) to humour those who pay the best; nor yield, without remuneration, 'pry-ority of information!' but faith! with you 'tis too assuming, and really over-much presuming, to such a subject to advert: your sisterhood are so expert, and all so perfectly discreet, really there's but one more to cheat,-- (yes, really on my life it's true,) when any one has diddled _you_. besides, the undefined result is fifty times more difficult than all the shuffling and evasions our masters need on like occasions: wherefore, with diffidence, i bend to some abler pen than i pretend to. the footman. the footman's office is a mix'd one, employ of all kinds, and no fix'd one; you're up to all things--devil doubt you, none in the house can do without you. if bold as brass, and smart and tall, you'll be a fav'rite with 'em all; all will admire when you approve, with you the maids are all in love. your master'll dress to please your whim, sometimes you stoop to copy him! but scarcely any thing goes on without first asking, "what says john?" you see the world, know fashions, men, have loftier airs than one in ten; amongst the fair so famed for slaughter, p'raps captivate your master's daughter! [illustration: the footman.] beware, though, while you thus importune, don't get the girl, and miss the fortune. i knew a brother of our craft, who slyly tied the knot, and laugh'd to think papa must prove forgiving, and find them both the means of living: and so he did, (here fain i'd stop,) he fix'd them in a fruit'rer's shop! with final 'leave'--a precious warning-- to "send for 'orders' every morning!" you go to plays, you quiz the cits, become great critics, shine as wits; ne'er at a loss for something caustic, and quite at home at an acrostic: and whilst thus flippant, sprightly, able, can scorn a hooting from the rabble. i venerate your office truly, having but doff'd the livery newly, and, like yourself (as i've a notion), am looking out for high promotion. if you are wise, care not a louse for places in the custom-house; by which some think, with much parade, our services are more than paid; but, list to me, a better ending you'll make, though far less condescending. to learn fresh secrets, make a swop at, without reserve, each house you stop at; and be not merely on the sly to pick up trash, but make it fly. thus have it said, where'er you came, instead of robbing them of game, you've shown a large, a lib'ral bounty, and furnish'd sport for all the county! never be seen with bundle or basket, (a proper master wouldn't ask it); some blackguard boy, a closet hid in, you'll always find to do your bidding, repaid with scraps (sufficient treat) as you shall think both fit and 'meat.' the self-same boy, with self-same pay, cleans all the shoes; again next day he re-appears, just in the nick, first cuts the loaf, then cuts his stick! when errands you are sent upon, be sure to blend them with your own; the boy can't deputize, 'tis clear, when it's to drink a pot of beer or kiss your sweetheart; either wicket, wants an untransferable ticket. remember, when you wait at table, to pick up all the wit you're able, for bits of songs and scraps of plays turn to account a thousand ways; you'll find yourself downright bewitching with all the ladies in the kitchen, who'll swear you give such rare delight, that brother flunkeys die with spite, venting new slanders without end; for why? 'a fav'rite has no friend!' the reason's plain why so abusive, all hate an out-and-out exclusive! when on a message you are sent, (on your own whim more strictly bent,) choose your own words, and jargon even, though to a duke or duchess given: how should your lord or lady know about it half so well as you? and for the answer, (till you're bother'd,) let that be quite completely smother'd; or given at all, adorn'd just so as you think proper things should go. you're the best judge what sort of friends (best suiting with your private ends) will suit your general contriving, and keep the household snug and thriving. in all affairs of compliment not meeting with your full consent, contrive to knock up quite a pother, and set each party 'gainst the other, raising a feud so fierce and wild as never can be reconciled; the best of friends make out neglectful, and 'ev'ry think that's disrespectful;' nay, should the deuce himself so twist it that you 'not no how' can't resist it, you'll turn the kindest invitations, into malignant accusations! and thus both parties, lost in wonder, of course you keep quite poles asunder.-- instruct 'your people' when to roam, or kindly 'let em' be 'at home;' where, for the present, while we leave them, may no curst tell-tale undeceive them! to be in lodgings when your lot, and there's no shoe-boy to be got, you'll clean your master's, without hurting at all--the bottom of the curtain; or, if you have the exceeding nerve, your lady's apron then may serve. scrape not your own, like vulgar mortals, standing outside your master's portals; but of your cleanliness to vapour, use the hearth-rug, and save the scraper! ask not for leave each rambling bout, the less your fear to be found 'out;' though p'raps you've had a bout of kissing, and no one knows you've e'er been missing: all that your fellow-servants know, you left but "scarce a min't ago." snuff candles with your fingers' ends; and for the stench to make amends, think that your master scarcely suffers the least expense for polished snuffers; throw down the snuff upon the floor, and what can man, or footman, more? it quite an easy thing to scoff is, but candle-snuffing's quite an office! contrive it, when you know you're wanted, to shun the room as if 'twere haunted; but when there's private conversation, rush in, a downright congregation! if left unchid, then all is well; if not, then swear you heard the bell. secrets that 'drop' from gents and ladies, the best of all your stock in trade is; while you, a course more cautious steering, let nothing 'fall' within their hearing. indiff'rent still to praise or blame, you soar above the sense of shame. "the tea is good, the coffee ain't;" then give 'em 'grounds' for the complaint. no matter if the pot boils over, come what come may, you're still in clover: swear you took pains, 'more than a little,' to please their palates to a tittle. the march of blame begins to halt, they pardon beg for finding fault, and "ne'er again will blame in haste, but all their mouths were out of taste!" thus you're repaid for all your trouble, enjoy the 'squeak,' nor burst the 'bubble.' you cry, "enough, then, for the present;" yet list to something still more pleasant. i'll tell you how, if you're but willing, from deepest fob t' extract a shilling. a present when desired to carry, if but a sorry pumpkin,--marry, make as much fuss (or even greater) than if it were a gold repeater; send up your master's strict commands to give it safe with your own hands. this to the purse-strings gives a shock, they can't but find out what's o'clock: in other words, they're wide awake, the money's yours, and no mistake! when your own master gets the like, a brace of barbel, bream, or pike, stir up his generosity to tip your friend a double fee; go snacks then with your liveried brother, 'good servants always help each other! all for our master's truest glory, at least while _i_ may tell the story. when you 'step out' for tittle-tattle, a pot of ale,--a wench's prattle,-- to hear a street-professor sing,-- or see a brother-footman swing, leave the door open to save knocking, or master's nerves the slightest shocking: say your young lady for a cab sent, or swear black's white,--you've ne'er been absent; or, of belief to take a fresh hold, no, "never stirr'd from off the threshold!" 'howsever,' if it's yet a lie, you have it still 'as cheap as i.' in all disputes with cabmen, chairmen, act as if 'listed to be _their_ men. you "can't a-bear it, to be hard on poor fellows, that can't spare a farden." share in their woes, it ne'er can fail; then share in foaming pots of ale. for all the world the greatest bore, that makes a footman feel most sore, in winter burn, in summer shiv'ry, is wearing that curst thing,--a livery! choose, if you can, where some such queer one, although a neither cheap nor dear one, may make you, from the thing you're wrapt in, to pass for some _outlandish captain_. put on fierce airs, 'tis sure to do, stare all the people through and through; a foreign count at least, not come short a man of 'great account' of some sort. well, after all, man! never mind the scurvy jeers of all mankind; keep up your spirits--quite the dandy, if only through your master's brandy! fortune, at times, makes her approach, man, both to the footman and the coachman; without a moment to consider, you've luck to marry a rich 'widder.' at noon your lady calls the carriage, when least you dream of aught like marriage, calls at a _chapel_ by the way,-- you're up to what's the time of day! bring home, _inside_, your lady wife, thenceforth to have and hold--for life! without such luck, or some preferment, to make an end, i make averment, your post of honour is the road, and longer not to be withstood. there's none dare venture the expression a highwayman's a low profession; a short life and a merry one, make one grand splash, and all is done! one last advice you'll say is owing,-- when to be hang'd you find you're going, which, for the robbing of your master, or some contingent slight disaster,-- just knocking up a bit of bobbery, manslaughter, or a highway robbery, so probably the lot of one, vivacious, ever fond of fun, (risking a mere ignoble carcass to emulate some noble marquis), fast-going ones, at naught who'd stick. to pass for a right (_flanders?_) brick,-- mark only this, your good behaviour wins, with your craft, eternal favour. deny, with loudest imprecations: they'll throng the court with attestations "such honesty--before all men-- none e'er had yet, nor will again!" confession make on no pretence, save turning round king's evidence; (i don't suppose, though, aught i say will save your neck another day,) your noble spirit, never vex it, but make a sentimental exit! the lord may'r 'll do whate'er he's able, "hoping you've all things comfortable!" ladies will send you costly flowers, to mollify your dying hours; and 'white japonicas' shall thence be emblems of your innocence! pretend (to make the parson stare) an extra-ord'nary love of prayer; the jailer give a fond adieu, and squeeze the sheriff's hand in two. as for the hangman, make a pother, as if you'd found a long-lost brother: some pledge of kindness give the mayor, if but a ringlet of your hair! thus, to the last, the gallows grace, and none shall say, you've "lost your place." -------- thus far our dean,--but happier times now wait on bolder, deadlier crimes, when wisdom mourns o'er wise restraints, and murd'rers serve for martyred saints. with laws so changed, a realm's disgrace springs from a pot-boy 'out of place;' when all but starts the maudlin tear, for sufferings of a courvoisier; and pity grasps the hand imbrued in a confiding master's blood! when the most hardened knave has hope of all things needful--but a rope! and nought excites the mortal pang, save to behold a felon hang. and why? howe'er the de'il may angle, in his 'right mind' no man would dangle; or, 'monomania' far away, have a clear right to bot'ny bay; for i've no trouble in believing a 'monomania' for thieving! what fee, then, shall that counsel grace, who'll fairly make out such a 'case?' can such 'opinion' e'er be bought? i'm quite 'transported' at the thought! let sober judges, then, give way, and let mad-doctors have the sway! let all things (for a time) be shown as only right when upside down! yet while these 'epochs' intervene, well may we cry, "god" save our queen! now call me whig, or call me tory, wise rulers all, i yet implore ye, some better safeguard may be known both for the people and the throne; for though no radical, most sure i grudge the hangman's sinecure! the housekeeper. a fav'rite footman you must have, always the most tit-bits to save; watchful for something 'none the worse,' or untouch'd from the second course, it doesn't matter what precisely,-- you and the steward 'cook it nicely.' [illustration: the chambermaid.] the chambermaid. you've more importance than the housemaid, as living where there's greater fuss made,-- a vastly more important clatter than where they only keep the latter. you've nought to do but "up stairs clamber, down stairs, and in my lady's chamber;" take vails of all the visitors, and chat with all inquisitors; and whilst a secret's left remaining, you're always vastly entertaining. the coachman is your usual lover, till you can coax the footman over; who sometimes helps you in fatigue, but always in a nice intrigue. the worst mishap that comes to pass is when you break a looking-glass; for could invention stretch like leather, you ne'er can 'jine the bits together.' but still excuses may be had,-- i'll tell you one that 'shan't be bad;' the girl, you'll say, deserved a pension, although it failed, for the invention. the glass she smashes all to shivers, and frets and fumes, and quakes and quivers to think--whichever way to view it-- how in the world should she 'git through it.' th' emergency was sudden, dreadful, and needed brains more than a headfull: 'howsever,' calling up her wits, (instead of falling into fits,) she lock'd the door; then fetch'd up straight a stone of half-a-hundred weight, quick as if followed by old scratch, and breaks a pane of glass 'to match.' the stone laid down beneath the shelf, (more softly than if down itself,) she goes, with just her general airs, about her _general_ affairs. it takes--precisely as she wish'd; and yet at last the poor girl's dish'd. when all seemed well,--at least quite fairish, in pops the parson of the parish,-- talks of the height, the situation, the weight, the laws of gravitation; prates law like any romilly, and ends with a fine homily; until, at last, i grieve to say, he gets the poor girl turn'd away. still 'tis not oft that female tactics are set aside by mathematics; nor left to busy-bodies whether a story fails or hangs together. so then, as kitchener would say, "to devil it a diff'rent way," swear that, amidst a strange perfume, (like brimstone, filling all the room,) you felt a flash of lightning burn you, and then, before you'd time to turn you, or wake at all from the surprise, you'd lost the use of both your eyes! and in that state, midst horrid clatters, saw the glass lying all in shatters. 'another way:'--it wanted dusting, and you to set it right were bursting; when lo! the moisture of the 'hair' had left the plate completely bare, so that it parted from the wall without the 'leastest' touch at all. and that's--though they may think it lame-- the best excuse that you can frame. i can't invent but one more bolsterer,-- to cut the cord, and curse th' upholsterer: but for a thumping taradiddle, to no one e'er play second fiddle. now, as for little trifling matters, as breaking 'chayney' cups and platters, or letting a large punch-bowl fall,-- why never vex yourself at all. "you're not surpris'd, since it appears as it's been crack'd for years and years; and as you took it off the shelf, it came in 'three halves' quite itself: it's no use going into fits, to prove the fact--you've saved the bits!" lying is, doubtless, half the trade of ev'ry clever chambermaid; though yet it seems the chiefest sleight to lie, and yet appear upright. but one thing more, and then you've sped,-- get your name _up_, then lie in bed! the porter. if a great minister of state your master be, then guard the gate from all but such as teem with news to suit his honour's _party_ views: you judging kindly and genteelly, those mostly such who 'tip' most freely. the housemaid. from all the rest your office varies, is so exempt from pert vagaries, i cease to write, as cease to think,-- you cost me scarce one dip of ink. at least, thanks to the 'march of mind,' (in which so few now lag behind,) my author's words, if e'er so true, are really much too coarse for _you_. fain would i yield all his jocoseness, and all his wit without his grossness. thus, where our dean seems most in rapture, i leave out nearly half a chapter; checking, in short, his worst inventions, to 'carry out' his best intentions. in lieu of lying, graces, airs, leave mops and pails upon the stairs; and if some slave break both his shins, what then care you?--why, just two pins! [illustration: the housemaid.] the steward. there is no servant like the steward, for letting lordships go to leeward; and i ne'er knew of one so thorough, as he who 'served' lord peterborough; and so, for ever, made that station a perfect personification of every virtue upon earth, that can befriend a man of birth. he pulled his lordship's mansion down,-- one of the handsomest in town; he sold the bricks, the floors and stairs, and charged my lord for the repairs: then, to surpass the sweets of honey, he lent his lordship his own money! i spare you more advice, the rather, thinking you cannot well go farther than keep, in every thing you do, your master's 'interest' still in view. the groom. each pot of ale (who'd ever think it, except yourself the while you drink it? and thinking so, drink all the faster) tells for the credit of your master. i'm speaking now, as on a journey you act by way of his attorney; through whom smith, saddler,--half the county participate his worship's bounty. you are the herald of his worth, his vast estates, 'amazing birth!' you've but one way to show your sense, while unrestricted for expense, so ev'ry art and method try to make his honour's money fly. your duty 'tis, beyond a doubt, to turn the inn quite inside out; give cooks and ostlers full commission, put each man jack in requisition, [illustration: the groom.] although you hav'n't time to deal with aught that can be call'd a meal. be sure, at every town you stop at, to choose those inns to take a drop at, where you're respected all the more from having made a splash before; where all your pranks they understand, and pay their homage cap in hand; furnish your wines from the best bins, and outdo all the other inns. so cleverly to think you've got 'em, your master's purse can have no bottom! if, when applying for a place, your master asks you, to your face, if you be sober, and the rest, or somewhat giv'n to hodges' best? confess you're fond of drinking courses, but "nothing bangs your love of horses." thus he'll admire your candid way, and trust to all you do and say. not that you'll do the like by him, because you chance to suit his whim: the only plan to bring you pelf, is buying hay and oats yourself; because you know a way so handy, to turn them into ale and brandy. further i'll not attempt to mix myself at all with jockeys' tricks; or run a race with such as you, who'll take my hints, and beat me too! for once, then, i'll hold in the reins, not to be jostled for my pains: the 'burning turf' but brings remorse, and fairly warns me off the course. so rest, and finger still the 'cole,' groom of the crib!--groom of the stole! [illustration: the coachman.] the coachman. you're bound to nothing, strictly speaking, but just to keep the wheels from creaking; and then to drive just slower, faster, to please yourself more than your master. but teach your horses, when you're toping, the art to stand stock-still and moping. tell master that they're getting old, and "one on 'em has got a cold," when at the alehouse you've a call, and not inclined to drive at all. if master takes a short excursion, get drunk, and play up 'mag's diversion;' pass some deep pit close to the brink, to show you're none the worse for drink; and swear you can't decline 'october,' or drive quite well if you're quite sober! the nursery maid. let children always, when they're ill, both eat and drink whate'er they will; although 'forbid' by doctor diet, 'twill do 'em good, and keep 'em quiet. they'll love you--all, and take it kind too, to throw their physic out of window: remember, though, 'tis quite as well to bid the poor things "not to _tell_." do for your mistress just the same, if laid up either sick or lame; and if she 'longs,'--whate'er the food, engage that it will do her good. but if she goes to whip a child, declare you're 'druv' distracted, wild; and swear to leave _her_ place you'd 'ruther,' than live with such a _cruel_ mother! [illustration: the nursery maid.] but don't go far enough to fret her; she'll scold, but love you all the better for taking the 'dear children's part,'-- you've "railly such a tender heart!" yet when you're flirting in the park, make 'em stop out till quite pitch dark; and 'if so be as how' they cry, "they'll go to bogey certain-ly!" the dairy-maid. be ever putting forth a splutter of the fatigue of making butter: even in summer you must learn always to have a scalding churn. cream a week old at least desire, and churn close to the kitchen fire. but of your business, still the great art is,--saving cream for your own sweetheart! the wet nurse. perchance, should you the child 'let fall,' confessing it 'won't do at all;' none can the secret e'er discover, and if it _dies_, the danger's over. to your own breast confine the bilk, and save--your 'breasteziz' of milk. wean 'such as live' as soon as may be, out o' the way of the next baby. the laundress. when such a 'fantigue' you have been in, you've with the iron singed the linen; rub it with whiting, chalk, or flour, for just the space of half an hour: then washing,--by repeated fags twill be all _right_, or--_all in rags_. the governess. my task is now just nearly ended, and you may justly feel offended, to be so low upon the wall, or placed upon the list at all. no one suspects that _you're_ a glutton, and so you're served with cold boiled mutton; nor grudged, to aid your mental work, that _luxury_--a silver fork! of course, you'll show no sort of blindness to such extraordinary kindness. a vulgar person, 'take your davy,' would have steel prongs, hot chops, and gravy; i'd e'en be charged with platitude, but what i'd show my gratitude! say that "miss laura's too precocious; jane so inert, ruth so ferocious, rose quite an invalid; miss liddy so most abominably giddy,-- you can make nothing--maugre raillery, of any of 'em but--the salary!" a few rules, which concern all servants in general. who comes when called for, all agree, is 'servant' good as good can be; therefore, to save a deal of bother, speak for yourself, and for no other. to put your masters off their mettle, and all disputes the sooner settle, the only way is not to 'bend,' but 'give as good as they can send.' never tell tales of one another, except of some too favoured brother; but there it seems a rule confest to heap the faults of all the rest: i quite agree with mister gray, to get all favourites 'turn'd away.' bribe little masters and young misses with sugar-plums and slobb'ring kisses. thus they will say, "how good you are!" and tell no tales to pa or mar. let every servant feel as great, as if his master's whole estate were meant to furnish prog and pelf but for his individual self. the cook, for instance, thinks it queer if twenty thousand pounds a-year won't make the household richly dine,-- and so the butler thinks of wine. groom, coachman, all the rest 'run on,' till sometimes all the money's gone. "fortune's a jilt," and "plague upon her!" you did it all for "master's honour!" and though yourselves alone have brought it, you're first to cry out "who'd ha' thought it?" yet this may caution some on entry, not to set up too soon for gentry. when upon errands you are sent, (on something else, of course, intent) and absent more than half the day, come back 'not knowing what to say;' then is the time you'll see the uses of a whole set of 'good excuses:' "a near relation came a distance, and really needing your assistance,-- an uncle whom you'd never seen from 'such times' you were seventeen, and all that you could raise (alack!) was scarce enough to take him back."-- "some one, to whom you'd money lent, was making for the continent."-- make out a story,--cram it full: the _cock_ won't fight?--then try the _bull_. "a 'peeler' had the nation gnous to clap you in the station-house, where you were 'kep' the morning 'through,' quite ignorant of what to do, although you'd rather lie in jail, than ask his honour to stand bail; and all because (though past belief) you bore some likeness to a thief! a fifth, 'more betterer' than all, was shipping off 'towards bengal.' "you went to try to use your tongue, to save a friend from being hung; you wrench'd your foot 'aginst a stone,' and 'laid' your ancle to the bone; which gave you such a horrid 'feel,' the doctor thinks 'twill never heal. but still you must submit to fate, and hope you're not a _deal_--too late." yet if, not mending much the case, you swear till near 'black in the face;' if each fresh story they despise, though doing all that in you lies; confess, and say from earliest youth you've thought it "best to tell the truth." amongst the rest of my advices, defend all tradesmen 'as to prices:' the very thought of an abatement was for the _little_, not the great meant. and who'd oppose a little tricking, which brings yourself a deal of picking? and where,--to use an honest course, the saddle's put on the right horse? keep, then, those shopkeepers in view, who'll more than wink at all you do;-- in short, trust no one (to save trouble), that won't make out a bill for double. mind nothing but your own affairs, and let the rest attend to theirs. thus if, for instance, you are told to shut the stable-door: make bold to say (for that your only course is), you "warn't brought up at all to horses." the footman's ask'd to drive a nail, and must adopt a sim'lar tale; he "can't in such a bus'ness stir, but tom can fetch th' upholsterer!" to put out candles there are ways demanding more than common praise. some of you make no 'bones' at all of dabbing it against the wall; some twirl it round, and round, and round; some tread it out upon the ground: others will give the spark release, by drowning it in its own grease! but being mostly done in haste, much must depend on your own taste; only remember, aught prefer to a downright extinguisher! but candles, still, i've not quite done with, they're things to make such store of fun with. 'put out the light,' and still there's room its 'former' twinklings to 'relume.' if once they're lighted, that's enough,-- all that is 'left' is kitchen-stuff: but do not (never for your soul) 'go for to' cut up candles whole! i knew a girl who cut her sticks, because the chandler smoked the wicks, convinced there must be something rotten with such a deuced heap of cotton: it didn't ('nor ought it to') succeed, being a truly wicked deed! write both your own and sweetheart's names (to show the height of both your flames, your love and learning both revealing) with candle-smoke upon the ceiling, and never mind whoever laughs,-- they're extra 'curious autographs!' to shut or open doors if loath, (and who'd be bother'd to do both?) to keep from quarrels about either, the shortest way is to do neither. but if the 'shutting' (quite a poser) brings a _command_, that's quite a closer: do it, to cause their special wonder, to vie with any clap of thunder! thus while you prove you know your trade, they'll be convinced that they're obeyed. indulge yourself in bouncing airs, go, mutt'ring all the way down stairs,-- "they're people that you will not stop with;" it's "rayther more than you'll put up with." if you find out they _somehow_ like you, one thought will naturally strike you; give warning--instantly, and say your work is hard, with slender pay; you really must have some advance, "service is no inheritance." if they be not awake, the sages will 'bate your work and raise your wages: but if you're balk'd, and time runs on, inquiry's made why you're not gone? your fellow-servants, you explain, prevail'd on you to 'stop again.' but when you _do_ go (you're the judge whether it's worth your while to budge), say "you have left so vile a race, that none will venture on the place." now take an honest friend's advice,-- answer, when call'd not less than thrice; "dogs only come at the first whistle," and then in hopes of bone or gristle. "who's there?" when some wiseacres call, who's there? is no one's name at all: keep quiet; let 'em 'make a page' one of exactly 'their own age,' and when you're found, the helpless elves have done the mighty job themselves. whate'er you do, abhor a tell-tale, in all things else you scarce can well fail; but when a servant turns his back, then all at once be at him smack, and ev'ry fault the rest have done ascribe to him, when once he's gone. first, then, (though you are no detractor,) "he got in with a false charàcter; he was ungrateful,--oh, most horrid! deceit itself 'rit in his forrid,' and one 'more wastefuller' of store, 'never set foot into a door;' 'twas him that spoilt the street-door lock, 'twas him that broke the parlour clock, that did whatever he might please, that had a 'perfect set of keys!' that nothing 'went' but he receiv'd it, and 'shipp'd it off' when once he'd thiev'd it." if ask'd (which must be quite a bore), "pray why not tell all this before?" say that you thought it most judicious not to appear "the least malicious:" and when you're tired of blaming flunkey, comes lap-dog, parrot, cat, and monkey. 'twill vastly mend your situation, to meet with one false accusation; for ev'ry fault you thence commit, of course you think it just and fit to make to that some pert allusion, to all the family's confusion: in short, your triumph's now so plain, they never dare find fault again. well, then: don't go and be so hateful, as to turn round, and prove ungrateful, drawing fresh pertness from my page, e'en should you reach methus'lem's age, and whilst i've plann'd my whole endeavour, for you and for your 'airs' for ever! now then for conjuration tricks: turn bottles into candlesticks, and, unrestrained by vulgar rules, good four-legg'd chairs to three-legg'd stools. make dusters out of fancy-works, chew'd paper into patent corks, with sundry excellent expedients, form'd from the most grotesque ingredients, which can't be quite politely spoken, when any thing is lost or broken. the tongs or shovel serves the stoker when once you've broke the kitchen poker, (a hardish job, as some may view it, yet some of you know how to do it); or master's cane may go to wrack, to keep it off the stoker's back! still 'one more word': i do beseech you, if _disapproving_ aught i teach you,-- (which i not only won't resent, but deem my _highest compliment_, the _true_ intent 'no how' mistook, with which i really wrote this book,) simply from every lesson vary, and 'take and do' the '_clean contráry_!' your fellow-servants thus alarming, say that "variety is charming:" let 'em keep mimicking and watching, and may they find that "mocking's _catching_!" but one more rhyme i now can hitch in, to swell the 'glories of the kitchen;' where you may romp and break the chairs, discuss all family affairs, what to refuse, and what to grant, what you 'shall' do, and what you 'shan't:' laugh, sing, and squall, vote care a viper, dancing while master 'pays the piper,' and boast the jovial, endless cheer, which makes it 'christmas all the year!' [illustration] * * * * * transcriber's note: only most obvious punctuation errors repaired. the opening quotes in the final poem are as printed in the original. _the coachman_ is located on page although the table of contents places it at . the table of content has been changed to reflect the actual location of the poem. https://archive.org/details/goldgoldincaribo philuoft "gold, gold, in cariboo!" [illustration: corbett seizes his one chance for life.] gold, gold, in cariboo! a story of adventure in british columbia by clive phillipps-wolley author of "snap" "a sportsman's eden" &c. illustrated by godfrey c. hindley new edition blackie and son limited london glasgow and dublin contents. chap. page i. the gold fever, ii. a "gilt-edged" speculation, iii. a little game of poker, iv. the mother of gold, v. "is the colonel 'straight?'" vi. the wet camp, vii. facing death on the stone-slide, viii. their first "colours," ix. under the balm-of-gilead tree, x. the shadows begin to fall, xi. "jump or i'll shoot," xii. a sheer swindle, xiii. the bullet's message, xiv. what the wolf found, xv. in the dance-house, xvi. the price of blood, xvii. chance's gold-fever returns, xviii. on the colonel's trail again, xix. "good-bye, lilla," xx. the accursed river, xxi. pete's creek, xxii. gold by the gallon! xxiii. the hornet's nest, xxiv. drowning in the forest, xxv. in the camp of the chilcotins, xxvi. rampike's winter quarters, xxvii. the search for phon, xxviii. the king of the big-horns, xxix. phon's return, xxx. cruickshank at last! illustrations page corbett seizes his one chance for life _frontis._ "with a scream of fear the chinaman sprang out" lilla accosts the colonel in the dance-house "gold--gold in flakes, and lumps, and nuggets" chapter i. the gold fever. in the april of , victoria, british columbia, was slowly recovering from what her inhabitants described as a serious "set back." from the position of a small hudson bay station she had suddenly risen in ' to the importance of a city of , inhabitants, from which high estate she had fallen again with such rapidity, that in there were only left in her to mourn the golden days of the "frazer river humbug." in ' the gold fever broke out in california, and for ten years, in the words of an eye-witness, , adventurers of every hue, language, and clime were drifting up and down the slopes of the great sierra, in search of gold, ready to rush this way or that at the first rumour of a fresh find. in ' california's neighbour, british columbia, took the fever. the cry of "gold, gold!" was raised upon the frazer, and the wharves of san francisco groaned beneath the burden of those who sought to take ship for this fresh eldorado. in a year most of these pilgrims had returned from the new shrine, poorer by one year of their short lives, beaten back by the grim canyons of the frazer river, or cheated of their reward by those late floods, which kept the golden sands hidden from their view. in ' and ' the miner cursed victoria as a city of hopes unfulfilled, and left her to dream on undisturbed of the greater days to come. she looked as if, on this april day of ' , her dreams were of the fairest. the air, saturated with spring sunshine, was almost too soft and sweet to be wholesome for man. there was a languor in it which dulled the appetite for work; merely to live was happiness enough; effort seemed folly, and if a man could have been found with energy enough to pray, he would have prayed only that no change might come to him, that the gleam of the blue waters of the straits and the diamond brightness of the distant snow-peaks might remain his for ever, balanced by the soft green of the island pine-woods: that the hollow drumming of the mating grouse and the song of the meadow lark, and the hum of waking nature might continue to caress his ear, while only the scent of the fresh-sawn lumber suggested to him that labour was the lot of man. and yet, in spite of this seeming dreaminess in nature, the old earth was busy fashioning new things out of the old, and the hearts of men all along the pacific slope were waking and thrilling in answer to the new message of mammon--"gold! gold by the ton, to be had for the gathering in cariboo!" the reports which had come down from quesnel, of the fortunes made in ' upon such creeks as antler and williams, had restored heart to the victorians, and even to those californian miners who still sojourned in their midst, so that quite half the people in the town, old residents as well as new-comers, were only waiting for the snows to melt, ere they rushed away to the mining district beyond the bald mountains. but the snows tarry long in the high places of british columbia, and the days went on in spite of the men and their desire, and bread had to be earned even in such an elysium as vancouver island, with all the gold which a man could want, as folks said, within a few weeks' march of them; so that hands and brains were busy, in spite of the temptations of hope and the spring sunshine. moreover, there were dull dogs even then in victoria, who believed more in the virtue of steady toil than in gold-mining up at cariboo. thus it happened, then, that a big, yellow-headed axeman, and a ray of evening sunlight, looking in together through an open doorway upon wharf street, found a man within in his shirt sleeves, still busily engaged upon his daily task. "hullo, corbett, how goes it? come right in and take a smoke." the voice, a cheery one with a genuine welcome in it, came from the inside of the house, and in answer the axeman heaved his great shoulder up from the door-post and loafed in. in every movement of this man there was a suggestion of healthy weariness, that most luxurious and delightful sensation which comes over him who has used his muscles throughout the day in some one of those outdoor forms of labour which earn an appetite, even if they do not gain a fortune. as he stood in the little room looking quizzically at his friend's work, ned corbett, in his old blue shirt and overalls, with the axe lying across one bare brown forearm, might have served an artist as a model for labour; but the artist into whose studio he had come had no need for such models. there was no money in painting such subjects, and steve chance painted for dollars, and for dollars only. round the room at the height of a man's shoulder was stretched a long, long strip of muslin (not canvas, canvas would cost six bits a picture), and this strip had been sized and washed over with colour. when corbett entered, chance had just slapped on the last patch of this preliminary coat of paint, so that now there was nothing more to be done until the morrow. "well, steve, how many works of art have you knocked off to-day?" asked corbett. "works of art be hanged!" replied his friend. "i've covered about twenty feet of muslin, and that at five dollars a picture isn't a bad day's work. what have you done?" "let me see, i've cut down a tree or two and earned an appetite, and--oh, yes, a couple of dollars to satisfy the same. isn't that enough?" "all depends upon the way you look at things. i call it fooling your time away." "and i call this work of yours a waste of talent worse, fifty times worse, than my waste of time. look at that thing, for instance;" and ned pointed to a large canvas, bright with all the colours of the rainbow. "that! well, you needn't look as if the thing might bite, ned. that is the new map of ophir, a land brimming 'ophir'--forgive the joke--with coarse gold, and, what is more important, bonded by those immaculate knights of the curbstone, messrs. dewd and cruickshank." "an advertisement, is it? well, it is ugly enough even for that. how much lower do you mean to drag your hapless art, you vandal? 'auctioning pictures,' as you call it, is bad enough, but this is simple sign-painting!" "well, and why not, if sign-painting pays? you take my advice, ned; get the 'sugar' first, the fame will come at its leisure. sign-painting is honest anyway, and more remunerative than felling trees, you bet." "that may be," replied the younger man, balancing his axe in his strong hands, "and more intellectual, i suppose; but, by george, there's a pleasure in every ringing blow with the axe, and the scent of the fresh pine-wood is sweeter than the smell of your oil-paints." "pot-paints, ned, two bits a pot. we don't run to tube-paints in this outfit." "well, pot-paints if you like; but even so you are not making a fortune. we can't always sell those panoramas of yours, you know, even at a dollar a foot." "that's _your_ fault, ned; you've no eye for the latent merits of my pictures, and therefore make a shocking mess of the auctioneer's department. however, i am not wedded to my art. if lumbering and painting don't pay, what do you say to real estate?" and as he spoke, chance put his "fixins" together and proceeded to lock up the studio for the night. "real estate! why, fifty per cent of the inhabitants of the queen city are real estate agents professionally, and most of the others are amateurs. be a little original, outside your art anyway, old fellow. i don't want anything to do with real estate, except in acre blocks beyond the city limits, and a jolly long way beyond at that!" "is that so?" asked a mellow voice from behind the last speaker. "then, my dear sir, messrs. dewd and cruickshank can fix you right away. what do you say to a little farm on the gorge, fairly swarming with game, and admirably suited for either stock raising or grain growing?" "viticulture, market-gardening, or a gentleman's park! better go the whole hog at once, cruickshank," laughed chance, turning round to greet the new-comer, a dark, stout man with an unlit cigar stuck in the corner of his mouth. "you must have your joke, mr. chance; but the farm is really a gem for all that, and with the certainty of a large advance in price this summer, a man could not do better than buy." "what, is the farm better than a claim in ophir?" laughed chance. "ah, well, that is another matter!" said cruickshank. "the farm is a gilt-edged investment. there is, of course, just a suspicion of speculation in all gold-mining operations, though i can't see where the risk is in such claims as those you mention. by the way, have you finished the map?" "yes, here it is," replied the artist, producing a roll from under his arm, and partly opening it to show it to his questioner. "i call it rather a neat thing in sign-boards, don't you? i know i've used up all my brightest colours upon it." "yes, it will do; and though i don't suppose williams creek is quite that colour," laughed cruickshank, "i am happy to say that our reports are not over-coloured, even if our map is. do you know the duke of kent, mr. corbett?" "no. who is the duke of kent? i'd no idea that we had any aristocrats out here." "oh, the duke's is only a fancy title; most titles are that way in the far west." "my sentiments exactly, colonel cruickshank," replied corbett; and anyone inclined to quarrel with him might have thought that corbett dwelt just a thought too long upon the "colonel." but cruickshank was not inclined to quarrel with a man who stood six feet two, and girthed probably forty inches round the chest, and who was reported, moreover, to be master of quite a snug little sum in good english gold. "the duke of kent has a claim alongside those which we bonded last fall, and he tells me that he has already refused a hundred thousand dollars for a half share in it." "a hundred thousand dollars for a half share! great cæsar's ghost, why, you could buy half victoria for the money!" cried chance. "well, not quite, but a good deal of it, and yet i've no doubt but that we have quite as rich claims amongst those we offer for sale. how can it be otherwise? they lie side by side on the same stream." "have you seen any of these claims yourself, colonel?" asked corbett. "every one of them, my good sir. my clients are for the most part my own countrymen, and you may bet that i won't let them be done by any beastly yank." "civil to you, steve," laughed corbett. "i beg your pardon, mr. chance, but there are americans _and_ americans; and you can understand that a man who has spent the best years of his life wearing the queen's uniform feels hotly about some of the frauds practised upon tender-feet by californian bilks." "why, certainly; don't apologize. i suppose there are a few honest men and a good many rogues in every nation. did you say you had seen the claims yourself? i thought you were in victoria in the fall." "no; dewd and i were up together. i came down and he stayed there. there is big money in them. change your minds, gentlemen, and give up art for gold-mining." "no, thanks; i think not," replied corbett. "no! well, you know best. good-day to you. you won't take a drink, will you?" "no, i won't spoil my appetite even for a cock-tail." "so long, then!" and with a flourish of his gold-headed cane, which was meant to represent a military salute, the somewhat florid warrior dived through a swing-door, over which was written in letters of gold, "the fashion bar." "say, corbett," remarked chance as cruickshank disappeared, "don't you make yourself so deuced disagreeable to my best customers. cruickshank's orders keep our firm in bread and cheese, and i can see you want to kick the fellow all the time he is in your company." "all right, old chap; but i didn't say anything rude, did i? if he would only drop the 'british army' and 'we english' i wouldn't even want to be rude. what the deuce does he care whether he gets his dollars from a britisher or a yank?" "not much, you bet! but here we are. hullo, phon, have you got the muck-a-muck ready?" "you bet you! soup all ready. muck-a-muck heap good to-day you see;" and laughing and chattering phon dived into the tent, and rattled about the tin plates and clucked as if he were calling chickens to be fed. phon was a character in his way, and a good one at that; a little wizen, yellow body, with an especially long pig-tail coiled up on his head like a turban; eyes and tongue which were in perpetual motion, and a great affection for the two white men, who treated him with the familiarity of old friendship. "what are you in such a deuce of a hurry for to-night, phon?" asked corbett a little later, when the chinaman rushed in to take away the remains of dinner. "s'pose i tell you, you no let me go?" replied the fellow, half interrogatively. "go! of course i'll let you go. i couldn't help myself, i suppose. where are you going to--the hee-hee house?" "no, no. hee-hee house no good. no makee money there. pay all the time. me go gamble." "gamble, you idiot! what, and lose all your pay for a month?" "'halo' (_anglice_ not) lose. debbil come to me last night; debbil say, 'phon, you go gamble, you win one hundred dollars.' i go win, you see." "please yourself. you'll see as much of that hundred dollars as you did of the devil. who's that calling?" phon went out of the tent for a moment and then returned, and holding up the tent flap for someone to enter, said: "colonel cruickshank want to see you. me go now?" "all right! go to blazes, only don't expect us to pay you any more wages if you lose. come in, colonel." "won't you come out instead, mr. corbett? it's better lying on the grass outside than in to-night." "guess he is right, ned. come along, you lazy old beggar!" cried chance. and the three men in another minute were all lying prone on a blanket by the embers of a camp-fire, smoking their pipes and chatting lazily. corbett's tent--a marvel of london make, convertible into anything from a turkish bath to a suit of clothes, and having every merit except the essential one of portability--stood upon the very edge of the encampment, commanding a view of the sea and the olympic range on the farther shore. the encampment itself was a kind of annexe of the town of victoria, standing where james bay suburb now stands, although what is to-day covered with villas and threatened by an extension of the electric tramway was in ' a place of willows and wild rosebushes. here lived part of the floating population of victoria, miners _en route_ to cariboo, remittance-men sent away from home to go to the dogs out of sight of their affectionate relatives, and a good many other noisy good-fellows who liked to live in their shirt sleeves in the open air. corbett and chance were the aristocrats of this quarter, thanks to the magnificence of their abode and the general "tonyness" of their outfit. in their own hearts they knew that they were victims to their outfitter--that they were living where they were instead of in a house merely out of regard for their tent, and for those mysterious camp appliances which all fitted into one another like chinese puzzles. that was where the shoe pinched. in a moment of pride they had pitched their tent (according to written instructions) and unpacked their "kitchen outfits," and _they had never been able to repack them_. it was all very well to advertise the things as packing compactly into a case two feet by one foot six inches, but it required an expert to pack them; and so, unless they were minded to abandon their "fixings," they had to stay by them. therefore they stayed, and said they preferred the open air, even when it rained, as it sometimes does even on vancouver island. later on they learnt better, and were consoled for their losses by the sight of the hundred and one "indispensable requisites of a camp life" cast away by weary pilgrims all along the frazer river road. it is a pity that the gentlemen who sell camp outfits cannot be compelled to pass one year in prospecting before they enter upon their trade. but an april evening by the straits of fuca, with a freshly-lit pipe between your teeth, will put you in charity even with a london outfitter. the warm air was full of the scent of the sea and the sweet smoke of the camp-fires, while the chorus of the bull-frogs sounded like nature's protest against the advent of man. as the darkness grew the forest seemed to close in round the intruding houses, and for a while even the estate agent was silent, oppressed by the majesty of night and nature. it was corbett who broke the silence at last. "do you know that long, blue valley, steve--you can hardly see it now,--the one that goes winding away back into the mountains from the gate of the angels?" steve nodded. he was too lazy to answer. "that valley is my worst tempter. i know i ought to settle here and work: keep a store and grow up with the country; but i can't do it. that valley haunts me with longings to follow it through the blue mists to--" "to the place where the gold comes from--eh, ned? to the place where it lies in lumps still, not worn into dust by its long journey down stream from the heart of its parent mountain. old sobersides, you have been reading your _colonist_ too much lately." ned smiled, and knocking the ashes out of his pipe, began to refill it. "how much of all these yarns about gold up at antler and williams creek do you believe, colonel?" he asked, turning to cruickshank. "do you really think anyone ever took out fifty ounces in a day with a rocker?" "i know it, my good sir. i have seen it. when antler was found in the bed-rock was paved with gold, and you could not wash a shovelful of dirt that had not from five to fifty dollars' worth of dust in it." "oh, there's gold up in cariboo, ned, but it wants finding. you've only got to go into the saloons to know that there is plenty of dust for the lucky ones. fellows pay with pinches of dust for liquors whose names they did not know a year ago." "_paid_, you mean, chance," corrected cruickshank. "they are all pretty near stone-broke by now. but are you longing to go and bail up gold in your silk hat, mr. corbett?" "i am longing to be doing something new, colonel. i've taken the prevalent fever, i think, and want to make one in this scrimmage. i can't sit still and see band after band of hard-fists going north any longer. town life may be more profitable, perhaps, but i want to be with the men." "bully for you, ned! english solidity of intellect for ever! why, you villain, you're as bad a gambler as yankee chance." "worse, i expect, mr. chance," remarked cruickshank, eyeing the two young men critically. "you would play to win, he would play for the mere fun of playing." "which would give me the advantage," retorted corbett; "because in that case i should stop when i was tired of the game." "never mind the argument," broke in chance; "gambler or no gambler, if you go i go. i'm sick of that picture of the pines and the waterfall, anyway." "so is victoria. 'bloomin' red clothes'-props and a mill-race,' one chap called the last copy i tried to sell," muttered corbett. "well, why not buy a couple of those claims of mine?" suggested cruickshank. "i always like to do a fellow-countryman a good turn, and it would really be a genuine pleasure to me to put you two into a good thing." "how many have you left, colonel cruickshank?" he could not help it for the life of him, but the moment cruickshank became more than ordinarily affectionate and open-hearted corbett put on the colonel, and, as it were, came on guard. he was angry with himself directly afterwards for doing so, but he could no more help it than a man can help pulling himself together when he hears the warning of the rattlesnake. "only three, mr. corbett; and i doubt whether i can hold those till to-morrow morning. i am to meet a man in town at nine about them." "what do you want for the three?" "as a mere matter of curiosity?" put in chance. "well, let me see. they are ' -foot' claims, right alongside the places where the big hauls were made last year; but they are the last, and as you are an englishman and a friend--" "oh, please be good enough to treat this as a purely business matter," ejaculated corbett, blushing up to the temples, whilst anyone looking at cruickshank might for the moment have thought that his speech had had exactly the effect he intended it to have. "well, say two thousand dollars apiece; that is cheap and fair." "two thousand dollars apiece! what a chap you are to chaff, cruickshank!" cried chance, breaking in. "do you take us for millionaires?" "in embryo if you buy my shares, certainly, my dear sir." "perhaps. but look here, say a thousand dollars apiece, half cash, and half when we make our pile." "can't do it; but i'll knock off a hundred dollars from each claim, as we are friends." "the market value is two thousand dollars, you say, colonel cruickshank (my dear chance, do leave this to me), and you have yourself inspected these claims?" "certainly." "and they are good workable claims, adjoining those you spoke of?" "undoubtedly, that gives them their principal value." "very well then, i'll buy the three. here is a hundred dollars to bind our bargain. we'll settle the rest to-morrow. now, let me give you a drink." "thank you. are the claims to stand in your name?" "in chance's, phon's, and mine. how will that do, steve?" "settle it your own way; if you have gone crazy i suppose i must humour you. but there is a good deal owing to our firm from yours, colonel, isn't there?" "of course. that can be set off against a part of the sum due as payment for the claims. good-night, mr. corbett. thank you for the confidence you show in me. treat a gentleman like a gentleman, and an honest man like an honest man, say i." "and a thief or a business man like a thief or a business man," muttered chance, as cruickshank walked away. "oh, ned, ned! what a lot nature wasted on your muscles which she had much better have put into your head!" chapter ii. a "gilt-edged" speculation. "ned, were you drunk last night, or am i dreaming?" asked chance next morning, as the two sat over their breakfast, while the canoes of the early indian fishers stole out along the edges of the great kelp beds. it was a lovely scene upon which corbett's tent looked out, but chance at the moment had no eyes for the blue water, or the glories of the snow range beyond, all he could think of was "three claims at two thousand dollars apiece." "neither, that i am aware of, steve. you eat as if you had all your faculties about you, and i've no head ache." "then you did not buy three claims from cruickshank at two thousand dollars apiece?" "yes, i did; and why not?" "where is the money to come from?" "i'll see to that," replied corbett. "i am quite aware that six thousand dollars is twelve hundred pounds; but if you don't want to take a share in my speculation, i propose to invest that much of my capital in the venture, and even if i lose it all i shall still have something left, besides my muscles, thank god. you two, phon and yourself, can work for me on wages if you like, or we'll make some other arrangement to keep the party together." for a minute or two chance said nothing, and then he began laughing quietly to himself. "say, ned, you took scarlatina pretty bad when you were a kiddy, didn't you?" "i don't remember, old chap. why do you ask?" "and whooping-cough, and measles, and chicken-pox, and now its gold fever, and my stars isn't it a virulent attack?" and chance broke out laughing afresh. "i don't see," began corbett, growing rather red in the face. "oh, no; you don't see what all this has to do with me," interrupted chance, "and it's infernal impertinence on my part to criticise your actions, and if i wasn't so small you would very likely punch my head. i know all that. but, you see, we two are partners, and i am not going to dissolve partnership because i think you are taking bigger risks than you ought to. if you put up three thousand dollars i will put up as much, and part of it can come out of the money owing to the firm." "but why do this if you think the risk too big?" asked corbett. "why ask questions, ned? i feel like taking the risk; i am a yankee, and therefore a natural gambler. you of course are not, are you? and then it's spring-time, and from twenty-three to the other end of threescore years and ten is a long, long time; and even if we 'bust,' there'll be lots of time to build again. so we will go halves, the third claim to be held in phon's name, and phon to work on wages." "let us have old phon in. phon! phon!" shouted corbett. the chinaman, who was cleaning the tin plates by a creek hard by, came slowly towards them. "well, phon, did you lose all your dollars last night?" asked his master. "me tell you debbil say me win--debbil know, you bet," replied phon coolly. "and did you win?" "me win a hundred dollars--look!" and the little man held out a roll of dirty notes, amounting to something more than the sum named. "you were in luck, phon. 'spose i were you, i no go gamble any more," remarked corbett, dropping into that pigeon english, which people seem to think best adapted to the comprehension of the chinaman. "oh yes, you go gamble too. debbils bodder me very bad last night. they say you go gamble, chance he go gamble, phon he go gamble too. all go gamble togedder. and then debbil he show me gold, gold,--so much gold me no able to carry it. where you goin' now?" "i guess your friends, the devils, might have told you that too," remarked chance. "don't you know?" "no, me no savey. you tell me." "corbett and myself are going up to cariboo mining, and if you like you can come as cook, or you can come and work on wages in our claims. how would you like that?" "me come, all-lite me come; only you give me one little share in the claims--you let me put in one hundred dollars i win last night." "better keep what you've got and not gamble any more," replied corbett kindly. "halo! halo keep him. 'spose you not sell me share i go gamble again to-night." "better let him have his way, ned. let the whole crowd go in together, 'sink or swim.'" "very well, phon, then you will come." "you bet you, misser corbett. who you 'spose cook for you 'spose i no come?" and having proposed this final conundrum, phon retired again to his kitchen. "rum, the way in which he seemed to know all about our movements, ned," remarked chance, when the chinaman had done. "oh, he overheard what we said last night, or at breakfast this morning," replied corbett. "he wasn't here last night, and he was down by the stream whilst we were at breakfast." "all right, old man, perhaps his 'debbil' told him. it doesn't much matter anyway. did you see this piece in the _colonist_?" "about us? no. read it out." "'we understand that colonel cruickshank, the napoleon of victorian finance, the mammoth hustler of the pacific coast, has determined to conduct those gentlemen who have bought his bonded claims to the fortunes which await them. this additional proof of the colonel's belief in the property which he offers for sale should ensure a keen competition for the one claim still left upon his hands, which we understand will be raffled for this afternoon at p.m. at smith's saloon. tickets, ten dollars each. we are informed that amongst the purchasers of claims in the cruickshank reserve are an english gentleman largely interested in the lumber business, and an american artist rapidly rising into public notice.'" "what cheer, my lumber king!" laughed chance as corbett laid down the paper. "these journalists are wonderful fellows, but i suspect most of that paragraph was inspired and paid for by the 'mammoth hustler.' by the way, if it is true that he means to personally conduct a party to williams creek, it does really look as if he had some belief in the claims." "yes, if he means to; but i expect that is simply to draw people to his raffle this afternoon." "probably; but if he were to go up to williams creek we might as well go up with him. you see, he has travelled along the trail before." "well, i'll see about that, and make any arrangements i can for getting up to cariboo, if you will try to get our accounts settled up, steve. i'm no good at figures, as you know." "that's what!" replied chance laconically; and the two young men got upon their legs and prepared to start on their day's business. it will be as well here to enter upon a short explanation of the law as it then stood in british columbia with regard to the bonding of claims. experience had shown that in the upper country, early winters and late springs, with their natural accompaniment of deep snows, made mining impossible for about half the year. in consequence of this a law had been passed enabling miners to "bond" claims taken up late in the fall until the next spring. upon claims so bonded it was not necessary to do any work until the st of june of the ensuing year, so that from november to june the claims lay safe under the wing of the law; but should their owners neglect to put in an appearance or fail to commence work upon the st of june, they forfeited all right to the claims, which could then be "jumped" or seized upon by the first comer. it was under this law that corbett and chance had bought, so that it was imperatively necessary that they should reach their claims by the st of june; and although there was still ample time in which to make the journey, there was no time to waste. the cariboo migration had already begun, and every day saw fresh bands of hard-fists leave victoria for the mines. already the gamblers had gone, the whisky trains and other pack trains had started, and the drain upon the stock of full-grown manhood in victoria was easily noticeable. it was no vain boast which the miners made that the men of cariboo were the pick of the men of their day. physically, at any rate, it would have been hard indeed to find a body of men tougher in fibre and more recklessly indifferent to hardships than the pioneers who pushed their way through the frazer valley to the gold-fields beyond. in that crowd there was no room for the stripling or the old man. the race for gold upon the frazer was one in which only strong men of full age could live even for the first lap. and this was the crowd which corbett and chance sought to join. to some men the mere idea of a railway journey, entered upon without due consideration and ample forethought, is fraught with terrors. luckily neither corbett nor chance were men of this sort. chance was a yankee to the tips of his fingers, and had therefore no idea of distance or fear of travel. the world was _nearly_ big enough for him, and he cared just as little about "crossing the herring-pond" as he did about embarking on a ride in a 'bus. as for corbett, nature had made him a nomad--one of those strangely restless beings, who, having a lovely home, and knowing it to be lovely, still long for constant change, and circle the world with tireless feet, only to bring home the report that "after all england is the only place fit for a fellow to live in." the odd part of it all is, that that being their conviction, most of these wanderers contrive to live out of england for three parts of their lives. it was no wonder, then, that when corbett and chance met again at dusk everything had been, as chance said, "fixed right away." "it's a true bill about cruickshank, old man," corbett said. "and if you can get the bills paid and our kit packed he wants us to start with him on the _umatilla_ for westminster the day after to-morrow." "i don't know about getting the bills paid," replied chance. "a good many fellows who owe us money appear to have gone before to cariboo, but i reckon we must look upon that as the opening of an account to our credit in the new country." "not much of an account to draw upon; but i suppose it can't be helped. i believe, though, that to do the thing properly we ought both to get stone-broke before starting," remarked corbett. "that will come later. hullo, cruickshank! what is in the wind now?" cried steve, turning to the new-comer. "gold, gold, nothing but gold, chance. but i say, gentlemen, are those your packs?" asked the colonel, pointing to two small mountains of luggage which nearly filled the interior of the tent. "yes. that is chance's pack, and this is mine. there will be a sort of joint-stock pack made up to-morrow of the kitchen stuff and the tent. and i think that will be all." "and you think that will be all, mr. corbett?" repeated cruickshank. "you are a strong man; can you lift that pack?" and he pointed to the biggest of the two. "oh yes, easily; carry it a mile if necessary," replied corbett, swinging the great bundle up on to his shoulders. "you _are_ a stout fellow," admitted cruickshank admiringly; "but hasn't it occurred to you that you may have to carry all you want for a good many miles? and even if you can do that, who is to carry the joint-stock pack? not phon, surely?" "well, but won't there be any pack ponies?" asked corbett. "for hire on the road, do you mean? certainly not." "all right, then," replied corbett, after a minute or two spent in solemnly and somewhat sadly contemplating all the neatly-packed camp equipage. "i can do with two blankets and a tin pannikin if it comes to that. can't you, steve?" "a tin pannikin and blanket goes," answered chance. "to blazes with all english outfits anyway!" "well, i don't know about that," put in cruickshank, who seemed hardly as well pleased at his comrade's readiness to forswear comfort as might have been expected. "i thought that you fellows might like to take a few comforts along with you, so i had mentally arranged a way in which we might combine pleasure with profit." "pleasure with profit by all means, my boy. unfold your scheme, colonel; we are with you," cried chance. "well, stores are terribly high up in cariboo. whisky is about the only thing these packers think of packing up to the mines, and if you fellows had the coin i could easily buy a little train of cayuses down at westminster pretty cheap, and load them up with stuff which would pay you cent per cent, and between us the management of a little train like that would be a mere nothing." "how about packing? you cain't throw a diamond hitch by instinct," remarked chance, who knew a little from hearsay of the life of the road. "oh, i can throw the hitch, and so i guess can your heathen, and we'll deuced soon teach both of you to take the on-side if you are wanted to." "how much would such a train cost?" "the ponies ought not to cost more than fifty dollars apiece; as to the stores, of course it depends upon what you choose to take. the ponies will carry about two hundred pounds apiece, if they are good ones." "what do you say to it, steve?" asked ned. "seems a good business," replied chance, "and we may as well put our last dollars into a pack-train as leave them in the bank or chuck them into the frazer. a pack-train goes." and so it was settled that the two friends should invest the balance of their funds in a pack-train and stores for cariboo. the venture looked a promising one, with no possibility of failure or loss, and even if things went wrong the boys would only be stone-broke; and who cares whether he is stone-broke or not at twenty-three, in a new country with no one dependent upon him? it was only eighteen months before that edward corbett had left home, a home in which it was part of the duty of about five different human beings to see that master edward wanted for nothing. at about the same time one of the finest houses in new york would have been disturbed to its very foundations if it were suspected that mr. steve chance wanted for any of the luxuries of the nineteenth century, and yet here were steve chance and ned corbett, their last dollar invested in a doubtful venture, their razors abandoned, their toilet necessaries reduced to one cake of soap and a towel between two (cruickshank condemned the habit of washing altogether upon the road), and their whole stock of household goods reduced to two light packs, to be carried mile after mile upon their own strong shoulders. there was daily labour ahead of them such as a criminal would hardly have earned for punishment at home, there was a certainty before them of bad food, restless nights, thirst, hunger, and utter discomfort, and yet this life was of their own choosing, and a smile hovered round the lips of each of them as the pipes dropped out of their mouths and they turned over to sleep. as for "gold," the prize which both of them appeared to be making all these sacrifices for, neither of the boys, oddly enough, had thought of it that night. with phon it was different, but then he was a celestial. he played for the stakes. both the whites played, though in different ways, for the fun of the game. chapter iii. a little game of poker. "well, ned, how do our fellow-passengers strike you? this is a pretty hard crowd, isn't it?" asked chance, as his eyes wandered over the mob of men of every nationality, who were jostling one another on board the steamer _umatilla_, ten minutes after she had left victoria for new westminster. "yes, they look pretty tough, most of them," assented corbett; "but a three-weeks' beard, a patch in the seat of your pants, and a coat of sun-tan, will bring you down to the same level, steve. civilized man reverts naturally to barbarism as soon as he escapes from the tailor and the hair-dresser." "that's what, sonny! and i believe the only difference between a white man and a siwash, is that one has had more sun and less soap than the other." "oh, hang it, no! i draw the line there," cried corbett. "but look, there go the gamblers already;" and ned pointed to a little group which had gathered together aft, the leading spirit amongst them appearing to be a dark, overdressed person, who was inviting everybody at the top of his voice to "chip in and take a drink." "they don't mean to lose much time, do they?" remarked chance. "and, by the way, do you see that the 'mammoth hustler,' our own colonel, is among them?" "and seems to know every rascal in the gang," muttered corbett. "come and look on, ned, and don't growl. you don't expect a real-estate agent to be a saint, do you?" remonstrated chance. "not i. i don't care a cent for cards. you go if you like. i'll just loaf and look at the scenery." "as you please. i don't take much stock in scenery unless i have painted it myself, and even that sours on me sometimes;" and with this frank and quaintly expressed confession, steve chance turned and pushed his way through the crowd to a place behind cruickshank, who welcomed him effusively, and introduced him to his friends. ned saw the artist gulp down what looked like a doctor's prescription, and light up a huge black cigar, and then turning his back upon the noisy expectorating crowd, he leant upon the bulwarks and forgot all about it. before his eyes stretched a vast field of blue water; blue water without a ripple upon it, save such as the steamer made, or the diving "cultus" duck, which the boat almost ran down, before the bird woke and saw its danger. here and there on this blue field were groups of islands, wooded to the water's edge, and inhabited only by the breeding ducks and a few deer. as yet no one owned these islands, and, except for an occasional fishing indian, no one had ever set foot on most of them. everything spoke of rest and dreamful ease. what birds there were, were silent and asleep, rocked only in their slumbers by the swell from the passing boat, or else following in her wake on gliding wings which scarcely seemed to stir. there was no wind to fret the sea, or stir an idle sail. nature was asleep in the spring sunlight, her calm contrasting strangely with the noise, and passion, and unrest on board the tiny boat which was puffing and churning its way through the still waters of the straits. as for ned, his ears were as deaf to the oaths and noise behind him as his eyes were blind to the calm beauty beneath them. his eyes were wide open, but his mind was not looking through them. as a matter of fact ned corbett, the real ned corbett, was just then day-dreaming somewhere on the banks of the severn. "can you spare me a light, sir?" this was the first sound that broke in upon his dreams, and ned felt instinctively in his waistcoat pocket, and handed the intruder the matches which he found there. "thank you. i was fairly clemmed for a smoke." "_clemmed_" for a smoke! it was odd, but the dialect was the dialect of ned's dream still, and as he looked at the speaker, a broad burly fellow, who evidently had made up his mind to have a chat, a pouch of tobacco was thrust out to him with the words: "won't you take a fill yourself. it's pretty good baccy, and it ought to be. i had it sent to me all the way from the wyle cop." "the wyle cop!" ejaculated ned. "i thought there was only one wyle cop. where do you come from, then?" the stranger's face broadened into an honest grin. "what part do i come from? surely you ought to guess. dunno yo' know a shropshire mon, when yo' sees un?" he added, dropping into his native dialect, and holding out to corbett a hand too broad to get a good grip of, and as hard as gun-metal. ned took the proffered hand eagerly. the sound of the home dialect stirred every chord in his heart. "how did you know i was shropshire?" he asked, laughing. "how did i know? well, i heard your friend call you corbett, and that and your yellow head and blue eyes were enough for me. but say," he continued, resuming the yankee twang which he had acquired in many a western mining camp, "if that young man over there is any account to you, you'd better go and see after him. they'll skin him clean in another half hour unless he owns the bank of england." corbett's eyes involuntarily followed those of his newly-found friend, and he started as they rested upon steve chance, who now sat nervously chewing at the end of an unlit cigar in the middle of the poker players. "your friend ain't a bad player, but he ain't old enough for that crowd," remarked roberts; and so saying he pushed a way for himself and his brother salopian through the crowd to the back of chance's chair. except for the addition of chance, and another youngish man who appeared to be at least half-drunk, the party of poker players was the same which sat down to play when the _umatilla_ left the victoria wharf. cruickshank faced chance, and the same noisy dark fellow, who had been anxious to assuage everyone's thirst in the morning, appeared to be still ready to stand drinks and cigars. but the little crowd was quieter than it had been in the morning. the players had settled down to business. "how deuced like cruickshank that fellow is!" whispered corbett to roberts. "which?" answered his friend. "there are two cruickshanks playing--dan and bub." "but is the colonel any relation to the other?" "i do not know which you call the colonel: never heard him called by that name before; but that's bub" (pointing to the ringleader of the party), "and that's dan" (pointing to the colonel). "some say they are brothers, some say they are cousins. anyway, i know _one_ is a scoundrel." "the deuce you do. which of them?" but his inquiries were cut short and his attention diverted by the action of a new-comer, who just then pushed past him with a curt, "'scuse _me_, sir." "let him through," whispered roberts. "i tipped him the wink, and if you let him alone he'll fix them." ned was mystified, but did as he was bid. indeed it was too late to attempt to do otherwise, for the last-joined in that little crowd, a withered gray man, whose features looked as if they had been hardened by a hundred years of rough usage, had quietly forced his way to the front until he had reached a seat at steve chance's elbow. it was noticeable that though the crowd was by no means tolerant of others who tried to usurp a front place amongst them, it gave way by common consent to the new-comer, who was moreover specially honoured with a nod and a smile from each of the cruickshanks. steve only seemed inclined to resent the old man's familiarity, and for any effect it had he might as well have hidden his resentment. "pretty new to this coast, ain't you, sir?" remarked mr. rampike, after he had watched the game in silence for some minutes. "yes, i've only been out from the east a year," replied steve shortly, as he examined his hand. "bin losing quite a bit, haven't you?" persisted his tormentor. steve growled out that he _had_ lost "some," and turned his back on old rampike with an emphatic rudeness which would have silenced most men. "'scuse me, sir, one moment," remarked rampike utterly unabashed, and half rising to inspect steve's hand over his shoulder. a glance seemed to satisfy him. "who cut those cards?" he sung out. "dan cruickshank," answered a voice from the crowd. "who dole those cards?" he persisted. "bub cruickshank," replied the voice. "then, young man, you pass;" and without stirring a muscle of his face he coolly took from the astounded steve four queens, and threw them upon the table. for a moment steve sat open-mouthed, utterly astounded by his adviser's impudence, and when he tried to rise and give vent to his feelings, corbett's heavy hand was on his shoulder and kept him down. meanwhile an angry growl rose from the gamblers, but it was drowned at once in the laugh of the crowd, as without a sign of feeling of any kind, or a single comment, old rampike slowly pulled from a pocket under his coat-tails an old, strangely-fashioned six-shooter, which he began to overhaul in the casual distrait manner of one who takes a mild interest in some weapon of a remote antiquity. one by one, as the old hard-fist played with his ugly toy, those who objected to his intervention found that they had business elsewhere, so that when at last he let down the hammer, and replaced his "gun" under his coat-tails, steve and the two shropshiremen alone remained near him. glancing round for a moment, the old man came as near smiling as a man could with features such as his, and then recovering himself he turned to steve and remarked: "this ain't no concern of mine, mister, but my pardner there, roberts, i guess he takes some stock in you and he called me, so you'll 'scuse my interfering, but ef you should happen to play agen with california bilks, you mout sometimes go your pile on a poor hand, but pass four aces, quicker nor lightning, if bub cruickshank deals 'em," with which piece of advice the old man retired again into his shell, becoming, as far as one could judge, an absolutely silent machine for the chewing of tobacco. chance, now that he had had time to pull himself together, would gladly have had a talk with his ally; but old rampike would have none of him, and corbett, in obedience to a sign from roberts, put his arm through his friend's and carried him off to another part of the ship. "let the old man alone," remarked roberts, "talking isn't in his line. that is my share of the business. i sing and he fiddles." "all right, as you please; but i say, mr. roberts," said chance, "what in thunder did your partner mean by making me throw down four queens?" "mean! why, that bub cruickshank had four kings or better. you don't suppose that those chaps are here for their health, do you?" "here for their health?" "well, you don't suppose that they have come all the way to british columbia to play poker on the square?" "then who are the cruickshanks?" demanded chance. "that is more than i know. bub cruickshank is just about as low-down a gambler as there is on the coast; not a chap who pays up and stands drinks when he is bust, like the count and that lot." "and is the colonel his brother?" "some say he is, some say he isn't. but i never knew him regularly on the gambling racket before, though he won a pile of money up at williams creek last fall. "then you have been in cariboo," corbett remarked. "in cariboo? rather! i was there when williams creek was found, and for all that had to sing my way out with a splinter in my hand, and not a nickel in my pocket." "how do you mean 'sing your way out?'" "i mean just what i say. my hand went back on me and swelled, so that i couldn't work, and i just had to sing for my grub as i went along. old rampike had a fiddle and used to play, and i used to make up the songs and sing 'em. perhaps you've heard the 'old pack mule.' it's a great favourite at the mines: "ted staked and lost the usual way, but his loss he took quite cool; he was near the mines, and he'd start next day riding on his old pack mule." "riding, riding, riding on his old pack mule," sang chance. "oh, you know it, do you? seems to me it suits your case pretty well. well, _i_ made that;" and so saying the poet protruded his portly bosom three inches further into space, with the air of one who had done well by his fellow-men and knew it. "are you coming up to cariboo this spring?" asked corbett. "no, we haven't dust enough to pay our way so far, more's the pity." "why not come with us? i'll find the dollars if you'll lend a hand with our pack-train," suggested corbett. "well, i don't know, perhaps i might do worse; and as to that, if you are taking a pack-train along i daresay i could pretty nearly earn my grub packing. but i must talk it over with rampike." "all right, do you fix it your own way," put in chance; "but mind, if you feel at all like coming, there need be no difficulty about the dollars either for you or your partner. i am pretty heavily in your debt anyway." "not a bit of it. those bilks owe us something perhaps, and if they get a chance they won't forget to pay their score. but i guess they'll hardly care to tackle rampike, or me either for the matter of that;" and whistling merrily his favourite tune, "riding, riding, riding on the old pack mule," the cariboo poet went below for refreshment. chapter iv. "the mother of gold." from victoria to the mouth of the frazer river is about seventy miles, and thence to new westminster is at least another sixteen. as the steamers which used to ply between the two young cities in ' were by no means ocean racers, none of the passengers on board the s.s. _umatilla_ were in the least degree disappointed, although the shadows of evening were beginning to fall before they passed the sandheads, and ran into the yellow waters of the frazer. very few of those on board had eyes for scenery. a rich-looking bar or a wavy riband of quartz high up on a mountain-side would have attracted more attention from that crowd than all the beauties of the yosemite, and even had they been as keen about scenery as cook's tourists, there was but little food for their raptures in the delta they were entering. the end of a river, like the end of a life, is apt to be ugly and dull, and the frazer exhibits no exception to this rule. child as she is of the winter's snows and the summer's sun, she loses all the purity of the one and the gleam of the other long before she attains her middle course, and at her mouth this "mother of gold" is but a tired, dull, old river, sordid and rich with golden sands, glad, so it seems, to slip by her monotonous mud-banks and lose herself and her yellow dross in the purifying waters of the salt sea. as corbett gazed upon the wide expanse of dun-coloured flood, he saw no sign even of that savage strength of which he had heard so much, except one. far out, and looking small in the great waste of waters, was a stranded tree--a great pine, uprooted and now stranded on a sunken bank, its roots upturned, its boughs twisted off, and its very bark torn from its side by the fury of the riffles and whirlpools of the upper canyons. to corbett there was something infinitely sad in this lonely wreck, though it was but the wreck of a forest tree. had he known the great sullen river better he would have known that she brought down many sadder wrecks in those early days--human wrecks, whose wounds were not all of her making, though the river got the evil credit of them. as it was, the first sight of the frazer depressed him, and his depression was not dispelled by the sight of new westminster. the idea of a new city hewed by man out of the virgin forest is noble enough, and whilst the sun is shining and the axes are ringing, the life and energy of the workers makes some compensation for the ugliness of their work. but it is otherwise when the sun is low and labour has ceased. then "stump-town" seems a more appropriate title than new westminster, and a new-comer may be forgiven for shuddering at the ugliness of the new frame-houses, at the charred stumps still left standing in the main streets, at the little desolate forest swamps still left undrained within a stone's-throw of the grand hotel, and at all the baldness and beggarliness of the new town's surroundings. to ned corbett it looked as if nature had been murdered, and civilization had not had time to throw a decent pall over her victim's body. certainly in new westminster might be, as its citizens alleged, an infant prodigy, but it was not a picturesque city. however, as the s.s. _umatilla_ ran alongside her wharf, a voice roused corbett from his musings, and turning he found cruickshank beside him. "what do you think about camping to-night, corbett?" asked the colonel. "it will be rather dark for pitching our tent, won't it?" now, since the poker-playing incident corbett had not spoken to cruickshank. indeed he had not seen him, and he had hardly made up his mind how to treat him when they met. that cruickshank had a good many objectionable acquaintances was clear, but on the other hand there was nothing definite which could be alleged against him. moreover, for the next month ned and the estate-agent were bound to be a good deal together, and taking this into consideration, ned decided on the spur of the moment to let all that had gone before pass without comment. cruickshank had evidently calculated upon corbett taking this course, for though there had been a shade of indecision in his manner when he came up, he spoke quietly, and as one who had no explanations to make or apologies to offer. "yes, it is too dark to make a comfortable camp to-night," assented corbett. "what does chance want to do?" "oh, i vote for an hotel," cried steve, coming up at the moment. "let us be happy whilst we may, we'll be down to bed-rock soon enough." "all right, 'the hotel goes,' as you would say, steve;" and together the young men followed the crowd which streamed across the gangway to the wharf. there the arrival of the s.s. _umatilla_ was evidently looked upon as the event of the day, and a great crowd of idlers stood waiting for the disembarkation of her passengers; and yet one man only seemed to be there on business, the rest were merely loafing, and would as soon have thought of lending a hand to carry a big portmanteau to the hotel as they would have thought of touching their hats. this one worker in the crowd was an old man in his shirt sleeves, who caught ned by the arm, as he had caught each of his predecessors, as soon as his foot touched the wharf, and in a tone of fatherly command bade him "go up to the mansion house. best hotel in the city. it's the miners' house," he added. "three square meals a day every time, and don't you forget it." ned laughed. the last recommendation was certainly worthy of consideration, and as no one else seemed anxious for his patronage he turned to cruickshank with, "is it to be the mansion house?" "oh yes," replied the latter, "all the hard-fists stay with mike." "how long do you mean to stay here anyway?" asked chance. "four or five days,--perhaps a week," replied cruickshank. "there is a boat for douglas to-night, but we could not buy the horses and the stores so as to be ready in less than a couple of days." "that is so. we shall have to stay a week then?" asked steve. "unless you like to intrust me with the purchase of your train. i could hire a man to help me and come on by the next boat if you want particularly to catch this one--" the eyes of corbett and chance met, and unluckily cruickshank saw the glance, and interpreted it as correctly as if the words had been spoken. corbett noticed the flush on the man's face and the ugly glitter in his eye, and hastened to soothe him. "oh no, colonel, it is deuced good of you," he said; "but we would rather wait and all go together. we are looking to you to show us a good deal besides the mere road in the next six weeks. but what are we to do with our packs now?" "we can't leave them here, can we?" asked chance, pointing to where their goods lay in a heap on the wharf. "i don't see why not," growled cruickshank; and then added significantly, "murder or manslaughter are no great crimes in the eyes of some folk around here, but miners are a bit above petty larceny;" and so saying he turned on his heel and left chance and corbett to shift for themselves. "better take care what you say to that fellow," remarked corbett, looking after the retreating figure; "although i like him better in that mood than in his oily one." "oh, i think he is all right; at any rate you won't want my help to crush him, ned, if he means to cut up rough." "not if he fights fair, steve; but i don't trust the brute--i never did." "just because he plays cards and calls himself a colonel? why, everyone is a colonel out here. but to blazes with cruickshank anyway. come and get some grub." and so saying steve chance entered the principal hotel of new westminster, down the plank walls of which the tears of oozing resin still ran, while the smell of the pine-forest pervaded the whole house. the "newness" of these young cities of the west is perhaps beyond the imagination of dwellers in the old settled countries of europe. it is hard for men from the east to realize that the hotel, which welcomes them to all the comforts and luxuries of the nineteenth century, was standing timber a month before, that the walls covered with paper in some pretty french design, and hung with mirrors and gilt-framed engravings, were the homes of the jay and the squirrel, and that the former tenants have hardly had time yet to settle in a new abode. and yet so it is: we do our scene-shifting pretty rapidly out west, and though there may not be time to perfect anything, the general effect is wonderful in the extreme. the westminster hotel was a gem of its class, and even ned and steve, who had become fairly used to western ways, were a little aghast at the contrast between the magnificence of some of the new furniture and the simplicity of the sleeping accommodation, as illustrated by the rows of miners' blankets neatly laid out along the floor. luckily cruickshank had cautioned them to take their bedding with them, or they might have been obliged to pass a cheerless night in one of the highly-gilded arm-chairs, which looked as comfortless as they were gaudy. the old tout upon the wharf, who owned what he advertised, had not misrepresented his house. as he had said, the meals were square enough even for the hungry miners who swarmed around his board, and though it was dull to lie upon their oars and wait, steve and ned might have found worst places to wait in than the mansion house. for at westminster a delay arose, as delays will the moment a man begins packing or touches cayuses out west. of course there were a few horses to be bought, but equally, of course, everyone in the city and its suburbs seemed to know by instinct that corbett & co. were cornered, and must buy, however bad the beasts and however high the prices. an old indian, one captain jim, who with the assistance of all his female relatives used to pack liquor and other necessaries to the mines, had part of an old train to sell, horses, saddles, and all complete, and for the first three days of their stay at westminster corbett & co. expected every minute to become owners of this outfit. but the business dragged on, until the noble savage upon whom they had looked as the type of genial simplicity had become an abomination in their eyes, and they had decided to leave the management of him to cruickshank, resolving that if the train was not bought and ready to be shipped on the next boat to douglas that they would go without a pack-train altogether. in the meanwhile they had to get through the time as best they could, assisted by the cariboo poet, who had stayed on like themselves at westminster. to chance this was no hardship; what with a little sketching, a little poker, and a great deal of smoking, he managed to get through the days with a good deal of satisfaction to himself. as to ned, the delay and inaction disgusted him and spoilt his temper, which may account in some measure for an unfortunate incident which occurred on the second day of his stay at the mansion house. as the day was hot and he had nothing to do, the big fellow had laid out his blankets in a shady corner and prepared to lie down and sleep the weary hours away. before doing so he turned for a minute or two to watch a game of piquet, in which roberts appeared to be invariably "piqued, repiqued, pooped, and capoted," as his adversary, a red-headed irishman, announced at the top of his voice. tired of the game, ned turned and sought his couch, upon which two strangers had taken a seat. going up to them, ned asked them to move, and as they did not appear to hear him he repeated his request in a louder tone. perhaps the heat and the flies had made him irritable, and a tone of angry impatience had got into his voice which nettled the men, one of whom, turning towards him, but not attempting to make room, coolly told him "to go to blazes." as the man turned, ned recognized him as bub cruickshank, the brother or cousin of the colonel; but it needed neither the recognition nor the laugh that ran round the room to put ned's hackles up. without stopping to think, he picked up the fellow by the scruff of his neck and the slack of his breeches and deposited him with the least possible tenderness upon an untenanted piece of the floor. before he had time to straighten himself, the dislodged bub aimed a furious kick at ned, and in another minute our hero was in the thick of as merry a mill as any honest young englishman could desire. time after time ned floored his man, for though bub knew very little of the use of his hands he was a determined brute, and kept rushing in and trying to get a grip of his man at close quarters, and, moreover, it was a case of one down the other come on, for as soon as ned had floored one fellow and put him _hors de combat_ for a short time, his companion took up the battle. "take care, corbett,--take care of his teeth!" shouted roberts all at once; and ned felt a horrible faint feeling come over him, robbing him for the moment of all his strength, as bub fastened on his thumb. for a moment the shropshireman almost gave up the battle. those only who have suffered from this dastardly trick of the lowest of yankee roughs, can have any idea of the effect it has upon a man's strength. but corbett was almost as mad with rage at what he considered unsportsman-like treatment as he was with pain, so that he managed to wrench himself free and send his man to earth again with another straight left-hander. meanwhile the red-haired irishman, who had been playing piquet with roberts, had lost all interest in his game since the fight began, and was fairly writhing in his seat with suppressed emotion. at last flesh and blood (or at least _irish_ flesh and blood) could endure it no longer, so that, jumping up from his seat, he took ned just by the shoulders and lifted him clean out of the way as if he had been a baby, remarking as he did so-- "you stay there, sonny, and let me knock 'em down awhile." but the poor simple celt was doomed to disappointment. the truth was that ned had been greedy, and taken more than his share of this innocent game of skittles, so that, as mr. o'halloran remarked sorrowfully at supper, he did but get in "one from the shoulther, and thin them two murtherin' haythens lit right out." when the scrimmage was over roberts took ned on one side, and after looking at the bitten thumb and bandaging it up for his friend, he gave ned a little advice. "fighting is all very well, mr. corbett, where people fight according to rules, but you had better drop it here. if you don't, some fellow will get level on you with the leg of a table or a little cold lead. if you must fight, you had better learn to shoot like old rampike." "where is old rampike now?" asked ned, anxious to turn the conversation, and feeling a little ashamed of his escapade. "rampike went right on by the boat that met the _umatilla_. he got a job up at williams creek, and will be there ahead of us." "then you mean to come up too, roberts, that's right," said corbett genially. "yes, i am coming up with your crowd. i met the count in town last night and borrowed the chips from him. i am thinking that if you make a practice of quarrelling with cruickshank and all his friends you will need someone along to look after you." "but who is the count, and why could you not have borrowed the money from us?" asked corbett in a tone of considerable pique. "the count! oh, the count is an old friend, and lends to most anyone who is broke. it's his business in a way. you see, he is the biggest gambler in the upper country. skins a chap one day and lends him a handful of gold pieces the next. he'll get it back with interest from one of us even if i don't pay him, so that's all right;" and honest roberts dismissed all thought of the loan from his mind, as if it was the most natural thing in the world for a professional gambler to lend an impecunious victim a hundred dollars on no security whatever. luckily for ned his fellow countryman took him in hand after this, and what with singing and working managed to keep him out of mischief. for roberts found corbett work in westminster which just suited his young muscles, though it was as quaint in its way as roberts' own financial arrangements in their way. it seemed that in the young city there was no church and no funds to build one, but there was a sturdy, energetic parson, and a mob of noisy, careless miners, who rather liked the parson; not, perhaps, _because_ he was a parson, but because he had in some way or other proved to them that he was a "man." had they been on the way down with their pockets full of "dust" the boys would soon have built him anything he wanted, whether it had been a church or a gin-shop. i am afraid it would have mattered little. as it was they were unluckily on their way up, and their pockets were empty. but as the will was there the parson found the way, and all through that week of waiting ned and a gang of other strong hardy fellows like himself made their axes glitter and ring on the great pines, clearing a site, and preparing the lumber for the first house of god erected in new westminster. who shall say that their contribution had not as much intrinsic value as the thousand-dollar cheque which croesus sends for a similar object. a good deal more labour goes to the felling of a pine ten feet through than to the signing of a cheque, anyway. chapter v. "is the colonel 'straight?'" at the very last moment, when all corbett's party, except cruickshank, had yielded to despair, the indian jim gave in, and sold his animals as they stood for sixty dollars a head. this included the purchase of pack-saddles, cinches, and other items essential to a packer's outfit. the steamer for douglas started at p.m., and it was long after breakfast on the same day that the eyes of corbett and chance, who were smoking outside their inn, were gladdened by the sight of phon and cruickshank driving ten meek-looking brutes up to the front of the mansion house. having tied each pony short by the head to the garden rail, cruickshank began to organize his forces. there were the ponies, it was true, but their packs and many other things had still to be bought. there was much to be done and very little time to do it in. then it was that cruickshank showed himself to the greatest advantage. for days he had appeared to dawdle over his bargaining with jim, until ned almost thought that indian and white together were in league against him; now he felt miserable at the mere memory of his former suspicions. cruickshank knew that no man can hurry an indian, and therefore abstained from irritating jim by attempting the impossible. the result of this was that at the end of the time at his disposal cruickshank had by his indifference convinced jim that he cared very little whether he got the horses or not, so that now the indian was in a hurry to sell before the steamer should carry cruickshank and his dollars away to douglas. so cruickshank bought the ponies, bought them cheap, and, moreover, just in time to catch the boat. this was all he had struggled for. but now that he had white men to deal with his tactics changed. these men knew the value of time and could hurry, therefore cruickshank hurried them. to every man he gave some independent work to do. no one was left to watch another working. whilst one dashed off to buy stores another took the horses to the forge to be shod, and old phon was left to repair the horse furniture and overhaul the outfit generally. cruickshank himself went off to buy gunny sacks, boxes, ropes, and such-like, rendered necessary by the absence of _aparejos_, needing the knowledge of an expert in their selection. it was already late in the afternoon, and ned, hot and dusty, and as happy as a schoolboy, was helping the smith to shoe the last of the ponies, when roberts, who had done his own work, walked into the forge. for a minute or two roberts stood unnoticed, observing his fellow-countryman with eyes full of a sort of hero-worship, commoner at a public school than in the world. but ned was one of those fellows who win men's hearts without trying to do so; a young fellow who said what he thought without waiting to pick his words, who did what he liked, and luckily liked what was good, and honest, and manly, and who withal looked the man he was, upstanding, frank, and absolutely fearless. ned had been in the forge for perhaps half a day or more, and had already so won the heart of the smith that that good man with his eyes on the boy's great forearm had been hinting that there was "just as much money in a good smithy as there was in most of them up-country claims." but ned was bent on gold-mining and seeing life with the hard-fists, so though he loved to swing the great smith's hammer he was not to be tempted from his purpose, though he was quite ready to believe that a smith in new westminster could earn more by his hands than many a professional man by his brains in westminster on the thames. "hullo, rob! have you got through with your work?" cried ned, catching sight of his friend at last. "yes. i've done all i've got to do; can i lend you a hand?" "why, no, thanks; my friend here is putting on the last shoe. but what is the matter? you look as if you had got 'turned round' in the bush, and were trying to think your way out;" and ned laid his hand laughingly on his friend's shoulder. roberts laughed too, but led the younger man outside, and once there blurted out his trouble. "look here, corbett, ever since that gambling row i've had my eye on cruickshank, and i thought that i knew him for a rascal, but blow me if he hasn't got beyond me this time." "how so, rob?" "well, i'm half-inclined to think he's honest after all. he is a real rustler when he chooses anyway," added the poet admiringly. "oh, i expect he is as honest as most of his kind. why shouldn't he be? all men haven't the same ideas of honesty out here; and if he isn't honest it doesn't matter much to us, does it?" asked ned carelessly. "doesn't it? ain't you trusting him with a good many thousand dollars?" asked roberts with some asperity. "no, i don't think so. you see, rob, if he is, as you thought, a card-sharper and a bogus estate-agent, my money is lost already; he can't clear out with the claims or the packs even if he wants to. but why do you think he is a rogue?" "i tell you i'm beginning to think that he isn't." "bully for you, that's better!" cried ned approvingly; "but what has worked this change in your opinions, rob?" "well, last night that scoundrelly siwash, captain jim, tried to work a swindle with those pack-ponies, and cruickshank wouldn't have it. jim was to sell you a lot of unsound beasts at eighty dollars a head. you would never have noticed that they had healed sores on their backs, and if cruickshank had held his tongue he was to have had twenty dollars a pony, and the way he 'talked honest' to that indian was astonishing, you bet." "how did you find all this out?" asked ned. roberts looked a little uncomfortable and flushed to the roots of his hair, but at length made the best of it, and admitted that he had followed the two men and overheard their conversation. "you see, ned," he added, "it's not very english, i know, but you must fight these fellows with their own weapons." for a while ned said nothing, though he frowned more than roberts had ever seen him frown before, and his fingers tugged angrily at his slight moustache. "roberts," he said at last, "i agree with you, this sort of thing isn't very english, i'm hanged if it is; but i've been pretty nearly as suspicious as you have, so i can't afford to talk. once for all, do you know anything against the colonel?" "no," hesitated roberts, "i don't know anything against dan, but bub--." "oh, to blazes with bub!" broke in corbett angrily. "a man cannot be responsible for every one of his cousins and kinsmen. from to-day i mean to believe in cruickshank as an honest man, until i prove him to be a knave. you had better do the same, rob; spying after a fellow as we have been doing is enough to make an honest man sick;" and ned corbett made a wry face as if the mere thought of it left a bad taste in his mouth. "all right, that's a-go then. he was honest about these cayuses anyway, and if he does go back on us we'll fire him higher than a sky-rocket;" and so saying roberts lent ned a hand to collect the said cayuses. these at the first glance would have struck an english judge of horseflesh as being ten of the very sorriest screws that ever stood upon four legs; but at least they showed to roberts' practised eye no signs of old sore backs, none of those half-obliterated scars which warn the _cognoscenti_ of evils which have been and are likely to recur. taken in a body, they were a little too big for polo ponies, and a little too ragged, starved, and ill-shaped for a respectable costermonger's cart. there was one amongst them, a big buckskin standing nearly . hands, which looked fairly plump and able-bodied, but atoned for these merits by an ugly trick of laying back her ears and showing the whites of her eyes whenever she got a chance. the most typical beast of his class was one job, a parti-coloured brute (or pinto as they call them in british columbia), with one eye brown and the other blue, and a nose of the brightest pink, as if he suffered from a chronic cold and a rough pocket-handkerchief. job's bones stared at you through his skin, his underlip protruded and hung down, giving him an air of the most abject misery, and even a yorkshire horse-dealer could not have found a good point to descant upon from his small weak quarters to his ill-shaped shoulder. but though job's head was fiddle-shaped there was a good deal in it, as those were likely to discover who had given sixty dollars for him, and expected to get sixty dollars' worth of work out of him. he had not been packing since the days when he trotted as a foal beside a "greasers'" train for nothing. at present he was the meekest, most ill-used-looking brute on the pacific coast, and corbett was just remarking to roberts "that that poor devil of a pony would never be able to carry a hundred and fifty pounds let alone two hundred over a bad road," when the buckskin let out, and caught the bay alongside of him such a kick on the stifle as made that poor beast go a little lame for days. no one noticed that the bite which set the buckskin kicking was given by old job, who moved his weary old head sadly, just in time, however, to let the kick go by and land on the unoffending body of his neighbour. an hour later all the horses were up again at the hotel, and the bill having been settled phon and roberts drove the train down to the wharf, where the steamer for douglas, a small stern-wheeler, was waiting for her passengers and her cargo. with the exception of job, all the cayuses were put on board at once and secured, but seeing that there was still a good deal of luggage in small parcels up at the hotel, chance kept "that quiet old beast job, just to carry down the odds and ends;" and job, with a sigh which spoke volumes to those who could understand, plodded away to do the extra work set aside as of right for the meek and long-suffering. it is an aggravating employment under any circumstances, the employment of packing. many men, otherwise good men, swear naturally (and freely) as soon as they engage in it; but then, why i know not, the very presence of a horse makes some men swear. steve knew very little about packing anyway, and had he known more he would not have found it easy to fasten his bundles on to the back of a beast which shifted constantly from one leg to another, and always seemed to be standing uphill or downhill, with one leg at least a foot shorter than the other three. when steve spoke to him (with an angry kick in the stomach), job would lift his long-suffering head with an air of meek dejection, and shifting his leg as required plant a huge hoof solidly upon steve's moccasined foot. if i could paint the look on that great ugly equine head as it turned with leering eye and projecting nether lip, and looked into the anguished face of steve chance, i should be able to teach my reader more of cayuses (the meanest creatures on god's earth) than i can ever hope to do. but even with job to help him, steve got his load down to the boat at last, and put all aboard except a new pack-saddle, which he had taken off the pack-horse and laid down on the ground beside him. with lowered head and half-shut eyes job stood for some minutes patiently waiting, and then, as steve came over the side to drive him on board with his fellows, the old horse heaved a long, long sigh, and before steve could reach him lay down slowly and gently upon that pack-saddle. of course when he got up, the pack-saddle was demolished, and as the last whistle had sounded, there was no time to get another before leaving westminster. a new saddle would have to be bought at douglas, and that would cost money, or made upon the road, and that would mean delay, so job, with a cynical gleam in his wall-eye, trotted meekly and contentedly on board. he had entered his first protest against extra work. five minutes later the steamer _lillooet_ cast loose from her moorings, the gangway was taken in, and the gallant little stern-wheeler went cleaving her way up through the yellow frazer, on her forty-mile run to the mouth of harrison river, steaming past long mud-flats and many a mile of heavy timber. a day and a half was the time allowed for the journey from new westminster to douglas, but corbett and chance could hardly believe that they had taken so long when they came to their moorings again at the head of the harrison lake. to them the hours had seemed to fly by, for their eyes and thoughts were busy, intent at one moment upon the bare mud-banks, watching for game or the tracks of the game, the next straining to catch a glimpse of deer feeding at dawn upon the long gray hills--hills which were a pale dun in the light of early morning, but which became full of rich velvety shadows as the day wore on. overhead floated the fleecy blue and white sky of spring-time; on the hills patches of wild sunflower mingled with the greenish gray of the sage brush, and here and there, even on the arid barren banks of the frazer itself, occurred little "pockets" of verdure--hollows with fresh-water springs in them, where the tender green of the young willows, and the abundant white bloom of the choke cherries and olali bushes, made edens amongst the waste of alkaline mud-banks, edens tenanted and made musical by all the collected bird-life of that barren land. the only difficult bit of water for the little steamer was the seven miles of the harrison river, a rapid, turbulent stream, up which the s.s. _lillooet_ had to fight every inch of the way; but beyond that lay the lake, a broad blue lake, penned in by steep and heavily-timbered mountains, and beyond the one-house town of douglas, at which ned and his fellow-passengers disembarked about noon of the second day out from westminster. from douglas the ordinary route was by river and lake, with a few short portages to _lillooet_ on the frazer; and in there were steamers upon all the lakes (lillooet, anderson, and seton), and canoes (with a certainty of a fair breeze in summer) for such as preferred them. but ned and his friends had decided that as they had a pack-train, and would be compelled to pack part of the way in any case, they might just as well harden their hearts and pack the whole distance, more especially since they had ample time to make their journey in, and not too much money to waste upon steamboat fares. so at douglas cruickshank bought another pack-saddle for about twice what it would have cost at westminster (freight was high in the early days), and suggested that as the one house (half store, half hotel) was full to overflowing, they might as well strike out for themselves, and as it was only mid-day make a few miles upon their road before camping for the night. "you see," argued cruickshank, "it's no violet's camping where so many men have camped before, and a good many of them greasers and indians." corbett and chance were new to the discomforts of the road, and had still to learn the penalty for camping where indians have camped; but for all that they took the colonel's advice and assented to his proposal, though it meant bidding good-bye to their fellow-men a day or two sooner than they need have done. once the start had been decided upon cruickshank lost no time in getting under weigh. the diamond hitch had no mysteries for him, the loops flew out and settled to an inch where he wanted them to, every strand in his ropes did its share of binding and holding fast; his very curses seemed to cow the most stubborn cayuse better than another man's, and when he cinched the unfortunate beasts up you could almost hear their ribs crack. job alone nearly got the better of the colonel, but even he just missed it. cruickshank cinched this wretched scarecrow a little less severely than the rest, but when later on he saw old job with his cinch all slack, a malevolent grin came over his face, and he muttered, "oh, that's your sort, is it, an old-timer? so am i!" and after giving job a kick which would have knocked the wind out of anything, he cinched him up again before he could recover himself, and then led him to drink. as the horse sucked down the water greedily cruickshank muttered to himself, "_bueno_, i guess your load will stick now until you are thirsty again." after this job and the colonel seemed to have a mutual understanding, and as long as he was within hearing of cruickshank's curses there was no better pack-pony on the road than old job. it seems as if men who have been used to packing, and have had a spell of rest from their ordinary occupation, itch to handle the ropes again; at least, it is only in this way that i can explain the readiness displayed by so many of ned's fellow-passengers to lend a hand in fixing his packs for him. in an hour from the time of disembarkation the train was ready to start, and the welcome cry of "all set!" rang out, after which there was a little hand-shaking, a lighting of pipes, and the procession filed away up the river, cruickshank leading the first five ponies, then roberts plodding patiently along on foot, then another five ponies, and then, as long as the narrow train would permit of it, ned and steve trudging along, chatting and keeping the ponies on the move. cruickshank was already some distance ahead, and even steve and ned were almost outside the little settlement, when a big red-headed irishman, whom corbett remembered as his fighting friend at westminster, came running after him. "say," asked mr. o'halloran, rather out of breath from his run. "say, are you and that blagyard partners?" "which?" asked ned in amaze. "my friend chance?" "no, no, not this boy here--that fellow riding ahead of the train." "cruickshank? yes, we are partners in a way," replied ned. "and you know it was his brother you laid out? faith, you laid him out as nate as if it was for a berryin'," he added with a grin. "i've heard men say that the colonel is bub cruickshank's brother," admitted ned; "but the colonel is all right, whatever bub is." "and you and he ain't had no turn-up along of that scrimmage down at westminster?" persisted o'halloran. "not a word. i don't think he knew about it." "oh yes, he did. i saw bub and him talking it over, and you may bet your boots the only reason he didn't bark is that he means to bite--yes, and bite hard too. it's the way with them dark, down-looking blagyards," added the honest irishman, in a tone of the deepest scorn. "ah, well, i don't think cruickshank is likely to try his teeth on me," laughed ned. "if he does i must try that favourite rib-bender of yours upon him," and ned gripped o'halloran's hand and strode gaily after his train. for a moment the red-headed one stood looking after his friend, and then heaving a great sigh remarked: "indade and i'd like a turn wid you mesilf, but if that black-looking blagyard does a happorth of harm to you, it's kornaylius o'halloran as 'll put a head on him." chapter vi. the wet camp. as his pack-train wound away along the trail from douglas, ned corbett gave a great deep sigh as if there was something which he fain would blow away from him. and so there was. as he left the last white man's house between douglas and lillooet, he hoped and believed that he left behind him towns and townsmen, petty delays, swindlings, and suspicions of swindlings. he was going to look for gold, and give a year at least of his young life to be spent in digging for it, and yet this absurd young englishman was actually thanking his stars that now, at last, he was rid of dollars and dollar hunters, business and business men, for at least a month. there was food enough on the beasts in front of him to last his party for a year. he was sound in wind and limb, his rifle was not a bad one, and he had seen lots of game tracks already, and that being so he really cared very little whether he reached his claims in time or not. but of course, as cruickshank said, there was ample time to make the journey in, time indeed and to spare, as every one he had met admitted, so that no doubt steve and he would reach williams creek in time, find the claims as cruickshank had represented them, and make no end of money. that would just suit steve; and after all a lot of money would be a good thing in its way. it would make a certain old uncle at home take back a good many things he had once said about his nephew's "great useless body and ramshackle brains," and besides, he would like a few hundred pounds himself to send home, and a bit in hand to hire a boat to go to alaska in. that had been ned's day-dream ever since he had seen a certain cargo of bear-skins which had come down from that ice-bound _terra incognita_ to victoria. so ned sighed a great sigh of relief and contentment, took off his coat and slung it on his back, opened the collar of his flannel shirt and let the soft air play about his ribs, turned his sleeves up over his elbows, tied a silk handkerchief turban-wise on his yellow head, and having cut himself a good stout stick trudged merrily along, sucking in the glorious mountain air as greedily as if he had spent the last six months of his life waiting for briefs in some grimy fog-haunted chamber of the temple. he would have liked the ponies to have moved along a little faster, because as it was he found it difficult to keep behind them, five miles an hour suiting his legs better than two. but this was his only trouble, and as every now and then he got a breather, racing up some steep incline to head back a straggler to the path of duty, ned managed to be perfectly happy in spite of this little drawback. as for the others, cruickshank, who had seemed restless and nervous as long as he had been with the crowd of miners on the boat and at douglas, had now relapsed into a mere automaton, which strode on silently ahead of the pack-train, emitting from time to time little blue jets of tobacco smoke. steve seemed buried in calculations, based on a miner's report that the dirt at williams creek had paid as much as fifty cents to the shovelful, an historical fact which phon and the young yankee discussed occasionally at some length; and old roberts, having agreed to leave his suspicions behind him, shared his tobacco cheerily with cruickshank, and from time to time startled the listening deer with scraps of his favourite ditties. it was the refrain of the old pack mule, "riding, riding, riding on my old pack mule," which at last roused steve chance's indignation against the songster. "confound the old idiot!" growled the yankee; "i wish he wouldn't remind me of the unattainable. i shouldn't mind riding, but i am getting pretty sick of tramping. isn't it nearly time to camp, ned?" "nearly time to camp? why, we haven't made eight miles yet," replied corbett. "oh, that be hanged for a yarn! we have been going five solid hours by my watch, and five fours are twenty." "that may be, but five twos are ten, and what with stoppages to fix packs, admire the scenery, and give you time to munch a sandwich and tie up your moccasins, i don't believe we have been going two miles an hour. but are you tired, steve?" "you bet i am, ned. if there really is no particular hurry let us camp soon." "all right, we will if you like. hullo, cruickshank!" cruickshank turned. "steve is tired and wants to camp--what do you say?" cruickshank hesitated a moment and then agreed to the proposition, beginning at once to loosen the packs upon the beasts nearest to him. "here, i say, steady there!" cried corbett; "you take me too literally. steve can go another mile if necessary. we'll stop at the next good camping-ground." "i'm afraid you won't get anything better than this," replied the colonel. "why, what is the matter with this? you didn't expect side-walks and hotels on the trail, did you, corbett?" even in his best moods there was a nasty sneering way about cruickshank, which put his companions' backs up. "no, but i did think we might find a flat spot to camp on." "did you? then i'm sorry to disappoint you. you won't find anything except a swamp meadow flatter than this for the next ten miles or so, and the swamps are a little too wet for comfort at this time of year." "do you mean to say, cruickshank, that we can't find a flatter spot than this? why, hang it, man, you couldn't put a tea-cup down here without spilling the contents," remonstrated corbett. "well, if you think you can better this, let us go on; perhaps you know best. what is it to be, camp or 'get?'" "oh, if you are certain about it i suppose we may as well stay here; but, by jove, we shall have to tie ourselves up to trees when we go to sleep to prevent our straying downhill." and ned laughed at the vision he had conjured up. a minute later a bale,--bigger, heavier, and more round of belly than its fellows,--escaped from steve chance's grip and fell heavily to the earth. steve was not a strong man, certainly not a man useful for lifting weights, besides he was a careless fellow, and tired. for a moment steve stood looking at the bale as it turned slowly over and over. twice it turned round and steve still looked at it. the next moment it gathered way, and before steve could catch it was hopping merrily downhill, in bounds which grew in length every time it touched the hillside. steve, assisted by phon, had the pleasure of recovering that bale from the group of young pines amongst which it eventually stuck, and brought it with many sobs and much perspiration to the point from which it originally started. it took steve and phon longer to get over that two hundred feet of hillside than it had taken the bale. that first camp of theirs has left an impression upon ned's mind and steve's which years will not efface. ned was too tough to look upon it as more than a somewhat rough practical joke, likely to pall upon a man if repeated too often, but to chance that camp was a camp of misery and a place of tears. there was water, but it was a long way downhill; there was, as cruickshank said, timber enough to keep a mill going for a twelvemonth, but whatever was worth having for firewood was either uphill or downhill--you had to climb for everything you happened to want; and to wind up with, you absolutely had to dig a sort of shelf out of the hillside upon which to pitch your tent. it was here, too, that steve had his first real experience of camping out. he helped to unpack the horses, but he took so long to retrieve the bale which had gone downhill that some one had to lend him a hand even with the one beast which he unpacked. he volunteered to cook, but when on investigation it was discovered that he would have fried beans without boiling them, a community unduly careful of its digestion scornfully refused his assistance. in despair he seized an axe, and went away as "a hewer of wood and a drawer of water." by and by the voice of his own familiar friend came to him again and again in tones of cruel derision: "where is that tree coming down, steve?" "i don't know and don't care, but it's got to come somewhere," replied the operator angrily, as he hewed blindly at the tough green pine. "but it won't do for firewood anyway, steve, this year, and if you don't take care you will never need firewood again. don't you know how to make a tree fall where you want it to?" and ned took the tool from his hand, and completing what his companion had so badly begun, laid the tree out of harm's way. "well, it seems that i can't do anything to please you," grumbled steve, now thoroughly angry. "when there is anything that you and cruickshank reckon you want my help in you can call me, corbett. i'll go and smoke whilst you run this show to your own satisfaction." "no you won't, old man, and you won't get riled either. just be a good chap and go and cut us some brush for bedding. see, this is the best kind," and ned held out to his friend a branch of hemlock. although an hour later ned noticed that there was every kind of brush _except_ hemlock in the pile which steve had collected, he wisely complimented him on his work, and said nothing about his mistake. a man does not become a woodsman in a week. meanwhile the tent had been pitched; cruickshank was just climbing up the hill again after driving the ponies to a swamp down below, and old phon was handling a frying-pan full of the largest and thickest rashers of bacon on record. little crisp ringlets of fried bacon may serve very well for the breakfast of pampered civilization, but if you did not cut your rashers thick out in the woods you would never stop cutting. lucky would it have been for steve and ned if rough fare and a rocky camp had been the worst troubles in store for them, but unluckily, even as they lit their post-prandial pipes, the storm-clouds began to blow up the valley, ragged and brown, and whilst poor steve was still tossing on a sleepless pillow, vexed by the effects of black tea on his nerves, and crawling beasts upon his sensitive skin, the first great drops of the coming storm splashed heavily on the sides of the tent. of course the tent was new. everything the two young miners had was new, brand-new, and made upon the most recent and improved lines. none of the old, time-tried contrivances of practical men are ever good enough for beginners. so the fourth or fifth drop of rain which hit that tent came through as if it had been a sieve, and when well-meaning steve rubbed his hand over the place "feeling for the leak," the water came in in a stream. when the next morning broke, the wanderers looked out upon that most miserable of all things, a wet camp in the woods. the misery of a wet camp is the one convincing argument in favour of civilization. it was still early in the year, and the season was a late one even for british columbia, amongst whose mountains winter never yields without a struggle. on the dead embers of last night's camp-fire were slowly melting snowflakes, and a chill wet wind crept into ned's bosom, as he looked out upon the morning, and made him shudder. but ned was hard, so that careless of rain and puddles he splashed out past the camp-fire, and after a good many failures kindled a little comparatively dry wood, over which to make the morning tea, and then drew upon himself the scorn of that old campaigner cruickshank by washing. what work they could find to do the men did, but even so the hours went wearily by. cruickshank was opposed to making a start, for fear lest the rain should damage the packs, which now lay all snug beneath their _manteaux_. so they waited until cruickshank was tired of smoking, and roberts of hearing himself sing; until corbett could sleep no more, and steve was hoarse with grumbling. only phon, lost in thought which white men cannot fathom, and the pack animals full of sweet young grass, seemed content. for three whole days the party stopped in the same camp, gazing hour after hour upon a limited view of stiff burnt pines, with the melting snow drifting down through them, and the fog wrapping them and hiding away all the distance. even the fire of piled logs shone, _not_ with heat but with damp, and the monotonous splash of the drops as they fell from a leak in the tent into the frying-pan set to catch them, combined with phon's harsh cough, to break the silence. at last, when even ned was beginning to think of rheumatism, and to long for a glass of hot toddy and a turkish bath, the sun came back again, and cast long rich shadows from the red stems of the bull-pines across the trail, over which steve nearly ran, in his anxiety to leave the wet camp as far behind him as possible. but even the wet camp was only the beginning of troubles. three days they lost waiting for the sun, and in the next camp they waited three more days for their horses. at the first camp cruickshank had been careful to hobble the horses, which would not have strayed had he left them free in a small naturally inclosed pasture, like that swamp at the foot of the side hills. but at the second camp, where the feed was bad and the ways open, he neglected to hobble any of them, and, oddly enough, old packer though he was, he overlooked the whole band in his first day's search, so that no one went that way to look for them again, until it occurred to corbett to try to puzzle out their tracks in that direction for himself. there he found them, in the very meadow in which they had pastured the first night, all standing in a row behind a bush no bigger than a cabbage, old job at their head, every nose down, every ear still, even job's blue eye fixed in a kind of glassy stare, and the bell round job's neck dumb, for it was full of mud and leaves. it was deuced odd, ned thought, as he drove the beasts home. cruickshank didn't seem to know as much of packing and the care of horses as he appeared to know at first; but if he knew too little, that wall-eyed fiend, job, knew too much. anyway, they had taken eight days to do two days' travel, up to that time. it was well that they had ample time in which to make their journey to cariboo. chapter vii. facing death on the stone-slide. it was the last day of corbett's journey between the harrison and the frazer, and a boiling hot day at that. with the exception of corbett himself, and perhaps cruickshank, whose back alone was visible as he led the train, the whole outfit had relapsed into that dull mechanical gait peculiar to packers and pack animals. to chance it seemed that he was in a dream--a dream in which he went incessantly up and up or down, down day after day without pause or change. to him it seemed that there was always the same gray stone-slide under foot, the same hot sun overheard, and the same gleaming blue lake far below; like the pack animals, he was content to plod along hour after hour, seeing nothing, thinking of nothing, unless it was of that blessed hour when the camp would be pitched and the tea made, and the soothing pipe be lighted. but though chance had no eyes for it, the end of this first part of his journey was near at hand. fourteen miles away the great grisly mountains came together and threw a shadow upon seton lake, building a wall and setting a barrier over or through which there seemed no possible way of escape. as corbett looked at it, he could see the trees quite plainly on the narrow rim of grass between that mountain wall and the lake, and though he could not see that too, he knew that through them ran a trail which led to lillooet on the frazer. even ned longed to reach that trail and catch a glimpse of the little town, in which he and his weary beasts might take at least one day's rest and refreshment. since leaving douglas, cruickshank and corbett had been upon the best of terms. cruickshank knew how everything ought to be done, and corbett was quick and tireless to do it, so that between them these two did most of the work of the camp; and though ned noticed that his guide was not as anxious to get to lillooet as he had been to get away from douglas, he made allowances for him. cruickshank was hardly a young man, and no doubt his strength was not equal to his will. as to the straying of the horses at the second camp, there could be but one opinion. it was a bad mistake to leave them unhobbled; but after all everyone made mistakes sometimes, and though that mistake had involved the loss of a great deal of time, it was the only one which could be laid to cruickshank's account. so far not one single thing, however unimportant, had been left behind in camp or lost upon the trail; there had been no accidents, no lost packs, nor any sign of sore backs. day after day cruickshank himself had led the train, choosing the best going for his ponies, and seeing them safely past every projecting rock and over every _mauvais pas_. on this day for the first time cruickshank proposed to give up his position in front of the train to ned. stopping at a place where there was room to shunt the rear of his column to the front, the colonel hailed ned, and suggested that they should change places. "come on and set us a quick step, corbett. even if you do overtire the ponies a bit, it doesn't matter now that we are so near lillooet. they can rest there as much as they like." "very well. i expect _you_ must want a change, and i'll bet old steve does. why, you have hardly had anyone to speak to for a week," replied corbett good-naturedly. "that's so, but i must save my breath a little longer still. if roberts will go behind with phon and chance, i'll keep the first detachment as close to your heels as i can; and, by the way, we had better make a change with the horses whilst we are about it." "why?" asked ned. "what is the matter with them?" "not much, but if we are to have any more swimming across places where the bridging is broken down, we may as well have the horses that take kindly to water in front, and send that mean old beast to the rear;" and the colonel pointed to job, which with its head on one side and an unearthly glare in its blue eye, appeared to be listening to what was being said. "all right, we can do that here if you will lend a hand. which shall we put the bell on?" and ned took the bell off job, and turned that veteran over to the second half of the train. "put it on this fellow; he takes to the water like an otter, and he will make a good leader. wherever his packs can go, any of the others can follow;" and cruickshank pointed to the great bulging bales upon the back of the buckskin. "i expect steve and roberts packed him, didn't they?" cruickshank added. "well, they aren't pretty to look at, but i guess they'll stick;" and so saying, he gave the buckskin a smack on his quarters which sent that big star-gazing brute trotting to the front, where ned invested him with the order of the bell. "is it all right now, cruickshank?" asked corbett. "all right." "forrard away then!" cried ned, and turning he strode merrily along a narrow trail, which wound up and up across such sheer precipitous side hills as would make some men dizzy to look at. a slip in some places would have meant death to those who slipped, long before their bruised bodies could reach the edge of the lake glittering far below; but neither men in moccasins nor mountain ponies are given to slipping. after the rain had come the sunshine and the genial warmth of spring, under the influence of which every hill was musical with new-born rivulets, and every level place brilliant with young grass. the very stone-slides blossomed in great clumps of purple gentian, and over even the stoniest places crept the tendrils of the oregon vine, with its thorny shining leaves and flower-clusters of pale gold. now and again the trail rose or fell so much that it seemed to ned as if he had passed from one season of flowers to another. down by the lake, where the pack animals splashed along the bed of a little mountain stream, the first wild rose was opening, a mere speck of pink in the cool darkness made by the overhanging bushes. here by the lake side, too, were numerous butterflies--great yellow and black "swallow tails," hovering in small clouds over the damp stones, or camberwell beauties in royal purple, floating through sun and shadow on wings as graceful in flight as they were rich in colour. higher up, where the sun had heated the stone-slides to a white heat, were more butterflies (fritillaries and commas and tortoise-shells), while now and again a flash of orange and a shrill little screech told ned that a humming-bird went by. in the highest places of all, where the snow still lingered in tiny patches, the red-eyed spruce-cocks hooted from the pines, the ruffed grouse strutted and boomed in the thickets, and the yellow flowers of lilies gave promise of many a meal for old ephraim, when their sweet bulbs should be a few weeks older. to ned, merely to swing along day after day in the sunshine and note these things, was gladness enough, and it was little notice he took of heat, or thirst, or weariness. unfortunately he became too absorbed, and as often happens with men unused to leading out, forgot his train and walked right away from his ponies. when this fact dawned upon him it was nearly mid-day, and he found himself at the highest point which the path had yet reached, from which, looking back, he could see the train crawling wearily after him. he could see, too, that cruickshank was signalling him to stop, so nothing loth ned sat down and waited. the path where he sat came out to a sharp promontory, and turning round this it began to pass over the worst stone-slide ned had yet seen. most of those he had hitherto encountered had been mere narrow strips of bad going from fifty to a hundred yards across, but this was nearly five hundred yards from side to side, and except where the trail ran, there was not foothold upon it for a fly. properly speaking it was not, as the natives called it, a stone-slide at all, but rather the bed or shoot, by which, century after century, some hundreds of stone-slides had gone crashing down into the lake below. as soon as ned had assured himself that the train was once more as near to him as it ought to be, he knocked off as much of the projecting corner as he could, and passed round it on to the slide. looking up from the narrow trail, the young englishman could see the great rocks which hung out from the cliffs above; rocks whose fellows had been the makers of this slide, letting go their hold up above as the snows melted and the rains sapped their foundations, and then thundering down to the lake with such an army of small stones and debris that it seemed as if the whole mountain-side was moving. when this stone-avalanche crashed into the water a wave rolled out upon the lake big as an ocean swell from shore to shore. looking down, a smooth shoot sloped at an angle from him to the blue water. "well, that is pretty sheer," muttered ned, craning his neck to look down to where the lake glistened a thousand feet below, "and if one of our ponies gets his feet off this trail, there won't be anything of him left unbroken except his shoes;" and so saying, he turned to see how the leader would turn the awkward corner which led on to this _via diabolica_. as he did so the report of a pistol rang out sharp and clear, followed by a rush and the clatter of falling stones, and the next moment ned saw the leading pony dash round the overhanging rocks, its ropes all loose, its packs swinging almost under its belly, its bell ringing as if it were possessed, and its eyes starting from its head in the insanity of terror. at every stride it was touch-and-go whether the brute would keep its legs or not. each slip and each recovery at that flying pace was in itself a miracle, and ned hardly hoped that he could stop the maddened beast before it and the packs went crashing down to the lake. stop the pony! he might as well have tried to stop a stone-slide. and as he realized this, the danger of his own position flashed across him for the first time. coming towards him, now not fifty yards away, was the maddened horse, which probably could not have stopped if it wanted to in that distance, and on such a course. behind ned was four hundred yards of such a trail as he hardly dared to run over to escape death, and even if he had dared, what chance in the race would he have had against the horse? above him there was nothing to which even his strong fingers could cling, and below the trail--well, he had already calculated on the chances of any living thing finding foothold below the trail. instinctively ned shouted and threw up his hands. he might as well have tried to blow the horse back with his breath. in another ten seconds the brute would be upon him; in other words, in another ten seconds horse and packs and ned corbett would be the centre of a little dust-storm bounding frantically down that steep path to death! in such a crisis as this men think fast, or lose their wits altogether. some, perhaps, rather than face the horror of their position shut their eyes, mental and physical, and are glad to die and get it over. ned was of the other kind: the kind that will face anything with their eyes open, and fight their last round with death with eyes that will only close when the life is out of them. there was just one chance for life, and having his eyes open, ned saw it and took it. twenty yards from him now was that hideous maddened brute, with its ears laid back, its teeth showing, the foam flying from its jaws, and its great blood-shot eyes almost starting from their sockets. twenty yards, and the pace the brute was coming at was the pace of a locomotive! and yet, though corbett's face was gray as a march morning, and his square jaws set like a steel trap, there was no blinking in his eyes. he saw the blow coming, and quick as light he countered. never on parade in the old school corps did his rifle come to his shoulder more steadily than it came now; not a nerve throbbed as he pressed (not pulled) the trigger, nor was it until he stood _alone_ upon that narrow path that his knees began to rock beneath him, while the cold perspiration poured down his drawn white face in streams. one man only besides corbett saw that drama; one man, whose features wore a look of which hell might have been proud, so fiendish was it in its disappointed malice, when through the dust he saw the red flame flash, and then, almost before the report reached him, saw the body of the big buckskin, a limp bagful of broken bones, splash heavily into the seton lake. but the look passed as a cloud passes on a windy morning, and the next moment cruickshank was at corbett's side, a flood of congratulations and inquiries pouring from his ready lips. as for ned, now that the danger was over, he was utterly unstrung, and a bold enemy might have easily done for him that which the runaway horse had failed to do. perhaps that thought never occurred to any enemy of ned's; perhaps the quick, backward glance, in which cruickshank recognized old roberts' purple features, was as effectual a safeguard to the young man's life as even his own good rifle had been; be that as it may, a few moments later ned stumbled along after his friend to a place of safety, and there sat down again to collect himself. meanwhile, roberts and cruickshank stood looking at one another, an expression in the old poet's face, which neither corbett nor cruickshank had ever seen there before, the hand in his coat pocket grasping a revolver, whose ugly muzzle was ready to belch out death from that pocket's corner at a moment's notice. at last cruickshank spoke in a voice so full of genuine sorrow, that even roberts slackened his hold upon the weapon concealed in his coat pocket. "you've had a near shave to-day, corbett, and it was my fault. i am almost ashamed to ask you to forgive me." "how--what do you mean? did you fire that shot?" "i did, like a cursed idiot," replied cruickshank. roberts' face was a study for an artist. speechless surprise reigned upon it supreme. "i did," cruickshank repeated. "i fired at a grouse that was hooting in a bull-pine by the track, and i suppose that that scared the cayuse--though i've never known a pack-horse mind a man shooting before." "nor i," muttered roberts. "i suppose you didn't notice if you hit that fool-hen, colonel cruickshank?" "no; i don't suppose i did. i'd enough to think of when i saw what i had done." "well, it didn't fly away, and it ain't there now," persisted roberts. "perhaps you'd like to go and look for it." however, cruickshank took no notice of roberts' speech, but held out his hand to corbett with such an honest expression of sorrow, that if it was not sincere, it was superb as a piece of acting. without a word corbett took the proffered hand. there are some natures which find it hard to suspect evil in others, and ned corbett's was one of these. only he made a mental note, that though cruickshank had only made two mistakes since starting from douglas, they had both been of rather a serious nature. only one man climbed down to look at the dead cayuse as it lay half hidden in the shallow water at the edge of the lake, and that was only a chinaman. of course he went to see what he could save from the wreck; equally, of course, he found nothing worth bringing away; found nothing and noticed nothing, or if he did, only told what he had seen to old roberts. there seemed to be an understanding between these two, for phon trusted the hearty old shropshireman as much as he seemed to dread and avoid the colonel. chapter viii. their first "colours." "lillooet at last!" steve chance was the speaker, and as his eyes rested upon the frazer, just visible from the first bluff which overlooks the lillooet, his spirits rose so that he almost shouted aloud for joy. there beneath him, only a short mile away, lay most of the things which he longed for: rest after labour, good food, and pleasant drinks. steve's cravings may not have been the cravings of an ideal artist's nature, but let those who would cavil at them tramp for a week over stone-slides and through alkaline dust, and then decide if these are not the natural longings of an ordinary man. to tell the whole truth, steve had amused himself and his comrade roberts for more than a mile by discussing what they would order to eat and drink when once they reached comparative civilization again. even the hardest of men tire in time of bacon and beans and tea. a "john collins," a seductive fluid, taken in a long glass and sipped through a straw, was perhaps what steve hankered after most; but there were many other things which he longed for besides that most delectable of drinks, such for instance as a "full bath," a beefsteak, and clean sheets to follow. alas, poor steve! there was the frazer to wash in if he liked, and no doubt he could have obtained something which called itself a steak at the saloon, but a "john collins" and clean sheets he was not likely to obtain west of chicago. indeed, to this day long glasses and "drinketty drinks" are rare in the wild west; "drunketty drinks" out of short thick vulgar little tumblers being the order of the day. and apart from all this, lillooet, though larger in than it is to-day, was even then but a poor little town, a town consisting only of one long straggling street, which looked as if it had lost its way on a great mud-bluff by the river. benches of yellow mud and gray-green sage-brush rose above and around the "city," tier above tier, until they lost themselves in the mountains which gathered round, and deep down at the foot of the bluffs the frazer roared along. since chance had last seen the frazer at westminster its character had considerably changed. there it was a dull heavy flood, at least half a mile in breadth from bank to bank; here it was an angry torrent, roaring between steep overhanging banks, nowhere two hundred yards apart. there the river ran by flat lands, and fields which men might farm; here the impending mountains hung threateningly above it. the most daring steamboat which had ever plied upon the frazer had not come nearer to lillooet than lytton, and that was full forty miles down stream. in one thing only the frazer was unchanged. at lillooet, as at westminster, it was a sordid yellow river, with no sparkle in it, no blue backwaters, no shallows through which the pebbles shone like jewels through liquid sunshine. and yet, artist though he was in a poor tradesman-like fashion, steve gazed on the frazer with a rapture which no other stream had ever awakened in him. at the portage between seton and anderson lakes he had passed a stream such as an angler dreams of in his dusty chambers on a summer afternoon, but he had hardly wasted a second glance upon it. only trout lay there, great purple-spotted fellows, who would make the line vibrate like a harp string, and thrash the water into foam, ere they allowed themselves to be basketed; but in the frazer, though the fish were only torpid, half-putrid salmon, that would not even take a fly, there was gold, and gold filled steve's brain and eyes and heart just then to the exclusion of every other created thing. all he wanted was gold, gold; and his spirits rose higher and higher as he noted the flumes which ran along the river banks, and saw the little groups of blue-shirted chinamen who squatted by their rockers, or shovelled the gravel into their ditches. so keen, indeed, was steve to be at work amongst his beloved "dirt," that tired though he was, he persuaded ned to come with him and wash a shovelful of it, whilst dinner was being prepared. right at the back of the town a little company of white men had dug deep into the gravel of the beach, set their flumes, and turned on a somewhat scanty supply of water, and here steve obtained his first "colours." a tall old man who ran the mine lent him a shovel, and showed him where to fill it with likely-looking dirt; taught him how to dip the edge of his shovel in the bucket, and slowly swill the water thus obtained round and round, so as to wash away the big stones and the gravel which he did not want. the operation looks easier than it is, and at first steve washed his shovel cleaner than he meant to, in a very short time. by and by, however, he learnt the trick, and was rewarded by seeing a patch of fine gravel left in the hollow of the shovel, with here and there a tiny ruby amongst it, and here and there an agate. the next washing took away everything except a sediment of fine black sand,--sand which will fly to a magnet, and is the constant associate and sure indication of gold. steve was going to give this another wash when old pete stopped him. "steady, my lad, don't wash it all away; there it is, don't you see it!" and sure enough there it was, up by the point of the shovel, seven, eight--a dozen small red specks, things that you almost needed a microscope to see, not half as beautiful as the little rubies or the pure white agates; but this was gold, and when the old miner, taking back his shovel, dipped it carelessly into the water of his flume, chance felt for a moment a pang of indignation at seeing his first "colours" treated with such scant ceremony, although the twelve specks together were not, in all probability, worth a cent. but the sight of the gold put new life into chance and filled phon's veins with fever. one night at lillooet, steve said, was rest enough for him; and most of that night he and phon spent either down by the river or in the saloon, watching the chinese over their rockers, or listening to the latest accounts from cariboo. men could earn good wages placer mining at lillooet in ' , even as they can now, but all who could afford it were pushing on up stream to golden cariboo. what was five dollars a day, or ten, or even twenty for the matter of that, when other men were digging out fortunes daily on williams creek and antler cunningham's, and the cottonwood? and in this matter cruickshank humoured steve's feverish impatience to get on. here, as at douglas, the gallant colonel showed a strange reluctance to mingle with his fellows, or at least with such of them as had passed a season in the upper country, and even went so far as to camp out a mile away from the town, to give the pack animals a better chance of getting good feed, and to secure them, so he said, against all temptations to stray up stream with somebody else. horseflesh was dear at lillooet in ' ; and the colonel said that morals were lax, though why they should have been worse than at westminster, ned could not understand. however, it suited him to go on, so he raised no objection to cruickshank's plans, more especially as the rest did not seem beneficial to his honest old chum, roberts, who had been the centre of a hard-drinking, hard-swearing lot of mining men, ever since he arrived at lillooet. whenever ned came near, these men sunk their voices to a whisper, and once when cruickshank came in sight, the scowl upon their brows grew so dark, and their mutterings so ominous, that the colonel took the hint and vanished immediately. when ned saw him next he was at their trysting-place, a mile and a half from the saloon, and very impatient to be off,--so impatient, indeed, that he absolutely refused to wait for roberts, who, he "guessed," was drunk. "those old-timers are all the same when they get amongst pals, and as for roberts, we are deuced well rid of him, he is no use anyway," said the colonel. this might very well be cruickshank's opinion. it was not ned's, and ned had a way of thinking and acting for himself, so without any waste of words he bade his comrades "drive ahead," whilst he turned back in search of roberts. by some accident this worthy had not heard of the intended start, and was, as ned expected, as innocent of any intention to desert as he was of drunkenness. when ned found him he was sitting in the barroom with a lot of his pals, and the conversation round him had grown loud and angry; indeed, as ned entered, a rough, weather-beaten fellow in his shirt sleeves was shouting at the top of his voice, "what the deuce is the good of all this jaw? lynch the bilk, that's what i say, and save trouble." but ned's appearance put a stop to the proceedings, though an angry growl broke out when he was overheard to say that cruickshank and steve had started half an hour ago, and that he himself had come back to look for old roberts. "don't you go, bob," urged one of his comrades; "them young britishers are bound to stay by their packs, but you've no call to." "not you. you'll stay right here, if you ain't a born fool," urged another. but bob was not to be coaxed or bantered out of his determination to stay by his brother salopian. "no, lads," he retorted, "i ain't a born fool, and i ain't the sort to go back on a pal. if corbett goes i'm going, though i don't pretend to be over-keen on the job." "wal, if you will go, go and be hanged to you; only, bob, keep your eye skinned, and, i say, _shoot fust_ next time, _shoot fust_; now don't you forget it!" with which mysterious injunction bob's big friend reeled up from the table (he was half-drunk already), shook hands, "liquored" once more, and left. he said he had some business to attend to down town; and as it was nearly noon, and he had done nothing but smoke and drink short drinks since breakfast-time, he was probably right in thinking that it was time to attend to it. whilst this gentleman rolled away down the street with a fine free stride, requiring a good deal of sea-room, ned and his friend had to put their best feet foremost (as the saying is) to make up for lost time. when you are walking fast over rough ground you have not much breath left for conversation, and this, perhaps, and the roar of the sullen river, accounts for the fact that the two men strode along in silence, neither of them alluding to the conversation just overheard in the saloon, although the minds of both were running upon that subject, and ned noticed that the pistol which roberts pulled out and examined as they went along was a recent purchase. "hullo, you've got a new gun, rob," he remarked. everything with which men shoot is called a gun in british columbia. "yes, it's one i bought at lillooet. i hadn't got a good one with me." "well, i don't suppose you'll want it, now you have got it," replied corbett. "well, i don't know. i _might_ want it to shoot grouse with by the side of the trail." and the old fellow laid such an emphasis upon his last words and chuckled so grimly, that ned half suspected that he had wetted his whistle once too often after all. chapter ix. under the balm-of-gilead tree. from noon of the day upon which ned corbett and old roberts strode out of lillooet until the night upon which we meet them again was a fortnight and more, a fortnight of which i might, if i chose, write a history, but it would only be the history of almost every mining party and pack-train that ever went up the frazer. the incidents of those days are indelibly engraved upon the memories of steve and of corbett, but to roberts they passed without remark and left no impression behind. the life was only the ordinary miner's life; and there was nothing new to the old-timer in buoyant hopes wearing away day by day; nothing new in the daily routine of camps broken by starlight and pitched again at dusk; in trails blocked by windfalls or destroyed by landslips; in packs which would shift, tie them ever so tightly; in stones which cut the moccasins, and prickly pears which filled the sole with anguish; or in cruel fire-hardened rampikes, which tore the skin to rags and the clothes to ribands. three weeks upon the road had done its work upon the party, had added much to their knowledge, and taken much away that was useless from their equipment. when they left westminster they were five smart, well-fed, civilized human beings; when they struggled up out of the valley of the frazer towards cariboo, at soda creek, they were five lean, weather-hardened men, their clothes all rags and patches, their skin all wounded and blistered, every "indispensable adjunct of a camp," as made by mr. silver, discarded long ago; but every article of camp furniture which was left, carried where it could be got at, ready when it was wanted, and thoroughly adapted to the rough and ready uses of those who took the trouble to "pack it along." even to steve it seemed ages now since his nostrils were used to any other odour than the pungent scent of the pines; ages since his ears listened to any other sound than the roar of the yellow river and the monotonous tinkle of the leader's bell; ages even since washing had been to him as a sacred rite, and a clean shirt as desirable as a clean conscience. and yet corbett and chance had seen, on their way up, men who led harder lives than theirs; blue-shirted, bearded fellows, who carried their all upon their own shoulders; and others who had put their tools and their grub in the craziest of crafts, and, climbing one moment and wading the next, strove to drag it up stream in the teeth of the frazer. as ned saw the frail canoes rear up on end against the angry waters, he understood why the old river carried so many down stream whose dead hands grasped no dollars, whose dead lips told no tales. but the river trail had come to an end at last, and the five were now steering north-east for the bold mountains and their gold-bearing rivers and creeks. they had now put many a mile between themselves and soda creek, and were lying smoking round their camp-fire, built under a huge balm-of-gilead tree, which stood in the driest part of what we call a swamp, and canadians a meadow. the pack-saddles were set in orderly line, with their ropes and cinches neatly coiled alongside them; the packs were snug under their _manteaux_, and the tent was pitched as men pitch a tent who are used to their work, not with its sides all bellying in, strained in one place slack in another, but just loose enough to allow for a wetting if it should happen to rain in the night. now and again the bell of one of the pack animals sounded not unmusically from some dark corner of the swamp, or the long "ho-ho" of kalula, the night-owl, broke the silence, which but for these sounds would have been complete. suddenly a voice said: "great scott! do you know what the date is?" since the pipes had been lighted no one had spoken, and as cruickshank broke the silence, it was almost under protest that ned rolled round on his blanket to face the speaker, and dropped a monosyllabic "well?" the men were too tired to talk, and night, which in these northern forests is very still, had thrown its spell upon them. steve and phon merely turned their heads inquiringly to the speaker, who sat upon a log turning over the leaves of a little diary, and waited. "to-morrow will be the th of may." "the th of may--what then?" asked ned dreamily. he was hardly awake to everyday thoughts yet. "what then! what then! why, if you are not at williams creek by the st of june your claims can be jumped by anyone who comes along." "but can't we get there by the st of june?" asked ned, sitting up and taking his pipe out of his mouth. "impossible. if you could drive the ponies at a trot you could only just do it. it is five good days' journey with fresh animals, and we have only four to do it in, and grizzlies wouldn't make our ponies trot now." "well, what are we to do?" broke in chance. "you calculated the time, and said that we had enough and to spare." "i know i did, but i made a mistake." "oh to blazes with your _mistakes_, colonel cruickshank," cried chance angrily; "they seem to me a bit too expensive to occur quite so often." "don't lose your temper, my good sir. i couldn't help it, but i am willing to atone for it. i calculated as if april had thirty-one days in it, and it hasn't; and, besides, i've dropped a day on the road somehow." "looking for horses," growled roberts, "or shooting grouse, maybe." "what do you propose to do, colonel cruickshank?" asked corbett, whose face alone seemed still perfectly under his own control. "well, mr. corbett, i've led you into the scrape, so i must get you out of it. if either you or roberts will stay with me i'll bring the horses on for you to williams creek, whilst the rest can start away right now and make the best of their time to the claims. you could do the distance all right if it wasn't for the pack-ponies." "but how could _i_ stay?" asked corbett. "well, you needn't, of course, if roberts doesn't mind staying; otherwise you could assign your interest in your claim to him, and he could go on and hold it for you." "but it will be deuced hard work for two men to manage nine pack-ponies over such a trail as this." "it won't be any violets," replied cruickshank, "you may bet on that; but it's my fault, so i'll 'foot the bill.'" "i don't know about its being your fault either," broke in corbett, "i was just as big an ass as a man could be. i ought to have calculated the time for myself. can't we all stop and chance it?" "what, and lose a good many thousand dollars paid, and every chance of making a good many thousand more, for which we have been tramping over a month--that would be lunacy!" broke in chance. "well, if you don't mean to lose the claims, i know no other way of getting to williams creek in time," said cruickshank; and, looking up at the sky, he added, "you might have two or three hours' sleep, and then be off bright and early by moonlight. the moon rises late to-night." it was a weird scene there by that camp-fire; and there were things written on the faces of those sitting round it, which a mere outsider could have read at a glance. the moon might be coming up later on, but just at that moment there was neither moon nor star, only a black darkness, broken by the occasional sputtering flames of the wood fire. out of the darkness the men's faces showed from time to time as the red gleams flickered over them; the faces of corbett, steve, and roberts full of perplexity and doubt; the eyes of phon fixed in a frightened fascinated stare upon the colonel; and cruickshank's face white with suppressed excitement, the coarse, cruel mouth drawn and twitching, and the eyes glaring like the eyes of a tiger crouching for its prey. "well, what had we better do?" asked corbett at last from somewhere amongst the shadows, and cruickshank's eyes shifted swiftly to where steve and roberts lay, as if anxious to forestall their answer. "i'll stay, ned corbett. it's safer for me than it would be for you," said roberts. "i can only lose a little time, not much worth to anyone, and you have a good deal to lose." after all it was only a small question. they had driven the pack animals now for a month, and, whoever stayed, would only at the worst have to drive them for another week. the work, of course, would be rather heavy with only two to divide it among; but on the other hand those who went ahead would have to make forced marches and live upon very short rations. ned was rather surprised then that roberts answered as if it was a matter of grave import, and that his voice seemed to have lost the jolly ring which was natural to it. "don't stop if you don't like to, old chap. phon can assign his interests to you and stay behind instead." "no, no, me halò stay. halò! halò!" and the little chinaman almost shrieked the last word, so emphatic was his refusal. "it's no good leaving phon," replied roberts, casting a pitying look towards that frightened heathen; "he would see devils all the time, and be of no use after it got dark. i tell you, i'll stay and take care of the ponies; and now you had better all turn in and get some sleep. you will have to travel pretty lively when you once start. i'll see to your packs." probably ned had been mistaken from the first, but if any feeling had shaken his friend's voice for a moment, it had quite passed away now, and roberts was again his own genial, helpful self. after all, he was the very best person to leave behind. except cruickshank, he was the only really good packer amongst them. he was as strong as a horse, and besides, he had no particular reason for wanting to be at williams creek by the st of june. "you really don't mind stopping, rob?" asked corbett. "not a bit. why should i? i'd do a good deal more than that for you, if it was only for the sake of the dear old country, my lad." again, just for a moment, there seemed to be a sad ring in his voice, and he stretched out his hand and gripped ned's in the darkness. ned was surprised. "the old man is a bit sentimental to-night," he thought. "it's not like him, but, i suppose, these dismal woods have put him a little off his balance. they _are_ lonesome." with which sage reflection ned turned his eyes away from the dark vista down which he had been gazing, and rolling round in his blankets forgot both the gloom and the gold. for two or three hours the sleepers lay there undisturbed by the calls of the owls, or the stealthy tread of a passing bear, which chose the trail as affording the best road from point to point. at night, when there is no chance of running up against a man, no one appreciates a well-made road better than a bear. he will crash through the thickest brush if necessary, but if you leave him to choose, he will avoid rough and stony places as carefully as a christian. towards midnight cruickshank, who had been tossing restlessly in his blankets, sat up and crouched broodingly over the dying embers, unconscious that a pair of bright, beady eyes were watching him suspiciously all the time. but phon made no sign. he was only a bundle of blankets upon the ground, a thing of no account. by and by, when cruickshank had settled himself again to sleep, this bundle of blankets sat up and put fresh logs on the camp-fire. the warmth from them soothed the slumberers, and after a while even cruickshank lay still. phon watched him for some time, until convinced that his regular breathing was not feigned, but real slumber, and then he too crept away from the fire-side, not to his own place, but into the shadow where roberts lay. after a while an owl, which had been murdering squirrels in their sleep, came gliding on still wings, and lit without a sound on the limb of a tall pine near the camp. the light from the camp-fire dazzled its big red-brown eyes, but after a little time it could see that two of the strange bundles, which lay like mummies round the smouldering logs, were sitting up and talking together. but the owl could not catch what they said, except once, when it saw a bright, white gleam flash from the little bundle like moonlight showing through a storm-cloud, and then as the bigger bundle snatched the white thing away, the listening owl heard a voice say: "no, my god, no! that may do very well for a chinee; it won't do for a britisher, phon!" and another voice answered angrily: "why not? you white men all fool. you savey what _he_ did. s'pose you no kill him, by'm bye he--" but the rest was lost to the owl, and a few minutes later, just as it raised its wings to go, it saw the smaller bundle wriggle across the ground again to its old place by the embers. chapter x. the shadows begin to fall. when corbett woke, the first beams of the rising moon were throwing an uncertain light over the forest paths, and the children of night were still abroad, the quiet-footed deer taking advantage of the moonlight to make an early breakfast before the sun and man rose together to annoy them. the camp-fire had just been made up afresh, and a frying-pan, full of great rashers, was hissing merrily upon it, while a kettle full of strong hot coffee stood beside it, ready to wash the rashers down. men want warming when they rise at midnight from these forest slumbers, and roberts, knowing that it would be long ere his friends broke their fast again, had been up and busy for the last half-hour, building a real nor'-west fire, and preparing a generous breakfast. cruickshank too was up, if not to speed the parting, at any rate to see them safely off the premises, a smile of unusual benevolence on his dark face. between them, he and roberts put up the travellers' packs, taking each man's blankets as he got out of them, and rolling in them such light rations as would just last for a four days' trip. in twenty minutes from the time when they crawled out of their blankets, the three stood ready to start. "are you all set?" asked cruickshank. "all set," replied chance. "then the sooner you 'get' the better. it will be as much as your heathen can do to make the journey in time, i'll bet." "why, is the trail a very bad one?" "oh, it's all much like this, but it's most of it uphill, and there may be some snow on the top. but you can't miss your way with all these tracks in front." "you will be in yourself a day or two after us, won't you?" asked corbett. "yes. if you don't make very good time i daresay i shall, although the snow may delay the ponies some. but don't you worry about them. i'll take care of the ponies, you can trust me for that." "then, if you will be in so soon, i won't trouble to take anything except one blanket and my rifle," remarked ned. "oh, take your rocker. it looks more business-like; and, besides, all the millionaires go in with 'nothing but a rocker-iron for their whole kit, and come out worth their weight in gold.'" there was a mocking ring in cruickshank's voice as he said this, at variance with his oily smile, but steve chance took his words in good faith. steve still believed in the likelihood of his becoming a millionaire at one stroke of the miner's pick. "i guess you're right, colonel. i'll take my rocker-iron, whatever else i leave behind. lend a hand to fix it on to my pack, will you?" and then, when cruickshank had done this, steve added with a laugh: "i shall consider you entitled to (what shall we say?) one per cent on the profits of the mine when in full swing, for your services, colonel." "don't promise too much, chance. you don't know what sort of a gold-mine you are giving away yet;" and the speaker bent over a refractory strap in steve's pack to hide an ugly gleam of white teeth, which might have had a meaning even for such an unsuspicious fool as ned corbett, who at this moment picked up his winchester and held out his hand to cruickshank. "good-bye, colonel," he said. "what with the claims and the packs, we have trusted you now with every dollar we have in the world. lucky for us that we are trusting to the honour of a soldier and a gentleman, isn't it? good-bye to you." it was the kindliest speech ned had ever made to cruickshank. weeks of companionship, and the man's readiness to atone for his mistake, had had their effect upon corbett's generous nature; but its warmth was lost upon the colonel. either he really did not see, or else he affected not to see the outstretched hand; in any case he did not take it, and ned went away without exchanging that silent grip (which a writer of to-day has aptly called "an englishman's oath") with the man to whom he had intrusted his last dollar. as for old roberts, he followed his friends for a couple of hundred yards upon their way, and then wrung their hands until the bones cracked. "give this to rampike when you see him, ned. i guess he'll be at williams creek, or antler; williams creek most likely," said the old poet in parting, and handed a note with some little inclosure in it to ned. "all right, i won't forget. till we meet again, rob;" and corbett waved his cap to him. "till we meet again!" roberts repeated after him, and stood looking vacantly along the trail until steve and corbett passed out of sight. then he, too, turned and tramped back to camp, cheering himself as he went with a stave of his favourite ditty. the last the lads heard of their comrade on that morning was the crashing of a dry twig or two beneath old roberts' feet, and the refrain of his song as it died away in the distance-- "riding, riding, riding on my old pack-mule." ned corbett could not imagine how he had ever thought that air a lively one. it was stupidly mournful this morning, or else the woods and the distance played strange tricks with the singer's voice. but if ned was affected by an imaginary minor key in his old friend's singing, a glimpse at the camp he had left would not have done much to restore his cheerfulness. the embers had died down, and looked almost as gray and sullen as the face of the man who sat and scowled at them from a log alongside. the only living thing in camp besides the colonel was one of those impudent gray birds, which the up-country folk call "whisky-jacks." of course he had come to see what he could steal. that is the nature of jays, and the whisky-jack is the canadian jay. at first the bird stood with his head on one side eyeing the colonel, uncertain whether it would be safe to come any closer or not. but there was a fine piece of bacon-rind at the colonel's feet, so the bird plucked up his courage and hopped a few paces nearer. he had measured his distance to an inch, and with one eye on the colonel and one on the bacon, was just straining his neck to the utmost to drive his beak into the succulent morsel, when the man whom he thought was asleep discharged a furious kick at an unoffending log, and clenching his fist ground out between his teeth muttered: "a soldier and a gentleman! a soldier and a gentleman! yes, but it came a bit too late, mr. edward corbett. hang it, i wish you had stayed behind instead of that fool, roberts." of course the "whisky-jack" did not understand the other biped's language, but he was a bird of the world, and instinct told him that his companion in camp was dangerous; so, though the bacon-rind still lay there, he flitted off to a tree hard by, and spent the next half-hour in heaping abuse upon the colonel from a safe distance. that "whisky-jack" grew to be a very wise bird, and in his old days used to tell many strange stories about human bipeds and the balm-of-gilead camp. but there was half a mile of brush between ned and their old camp, so he saw nothing of all this; and after the fresh morning air had roused him, and the exercise had set his blood going through his veins at its normal pace, he went unconcernedly on his way, talking to steve as long as there was room enough for the two to walk side by side, and then gradually forging ahead, and setting that young yankee a step which kept him extended, and made poor little phon follow at a trot. though ned and steve had grown used to isolation upon the trail with ten laden beasts between the two, they made several attempts upon this particular morning to carry on a broken conversation, or lighten the road with snatches of song. perhaps it was that they were making unconscious efforts to drive away a feeling of depression, which sometimes comes over men's natures with as little warning as a storm over an april sky. but their efforts were in vain; nature was too strong for them. in the great silence amid these funereal pines their voices seemed to fall at their own feet, and ere long the forest had mastered them, as it masters the indians, and the birds, and the wild dumb beasts which wander about in its fastnesses. the only creature which retains its loquacity in a pine-forest is the squirrel, and he is always too busy to cultivate sentiment of any kind. cruickshank had warned them that the trail led uphill, and it undoubtedly did so. at first the three swung along over trails brown with the fallen pine needles of last year, soft to the foot and level to the tread, with great expanses of fruit bushes upon either side,--bushes that in another month or two would be laden with a repast spread only for the bear and the birds. salmon-berry and rasp-berry, soap-berry and service-berry, and two or three different kinds of bilberry were there, as well as half a dozen others which neither ned nor steve knew by sight. but the season of berries was not yet, so they wetted their parched lips with their tongues and passed on with a sigh. then the road began to go uphill. they knew that by the way they kept tripping over the sticks and by the increased weight of their packs. by and by steve thought they would come to a level place at the top, and there they would lie down for a while and rest. but that top never came, or at least the sun was going round to the south, and it had not come yet. and then the air began to grow more chill, and the trees to change. there were no more bushes, or but very few of them; and the trees, which were black dismal-looking balsams, were draped with beard-moss, the winter food of the cariboo, and there was snow in little patches at their feet. when the sun had gone round to the west the snow had grown more plentiful, and there were glades amongst the balsams, and at last steve was glad, for they had got up to the top of the divide. but he was wrong again, for again the trail rose, and this time through a belt of timber which the wind had laid upturned across their path. heavens! how heavy the packs grew then, and how their limbs ached with stepping over log after log, bruising their shins against one and stumbling head-first over another. at first steve growled at every spiked-bough which caught and held him, and groaned at every sharp stake which cut into the hollow of his foot. but anger in the woods soon gives place to a sullen stoicism. it is useless to quarrel with the unresponsive pines. the mountains and the great trees look down upon man's insignificance, and his feeble curse dies upon his lips, frozen by the terrible sphinx-like silence of a cold passionless nature. as long as the sunlight lasted the three kept up their spirits fairly well. the glades in their winter dress, with the sunlight gleaming upon the dazzling snow and flashing from the white plumes of the pines, were cheery enough, and took corbett's thoughts back to christmas in the old country; besides, there were great tracks across one glade--tracks like the tracks of a cow, and ned was interested in recognizing the footprints of the beast which has given its name to cariboo. but when the sun went, everything changed. a great gloom fell like a pall upon man and nature: the glitter which made a gem of every lakelet was gone, and the swamps, which had looked like the homes of an ideal father christmas, relapsed into dim shadowy places over whose soft floors murder might creep unheard, whilst the balsam pines stood rigid and black, like hearse plumes against the evening sky. "ned, we can't get out of this confounded mountain to-night, can we?" asked chance. "no, old man, i don't think we can," replied ned, straining his eyes along the trail, which still led upwards. "then i propose that we camp;" and chance suited the action to the word, by heaving his pack off his shoulders and dropping on to it with a sigh of relief. perhaps the three sat in silence for five minutes (it certainly was not more), asking only for leave to let the aching muscles rest awhile; though even this seemed too much to ask, for long before their muscles had ceased to throb, before steve's panting breath had begun to come again in regular cadence, the chill of a winter night took hold upon them, stiffened their clothes, and would shortly have frozen them to their seats. "this is deuced nice for may, isn't it, steve?" remarked ned with a shiver. "lend me the axe, phon; it is in your pack. if we don't make a fire we shall freeze before morning. steve, you might cut some brush, old chap, and you and phon might beat down some of the snow into a floor to camp on. i'll go and get wood enough to last all night;" and corbett walked off to commence operations upon a burnt "pine stick," still standing full of pitch and hard as a nail. but ned was used to his axe, and the cold acted on him as a spur to a willing horse, so that he hewed away, making the chips fly and the axe ring until he had quite a stack of logs alongside the shelter which steve had built up. then the sticks began to crackle and snap like chinese fireworks, and the makers of the huge fire were glad enough to stand at a respectful distance lest their clothes should be scorched upon their backs. that is the worst of a pine fire. it never gives out a comfortable glow, but either leaves you shivering or scorches you. having toasted themselves on both sides, the three travellers found a place where they would be safe from the wood smoke, and still standing pulled out the rations set apart for the first day's supper, and ate the cold bacon and heavy damper slowly, knowing that there was no second course coming. when you are reduced to two slices of bread and one of bacon for a full meal, with only two such meals in the day, and twelve hours of abstinence and hard labour between them, it is wonderful how even coarse store bacon improves in flavour. i have even known men who would criticise the cooking at a london club, to collect the stale crumbs from their pockets and eat them with apparent relish in the woods, though the crumbs were thick with fluff and tobacco dust! as they stood there munching, ned said: "i suppose, steve, we did wisely in coming on?" "what else could we have done, ned?" "yes, that's it. what else could we have done? and yet--" "and yet?" repeated steve questioningly. "what is your trouble, ned?" "do you remember my saying, when i bought the claims, that with cruickshank under our eyes all the time we should have a good security for our money?" "yes, and now you have let him go. i see what you mean; but you can rely upon roberts, can't you?" "as i would upon myself," replied corbett shortly. "but still i have broken my resolution." "oh, well, that is no great matter; and besides, i don't believe that the colonel would do a crooked thing any more than we would." "he-he! he-he-he!" it was a strangely-harsh cackle was phon's apology for a laugh, and coming so rarely and so unexpectedly, it made the two speakers start. but they could get nothing out of the man when they talked to him. he was utterly tired out, and in another few minutes lay fast asleep by the fire. "i am afraid that quaint little friend of ours doesn't care much for the colonel," remarked ned. "oh, phon! phon thinks he is the devil. he told me so;" and steve laughed carelessly. what did it matter what a chinaman thought! a little yellow-skinned, pig-tailed fellow like phon was not likely to have found out anything which had escaped steve's yankee smartness. chapter xi. "jump or i'll shoot." three days after they left the balm-of-gilead camp, ned corbett and his two friends stood upon a ridge of the bald mountains looking down upon the promised land. "so this is eldorado, is it?" ned corbett himself was the speaker, though probably those who had known him at home or in victoria would have hardly recognized him. all the three gold-seekers had altered much in the last month, and standing in the bright sunlight of early morning the changes wrought by hard work and scanty food were very apparent. bronzed, and tired, and ragged, with a stubble of half-grown beards upon their chins, with patches of sacking or deer-skin upon their trousers, and worn-out moccasins on their feet, none of the three showed signs of that golden future which was to come. beggars they might be, but surely croesus never looked like this! "we shall make it to-day, ned," remarked chance, taking off his cap to let the cool mountain breeze fan his brow. "we may, if we can drag him along, but he is very nearly dead beat;" and the direction in which ned glanced showed his companion that he was speaking of a limp bundle of blue rags, which had collapsed in a heap at the first sign of a halt. "why not leave phon to follow us?" asked steve in a low tone. low though the tone was, the bundle of blue rags moved, and a worn, shrivelled face looked piteously up into ned's. "no, no, steve," replied corbett. "all right, phon, i'll not leave you behind, even if i have to pack you on my own shoulders." thus reassured, the chinaman collapsed once more. there was not a muscle in his body which felt capable of further endurance, and yet, with the gold so near, and his mind full of superstitious horrors, he would have crawled the rest of the journey upon his hands and knees rather than have stayed behind. "thank goodness, there it is at last!" cried corbett a minute later, shading his eyes with his hand. "that smoke i expect rises from somewhere near our claims;" and the speaker pointed to a faint column of blue which was just distinguishable from the surrounding atmosphere. "i believe you are right, ned. come, phon, one more effort!" and steve helped the chinaman on to his legs, though he himself was very nearly worn out. ned took up the slender pack which phon had carried until then, and added it to the other two packs already upon his broad shoulders. after all the three packs weighed very little, for ned's companions had thrown away everything except their blankets, and steve would have even thrown his blanket away had not ned taken charge of it. ned knew from experience that so long as he sleeps fairly soft and warm at night a man's strength will endure many days, but once you rob him of his rest, the strongest man will collapse in a few hours. as for their food, that was not hard to carry. each man had a crust still left in his pocket, and more than enough tobacco. along the trail there were plenty of streams full of good water, and if bread and water and tobacco did not satisfy them, they would have to remain unsatisfied. it had been a hard race against time, and the last lap still remained to be run; but that smoke was the goal, and with the goal in sight even phon shuffled along a little faster, though he was so tired that, whenever he stumbled he fell from sheer weakness. the bald mountains so often alluded to in cariboo story are ranges of high upland, rising above the forest level, and entirely destitute of timber at the top. here in late summer the sunnier slopes are slippery with a luxuriant growth of long lush grasses and weeds, and ablaze with the vivid crimson of the indian pink. in early spring (and may is early spring in cariboo) there is still snow along the ridges, and even down below, though the grasses are brilliantly green, the time of flowers has hardly yet come. here and there as the three hurried down they came across big boulders of quartz gleaming in the sun. these were as welcome to steve as the last milestone on his road home to a weary pedestrian. where the quartz was, there would the gold be also, argued steve, and the thought roused him for a moment out of the mechanical gait into which he had fallen. but he soon dropped into it again. a hill had risen and shut the column of smoke out of his sight, and the trail was leading down again to the timber. away far to the east a huge dome of snow gleamed whitely against the sky-line. that was the outpost of the rockies. but steve had no eyes even for the rockies. all he saw was a sea of endless brown hills rolling and creeping away fold upon fold in the distance, all so like one to another from their bald ridges to the blue lakes at their feet, that his head began to spin, and he almost thought that he must be asleep, and this some nightmare country in which he wandered along a road that had no end. luckily ned roused him from this dreamy fit from time to time, or it might well have happened that steve's journey would have ended on this side of williams creek in a rapid slide from the narrow trail to the bottom of one of the little ravines along which it ran. both men were apparently thinking of the same subject. so that though their sentences were short and elliptical, they had no difficulty in understanding each other's meaning. men don't waste words on such a march as theirs. "another three hours ought to do it," ned would mutter, shifting his pack so as to give the rope a chance of galling him in a fresh place. "if we get there by midnight, i reckon it would do." "yes, if we could find the claims." "ah, there is that about it! have you got the map?" "yes. i've got that all right. oh, we shall do it in good time;" and ned looked up at his only clock, the great red sun, which was now nearly overhead. the next moment corbett's face fell. the path led round a bluff, beyond which he expected to see the trail go winding gradually down to a little group of tents and huts gathered about williams creek. instead of that he found himself face to face with one of those exasperating gulches which so often bar the weary hunter's road home in the frazer country. the swelling uplands rolled on, it was true, sinking gradually to the level of williams creek, and he could see the trail running from him to his goal in fairly gentle sweeps, all except about half a mile of it, and that half-mile lay right in front of him, and was invisible. it had sunk, so it seemed to ned, into the very bowels of the earth, and another hundred yards brought him to the edge of the gulch and showed him that this was the simple truth. as so often happens in this country which ice has formed (smoothing it here and cutting great furrows through it elsewhere), the downs ended without warning in a precipitous cliff leading into a dark narrow ravine, along the bottom of which the gold-seekers could just hear the murmur of a mountain stream. it was useless to look up and down the ravine. there was no way over and no way round. it was a regular trap. a threadlike trail, but well worn, showed the only way by which the gulch could be crossed, and as ned looked at it he came to the conclusion that if there was another such gulch between him and williams creek it would probably cost him all he was worth, for no one in his party could hope to cross two such gulches before nightfall. "it's no good looking at it, come along, steve!" he cried, and grasping at any little bush within reach to steady his steps, ned began the descent. who ever first made that trail was in a hurry to get to williams creek. the recklessness of the gold miner, determined to get to his gold, and careless of life and limb in pursuit of it, was apparent in every yard of that descent, which, despising all circuitous methods, plunged headlong into the depths below. twice on the way down steve only owed his life to the stout mountain weeds to which his fingers clung when his feet forsook him, and once it was only ned's strong hand which prevented phon from following a great flat stone which his stumbling feet had sent tobogganing into the dark gulf below. for two or three minutes ned had to hold on to phon by the scruff of the neck before he was quite certain that he was to be trusted to walk alone again. even steve kept staring into that "dark-profound" into which the stone had vanished in a way which corbett did not relish. though he had never felt it himself, he knew all about that strange fascination which seems to tempt some men, brave men too, to throw themselves out of a railway-carriage, off a pier-head, or down a precipice, and therefore ned was not sorry to be at the bottom of that precipitous trail without the loss of either steve or phon. "say, ned, how does that strike you? it's a 'way-up' bridge, isn't it, old man?" and the speaker pointed to a piece of civil engineering characteristic of cariboo. two tall pines had grown upon opposite edges of the narrow ravine in which the gulch ended. from side to side this ravine was rather too broad for a single pine to span, and far down below, somewhere in the darkness of it, a stream roared and foamed along. the rocks were damp with mist and spray, but the steep walls of the narrow place let in no light by which the prisoned river could be seen. in order to cross this place, men had loosened the roots of the two pines with pick and shovel, until the trees sinking slowly towards each other had met over the mid-stream. then those who had loosened the roots did their best to make them fast again, weighting them with rocks, and tethering them with ropes. when they had done this they had lashed the tops of the trees together, lopped off a few boughs, run a hand-rope over all, and called the structure a bridge. over this bridge ned and his comrades had now to pass, and as he looked at the white face and quaking legs of phon, and then up at the evening sky, ned turned to steve and whispered in his ear: "pull yourself together, steve. this is a pretty bad place, but we have got to get over at once or not at all. that fellow will faint or go off his head before long." luckily for ned, steve chance had plenty of what the yankees call "sand." "i'm ready, go ahead," he muttered, keeping his eyes as much as possible averted from the abyss towards which they were clambering. "i'll go first," said corbett, when they had reached the roots of the nearest pine; "then phon, and you last, steve." then bending over his friend he whispered, "threaten to throw him in if he funks." of course the bridge in front of corbett was not the ordinary way to williams creek. pack-trains had come to williams creek even in those early days, and clever as pack-ponies are, they have not yet developed a talent for tree climbing. so there was undoubtedly some other way to williams creek. this was only a short cut, a route taken by pedestrians who were in a hurry, and surely no pedestrians were ever in a much greater hurry than steve and ned and phon. consider! their all was on the other side of that ravine; all their invested wealth and all their hopes as well; all the reward for weeks of weary travel, as well as rest, and shelter, and food. they had much to gain in crossing that ravine, and the slowly sinking sun warned them that they had no time to look for a better way round. they must take that short cut or none. and yet when ned got closer to the rough bridge he liked it less than ever. where the trees should have met and joined together a terrible thing had happened. ned could see it now quite plainly from where he stood. a wind, he supposed, must have come howling up the gulch in one of the dark days of winter, a wind so strong that when the narrow gully had pent it in, it had gone rushing along, smashing everything that it met in its furious course, and amongst other things it had struck just the top of the arch of the bridge. the result was that just at the highest point there was a gap, not a big gap, indeed it was so small that some of the ropes still held and stretched from tree to tree, but still a gap, six feet wide with no bridge across it, and black, unfathomable darkness down below. ned corbett was one of those men who only see the actual danger which has to be faced, the thing which has to be done--that which is, and not that which may be. for instance, ned saw that he had to jump from one stout bough to another, that he would have to cling to something with his hands on the other side, and that it would not do to make a false step, or to clutch at a rotten bough. that was all he saw. so he leapt with confidence (he had taken twenty worse leaps in an afternoon in the gymnasium at home for the fun of the thing), and of course he alighted in safety, clambered down the other pine-tree trunk, and landed safe and sound on the farther shore. he had never stayed to think of the awful things which would have happened if he had slipped; of that poor body of his which might have gone whirling round and round through the darkness, until it plunged into the waters out of sight of the sun and his fellow-men. but all men are not made after this fashion. when ned turned towards the bridge he had just passed his face turned white, and his hands, which had until then been so firm trembled. what he saw was this. phon had been driven ahead of steve, as corbett and steve had arranged. as long as the big broad trunk of the pine was beneath him, with plenty of strong boughs all round him to cling to, phon had listened to steve and obeyed him. now it was different. phon had come to the end of the pine, to the place from which corbett had leaped, and nothing which steve could say would move him another inch. chinamen are not trained in athletics as white men are, and to phon that six-foot jump appeared to be a simply impossible feat. steve might threaten what he liked, but jump phon would not. the mere sight of the horrible darkness below made his head reel, and his fingers cling to the rough pine like the fingers of a drowning man to a plank. and now ned noticed a worse thing even than this phon had been driven to the very end of the tree by steve, and steve himself was close behind him. the result was that the weight of two men had to be borne at once by the thin end of what, after all, was but a small pine, and one extended almost like a fishing-rod across the ravine. so the tree began to bow with the weight, and then to lift itself again until it was swinging and tossing, swaying more and more after every recoil, so that at each swing ned expected to see one or both of his friends tossed off into the gulf below. there must come an end to such a scene as this sooner or later, and ned could see but one chance of saving his friend. "chance," he shouted, "hold tight! i am going to shoot that cursed chinaman!" the miserable wretch heard and understood the words, and saw the winchester, the same which had sent the runaway cayuse spinning down the stone-slide, come slowly up to corbett's shoulder. "jump or i'll shoot! it's your last chance!" and phon heard the clank of the pump as his master forced up a cartridge into the barrel of his rifle. it was now death anyway. phon realized that, and even at that moment his memory showed him plainly a picture of that pinto mare, whose bruised and battered body, with a great ghastly hole between the eyes, he had seen by the edge of seton lake. that last thought decided him, and with a scream of fear he sprang out, and managed to cling, more by sheer luck than in any other way, to the pine on the williams creek side of the ravine. when ned grounded arms and reached out to help phon across the last few feet of the bridge he was wet through with perspiration, and yet he was as cool as a new-made grave. "ned," said steve five minutes later, "i would give all the gold in cariboo if i had it, rather than cross that place again!"--and he meant it. for a few minutes steve's gold fever had abated, and in the terror of death even the chinaman had forgotten the yellow metal. and yet their journey was now over, and within half an hour's walk of them lay the claims they had bought, the wonderful spot of earth out of which they were to dig their heart's desire, the key to all pleasures and the master of nine men out of every ten--gold! ned laughed to himself. was a steady head and the agility of a very second-rate gymnast worth more than all the gold in cariboo? [illustration: "with a scream of fear the chinaman sprang out."] chapter xii. a sheer swindle. it is hard to sever the idea of a journey's end from ideas of rest and comfort. a is the starting-point, b the goal, and no matter how distant, no matter how wild the region in which b lies, the mind of the traveller from a to b is sure to picture b as a centre of creature comforts and a haven of luxurious rest. thus it was then that steve and corbett hurried through the lengthening shadows, eager for the city that was to come, their eyes strained to catch a glow of colour, and their ears alert for the first hum which should tell of the presence of their fellow-men. after the gloom of the northern forests, the silence of the pack-trail, and the monotony of forced marches, they were ready to welcome any light however garish, any revelry however mad it might be. life and light and noise were what both hankered after as a relief from the silence and solitude of the last few days, and it is this natural craving for change in the minds of men who have been too much alone, which accounts for half the wild revels of the frontier towns. as a matter of history, the first impression made by williams creek upon the sensitive mind of the artist chance was one of disappointment. perhaps it was that the heavy shadows of the mountains drowned all colour, or that the day was nearly over and the dance-house not yet open; whatever the cause williams creek struck chance with a chill. it was a miserable, mean-looking little place for so much gold to come from. in his visions of the mines steve had dwelt too much upon the glitter of the metal, and too little on the dirt and bare rock from which the gold has to be extracted; extracted, too, by hard labour, about the hardest labour probably which the bodies of men were ever made to undergo. as his eyes gradually took in the details of the scene, steve chance remembered cruickshank's glowing word-pictures of the mines, and his own gaudy map of them, and remembering these things a great fear fell upon him. steve had accomplished a pilgrimage over a road upon which stronger men had died, and brave men turned back, and now the shrine of his golden god lay at his feet, and this is what it looked like. in the shadow of a spur of wooded mountains, lay a narrow strip of land which might by comparison be called flat. it was lower than the bald mountains which were at its back, so the melted snows of last winter had trickled into it, until the whole place was a damp, miserable bog, through the centre of which the waters had worn themselves a bed, and made a creek. there were many such bogs and many such creeks about the foothills of the bald mountains, but these were for the most part hidden by an abundant growth of pine, or adorned by a wealth of long grass and the glory of yellow lily and blue larkspur. but this bog was less fortunate than its fellows. gold had been found in the creek which ran through it, so that instead of the spring flowers and the pines, there were bare patches of yellow mud, stumps rough and untrained where trees had stood, tunnels in the hillside, great wooden gutters mounted high in the air to carry off the stream from its bed and pour it into all manner of unexpected places, piles of boulders and rubbish, so new and unadorned by weed or flower that you knew instinctively that nature had had no hand in their arrangement. and everywhere amongst this brutal digging and hewing there were new log huts, frame shanties, wet untidy tents, and shelters made of odds and ends, shelters so mean that an african bushman would have turned up his nose at them. instead of the telegraph and telephone wires that run overhead in ordinary cities, there were in the mining camp innumerable flumes, long wooden boxes or gutters, to carry water from point to point. these gutters were everywhere. they ran over the tops of the houses, they came winding down for miles along precipitous side-hills, and they ran recklessly across the main street; for traffic there was none in those days, or at any rate none which could not step over, or would not pass round the miners' ditch. in rights of way were disregarded up in cariboo, but an inch of water if it could be used for gold-washing was a matter of much moment. "i say, ned, this looks more like a chinese camp than a white man's, doesn't it?" remarked steve with a shudder. "what did you expect, steve,--a second san francisco?" "not that; but this place looks so dead and seems so still." "silence, they say, is the criterion of pace," quoted ned; "but i can hear the noise of the rockers and the rattle of the gravel in the sluices. it looks to me as if men were at work here in grim earnest.--good-day. how goes it, sir?" the last part of corbett's speech was addressed to a man of whom he just caught sight at that moment, standing in a deep cutting by the side of the trail, and busily employed in shovelling gravel into a sluice-box at his side. "day," grunted the miner, not pausing to lift his head to look at the man who addressed him until he had finished his task. "are things booming here still?" asked chance. "booming, you bet! why, have you just come up from the river?" and the man straightened his back with an effort and jerked his head in the general direction of the frazer. "that's what," replied steve, dropping naturally into the brief idioms of the place. "seen anything of the bacon train?" asked the miner after a pause, during which he had again ministered to the wants of his sluice-box. "the bacon train! what's that?" "brown's bacon train from oregon. guess you haven't, or you'd know about it. bacon is played out in williams creek, and we are all going it straight on flour." the thought of "going it straight on flour" was evidently too much for steve's new friend, for he actually groaned aloud, and dug his shovel into the wall of his trench with as much energy as if he had been driving it into the ribs of the truant bacon brown. "that will suit us royally," ejaculated ned. "we shall have a small train here in a day or two, and there's a good deal of bacon amongst our stores." "you've got a train acomin'! by thunder! i thought i knowed your voices. ain't you them two britishers as were along of cruickshank?" "strike me pink if it isn't rampike!" cried steve, and the next minute the old gentleman who had helped steve in his little game of poker climbed out of the mud-pie he was making, and shook hands, even with the chinaman. "but where's roberts, and where's cruickshank?" he asked. corbett told him. "wal, as you've left roberts with him i suppose it's all right. did you meet any boys going back from these parts?" "only two, going back for grub," replied ned. "i guess they told you how short we were up here, and they are worse off at antler." "no, they said very little to us. they had a bit of a yarn with cruickshank though. he was leading out and met them first. he didn't say anything about the want of grub to us." "that's a queer go. why, it would almost have paid you to go to antler instead of coming here. you would get two dollars a pound for bacon up there." "ah! but you see we were bound to be here for the st of june, because of those claims we bought." "is that so? bob did say summat about those claims. do you know where they are?" "here's our map," replied corbett, producing the authorized map of dewd and cruickshank, upon which the three claims had been duly marked. "is dewd in the camp?" he added. "i don't know; but come along, there goes cameron's triangle. let us go and get some 'hash,' and we can find out about dewd and the claims." and so saying rampike laid aside his shovel, put on his coat, and led the way down to a big tent in the middle of the mining camp. here were gathered almost half the population of williams creek for their evening meal, the other half having finished theirs and departed to work upon the night-shift; for most of the claims were worked night and day, their owners and the hired men dividing the twenty-four hours amongst them. here, as on board the steamer, rampike was evidently a man of some account; one able to secure a place for himself and his chums in spite of the rush made upon the food by the hungry mob in its shirt sleeves. at first all three men were too busy with their knives and forks to notice anyone or hear what men were saying about themselves, but in a little while, when the edge of appetite was dulled, ned caught the words repeated over and over again--"bacon brown's men, i guess," and at last had to answer point blank to a direct question, that he had "never heard of mr. brown before." "these fellows hain't seen brown at all," added rampike. "they're looking for dewd. have you seen him anywhere around?" at the mention of dewd's name a broad grin passed over the faces of those who heard it, and one man looked up and remarked that a good many people had been inquiring kindly after dewd lately. the speaker was a common type amongst the miners, but in those early days his rough clothes and refined speech struck ned as contrasting strangely. truth to tell, he had been educated at eton and oxford, had thrown up a good tutorship to come out here, and here he was happy as a king, though all his classical education was thrown away, and his blue pantaloons were patched fore and aft with bits of sacking once used to contain those favourite brands of flour known respectively as "self-rising" and the "golden gate." as he rose to his feet with the names of the brands printed in large letters on either side of him, he looked something between a navvy and a "sandwich man." "dewd," he went on, "has been playing poker lately a little too well to please the boys. say, o'halloran, do you know where dewd is?" "faith and i don't. if i did, sandy m'donald would give me half his claim for the information. hullo, have you got here already, sonny? i was before ye though." and ned's red-headed friend of fighting proclivities held out his hand to him over the heads of his neighbours. "what does sandy want him for?" asked someone in the crowd. "you'd betther ax sandy. all i know is that he went gunning for him early this morning, and if he wasn't so drunk that he can't walk he'd be afther him still." "who's drunk, pat,--dewd or sandy?" "oh, don't be foolish! whoever heard of dewd touching a drop of good liquor. that's the worst of that mane shunk; he gets you blind drunk first and robs you afther." "what, have you been bitten too, o'halloran?" asked the tutor; and while the laugh was still going at the wry face poor corny o'halloran pulled, rampike and his three friends slipped quietly out of the room. "i guess we may as well locate those claims of yourn right away," remarked rampike as soon as they were clear of cameron's tent, "so as there'll be no trouble about securing them to-morrow. not as i think any one is likely to jump 'em. let me see your map." ned handed over the map before alluded to. "why, look ye here, these claims are right alongside the nugget, the richest claim on the creek!" cried their friend, after studying the map for a few minutes. "quite so, that is what gives them their exceptional value," remarked chance, quoting from memory cruickshank's very words. "oh, that's what gives them their 'ceptional vally, is it, young man?" sneered rampike. "wal, i guess they ought to have a 'ceptional vally' to make it worth while working them there;" and rampike, who was now standing by the nugget claim alongside the bed of the creek, pointed upwards to where the bluffs, two hundred feet high, hung precipitously over their heads. it was no good arguing, no good swearing that the map must be wrong, that cruickshank had marked the wrong lots, that there was a mistake somewhere. "just one of the colonel's mistakes, that's what it is. come and see the gold commissioner, he'll straighten it out for you," retorted rampike, hurrying the three off into the presence of a big handsome man, whose genial ways and handsome face made "the judge" a great favourite with the miners. all he could do he did, and was ready to go far beyond the obligations of his office in his desire to help cruickshank's victims. it was a very common kind of fraud after all. the colonel had drawn a sufficiently accurate map of the williams creek valley; he had even given accurately every name upon that map, and moreover the claims which he had sold to corbett & co. adjoined the nugget claim, and had been regularly taken up and bonded by his partner and himself. cruickshank's story indeed was true in every particular. gold was being taken out of the nugget mine at the rate of several lbs. per diem; why should it not be taken out of the claims which it adjoined? there was only one objection to cruickshank's map,--he had not drawn it in relief. there was only one objection to corbett's claim--the surface of it would have adjoined the surface of the nugget claim had they both been upon the same level, only,--only, you see, they were not. there was a trifling difference of two hundred and fifty feet in the altitude of the nugget claim and the bluff adjoining it, and corbett's claim was on the top of that bluff. now a claim on the top of a bluff, where no river could ever have run to deposit gold, and whither no water could be brought to wash for gold, was not considered worth two thousand dollars even in cariboo. chapter xiii. the bullet's message. "wal, those'll maybe make vallible building lots when williams creek has growed as big as 'frisco, but somehow trade in building lots ain't brisk here just now." no one answered old rampike. steve and ned felt rather hurt at the levity of his remarks. it is poor fun even for a rich man to be robbed of six thousand dollars, and neither ned nor steve were rich men. in fact, in losing the six thousand dollars they had lost their all except the pack-train. "it ain't no manner of good to grizzle over it," continued this philosopher, "cruickshank has got the cinch on you to rights this time. six thousand dollars cash, the pleasure of your company from victoria, and your pack-train to remember you by! ho! ho!" and although it was very annoying to ned, and quite contrary to rampike's nature to do so, he laughed aloud at his own grim joke. the laugh roused chance. he was a yankee to the tips of his finger-nails, one of those strange beings who "bust and boom" by turns--millionaires to-day, bankrupts to-morrow, equally sanguine, happy, and go-ahead in either extreme. "ned," he said, his face relaxing into a somewhat wintry smile, "i guess you were right after all. cruickshank is no britisher, you bet." "glad you think so; hang him!" growled ned. "no britisher could ever have planned so neat a swindle," continued steve meditatively. "by jove, it is a 'way up'!" and this strange young man really seemed lost in admiration at the smartness from which he himself had suffered. "i don't see much to admire in a thief and a liar. we prefer honesty to smartness in my country, thank god!" there was no disguising the fact that ned corbett was in a very ugly temper. not being one of those who look upon the whole struggle for wealth as a game of chance and skill, in which everything is allowable except a plain transgression of the written rules of the game, he could not even simulate any admiration for a successful swindler's smartness. old rampike saw his mood, and laying his hand on his shoulder gave him a friendly shake. "never mind, sonny," he said. "it's no good calling names; and as for being stone-broke, why there isn't a man in cariboo to-day, i reckon, who hasn't been stone-broke, aye and most of 'em mor'n once or twice." "oh, yes, i suppose that is so," said ned a little wearily, but rousing himself all the same. "what can a man earn here as a digger in another fellow's claim?" "anything he likes to ask almost. men who are worth anything at all as workers are scarce around these parts." "then we sha'n't starve, that is some consolation. by the way, i have a note here for you. this confounded business nearly made me forget it;" and so saying corbett produced from an inner pocket the little note given him by roberts at the balm-of-gilead camp. for a few moments rampike twisted and turned the note about, trying to decipher the faint pencil-marks in the dim light. at last he got the note right side up and began to read. evidently he hardly understood what he read at first, for those who were watching him saw that he read the note through a second time, as if looking for some hidden meaning in every word. when he had done this a vindictive bitter oath burst from between his set teeth. "if cruickshank ain't dead by now, my old pal roberts is. you may bet on that. look ye here!" and the speaker handed ned a flattened, blood-stained bullet which he had taken from roberts' letter. "do you know what that is?" he asked. "it looks like a revolver bullet," answered ned. "and so it is. that's the identical bullet as dan cruickshank fired at a grouse and _hit a cayuse_ with. pretty shooting, wasn't it?" and rampike ground his teeth with anger. "what the deuce do you mean?" cried steve in blank astonishment. "mean--mean! why, that if you warn't such a durned tenderfoot you'd have tumbled to the whole thing long ago! men like cruickshank don't leave horses unhobbled by mistake, don't hit and scare pack-horses on a stone-slide by mistake, don't get to williams creek a day late by mistake. oh, curse his mistakes! if he makes one more there'll be the best pal and the sweetest singer in cariboo lying dead up among them pines." "do you mean that cruickshank did these things on purpose?" asked corbett slowly, his face growing strangely hard as he spoke. "read rob's letter," said rampike, and gave ned the scrap of paper on which rob had found time to write a brief record of the journey from douglas, ending his story in these words--"cruickshank means corbett mischief, so i am staying instead of the lad. what his game is with the pack-ponies i am blowed if i know, but if i don't come in with them inside of a week, do some of you fellows try and get even with the colonel for the sake of your old pal roberts." for several minutes after reading this note no one spoke; each man was thinking out the situation after his own fashion. "will you trust me with grub for a fortnight, rampike?" asked ned at last. "yes, lad, if you like; but you won't want to borrow. men like you can earn all they want here;" and the miner looked appreciatively at the big-limbed man before him. "i'll earn it by and by, rampike. i'm going after roberts first," replied ned quietly. "how's that?" demanded rampike. "i'm going after roberts and cruickshank. can i have the grub?" "if that's your style, you can have all the grub you want if i have to go hungry for a week. when will you start?" "it will be dark in two hours," replied ned, "and the moon comes up about midnight. i shall start as soon as the moon is up." "impossible, man!" cried chance. "i could not drag myself to the top of that first bluff unless i had had twenty-four hours' solid sleep, if my life depended upon it." "i know, old fellow, and i don't want you to; but you see a life may depend upon it." "but you aren't going alone, corbett. i'll not hear of that." "we will talk about that by and by, steve. let us go and turn in for a little while now. i am dead tired myself." and so saying corbett turned on his heel and followed rampike to his hut, where the old man found room for all three of them upon the floor. "if steve and i go to look for roberts can you find a job for our chinaman until we come back? i should not like the poor beggar to starve," said ned, pointing to where phon lay already fast asleep. the moment he laid down his head phon had gone to sleep, and since then not a muscle had twitched to show that he was alive. whatever his master might choose to arrange for his benefit the chinaman was not likely to overhear or object to. "oh yes, i can fix that easy enough. i'll set him to wash in my own claim. i can afford to pay him good wages as well as feed him. men are scarce at williams creek." again for a time there was silence in the hut, corbett and rampike puffing away at their pipes, and steve chance trying hard to keep his eyes open as if he suspected mischief. at last nature got the better of him; the young yankee's head dropped on his arm, and in another moment he was as sound asleep as phon. then ned stood up and went over to sit beside the old miner rampike, remarking as he did so: "thank heaven steve is off at last. i thought the fellow never meant to go to sleep." "what! do you mean to leave him behind?" asked rampike. "does he look as if he could do another week's tramping?" retorted ned, glancing at the limp, worn-out figure of his friend. "he has pluck enough to try, but he would only hinder me." "if that's so, i'll chuck my claim and come along too." "nonsense, you can't afford to lose your claim; and, besides, you couldn't help me." "couldn't help you! how's that?" snorted rampike indignantly. "a man can always hunt better alone than with another fellow. one makes less noise than two in the woods." "but you ain't going hunting?" "yes i am,--hunting big game too." and there was a light in ned corbett's eye, as he overhauled his winchester, that looked bad for an enemy. "you ain't afraid of--losing your way?" asked rampike. he was going to say "you ain't afraid of cruickshank, are you?" but a look on corbett's face stopped that question. "no, i'm used to the woods," ned answered shortly; and then again for a while the two men smoked on in silence. presently corbett knocked the ashes out of his pipe, and put it away carefully in his pocket. "do you work in the night-shift on your place?" he asked rampike. "either me or my partner is there all the while." "shall you be there to-night?" "i'll be going on at midnight, but i'll fix up a pack with some grub in it for you before i go." "thank you, i'll leave that to you, if i may. will you call me before you go? i mean to try to get all the sleep i can before the moon is up." "well, lie down right now. i'll call you, you bet. you're a good sort for a britisher--give us a shake;" and rampike held out a hand as hard and as honest as the pick-handle to which it clung day after day. perhaps it was the thought of his old friend's danger which made rampike blind and careless, or perhaps it was only his natural clumsiness. in any case he steered very badly for his own door, so badly indeed that he tripped over chance's prostrate form, dealing him a kick that might have roused a dead man. but steve only turned over restlessly in his sleep, like one who dreams, and then lay as still again as ever. ned smiled. "no danger of waking him, i think, when i want to go. poor old steve! the loss of the money does not seem to spoil your sleep much." five minutes later, when rampike had gone out to get together the provisions which his guest needed, anyone listening to that guest's regular breathing would have been of opinion that the loss of the dollars troubled ned corbett as little as it troubled steve chance. chapter xiv. what the wolf found. about midnight rampike returned to his hut, and as the moonlight streamed through the doorway across the floor, corbett rose without a word and joined the old miner outside. "you didn't need much waking, lad." "no; and yet i slept like a top. but i _felt_ you were coming, and now every nerve in my body is wide awake." rampike looked at his companion curiously. "you're a strong man, ned corbett, but take care. i've known stronger men than you get the 'jim-jams' from overwork." ned laughed. he hardly thought that a man who had not tasted liquor for a month was likely to suffer much from the "jim-jams." "that's all right," said rampike testily. "you may laugh, but i've seen more of this kind of life than you'll ever see, and i tell you, you'd better stay where you are." "what! and let cruickshank go?" "what are you going to do with cruickshank when you catch him?" "bring him back to look at the _mistake_ he made about my claims," answered corbett grimly. "and suppose cruickshank don't feel like coming back? it's more than likely that he won't." "then it will be a painful necessity for roberts and myself to pack him back." "if you get him back the law can't touch him, and the boys won't lynch him just for swindling a tenderfoot." "the law can't touch him?" "why, certainly not. if you were such a blessed fool as to buy claims without a frontage on the crik, that's your business. he didn't say as they weren't on the top of a mountain." "but no mountain was shown on his map," argued corbett. "i guess he'd say as he couldn't draw maps well and the one steve chance copied was the best he knew how to make. he sold you what he said he'd sell you, and if you didn't ask any questions that's your fault." this was a new view of the case to corbett, and for a moment he felt staggered by it, but only for a moment. after all, it was not for the sake of the claims that he had made up his mind to pursue cruickshank. "thanks, rampike, for trying to make me stay here. i know what you mean, but i am not as nearly 'beat' as you think i am, and i wouldn't leave old roberts alone with that scoundrel even if i was. have you got the grub there?" "well, if that's your reason for going i've no more to say, except as i reckon roberts is pretty good at taking care of himself. however, a pal's a pal, and if you mean to stay by him, i'll not hinder you. here's the grub;" and so saying he helped ned to fix a little bundle upon his shoulders, taking care that whatever weight there was should lie easily in the small of his back. "it's only dried venison," continued rampike, "and i didn't put any bread in. bread weighs too much and takes up too much room. you can go it on meat straight for a week, can't you?" "i'll try to. give chance a helping hand if you can. he is a regular rustler if you can get him any work to do." "don't worry yourself about your pals. you are going to look for dick rampike's old partner, and you may bet your sweet life that he won't let _your_ pals starve." the two men, who had been walking slowly through the mining camp, had now reached the foot of the trail by which ned had arrived at williams creek. "well, good-bye, rampike," said ned, stopping and holding out his hand. "it's no good your coming any farther. don't let steve follow me." "good-bye, lad; i'll see that steve chance don't follow you. he ain't built to go your pace," he added, looking after ned, "if he wanted to, but there'll be me and some of the boys after you afore long, if there's going to be any trouble;" and with this consoling reflection in his mind, the old hard-fist returned to his cabin, pulled off his long gum boots, and lay down on the floor beside the still sleeping chance and phon. mr. rampike had not as yet had time to furnish his country residence, and after all, in his eyes a bed was rather a useless luxury. 'what's the matter with a good deal floor?' he often used to ask; and as he never got a satisfactory answer, he never bothered to build himself a bunk. meanwhile ned corbett was standing for a moment on the top of a bluff above williams creek, whence he could still see the lights of the camp, and still hear faint strains of music from the dance-house and the monotonous "clink, clink" of the miner's pick. the next moment he turned his back upon it all; a rising bank shut out the last glimpse of the fires and the last faint hum of human life. the forest swallowed them up, and ned was alone with the silence. never in all his life had he been in so strange a mood as he was that night. it seemed to him that every nerve and muscle in his body, every faculty of his brain, had been tuned to concert pitch. all his old calmness had deserted him, and in place of it a very fire of impatience devoured him. wherever the trail allowed of it he broke into a long swinging run, and yet, though the miles flew past him, he was not satisfied. on! on! a voice seemed to cry to him, and in spite of his speed the voice still urged him to further efforts. that was the worst of it. instead of the silence the forest seemed full of voices,--not voices which spoke to his ear, but voices which cried to the soul that was within him. the shadows were full of these inarticulate cries, the night air throbbed with them, all nature was full of them, and of a secret which he alone seemed unable to grasp. but it was no good standing still to listen, so he pressed on until he came to the bridge of pines where the day before phon had clung, swinging between this world and the next. here corbett hesitated for the first time, standing at the top of that arch of pines, looking across the black gulf in which the unseen waters moaned horribly. if his foot slipped or his hands failed him for the tenth part of a second, he would drop from the moonlight into eternal darkness, leaving no trace behind by which men could tell that ned corbett had ever existed. for a moment a cold horror seized him, he clung wildly to the boughs round him and looked backwards instead of forwards. but this fit only lasted for a moment, and then the bold english blood came back to his heart with a rush. "good heavens!" he muttered, "am i turning chinaman?" and as he muttered it he launched himself boldly across the gap, caught at the rope to steady himself, and having crossed the bridge set his face firmly once more for the bald mountains above him. all through the night corbett maintained that long swinging stride, climbing steadily up the steep hills and passing swiftly down the forest glades, tireless as a wolf and silent as a shadow. when the dawn came he paused in his race, and sat down for a quarter of an hour to eat a frugal meal of dried meat. had he been living the normal life of a civilized man in one of the cities of europe, he would have needed much less food and eaten much more. all civilized human beings overeat themselves. perhaps if the food at the bristol or the windsor was served as dry and as little seasoned as rampike's venison, less would be eaten and more digested. breakfast over, ned resumed his course. even during his hurried meal he had been restless and anxious to get on. fatigue seemed not to touch him, or a power over which mere human weariness could not prevail, possessed him. as the air freshened and the stars paled, the tits and "whisky-jacks" began their morning complaints, their peevish voices convincing ned that they had been up too long the night before. a little later the squirrels began to chatter and swear angrily at him as he passed, and a gray old _coyoté_ slinking home to bed stood like a shadow watching him as he went, wondering, no doubt, who this early-rising hunter might be, with the swift silent feet, white set face, and stern blue eyes which looked so keen and yet saw nothing. then the sun rose, and at last, taking a hint from the tall red-deer, ned threw himself down on the soft mosses, trusting in the sun to warm him in his slumbers, as it does all the rest of that great world which gets on very well without blankets. until the shadow had crept to the other side of the tree under which he lay, ned corbett slept without moving; then he rose again, ate a few mouthfuls of dried meat, took a modest draught of the white water which foamed and bubbled through the moss of the hillside, and again went on. one day went and another came, and still corbett held on his course, and on the third day he had his reward. at last on the trail in front of him he saw the tracks of horses, nine in number, all of them shod before and behind as his own had been, and the tracks of _one_ man driving them. that was singular. there were two men left with ned corbett's pack-train. where had the other gone to? backwards and forwards he went, bending low over the trail and scrutinizing every inch of it, but he could see no sign of that other man. perhaps he had tired and had found room upon one of the least laden of the pack animals. it would be hard upon the beast and most uncomfortable for the rider, but it was possible. or perhaps the tracks of the man who "led out" had been quite obliterated by the feet of the beasts which followed him. that too was possible, and ned remembered how he had noticed upon the trail that a horse's stride and a man's were almost exactly the same length, so that it might be that for a few hundred yards at any rate one of the animals had gone step for step over cruikshanks or old rob's tracks. but this could not have lasted for long; either the man or the beast would have strayed a yard or two from the track once in the course of a mile; but corbett had examined the tracks for more than a mile, and still the story of them was the same: "nine pack-horses driven by one man over the trail nearly a week ago;" that was the way the tracks read, and ned could make nothing else out of them. there was one thing, however, worth mentioning. corbett had hit upon the tracks on the path by which he himself had come from the balm-of-gilead camp to williams creek, at a point as nearly as he could judge five miles on the williams creek side of that camp. so far then the pack-train had followed him, but at this point it had turned away almost at right angles to follow a well-beaten trail which corbett and steve had overlooked when they passed it a week earlier. "that, i suppose, is where we went wrong, and this must be the proper pack-trail to williams creek," soliloquized ned, and then for a moment he stood, doubting which way he should turn. should he follow his pack-train, or should he go back until the tracks told him something of that other man, whose feet had left no record on the road? the same instinct which had urged him on for the last three days, took hold upon him again and turned him almost against his will towards the old balm-of-gilead camp. it was nearly dark when he reached it, and he would perhaps have passed it by, but that he stumbled over the half-burnt log which had been used as the side log for his own fire. since ned had camped there a little snow had fallen, a trifling local storm such as will take place in the mountains even in may, and this had sufficed to hide almost all trace of the camp in that rapidly waning light. as well as he could, corbett examined the camp, going carefully over every inch of it; but the only thing he could find was a cartridge belt, hung up on the branch of a pine,--a cartridge belt half full of ammunition for a revolver. this he at once recognized as belonging to roberts. "by jove, that's careless," he muttered, "and unlike the old man. i should have thought at any rate that he would have found out his loss before he got very far away, and have come back for the belt." in another quarter of an hour it was too dark to see his hand before his face, so making the best of a bad business ned sat down at the foot of a big pine, and leaning his back against it tried to doze away the time until the moon should rise and enable him to proceed on his way. but though corbett's muscles throbbed and his limbs trembled from over-exertion, no sleep would come to him. in spite of himself his brain kept on working, not in its ordinary methodical fashion, but as if it were red-hot with fever. indeed poor ned began to think that he was going mad. if he were not, what was this new fancy which possessed him? for some reason beyond his own comprehension his brain would now do nothing but repeat over and over again the refrain of roberts' favourite song. the tune of "the old pack-mule" had taken possession of him and would give him no peace. without his will his fingers moved to the time of it; if he tried to think of something else his thoughts put themselves in words, and the words fell into the metre of it, and at last he became convinced that he could actually with his own bodily ears hear the refrain of it, sad and distant as he had last heard it before leaving that camp. there it came again, wailing up out of the darkness, the very ghost of a song, and yet as distinct as if the singer's mouth had been at his ear-- "riding, riding, riding on my old pack-mule." when things had gone as far as this, ned sprang to his feet with a start. there was no doubt about _that_ weird note anyway; and though it was but the howl of a wolf which roused him from his doze, ned shuddered as the long-drawn yell died away in the darkness, which was now slowly giving way to the light of the rising moon. brave man though he was, ned corbett felt a chill perspiration break out all over him, and his heart began to beat in choking throbs. the wolf's weird music had a meaning for him which he had never noticed in it before. he knew now why it was so sad. had it not in it all the misery of homeless wandering, all the hopelessness of the ishmael, whose hand is against every man as every man's hand is against him, all the bitterness of cold and hunger and darkness? was his own lot to be like the wolf's? "great scott, this won't do!" cried the lad, and snatching up his pack he blundered away upon the trail, prepared to face anything rather than his own fancies. as he moved away down the trail corbett thought that he caught a glimpse of the beast, whose hideous voice had dispelled his dreams and jarred so roughly upon his nerves. fear makes most men vicious, and corbett was very human in all his moods, so that his first impulse on seeing the beast which had frightened him was to give it the contents of his revolver. stooping down to see more clearly, he managed to get a faint and spectral outline of his serenader against the pale moonlight, and into the middle of this he fired. a wolf's body is not at any time too large a mark for a bullet, even if it be a rifle bullet; but a wolf's body is a very small mark indeed for a revolver bullet at night, and so ned found it, and missed. to his intense surprise, however, the gray shadow was in no hurry to be gone. though the report of the revolver seemed curiously loud in the absolute silence of a northern night, the wolf only cantered a few yards and then stood still again, and again sent his hideous cry wailing through the forest aisles. "curse you, you won't go, won't you?" hissed ned, his nerve completely gone, and his heart full of unreasonable anger; and again he fired at the brute, and this time rushed in after his shot, determined if he could not kill him with a bullet to settle matters with the butt. but the wolf vanished in the uncertain light as if he had really been a shadow, and his howl but the offspring of corbett's fancy. for a few yards ned followed in the direction in which the beast seemed to have gone, until his eyes fell upon a swelling in the snow, near to which the wolf had been when the first shot was fired. what is that other sense which we all of us possess and for which there is no name,--that sense which is neither sight nor hearing, nor any of the other three common to our daily lives? before ned corbett's eyes there lay a low swelling mound of snow, smooth white snow, still and cold in the pale moonlight. there were ten thousand other mounds just like it in the forest round him, and yet before _this_ mound corbett stood rooted to the ground, whilst his eyes dilated and he felt his hair rising with horror, and in the utter stillness heard his own heart thundering against his side. until that moment ned corbett had never looked upon the dead. he had heard and read of death, and knew that in his turn he too must die; but as it chanced, he had never yet seen that dumb blind thing which live men bury, saying this _was_ a man. and yet it needed not the disappointed yell of that foul scavenger to tell him what lay beneath the snow. slowly he compelled himself to draw near, and stooping he completed with reverent hands what the claws of the hungry beast had already begun, and then the moon and the man, with wan white faces, looked down together upon all that remained of cheery old rob. corbett knew at last why there had been no peace for him in the forests that night. there was no mystery about his old comrade's death. the whole foul story of murder was written so large that the woods knew it, and were full of it. this was the story which the shuddering pines had whispered all along the trail, and at last corbett had grasped their secret and knew what the voices kept saying. just where the curly hair came down upon his friend's sturdy neck, was a small dark hole; a trifling wound it looked to have killed so strong a man, and yet when the bullet struck him there, roberts had fallen without knowing who had struck him. then for one moment, perhaps, the man who did this thing had stood glaring at what he had done, more afraid of the dead man at his feet than his victim had ever been of any man. the position of the body told the rest of the story. though he could kill him, cruickshank dared not leave those death-sharpened features staring up to heaven appealing for vengeance against the murderer, so he had seized the corpse by its wrists and dragged it away from the camp-fire, away to where the dark balsams threw their heaviest shadows, and there left it, its arms stretched out stiff and rigid for the snows to cover and hide until it should melt away into the earth whence it came. and what was corbett to do? men do not weep for men--their grief lies too deep for that--and, moreover, there is nothing practical in tears. and yet what was corbett to do? he might hide the dead again for awhile, but in the end he would be meat for the wolf and the raven. "oh god!" he cried in the bitterness of his spirit, "is this nothing unto thee? dost thou see what man has done?" and even then, while the infinitely small pleaded from the depth of the forest to the infinitely mighty, a little wind came and shook the tops of the pines, and the dawn came. thereafter, as far as corbett knew, time ceased. only the pines went by and the trail slipped past under his feet, until, in spite of all his efforts, and although the trees seemed still to go past him, he himself stood still. then there came a humming in the air and the thunder of a great river in his ears, and the earth began to rise and fall, and suddenly it was night! * * * * * * * * it was on a monday morning that ned corbett started from williams creek to search for cruickshank, and on saturday old bacon brown from oregon brought his train into antler, and with it a tall, fair-haired man, whom he had found upon the trail some fifteen miles back he said--a man whom he guessed had had the "jim-jams" pretty bad, "and come mighty nigh to sending in his chips, you bet." chapter xv. in the dance-house. "chassey to the right, chassey to the left, swing your partners round, and all promenade!" sang old dad, fiddler and master of ceremonies at antler, british columbia. it was early in june. the moon was riding high above the pine-trees, and the men of the night-shifts were dropping in one by one for a dance with lilla and katchen before going to supper. claw-hammer coats and boiled shirts were not insisted upon in the antler dance-house, so most of the men swaggered in in their gray suits and long gum boots, all splashed with blue mud, and took their waltz just as we should take our sherry and bitters, as a pleasant interlude between business and dinner. some fellows found time to eat and sleep, and a few were said to wash, but no one could afford to waste time in changing his clothes at the cariboo gold-mines in ' . when your overalls wore out you just handed your dust over the store-keeper's counter and got into a new pair right there, and some fellows took off their gum boots when they lay down for a sleep. wasn't that change enough? at any rate the hurdy girls were content with their partners, and their partners were all in love with the "hurdies." now, it may be that some unfortunate person who knows nothing of anything west of chicago may read this book, and may want to know what a "hurdy" is or was, for, alas! the "hurdies," like the dodo, are extinct. be it known then to all who do not know it already, that the hurdy-gurdy girls (to give them their full title) were douce, honest lassies from germany, who, being fond of dancing and fond of dollars, combined business with pleasure, and sold their dances to the diggers at so many pinches of dust per dance. it was an honest and innocent way of earning money, and if any sceptic wants to sneer at the gentle hurdies, there need be no difficulty in finding an "old-timer" to argue with him; only the arguments used in cariboo are forcible certainly, and might even seem somewhat "rocky" to a mild-mannered man. well, now you know what a "hurdy" was, and when i tell you that a troop of hurdies had just come up from kamloops, you will understand that antler was very much _en fête_ on this particular june night. indeed, the long wooden shanty known as the dance house was full to overflowing, full of miners having what they considered a good time--dancing in gum boots, drinking bad whisky, singing songs, and swearing wonderfully original "swears." but there was no popping of pistols, no flashing of bowie-knives at antler. that might do very well in californian mining camps, but in british columbia, in early days, even the strong men had been taught by a stronger to respect the law. so old dad took command in the noisy room, and was under no apprehension for his personal safety. he might be dead drunk before morning or "dead-broke" before the end of the season, but there was very little chance that a stray bullet would end his career before that terrible time came round when the camp would be deserted, and he would have to sneak away to the lower country to earn his living by pig-feeding and "doing chores." but the pig-feeding days were far distant still, so that this most dissolute yet tuneful fiddler continued to incite his clients to fresh efforts in dancing. there were those, though, even at antler, who were too staid, or too shy, or too stolid to dance, and for the benefit of such as these small tables had been arranged, not too far from the refreshments--small tables at which they could sit and smoke in peace. at one of these, in a pause between the dances, a tall, fair-haired girl, all smiles and ribbons, came to a halt before a solitary, dark-visaged misanthrope, who sat abstractedly chewing the end of an unlit cigar. [illustration: lilla accosts the colonel in the dance-house.] "what's the trouble, colonel? have you anyone murdered?" the words were lightly spoken, and a laugh rippled over the speaker's pretty face, but no answering smile came into the smoker's deep-set eyes. on the contrary, he sprang to his feet with so fierce an oath that lilla started back, and the smokers at the next table turned with savage scowls to see who it was who dared to swear at their little german sweetheart. "by mighty, i believe the girl's right!" said one of these; "the fellow looks pretty scared." "like enough. a fellow who cain't speak civil to a woman might do anything," growled another. this last was a yankee, and yankees have a great respect for the ladies, all honour to them for it. meanwhile the colonel and the dancing-girl stood facing each other, the smile dying out of her face as the scowl died out of his. she was half-frightened, and he had overheard his neighbours' remarks, and recognized the necessity for self-control. "i beg your pardon, lilla. what a brute you must think me! but don't you know better than to wake a sleeping dog suddenly?" "but no dog is so mean as to bite a woman," protested lilla. "that's so, and _i_ only barked. i've been so long packing all alone that i have lost my company manners. won't you forgive me, lilla?" and he held out his hand to her. now it was part of lilla's business to pour oil upon the troubled waters of society at antler, and, besides, the colonel was an old acquaintance and excellent dancer, so lilla took his hand. "well, i'll try, but you pay me a fine. see, not once have you asked me to dance this time in antler. now dance with me." "is that all, lilla? come then." and so saying he offered the girl his arm, and walked away with her to another part of the room out of ear-shot of the angry yankee. "i wanted to talk to you, lilla," he began; but just then the music struck up, and the girl, who had quite recovered her spirits, beat the ground with a pretty impatient toe, exclaiming, "the talk will keep; come on now, we mustn't lose a bar of it." and then, as her partner steered her gracefully over the floor, she gave a little contented sigh and muttered, "so you have not forgotten. ach, himmel! this is to dance." and indeed the dark-faced man might have committed many crimes, but he was not one to trample upon a woman's tenderest feelings by treading on her toes, tearing her dress out at the gathers, and disregarding good music. on the contrary, he had a perfect ear for time, steered by instinct, and held his partner like one who was proud of her and wanted to show her off to advantage. when the music ceased, and not until then, lilla and the colonel stopped dancing, and the girl had just enough breath left to say in a tone of absolute conviction: "you _must_ be a good man, i think, you dance so well." "of course i'm a good man, lilla," laughed her partner. "why should i not be?" "well, i don't know, but you frightened me pretty bad just now. what was it with you?" "oh, nothing--at least nothing much. i was sulky and you startled me. are you never sulky, lilla?" "what is that sulky, _traurig_?" asked the girl. "no, not quite. more like what you feel when a frock won't fit you, lilla." "so! i understand: well, wherefore are you sulky?" "i can't sell my freight at my price. just think what rough luck it was for me that bacon brown got in so soon after me. and after bringing the stuff so far and _at such a cost too_!" and again for a moment the colonel's face looked white and drawn in the lamp light. the frazer river trail was a bad one, but once its perils were passed there seemed to be no reason why an old packer should turn pale at the mere memory of them. "ach, sacrifice!" cried the girl. "you sell your bacon a dollar a pound, and you call that sacrifice. have you no shame?" "all very well for you, lilla. you are a girl who owns a gold-mine; i'm only a poor packer. by the way, have you done anything more about pete's creek since last season?" "no, but i think i'll do something soon." "better send me to find it for you, lilla, before someone else gets hold of it, and give me a share in it for my work. i'll take you, and you keep the creek. how will that do?" "and what do i become--ach, i mean what shall i get for my share?" her partner laid his hand upon his heart and made her his most impressive bow, but the girl only burst out laughing merrily. perhaps the noise and bright lights of a dance-house are unfavourable to sentiment. "ach so, colonel. bacon a dollar a pound, and you will trade yourself for the richest gold-mine in cariboo and me! _danke schön_," and she curtsied to him laughingly. "as you please, lilla. but will you bet me that i don't know where your creek is?" "i know you don't know anything about it, except what i told you last fall." "don't be too sure. you'd better trust me, lilla. it isn't the other side of the frazer in the chilcotin country, is it?" "i told you so much, and then--" "it isn't up at the head of the chilcotin?" "on which bank?" "the right." "ach so! i knew you didn't know," and then the girl stopped, and for a moment suspicion looked out from her simple blue eyes. lilla wasn't quite sure whether her dancing partner had not been trying to pump her. but the colonel saw the look, and knowing that he had obtained all the information which he was likely to get, he deftly turned the conversation into a fresh channel. "of course it's only my chaff, lilla. i would rather have the pretty gold on your head than all the gold in pete's creek, even if there was such a place, which i doubt. but who is the new invalid you are nursing?" "a britisher as you are, colonel; only i find him better-looking," replied lilla mischievously. "he might easily be that, lilla. i'm getting old, my dear, with waiting for you. but how did you find this new treasure?" "bacon brown brought him in." "brown brought him in! when?" "three days from to-day--when his train came along." "where did he find him? is he one of his men?" "ach no. i tell you he is english not yankee. brown found him dying on the trail." "on the trail! where?" "i don't know quite where, but somewhere between this place and where the trail forks for williams creek." whilst the girl had been speaking her companion had shifted his position, so that he now stood with his back to the light, so that no casual observer would have noticed even if his face should turn white and his hand shake. "what is your friend like, and what was the matter with him, lilla?" asked the colonel after a while, with a certain show of carelessness, dropping out his words disjointedly between his efforts to light a cigar. "well, i can hardly tell you, he lies down all the time. he is too weak to stand up, but he looks a fine man, tall and big--oh, very big, and hair like a deutscher's, and blue eyes, more blue, i think, than mine;" and she opened those pretty orbs very wide to let her questioner see how very blue eyes would have to be to be bluer than her own. "is that so, and lilla is half in love with him already? oh, lilla, lilla! and when will this beautiful person be well again?" "don't talk foolishness," replied the girl, blushing furiously. "how could i love a man who has the 'jim-jams?'" "the 'jim-jams!' what! from drink?" "i don't know. but there, there's the music, come along;" and once more lilla bore away the best waltzer in antler to the tune of some slow rhythmical german air. during the dance the girl said nothing, and after it was over she left her partner for someone else (mind you, dancing meant business for lilla); but towards the end of the evening she sought out the colonel again, and leading him on one side, said: "what will you do when you have sold your freight?" "i don't know. anything. why?" "i have a fancy, and you shall not laugh at me. pete gave me the map to find his creek when he died. that is good. now comes another englishman, also dying. i am, what do you call it--_abergläubig_?" "i don't know superstitious perhaps?" "perhaps superstitious. suppose this man gets well, he has no money, he is dead-broke, and very young. do you see?" "i see. you say he is ill and a 'dead-beat.' most of your patients are that way, lilla." "no, he is not a 'dead-beat.' i think he is--ach, well no matter. but see here, if you will give money for the outfit and grub, and take this man along when he is well again, i will give you the map, and you two can take half the mine between you. is that good?" "but why give him a quarter of your mine?" "i give you a quarter also; and i tell you pete was english, and you say you are english, and he is english. i think pete would have liked it so, and this shall bring me luck." "as you please, lilla. i would go for you for nothing. shall i have the map to-night?" and at that moment the light fell upon the man's face, which he had moved somewhat during the conversation, and showed that the mouth was twitching and the eyes glittering with strong excitement which would not be entirely suppressed. "no, not to-night. when corbett is well. i may change my mind before then, you know, and give you all the mine, and myself too--who knows!" and with a nod and a smile, half mocking, half friendly, lilla the hurdy girl turned on her heel and left the dancing-room for a little poorly furnished chamber, where, behind a hudson bay blanket hung up as a curtain, lay ned corbett in the first quiet sleep he had enjoyed since bacon brown found him insensible upon the trail which leads to antler. chapter xvi. the price of blood. it was neither day nor night in antler, but that time between the two when the stars are fading and the moon has set and the sun has not yet risen. the men of the night-shift had gone back to the claims; the hurdy girls had all followed lilla's example and slipped away to their own rooms, and though the big dancing hall was still open, the only people in it were a few maudlin topers dozing over their liquor. out in the main street there was no light, no light either of sun or moon; no light at all except one feeble ray which flickered from lilla's window, and fell upon the black water which hurried through the wooden boxes laid across the highway. by and by a man came out of the gloom, blundered heavily over the boxes, and swore savagely below his breath as if the boxes had consciously conspired for his downfall. when he had picked himself up again from the mud, this night-bird stood looking fixedly towards the light. had he swayed unsteadily from side to side, and perhaps fallen again, there would have been nothing worth watching about him. rye whisky, the fresh night air, and the ditches laid across the roads, used often to persuade very honest gentlemen to pass their nights beside the gutter. but this man stood firmly upon his feet, looking steadily at the light ahead of him. presently he appeared to have made up his mind, for after looking up and down the road to see whether anyone was watching him, he stole up to the window and crouched beside it in such a position that he could peer in unseen. inside the room the light fell upon bare wooden walls, from which hung a little mirror, and a man's coat and broad-brimmed hat. there was a rifle in one corner, and half the room appeared to be partitioned off from the rest by a bright red hudson bay blanket hung up as a curtain. in spite of the rifle and the coat an expert would have decided at once that the room was a woman's room. there was a trimness about it not masculine, a cleanliness not indian. whatever a red lady's virtues may be, cleanliness and order are not among them. but the figures upon which the light fell explained the anomaly of a rifle and a mirror hung side by side in a miner's shack, and explained, too, why a room in which hung a miner's coat and hat was swept and garnished and in order. in a bunk against the wall lay a fair-haired man, his eyes shut in sleep, with one powerful arm thrown limp and nerveless upon the outside of his bed. the man who watched him felt a nervous twitching at his throat as his eyes rested upon the big brown hand, contrasting so strongly with the white linen upon which it rested; for lilla had given her patient of her best, and ned corbett was sleeping between the only pair of sheets in cariboo. the worst was evidently over for corbett. the fever, or whatever his disease had been, had left him, worn and pulled down it is true; but the peacefulness of his sleep, the calm child-like restfulness of his face, told both his watchers that unless a relapse took place his young life would be as strong in him as ever before many days had passed. the colonel, peering in at lilla's face as she sat and watched her patient, saw very little chance of a relapse whilst _she_ was corbett's nurse. if tender care and ceaseless watching would save him, corbett would be saved. the colonel fancied, indeed, that he saw even more than this. his eyes ever since very early days had peered deep into the hearts of men and women; not from sympathy with them, not even from idle curiosity, but to see what profit could be made out of them. now he thought that he recognized in lilla's eyes, and in the caressing touch of her hand as she brushed back corbett's yellow hair, something which he had often seen before, something which he had generally turned to his own advantage at whatever cost to the woman. "the little fool!" he muttered. "she has got stuck on him because he has blue eyes and yellow hair like a deutscher. great scott, what simpletons these women are!" perhaps the colonel's guess as to the state of lilla's heart was a shrewd one, perhaps not. at any rate if the girl was in love with her handsome patient she was not herself conscious of it as yet, and as she sat crooning the tender words of a german love song, she was unconscious that they had any special meaning for her. "_du du liegst mir im hertzen,_" she sang; but as she sang, she believed that the only feeling which stirred her heart for the sick man at her side was one of pity for a helpless bankrupt brother. for some time lilla sat dreaming and crooning scraps of german songs, and then a thought seemed to strike her, and she drew from her bosom a little leather case. opening this she drew from it what looked like an old bill, and indeed it was an old bill-head, frayed and torn as if it had been carried for many, many months in some traveller's pocket. but there was no account of goods delivered and still unpaid for upon that dirty scrap of paper. as lilla turned it to catch the light, the man at the window had a glimpse of it, and started as if someone had struck him. "old pete's map, by thunder!" he exclaimed; and so loudly did he speak, or so noisy was his movement as he tried to obtain a better view of that precious document, that lilla heard something, and replacing the paper in her pocket rose and came to the window. there was only a thin partition of rustic boarding and the bosom of a woman's dress between the most reckless scoundrel in cariboo and the key to cariboo's richest gold-mine. he could hear her breathing on the other side of that thin partition, and he knew that his strong fingers could tear it down and wrench away that secret before the woman and the sick man her friend could even call assistance. but he dared not do the deed. life was still more than gold to him, and he knew that earth would be hardly large enough to hide the man who should wrong lilla from the vengeance of the hard-fists she had danced with and sung to in their merry moods, and nursed like a sister in their sickness. "no," he muttered, when lilla had resumed her seat, "i daren't do it, and i daren't stay another hour. if that fool gets his wits back the cat will soon be out of the bag, and the only question of interest to me will be,--'is it to be begbie or lynch?' if the boys knew, i believe it would be lynch!" and muttering and grinding his teeth, a prey to rage and baffled greed, colonel cruickshank turned and retraced his steps to his own quarters. once, and only once, he stopped before he reached them, and stood with knitted brows like one who strives to master some difficult problem. at last a light came into his face, and his coarse mouth opened in an evil grin--"i will, by jove i will! it will be as safe there as anywhere. cruickshank, my boy, you shall double the stakes and go for the pot. if i had only seen more of that map--" the rest of his sentence was lost as he entered the shack where his goods were stored, and half an hour later, when the sun was still only colouring the sky a faint saffron along the horizon, he strode up to the store of ben hirsch, general dealer, money-changer, and purchaser of gold-dust at antler. old ben was fairly early himself that morning. he had smoked so much the night before (being a german jew) that he really needed a breath of fresh air to pull him together, before he engaged in another day of chicanery, bargaining, and theft. but the sight of the dashing colonel at such an hour in the morning considerably astonished him. there was something wrong somewhere, of that he felt quite certain, and wherever there was anything wrong there was profit for the wise old jew. so his beady eyes twinkled beside his purple beak, and he gave the man he looked upon as his prey the heartiest greeting. "goot-mornin', colonel, goot-mornin'. ach, vot a rustler you are! no vonder zat you make much gold. haf you zold ze pacon yet?" "not a cent's worth, uncle. will you buy?" "ach! you laugh at me. i haf no monish, you know i haf no monish. ze freight eats up all ze profit." "keep that for tenderfeet, ben," replied cruickshank roughly. "freight on needles won't bring them up to fifty cents apiece, even in cariboo. will you buy or won't you? i've no time to talk." "vot is your hurry, colonel? ze pacon and ze peans von't shpoil." the colonel turned to go. "_ach, himmel!_" cried the jew, throwing up his hands deprecatingly. "how these english herren are fiery. colonel, dear herr colonel, pe so goot as to listen." "well, what is it? i'll give you five minutes in which to make a bid. after that i'm off straight to williams creek." "pacon is cheap zere, colonel; almost cheaper zan here. put i vill puy. are ve not from of olt be-friended? vot you zay, twenty-five cents ze pound?" "twenty-five fiddlesticks! do you think i don't know the market prices?" but it is not worth while to record all the haggling between hirsch and cruickshank. it was a match between the jew, cool, crafty, and cringing, and the christian (save the mark!), hurried, and full of strange oaths as become a soldier, "sudden and quick in quarrel." from the very outset the colonel had one eye on ben and the other on the door, and his ears seemed pricked to catch the tramp of men who might be coming in pursuit. of course the jew saw this, and every time the colonel started at some sudden sound, or reddened and swore at his obstinate haggling, ben's ferret-like eyes gleamed with fresh cunning and increased intelligence. like an expert angler he had mastered his fish, and knew it, and meant now to kill him at his leisure, without risking another struggle. and yet (to maintain the metaphor) this fisher of men all at once lowered his point and seemed to let his captive go. "vell, colonel, all right. suppose you give ze ponies in, i give you your price." "you're a hungry thief, ben. the ponies are worth the money; but i am not going to do any more packing, so take them and be hanged to you." "goot. it is a deal zen." "yes, if i may keep the pinto. i want a pony to pack my tools and blankets on." "tools. vot! you go prospecting, eh?" "yes. i think so." "ach so! by and by you strike it rich. then you bring your dust to old ben--eh, colonel?" "maybe. but where are those dollars?" "how vill you have them, colonel,--in notes or dust?" asked the jew. "in dust, of course; those flimsy things would wear out before i could get them down the frazer. besides, i've heard that your notes aren't always just like other people's, ben;" and the colonel pushed over a little pile of dirty "greenbacks." "ach, these are goot notes; but the gold is goot too, colonel. vill you veigh it?" "you bet i will," replied the colonel, making no parade of confidence in his friend. there was good gold in old ben's safe, but the tenderfoot who did not know good gold from bad often got "dust" of the wrong kind. this cruickshank knew, so that he was careful to examine the quality of the dust in the two small canvas bags, and careful, too, in the weighing of them--trying the scales, and leaving no hole open for fraud to creep through. at last even he was satisfied. "yes, ben, that will do--it's good for the money." "goot dust, isn't it? very goot dust and full measure. see!" and the old jew put it in the scales again. "but, _donner und blitzen_, vot vants ze sheriff so early?" the last part of the sentence was jerked out at the top of his voice by the dealer in gold as he turned excitedly to stare out of the little window on his left. "the sheriff! did you say the sheriff? give me the gold. where is he?" cruickshank had turned as white as the dead, and his hand shook as if he had the palsy, but for all that he managed to snatch up the two small canvas bags from the counter and hide them away in the bosom of his flannel shirt. "i zink i zee him go into ze dance-house. but vot is your hurry, colonel? shtay and vet ze deal. vot, you von't! ah vell, ze rye is not pad." and so saying mr. benjamin hirsch filled a small glass for himself, and with a wink drank to his departing guest. ben hirsch was certainly right in calling colonel cruickshank a rustler, a yankee term for a man who does not let the grass grow under his feet. half an hour after ben's cry of "sheriff" the colonel stole out of antler, driving old job in front of him, with blankets, gold-pan, and all the rest of a prospector's slender outfit, securely fastened upon the pony's back. as soon as he was well out of sight of the camp, the fugitive diverged from the main trail, and took instead a little-used path, leading direct over a difficult country to soda creek, on the frazer. along this he drove his pony at a speed which made that wall-eyed, cow-hocked quadruped grunt and groan in piteous fashion. in all his days job had never before found a master who could and would get a full day's work out of him, without giving him a single chance to wander or even knock his packs off amongst the timber. at last, when the sun had begun to go west, cruickshank paused, sat down upon a log, and lit his pipe. as he smoked and thought, the lines went out of his face, until he almost looked once more the oily, plausible scoundrel whom we first met in victoria. "yes," he muttered, "it was a bold game, but i made my bluff stick. why, if old ben knew that i didn't have even a pair to draw to, wouldn't he 'raise cain?'" and so saying, he put his hand inside his shirt and drew out the two little bags of gold-dust, weighing them nicely in his hands, and regarding them as lovingly as a mother would her first-born. for a minute or two his fingers played with the strings which fastened the mouth of each sack, but finally thought better of it and put them back into his pocket without untying them. to this man life was a game of poker, and for the present he considered that he had risen a winner though the odds had been against him, and with his winnings in his pocket he smacked old job on the quarters, held up his head, and felt ready for a fresh deal. and old ben--what of him? did he hurry away to secure the pack-ponies and their loads, or to see what the sheriff wanted at the dance-house? not a bit of it. _he_ knew (none better) that the sheriff was away at williams creek, and he knew, too,--he knew enough of human nature to be sure that dan cruickshank would never return to antler unless he was brought back against his will. he had sold his packs and his ponies for two little bags of gold ("of gold, ho, ho!" chuckled the jew), and even if he should find anything wrong with the gold he would not dare to come back to claim his packs. "i vonder vot dan has peen up to," mused the son of israel. "he play ze carts a leetle too vell for his friends, i know, put it must pe zomething worse zan zat. ach vell, it was ver goot zat i knew a leetle how to conjure;" and still chuckling and muttering to himself, he took from a shelf just below the counter two small bags similar to those in cruickshank's shirt front, and put them tenderly and reverently away in his safe. _they_ contained good gold-dust. those which cruickshank was carrying away contained a good many things, the price of innocent blood for instance, but ben hirsch would not have given many dollars for all that they contained. whilst the colonel was looking for the sheriff, ben had substituted bags of copper pyrites for bags of gold. chapter xvii. chance's gold-fever returns. "well, steve, what is the news? i can see that you are just bursting with intelligence. out with it, little man." "bell has struck it rich again. it's a fortune this time, they say." "is that all? poor bell! he'll be drunk, then, at victoria the whole of the winter. i shouldn't be surprised if this second stroke of luck killed him." the speakers were our old friends ned corbett and steve chance, and when steve joined him ned was sitting with his long gum boots tucked under a table in the antler dance-house, smoking his evening pipe. it was nearly a month since cruickshank had stolen away from antler, and since then ned had recovered all his old strength and vigour. at first he had brooded incessantly over cruickshank's escape, but as the days went by he realized that there was no chance for him, without knowledge of the country and without funds, against a man like the colonel, with a fortnight's start of him. together with one or two miners to whom he had told his tale he had made an attempt to follow cruickshank's tracks, and had succeeded in tracking him and his pony as far as the main trail to soda creek. here the tracks, which were already old, became confused with others, and sorely against their will the pursuers had to give up the chase. "cruickshank has got clean away with you this journey, partner, and i guess you may as well own up to it," was the verdict of one of his comrades. and ned, recognizing the justice of it, threw up the sponge, and owned himself beaten for the time; but although he said no more about the claims or the packs or the comrade of whom he had been robbed, he consoled himself with the thought that life was long and had in it many chances, and that whenever his chance came, however late, it would find his hand as strong and as quick to take vengeance as it was to-day. as soon as his story had become known, and men had seen what manner of man he was, ned had found no difficulty in getting employment in the claims, and, indeed, he had done so well that he had been induced to send a message to his friends at williams creek, in answer to which steve and phon had hastened to join him at antler. rampike promised to come up later on in the fall, but as yet he had plenty to do in his own claim. for a full fortnight the three comrades had worked away steadily with pick and shovel, and now, in spite of all his troubles, ned was his own cheery self again, proud of the strength which enabled him to do almost as much as two other men, and content with the work which kept him supplied with all the necessaries of life. but if ned corbett was content, his comrades were not. steve hated the daily labour for daily wage, and phon was hardly strong enough for the work, and anxious to go off prospecting on his own account. "what a phlegmatic old cuss you are, ned! don't you envy bell a bit?" "not i. why should i? i am strong and well again, thank god. i've plenty of fresh air and hard work, and i'm earning ten dollars a day--" "and spending eight. you won't make a fortune that way." "who said that i should? who said that i wanted to? why, my dear chap, just think for a moment. if i did make a fortune i should have to stop at home and invest it and look after it. _stop at home_, do you hear, steve?" "you'll die a pauper, ned," asserted chance solemnly. "and you, perhaps, a millionaire. poor old chap! i'm sorry for you. i am indeed. well, lilla, what can i do for you?" and ned, rising, took off his hat, as if he had been saluting a duchess. "the boys want a song, ned. will you sing for them?" asked the girl, her pretty eyes brightening and her cheeks flushing as she took ned's hand. somehow, though ned had often sought her, he had seen very little of his gentle nurse since he had become convalescent. "bother the boys!" quoth this young man of big muscle and limited intelligence. "i'm not going to do any work to-night. i have earned enough money for the day; but," he added quickly as he saw the girl's look of disappointment, "i'll sing for you, little sister, and you can give the money to the next dead-beat you nurse back again to life." "i never nursed any dead-beats," began lilla. "oh no, of course not. never heard of ned corbett, or pete of lost creek, or any of that crowd, did you, lilla? now i'm going to sing;" and with that he threw back his head, and sang in a full rich baritone a song of his canadian lumbering days:-- a song of the axe. when winter winds storm, and the snow-flakes swarm, and the forest is soft to our tread; when the women folk sit, by their fires fresh lit, oh, ho, for the toque of red! with our strong arms bare, it's little we care for politics, rates, or tax; let the good steel ring on the forest king-- oh, ho, for the swing of the axe! your diamonds may glitter, your rubies flame, our gems are but frozen dew; yet yours grow tame, being always the same, ours every night will renew. let the world rip: tighten your grip, make the blades glitter and shine; at it you go, swing to each blow, and down with the pride of the pine! for the trees, i ween, which have long grown green in the light of the sun and the stars, must bend their backs to the lumberer's axe, mere timber and planks and spars! then oh, ho, ho! for the carpet of snow! oh, ho, for the forest of pine! wealth shall be yours, with its business and bores, health and hard labour be mine! "_health and hard labour be mine!_" thundered a score of voices, and a score of strong labour-hardened hands came crashing down upon the rough deal tables. "bravo, ned!" "that's your sort for cariboo!" "mate, we'll wet that song if you please," and a dozen other similar expressions of approval rewarded ned for his efforts, but steve chance did not go as far as the rest of the audience. "a pretty good song, ned," he said, "with lots of shouting in it, but no sense." "give us a better, little one," replied his friend good-naturedly. "ah, lilla, you are a brick--i beg your pardon, but i don't know the german for a fairy who brings a thirsty man just what he wants;" and ned buried his moustache in a foaming glass of lager. "that beats all the champagne and such like trash into fits," he added with a sigh of satisfaction as he put down the empty glass. "now, steve, beat my song if you can." "beat it! no trouble to do that. if the boys don't shout themselves silly over my chorus i'll take a back seat." "you wouldn't stay there if you did," laughed ned; "but drive on, my boy." thus adjured, steve got up and sang with a spirit and go of which i am unable to give any adequate idea, the song of-- the yankee dollar. with sword or shovel, pick or pen, all strive to win the yellow ore; and "bust or boom," our natural doom, is but to love the dollar more. _chorus._ the yankee doodle dollar, oh! i'm no saint or scholar, oh! i only know, that high or low, all love the yankee dollar, oh! in miner's ditch some strike it rich, and some die in the collar, oh! but live or die, succeed or sigh, all strive to win the dollar, oh! "chorus, gentlemen,--'_the yankee doodle dollar_ oh!'" sang chance, and the whole room rose to him and sang as one man-- the yankee doodle dollar, oh! i'm no saint or scholar, oh! i only know, that high or low, all love the yankee dollar, oh! there was no question as to steve's victory. ned had stirred the hearts of a few, and pleased all, but steve had played upon the principal chord in the heart of antler, and for weeks the men hummed the empty words and whistled the frivolous, ranting little air of "_the yankee doodle dollar, oh!_" until even its author was sick of it. "you see, ned, everyone thinks the same except you," said chance, when the applause had somewhat moderated. "why the deuce are you so pig-headed? now that we have saved a few dollars why should we not go prospecting and make our pile like other people? i'm sick of all this picking and scratching in other men's claims." "'yo mun larn to scrat afore yo peck,'" replied ned stolidly, quoting a good old shropshire proverb; "and 'scratting' for ten dollars a day doesn't seem to me to be very badly-paid labour." "you forget, ned, that this cain't last. how do you mean to live during the winter?" "sufficient unto the day--" began ned, and then suddenly altering his tone he added, "what is it that you want me to do, steve?" "what do i want you to do? why, what any other man in cariboo would do if he had half your chance. take lilla's offer and go and look for pete's creek for her." "pete's creek! why, my dear steve, you don't seriously believe in that cock-and-bull story, do you?" "don't you believe lilla?" retorted chance. "of course i believe lilla," replied corbett hotly, "but she only tells the story as it was told to her." "by a dying man who knew that he was dying, to a woman who had nursed him for weeks like a sister! according to you, pete must have been a worse liar than ananias, ned." "i didn't say pete lied either, but pete may not have been sane when he died. you know that he had been drinking like a fish before lilla got hold of him." "yes, and slept out a couple of nights in the snow. i know that. but he died of pleurisy, not of the jim-jams." "well, have your own way, but nothing will make me believe in that creek. it had too much gold in it," replied corbett. "and even if i did believe in it, why should i take lilla's gold? hasn't she done enough for me already?" "perhaps. but if you don't get it for her, i guess someone else will come along and find it for himself." "why don't you go for it, steve, if you believe in it?" "so i would if lilla would trust me; but you see lilla is not spoons on me, and she is on you." corbett flushed to the roots of his yellow hair. "don't talk rot, chance, and leave lilla's name alone." "i'm not talking rot," said chance seriously. "but say, ned, do you mean to marry that girl?" "marry your grandmother! i don't mean to marry anyone, and no one is such a fool as to want to marry me." "all right, ned, don't lose your temper; but i know, old chap, that you would not like to get lilla talked about, and the boys are beginning to say that lilla got rid of her heart when you got rid of your fever." "the boys are a parcel of chattering idiots, whose mouths will get stopped pretty roughly if they talk like that before me," growled ned. "but really, steve, this is too ridiculous. fancy anyone wanting to marry me!" and the speaker looked down with a grin at his mud-spattered, much-mended pants, passed his hand meditatively over a rough young beard of three months' growth, and burst out laughing. ned corbett was heart-whole, and he did not see why everyone else should not be as lucky in that respect as himself. chapter xviii. on the colonel's trail again. the day after the conversation recorded in the last chapter happened to be sunday--a day which at antler differed very little from any other day, except that a few tenderfeet, mostly britishers, struck work on that day, and indulged in what some of their friends called a "good square loaf." ned corbett was one of these sunday loafers. of course there was no church at antler, nor any parson except upon very rare occasions. but ned had an ear for the anthems which the mountain breezes are always singing, and an eye for nature's attitude of reverence towards her creator. every sunday it was ned's wont to go out by himself, and lie on a rock in the sun out of hearing of the noise of the great mining-camp, saying nothing at all himself, but thinking a good deal, and keeping quite quiet to hear what nature had to say to him. as he was coming away from such a loaf as this, he met lilla wandering up the banks of a mountain stream, gathering berries and wild flowers. ned thought that his little friend had never looked prettier than she did at that moment--her soft yellow hair blown out by the breeze, her little figure moving gracefully amongst the boulders, the colour of wild roses in her cheeks, and a deep strong light in her blue eyes, like the light of the stars when there is frost in the northern sky. for a little while he watched her, as she hummed a song amongst the flowers and added fresh treasures to the already overgrown bouquet in her hand. "if she would take a man just as he is, she would make a sweet little wife for a cariboo miner," thought the young man; "that is, if he meant always to remain a cariboo miner. but, poor child! i'm afraid she'd find a shropshire welcome rather chilly even after cariboo. ah! well," he added to himself as he went jumping over the boulders to meet her, "luckily i don't want a wife, and lilla doesn't want a husband." the next moment lilla and he stood face to face. "did i frighten you, lilla?" he asked, picking up some flowers which the girl had dropped. "did you think i was a grizzly?" "not so bad as that, ned. but what do you up here?" "i'm taking a 'cultus coolee,'" replied he, using the indian phrase in use among the miners for a walk which has no object. "you are doing the same, i fancy. let us do it together." "what! you wish to come with me? well, come then," replied lilla. "you can help me carry these." ned took the bouquet, and after a while said, "i have been wanting to have a good talk with you, lilla, for some time." "so, ned! what is it about?" she tried hard to speak in an unconcerned off-hand way, but in spite of her, her colour rose and then paled, and her voice had an unnatural ring in it. ned looked at her. could there be anything in what steve suggested the other night? he asked himself, and then almost in the same second he repented him of the thought. ned corbett was not one of those men who twist their moustaches complacently, and conclude that every woman they meet must fall in love with them. "i want you to tell me about pete and his creek again," he said. "steve chance is awfully keen to go prospecting, and to go and look for this gold-mine of yours." "and why not, ned? i wish you would, for my sake." "i would do a good deal for your sake, lilla," he answered; "but i can't believe in this creek, you know." "not believe in it! why not, ned?" "there was too much gold in it; the whole story is too much like a fairy tale. and then, you know, when you took him in, pete was as penniless as i was." "penniless! what's that?" "hadn't a cent to his name, i mean, and you fed him and took care of him." "ach, so. well, what has that to do with the creek?" "people who find gold-mines ought not to be dependent upon good little girls like you for their bread and cheese. it's not natural, you know." "ach, now you make me to understand. but you yourself, you don't know cariboo ways. pete had plenty of dust, oh, lots and lots of dust, when he came down; but, of course, he blew it all in before i saw him." to anyone not conversant with mining life that "of course" of lilla's was delicious. to the steady-going collector of hard-earned copper and silver it seems anything but a matter of course to "blow in" a fortune in a fortnight; but then things were not done in an ordinary jog-trot fashion either in california in ' or in cariboo in ' . "oh! of course, of course!" returned ned with a smile which he could not hide. "i beg your pardon, lilla. i had forgotten for a moment that i was in cariboo, and thought as if i were at home again. well, and what was the matter with your beggared croesus when you found him?" "if you mean what was the matter with pete, i have before told you. he drink too much one night, and then he fall asleep in the snow, and when he wake in the morning he have the pleurisy, i think you call him." it was a long sentence for lilla, who was getting a little bit roused by the young scoffer at her side; and, moreover, her english was always best when produced in small quantities. "and why did they bring him to you?" "where else could they take him? the boys can't leave their claims to nurse sick men, and at night they are too tired to nurse anyone. and besides--" "and besides," interrupted her companion, "lilla is never tired. oh, dear, no! her eyes never want sleep, nor her limbs rest after dancing with all those roughs on a floor like a ploughed field." "don't you call the boys roughs, ned. they are not rough to me. of course i had to nurse old pete. what are women meant for?" "something better than camp-life in cariboo," replied corbett warmly; "but it is just as well for me that you don't think so." "well, and so i nursed him," continued the girl, disregarding ned's last speech altogether; "and sometimes he told me where he had been, and how much gold he had found, and at last one day when he knew that he must die he told me of this creek in chilcotin with gold in the bed of it--free gold, coarse gold in nuggets and lumps, and as much as ever you want of it." "why did he not bring down more of it, instead of letting you keep him as you kept me?" asked the doubter. "_ach, himmel!_ keep you! i didn't keep you. you are too proud, and will pay for every little thing; but old pete, he understood cariboo ways. to-day you strike it rich and i am stone-broke. very well. i lend you a handful of dollars and start you again. you don't need to thank me. any gambler would do as much. by and by i strike it even rockier than you struck it. all right, then you 'ante' up for me. that's cariboo." "is it?" asked ned, looking into the eager friendly face of this exponent of a new commercial creed. "is that cariboo? well, lilla, i expect samaria must be somewhere in cariboo. but finish your story about pete." "oh, pete! well, pete just died quietly, and he knew it was coming, and before it came he pulled out this," and the girl drew from her bosom an old frayed bill-head which we have seen before, "and gave it to me, and told me that as soon as i found--ach, what am i saying? i forget." and lilla suddenly brought her story to an abrupt conclusion, with stumbling tongue and flaming cheeks, for as a fact the old man had told her that this map of his was the key to much gold, and that when she should have found a man worthy of her, she was to send him to bring it to her, and it should be to her for a dowry. but this was not quite what the honest little hurdy girl cared to tell ned corbett at present. however, ned never noticed her embarrassment. his eyes were busy with the document in his hand. "it seems a good clear map, and looks as if the man who made it was quite sane," he muttered. "sane? what is that--'sane?'" asked lilla. "level-headed" answered ned shortly. "you bet he was level-headed, ned. _ach, mein freund_, how you doubt! i tell you there are not many men in cariboo who would not go to look for that creek, if i would let them." again ned remembered steve's words, "she'll only trust you because she has lost her heart to you." "did you ever give anyone a hint as to where the creek was, lilla?" "no, never. at least no, i didn't tell him, but one man nearly guessed once." "nearly guessed once?" "yes. he said he knew more than i thought and i had better trust him, and wasn't the creek at the head of the chilcotin? and i said, 'well, which side of the chilcotin?' and then he smiled, and i felt angry. and when he said on the right bank i was glad, and i cried 'no, it isn't, i knew you didn't know.' and then he smiled more, and i saw that i had told him what he wanted to know. but after all that is not much, is it?" "who was the man, lilla?" "colonel--colonel--ach, i forget, there are so many colonels in america." "true, but what was he like?" ned had a queer fancy to know who this clever cross-examiner might be. "a thick dark man, stout and smooth." "with a lot of rings on his fingers?" "yes, always lots of rings. oh, he was a fine man, and such a dancer!" "cruickshank." "that is it--cruickshank, colonel cruickshank. but how did you know, ned?" "oh, i have seen him before," replied corbett quietly. this was indeed news to him, but he felt that he must be very careful not to frighten lilla, to whom oddly enough the name of the man who had robbed corbett had never yet been mentioned. that he had been robbed of course she knew, but by one of those strange accidents which often happen, she had never heard who had robbed him. "so that is all you can tell me about the creek is it, lilla?" said ned after a long pause. "well, if you still wish me to go at the end of this week, i will go for you; if i find it you shall pay me ten dollars a day for my work, and phon and steve the same; and if not,--well, if not, i shall have earned a right to teaze you if you believe in such cock-and-bull stories for the future." and ned gave lilla her bouquet and prepared to leave her, for they had by this time reached the door of her little cottage. "oh no, ned, that is not so at all, at all. if you don't find it, of course i pay the cost; and if you do, we go shares in the find." "as you please, lilla, but we have got to find the creek first," and so saying he turned and strode off to his own hut. there were many reasons now why he should go to look for pete's creek, but the belief in pete's creek or the hope of finding it was not amongst them. cruickshank knew something of the whereabouts of the creek, cruickshank with his insatiable love of gold; and ned himself had tracked him towards soda creek, where he must cross the frazer to get to chilcotin. yes, that was it. the tables were turning at last, and if there was such a place as pete's creek, ned would find cruickshank there, and shoot him like a bear over a carcase. chapter xix. "good-bye, lilla." it was not ned corbett's nature to say much about what he felt. like most of his countrymen ned was reserved to a fault, and prided himself upon an impassive demeanour, suffering failure or achieving success with the same quiet smile upon his face. the english adage "don't cry until you are hurt" had been only a part of the law of his childhood; the rest of it read according to his teachers: "and then grin and bear it." but even steve, who knew corbett as intimately as one man can know another, was astounded at the readiness with which, after one wild effort to grapple with the man who had killed roberts, corbett had been content to settle down quietly to his daily labour in the claims at antler. he could understand that his friend would take his own losses quietly. steve, like all yankees and all true gamblers, was a good loser himself, and didn't expect to hear a man make a moan over his own misfortunes, but he had not expected to see ned abandon his vengeance so readily. after lilla's incidental mention of cruickshank, steve began to understand his friend better. his impatience to be on the war-path again was the real thing; the assumed calmness and content had after all been but the mannerism of the athlete, who smiles a sweet smile as he waits whilst the blows rain upon him, for a chance of knocking his man out of time before his own eyes close and his own strength fails him. "so! you've only been lying low all this time, old man, and i thought you had forgotten," said chance, when ned told him of his conversation with lilla. "great scott, i wouldn't care to be cruickshank!" "forgotten!" echoed corbett. "do you suppose i am likely to forget that roberts risked his life for mine, and that cruickshank took it--took it when the old man sat with his back to him, and his six-shooter hanging in a tree?" "no, i don't suppose you would forget, ned. when shall we start? phon and myself could be ready to 'pull out' to-morrow." "that would suit me, steve, but i am afraid that you and phon are embarking on a wild-goose chase. i don't believe in that creek of pete's one bit more now than i did before i saw lilla's map." "that's all right, ned; but you see cruickshank believed in it, and so do we." "yes, cruickshank believed in it, and in looking for the one we shall find the other. that is why i am going." "i know all about that; but as long as we both want to find the same place, i don't see that it matters a row of beans why we want to find it," replied steve. "and mind you," he added, "i would be just as glad to let a little daylight into cruickshank as you would." "very well, if that is your way of looking at it, we need lose no more time. you are old enough to know your own business." "that's what. how about a cayuse?" "i bought one yesterday for a hundred dollars." "a hundred dollars! great scott, what a price!" "yes, it is a good deal, but old dad wouldn't let the beast go for less. he calculated it at so much a pound, and told me that if i knew where to get fresh meat cheaper in antler i'd better buy it." "fresh meat! i like that. has old dad taken to selling beef upon the hoof, then?" "seems so. anyway i had to pay for the bobtail almost as if i were buying beefsteak by the hundredweight." "well, i suppose we cain't help ourselves; we shall only be stone-broke again. it appears to be a chronic condition with us. let's go and look at the brute." an inspection of the bobtail did not bring much consolation to either steve or ned, for in spite of the smart way in which he had been docked, he was as ragged and mean-looking a brute as anyone could want to see. besides, he was what the up-country folk call "a stud," and anyone who has ever driven these beasts, knows that they add vices peculiar to their class to the ordinary vices of the cayuse nature. "he ain't a picture, but we've got to make the best of him," remarked steve. "so if you'll just fix things with lilla, i'll see about getting grub and a pack-saddle. we _might_ be ready to start to-night." this was steve's view on tuesday at mid-day. at five o'clock on wednesday he was a humbler man, heartily thankful that at last he really had got together most of the things necessary for one pack-horse. the last twenty-four hours had been passed, it seemed to him, in scouring the whole country for pack-saddles, sweat-clothes, cinch-hooks, and all sort of things, which hitherto (when cruickshank and roberts had had charge of the train) had seemed always at hand as a matter of course. "hang me if the cayuse doesn't want more fixing than a brooklyn belle," muttered steve. "but say, ned," he added aloud, "do you mean to start to-night?" in another two hours it would be comparatively dark in the narrow canyons through which the trail to soda creek ran, and in two hours the three travellers could not hope to make much of a journey. "better wait till to-morrow, boys," remarked an old miner who had been lending a hand with the packing, trying in vain to show ned how the diamond hitch ought to go. "it ain't no manner of use starting out at this time o' day." "i would start if it were midnight, jack," replied corbett resolutely. "once we get under weigh things will go better, but if we stayed over the night in camp, something would be sure to turn up to waste another day. are you ready there, steve?" "all set, sonny," replied steve, giving a final try at the cinch for form's sake. "then just drive on. i am going to get the map from lilla;" and so saying he bent his steps towards the dance-house, whilst, one leading and the other driving, his companions trudged away along the trail to soda creek. when he reached the dance-house lilla was waiting for him, and together the two turned their backs upon antler and walked slowly away under the pines. "so then," said lilla, "you will really go away to-night." "yes, we are really going, lilla, to look for your golden creek. don't you feel as if you were a millionaire already? chance does, i know, and has decided to whom he will leave his estate when he dies." ned spoke lightly, and laughed as he spoke. he saw that the girl was depressed, and wanted to cheer her up. but lilla only gave a little shiver, though the evening air was far from cold. "don't talk of dying, ned. it is not good to talk of. men die fast enough out here." she was thinking, poor little soul! how very near death that gallant yellow-haired friend of hers had been when she first saw him, and perhaps death might come near him again whilst she was not by to watch over him. ned looked surprised at her mood, but passed lightly to another subject. "as you please, lilla. where am i to find you when we come back from chilcotin?" "_das weiss der lieber gott_," she answered, speaking half to herself. and then recovering herself she added in a firmer voice, "either here or at kamloops: most likely at kamloops, if you are not back soon." "but we shall be back soon. what ails you to-night?" "it is nothing, ned; but it seems as if summer had gone soon this year, and these great mountains will all be white again directly. i don't think you will get back here this fall." "not get back this fall! why, surely, lilla, you don't think that we mean to jump your claims, or make off with your gold?" "no, no! of course not. i know you don't care for the gold, ned, like the other men. you don't care for anything like other men, i think." "don't i? just wait until i come back from chilcotin and pour buckets of dust into your lap. see if i won't want my share then?" "i wonder how long it will be that i must wait, ned? i think sometimes that we shall never meet again. tell me, do you think such atoms as we are could ever find their way to one another, up _there_? it seems so hard to lose one's friends for ever." and the girl looked despairingly up into the great blue vault above them, wherein even the greatest of the stars are but as golden motes. "yes, little sister," answered ned seriously. "i don't think that such as you will have much difficulty in finding their way up there." after this the two were silent for some time, standing on a rise above antler, looking out upon the deepening gloom of the evening, ned's heart very full of tenderness towards the little woman to whom he owed so much. it would have been so easy, ned could not help thinking, to put his arm round her and comfort her; but then, would that be a good thing for either of them? the world was all before them, and the world was not all cariboo. "come, lilla," he said at last, "this won't do. the night air is chilling you. you must run back now. what would the boys say if their little favourite came back without her smile? by george, they would give me a short shrift if they thought that it was my fault." "the boys! ach, what do the boys care? all women can laugh, and dance, and sing. one woman is all the same to them as another." well as ned knew his little companion, he had never seen her in this mood before, and his face betrayed the wonder which her bitterness awoke in him. a woman's eyes are quick, even in her trouble, to note the effect of her words upon anyone she cares for, so that lilla saw the expression in ned's face, and tried hard to rally her courage and laugh her tears away. after her fashion the poor little hurdy girl was as proud as any titled dame on earth, and since ned had not said that he loved her, she would try hard to keep her own pitiful little secret to herself. "don't look like that, ned. don't you know when i am acting. but, seriously, i am cross to-night. i wanted my gold, and i wanted to keep my play-fellow too. we have been such good friends--haven't we, ned?" it was no good. in spite of her that treacherous voice of hers would falter and break in a way quite beyond her control. flight seemed to her the only chance. "ach well, this is folly," she said. "_auf wiedersehen_, my friend," and she held out to him both her hands. it was a dead still evening, and just at that moment the horn of the pale young moon came up over the fringe of dark pine-trees and lit up lilla's sweet face, finding in it a grace and purity of outline which the daylight overlooked. but even the moonlight could add nothing to the tenderness of those honest blue eyes, which had grown so dim and misty in the last few minutes, or to the sweetness of that tender mouth, whose lips were so pitifully unsteady now. "_auf wiedersehen_" ned repeated after her. "_auf wiedersehen_, lilla,--we shall meet again." for a while he stood irresolute. what did shropshire or all the world indeed matter to him? he asked himself, and in another moment he might have spoken words which would surely have marred his own life and not made hers one whit happier. luckily just then a wild laugh broke the silence and recalled ned to himself. it was only the owl who laughed, but it sufficed. the dangerous charm of the silence was broken, and pressing the girl's hand to his lips he dashed away up the trail. steve chance and phon had made nearly four miles and begun to pitch camp whilst he was getting that map. chapter xx. the accursed river. this world is a world of contrasts, in which laughter and tears, darkness and light, unite to make the varied pattern of our lives. when ned corbett left lilla standing with tears which would not be denied upon her white cheeks, he felt as if he should never laugh again, and the ball in his throat rose as if it would choke him. in spite of the pace at which he strode through the moonlit forest aisles, his thoughts dwelt persistently upon the girl he had left behind him, or if they wandered at all from her, it was only to remind him of that snow-covered camp in the forest, at which he had taken his last farewell of that other true friend of his. and yet half an hour after he had wrung poor lilla's hands in parting, ned corbett stood watching his comrades, his sides aching with suppressed laughter. phon's voice was the first sound to warn ned that he had almost reached the camp, but phon and steve were both far too absorbed in the problem before them to notice his approach. "you sure you no savey tie 'um hitch?" asked the chinaman, who was standing with his hand upon the pack-ropes, whilst chance held the cayuse by the head. "no, phon, i no savey. you savey all right, don't you?" "i savey one side," replied the chinaman. "s'pose the ole man throw the lopes, i catch 'um and fix 'um, but i no savey throw 'um lopes." "what the devil are we to do then?" asked chance, looking helplessly at the pack and its mysterious arrangement of ropes. "if the old man does not overtake us to-night we can't start before he gets here to-morrow morning. i wonder what the deuce is keeping him?" phon gave a grunt of contempt at his white companion's want of intelligence. he had a way of looking upon steve as somewhat of an ignoramus. "what keep the ole man? you halo comtax anything, chance. young woman keep him of course. young woman always keep ole man long time, all same china. you bet i savey." "you bet you are a jolly saucy heathen, who wants kicking badly," laughed steve. "but say, if corbett does not come along, what _are_ you going to do with the packs?" "i fix 'um, you see," replied phon, suddenly brightening again and taking the pony by the head. "now then, you hold him there--hold him tight. he heap bad cayuse;" and phon handed the lead-rope to chance, whilst he himself swarmed nimbly up a bull-pine under which the pony now stood. a few feet from the ground (say seven or eight) a bare limb projected over the trail, from which the chinaman could just manage to reach the top of the packs, so as to tie them firmly to the bough upon which he stood. this done he descended again from his perch, hobbled the pack animal, and stood back to survey his work. he had tied up the pony's legs, and tied him up by his packs to a bull-pine. things looked fairly safe, but phon was not content. "you hold him tight!" he sung out; "s'pose he go now he smash everything." a minute later phon had undone the cinch and set the pack-saddle and its load free from the pony's back, and then picking up a big stake he hit the unfortunate cayuse a hearty good thump over the quarters, and bade him "git, you siwash!" the result was funny. a general separation ensued, in which--thanks to a pair of active heels--(horse's) a little blue bundle of chinese manufacture went in one direction, a hobbled cayuse went jumping away like a lame kangaroo in another, while the pack swung in all the mystery of its diamond hitch intact upon the bough of the bull-pine. it was a quaint method of off-saddling a pack-pony, but as phon explained when he had picked himself up again, it saved the trouble of fixing the packs next day. but such scenes as these are of more interest to those to whom packing is a part of their daily toils than to the average englishman. the ordinary traveller puts his luggage in the van, or has it put in for him, and glides over his journey at the rate of forty miles an hour without even seeing, very often, what kind of country he is passing through. it is quite impossible to travel quite as fast as this through cariboo even on paper; but i will make the journey as short as i can, though for phon and his friends it was weary work at first, with a pack-horse which would not be driven and could not be led. when the ordinary lead-rope had been tried and found useless, phon slipped a clove-hitch round the brute's lower jaw, after which he and corbett together led, throwing all their weight upon the rope and pulling for all they were worth. it seemed as if this must move even a mule; but its principal effect upon the "stud" was to make him sit down upon his quarters in regular tug-of-war fashion, rolling his eyes hideously, and squealing with rage. the application of motive power (by means of a thick stick) to his other end only elicited a display of heels, which whizzed and shot about steve's ears until he determined to "quit driving." after this the steed proceeded some distance of his own accord, and flattering terms were showered upon him. "after all he only wanted humouring," ned said; "horses were just alike all the world over. kindness coupled with quiet resolution was all that was necessary for the management of the most obstinate brute on earth." so spoke corbett, after the manner of englishmen, and the "stud" poked out his under lip and showed the whites of his eyes. he knew better than that, and for some time past had had his eye upon a gently sloping bank covered with young pines and some dead-fall. as he reached this he tucked in his tail, bucked to see if he could get his pack off, and failing in that let go with both heels at the man behind him, and then rolled over and over down the bank until he stuck fast amongst the fallen timber, where he lay contentedly nibbling the weeds, whilst his owners took off his packs and made other arrangements for his comfort, without which he pretended that it was absolutely impossible for him to get up again. this sort of thing soon becomes monotonous, and our amateur prospectors found that though they were doing a good deal of hard work they were not making two miles an hour. luckily for all concerned the "stud" died young, departing from this life on the third day out from antler, a victim to the evil effects of about a truss of poison weed which he had picked up in his frequent intervals for rest by the roadside. it was with a sigh of sincere relief that corbett and steve and phon portioned out the pack among them, and said adieu to their dead cayuse. whilst he lived they felt that they could not leave behind them an animal for which they had paid a hundred dollars, but now that he was dead they were free from such scruples, and proceeded upon their journey at a considerably increased rate of speed. flower-time was past in cariboo, and the whole forest was full of fruit. upon every stony knoll, where the sun's rays were reflected from white boulders or charred black stumps, there grew innumerable dwarf raspberry canes, bearing more fruit than leaves. by the side of the trail the broad-leaved salmon-berry held up its fruit of crimson velvet, just high enough for a man to pluck it without stooping, and every bush which steve and ned passed was loaded either with the purple of the huckle-berry or the clear coral red of the bitter soap-berry. best of all berries to ned's mind was that of a little creeper, the fruit of which resembled a small huckle-berry, and reminded the thirsty palate of the combined flavours of a pine-apple and a ribston pippin. altogether, what with the fool-hens and the grouse (which were too careful of their young to care properly for themselves) and the berries, it was evident to ned that no man need starve in the forests of cariboo in early autumn; but there were broad tracks through the long grass and traces amongst the ruined bushes of another danger to man's life every bit as real and as terrible as the danger of starvation. the fruit season is also the bear season, and the long sharp claw-marks in front of the track told corbett that the bears were not all black which used the trail at night and rustled in the dense bush by day. though they never had the luck to meet one, ned and steve had their eyes skinned and their rifles loaded for grizzly every day until they issued from the forest on to the bare lands above the frazer. as they could not get a canoe at soda creek they had to tramp down stream to chimney creek, where a few chinamen were washing for gold. these men, in return for some trifling gift of stores, took the party across the river, and so worked upon the mind of their fellow-countryman with stories of the great "finds" up stream of which they had heard that his eyes began to glisten with the same feverish light which had filled them at lillooet. the frazer had a peculiar fascination for phon, and no wonder, for there is something about this river unlike all other rivers--something which it owes neither to its size nor its beauty. the frazer looks like a river of hell, if hell has rivers. from where ned corbett stood, high up above the right bank, he could get glimpses of the river's course for some miles. everywhere the scene was the same, a yellow turbid flood, surging savagely along through a deep gully between precipitous mud bluffs, whose sides stained here and there with metallic colours--vivid crimson and bright yellow, made them look as if they had been poured hot and hissing from nature's cauldron, and that so recently that they had not yet lost the colours of their molten state. the rolling years are kind to most things, beautifying them with the soft tints of age or veiling them with gracious foliage, but the banks of the frazer still look raw and crude; the gentler things of earth will have nothing to do with the accursed river, in which millions of struggling salmon rot and die, while beside its waters little will grow except the bitter sage bush and the prickly pear. when corbett and chance reached chimney creek the fall run of salmon was at its height, and added, if possible, to the weird ugliness of the river. from mid-stream to either bank every inch of its surface was broken by the dorsal fins or broad tails of the travelling fish, while in the back waters, and under shelter of projecting rocks, they lay in such thousands that you could see the black wriggling mass from a point several hundred yards away. from the shingle down below you could if you chose kill salmon with stones, or catch them with your hands, but you could not walk without stepping on their putrefying bodies, which while they still lived and swam took the vivid crimson or sickly yellow of the frazer's banks. they looked (these lean leprous fish) as if they had swallowed the yellow poison of the river, and it was burning their bodies alive. and yet like the men their betters they still struggled up and up, reckless of all the dangers, though out of every hundred which went up the frazer not three would ever find their way back again to the strong wholesome silvery sea. the glutted eagles watched for them, the bears preyed upon them, indians speared them; they were too weak almost to swim; their bodies were rotting whilst they still lived, and yet they swam on, though their strength was spent and they rolled feebly in a flood through which, only a few months earlier, they would have shot straight and strong as arrows fresh loosed from the bow. gold and desolation and death, and a river that roared and rattled as if playing with dead men's bones; a brittle land, where the banks fell in and the ruined pines lay, still living, but with their heads down and their roots turned up to the burning sky; a land without flowers, jaundiced with gold and dry with desire for the fairer things of earth--this is what corbett saw, and seeing, he turned away with a shudder. "my god!" he said, "gold should grow there; nothing else will; even the fish rot in that hell broth!" "you aren't polite to father frazer, ned. so i will propitiate him;" and the yankee turned to the yellow river, and holding high a silver dollar he cried, "see here, old river, steve chance of n'york is dead broke except for this, and this he gives to you. take his all as an offering. the future he trusts to you." and so saying steve sent his last coin spinning out into the gully, where for a moment it glittered and then sunk and was lost, swallowed up in the waves of the great river, which holds in her bed more wealth than has ever been won from nature by the greed and energy of man. chapter xxi. pete's creek. for an hour steve and ned toiled steadily up the yellow banks, bluff rising above bluff and bench above bench, and all steep and all crumbling to the tread. the banks of the frazer may possess the charm of picturesqueness of a certain kind for the tourist to whom time is no object, and for whom others work and carry the packs, but they were hateful as the treadmill and a very path of thorns to the men who toiled up them carrying a month's provisions on their backs, and wearing worn-out moccasins upon their swollen, bleeding feet. it was with a sigh of heartfelt thankfulness that corbett and chance topped the last bench, and looked away to the west over the undulating forest plateau of chilcotin. men know chilcotin now, or partly know it, as the finest ranching country west of calgary, but in the days of which i am writing it was very little known, and steve and his friends looked upon the long reaches and prairies of yellow sun-dried grass, dotted here and there with patches of pine forest, as sailors might look upon the coast of some untrodden island. to steve and phon this yellow table-land was the region of fairy gold. it was somewhere here that the yellow stuff which all men love lay waiting for man to find it. surely it was something more than the common everyday sun which made those chilcotin uplands so wondrously golden! so thought steve and phon. to ned all was different. as far as the eye could see a thousand trails led across the bluffs, gradually fading away in the distance. they were but cattle trails--the trails of the wild cattle of those hills--blacktail deer and bighorn sheep, but to ned they were paths along which the feet of murder had gone, and his eye rested on the dark islands of pine, as if he suspected that the man he sought lurked in their shadow. "well, ned, which is the way? let's look at the map," said chance. ned produced the map, and together the two men bent over it. "the trail should run south-west from the top of this ridge, until we strike what old pete calls here a 'good-sized chunk of a crik.' that is our first landmark. 'bear south-west from the big red bluff,' he says--and there's the bluff," and ned pointed to a big red buttress of mud upon the further bank of the frazer. "that's so, ned, but i can see another big red bluff, and there are any number of trails leading more or less south-west," replied chance. "well, let's take the biggest," suggested corbett, and no one having any better plan to propose, his advice was taken. for some time all went well. the trail was plain enough for a blind man to follow, and the walking, after that which they had experienced in the forest and along the banks of the frazer, was almost a pleasure to them. unfortunately there were a few drawbacks to the pleasures of travel even in chilcotin. in cariboo and up the frazer the indians had already learnt that the white man's rifle could kill nearly as far as a man could see, and they respected the white men, or feared them, which did as well. but in chilcotin the red men were untamed (they are less tamed still, probably, than any indians on the pacific coast), and it was necessary for ned and his friends to take care lest they should blunder unasked into some hunter's camp. this upon the evening of their first day upon these table-lands they very nearly did, but as luck would have it, they saw the thin column of blue smoke winding up from a clump of pines just in time, and slunk away into the bed of pete's "good-sized chunk of a crik," where they lay without a fire until the dawn of the next day. luckily for them the nights were still fairly warm as high-land nights go, but after sundown the air is always fresh upon these high tablelands, and no one was sorry when the day broke. the expedition, steve chance opined, had ceased to be "a picnic." food was becoming somewhat scarce, and already ned in his capacity of leader had put them upon rations of one tin cupful of flour per diem, two rashers of bacon, and a little tea. a cupful of flour means about four good-sized slices of bread, and although a man can live very well upon two slices of bread for breakfast and two at dinner, with a rasher of bacon and a little weak tea at each meal, and nothing between meals except twelve hours' hard work in the open air, he ought not to be sneered at if he feels a craving for some little luxury in the way of sugar or butter, or even another slice of bread. every now and then, it is true, something fell to one of the rifles; but they dared not shoot much for fear of attracting the attention of wandering indians, and besides it is astonishing how little game men see upon the march. you can march or hunt, but it is difficult to both march and hunt successfully at the same time. on the third day upon the chilcotin table-lands, the trail which the prospectors had been following "played out." for four or five miles it had grown fainter and fainter, and now the party stood out in the middle of a great sea of sunburnt grass, with no road before them and no land-marks to guide them. "i'll tell you what it is, steve, we have rather made a mess of this journey. it seems to me that unless there is something wrong with the sun we have been bearing too much to the west. it looks as if we were going a point to the north of west, instead of south-west, as we intended to do," said ned after a careful survey of their position. "likely enough," assented his companion. "i don't see how a fellow is to keep his course amongst all these ups and downs. besides, we followed the trail." "yes, and the trail has played out. i expect it was only a watering trail, though it is funny that it seems to start out of the middle of nowhere. let's steer by the sun and go nearly due south. we must hit off the chilcotin in that way." "what, the chilcotin river? yes, that seems a good idea. lead on, macduff!" so it was that with his companion's assent ned turned nearly south, and hour after hour strode on in silence over the yellow downs, until the sun had sank below the horizon. "it's time to camp, ned," cried steve, who had fallen a good deal behind his companions; "and that is rather a snug-looking hollow on our left. we should be sheltered from that beastly cold night-wind in there. what do you say?" "all right, if you must stop," replied ned, looking forward regretfully. "but ought we not to make another mile or two before we camp?" "you can do what you please, but i cain't crawl another yard, and don't mean to try to. bring yourself to an anchor, ned, and let's have grub." of course ned yielded. it was no good going on alone. "say, ned," cried steve a few minutes later, "we aren't the first to camp here. look at this." "this" was the carcase of a mule-deer, which lay in the hollow in which steve wanted to camp. "well, old chap, that spoils your hollow, i'm afraid. it is too high to be pleasant as a bed-fellow. by jove, look here!" and stooping, ned picked up the empty shell of a winchester cartridge. "the fellow who killed that deer has camped right alongside his kill," remarked steve. "see here, he has cut off a joint to carry away with him;" and steve pointed to where a whole quarter had evidently been neatly taken off with a knife. "it's some indian, i reckon, out hunting." "no, that is no indian's work, steve. an indian would have cleaned his beast, and even if he did not mean to come back for the meat he would have severed the joints and laid them neatly side by side. it is almost a part of his religion to treat what he kills with some show of respect. the man who slept here was a white man." "cruickshank?" suggested steve. "yes, i think so," replied ned quietly. "but he must have been here some weeks ago." "great scott! then we'll get the brute yet." "we may, but he has a long start of us, and the grub is getting very light to carry;" and ned lifted his little pack and weighed it thoughtfully. and ned was right, the man had a long start of them. from the evening upon which they found the ungralloched stag to the end of the month corbett and his friends wandered about day after day looking for pete's creek or cruickshank, but found neither. they had reached the chilcotin of course, and on its banks had been lucky enough to kill one of a band of sheep, upon which they lived for some days, but they could find no traces of that stream which, according to the old miner, flowed over a bed of gold into the river. they had washed pansful of dirt from a score of good-sized streams, and phon had let no rill pass him without peering into it and examining a little of the gravel over which its waters ran, but so far the gold-seekers had not found anything which seemed likely to pay even moderate daily wages. neither had they found anywhere traces of cruickshank. between the dead stag and the chilcotin they had come across two or three camps, probably the camps of the man who had killed that stag, but even corbett began to doubt if the man could be a white man. whoever he was he had worn moccasins, had had but one pack animal with him, and there were no scraps of paper, or similar trifles, ever left about the camps to show that he had carried with him any of the scanty luxuries which even miners sometimes indulge in. it was odd that he left no indian message in his old camps--no wooden pegs driven in by the dead camp-fire, with their heads bent the way he was going. but this proved nothing. he might be a white or he might be an indian. in either case it looked as if, after hunting on the left bank of the chilcotin, he had crossed to the other bank as if making for empire valley, and, knowing as much as he knew about the position of pete's creek, cruickshank would hardly have been likely to leave the left bank. ned began to fear that his quest was as hopeless as steve's. it was a chill, dark evening, with the first menace of winter in the sky, when ned announced that the grub would not hold out more than another week. "we have made it go as far as possible, and of course if we kill anything we can live on meat 'straight' again for a time, but i think, steve, we have hunted this country pretty well for pete's creek, and we may as well give it up," said ned. "and how about cruickshank? do you think he has cleared out, or do you think he has never been here?" "i don't know what to think, but i expect we shall come across old rampike on the frazer, and i shall stop and hunt with him." that word "hunt" has an ugly sound when the thing to be hunted is a man like yourself, and steve looked curiously into ned's face. would he never get tired and give up the chase, this quiet man who looked as if he had no malice in his nature, and yet stuck to his prey with the patience of a wolf? "what do you propose, ned? fix things your own way. i am sick of dry bread and sugarless tea, anyway." corbett laughed. he thought to himself that had he been as keen after the gold as steve had been, he would hardly have remembered that the tea had no sugar in it. phon, to his mind, was a much better stamp of gold-seeker than his volatile yankee friend. "all right! if you leave it to me, i propose that we go down to the frazer, following the chilcotin to its mouth, and prospecting the sources of all these little streams as we go. you see, so far we have only been low down near the bed of the chilcotin. what i propose to do now, is to keep along the divide where the streams rise. at any rate we shall see more game up there than down here." "_nawitka_ and _hyas sloosh_, as the siwashes say. any blessed thing you please, ned, only let us get out of this before we starve. what do you say, phon?" "very good, not go yet," replied the chinaman. "s'pose not find gold down low, find him high up." "phon sticks to his guns better than you do, steve," remarked corbett. "i daresay. a herring-gutted chinaman may be able to live on air. i cain't." but the morrow brought phon the reward of his faith, and twenty-four hours from the time when steve chance had asked only to be allowed to "get out of the confounded country by the shortest road," he would not have left it for ten thousand dollars. this was how it happened. about mid-day, the sun being unusually hot, a halt had been called to smoke the mid-day pipe and rest legs wearied with the steep climb from the river bed to the crest of the divide. "don't you think, ned, we might be allowed a square inch of damper for lunch to-day? we are going back now, and i am starving," said steve. "all right. half a damper among the three if you like, but not a mouthful more." even this was more than he had hoped for, so steve chewed the heavy damp morsel carefully; not that he distrusted the powers of his digestion, but because he was anxious to make the most of every crumb of his scanty repast. just below where the three were sitting grew a patch of orange-coloured indian pinks. "i guess there's water not far from those flowers," remarked steve, "and i want a drink badly before i light my pipe." dry bread is apt to stick in a man's gullet however hungry he may be, so that the three went down together, and found that, as steve suspected, the pinks were growing in a damp spot, from which oozed a tiny rill, which, as they followed it, grew and grew until the rapidity of its growth roused their curiosity, and led them on long after they had found the drinking-place they sought. all at once it seemed as if the stream had been augmented by water from some subterranean source, for its volume grew at a bound from that of a rill to that of a good-sized mountain stream, which gurgled noisily through the mosses for a few hundred yards, and then plunged through a cleft in the rocks to reappear, three or four hundred feet below, a dark rapid mountain-torrent, running between walls of wet black rock. "it is a queer-looking place, isn't it, steve? any fellow might go all over this country and miss seeing that creek. i wonder if it is worth while climbing down that place to prospect it?" but whilst the strongest stood doubting, the weakest of the party had scrambled like a cat over the rocks, and could now be seen on his knees by the brink of the dark waters, washing as he had never washed before. at last the little blue figure sprang to its feet, and waving its arms wildly, yelled: "_chicamon! chicamon!_ me find him. _hyóu chicamon!_" (_anglice_ heaps of money). diphtheria, cholera, the black death itself, rapid though they are in their spread, and appalling though they are in their strength, are sluggish and weak compared to the gold fever. in one moment, at that cry of "chicamon! chicamon!" (money! money!), chance had recovered from his fatigue, corbett had awakened from his dreams of vengeance, and both together were scrambling recklessly down the rocks to the pool, beside which phon was again kneeling, washing the golden dirt. in spite of his native phlegm and his professed disregard for gold, ned corbett actually jostled his companions in his eagerness to get to the water; and though his pet pipe dropped from his mouth and broke into a hundred pieces, he never seemed to know what had happened to him. when phon washed his first panful of dirt in pete's creek it was broad noon; when ned corbett straightened his back with a sigh and came back for a moment almost to his senses, it was too dark to see the glittering specks in their pans any longer. from noon to dusk they had toiled like galley slaves, without a thought of time, or fatigue, or hunger, and yet two of these were weak, tired men, and the third, under ordinary circumstances, really had quite a beautiful contempt for the sordid dollar. when corbett looked at the gleaming yellow stuff, and realized what power it had suddenly exerted over him, he actually felt afraid of it. there was something uncanny about it. but there was no longer any doubt about pete's creek. they had struck it this time, and no mistake; and if there was much "dirt" like that which they had been washing since noon, a few months of steady work would make all three rich men for life. in most places which they had seen, the gold had been found in dust: here it was in flakes and scales, as big as the scales upon the back of a chub. in most places a return of a few cents to the pan would have been considered "good enough:" here the return was not in cents but in dollars, and yet even now what was this which phon the chinaman was saying, his features working as if he were going into an epileptic fit? "this nothing, nothing at all! you wait till to-mollow. then we see gold,--heap gold not all same this, but in _lumps_!" and he got up and walked about, nodding his head and muttering: "you bet you sweet life! heap gold! you bet you sweet life!" whilst the red firelight flickered over his wizened features, and dwelt in the corners of his small dark eyes, until he resembled one of those quaint chinese devils of whom he stood so much in awe. as far as ned and his companions could calculate, their first seven hours' work had yielded them something like a thousand dollars-worth of pure gold; and already ned corbett almost regretted the price he had paid for it, as he listened to the eager, crazy chatter of his companions, and tried in vain to put together the good old pipe which he had shattered in his rush for that yellow metal, which gleamed evilly, so ned thought, from the tin pannikin upon chance's knee. there was another thing which corbett could not forget. it was true that they had found pete's creek and the gold, but there was no trace of cruickshank. chapter xxii. gold by the gallon! after the finding of pete's creek there was no more talk of returning to the frazer. in corbett's camp the reign of gold had begun, so that no man spoke of anything or thought of anything but the yellow metal. gold was a god to all the three of them, and phon and chance and corbett alike bowed their backs and worshipped, grovelling on their knees and toiling with pick and pan and rocker all the day long. only corbett rebelled at all against the tyranny of the strange god, and he rebelled in thought only. each day, in his heart, he swore should be the last which he would waste down by the creek, and yet every fresh dawn found him at his place with the others. luckily for the gold-seekers, pete's creek was rich in other things besides mere gold. trout abounded in the water, and huckle-berries grew thick some little distance down stream; and in addition to these good things corbett soon discovered that the trails which ran thread-like over the face of the cliffs above pete's creek owed their existence to the feet of generations upon generations of white goats--staid stolid brutes, with humps upon their backs, little black horns upon their heads, wide frills to their hairy pantaloons, and beards worn as seafaring men used to wear them, all round their chins and cheeks. these were the aborigines of pete's creek, and were if anything more confiding and more easily killed than the trout. every morning at early dawn the gold-seekers saw the goats clambering slowly back to the lairs, in which they hid during the daytime, and just after dark the rattling stones told them that their neighbours were on their way down again to the lowlands. whenever ned wanted one for the pot, the stalk was a very simple thing, the goat standing looking at the approaching gunner with stony indifference, until a bullet rolled him over. food was plentiful enough about the creek, and ned was able to lay aside what little flour remained, keeping it until the time came when winter should make a move to some lower camping ground an absolute necessity. so then the three had nothing to do but to gather up the gold-dust, and add pile to pile and bag to bag of the precious metal. all worked with energy, but no one with such tireless patience, such feverish vigour, as the little chinaman. compared to him chance was a sluggard, and even corbett's strength was no match for the ceaseless activity of this withered, yellow little mortal, whose bones stared through his skin, and whose eyes seemed to be burning away their sockets. the stars as they faded in the morning sky saw phon come down to work; the sun at mid-day beat upon his head but could not drive him away from his rocker; and night found him discontented because the hours in which man can labour are so few and so short. as long as phon could see the "colours" in his pan he stuck to his work, and when he could see no longer he carried his treasure to camp and kept it within reach of him, and if possible under the protection of ned and ned's rifle. even in the night season this slave of gold took no rest. in victoria in old days the devils used to come to him, and tell him all manner of things--when to gamble and when not to gamble, for instance; now they haunted him, and filled him with fears lest someone else should snatch his treasure from him. in spite of the absolute stillness which reigned round the creek, phon believed that he was watched day and night, nor could corbett's rough rebukes or chance's chaff shake him in this belief. twice he woke up, screaming that someone was taking away the gold, and once he swore positively that he had seen a face looking at him as he washed the rich dirt--a face which peered at him from the bushes, and disappeared without a sound before he could identify it. there were no tracks, so of course phon was dreaming; but perhaps, even if there had been anyone watching from the place at which phon saw the face, he would not have left a very distinct track, as the rock just there was as hard and unimpressionable as adamant. corbett, as he watched his servant muttering to himself and glancing nervously over his shoulder at every wind which stirred in the bush, felt convinced that the gold had turned his brain. and yet in some things phon was sane enough. it happened that there was, in a sudden bend of the stream, a great boulder, which broke the course of the water, and sent it boiling and gurgling in two small streams about the boulder's base. from the very first this boulder fascinated phon. for centuries it had stood in the same place, until green things had grown upon it, and gray lichens had spread over it. it was a favourite resting-place for the white-breasted dipper on his way up stream; the fish used to lie in the shelter of it, where their struggle against the water need not be so severe, or to wait for the food which was washed off its piers and buttresses: and sometimes even the deer would come and stand knee-deep in the stream, to rub the velvet off their horns against its angles. but phon the chinaman had guessed a secret which the old rock had kept for centuries--a secret which neither the birds nor the fish nor the deer, nor even those wise white-bearded patriarchs, the goats, had ever heard a whisper of. that rock was set in gold, and phon knew it. year by year the pebbles and the gravel and disintegrated rock were washed lower and lower down the bed of the stream, and all the while the gold kept sinking and staying, whilst the gravel and sand went on. but even gold must move, however slowly, in the bed of a rapid stream, and at last golden sand and flakes and nuggets all came to the bend where phon's rock stood. here the gold stopped. gravel might rest for a while, and then rattle on again; pebbles and boulders might be torn away from their anchorage under the lee of the rock by the eager waters, but gold never. once there phon knew it would stay, clinging to the bottom, and even working under the rock itself. knowing this phon looked at the rock, and greed and discontent tortured him beyond endurance. he had already amassed far more gold than he could possibly spend upon the paltry pleasures he cared for; but he loved the yellow metal for itself, not for the things it can purchase, and this being so, he proceeded to match his cunning against the strength of the rock. first he gathered great piles of quick burning wood from the banks and piled them upon his victim as if he would offer a sacrifice to mammon, and this he set fire to, bringing fresh supplies of wood as his fire burnt low. after a while the rock beneath the fire grew to a white heat, and then by means of a wooden trough which he had made, phon turned a stream of cold water from the creek upon the place where the fire had been, and these things he continued to do for many days, until at last the giant yielded to the pigmy, and the great boulder, which for centuries had withstood the force of the stream in flood-time and the grinding ice in winter, began to break up and melt away before the cunning of a wizened, yellow-skinned imp from china. about this time, and before the rock was finally split up and removed, phon suggested that it would be better to try to divert the stream from its bed at some point just above the rock, so that they might be able to get at the gold when the boulder had been removed. to do this flumes had to be made, and axes were in request to hew them out. at the first mention of axes steve became uneasy. there had been two axe-heads in the outfit originally, and he had been intrusted with one of them, and had lost it. "i know i had it in the last camp," he asserted. "then you had better go back for it; the last camp is only about five hours' tramp from here. or if you think that you can't find your way to it, i will go," remarked corbett. "i can find my way all right," replied chance in an injured tone, nettled at the implied slur upon his woodcraft; "but do you think it is worth while going back for it?" "certainly. you could no doubt make a hundred dollars here in the time it will take you to get that axe, but a hundred dollars would not buy us an axe-head at pete's creek." this argument being unanswerable, steve took the back track, and after being away from camp all day, returned about sundown with the missing axe and an old buckskin glove. "so you found the axe, i see?" was corbett's greeting when the two met. "yes, i found it; i knew to a dot where i left it. but it was deuced careless to leave it anyway, wasn't it? by the way, you did not leave anything behind you in that camp, did you?" "no, not i. i always go round camp before leaving to look for things. i only wonder that i did not see your axe." "oh, you wouldn't do that, i left it sticking in a cotton-wood tree a quarter of a mile from camp. but didn't you leave your 'mitts' behind?" "no, my dear chap. i tell you i don't leave things behind. here are my mitts;" and the speaker drew from his pocket a pair of buckskin gloves much frayed and worn. "then who in thunder is the owner of this?" exclaimed chance, holding up a single glove very similar in make to those which corbett wore. "your own glove, i expect, steve, isn't it? i haven't seen you wearing any lately, and one wants them pretty badly amongst these rocks. you thought that you had caught me tripping, did you, my boy?" and ned laughed heartily at his companion's crest-fallen appearance. "no, ned, this isn't mine," replied steve seriously. "see here, it would hold both my hands." "that is odd. where did you find it, steve?" and taking the glove in his hands ned examined it carefully. "you can't tell how long it has been out," he muttered, "the chipamuks or some other little beasts have gnawed the fingers; but the only wonder is that they haven't destroyed it altogether. where did you say you found it?" "about a quarter of a mile from camp. a bear has been round the camp since we were there, and i was following his trail for a bit to see what i could make of it when i came across this." "was it a grizzly's or a black bear's track which you followed?" "i couldn't make out. the ground was hard, and i'm not much good at tracking. i could hardly be sure that it was a bear's track at all." "it wasn't a man's track by any chance?" "confound it, ned, i am not such an infernal fool as you seem to think. yesterday you suggested that i couldn't find my way to the old camp, and now you ask me whether i know a bear's track from a man's." "don't lose your temper about it, old fellow. a man's track is very like a bear's, especially if the man wears moccasins and the ground is at all hard. of course if you are certain that what you saw were bears' tracks there's an end of it. after all, this glove may have been where you found it since last summer. it might have been pete's perhaps." and so the matter dropped and the glove was forgotten, for there were many things to occupy the attention of ned and steve in those days; and as for phon, he never even heard of the glove, being busy at the time upon some engineering work in connection with that great boulder of his at the bend in the stream. for several days the chinaman had ceased to wash or dig, all his time being devoted to preparations for the removal of the boulder, and at last, one morning, when the gully was full of the pent smoke of his fires, he was ready for the last act in his great work, and came to corbett and chance for help. on the top of the rock were the ashes of phon's fires, and at its feet, where once the waters ran, was dry ground, while from summit to base the rock itself was split into a hundred pieces, so small as to offer no serious difficulties to the united efforts of the three men who wanted to remove them. for centuries the rock had stood upon a kind of shelf, from which the three men, using a pine-pole as a lever, pitched one great fragment after another until the whole of the rock's bed lay bare. then for a moment they paused, while the smoke drifted about them, and the corded veins stood out strangely upon their pale faces. surely they were dreaming, or their eyes were tricked by the smoke! phon had guessed that the boulder had caught and held some portion of the gold which had come down the mountain stream in the course of the last few centuries, but the sight upon which he gazed now was such as even he had only dreamed of when the opium had possession of him body and soul. the bed of the boulder was a bed of gold--gold in flakes and lumps and nuggets; gold in such quantities that as steve and ned looked at it a doubt stole into their minds. surely, they thought, it cannot be for this common, ugly stuff, of which there is so much, that men toil and strive, live and die, and are damned! [illustration: "gold--gold in flakes, and lumps, and nuggets."] the wet pebbles amongst which the gold lay were twice as beautiful, and as ned wiped the perspiration from his brow he thought that a quart of gold would be but a small price to pay for a quart of honest bass. but phon had no such fancies. with a wild cry, like the cry of a famished beast, the chinaman threw himself into the hollow he had cleared, clawing and scratching at the gold with his long, lean hands until his nails were all broken and his flesh torn and bleeding. nor was chance far behind phon in the scramble. together the two delved and scratched and picked about the bed-rock, amassing little piles and stacks of nuggets from the size of a pea to the size of a hen's egg, and so busy were they and so intent upon their labour that neither of them noticed corbett, who after phon's first wild cry had turned away in disgust, and now sat solemnly smoking on a log by the camp-fire. taking his pipe from his mouth, he blew away a long wreath of fragrant smoke, and as he watched it dissolve in space his thoughts fashioned themselves into these strange words: "confound your gold anyway! i don't want any more of it in my share of life's good things." chapter xxiii. the hornet's nest. after the removal of phon's boulder there was no more talk of washing with pan or rocker, no more thought of digging or mining. even chance and phon were content with the quantity of gold which lay ready to their hands at pete's creek. the only trouble was that at pete's creek the yellow stuff was absolutely worthless, and that between pete's creek, where the gold lay, and those cities of men in which gold is of more value than anything else upon earth, were several hundred miles of wild country, where a man might be lost in the forest, or drowned in the river, or starved on the mountain, just like a beggarly _coyoté_, and that although he was richer than a rothschild. steve had heard of men in cariboo who had paid others ten dollars a day to carry their gold-dust for them, and he would gladly have done as much himself; but, unluckily, the only men within reach of him were as rich as he was, and wanted help just as badly. so steve joined corbett and phon, and the three men sat together looking down upon as much wealth as would buy the life-long labour, aye, the very bodies and souls, of a hundred ordinary men, and yet they were conscious that it was about even betting that they would all three die beggars--die starving for want of a loaf of bread, though each man carried round his waist the price of a score of royal banquets! steve was the first to break the silence. pointing away over the rolling forest lands, towards the bed of the frazer river, he said: "it looks pretty simple, ned, and i guess we could get there and back in a week." "do you? you would be a good woodsman if you got to the river in a week, and a better one if you ever found your way back here at all." "how's that? you don't mean to say that you think it possible that we shall lose the creek again now that we have found it?" "we ought not to, steve, but that is a bad country to get through and an easy one to get lost in;" and corbett's eyes dwelt mistrustingly upon the dark, dense woods, the deep gullies, the impervious stretches of _brûlé_, and the choking growth of young pines which lay between the knoll upon which they sat and the distant benches of the frazer river. "well what had we better do, ned? if we don't take care we shall get caught in a cold snap before we know where we are." "we had better leave here to-morrow morning, i think, steve, carrying all the gold we can with us, and make straight for the frazer. there we may meet some miners going out for the winter, and if they have not struck it rich themselves they may be willing to pack the stuff out for us. if not, we must look for old rampike and wait for the spring." "what! and put up with nearly another year of this dog's life with all _that_ lying there?" "i'm afraid so, steve. you can't order a special train from here to new york though you are a millionaire." for a little while steve chance sat moodily biting at the stem of his unlit pipe, and then he asked corbett-- "are you going to join rampike for his fall hunt, ned?" "certainly. why not?" "oh, i don't know, only i thought that you might have changed your mind;" and chance's eyes wandered round to the pile of gold nuggets over which phon kept guard. "that can make no difference, steve. i don't want what cruickshank stole from me. i want to settle with him for my countryman's life." "much good that will do poor old roberts. but as you please. we are all mad upon one subject or another. do you still think that cruickshank is somewhere hereabouts?" "i don't think that he is on this side of the river or we should have come across his tracks before now, but i fancy he is somewhere in this chilcotin country." "you don't think that that glove could have been his?" "you said that there were no men's tracks anywhere near it, so i suppose not." "that's so; but i've seen some of your tracks since, ned, which looked awfully like those bear tracks. i'm hanged if i know whether they were bear tracks after all!" "it is a pity you were so positive about them at first then. but it is too late now in any case. if the tracks were made by cruickshank he is far enough from here by now." again the conversation ceased for a time, the only sound being the rattle of pete's creek in the dark gorge below. "it is a pity the goats have all cleared out. don't you think you could find one, ned, before we start?" asked chance at length. "no, i'm certain that i could not. we must be content with trout (if phon can catch any), and the flour which i saved when we struck the creek." "ah, i had forgotten that. is there much of it?" "about half a pound apiece _per diem_ for a week." "short commons for a hungry man, especially as the berries are nearly all gone." "it _will_ be hungry work for us until we reach the frazer, but there is a little goat's meat left and the fish." "say, phon, you think you catch plenty fish by to-morrow?" "s'pose you come 'long an' help i catch 'em," replied phon. "all right, i'll come. how much gold you pack along with you, phon?" steve added as the three went down to the creek to fish. "me halo pack any," was phon's unexpected reply. "halo pack any! why, don't you want any gold?" "yes, me want him, but me not pack any. me not go to-mollow. me stop here!" "stop here! what, alone! how about the devils?" poor phon glanced nervously over his shoulder. the shadows were growing deeper and deeper amongst the pine stems, and the trees were creaking and groaning with a little wind which generally rose about sundown. "s'pose you want find men carry gold to victollia, one man go catch 'em. one man plenty. s'pose two man stop here, that heap good. no one steal 'um gold then," and the speaker pointed to the bags of dust. "nonsense, phon. who do you suppose would take the gold?" "debil take him; debil take him, sure. debil watch him all the time. s'pose all go, debil take him quick." "well, i'm afraid your friend the devil will take the stuff to-morrow morning, for to-morrow morning we all leave this place. you had better pack as much dust as you can carry if you are afraid to leave it." "no. me halo pack any. s'pose all go, me stop 'lone." it was a resolute reply in spite of the man's frightened face, and the tone of it arrested ned's attention. "have you ever really seen anyone about the camp?" he asked. "no, me halo see him, me halo see him. only me know him there. all the time he go lound an' lound and look at the gold and come closer. me halo see him, me feel him looking all the time. stop here, misser ned, stop here." "the gold has made you crazy, phon," said ned, somewhat contemptuously, disregarding the piteous appeal in the man's tone and gesture. "however, if you like to stay, it will do no harm. you can catch plenty of fish, and we shall be back in a fortnight or so." and then turning to steve, ned added, in a lower tone: "he'll change his mind when he sees us start, and if he doesn't we cannot drag him through that country against his will." that night the three discoverers of pete's creek worked as hard to collect a store of little trout as they had ever worked to gather gold, and at dawn two of the three stood ready to start on their march to the frazer. in spite of all ned's persuasions phon remained firm in his resolution to stay with his treasure. for him the woods were devil-haunted; articulate voices whispered in every wind; faces of fear were reflected from every starlit pool; and yet, in spite of all the terrors which walk at night, phon refused to leave his gold. in him greed was stronger even than fear. "he will be raving mad before we get back," muttered ned, as he gazed at the frail blue figure crouching over the camp-fire; "but what can we do? we can't 'pack' the fellow along with us." "no, we cain't do that," replied steve. "poor beggar! i wouldn't be in his shoes for all the gold in the creek." and as he stared in a brown study at the charred stumps and rough white woodwork in that gloomy canyon, at the broken rock and the dead fires, chance began unconsciously to hum the air of "the old pack-mule." "confound you, steve," cried corbett angrily, "stop that! isn't it bad enough to hear the winds crooning that air all night, and the waters of the creek keeping time to it? shut up, for heaven's sake, and come along!" and without waiting for an answer ned turned his back upon the gold camp and plunged boldly into the woods between it and the frazer. it had been arranged that corbett should go ahead with the rifle, and that chance should follow him with an axe. "any fool can blaze a tree, but it takes a quick man to roll over a buck on the jump," had been steve's verdict, and he had allotted to himself the humbler office. from the moment they left camp until nightfall, it seemed to steve that he and his companion did nothing but step over or crawl under logs of various sizes and different degrees of slipperiness. to follow the sinuous course of a mountain stream through a pine-forest may look easy enough from a distance, but in reality to do so at all closely is almost impossible. as for pete's creek, it ran through a deep and narrow canyon, the walls of which were precipitous rocks, along which no man could climb. the bed of the creek for the most part was choked with great boulders, amongst which the water broke and foamed, rendering wading impossible; and along the edges of the canyon up at the top the pines grew so thick, or the dead-falls were so dense, that it was all ned could do to keep within hearing of the creek. the constant forking of the stream made careful blazing very necessary, and this took time, and the course of the stream was so tortuous that they had frequently to walk four miles to gain one in the direction in which they wanted to go, so that when at last they reached a bare knoll, from which they could look out over the forest, it seemed to ned and steve that the frazer valley was no nearer, and the crawling folds of the great chilcotin mountains no more distant than they had been at dawn. but the folds of the mountains were already full of inky gloom, and it was evident that a stormy night was close at hand, so that whether they had made many miles or few upon their way, it was imperatively necessary to camp at once. almost before the fire had been lighted night fell, a night of intense darkness and severe cold, a cold which seemed to be driven into the tired travellers by a shrill little wind, which got up and grew and grew until the great pines began to topple down by the dozen. from time to time one or other of the sleepers would wake with a shiver and collect fresh fuel for the dying fire, or rearrange the log which he had laid at his back to keep the wind off; but in spite of every effort the night was a weary and a sleepless one both for ned and steve, and in the morning, winter, the miner's deadliest foe, had come. for a month or more yet there might not be any serious snowfall, but the first flakes of snow were melting upon corbett's clothes when he got up for the last time that night and found that the dawn had come. far away upon the distant crest of the black mountains at his back, ned saw the delicate lace-work of the first snow-storm of the year like a mantilla upon the head of some stately spanish beauty. "by jove, steve, we have no time to lose," said ned. "look at that!" and he pointed to the mountains. "if this is going to be an early winter, phon is a lost man." "lead on, ned," replied steve, "i'll follow you as long as my legs will let me, but if you can find any way of avoiding those dead-falls to-day, do so. nature never meant me for a squirrel or a blondin." "the only other way if you don't like balancing along these logs is down there over these boulders, and the water there is thigh-deep in places, and cold as ice;" and corbett pointed to the bed of the creek a hundred feet below. "let's try it for a change, ned, it cain't be worse than this," panted steve, who at the moment was crawling on his hands and knees through a mesh-work of burnt roots and rampikes. "all right, come along," said ned, and using their hands more than their feet, the two men crept down the rock wall of the canyon until they reached the bed of the creek. here things went fairly well with them at first. the water was icy cold, but their limbs were so bruised and feverish that the cold water was pleasant to them; and though the boulders over which they had to climb were slippery and hard to fall against, they were not more slippery and very little harder than the logs above. after two or three miles of wading, however, steve's limbs began to get too numbed with cold to carry him any further, and a return to dry land became necessary. looking up for some feasible way out of the trap into which they had fallen, ned at last caught sight of what appeared to be fairly open country along the edge of the canyon, and of a way up the rock wall which, though difficult, was not impossible. "here we are, steve," he cried as soon as he saw the opening. "here's an open place and a fairly easy way to it. come along, let's get out of this freezing creek;" and so saying he went at the rock wall and began to scramble up like a cat. steve was either too tired or too deliberate to follow his friend at once, and in this instance it was well for him that he was so, for a second glance showed him a far easier way to the upper edge of the canyon than the direct route taken by ned. clambering slowly up by the easier way of the two, steve was surprised not to find ned waiting for him when he at length gained the top of the rocks, and still more surprised when, after waiting for some minutes, he heard a faint voice below him calling him by name. "steve! steve!" cried the voice. "what is it, and where are you, ned?" answered chance. "here, underneath you. look sharp and lend me a hand, i can't hold on much longer!" by ned's tones his need was urgent, and yet chance could not get a glimpse of him anywhere. dropping on to his knees and crawling to the edge, steve leaned over until half his body was beyond the edge of the cliff. then he saw his friend, but even then he did not comprehend his peril. the rock wall at the point at which ned had tried to scale it ended in a kind of coping, which now projected over his head; but as if to make amends for this, a stout little juniper bush offered the climber a convenient hand-rail by which to swing himself up on to the top. and yet with the juniper within reach of him, there hung ned corbett yelling for help. "why don't you get hold of the bush, ned, and haul yourself up? i cain't reach you from here," cried steve. "daren't do it!" came the short answer. "there's a hornet's nest on it!" and as ned spoke steve caught sight of a great pear-shaped structure of dry mud which hung from the bush over the creek. "well, get down and come round my way." "can't do it. i can't get back," answered ned, who, like many another climber, had managed to draw himself up by his hands to a spot from which descent was impossible. at that moment, whilst steve was devising some kind of extempore ladder or rope, there was a rattle of falling stones, and a cry: "look out, steve, catch hold of me if you can!" and as the frail hold of his hands and feet gave way, ned made a desperate spring and clutched wildly at the very bough from which that innocent-looking globe of gray mud hung. the next moment, at the very first oscillation of their home, out rushed a host of furious-winged warriors straight for corbett's face. luckily for him steve had clutched him by the wrist, and though the sudden attack of the hornets upon his eyes made ned himself let go his hold, his friend managed to maintain his until, amid a perfect storm of angry wings and yellow bodies, the two lay together upon the top of the cliff. if steve had let go at that moment when the hornets rushed out to war, ned corbett must have fallen back upon the rocks at the bottom of the canyon, and there would have been an end to all his troubles. as it was he lay upon the top of the cliffs, and realized that the worst of his troubles were but beginning. "are you much stung, steve?" he asked. "you bet i am, ned. look! that would hardly go into an eight-and-a-half lavender kid now," and steve held out his right hand, which was already much swollen. but ned did not take any notice of it. instead he pressed his hands against his eyes and writhed with pain, and when steve laid his hand on him he only muttered: "my god! my god! steve, how will you and phon ever find your way out? i am stone blind!" chapter xxiv. drowning in the forest. perhaps no two men were ever in more desperate plight than were steve chance and ned corbett as they lay upon the edge of pete's creek canyon in the chilcotin country on that d of october, . for a week at least they had been living upon very meagre rations, made up principally of brook trout and berries; for a day and a half they had been stumbling hurriedly through one of the densest mountain forests in british columbia; and now, when chance's strength was exhausted and the grub half gone, ned the guide and hunter was utterly bereft of sight. for ten long minutes the two sat silent, then ned lifted his head in a helpless dazed way, and steve saw that both his eyes were completely closed by the hornets' stings. "chance, old chap, this is bad luck, but it will all rub off when it's dry. there are only two things now for you to choose between, either you must go on alone and bring help for phon and myself from the frazer, or go back and bring phon out with you. you and he could catch a fresh supply of trout up at the pool, enough at any rate to keep body and soul together." "and what is to become of you, ned?" "oh, i shall get all right. i must get on as best i can in the dark for a day or two, and then if you can spare me the rifle, i shall be able to forage for myself. if you _can_ spare the rifle i can do with half my share of the grub." steve chance laughed. it was not the time which most men would have chosen for laughing, but still steve chance laughed a quiet dry laugh. the yankee didn't like hard times, and didn't pretend to, but he had got into a corner, and had not the least idea of trying to back out of it. "say, ned, is that what you'd expect an 'old countryman' to do? i guess not. and if it comes to that, men don't go back on a pal in the new country any more than they do in the old. if you stay here, i stay with you. if we get out of this cursed country we get out together, and if we starve we starve together. let's quit talking nonsense;" and chance, whose spirit was about two sizes too big for his body, got up and busied himself about making a fire and a rough bed for his sick comrade, as if he himself had just come out for a pic-nic. now you may rail at fortune, and the jade will only laugh at you: you may pray to her, and she will turn a deaf ear to your prayers: you may try to bribe her, and she will swallow your bribes and give you nothing in return: but if you harden your heart and defy her, in nine cases out of ten she will turn and caress you. thus it was in steve's case. he was as it were fighting upon his knees, half dead but cheery still, and the woman-heart of fortune turned towards him, and from the time when he set himself to help his blind comrade things began to mend. in the first place, when he tried the creek for trout, he found no difficulty in catching quite a respectable string of fish in a little over an hour, although for the last two days he and ned had almost given up fishing as useless outside phon's pool. then on the way back from his fishing he met a stout old porcupine waddling off to winter quarters. stout as he was, the porcupine managed to move along at quite a lively pace until he reached a pine, up which he went as nimbly as a monkey; but steve was ready to do a good deal of climbing to earn a dinner, and did it (and the porcupine, too, "in the eye"). thanks to these unhoped-for supplies of fish and fresh meat the two companions were able to camp and rest for a couple of days, during which the inflammation in ned's eyes abated considerably, although he still remained totally blind, in spite of the rough-and-ready poultices of chewed rose-leaves constantly prepared for him by steve. "do you feel strong enough to walk, ned, if i lead you?" asked steve after breakfast, on the third morning in the hornet's-nest camp. "yes, i'm strong enough, but you can't lead a blind man through this country." "cain't i? i've been looking round a bit, and it's pretty clear ahead of us. i've caught a good lot of trout now, and if you will carry the rifle and the axe, ned, i'll try if i cain't find a way out for both of us." "and how about blazing the trail?" "oh, i reckon we must let that slide. we can go by the creek when we want to get in again. my blazing don't amount to much so far, anyway." "why not?" "well, it's no good raising cain now, old man, because the thing is done. i said 'any fool could blaze a trail,' and i was wrong; seems as if i'm a fool who cain't blaze one. anyway, i blazed all those trees for the first two days as _they came to me_, not as they passed me, and i reckon my blazes won't show much from this side of the trees." a moment's reflection will make the whole significance of steve's admission plain even to those who have never seen a blazed tree. in making a new trail through a thickly-timbered country it is customary to blaze or chip with the axe a number of trees along the trail, so that anyone following you has only to look ahead of him and he will see a succession of chipped trees clearly defining the path. if the trail is to be a permanent one, the man blazing it chips both sides of the marked tree, so that a man coming from either end of the trail can see the blazes. if, however, you only want to enable a friend or pack-train to follow you, you save time and blaze the trees as you come up to them, on the side facing you as you advance. this of course affords no guidance to you if you want to return along your own trail, and this was exactly what steve had done. but bad as his mistake was, it was too late to set it right, and realizing this ned made light of it, hoping against hope that whenever his eyes should be opened again he would be able to recognize the country through which they had passed, and so find his way back to phon. but in his heart ned never expected to see phon or the golden creek again. as he trudged along in the darkness, holding on to the end of steve's stick, he could hear the refrain of that old song following him; and though his eyes were shut he could see again both those camps in the woods, the one in which he had found roberts dead, and the one in which, as he now believed, he had left phon his servant to die. as a rule ned's mind was far too busy with the things around him to indulge in dreams and forebodings, but now that his eyes were shut his head was full of gloomy fancies and prophesies of evil. "i can't hear the creek any longer, steve," he said at length, as he and his guide paused for breath. "no, and i'm afraid, old fellow, that you won't hear it again. i've lost it somehow or other, trying to get round those dead-falls." "are you sure that you can't hit it off again?" "sure! you bet i'm sure. what do you suppose that we have been going round and round for the last half hour for? i've tried all i know to strike it again." "that's bad, but it can't be helped; steer by the sun now and the wind. the frazer is down below us, to our left front." for an hour leader and led blundered on in silence. following ned's advice steve took his bearings carefully, and then tried to steer his course by the sun and the way the wind blew upon his cheek. but in an hour he was, to use an americanism, "hopelessly turned round." you cannot go straight if you want to in the woods unless you have a gang of men with you to cut a road through live timber and dead-fall alike; you must diverge here to escape a canyon, there to avoid a labyrinth of young pines, and even if you try to cut across a dead-fall you will be obliged to achieve your object by tacking from point to point, just as the fallen trees happen to lie. when he took his bearings, steve was confident that nothing could make him mistake his general direction: a quarter of an hour later, when he had sunk out of sight of the sun, in a perfect ocean of young pines, he began to doubt whether his course lay to his right or to his left. the sun was hidden from him, no wind at all touched his cheek, and in that hollow amongst the pines he could not tell even which way the land sloped. he felt like a drowning man over whom the waves were closing, and in his helplessness he became more and more confused, until at last he was hardly certain whether the sun rose in the east or in the west. to the man who sits quietly at home and reads this it may seem incredible that a level-headed man, and no mean woodsman as woodsmen go, should ever entirely lose his head and distrust his memory of the common things which he has known all his life. and yet in real life this happens. men will get so confused as to doubt whether the needle of their compass points to the north or _from_ the north, and so muddled as to their landmarks as to be driven to the conclusion that "something has gone wrong" with the compass, making it no longer reliable. as for steve he had lost confidence in everything, and was wandering at random amongst woods which seemed endless--woods which shut out all life and stifled all hope, which laid hold of him and his comrade with cruel half-human hands, stopping and tripping their tired feet and tearing flesh as well as clothes to ribands. "are we getting near the bench country yet, steve?" asked ned at length. "we don't seem to me to be going very straight." "how can you tell, ned? are you beginning to see a little?" "devil a bit, but it feels as if we were scrambling along side-hills instead of going steadily downhill all the time, though i daresay it is only my fancy. i'm not used to going about with my eyes shut." "and _i_ am," said steve bitterly. "that is just what i've been doing all my life, and now we shall both have to pay for it. we may as well sit down and die here, ned. i cain't keep this farce up any longer. i'm clean turned round and have been all day;" and with a great weary sigh steve chance sank down upon a log and buried his head in his hands. he was utterly broken down, physically and mentally, by the difficulties of forest travel. even to the hunter these british columbian forests are full of difficulties, but to a man like steve they are more full of dangers than the angriest ocean. for an hour or two hours, or for half a day, a patient man may creep and crawl through brush and choking dead-fall, putting every obstacle aside with gentle temperate hand, and hoping for light and an open country; but even the most patient temper yields at last to the persistent buffets of every mean little bough, and the most enduring strength breaks down when dusk comes and finds the forest tangle growing thicker at every step. to steve chance every twig which lashed him across the eyes, every log against which he struck his shins, had become a sentient personal enemy, whose silence and apathy only made his attacks the harder to bear, until before the multitude of his enemies and the darkness of the trackless woods, the young yankee's strength and courage failed him, and he sat down ready if need be to die, but too thoroughly exhausted to make another effort for life. had there been a ray of hope to cheer him he would have kept on, but a day's wandering in the dark labyrinths of a mountain forest, where the winds have built up barriers of fallen pines, and where the young trees rise in dark green billows above the bodies of their unburied predecessors, is enough to kill hope in the most buoyant heart. "don't throw up the sponge, steve," said a voice at his elbow. "we'll reach the frazer yet." the speaker was blind, and though he had never opened his mouth to complain all through that weary day, be sure that the led man had borne many a shrewd buffet which his leader had escaped. if the forest was dark to steve, it was darker to blind ned corbett, but he at any rate was unbeaten still. "i think that i shall be able to see a little to-morrow, steve," he went on; "and i believe that i can put your head straight now." "i don't see how even you can do that, ned," replied chance despondently. "don't you? well, let's try. are there any deer tracks near us?" "yes, here's an old one leading right past the log we are sitting on." "that's good. now follow that downhill, and if you lose sight of it look for another and follow that downhill too. the stags may go a long way round, but it is long odds that they will go at last to water, and all water in this country leads to the frazer." ned's reasoning seemed so sound to steve that for a time it inspired him with fresh energy, and although at nightfall he had not yet reached the promised stream, he rose again next day with some faint hope to renew the search. but the stags of chilcotin were neither blind nor lame nor tired, so that a journey which occupied more than a day at the pace at which tired men travel, was but an afternoon's ramble for them. for the men, their followers, the end was very near. at mid-day upon the fourth day of corbett's blindness, he and steve were slowly picking their way through logs and over boulders which seemed to everlastingly repeat themselves, when ned felt a jerk at the stick by which steve led him, and the dry sal-lal bushes crushed and the stick hung limply in his hand. there was no one holding on to the other end of it! "what, steve, down again?" he cried. "hold up, old man!" but there was no answer. "steve," he cried again, "are you hurt?" but not even a rustling bush replied. whatever was the matter, steve chance lay very still. "great heavens, he can't be dead!" muttered the poor fellow; and the horror of the thought made the cold perspiration break out upon his brow. "steve! steve!" he cried, and falling upon his knees he groped among the bushes until his hand rested upon his comrade's quiet face. there was no blood upon either brow or cheek (ned's questioning hand could tell that much), so no stone had struck him in his fall, and as he pressed his hand against steve's chest a faint fluttering told ned that life was not yet extinct. but if not extinct it was at a very low ebb, and when he had raised his comrade's head and made a rough pillow for it of logs, ned corbett sat down in the silence and in the darkness to wait alone for death. he could do no more for steve. if he wanted water he could not get it, indeed if he dared to move a yard or two away it was ten to one but that he would never find his way back again. there was food enough in his pack for one more slender meal, and probably the food in poor chance's pack would never be wanted by him, but when that was gone, unless god gave him back his sight, strong man though he was, ned corbett could only sit there day by day in the darkness and starve to death. he wondered whether a death by starvation was painful, whether in such straits as his it would be unmanly to kiss the cold muzzle of his good winchester and then go straight to his maker and ask him what he had done amiss that all these troubles should have come upon him. but ned corbett put the thoughts away from him. suicide was after all only a way of sneaking out of danger and away from pain--it was a form of "funking;" and though ill luck might dog him, and bully him, and eventually kill him, ned ground his teeth and swore that it should not make him "funk." but it did seem hard to think of steve's sanguine hopes as they sat in their tent by victoria's summer sea, to think of the weary pack-trail to williams creek, the worthless claims, old roberts' stony face gazing piteously to heaven, the gold in piles at pete's creek, and all the rest of it; and then to think that their share in the play must end here, drowned in a forest of pines, lost in the dark and forgotten, whilst that thief would return to the light and live out his days amongst his fellow-men in wealth and honour. just at this point the bushes at ned's feet stirred, and a faint voice murmured: "ned--are you there, ned?" in a moment cruickshank was forgotten, and the whole pageant of the unsuccessful past vanished. steve lived, that was enough for ned. "yes, old man, of course i am. what is it?" "where am i, ned, and what has happened?" "you've tumbled down and stunned yourself, i think, steve; but lie still a little and you'll come round all right." "i don't think that's it, old man. i'm not in any pain, but i think (don't get riled at me)--i think i am going to send in my chips!" "nonsense, steve. don't make a blessed school-girl of yourself." corbett spoke roughly to rouse his comrade to fresh effort, but his own voice was very husky in spite of himself. "it's no good, ned, you cain't get another kick out of me; and it doesn't much matter, anyway. do you remember that indian superstition about the owls hooting when a chief is going to die?" "one of poor rob's yarns, wasn't it?" "yes, one of rob's. there! do you hear the owls now? there must be a dozen of them at least." "what rubbish, steve; and anyway you aren't a chief, and the owls only hoot for a chief's death." chance did not answer, but instead, from somewhere high up in the mountain forest, came a deep hollow "whoo, whoo!" answered almost immediately from the pines just below where the white men lay. again and again the cries reverberated through the forest, and chance shuddered as he heard the hollow prophecy of death, whilst corbett, who had started to his feet, stood straining every muscle and every sense to catch each note of that weird hooting. suddenly a smile spread over his swollen features as he said: "do you hear that, steve?" and at the same moment a sharp "thud, thud" seemed to come through the forest and stop suddenly at the very edge of the clearing in which ned stood, and steve turning feebly on his elbow saw a beautiful black and gray face, out of which stared two great eyes, and above it were ears, long twitching ears, which seemed to drink in every forest whisper. for a moment steve saw this, and noted how the shadow of the fluttering leaves played over the deer's hide, and then there came a sudden flash of white, and in a few great bounds the apparition vanished, clearing six-foot logs as if they had been sheep hurdles. "a mule deer, wasn't it?" asked ned, who in spite of his blindness seemed to have understood all that was happening. "yes, a mule deer, and a rare big one too. of course i was too slow and too weak to get the rifle;" and with a groan steve sank back upon his side and shut his eyes again. "no matter, steve, the owls will get him, and we shall have our share. did you hear that?" as ned spoke a rifle-shot woke the mountain echoes, followed by another and another, each shot lower down the mountain than the one preceding it. "great scott, how infamously they shoot!" muttered ned. "the first fellow wounded him and he isn't down yet. ah, there--at last!" he added, as a fourth shot was followed by an owl's cry, differing somewhat from those which had preceded the advent of the deer. "what do you mean, ned?" asked chance, who had been sitting up watching and listening open-mouthed to his comrade's soliloquy. "mean? why, indians, of course. 'whoo, whoo' means 'where are you?' and 'hè, hè' means 'i've killed, come and help me pack him home;'" and ned put his hands to his mouth, and drawing a deep breath sent the deep sepulchral call-note of the owl echoing through the forest. "it's life or death, steve," he remarked; "if the indians aren't friendly it's death, but it will be a better death anyway than starving here in the dark." chapter xxv. in the camp of the chilcotins. as the echoes of ned's hoot died away amongst the pines, both he and steve became conscious that they were no longer alone. someone else had entered the clearing, and a pair of human eyes were intently fixed upon them. this both the white men knew, not by sight or hearing, but by that other sense for which we have no better name than instinct. they had not heard a rustle among the leaves, nor had steve seen so much as a shadow upon the grass, and yet both men turned simultaneously towards the same point, and ned, in spite of his blindness, said "_clahowyah_" as confidently as if he held his visitor by the hand. "_clahowyah_" (how do?), repeated a deep guttural voice from the shadow of the pines, and as he spoke a broad-shouldered wiry redskin stepped softly over the logs to meet the whites. if he always moved as silently as he moved then, it was no wonder that the listening deer so often found themselves looking down the barrel of anahem's hudson bay musket before their great ears had given them any warning of their danger. "thank god, we are saved," whispered ned, as the chief's words reached him. "he has traded with whites, or he wouldn't speak chinook. lead me up to him." but anahem saw the outstretched hand as soon as chance, and stepping quickly forward took it. "_mika halo nanitch?_" (you don't see?), he asked. "_halo!_" replied ned, and he pointed to his swollen eyelids. "_mika comtax_--by and by _skookum nanitch_" (i understand, by and by you'll see all right), replied the chief, and then turning he repeated the owl's call twice, and almost immediately a low answer came to him from the woods above. luckily for steve and ned, the chief of the chilcotins had met many white men when in his early days he had hunted on the stikeen river, and all those whom he had met had been servants of a company which has always kept good faith with its indian neighbours and employés. the honesty and fair dealing of the hudson bay company saved the two white men's lives from anahem and his tribesmen, as it has saved many a hundred lives both of redskins and whites since the day when the two races first met. anahem knew that a fresh class of whites had lately come into his country--whites who cared nothing for skins and trading, but who spent all their time digging and making mud-pies by the river banks. he knew it because he had heard of them, had seen their strange canoes upon the frazer, bottom upwards sometimes; and once he had found one of their tin cups, with something scratched upon it, hanging to a pine-tree, underneath which lay a little pile of bones which the _coyotés_ had cleaned. probably these men, he thought, were gold-diggers, and lost as that other one had been lost, whose bones he had seen; but at any rate they were both very weak, and one was blind, so for the sake of that great company which was honest, anahem determined to help these men, who, within half an hour of their first meeting with the chief, lay warm and at rest within the glow of his camp-fire. then it seemed to steve that their troubles fell away from them like the forest shadows before the firelight, and it seemed already years ago since he and ned had sat down in the bushes to die. anahem's tribe was out for its fall hunt, and ned and steve had luckily wandered within the arms of the great drag-net of men, which was still sweeping the hillsides for game. as they lay by the camp-fire ned and his companion could hear the hunters calling to each other; but the net was broken now, and the cries were the cries of the owl who has killed, not of the owl who still seeks his quarry. here and there high up amongst the woods steve could see a little column of smoke, marking the spot where some belated hunter had made up his mind to pass the night. the fire would serve to cook his food and keep him warm; and if any friend chose to come and help him home with his game, the smoke would guide him. but most of the hunters brought back their game to camp that night, dragging it along the trails, or packing it on their backs, so that before steve slept he had seen fifteen carcases brought in as the result of this one hunt. he had often wondered in old days, how men who neither ploughed nor sowed nor kept cattle could manage to live through the long winter months: now he wondered no longer. the chilcotins had been in camp for a week, and there were only six men amongst them who had muskets, and yet there were four great stacks of raw hides in their camp already--stacks as high as a man's head, and on every bough within a hundred yards of the fires were hanging strips and chunks of deers' meat. the camp reminded steve of the appearance of a hawthorn bush, in which a butcher-bird has built its nest,--the whole place was red with raw meat, and there were piles of soft gray down and hair, three and four feet high. these were the scrapings of a hundred hides, roughly cleaned by the indian women during the week. in such a camp as anahem's hunger is an easy thing to cure, and that and blindness were ned's chief complaints; and even the blindness yielded in a day or two to a certain dressing prepared for ned by the squaws. but steve chance did not recover as easily as corbett did. the prostration from which he suffered was too severe to be cured by a long night's rest and a couple of square meals. at night he lay and tossed in broken slumbers, and dreams came to him which wearied him more than if he had never slept. he saw, so he said, the gold-camp every night of his life, and phon the only human being in it; and all the while phon stood in a flood of gold dust, which rose higher and higher, until it swelled and broke over him and ran on a yellow heavy flood like the flood of the frazer. day after day ned waited and hoped against hope, until the chilcotins were ready to strike their camp and go home for the winter. he had already done his utmost to persuade anahem to search for phon, but the chief took very little notice of him. either he thought that ned like steve was rambling in his mind, or he did not understand him (for anahem spoke very little chinook, and ned spoke less), or, and that is probable too, he did not think it mattered much what became of a chinaman; and as to the gold, if it really was there, it would probably wait until the white men could go and look for it themselves. if ned would have gone with him, anahem would have gone perhaps to look for the creek; but ned could not leave chance whilst he was ill, and steve would not get well, so that ended the matter. there seemed only one course open to ned, and he prepared to take it. anahem had told him as they talked one night over the camp-fire that he had seen the smoke of a white man's fire coming from a dug-out on the banks of the frazer. "how long ago was that?" asked ned. "on my way up here, about the time of the young moon," answered anahem. "then that may be rampike," muttered ned; and the next day he got anahem to show him the direction in which the dug-out lay. "could i get there in two days?" he asked. "a _skukum_ (strong) indian could. the sick white man can be there on the third day at nightfall." this was enough for ned. next morning he bought some meat and dried salmon from his indian friends, and guided by anahem and followed by chance he left the camp. if chance's strength would hold out until they could reach the dug-out, he could nurse him there at his leisure, and by and by, when steve was stronger, ned and rampike could go out together to look for phon and cruickshank. it was not impossible after all that they should find phon still alive, though fish and roots and the inner bark of trees would be all that he could get to live upon. but would chance's strength hold out? that was the trouble. he was terribly worn and weak, and his eyes shone feverishly, and he neither slept well nor eat well in spite of the fresh keen air. as he followed anahem up a steep bluff steve panted and his knees were unsteady, and when the chief stopped at last upon a bald ridge overlooking the pine-woods, he lay back upon his light load saying, "it's as well you've stopped, chief, at last. another hundred yards, and i should have bucked my pack off." anahem looked surprised that even a sick man should complain of such a trifling hill. an old squaw would have carried two sacks (a hundred pounds) of flour up it without a murmur, and steve's pack did not weigh half that. "your bones," he said, smiling rather contemptuously, "white bone, our bones wild bone," and then turning to corbett he pointed out to him where the deep-bellied frazer roared along in the valley below the pine-woods, and to one spot upon its banks, where, so he said, was the white man's dug-out. "you see," he said, "where the sun will set." "_nawitka_" (certainly), answered ned. "now, look on the frazer's banks under there where the sun will set, and you will see one patch all the same, like blood." "yes, i see it." "now, look to that side of it," and he waved his hand to the left, "and you will see one great mud-mountain like this;" and with his stick he drew in the sandy soil at his feet a picture of a great cathedral organ, with pipes reaching from the river to the sky. ned was startled by the strange likeness which the chief's picture bore to a thing which the chief could never have seen, but he held his peace and looked for the mud-mountain. "yes, chief," he said. "i see a great mountain of mud, but i cannot see the shape of it from here." "not see the shape of him! ah, my friend not see well yet," said anahem pityingly; and though ned knew very well that his sight was as good as it had ever been, he said nothing. he didn't want anahem to think that wild sight like wild bone was better than the civilized samples of the same. "well, you see the mountain. by and by you come closer and see his shape. under that mountain, in the bank on this side the river, stop one white man. you keep along this trail," and anahem pointed to the track upon which they stood, "along the ridge, and by and by it will go downhill, and on the night of the third day you will see the white man. good-bye," and before they knew that he was going the old chief turned, and like the shifting shadow of a cloud which the winds blow across the hillside, he moved away and was gone. there was no sound as he went--no twig snapped, no overall scraped against the bushes. in silence he had come, and in silence he had gone. for a moment the two with "parted lips and straining eyes stood gazing where he sank," for indeed it seemed to them as if the sea of the woods had opened and swallowed up their friend. then chance spoke: "a creepy old gentleman, ned; rather like one of phon's devils." "a deuced good devil to us, anyway. if we ever find phon and the gold we shall owe our good luck to him, as we owe him our lives." "yes, i wish he had stopped. i should like to have given him a 'potlatch.'" "just as well that you didn't offer him anything. he might have liked this rifle, but i really doubt whether he knows enough about gold-dust to make him value that." "that's what, ned. but come on and let us get through this beastly forest to those open benches below;" and chance made as if he would burst his way through the barriers of serried pines which intervened between him and the frazer valley. "what, again, steve?" cried ned. "isn't one lesson enough for you? if you tried that you would be lost again in ten minutes. no more short cuts for me. i mean to stick to the trail, and you must follow me;" and so saying corbett took up his bundle and went ahead at a quiet steady pace which, in five or six hours, brought steve to the land of his desire, where what trees there were were great bull-pines standing far apart, and giving men lots of room for their feet below and wide glimpses of heaven above their heads. as soon as they reached the open country chance's spirits improved, and his strength came back with his spirits, but for all that he was still so weak that the progress which ned and he made was very slow, and their provisions were again at a perilously low ebb when they came in sight of that strange freak of nature, opposite to which dwelt (so they hoped) their old friend rampike. the bluff was exactly as anahem had drawn it: an organ cast in some titanic mould, the pipes of it two hundred feet from base to summit, and stained with all manner of vivid metallic colours. at its foot was the gray frazer, and the dull sky of early winter hung low about its head; but the organ was dumb from all eternity, unless those were its voices which ignorant men attributed to the winds and the fretting foaming river. for awhile the two wanderers stood staring in wonder at this strange landmark, and then steve's weary face lit up with a smile and a mist came over his eyes. "ned, as i hope for heaven, there's smoke!" and he stretched out his arm and pointed to where a thin blue column curled up against the sky. ned saw the smoke as clearly as steve, but in spite of steve's entreaties he absolutely refused to press on towards it. "no, old fellow, we will camp here for a couple of hours, and you must eat and sleep. that smoke is a long way from here yet, and we may miss it to-night after all when we get low down amongst those sand-hills." from where they stood the column of smoke looked within a stone's-throw, but corbett knew well how the clear atmosphere of british columbia can deceive eyes unused to measure distance amongst her mountains. so in spite of steve's protestations the two men camped, and though he did not know it, steve ate ned's lunch, and ned carried steve's away in his pocket in case they should not be able to reach the river by nightfall. that slender ration in ned's pocket was the very last food which the two men possessed, and ned was already reproaching himself for his rashness in starting so poorly provided. "what if after all rampike should not be at the dug-out, or, if there, should be himself short of grub?" luckily for steve and ned it seemed as if fortune had almost spent her malice upon them, for that evening as they reached the edge of the last bench above the frazer, they saw that they had steered a true course. right below them, issuing from a little black funnel in the mud-bank itself, rose the column of smoke, and in the bed of the river, upon a sand-bar, they could see a man working a cradle. chapter xxvi. rampike's winter quarters. "hallo, there! hallo!" cried steve as soon as his eyes fell upon the man and his rocker; but steve's voice was so pitiably weak and small in a country where mud-banks are built like mountains, that it did not even wake an echo. "come along, steve; it's no good shouting for half an hour yet. look out for the prickly pears!" said ned, and so saying he plunged into a little ravine, whose beggarly barrenness cried aloud to winter to come and hide it from the face of the sun. "it's all very well to tell a man to look out for them," answered steve in the peevish voice of sickness, "but there is nothing else to step on. it's all thorns and sharp stones in this confounded country." "never mind, stick to it, old chap." "just what i am doing, worse luck to it," muttered steve, trying to tear himself away from a patch of little cacti upon which he had inadvertently sat down. ned turned and saw steve's plight, and the white woe-begone face of his comrade only heightened the comedy of the position. so that there, at the last gasp, sick and worn-out, these two failures, with their stomachs empty and their soles full of thorns, stood and laughed until the tears rolled down their cheeks. from the next step in the bench which led to the river ned joined his deep bass to steve's, and together they shouted their loudest to attract the man's attention. in vain. whoever he was the man worked on, bending over his rocker, with the gold fever at his heart and the boom of the great river in his ears. "it's no good, we must go right down to him," said ned; and five minutes later he and steve stood together upon the bar on which the man was at work. but so intent was he upon his rocking, or so silent was the approach of his visitors' bare and bleeding feet over the great boulders, that it was not until ned's shadow fell upon him that the gold-worker was aware of a stranger's presence. then quick as thought he sprang to his feet, snatching up a winchester as he did so, and covering his men with it before he had time to look into their faces. "stand off!" he roared, "or by 'mity i'll let light through you!" and for the moment it seemed a mere toss-up whether he would shoot or not. but the men he spoke to were as reckless of life as he was. hardship had taught them that a human life is not such a wonderfully big stake as the fat townsmen seem to think. "you're in a tearing hurry to shoot, ain't you?" asked steve coolly. "how would it be if we were to talk first? don't you know us, rampike?" at the first sound of steve's voice the miner had dropped his rifle into the hollow of his arm, and now he came forward, and holding out a huge hairy paw, yellow with river mud, said simply, "shake." it was not a very effusive greeting, but men don't "gush" much in the upper country, and yet that glimpse of a friendly face, and grip of a friendly hand, acted as a wonderful restorative upon the tired natures of both steve and ned. the sky itself seemed to get clearer and the mountain air less chill now that they had run against a "pal" once more. "wal, sonny, did you strike pete's creek?" was old rampike's first question after they had all three "shaken some." "we did so," answered steve. "any 'pay' up there?" "i should smile," replied the yankee, using the slang of his country, and throwing down the belt of dust which he had clung to through all his wanderings. "why, this is free gold!" "you bet it is; and there is enough for everyone we know and to spare," added steve, "where that came from." for a minute or two rampike only turned the gold over and over in his hands and said nothing. at last he asked: "did you git cruickshank?" "no, never saw him," answered ned. "praise the lord you ain't got everything. i ain't sure as i wouldn't ruther look at him through the back-sights of this here, than find a crik like yourn;" and the old man passed his hand caressingly along the barrel of his " . ." "but, say, you look mighty hard set. have you any grub along with you?" "not an ounce of flour, and this is the last of our meat;" and so saying ned pulled out of his pocket the ration which he had kept for chance. "it's pretty lucky that i'm well heeled in the way of provisions, ain't it, else we'd all starve. wal, come along up to the 'dug-out;'" and so saying he picked up his coat and rifle and led up to the bluff, until all three stood before the door of his winter residence. next to the homes of the pre-historic cavemen, and a few rude stone-heaps in which the caucasian ossetes live, the "dug-outs" along the frazer river are the most miserable abodes ever fashioned for themselves by men. and yet these holes in the hill, with doors and roofs aflush with the hillside, are better adapted to resist the intense cold of a british columbian winter than either frame-shack or log-hut. "come right in, lads," said rampike, putting his foot against the planks which served him for a door, and thus rudely clearing the way for his visitors into a little dark interior with walls and floor of frazer river mud. a rough table, a solitary chair, and a kind of bench furnished the hovel somewhat more luxuriously than might have been expected, but unless you took a deep interest in geology the walls and general surroundings in rampike's reception-room were distinctly crude and unpleasant. if, however, you cared for geology, you could study specimens of the frazer river system through the wide chinks between the boards which walled the room without even leaving your chair. indeed, there was more "bed rock," as rampike called it, than boarding in the composition of his walls. but neither geology nor furniture attracted any attention from steve or ned. when they entered the cabin their eyes lit upon two things only, and it was a good hour before they took any real interest in anything else. the two centres of attraction were a frying-pan and a billy, round which all three men knelt and served, making themselves into cooks, stokers, or bellows, until the billy sang on the hearth and the bacon hissed in the pan. then for a while there was silence, and this story does not begin again until someone struck a match upon the seat of his pants. i believe it was rampike, because, having had more experience than steve, he could bolt his food faster. i know that it was not ned, for he could never finish his meal until about the end of steve's first pipe. steve said it was because the englishman eat so much. ned said that in england men eat their food, in america they "swallered down their grub." "swallerin' down your grub," he said, "was a faster but less satisfactory process than eating your food." but as i wish to remain upon friendly terms with both disputants, i cannot enter into this matter. "do you reckon to go in again this fall?" asked rampike, without any prelude but a puff of tobacco smoke. "to the creek?" said ned, reaching across his neighbour for the billy. "yes, we must go in, and that soon." "what's your hurry? steve here cain't travel, and you're pretty nigh played out though you are hard; and as for the gold, that'll stay right there till spring." "you forget that there were three of us at antler. phon is up at the creek now." "phon! what, that chinee! is he up at the crik?" "if he is alive he is," answered ned. "he may have starved for all i know." "starved! not he; but you'll never see _that_ heathen agen. he'd live on dirt or nothin' at all, any chinee can do that; but you bet your life he ain't up there now. he's just skipped out to victoria by some other road with all the dust he can pack along. that's what phon has done." "you don't know him, jim, and you aren't fair to him. no westerner ever is fair to a chinaman. phon will stay by the creek. my only fear is that we sha'n't be able to find the creek." "not find the crik, you say! why, ned corbett, _you_ ain't no bloomin' tenderfoot in the woods, are you? you ain't likely to forgit your way to the bank when the whole business belongs to you?" "perhaps not, but i've been blind for a week;" and then answering the inquiry in rampike's eyes, ned lighted his pipe and told the whole story of his own and steve chance's wanderings, from the time when they struck pete's creek until their return to the frazer. now and again rampike broke in upon the thread of the narrative with some pertinent question, or a comment as forcible as a kick from a mule, but he managed to keep his pipe going pretty steadily until ned came to steve's feat in "blazing." then the old man's wrath broke out, and his pipe even dropped from his mouth. for a moment he looked at steve in speechless indignation, and then he expressed himself thus: "strike me pink," he said, "ef a real down-easter ain't a bigger born fool in the woods than any bloomin' britisher i ever heerd tell on. that's so." after this there was a pause, during which steve snored peacefully, and old rampike, having made an exhaustive examination of the bowl of his pipe, proceeded to refill it with chips from his plug of t. & b. at length ned began again: "you've been looking for the creek yourself, haven't you?" "no. i stayed right here, making wages on that bar there." "i wonder who made those camps then which we found along the divide. i can't think that those were indian camps;" and ned told his companion of the camps which he and steve had stumbled upon during their search for pete's creek, as well as of that glove found by the bear tracks. "bear tracks!" growled rampike, "not they. a softy who would blaze the wrong side of a tree wouldn't know bear tracks from the tracks of a gal's shoe with a french heel to it. cruickshank's tracks, that's what _they_ was, and ef you don't see more of 'em before you get your gold out of pete's crik you may call me the biggest liar in cariboo!" "you don't mean to say that you think cruickshank would dare to dog _us_?" "dog _you_! that man would dog the devil for gold." this was a new idea to ned. if there was any truth in it, then all phon's stories of faces seen in the pool, of eyes which watched the gold, of figures which rustled ever so lightly over the dry sal-lal on the canyon's edge, when all save phon and the night owls slept, all these stories might be something more than the imaginings of a crazed chinaman's brain. for a while ned sat silently smoking and looking thoughtfully into the embers. then he rose, and knocking the ashes out of his pipe said: "i am going to look for phon to-morrow if steve seems well enough to be left here. shall you come?" "yes, i reckon i may as well. you cain't hev all the sport, sonny. i'm ruther partial to gunning myself." chapter xxvii. the search for phon. for ten days or a fortnight after the conversation recorded in the last chapter, rampike and ned corbett wandered about the country trying to "locate" pete's creek. they started, as they had arranged to, upon the very next morning, leaving steve chance with ample provisions, to sleep and eat and rest himself after the hard times which he had been through, or if he wanted a little exercise and amusement there was the bar down below the dug-out upon which he could earn very fair wages by using rampike's rocker. from the dug-out to the mouth of the chilcotin was no great distance, and ned felt certain that anyone who knew his way to it could reach the camp in which he had left phon in one day from the river's mouth. unfortunately neither he nor rampike knew their way to it, and still more unfortunately they went the wrong way to work to find it. at the end of a fortnight they both saw their mistakes, but it was too late to remedy them. instead of taking up his own tracks at once and trying to follow them back through the woods to the creek, ned had taken rampike up the course of the chilcotin, in the hope that he would be able to identify pete's creek amongst the hundred and one creeks and streams which emptied themselves into the main river from its right bank. in this he failed signally, and when the search was over it was somewhat late to take up the back tracks, which were already faint and partly obliterated. however, there was nothing else to be done, so rampike and corbett started again, following the tracks step by step until they came at last to the chilcotins' camp. here they found dead fires and dry bones, and piles upon piles of soft gray fur, and over all these signs of slaughter more than one track of the inquisitive deer whose kinsmen had been so ruthlessly butchered all round. where the principal camp-fire had stood, was a message written to whomsoever it might concern, a message written with twelve unpeeled sticks, each about six inches long, driven into the ground one behind the other, in indian file, their tops or heads all bent one way, towards the south. there were two other sticks, but these were peeled and white, and their heads bowed towards the frazer. old rampike touched the sticks with the toe of his moccasin. "pretty good writin', i call that," said he; "beats school-teachers' english to my mind. 'twelve injuns gone south, two whites gone down to the frazer,' that's what that fellow says, and the piles of fur will tell you why they were all here, and a squint at them bones will give you a pretty fair notion when they went away." so far, no doubt, the records were plain enough. unfortunately it had not occurred to the indian historians to point out from which direction those two whites had come to them, and a short distance outside the limits of the chilcotin camp all trace of them ceased, for winter had come upon the chilcotin uplands. the higher ned went the colder the weather grew, until at last he felt that he had fairly entered the domain of the ice king. on the bald hills the yellow grass was hidden, and on the long pastures the little clumps of pines were powdered and plumed with snow. all colour had gone from the landscape. there were no more red flushes of indian pinks amongst the sun-dried grass, no more gleamings of sunlight upon lakes of sapphire blue. all was white, white, dead white, or a still more lifeless gray where the wind had swept the lakelets and left the rough ice bare. in the glare of the winter sun, ice crystals floated instead of the mites which used to dance in the summer sunshine, and on those gray blots, which had been lakes where ducks called and shook their dripping wings, stood now the mud-huts of the musk-rats, and beside them at the edge of the ice stood their owners, rigid, silent, and watchful, as everything seemed to be in this silent winter-world. as far as the eye could see, in heaven or on the earth, there was nothing which lived or moved except those musk-rats, and you could not tell that they lived until the ice crunched under your feet. then they vanished. there was no sound. you did not see them go, only when you looked again the little rigid figures were there no longer. even old rampike almost shivered as the biting wind caught him when he topped the ridge, and he drew his coat together and buttoned it as he turned to ned. "it's real winter up here, sonny, and i reckon it will be mighty lonesome for that heathen of yours by the crik, unless he and cruickshank hev jined and gone into partnership. i'm beginning to think as he has got starved after all." ned made no reply. it _was_ horribly lonesome; but if phon and cruickshank had met, ned didn't think that the chinaman would care whether the sun warmed or the winter wind froze him, whether he lay alone or in the midst of his fellow-men. ned had a hideously vivid recollection of another snow scene, and of a certain little black bullet hole in the nape of a man's neck. well, after all, he reflected, death by gunshot might be preferable to a slow death by starvation and cold, and day by day it became more abundantly clear that neither rampike nor ned would find their way to phon that winter. the snow had changed the whole surface of the country so thoroughly that even had ned passed through every inch of it with his eyes open he would never have recognized it again. there were hollows where before there had been hills, hills where there had been hollows. the drifting snow had made a false surface to the land and covered every landmark; and, moreover, the two searchers began to feel that it would not do to remain in the uplands any longer, unless they too would be cut off and buried away from their fellow-men by the tons upon tons of soft feathery stuff which the skies threatened to pour down upon them every day. "it's no good talking, ned, we're beat and we've got to give in. if your heathen hasn't skipped out some other way he's a corpse, that's just what he is, and we've no call to risk our skins collecting corpses," said rampike as he sat in the dug-out, to which the two had returned after nearly three weeks' search for phon. "the almighty seems to have a down on you, my lad, someways, and if one may say so without harm, he seems to be standin' in with cruickshank, but you bet he'll straighten it out by and by. up to now cruickshank has won every trick, and you're jest about broke; but no matter, we'll stay right with him all the while, and we'll get four kings or a straight flush and bust the beggar sky-high at the finish: see if we don't. what we've got to do now is jest to hole up like the bars. winter's coming right away." it was a long speech for rampike, but the occasion was a serious one, and the old man felt that it would require all the influence which he could bring to bear to make ned corbett accept his defeat, and take some thought for his own safety. "what makes you think that winter is so close?" ned asked. "wal, there's a many reasons. the weather has been hardenin' up slowly all the while, and yesterday i saw the tracks of a little bunch of ewes along the top of that bench above us. the big-horns are comin' down, and when they come down you may look out for real winter. you bet." after this there was silence for a time. steve and ned were thinking of the long account unsettled between themselves and cruickshank, and a little too of the weary months during which they must lie dormant, as rampike said, "like bears in a hole." at last there was a clatter on the floor. jim's pipe had fallen from his mouth, and the old man was snoring peacefully in that beauty sleep with which he generally preluded his night's rest. as he lay there with his coat under his head and his patched flannel shirt turned up to his elbows, showing a hard sinewy forearm, jim rampike was a type of that strong wild manhood which flooded the west from ' to ' , spending its force in a search for gold in spite of nature and in the face of any odds, and yet utterly careless of the gold when won. let those who will preach upon the sordid motives which drew all that muscle and pluck to the west; others will remember how freely the miners squandered that for which they risked so much. there were no misers amongst the miners of the west; the fortunes they made were mere counters in a game which they played, not for the stakes but for the sake of the game itself--for its very dangers and hardships; and, thanks chiefly to one strong man, who still lives in the country which owes him so much, their game was played in british columbia with less loss of life and less lawlessness than in any other mining centre in america. to jim mining or prospecting was what big game hunting is to richer men. he had prospected alone for months in the rockies, he had won big stakes in california in the great "rushes," and he had starved and toiled, loafed and squandered in turn, until his hair was as gray as a badger's coat and his lean frame strong and wiry as a wolf's. when he made a pile he set himself diligently to "paint the nearest town red." drinks for every man and jewellery for every woman he met as long as the dust lasted was his motto; and if the dust which he had taken months to gather would not melt quick enough by fairer means, he would smash costly mirrors, fill champagne glasses only to sweep rows of them down with his cane until the champagne or the dust was all gone, or else he would put every cent upon the turn of a card in the hands of a man whom he knew did not play fair. in a month at most jim's spree was over. for that month he had been the most noticeable fool in a town of noisy roisterers; at the end of it he was "dead-broke" again and happy. then without an idea of the eccentricity either of his own or the gambler's conduct, he would betake himself to that worthy and borrow from him enough gold to begin life again; and to the gambler's credit be it said, that he never refused to grant such a loan, never looked for interest upon it, nor troubled himself much about the return of the capital. freely if dishonestly he came by his gains, freely at any rate he gave; and many a man owes a good turn to the very men whose delicate sense of touch drew more gold into their pockets than was ever won by any single miner's pick. they are, after all, only symbols for which we all of us spend our lives, and if the yellow dust led the old man to live the life he loved, and which suited him, what did it matter? as ned watched the red firelight flicker about the strong square jaw, and redden like blood on the great forearm, he felt that there was at any rate one man in cariboo in whom he could unhesitatingly trust. before turning over to sleep ned softly opened the door of the hut and looked out. the night was clear and bright, so clear that the hills opposite seemed to have come closer to the hut than they had been by day. overhead stars and moon seemed to throb with a strange vitality, and burn with a cold fire all unlike the faint and far presentment of stars in an english sky. nor was the boom of the river, which was as the accompaniment to every song of nature's changing moods, the only sound upon the night air. there was a voice somewhere amongst the stars--a loud clear "honk, honk!" a cry of unseen armies passing overhead, and ned as he listened recognized in the cry of the geese another of nature's prophecies of winter. but the cry of the geese and the boom of the river only emphasized the solitude which reigned around. nature was alone on the frazer that night, except for one great shadowy figure which ned suddenly became aware of, moving upon the sand-bar upon which he had first seen rampike. for a while corbett thought that the moon was playing strange freaks with him, and so thinking he covered his eyes and changed his position. but no, it was no fancy. from side to side with a slow swinging motion the great dark bulk lurched silently along. if its tread had been as heavy as that of a battalion, ned would not have heard it at that distance through the roar of the river, but that never occurred to him. the form gave him the idea of noiseless motion, and besides, at the second glimpse, he knew the beast that he was watching. the lord of the frazer walked in his own domain. a moment before the mystery of the night had ned corbett in its clutches, but the sight of the grizzly banished dreams at once, and the moon a minute later looked down upon another actor in the night's drama, one who hid his shining rifle barrels beneath his ragged coat, and tried hard but in vain to still the loud beatings of his heart; for the sight of so noble a foe stirred the blood of the shropshireman as fiercely as the sight of the gold had stirred phon's sluggish blood. but the hunter toils in vain quite as often as his brother the gold-seeker, and when ned corbett reached the river bed the bear had gone--gone so silently and so speedily that but for those huge tracks in one of which both ned's feet found room, corbett would have vowed that what he had seen was but another shadow of that haunted river bed. chapter xxviii. the king of the big-horns. "this here's the last day's huntin' as you'll get for quite a while, and don't you forget it." the speaker was rampike, and he spoke with the emphasis of conviction. ned corbett, who stood beside him at the door of the dug-out, seemed inclined to argue with him, but rampike did not wait to hear what he had to say. "you think," said the old man, "as it ain't partickler cold jest because the air is dry and there's plenty of sunshine. wait until you get out of the sunshine and you'll know more about it. why, look there at the old river--she don't close up for nothing." ned looked in the direction indicated by rampike's outstretched hand, and noticed for the first time that on the yellow flood of the frazer a strange white scum had risen, which seemed to gather as it drifted by so as to almost impede the river's progress in places. this was the beginning of the ice. "there'll be a bridge to-morrow, i shouldn't wonder, as you mout drive cattle over. if you want any more huntin' you'd better get it to-day. we could do with another sheep or two." and so saying the old man went back into the cabin. the air of british columbia is so dry and the sunlight so bright, that until the shadows begin to fall or the wind begins to blow, it never occurs to anybody that the thermometer may have fallen to "ten below." to ned corbett, as he shouldered his rifle and climbed the first hill, it seemed that the weather was about what you would expect in england in october, but he changed his mind after he had been for five minutes in a narrow gully with a northern aspect into which no sunlight came. there indeed he began to wonder why, in spite of his toil, he earned no healthy glow such as exercise should bring, and even when he emerged upon the top of the bench he was almost afraid to open his mouth lest the bitter cold should creep down his throat and freeze his vitals. but there was that upon the glittering snow-covered table-land which diverted his attention from the cold. at first he thought that the herds of some distant rancher had wandered to the frazer, and were now feeding before him in little mobs and bunches of from ten to twenty head. there were so many beasts in sight, and in the wonderfully clear atmosphere they looked so large, their dark coats contrasting with the snow upon which they stood, that it never occurred to ned that they were sheep. a second glance, however, revealed the truth, just as a second thought reminded him that there was no rancher then in british columbia from whom these herds could have wandered. here and there ned could see the yellowish-white sterns of a band feeding from him, or the splendid sweep of a noble pair of horns against the clear sky. these were no domestic cattle, bred to be butchered, but a great army of big-horns driven from their mountain haunts by the advance of winter. for a while ned lay and looked at them as they scraped away the snow to get at the sweet sun-dried grasses beneath, and then he began to consider how best he might win some trophy from them with which to adorn the hall of that long, low house of his father's which looked from shropshire across the hills to wales. there were giants amongst them, ned could see that, and his fingers itched to pull the trigger at more than one great ram; but the chiefs of the herd, nine in number, lay like nine gray images of stone in the middle of a level, park-like expanse, round which the smaller beasts fed and kept guard. for a long time corbett lay and looked at the silent nine, with their heads turned in different directions, as if each had undertaken to watch one particular quarter for a coming foe. at last one of the nine rose slowly, and stood looking intently towards corbett. at the moment he himself had risen somewhat upon his hands and knees to get a fairer view of the coveted horns, and possibly at a thousand yards the ram had seen enough of ned's cap above the sky-line to make him suspicious. had a gray-faced old ewe seen as much she would have given the alarm, but the ram was bolder or more careless. for ten minutes corbett had to remain as he was, his head rigid, and the spines of a prickly pear running into the palms of his hands. at the end of that time the ram lowered his head, turned round, and lay down again. it was only an odd-looking boulder, he thought, after all; but had he looked ten minutes later the ram would have missed that boulder upon the sky-line, for ned corbett was going at his best pace downhill to a point from which he thought that he could creep to within two hundred yards of his prey. ned was going at his best pace, because the sun stood so high in the heavens, that under ordinary circumstances the sheep would have already been on the move for the timber. as it was there could not be much time to spare in spite of the temptations of the new-found pasture, and as ned's snow-clogged moccasins kept letting him down upon the hillside, he just lay where he fell, and, in his own words, "let himself rip" until he reached the bottom. there he pulled up with a jerk, a somewhat bruised and breathless person, but utterly reckless of such small matters as bruises if he could only get up to his point of vantage in time. alas for the hopes of mortals! when ned corbett had reached the top of the opposite bank his breath was coming thick and short, and great drops of perspiration were splashing on to the snow from his brow, but there was not one single sheep in sight where half an hour before he had seen five hundred. the white table-land was empty. ned could have seen a sparrow on it if there had been one to see, but there was no living thing there, only across and across it were the tracks of many feet, and in one place where the rams had been, long plunging tracks, and then, as it were, a road along which the herd had trotted steadily away to the timbered gulches above. that stalker's curse, the wind, had brought some hint of ned's presence to the watchful beasts, and they had not waited for anything more. "confound the wind!" ned muttered, "i'll be shot if i can understand how it happened;" and plucking a few hairs from his yellow head he let them go, and watched them as they drifted straight back into his face. "the wind is all right now," he growled. "well, i've not done with them yet;" and having made quite sure that the nine chiefs had gone up a certain gully, he began to make another detour in order to get above them. up and up he went, the snow getting deeper as he climbed higher, and the trees growing wider apart. now and again he had to force his way through a thick place of young pines, where, as his shoulders brushed against them, the boughs discharged whole avalanches of soft, heavy snow upon his head, half blinding him for the moment. once he saw the sunlight gleam upon what looked like a spear-head low down on the other side of a pine-hole, but as he looked a big brown ear flickered forward beside the spear-head, and next moment a great stag had risen, and for half a second stood looking at the intruder. but ned let the stag go. he did not want stags just then, and, besides, in the green timber on the ridge where he stood there were lots of them, and all large ones. the little fellows lived lower down, it seemed. so he pushed on, until all at once the frost got hold of him. in a moment his heart seemed to stop beating, his knee remained bent in the very act of climbing over a log, his hands stuck to his sides, and his eyes stared as if he had seen a ghost. right below him, not sixteen paces away, stood the statue of the thing he sought. it could not be a live beast; it was too still. only for a second ned dared to look before he sank into the snow behind a juniper bush, but in that second he saw that what he looked on was the statue of an old, old ewe, big almost as a six-year old ram, and gray with age, her villainously-inquisitive head turned (luckily for ned) downhill. for a few seconds the ewe stood searching the depths of the gully below, and then, without so much as a glance uphill, tossed her head in the air and walked silently forward past corbett's hiding-place. one after another, all at the same sober pace and all as silent as shadows, ten or a dozen old ewes went by in the footsteps of the first. then there was a little noise--you would not have heard it anywhere else, but in the silence of the snow it was quite loud--and forty or fifty ewes and lambs went by, all, even the lambs, looking inquiringly down into the gully below, but none of them wasting so much as a glance upon the ground above them. after the lambs had gone by there was a pause, a break in the stream, and corbett's heart began to throb louder than it had any right to. so far he had not even drawn a bead upon the sheep. sixty beasts at least had gone by him one after another within sixteen paces, and he had let them go. he knew well from experience that the last comers would be the rams, and last of all would come the master of the flock. there was a kind of knoll just below him, and the first sight he got of each new-comer was upon this. one after another the sheep appeared, like figures upon a pedestal, at this spot, stood awhile, gazed, and then passed on. at last a ram stood there, his great horns standing out very wide from his head. "not of much account," thought the hunter. "he's a four-year old; maybe fourteen inches round the butt--not more anyway," and he let him go. twice after that ned raised his rifle and refrained. the biggest had not come yet. at last he could stand it no longer. how could he tell that the beauty before him was not the master ram? and if so, in another second he would be gone. the rifle rang through the mountains, a dozen blue grouse rattled out of the pines and swung downhill on wide, motionless wings, the ram toppled right over and went bumping down the gully out of sight. there was a wild rush of hurrying feet and the thud, thud of beasts that leapt from rock to rock, and then all was still. rushing forward in the direction taken by the herd, corbett found himself stopped by a ravine--a deep-cut, uncompromising cleft in the rock, bare stone on either side, and a sheer fall between of some hundreds of feet, and from side to side not less than twenty-five to thirty feet across. ned stopped dead. this was beyond any man's power, even with a fair run and a good take-off, and yet every lamb in that band had jumped it--jumped it clear! as he stood marvelling at the great leap before him, a stone rattled down from the other side of the ravine, and raising his eyes corbett saw what many a man has sought season after season in vain, a ram, big and square-built as a mountain pony, with great horns curling close against his head in a perfect curve, horns which measured at the very least, eighteen good inches round the butt. ned had only a second to look at him in, and even before he could pull the trigger the ram had turned; but for all that ned heard the loud smack of his bullet, and he knew that it was not the rock against which it had struck. "got him right on the shoulder-blade," he muttered, as he started full of hope to circumnavigate the head of the ravine. it was a long way round, but ned got over the ground quickly, and soon found his wounded beast hobbling slowly away upon three legs. for two solid hours ned followed his ram, who, in spite of his wound, could go just fast enough to keep his pursuer out of range. meanwhile the sun was sinking fast, and in spite of himself ned had to admit that he must give up the chase. even for an eighteen-inch head he dared not risk a night out on these mountains with the thermometer at ten degrees below zero. "just one more ridge," he muttered to himself, "and then i'll give him up;" and so muttering he climbed painfully through the deep snow to the top of yet one more of those little ridges, over so many of which he had climbed that day. as his head came over the sky-line, ned's heart dropped into his boots, and he felt the sickness of despair. the ram had vanished. he could see for half a mile in front of him, but there was no ram. could it be that after all that weary tramp, and in spite of all those great splashes of blood, his prey had gathered fresh strength, and making a final effort had got clean away from him? for a moment ned thought that it must be so, but the next his eye lighted upon what looked like a great gray boulder, a boulder though which had no snow upon it, and which moved ever so little. then as he rushed forward the gray thing staggered to its knees, lurched heavily forward, and lay still again. a few seconds later ned corbett's hands clutched the solid crown of one who had been a king amongst the high places of the earth. but there was no time for rest, much less for exultation. the crimson of the setting sun was already beginning to flush along the forest floors, and ned, as he looked over the country below him, felt his heart grow sick at the thought that if he returned as he came he could not reach the hut before dark. was there no other way--no short cut? ned rather thought that there was, and determined to try it. instead of going up and down every gully on the face of the range, he would make for the edge of the divide and follow it round until he reached a point opposite to his camp, then he would descend, taking his chance of finding an easy way down. but before starting on his homeward journey, ned hacked off the head of his victim and bound it (a heavy load) upon his own shoulders. if he had to stop out all night and risk death by frost-bite, he might as well take with him a souvenir of his hardships should he be lucky enough to survive them. as for the meat, rampike and steve could help him bring that in, later on. if the _coyotés_ let it alone it would keep well enough; and ned thought that a rag, which he had drawn through his rifle barrels and fastened to the carcase, would keep off the _coyotés_. having made his preparations he started, and toiled steadily until he reached the ridge, where the walking became infinitely easier. ned had not much time to look about him, but for all that his eyes were not shut, and he could not help noticing one valley some distance away in the opposite direction to his camp. it seemed to him that he had seen that valley before, but it was far off, and the light was failing. it was night when ned reached the dug-out; there was a harsh grinding sound down in the river bed, and his clothes, which had been wet with perspiration, were frozen stiff and cold. but as he gazed at his ram's head, ned corbett was content. chapter xxix. phon's return. the day after ned corbett's sheep-hunt was too cold even to go and bring in the carcase. a wind had risen, not much of a wind it is true, but just enough to drive the cold right through a man like blades of sharp steel, so that ned and steve and rampike remained in the dug-out, smoking and trying to keep warm, or from time to time going to the door to watch the great river gradually yielding to the power of the frost. the white scum of the day before had grown into blocks and hummocks of ice, and these came down grinding and roaring through the mist. in one more night the great frazer would be fettered for the winter. in the mist which hung over the freezing waters, everything assumed unnatural proportions. rocks loomed out like mountains, bushes like forest trees, and a sneaking fox looked larger than a grizzly bear. it was a weird scene, and it held corbett and his companions fascinated until the bitterness of the cold drove them back for a few moments to their fire. in this way they spent their day until nearly three o'clock, when the light began to fail, and corbett, who was at the door, cried to rampike, who was inside the hut: "great scott, jim, come here! what is that?" "that" to which corbett's pointing finger called attention was a strange upright mass of ice, which came riding towards them upon a little floe, a floe which later on was caught and whirled round and round in a backwater of the river just below the cabin. "a tree, ain't it, steve?" said jim, appealing to chance, who had followed him out. "a tree, i reckon, ned, as has got wedged in somehow among the drift." "yes, i guess it's a tree," steve assented. "but what with the mist and the way the thing dances around, it's mighty hard to tell what it is." "well, i'm getting as full of fancies as a woman," said ned, "but i could have sworn when i saw it first, that that thing was a man." "a man? by heaven, it _is_ a man!" yelled jim. "look, look!" and with white, scared face he stared at the thing as it came circling round again in the endless, meaningless dance of the drift through the mist. "if it's a man, it is no good standing here," said corbett quickly. "bear a hand to drag him ashore." and snatching a rope from the inside of the hut, he sprang down the steep bank to the shore, though the faces of his followers showed plainly enough that, terrible as dead men always are to the living, there was something about this river-waif which made him a horror greater even than the dead who die on land. by some strange chance the body (for it was a body) had got jammed between two pieces of drift in such a manner that it stood upright, waist-high above the flood, bowing and curtseying with every movement of the water, but so coated with ice that, but for its general outline and a rag of clothing which still fluttered from it, none could have guessed its nature. for a moment corbett feared that it would break out of the backwater, and be whirled down the stream before he could get his rope over it; but no, the stream had not done with its plaything yet. the winter would be a long one, and what matter if this wayfarer by the frazer tarried even a day and a night in the backwater? the rocks had stayed there for hundreds of years. there was no hurry about such things. round and round in the same order came the hummocks, a bit of a wrecked canoe on one, on the next only the wreck of a man. round and round whirled the long loop of corbett's lariat, until the silent rider came bowing past him within his reach. then the rope flew out, and the long loop poised and settled silently about the rider's neck. quick as thought ned was jerked upon his knees, and for a moment it seemed as if the angry river would suck him in and add him to the number of its ghastly dancers. but ned was young and strong and loved life, so that he stayed himself against a great boulder and called aloud for help. "hold on to the rope!" he yelled to his comrade. "the thing fights like a salmon!" do you know what it is to feel the electric thrill which travels all down your spine when you stick in a good fish? do you know how his every struggle vibrates along your own nerves, until your heart almost stops with excitement? if you do, you may be able to picture what those three men felt as the frozen corpse plunged and struggled on the rope, now sucked down by the under-tow, now springing beneath the buffets of the drifting ice. ned shuddered and felt sick as he braced himself against its unholy strength; but the shropshire breed is like the bull-dog's, once fast in anything it will never let go whilst life lasts; so that in spite of the river, and the fear which chilled his marrow, ned persisted until he drew his ghastly capture hand over hand to shore. there is something very horrible in the helpless way in which the head of a drowned man rolls about when you lay him down once more upon dry land, but even that is not so ghastly as were the actions of the warped and rigid mummy which corbett and his friends carried to their cabin. from the waist up the body was stiff and straight, but below the waist the legs had been frozen into such strange curves and angles, that when they laid it down upon the floor the corpse went rolling and bumping over and over, and then lay rocking to and fro as if it would never be still. every gust of wind set it in motion again, and the horror of the thing grew to such an extent that ned at last rose, saying: "i can't stand this, boys; the thing seems to be laughing at us. let's fix it in a chair so as to keep it still until morning." "and what are you going to do with it, then?" asked chance. "bury it, i suppose, steve. oughtn't we to?" "wal, i don't want to dictate to no man, but ef you're goin' to make a practice of bringing corpses to this shanty, i quit," remarked jim, who had been strongly opposed to robbing the frazer of its prey from the first. "don't cut up rough, old chap. if your body was going down in that seething hell of waters, you'd be glad if anyone would drag you ashore and give you decent burial. let it bide until to-morrow, jim, and i'll bury it myself." "very well. that's a go. now just lend a hand to cinch him on to this chair for the night, so as he won't be crawlin' around in the dark;" and old jim with ned's assistance fastened the body into a chair which stood by the rough deal board which served them for a table, and there left it. why is it that, to even the boldest men, the dead are so very terrible? is it their inhuman calm, their silence, or the mystery to which they alone hold the key, that awes and chills the hottest human heart? whatever the cause of it, the nameless terror exists, and neither strong ned corbett, nor scoffing chance, nor hard old jim were proof against it. with that _thing_ sitting in their one seat waiting for the morning to come that it might be buried, all three men crept away into the furthest corner of their tiny shack, and, trembling at every log which creaked and sputtered on the hearth, covered their heads with their blankets and prayed for daylight to come. but the hours of the night are longer than those of the day. the lesson-books say that the twenty-four hours are all of the same length, just sixty minutes of sixty seconds in each, but the lesson-books lie. who that has lain awake from midnight till dawn will believe that the six hours before sunrise are no longer than the six which succeed sunset? of course they are longer, but the hours of that one night in the hillside above the fast-freezing frazer were the longest since god made the world. down below the listeners could hear the grinding and roaring of the frozen river, and the shriek of the rising night wind as it tore through the deep canyons. now and again a loud report echoed in the stillness as an ice-crack spread from side to side of some frozen mountain lake, and all night long there were inarticulate murmurs and groanings of water prisoned beneath ice, and the long howling of starved wolves amongst the snow. the indians believe that their dead hunters assume the forms of wolves, and if so, the whole of the dead chilcotins were out hunting, adding their hideous voices to those other voices of the night, which had in them nothing that was familiar, nothing that was in sympathy with man or man's daily life. it seemed to the sleepless listeners that their own souls had lost their way and strayed into some waste place, where it was always winter and always night, and then as they strained their ears so that they could hear the beat of each others' hearts, a terrible thing happened. it was only a chair which creaked, but the creaking of it seemed to deaden every other sound, and nature herself held her breath to listen. there it was again! creak, creak, creak, and a scraping sound upon the mud floor. unless the ears of three men had gone crazy with fright, that grisly visitor of theirs was pushing its chair along the floor as if it would rise up and be gone. all through the night the noises went on: the chair creaked, the feet of the dead moved upon the floor, and once in the dim light of early dawn, one who dared to look for a moment, fancied that he saw a long lean hand move slowly across the table. yet even fear yields at last to sleep, and before the full dawn came there were four sleepers in that hut,--three who should wake and one who should sleep on for ever, and all four comrades, who for a little while had pursued that will-o'-the-wisp, wealth, together. for the dead man was phon! the ice shroud which had hidden him before had melted in the night, and the strength of the frost had gone out of his poor dead limbs, and in the searching white light of the day he lay huddled up on the chair, his head fallen forward upon the table, and his body a limp mass of faded blue rags. even before ned raised his head they all knew him, and when ned pointed silently to a little dark spot at the nape of the dead man's neck, no one expressed any surprise. there had been just such another mark at the nape of dead robert roberts' neck. "two!" groaned rampike. "my god, two of 'em, and we ain't beginning to get level with him yet!" before they saw the corpse upon the previous evening the men had been sitting, according to their wont, round their rough table smoking and poring over chance's old map of british columbia. that map was the nearest approach to a book in their possession, and they often studied it and made yarns about it; but the night of phon's arrival all three had bent over it with more than their ordinary interest, because ned had told them of his fancy that he had recognized a certain valley from the main ridge. it was just in front of this map that the corpse had been placed, when rampike had cinched it into its chair for the night. "i guess we had better clear 'em all away," said the old man after a pause, and with a comprehensive wave of his hand he indicated the corpse and the map, the cups and the half-smoked pipes which still littered the table. ned and steve came to their comrade's assistance, and the three made as if they would lift phon from his seat, but at the very first touch all shrank back, while chance cried out: "look at its hand! look, look, it is writing!" like men in a nightmare the three stood, unable to move or to speak, whilst that long lean hand which lay upon the map moved slowly along. like the finger of a clock, or a shadow upon a dial, it crept along slowly, slowly, and ever as it went they heard the grating of one long untrimmed nail against the canvas. it seemed to the onlookers that the hand took hours to travel across three inches of the map, and then the limp body gave a lurch and slid with a soft heavy thud to the ground. the slight movement caused by jim's first touch had disturbed the balance of the body, out of which all the rigid strength of the frost had now gone, so that the slackened muscles left to themselves shrank up and collapsed. this was what really happened, but to rampike and the rest it seemed that the dead wrote. "that's jest what he's come for. thet's the way to pete's crik as he's bin a showin' you, and thet's where you'll find the man as shot him and old rob. bear a hand, we can carry him out now. i guess there ain't no call for him here any longer." and so saying rampike took hold of the corpse, and with ned's assistance bore it out and laid it down upon the snow. upon the map upon which phon's dead hand had rested there was a fine wet line drawn by his nail--a line which led from the very spot where the dug-out stood upon the bank of the frazer, to a point upon the right bank of the chilcotin, a good deal to the north of the spot at which corbett believed that the gold-camp lay. steve chance took a pencil, and whilst the others bore out the body he marked the line carefully, that it might not dry up and vanish away. even as he did so, a wild cry which he knew well came from the bench above the cabin. it began in a low key, and rose higher and higher until it was like the wail of a banshee, then it died away sullenly, and steve heard rampike's voice outside the cabin calling to him: "come along and lend a hand, steve. if we don't bury him pretty soon those blasted wolves will get him." steve hurried out, and together the three tried hard to make some sort of a grave for phon in the hillside. they might as well have tried to dig into adamant. "it ain't no good," growled rampike at length; "and if you jest bury him in the snow the wolves'll get him. not as it matters much." "we'd better put him back in the frazer than leave him here," said ned. "that's so. he cain't stay in the cabin now as he's thawed out, but i ain't sure as we can get him back agen into the river." jim was right. the earth which the chinaman had robbed of its hidden treasure refused to receive him; the friends he had lived amongst would have none of him, now that death's seal was upon him; and even the river, which had spewed him up upon its banks, had now closed its portals against him, so that it was only after half an hour's hard labour that chance and corbett were able to hew out a hole in the solid ice, through which to send back its dead to the frazer. for one moment ned corbett stood with his hat in his hand, looking up to the sky, wondering whither the spark of life had gone and commending it to its creator, and then he pushed the body head first through the hole. the ice round the spot where the three men stood was clear and still fairly thin, so that they saw, or thought that they saw, a face pressed against it for a moment, staring with wild eyes towards the world of the living, and then the stream caught it and it shot down and was gone. the man had dreamed all his life of the golden secrets which lay in the bed of the mighty frazer. he had looked forward to the days when he should carry the golden spoils of british columbia to his own sunny land; but fate had mastered him, and though his body might roll amongst those golden sands, and his dead hands touch the heavy nuggets, it would profit him nothing. the dead have no need of gold! chapter xxx. cruickshank at last! after the burial of phon there was no more rest for the men in the "dug-out." the frazer was frozen hard, and offered a firm white way by which the three outcasts might return to some place where there were warmth and light and the voices of their fellow-men. but none of the three cared to profit by this way of escape. to them a mist seemed always to hang over the river, and the voices of the dead came to them through it; and to ned corbett it seemed that day and night one mournful old tune rang in his ears, and day and night rampike polished his rifle and thought of the "pal" he had lost, and the murderer who had escaped him. "it ain't no manner of use, ned," he said one day towards the end of winter, when the ice was already breaking up. "i know as i might jest as well stay another month, and then go with you to look for this crik. but i cain't do it. somethin' keeps callin' to me to git, and i mean makin' a start to-morrow whether you and steve come or stay." they had been together all through the dreary winter, and had hoped to go out together in the spring, back to that summer land by the sea from which they had all come. they were weary for awhile of the rush and struggle for wealth, and were pining for the smell of the salt waves and the drowsy lap of the sea upon the shore. they had talked over these things together when the noonday was dark with falling snow, and now that spring was at hand they little liked the idea of being parted. "hold hard, old man," said corbett. "let us see if we can't arrange to go together. which way do you think of going?" "thar's only one way, the way as _he_ showed us," answered rampike, nodding over his shoulder towards the river down which phon had gone to his rest. for a few minutes corbett made no answer, but sat staring fixedly out of the little window at the frazer. "it's infernal foolishness," he said at last--"infernal foolishness, i know, and yet i feel as you do, jim. i shall never rest until i have tried phon's way. i'm getting as superstitious as a siwash." "superstitious is a mighty long word, but it don't amount to much. there's a heap of things happens as you cain't account for." "perhaps," assented ned, and then took up once more steve's ragged map of british columbia, and studied for the hundredth time the course traced upon it by the dead man's nail. "it runs south-south-east from here," he said. "yes, i know, and that'll be clar up that bluff and on to the divide, and then over a lot of gulches, i reckon, until we strike the chilcotin. it'll be a pretty rough trail, you bet." "well, rough or smooth, jim, if steve doesn't mind waiting here for us, i'll come with you and start as soon as you please. what do you say, steve?" now steve chance, as the reader knows, was by nature a decent obliging fellow, and, moreover, steve had had all the rough travel that he cared about for years to come, so he answered readily enough. "if you'll pass me your word that you'll be back inside of three weeks, i'll stay. but you don't expect to see cruickshank, i hope?" "i know as we shall see him," said rampike quietly. "summat tells me as _his_ time's up." the very next day rampike and corbett started up the bluffs above the dug-out. down below them the ice in the frazer was already beginning to "run," but the snow on the mountain-sides lay hard and unmelted still, so that travelling without snowshoes was fatiguing in the last degree. from the top of the ridge the two men got a good view of the country through which they had to travel. the mountains, as far as they could see, followed the course of the frazer until its junction with the chilcotin, where they bent into a kind of elbow; in fact the two rivers and their attendant mountains formed two sides of a triangle, between which lay gulches and ravines innumerable, and the base of this triangle was the course laid out for them by phon. "looks as if that chinee corpse had bin laughin' at us after all," muttered rampike. "a man would want wings to cross that country." "never mind, let's try it, jim," said corbett; and together the two men pressed on, floundering sometimes up to their armpits in the deep snow, and sometimes finding an easy way where the country at first sight appeared impassable. on the third day of their journey, towards evening, they entered a narrow snow-choked canyon, which seemed to lead through the second main ridge of mountains to the chilcotin. as they entered this canyon ned corbett paused and looked searchingly up and down it, as if looking for some sign to distinguish it from its fellows. but he found none. like a hundred others which they had seen, this gully was deep and narrow and full of snow. the pines which grew on its sides seemed only just able to keep their heads above the white flood. somewhere far down below, no doubt, there was a creek, which sang and flashed in the summer sunlight; but it was buried now out of sight by the snow and gagged by the frost. "do you think you know this here place, ned?" asked rampike, who had been watching his comrade's face. "i _feel_ as if i did, and yet i can't see anything, jim, that i could swear to." "is that so? well, it's no matter, because we must stick to this canyon anyway. it leads out on to the chilcotin," replied the old man, and so saying he led on. after a while he paused. "say, ned, is that a sheep-trail across there on the other side?" ned looked hard in the direction indicated, shading his eyes with his hand to get a better view. "it looks more like a bear's trail," he replied, "only the bears are all holed up still." "it's pretty well used, whatever it is, and i guess we should find it a sight better travelling there than it is here. shall we try it?" as it happened the snow was exceptionally deep where the two men stood, so that they sank up to their knees at every step. a beaten trail of any kind would therefore save them an infinite amount of labour. "yes, let's," said ned, with the brusqueness of a man who needs all his breath for other uses. to get to the trail corbett and rampike had to cross the canyon, and in places this was almost impossible, both men sinking from time to time almost out of sight in the snow. twice rampike voted that they should give up the attempt, and twice corbett persuaded him to go on. at last, sweating and trembling with exertion, they got clear of the worst of the snow and stood upon the edge of the trail. for a moment no one noticed anything. they were both too tired to use their eyes even. then a sudden gleam of triumph flashed into rampike's face, and he swore savagely between his teeth, as he was wont to do when anything moved him deeply. bending over the trail he scrutinized it carefully, fingering the soiled snow, and making an impression with his own foot that he might compare it with the tracks before him. when he raised his face to corbett's he had regained all his old coolness, but there was a cold glitter in his eyes which spoke of repressed excitement. "what is it, jim?" asked corbett. "what is it? don't you see? it's the trail of the bar we've bin' huntin' this long while, that's what it is. i suppose we'd better toss for the shot." the trail was the trail of a man. the moment corbett looked carefully at it he saw that; and yet, cold-blooded as it seemed to him afterwards, he never hesitated for a moment, but when rampike produced a coin and sent it spinning into the air, cried "heads!" with all the eagerness of a boy tossing for first innings in a cricket match. "tails it is! that thar is a lucky coin to me," said rampike; "that's why i always pack it around." and so saying he replaced an old english shilling in his pocket and began examining the lock of his winchester, whilst ned looked anxiously up and down the valley as if he expected every moment to see their foe come into sight. "oh, no fear of his comin' just yet awhile," said jim, noticing his comrade's glances. "he went up the canyon about an hour ago, and i don't reckon as he'll be along this way agen before morning. i wonder what he's up to, anyway?" to men like rampike and corbett the testimony of the trail upon which they stood put some facts beyond all dispute. that some man who wore moccasins used it at least twice a day, and had so used it for a month past, they knew as certainly as they knew anything. that he had passed along the trail within the hour they also knew, and that he was cruickshank they guessed with a confidence which left no room for doubt. "i guess, ned, as this here must be pete's crik as we've got into." "that is what i've been thinking for some time," replied ned. "then that's his trail to the diggings from the river. but what does he want at the river so often? that licks me." as ned had no explanation to offer, the two stood silent for a moment, until the old man's eyes fell upon the tracks which he and ned had made across the canyon. "if we don't hide those we shall scare our game," he muttered. "lend a hand, ned, to cover some of them up." "i guess that'll do," he admitted, after half an hour's hard work. "looks as if a bar had come across until he smelled them tracks of his and then turned back agen. cruickshank 'll never notice, anyway, so we may as well foller this trail to the river. step careful into his tracks, ned. i'd like to see what he has been at on the river." these were the last words spoken by either corbett or rampike for quite half an hour, during which they followed one another in indian file, stepping carefully into the same footprints, so that to anyone but a skilled tracker, it would appear at first sight that only one man had used the trail. at the end of half an hour they paused. the roaring of a great river was in their ears, and the grinding of a drift ice. "that's the chilcotin," whispered corbett. "the frazer, more like," replied rampike. "yes, i thought as much," he added a moment later as he came round a corner of the bluff round which the trail ran. "we've struck the junction of them two rivers. this creek runs in pretty nigh the mouth of the chilcotin." almost whilst he was yet speaking, corbett caught the speaker by the belt and dragged him down in the snow at his side. in spite of the suddenness and roughness of such treatment the old man uttered no protest. the question he wanted to ask was in his eyes as he turned his head cautiously and looked into his comrade's face, but with his lips he made no sound. putting his lips to jim's ear, ned whispered: "there's a canoe just below us on the beach, lie still whilst i take a look at it;" and then he crawled away upon his belly until he could peer from behind a boulder on the sky-line, at the valley below. in that valley, between steep banks and piles of great ice-worn boulders, the last two hundred yards of the chilcotin river rushed by to join the frazer, and amongst these boulders, at the very edge of the open water, lay a rough indian canoe. at the side of the canoe the trail stopped. "so that's the carcase as we have to watch," said rampike's voice in ned's ear. "there's no need to keep down, lad, he ain't here. let's go along the trail and take a look." and so saying rampike rose and walked down to the canoe. the sight which there met his eyes and ned's struck both men dumb for a while with wonder. what they saw was the work of one man, in one winter, without proper tools, without sufficient food, and with the awful odds against him of place and weather. "the devil fights hard for his own," muttered ned; and indeed it seemed as if one man, unaided by supernatural powers, could not have accomplished what this man had done. corbett forgot that the greed of gold is almost a supernatural power. out of the trunk of a tree, felled by his own hands, the man who dwelt in this snow-choked canyon had made himself a canoe, his one tool the blade of his axe. the canoe so built was neither beautiful nor strong, but it was just strong enough for a fearless man to risk his life in, and beautiful enough, when it had its cargo on board, to tempt nine men out of ten to risk their souls to obtain it. for the cargo of that canoe was the world's desire--the omnipotent, all-purchasing gold! in a hundred small sacks this cargo was stored away, each sack made either of deer-skin or the clothes of the man who made them. he had risked his life and sacrificed the blood of others to get the yellow dust, and now he gave the very clothes from off his back, in spite of the bitter winter cold, to make sacks to save it in. as ned looked and counted the sacks, and thought of old roberts and phon, of the money wasted and the toil unrewarded, he sighed. for the first time he regretted that he had lost the toss. "wal, come on, ned," said rampike, breaking in upon this train of thought suddenly, "i'm goin' to watch right here. it's mighty lucky as we came when we did. that fellow means to skip as soon as ever the river clears." ned said nothing, but in silence followed his companion to a lair behind a great block of gray stone, from which they could look down upon the trail opposite to them. "i guess it's safest here, though if the ice breaks up a bit more we sha'n't be able to get back if we want to," said rampike; for in order to reach a position which commanded cruickshank's trail, rampike had led the way across the river, stepping warily across the ice, which was already split up into great pieces, which ground against each other and moved slowly with the stream. "it's not more than a hundred yards, i reckon, and i'll back her to shoot good that far, even by moonlight," were the last words which rampike muttered as he drew a bead upon an imaginary figure on the trail across the river, and after this silence came and wrapped the two men round. all through the gloaming and the night, even until the dawn, there was only a great gray stone which stood upon one side of the chilcotin and looked down upon the trail on the other side. there was no movement anywhere save the movement of the ice in the river and of the moon as she rose and sank again in the clear night sky, nor was there any sound save the grinding of the ice as it broke into smaller and yet smaller pieces, and was borne along to join the hurtling mass which was hurrying down the frazer. at first the shadows crept out into the valley, and one who was watching them gripped his rifle hard, and his breath came thick and fast. again the moon rose and the shadows fled, and all was white and motionless and dumb. after this it grew darker again; the moon had gone and a chill wind made the watchers shiver, and one of them drew a white thread out of the material of his coat, and doubled it and tied it round the muzzle of his rifle, so that it made a great knot where the sight was, serviceable instead of a sight in the half darkness. the wind was cold, and the watchers' clothes were rigid with frost, but rampike's fingers scarcely trembled as he tied that knot, and his face was firm and cold as ice. at last there was a sound far away up the canyon. "crunch crunch, crunch crunch," it sounded with a regularity unlike any sound in nature. it was no rolling of the rocks, no creaking of the frozen pines, not even the tread of any beast of prey. it was the step of a man, and colonel or no colonel, the man whose tread echoed in that wintry dawn, brought with him to his doom some traces of that early training which had come to him from the drill-sergeant. in the streets of a great city a hundred men may pass and no one hears their tread, or knows that he hears it, and yet in spite of the roaring of the rivers and the grinding of the ice, this one man's tread, even in the snow, seemed like the tread of an army, and the sound of it grew and grew until corbett knew that the heavens heard it, and that its vibrations were echoed in hell. at the last they saw him, this man richer than all other men, this man yellow with gold and crimson with other men's blood, and what they saw was a wan, ragged figure, worn to a mere skeleton, its shoulders bent, plodding heavily along with the last load of yellow dust, stolen from pete's creek, hanging heavily in its hands. for a moment corbett doubted if this could really be that same stalwart, smooth-tongued knave who had jockeyed him out of his dollars for three useless claims, but a sharp metallic "clink" upon the rock beside him called him back to himself and reminded him that rampike had no doubts even if he had. inch by inch ned saw the long barrel of the winchester pushed out over the rock, until it rested firmly, its deadly muzzle dark in the dim light of dawn. slowly rampike lowered his head until his cheek lay against the cold metal and his eye trained the weapon upon the man who for gold had not hesitated to kill two of his fellows. one more beat of his heart and he too would feel the kiss of the cold lead and go whither those others had gone. "my god, i can't do it!--cruickshank!" cried corbett, and as he cried out he sprang to his feet and threw up rampike's rifle. "cruickshank!" the cry startled the silence, so that all nature seemed to shudder at the sound, and "cruickshank!" "cruickshank!" the rocks repeated until the sound died away amongst the snows at the head of the canyon. at the first sound of that cry he whose name it was stopped, and as he turned to look across the river the white light of dawn came down and struck him across the face, so that those who looked could see the lines graven on it by fear and hunger and remorse, and then his hands went wildly up towards heaven and he fell. the path which he had trodden so often crossed at this place a sheer slope of hardened snow, in which he had cut footsteps for himself, narrow indeed, but sufficient for the safety of a careful man. until now he had never slipped or dreamed of slipping, and yet now with that cry in his ear, with the last load of gold in his hand, with the river almost clear enough for flight, he slipped and fell. those who looked saw only a face full of mad fear, they heard only the clang of the metal wash-pan, which he wore as miners wear it, at his belt, and then, quick as the first ray of the dawn shoots across the mountain-side, cruickshank shot down that ice-slope, and with a dull heavy plunge, sank in the ice-choked river. for minutes, which seemed hours, the two men who lay behind the rock neither spoke nor moved, only they stared with wide eyes at the empty trail where he had stood, and the jostling hummocks of ice in the river amongst which he sank. "wal," said rampike at last, "that's all, and i guess we take the pot." and he turned to where the canoe full of gold, the price of three men's lives, lay alone in the gray light of dawn. even as he spoke the canoe moved. some will say that the ice on which it rested had been sucked away by the rising river, and that so, it slid down naturally and was borne along with all the other river waifs,--dead pines and dead men's bodies. but rampike, who saw the thing, says that hands like the hands of the dead laid hold upon it and drew it away. then they watched it drift out amongst the ice into the frazer, and there for a while the great river played with it, and moaned and laughed over it by turns, and then it sank, and the gold that was in it, and the sin which that gold begot, are a portion of the load which the old river is so glad to lay down as she rushes into the salt sea beyond the sand-heads at new westminster. _l'envoi._ my story is told, and the days which i wrote of have passed away, but something is still left to remind old-timers of the rush of ' . pete's creek is still yielding a fair return for work done upon it by a company, whose chairman is our old friend, steve chance, but such pockets as that found under phon's boulder have never been found again. as for ned corbett, he is a rancher now on those yellow chilcotin uplands, and the gold which pleases him best is that left by the sun upon his miles and miles of sweet mountain grass. if others have more gold, ned has all that gold can purchase by the frazer or elsewhere, work which he loves, and such health, spirits, and moderate wealth as should satisfy an honest man. +---------------------------------------------------+ |transcriber's note: | | | |obvious typographical errors have been corrected. | | | +---------------------------------------------------+ +-------------------------------------------------+ |transcriber's note: | | | |obvious typographic errors have been corrected. | | | +-------------------------------------------------+ san isidro by mrs. schuyler crowninshield [illustration: logo] herbert s. stone & company chicago & new york mdcccc copyright by herbert s. stone & co. to c. s. c. a memory of "la madrugada" san isidro[ ] i people wondered why don beltran remained in the casa down by the river. he had been warned by his prudent neighbors, who lived anywhere from two to six miles away, that some time a flood, greater than any that the valley had yet known, would arise and sweep house and inmates away to the sea. don beltran laughed at this. he was happy as he was, and content. there had always been floods, and they had sometimes caused the river to overflow so as to wash across his potreros, but the cacao and bananas were planted on gentle elevations where the water as yet had never reached. then, too, there was always the hill rancho, though neither so large nor so comfortable as the casa. why borrow trouble? at the first sign of danger the cattle and horses had always betaken themselves to the grove on the hill, there to browse and feed, until the shallow lake which stretched across the plains below them had subsided. once don beltran, adan, his faithful serving-man, and adan's niece, agueda, had been belated. adan had quickly untied the bridle of the little brown horse from the tethering staple at the corner of the casa, and mounting it, had swum away for safety. "that is right," said don beltran; "he will swim mexico"--don beltran said mayheco--"to the rising ground, and save the young rascal. as for us, agueda, the horse had stampeded before i noticed the cloud-burst. it seems that you and i must stay." agueda made no answer, but she thought it no hardship to remain. "there is no danger for us, child; we can go up to the thatch and wait." "the peons have gone," said agueda, shyly. "they were within their rights," answered don beltran. "all must go who are afraid. i have always told them that. for me, i have known many floods. they were always interesting, never dangerous. had i my choice, i should have stayed." "and i," said agueda. she did not look at don beltran as she spoke. the lids were drooped over her grey eyes. agueda turned away and entered the comidor, leaving don beltran looking up the valley: not anxiously--merely as one surveys a spectacle of interest. once in the comidor, agueda busied herself opening cupboards and closets. she took therefrom certain articles of food which she placed within a basket. she did not move nervously, but quickly, as if to say, "it may come at any moment; we have not much time, perhaps." she recalled, as she lightly hurried about, the last time that the flood had overtaken them at the casa. nada, her mother, had prepared the basket then. nada, adan's sister, who had kept don beltran's house, after she had been left alone on the hillside--nada, sweet nada, who had died six months ago of no malady that the little spanish doctor could discover. don beltran prized his capitas, adan, above all the serving-men whom he had ever employed, and nothing was too good for adan's sister nada--so young, so fair-looking, so patient, her mouth set ever in that heartrending smile, which is more bitter to look upon than a fierce compression of the lips, whose gentle tones wring the heart more cruelly than do the wild denunciations of the revengeful and vindictive. the little spanish doctor, who, like the chinese, had never forgotten anything, as he had never learned anything, had ordered a young calf slain and its heart brought to where nada lay wasting away. warm and almost beating, it had been opened and laid upon the spot where she felt the gnawing pain; but as there is no prophylactic against the breaking of a heart, so for that crushed and quivering organ there is no remedy. and nada, tortured in every feeling, physical and mental, had suffered all that devotion and ignorance could suggest, and died. agueda knew little of her mother's history, and remembered only her invariable patience and gentleness. she remembered their leaving los alamos to come to the hacienda down by the river. she remembered that one day she had suddenly awakened to the fact that don jorge was at the casa no longer, that her mother smiled no more, that she paid slight attention to her little daughter's questionings, that nada was always robed in black now, that there had been no funeral, no corpse, no grave! don jorge was not dead, that she knew, because the old capitas, rafael, was always ordering the peons about, saying, "the señor wills it," or "the señor will have it so." then there had come a day when the bull-cart was brought to the door--the side door which opened from their apartment. in it were placed her little trunk, which nada had brought her from haldez, when she went to the midwinter fair, and her mother's american chair, which don jorge had brought once when he returned from the states; she remembered how kindly he had smiled at her pleasure. in fact, all that in any way seemed to be part and parcel of the two was placed in the cart, not unkindly, by juan filipe, and then the vehicle awaited nada's pleasure. she remembered how nada had taken her by the hand and led her through the rooms of the large, spreading, uneven casa. they had passed through halls and corridors, and had finally come to a pretty interior, which agueda remembered well, but in which she had not been now for a long time. the walls were pink, and on the floor was a pink and white rug, faded it is true, but dainty still. here nada had looked about with streaming eyes. she had gone round behind the bed, and agueda had looked up to see her standing, her lips pressed to the wall, and whispering through her kisses, "good by, good by!" then she had taken agueda by the hand. "look at this room well, 'gueda," she had said. "why, mother?" but nada did not speak. her lips trembled. she could not form her words. she stood for a moment, her eyes devouring that room which she should never see again. her tears had stopped; her eyes were burning. she stooped down by her daughter. "agueda," she said, "repeat these words after me." "yes, mother." "say, 'all happiness be upon this house.'" "no, no! mother, i will not. this casa has made you cry. i will not say it." "agueda!" nada's tone was almost stern. "do as i tell you, child, repeat my words--'all happiness come to this house.'" but agueda had pressed her lips tightly together and shaken her head. she had closed the grey eyes so that the curled lashes swept her round brown cheek. nada had lifted the child in her arms and carried her through the corridors and out to the side veranda. she had set her in the cart and got in beside her. "where to, señora?" juan filipe had asked gently. "to san isidro," nada had answered from stiff lips. "_aaaaaiiieee!_" juan filipe had shouted, at the same time flourishing the long lash of his whip round the animals' heads. they, knowing that they must soon move, had tossed their noses stubbornly. another warning, the wheels had creaked, turned round, and they had passed down the hill. agueda never forgot that ride to san isidro. had it not been for her mother's tears, she would have been more than happy. she had always wished to ride in the new bull-cart; juan filipe had promised her many a time. now he was at last keeping his promise. this argued well. if she could take one ride, how many more might she not have? all the time during that little trip to san isidro, agueda was asking herself mental questions. there was no use in speaking to her mother. she only looked far away toward los alamos, and answered "yes" and "no" at random. agueda remembered with what delight she had seen the patient bulls turn the creaking cart into the camino which led to san isidro. "oh," she said, clapping her hands, "we are going to uncle adan's!" for was not this uncle adan's casa, and did not don beltran live with uncle adan? she was not sure. but when she had been there with her mother, she had seen that splendid tall don beltran about the house with the dogs, or with his bulls in the field, or in his shooting coat with his gun slung across his shoulder, or going with his fishing-tackle to the river. yes, she was sure that don beltran lived at uncle adan's house. agueda's thoughts sped with the rapidity that reminiscence brings, and as she placed some rounds of cassava bread in the basket she saw her mother doing the same, as if it were but yesterday, and saying between halting breaths: "never trust a gentleman--agueda--marry some--plain, honest--man--a man of--our people, agueda--but do not--trust--" "who are our people, mother?" the girl had interrupted. aye, who were their people? nada had not answered. she had lain her thin arms round agueda's unformed shoulders, turned the girl's head backward with the other hand laid upon her brow, and gazed steadily into the good grey eyes. "my little agueda," she had said--stopped short, and sighed. it was hopeless. there was no escape from the burden of inheritance. agueda had not understood the cause of her mother's sigh and her halting words. she had been ill to death--that she knew. then came long years of patience, as agueda grew to girlhood. could it be only six months ago that she had lost her? "my sweet nada," she whispered, as she laid a napkin over the contents of the basket, "i do not know what you meant, but i do not forget you, nada." "hasten, agueda! there is no danger, but there is no need of getting a wetting." agueda turned to see don beltran standing in the doorway of the comidor. he was smiling. his face looked brown and healthful against the worn blue of the old painted door. his white trousers were tucked within the tops of his high boots, and he wore a belt of tanned leather, with the usual accompaniment of a pistol-holder, which was empty, the belt forming a strap for a machete, and holding safely that useful weapon of domesticity or menace. his fine striped shirt hung in loose folds partly over the belt; the collar, broad, and turned down from the brown throat, being held carelessly in place by a flowing coloured tie. he had an old panama hat in his brown hand. his wavy hair swept back from his forehead, crisp and changeable in its dark gold lights. his brown eyes looked kindly at the girl, but more particularly at the basket which she filled. "have you some glasses?" he asked, "and some--" "water, señor? yes, i have not forgotten that." don beltran laughed merrily. "i fancy that we shall have water enough, 'gueda, child. get my flask and fill it with rum. the pink rum of the vega. here, let me get the demijohn. run for the flask, child. perhaps i should have listened to the warning of old emperatriz." there were other warnings which beltran had not taken into account. the sultry day that had passed, the total absence of breeze, the low-flying birds, the stridulous cry of the early home-flying parrots, the dun-colored sky to the south and east, the whinneying and neighing of the horses. the old grey, who knew the signs of the times, had torn his bridle loose and raced across the pasture-land to the hill where stood the rancho. he was the pioneer; the others had followed him, and the little roan had galloped away last of all, with adan to guide and reassure him. the bulls, leaping and plunging with heads to earth and hind hoofs raised in air, with shaking fringe of tail and bellowed pleading, had asked, as plainly as could creatures to whom god gave a soul, to be allowed to flee to the mountain. adan, in passing, had unclasped and thrown wide the gate, and they had raced with him for certain life from the death which might be imminent. emperatriz had whined and had pounded her tail restlessly against the planks of the floor. then she had arisen, and stood with her great forepaws resting upon beltran's shoulder, gazing with anxiety that was almost human into his face. "caramba hombre!" beltran had said, as he threw the great beast away from him. then he had laughed. "i am like the peons, who address even the women so. it does mean a storm, emperatriz, old girl, but i do not care to go." he had opened the outer door. the great hound had darted through, leaped from the veranda to the ground, and fled toward the south, barking as she ran at the encroaching enemy. she had circled round the casa, nose in air, her whimpering cries ascending to the sky, which shone, as yet, blue overhead. then back she had torn to the steps, and bounding up and in at the door, had crouched at her master's feet, her nose upon the leather of his shoe, her flanks curved high. then she had leaped upon him again. she had taken his sleeve gently between her teeth as if to compel him to safety, then crouched again, flapping her great tail upon the floor, her eyes raised to his, her whine pleading like the tones of a human voice. beltran had shaken the dog away. "i am not going, emperatriz," he had said, impatiently. "be off with you!" a few more circlings round the casa, a few more appealing cries, a backward glance and a backward bark, and emperatriz had started for the rancho, and none too soon. the potrero had become a shallow lake, through which she splashed before she had placed her forefeet upon the rise. "hasten, agueda! come! come!" called beltran. agueda ran to the ladder, which was ever ready for just such surprises. it was the expected which usually did not happen at san isidro, but the ladder was always there, fastened secure and firm, rivetted to the floor and roof alike. it could move but with the house. agueda stepped lightly upon the rungs, one after the other. she raised the basket up to don beltran's down-reaching grasp. he took it, placed it upon the gently sloping roof, and held out a kindly hand to the girl, but agueda did not take it at once. she descended the ladder a round or two, and from a nail in a near-by beam seized a coat which don beltran wore sometimes when the nights were cool, and the trade winds blew up too freshly from the sea. when she climbed again to the opening in the thatch, don beltran was leaning against the old stone chimney, which raised its moss-grown head between the casa and cocina. he had forgotten the girl. his horizontal palm shaded his eyes from the ray of the level sun. there was no sign of fear visible upon his face; he appeared rather like an interested observer, which indeed he was, for he felt secure and safe, for himself, his people, and his cattle. "see the commotion among the forests up there, near palmacristi, agueda! it may be only a slight storm and quickly over, but if we do have a flood like the last one, i have no wish that garcia and manuel medina shall float in at my front door in their dugouts and carry off all things movable. it is so easy to lay everything to the flood!" "the men have been moving the furniture for an hour past, señor. i think there is little that can be carried away." don beltran gave a sudden start. "where is the cross, agueda? did you remember that?" "i have it here, señor." agueda laid her hand upon the bosom of her gown. "and the señor's little cart, that is locked within the inner cupboard. it cannot go unless the casa goes also." "and in that case i should want it no more in this world, agueda. you are thoughtful, child. the two souvenirs of my mother! ah, see!" as he spoke there was a stir among the treetops far over to the westward. there, where yellow-brown clouds hung massed and solid as a wall over the rift below, a strange agitation was visible. "it is a dance, 'gueda. do you see them, those fairies? watch that one advancing there, to the southward. she approaches the lady from the east. see them skip and whirl and pass as if in a quadrille. it is a pretty sight. you will see that once in a lifetime--not oftener. they call it the _trompa marina_ at sea." agueda raised her eyes and looked smiling towards the spot to which he nodded. there white and twisting spirals danced and swayed against that lurid background, and above the deep bay, which was hidden by the hills. they advanced, they retreated, they dipped like sprites from palm tuft to palm tuft. sometimes they skipped gaily in couples, again one was left to follow three or four that had their heads close together, like schoolchildren telling secrets. it was all so human and everyday-like, that agueda laughed gaily and gazed fascinated at the antics of these children of the storm. the long, ragged-edged split in the angry clouds disclosed a blood-red glow behind, which sent its glare down through the valley and across the woods, where it flecked the tree trunks. from beltran's vantage point the palm shafts stood black as night against the glare. when he turned and looked behind him, unwilling to lose a single bit of this latest painting from the brush of nature, he found that she had dashed every tree trunk with one gorgeous splash of ruddy gold. agueda lifted her basket and carried it to the chimenea unaided. beltran was so absorbed in the grand sight that he had forgotten to be kind. there was usually no thought of gallantry in what he did for the girl, but even the natural kindliness of his manner was in abeyance. agueda set the basket behind the great stone wall. she remembered what he had said the last time they had sought shelter from the water. "it is ridiculous, that great chimney," he had said: "but even the absurd things of life have their uses." she remembered how she had crouched in her mother's arms the whole long day, but beyond a few drops there had been no cloud-burst, no flood that came higher than the top step of the veranda. they had descended at night dry and unharmed. "it may be like the last one," she ventured to say. but her sentence was drowned. there came a rustling and swaying sound from afar, growing louder as it approached. beltran noted the ruthless path which it indicated, and then, "there came a rushing, mighty wind from heaven." it fell upon the tall lilies as if they were grass, bent them to the earth, and laid them prostrate. some of them, denizens of the soil more tenacious of their hold than others, clung to mother earth with the grip of the inheritor of primogeniture. but the struggle was brief. "i was certain that those i planted upside down would stand," said beltran to agueda. "i allowed twelve-inch holes, too." but there comes a time when precaution is proven of no avail. the massive stalks were torn from their holdings like so much straw, and laid low with their weaker brothers. as they began to fall in the near field, "it is upon us!" shouted beltran. he seized agueda's wrist and drew her behind the chimney. and there they cowered as the wind raved past them on either side, carrying heavy missiles on its strong wings. at this beltran's face showed for the first time some uneasiness. he was peering out from behind his stone bulwark. "there goes aranguez's casa," he said, regretfully. "i had no thought of that. i wish i had sent you to the rancho, child." they crouched low behind the chimney. he clung to one of the staples mortared in the interstices of the stone-work, against just such a day as this, and braced his foot beneath the eaves. again he peered cautiously out. a whistling, rustling sound had made him curious as to its source. the river, which had been flowing tranquilly but a few minutes before, now threw upward white and pointed arms of foam, they reached to the branches, which threshed through open space, and swayed over to meet their supplication, then straightened a moment to bend again to north, to east, to west. the floods had fallen fiercely upon the defenceless bosom of the gentle rio frio, had beaten and lashed it and overcome it, so that it mingled perforce with its conqueror, while raising appealing arms for mercy. it grieved, it tossed, it wept, it wailed, but its invader shrieked gleefully as he hurried his helpless prize down through the savannas to that welcoming tyrant, the sea. the water crept rapidly up toward the foundation of the casa. it washed underneath the high flooring. it lapped against the pilotijos. it carried underneath the house branches and twigs which it had brought down in its mad rush toward the lowlands. as it rose higher and higher, it wove the banana stalks and wisps of straw which it bore upon its bosom in and out between the trunks and stems of trees. with the skill of an old-time weaver, it interlaced them through the upright growth which edged the bank. one saw the vegetable fabric there for years after, unless the sun and rain had rotted it away, and another flood had replaced within the warp a fresher woof. beltran arose and took a few cautious steps upon the roof, but the wind, if warm, was fierce, and thrust him back with violence. he barely escaped being dashed to the new-made lake below. he caught at the chimenea, and edging slowly round, seated himself again by agueda. she had been calling to him, and had stretched out her hand. her eyes showed her fear, and also the relief which his presence gave her. when she felt that he was safe beside her she made no further sign. beltran had laid his hand on agueda's shoulder as he would have done upon the chimney itself. by it he steadied himself in taking his seat. she raised her eyes and shyly offered him his coat. he shook his head with a smile. his lips moved, but she could hear no word for the noise of the wind and water. don beltran put his hand to his mouth and placed his lips to agueda's ear. "do not be afraid," he shouted. "there is really no danger." she shook her head and glanced up at him again, dropping almost at once the childish eyes to the hands in her lap. she moved a little nearer to their dividing line, and called in answer: "i am not afraid." he saw her lips move, and guessed at the words, though her look of confidence would have answered him. why had he never noticed those eyes before? was it because she had always kept them cast down? what slim hands the girl had! what shapely shoulders! he looked at them as they rested against the weather-beaten stones of the chimney. agueda turned her head backward and clutched quickly at the light handkerchief which confined the waves of her short hair. she laughed and looked upward at don beltran from under her sweeping lashes. her soul went forth to meet his gaze, unconscious as a little child that she had a secret to tell; unconscious that the next moment she had told it. how can one tell anything except by word of mouth? beltran drew sharply back, as far as the contracted space would allow. he leaned over the edge of the roof, and saw that the water was now sweeping through the casa, flowing more slowly as it spread over a greater space. it glided in at the doors and out at the windows, which he had left open purposely, not dreaming, it is true, that this flood would be greater than others of its kind, but that in case it should be, the resistance might be less. glancing down stream, he saw a chair and some tin pans bobbing and courtesying to each other as they drifted across the potrero where the cattle usually browsed. the sun declined, the dusk came creeping down, and with the approach of night the wind subsided. fortunately there was no rain. the clouds had been carried in from the sea at right angles with the stream, and had broken in the mountains and poured out their torrents there. still the rushing of the river drowned all other sounds. it grew quite dark. beltran leaned back against the chimenea. the slight creature at his side rested, also, in silence. the darkness became intense. the chimenea was needed no longer as a protection from the wind, but the utter absence of all light made the slightest motion dangerous. a chill mist crept up from the sea. the night began to grow cold, as do the tropic nights of midwinter. beltran shivered. something was pushed against his hand. he reached down and felt another hand, a hand slim and cold. he took it within his own, but it was at once withdrawn, and a rough and heavy article thrown across his knees. he felt some buttons, a pocket which held papers, a collar. ah! it must be his woollen coat, which she had had the forethought to bring. feeling for the sleeve, he threw the coat round his shoulders, and with a resolve born in a moment, reached out toward agueda. his groping fingers fell upon her sweet throat and the tendrils of her boyish hair, the great dark rings, which, now that he could not see them, he suddenly remembered. throwing his arm around her, he drew the damp and shivering figure close. then he grasped the sleeve of his coat, and drew it towards him, forcing her head down upon his breast. he sought the other hand, and later found the tremulous lips. he held his willing prisoner close, and so they sat the whole night through. many and strange thoughts rushed through agueda's brain during those blissful hours. life began for her then, and she found it well worth living. she awoke. her child's heart sprang into full being, to lie dormant never again. nada's words came back to her. she did not wish to recall them, but they forced themselves upon her: "never trust a gentleman, agueda; he will only betray you." "i should think much of your warning, nada," thought agueda, "if i saw other gentlemen. i never do see them. if i do, he will protect me." the danger had not arrived. it could never come now. she had found her bulwark and her defence. footnote: [ ] pronounced e-see-dro. ii "when the flood has subsided," agueda had said to herself, "all will be as before. but stay! would anything ever be as before? well, what matter? who would go back? shall we not trust those whom we love? life is the better for it. this was life. life was all happiness, all joy. the future? there was to be no future but this. this life of hers and his should be the same until death claimed the one or the other. god grant that they might go together, rather than that one should be left behind. let them go in a greater flood, perhaps, than the one which they had outspent upon the thatched roof in the shelter of the old chimenea." agueda knew not the meaning of those words of calculation--"the world." she had never known the world, she had never seen the world. she found herself living as many did about her. only that they had heart-burnings, jealousies, disappointments, and sorrows. she was secure, and she pitied them that their lots had not been cast within so safe a fold as hers. her nature, if ignorant, was undefiled and undepraved; and noble, in that she found no sacrifice too great for this splendid young god who claimed her. what else was her mission in life but to make his life as near heaven as earthly existence could become? she stretched out her young arms to the sky with a glow of happiness that asked nothing further of god. there were the mountains, the fields, the forests, the plantations, the river, and the rambling, thatched casa. these made for her the world. sometimes she thought of and pitied aneta at el cuco. poor aneta, who had thought that a life-long happiness was hers, when suddenly one day don mateo had returned from the city with a bride. "poor aneta!" agueda used often to say, with a pitying smile through which her own contentment broke in ripples of joy. how could she trust a man like don mateo? as agueda sat and thought, she mended with anxious but unskilled fingers the pile of linen which old juana had brought in from the ironing room. juana had clumped along the back veranda and set the basket down with a heavy thump. there were table linen and bed linen, there were the señor's striped shirts of fine material from the north, and his dainty underwear, and agueda's neat waists and collars keeping company with them in truly domestic manner. agueda had never done menial work; uncle adan's position as manager of the plantation had secured something better for his niece. if uncle adan knew the truth, he made no sign. the lax state of morals in the country had always been the same. in reality he saw no harm in it. besides which, had he wished to, what change could he make--he, a simple manager and farming man, against the owner of the hacienda, a rich and powerful señor from adan's point of view. suddenly agueda remembered that she had not seen aneta for a long time. she would go now, this very minute, and pay the visit so long overdue. she arose at once. with characteristic carelessness she dropped the sheet upon which she had been engaged on the floor, took from its peg the old straw hat, and clapped it over her boyish curls. the hat was yellow, it had a peaked crown, and twisted round the crown was a handkerchief of pale blue. agueda made no toilet; she hardly looked at her smiling image in the glass. from the corner of the room she took a time-worn umbrella, which had once been white, and started towards the door. a backward glance showed her the confusion of the room. for herself she did not care, but the señor might come in perhaps before her return. he had gone to the mail-station across the bay; the post-office and the bank were both there. he was bringing home some bags of pesos with which to pay his men. possibly he would bring a letter or two from the fruit agents, or the merchant to whom he sold the little coffee that he raised; but the pesos were more of a certainty than the letters. if he returned home before her, the sitting-room would have a disorderly appearance, and he disliked disorder. his mother, the doña maria, had been a very neat old lady. there are some persons to whom order and neatness are inborn. with a touch of a deft finger here or there, an apartment becomes at once a place where the most critical may enter. to others it is a labor to make a room appear well cared for. it may be immaculate in all that pertains to dust or the thorough cleanliness of linen or woodwork, but the power to so impress the beholder is lacking. agueda was one of these. she sighed as she gazed at the unkempt appearance of the room. there was not much the matter, and yet she did not know how to remedy it. she re-entered the room and picked up the sheet from the floor, together with a pillow-slip whose starched glossiness had caused it to slide down to keep the sheet company. folding these, not any too precisely, she laid them upon the chair where she had lately sat. then she glanced around the room again. its careless air still offended her, but time was flying, and she had a long walk before her. suddenly she put her hand to her ear and took from behind it the rose that had been there since early morning. it was the first that she had struggled to raise, and it had repaid her efforts, in that hot section of the country, by dwining and dwindling like a puny child. still, it was a rose. she laid it on the badly folded sheet; it gave an air of habitation to the room. she smiled down at this, her messenger. she gave the linen a final pat and went out, closing the door softly. it was as if a young mother had left her sleeping child to be awakened by its father, should he be the first to return. "it is something of me," thought agueda. "it will be the first to greet him." agueda stepped out on the broad veranda. the loose old boards creaked even under her slight weight. "juana!" she called, "i'm going to see aneta at el cuco." she made no other explanation. he would ask as soon as he returned, and they would tell him. "youah neva fin youah roaad in dis yer fawg," squeaked juana. "the fog may lift," laughed agueda. the river, forgetful of its past turbulence, smiled and glanced and beckoned as it slipped tranquilly onward, but agueda did not answer the summons. she turned abruptly to the right and crossed the well-known potrero path. this led her for a quarter of a mile through the mellow pasture-land, where horses were browsing. the grey was not there--sure sign of his master's absence, but the little chestnut was in evidence, and farther along, beyond the wire fence, were the great bulls, which had not been driven afield with the suckers. there stood cæsar, the big brown bull with the great, irregular white spots. agueda went close to the fence, and picked a handful of sweet herbs, such as cæsar loved. "cæsar," she called, "cæsar, it is i that have the sweet things for you." cæsar threw up his head quickly, tossing long strings of saliva into the air. he stood for a moment with hesitant look, then perceiving that it was agueda, trotted, tail held stiff, to where she waited, her hand held out to him. he extended his thick neck, holding his wet, pink nostrils just over the barrier, wound his dripping tongue round the dainty, and then withdrew his head that he might eat with ease. "too bad, poor cæsar, that the horses get all the sweets, and you none." with awkward arm held high, that she might not catch her sleeve upon the topmost wire, she patted the animal's nose; then thrust one more bunch of grass into the ready cavity, and turning, ran along toward the rise. when agueda had closed the rickety potrero gate, she started up the elevation which confronted her. here the young bananas were just showing above the ground. she had deplored the fact that this pretty hill-forest had been sacrificed to banana culture, and had hated to see the great giants which she had known from childhood cut and slashed. at the fall of each one of them she had felt as if she had lost a friend. "i shall never sit under the gri-gri again," she had thought, "and eat my guavas as i look down on the river"; or, "i shall never again play house beneath the old mahogany that stood up there at the edge of the meadow." the face of nature was changed for her in this particular. it was the only thing that she had to make her unhappy. who among us would think the world a sadder place because of the felling of a tree! the stumps stood even with agueda's shoulder, for natalio, that african giant, was the axe-man of the hacienda. his ringing strokes struck hip high. it was less work to cut through the trunk some distance above its spreading roots. there was no clearing up nor carrying away of branches or limbs. with all their massive foliage, the branches were hacked from the parent stem, and left to dry in the tropic sun. they were then placed in great piles about the mother tree, lighted, and left to burn. sometimes these fallen denizens of the wood, whose life had seen generations of puny men fade and wither, and other generations spring up and die while they stood splendid and vigourous, refused to be annihilated. the fallen trunk remained for years, proof of the vandalism of man. more often, a long line of ashes marked the spot where the giant had blazed, then smouldered sullenly, to become wind-blown, intangible. this great woodland crematory having been made ready by death for the life that was to spring up through its vanquishment, the peons came with their machetes and dug the graves in which the bulbs, teeming with quiescent life, were to be planted, each sucker twelve feet from any one of its neighbors, there to be warmed and nurtured in the bosom of mother earth. because exposed upon a windy hillside, the bulbs had been placed in their graves head and sprouting end downward, and at the depth of ten inches. this was a provision against hurricanes, which, with all their power, find it difficult to uproot so securely planted a stalk. and now the field which she had helped to "avita"--for one gives in when the tide of circumstances flows too strong--the waste whose seed-graves she had seen dug, whose bulbs she had seen buried from sight, had suddenly become a field of life once more. pale green spears were springing up in every direction--a light, wonderful green with a tinge of yellow. the spatulated leaves were handsomest, agueda thought, when spotted or marked with brown, or a rich chocolate shade. in their tender infancy they were the loveliest things on earth, she thought, as she ran about the damp, hot hillside, comparing one with another; and as she again returned to the path, she nearly stumbled against the ebony giant, who, standing just at the edge of the field, was watching her. "it is wonderful, natalio," she said, "how quickly they have sprouted." she smiled upward. "si, señorit'," said natalio, smiling down. "it is the early rains that bring the life. perhaps the good god may be thanked a little, too, but it is the good soil, and the rains most of all." he stooped his great height, and took some of the earth in his fingers. "it is the caliche so the señor says." he rubbed the disintegrated gravelly mass between his fingers. some of it powdered away. the fine bits of stone that it contained dropped in a faint patter upon his feet. "i never heard the señor say that," said agueda, with the air of one who would know what were the señor's favourite convictions, "but of course he knows, the señor." "bieng," said natalio. "it is certain that the señor knows." agueda moved on up the hill. she felt, crunching beneath her feet, the shells of the circular grub which had lost life and home in this terrific holocaust. "it seems hard," mused agueda, "that some things must die that other things may be created." she smiled as she said this. she need not die that other things might live. it had no personal application for her. at least it would not have for sixty or eighty years, and that was a whole lifetime. she might not be glad to die even then! agueda had reached the summit of the hill. she turned to look back at natalio. he was standing gazing after her. when he saw her turn he expanded his handsome lips into a smile, showing his white teeth. then he uncovered his head, and swept the ground with his ragged panama hat. he called; agueda could not hear at first what he said. "que es eso?" she called back in answer. natalio approached a few feet with his great strides. "i asked if the señorit' would not ride the bull?" "pablo is away," said agueda. "i cannot go alone. the señor will not have me to ride the bull alone." "el caballo castaño, señorit'," said natalio, suggestively, approaching nearer. "would you saddle him, natalio?" asked agueda, thinking this an excellent change of programme. "it would give me pleasure, señorit'," said natalio. agueda turned and began to walk rapidly down the hill. "the small man's saddle, natalio," she called. "i will be ready in a moment." agueda ran down the hill, keeping ahead of the giant, and sped across the potrero. she flew to her room. there lay the rose as she had left it upon the chair, but she had no time for sentiment. the horse would be at the door in a moment, and indeed, before she had changed her skirt for the cotton riding garment that she usually wore, and which our ladies have imported of late under the name of a divided skirt, natalio was at the steps. agueda buckled on her spur, and was out on the veranda in the twinkling of an eye. uncle adan was coming up from the river. he saw her stand upon the second step and throw her leg boy-fashion over the saddle, seize the whip from natalio, and canter away again toward the hill. to his shout of "where are you going?" she flung back the words, "to aneta's," and was off. her easy seat astride the animal gave her a sense of freedom and independence. the top of the hill reached, she struck off toward troja, on the other side of which lived aneta, at el cuco. agueda galloped along the damp roads, and then clattered through the streets of the quiet little west indian town. arrived upon its further outskirts, she allowed the chestnut to walk, for he was warm and tired. she was passing at the back of escobeda's casa, through a narrow lane shaded with coffee trees. the wall of the casa descended abruptly to this lane, the garden being in front, facing the broad camino. agueda heard her name softly called. she halted and looked towards the casa. a shutter just at the side of the balcony moved almost imperceptibly, then was pushed open a trifle, and she saw a face, the face of raquel, the niece of escobeda. raquel had her finger upon her lips. agueda guided her horse near, in as cautious a manner as could be. when she was well under the opening, raquel spoke again. "it is agueda, is it not? agueda from san isidro?" raquel whispered her words. agueda, seeing that there was need for secrecy, also let her voice fall lower than was usual. "yes," she smiled, "i am certainly agueda from san isidro." "ah! you happy girl," said raquel, in a cautious tone, "to be riding about alone." agueda's head was almost on a level with raquel's. "i am a prisoner, agueda," said raquel. "my uncle has shut me up here. he means to take me away in a short time. it's a dreadful thing which is to happen. can you carry a note for me, agueda?" "i will carry a note for you," said agueda. "is it ready, señorita?" "i will write it in a moment. agueda, good girl, you know the plantation of the silencios, do you not? palmacristi?" "i can find it," said agueda. "it is down by the sea. it is not much out of my way." "if it were miles and miles out of your way, agueda, dear, you must take my letter." "give it to me, then," said agueda. there was a noise inside the room, at the door of the chamber. "ride on to the clump of coffee bushes where the roads meet," whispered raquel. "the fog will help hide you, too. i will drop the note." as she tried to guide the chestnut softly over the turf, agueda heard a loud call from within. it was a man's coarse voice. she heard raquel answer drowsily, "in a moment, uncle; i was just asleep. wait until i--" agueda halted for some minutes behind the concealment of the coffee bushes. she grudged this delay, for she had still some distance to travel, and must make a detour because of raquel's request. "but," she argued, "had i walked, i should have been much longer on the way." she watched the window at the back of escobeda's house, then, presently, from the front, saw a man mount and ride away in the opposite direction. then, as she still awaited the fluttering of the note, the shutter was flung wide, and an arm encased in a yellow sleeve beckoned desperately. agueda struck her spur into the chestnut, and was soon under the window again. "he has gone," said raquel, "and i am locked in the house alone. all the servants have gone to the fair." "you can climb down," said agueda. "it is not high." "where should i go then, agueda?" asked raquel. "no, he would only bring me back. now i will write my note, and i will ask you to take it to don gil." as raquel said this name her voice trembled. she coloured all over her face. "you are lovely that way," said agueda. "what does he do to you, señorita?--the señor escobeda. does he starve you? does he ill treat--i could tell the señor don beltran--" "you do not blush when you speak of him," said raquel, who had heard some rumours. "i have no cause to blush," said agueda, with dignity. "but come, señorita, the note!" raquel withdrew into the room. she scribbled a few words on a piece of blue paper, folded it, and encased it in a long thin envelope. this she sealed with a little pink wafer, on which were two turtle doves with their bills quite close together. she leaned out and handed the missive down to agueda. "thank you, dear," she said. "i should like to kiss you." "i should like much to have you," said agueda. "perhaps i can stand up." agueda spurred her horse closer under the window. she raised herself as high as she could. the chestnut started. "he will throw you," said raquel. "i will lean out." raquel stretched her young form as far out of the window as possible. she could just reach agueda's forehead. she kissed her gently. "i thank you, señorita," said agueda. she felt the kiss upon her forehead all the way to the plantation; it seemed like a benediction. she did not reason out the cause of her feeling, but it was true that no one of raquel's class had ever kissed her before. agueda rode along her way with quick gait. the plantation of palmacristi was some miles farther on, and she wished still to see aneta. on her way toward palmacristi, and as she mounted the slope leading to the casa, she met no one. arrived at that splendid estate by the sea, she spurred her horse over the hill and round to the counting-house. this was the place, she had heard, where the señor was usually to be found. she had seen the señor at a distance. she thought that she would know him. at that same hour the señor don gil silencio-y-estrada sat within his counting-house. the counting-house was constructed of the boards of the palm, the inner side plain, the outer side curved, as the tree had curved. the bark had not been removed. the roof of the building was also made of palm boards; it was thickly thatched with yagua. since the days of the old don gil the finca had enlarged and improved. the counting-house stood within its small enclosure, its back against the side of the casa, and though it communicated with the interior of the imposing mahogany mansion, it remained the same palm-board counting-house--that is, to the outside world--that the estate of palmacristi had ever known. two tall palms stood like sentinels upon either side of the low step before the doorway. the palm trees were dead. they had been topped by no green plume of leaves since before the death of the old don gil. now, as then, the carpenter birds made their homes in the decaying shaft. the round beak-made holes, from root to treetop, disclosed numberless heads, if so much as a tap were given the resounding stem of the palm. no one wondered why don gil still used the ancient structure as a counting-house. no one ever wondered at anything at palmacristi; everything was accepted with quiescence. "the good god wills it," a shrug of the shoulders accompanying the remark, made alike, if a tornado unroofed a house or a peon died of the wounds received at the last garito.[ ] the changes which had taken place at palmacristi had nothing to say to the condition of the counting-house, or it to them, except that it acceded, somewhat slowly in some cases, to the payment of bills. since his father's day don gil had added much to the estate. upon the right he had bought more than twenty caballerias from don luis salas--land which marched with his own to the seashore. this included a tall headland, with a sand spit at its base, which pushed itself a half mile out into the sea. this sand spit curved in a hook to the left, and formed a pleasant and safe harbour for boating. to the north of his inheritance don gil had taken in the old estates of la flor and provedencia, and at the back of the casa, which already stood high up on the slope, he had extended his possessions over the crest of the hill. had the original owner of palmacristi returned on a visit to earth, he would have found his old plantation the center of a magnificent estate, with, however, the same shiftless, careless ways of master and servant that had obtained in his time. this would probably grow worse as his descendants succeeded each other in ownership. the casa was built upon a level, where the hill ceased to be a hill just long enough to allow of a broad foundation for don gil's improvements. at the edge of the veranda the hill sloped gently again for the distance of a hundred yards, and then dropped in a short but steep declivity to the sand beach. the old habitation had been built entirely of palm boards, but in its place, at the bidding of don gil, had arisen a new and more modern erection, whose only material was mahogany. pilotijos, escaleras, ligazones, verandas, techos, all were hewn and formed of the fine red mahogany. the boards were unpolished, it is true, but dark and rich in tone. they made a cool interior, where, coming from the white glare outside, body and eye alike were at once at rest. the covering of the techos was the glazed tile of italy. perhaps one should speak of the roofs as _tejados_, as they were covered with tiles. this tiling proved a beacon by day, as it glittered in the blazing light of the sun of the tropics. agueda guided her horse up the path between the two dead palm trees, and rapped with the stock of her whip upon the counting-house door, which stood partly open. "entra," was the reply. she rapped again. "it is i who cannot enter, señor," she called in her clear, young voice. "i have not the time to dismount." an inner door was opened and closed. a fine-looking young fellow stepped across the intervening space and appeared upon the threshold of the outer door. he raised his brows; he did not know agueda. don beltran made various pretexts for her absence when he had visitors. agueda held out the note. it was crumpled and dusty from being held in her hand. "i am sorry," she said; "the day is hot, and my castaño is not quiet." don gil gazed with interest at the boyish-looking figure riding astride the little chestnut. "what a handsome lad she would make!" he thought. "and you are from--" "it makes no difference for me. i bring a message." silencio took the note which she reached out to him. "you will dismount and let me send for some fruit, some coffee?" "i thank you, señor, i must hasten; i am going to el cuco." "that is not so far," said don gil, smiling. "no, but i then have to ride a long way back to--" "to--?" "to san isidro." "the señorita takes roundabout ways. is she then carrying messages all about the country?" "oh, no, señor," said agueda, smiling frankly. "when i go back to san isidro i go to my home. i live there." "ah!" what was there imperceptible in don gil's tone? "you live there? is the señorita perhaps the niece of the manager, señor adan?" "si, señor," answered agueda, flushing hotly, she knew not why. she wheeled castaño and paced down between the palm trees. "and you will not take pity on my loneliness?" don gil was still smiling, but there was something new, something of familiarity, it seemed to agueda, in his tone. "i cannot stop, señor. a dios!" she said, gravely. as agueda rode out of the enclosure the day seemed changed. why was it? she had been so happy before she had delivered the note! now she felt sad, depressed. the sun was still shining, though there were occasional showers of rain, and the birds were still singing. nothing in nature had changed. ah, stay! there was a cloud over there, hanging low down above the sea. it was coming to the westward, she thought. she hoped that it would come, and quickly. she hoped that it would burst in rain upon her, and make her ride for it, and struggle with it. anything to drive away that unhappy impression. had silencio been asked what he had said or done to cause this young girl to change suddenly from a thoughtless, happy creature to one who felt that she had reason for uneasiness, he could not have told. he had heard vague rumours of the girl, adan's niece, who lived over at san isidro. but that he had allowed any such impression to escape him in intonation or gesture he was quite unaware. at all events, he was entirely oblivious of agueda the moment that she had ridden away, for he opened the little blue note that she had brought, and was lost in its contents. footnote: [ ] cock-fight. iii when agueda left the casa de caboa she turned down the trocha towards the sea. although the sea was not far from san isidro as the crow flies, the dwellers at the hacienda rarely went there. in the first place, there was the river to cross, and then the wood beyond the river was filled with a thick, short growth of prickly pear. this sort of underbrush was unpleasant to pull through. don beltran had tried to buy it from escobeda up at troja, but escobeda seemed to have been born to annoy the human race in general, and don beltran and silencio in particular. he would not sell, and he would not cultivate, so that the sea meadow, as they called it at san isidro, was an eyesore and a cause of heart-burning to don beltran. agueda chirruped to her horse, and was soon skirting the plantation of palmacristi. the chestnut was a pacer, and agueda liked his single foot, and kept him down to it at all hazards. she felt as if she were in nada's american chair, the motion was so easy and pleasant. the beach was rather a new experience to the chestnut, but after a little moment of hesitancy he started on with a nod of the head. "ah!" said agueda, with a laugh, "it is you, castaño, who know that i never lead you wrong." she shook the bridle, and the horse put forth his best powers. they took the wet sand just where the water had retreated but a little while before. it was as hard and firm as the country road, but moist and cool. "how i should like to plunge into that sea," said agueda to castaño. castaño again nodded an acquiescent head. a salt-water bath was a novelty to these comrades. after a few moments of pacing, agueda came to the sand spit which ran out from the plantation into the sea. here was the boat-house which don gil had built, and agueda noticed that it was placed upon a high point, with ways leading down on either side into the water. she looked wistfully at the boat-house. "how i should love to sail upon that sea," thought agueda. "no water, however high, could frighten me." then she recalled with a flash the flood which had brought her happiness. she smiled faintly, for with the thought the unpleasant feeling which don gil's words had called up returned, she knew not why. agueda was pacing towards the south. upon her right stood up tall and high the asta of palmacristi, the staff from which hung the lantern that, she had heard, sent forth its white ray each night to warn the seafarers on that lonely coast. "what harm for a ship to run on the sand," thought agueda. "i have heard that rocks are cruel. but the sand is soft. it need hurt no one." she struck spurs to castaño, and covered several miles before she again drew rein. and now the bank grew high, and agueda awoke to the fact that she was alone upon the beach, screened from the eyes of every one. again the thought came to her of a bath in the sea, and she was about to rein the chestnut in when she heard a shout from the plateau above her head. she stopped, and tipping back her straw hat, she looked upward. all that she could discover was a mass of flowers in motion. "they are the air-plants, certainly," said agueda to herself, "but i never saw them to grow like that." she looked to right and to left, but there was no human being in sight along the yellow bank outlined by sand and overhanging weeds. "who calls me?" she cried aloud, holding her hair from her ears, where the wind persisted in blowing it. "caramba, muchacho! can you not see who it is? it is i, gremo." there was a violent agitation of the mass of blooms, and agueda now perceived that a head was shaking out its words from the centre of this woodland extravaganza. "i can hardly see you, gremo," said agueda. "what do you want with me, gremo?" "and must i make brains for every muchacho[ ] between here and the port of entry? do you not know there are the quicksands just beyond?" "quicksands, gremo! yes, i had heard of quicksands, but i did not think them here. can i get up the bank, gremo?" "no," answered gremo, from his flower screen. "you must ride back a long way." he wheeled suddenly toward the south--at least, the mass of flowers wheeled, and a hand was stretched forth from the centre. a finger pointed along the sand. agueda turned in the saddle and shaded her eyes again. "what is it, gremo?" she asked. "i see nothing." "then you do not see that small thing over which the vultures hover?" "i see the vultures, certainly," said agueda. "some bit of fish, perhaps." "no bit of fish or fowl, but foul flesh, if you will, hombre. it is the hand of a señor, muchacho." "the hand of a señor? and what is the hand of a señor doing, lying along there on the shore?" "it lies there because it cannot get loose. caramba, muchacho! do i not know?" "cannot get loose from what?" asked agueda, still puzzled. "from the señor himself, muchachito. he lies below there, and his good horse with him. do you not see a hoof just over beyond where the big bird lights?" agueda turned pale. she had never been near such death before. nada had passed peacefully away with the sacred wafer upon her lips, and in her ears the good padre's words of forgiveness for all her sins, of which agueda was sure she had committed none. hers was a sweet, calm, sad death. one thought of it with relief and hope, but this was tragedy. there, along the beach, beneath the smiling sand, whose grains glistened in a million, million sparkles, lay the bodies of horse and rider, overtaken by this placid sea. "i suppose he was a stranger," said agueda. "there was no one to warn him." suddenly she felt faint. a strong whiff of air reached her from the direction of the birds. she turned the chestnut rapidly, and struck the spur to his side. "wait, gremo, wait!" she cried, "i am coming! do not leave me here alone." the chestnut paced as never horse paced before, and after a few minutes agueda found a little cleft in the bank where a stream trickled down. into this opening she guided castaño, and with spur and whip aided him in his scramble up the bank. she galloped southward again, and neared the place where gremo stood. she was guided by the mass of bloom. as she advanced she saw the blossoms shaking, but as yet perceived nothing human. tales of the forest suddenly came back to her. could it be that this was a woodland spirit, who had lured her here to this high headland, to throw her over the cliff again to keep company with the dead man yonder and the birds of prey? she had half turned her horse, when gremo, seeing her plan, thrust himself further from his gorgeous environment. "ah! it is the little agueda! do not be afraid, agueda, little señorita. it is i, gremo." agueda's cheek had not as yet regained its colour. "it is gremo, muchachito." "what terrible thing is that down there, gremo? and to see you looking like this frightened me!" it was a curious sight which met agueda's eyes. gremo, the little yellow keeper of los santos light, was standing not far from his signal pole. he held a staff in each hand. the staves were crooked and uneven. they were covered with bark, and scraggy bits of moss hung from them here and there. the strange thing about them was that each blossomed like the prophet's rod. at the top of the right-hand staff there shot out a splendid orange-coloured flower, with velvety oval-shaped leaves. near the top of the left-hand staff was a pale pink blossom, large also, not wilted, as plucked flowers are apt to be, but firm and fresh. but these were not all the prophet's rods which gremo carried. across his back was slung an old canvas stool, opened to its fullest extent, and laid lengthwise across this were many more ragged staves, and on each and all of them a flower of some shade or colour bloomed. then there were branches held under his arms, whose protruding ends blossomed in agueda's very face, and quite enclosed the yellow countenance of gremo. the glossy green of the leaves surrounding each bloom so concealed gremo that he was lost in his vari-coloured burden of loveliness. "so it is really you, gremo! do they smell sweet, those air-plants?" gremo shifted from one leg to the other. one of gremo's legs was shorter than the other. he generally settled down on the short one to argue. when he was indignant he raised himself upon his long leg and hurled defiance from the elevation. the mass of bloom seemed to exhale a delicate aroma. so evanescent was it that gremo often said to himself, "have they any scent after all?" and then, in a moment, a breeze blew from left to right, across the open calix of each delicate flower, and gremo said, "how sweet they are!" "i sometimes think they are the sweetest things on god's earth," said gremo. "that is, when the señorita is not by," he added, remembering that his grandfather had brought some veneer from old spain; "and then again i ask myself, is there any perfume at all?" "oh, now i smell it, gremo!" said agueda, sniffing up her straight little nose. "now i smell it! it is delicious!" "it is better than the perfume down below there," said gremo, with a grimace. agueda turned pale again. "and what do you do with them, gremo?" asked she. "i take them to the port of entry, señorita. i get good payment there. sometimes a half-dollar, mex. they stick them in the earth. they last a long, long time." "were you going there when you called me from--from--down there?" "si, señorita. i was walking along the bank. i had just come from my casa"--gremo gestured backward with a dignified wave of the hand--"when i heard el castaño's hoofs on the hard sand there below." he turned and looked along the beach to where the noisome birds hovered. "i was too late to warn the señor. had i been here, i should even have laid down my plants and have run to the edge of the cliff"--gremo jerked his head towards the humped-up pit of sand--"and called, 'olá! porque hace usted eso? it is gremo who has the kind heart, muchacho.'" "i am not a boy, gremo," said agueda, glancing down at her riding costume. "it is the same to me, señorita," said gremo, who in common with his fellows had but one gender of speech. agueda was looking at the hand which thrust itself out from the sand of the shore. it seemed as if the fingers beckoned. she shuddered. "they should put up a sign," she said, quickly. "i shall tell the señor don beltran. he will put up a notice--a warning." "caramba, hombre! and why must you interfere? no people in this part will go that way. they all know the danger as well as the birds. i live here in this part. why not leave it to me?" "but will you, gremo?" "what? put up the sign? i most certainly shall, señorita. some day when i have not the air-plants to gather, or the lanterna to clean, or when i am not down with the calentura, or there is no fair at haldez, or no cock-fight at saltona. the señorita does not know how long i have thought of this--i, gremo! why, as long ago as when the señor don gil bought the sand spit i had the board prepared. that is now going on four years, if i count aright. i told the señor don gil that i would get a board, and i have." "he thinks it there now, i am sure," said agueda. "well, well! he may, he may, our don gil! i am not disputing it, señorita. i am only waiting for the padre to come and put the letters on it." "have you told him, gremo?" said agueda, bending forward anxiously. "caramba, señorita!" said gremo, raising up on his long leg, "where do you suppose i am to find the time to tell the padre? if i should take a half-day from my work when i am at san isidro, and walk over to the bodega, the padre might be away at the cock-fight at saltona, or the christening at haldez. the don beltran is a gentle hombre, but he would not pay me for half a day when i did not earn it. if i could know when the padre was at home, i would go, most certainly." "you must have seen him many times in the last three years," said agueda. "i will not deny that i have seen the padre," answered gremo, rising angrily on the tips of his knotted brown toes. "but would you have me disturb a man like our padre when he was watching the shoemaker's black cock from troja, to see if his spurs were as long as the spurs of the cock of corndeau?--that vagamundo!" agueda reined castaño round, so that his head pointed in the general direction of the bodega, as well as homeward. "i can tell the padre, gremo," she said, and then added with determination, "it must not be left another day." gremo settled down upon his short leg. "now, señorita," he said argumentatively, "do not interfere. it is i that have this matter well within my grasp. there is no one coming this way to-day--along the beach, i mean." "how do you know, gremo?" questioned agueda. gremo shrugged his shoulders. "it is not likely, muchacho. our own people never come that way, and there are so few strangers--not three in as many years. we cannot now help the señor who lies there, can we, señorita?" "no," said agueda, sadly; "but we can prevent--" "leave it to me, señorita. i promise that i will attend to it to-morrow. i--" "and why not to-day?" "because, you see, muchacho, i must take the air-plants to the port of entry. i am on my way there now. i but stopped to warn the señorita, and i pay well for my kindness. now i shall not be able to return to-night. as the señorita has detained me all this long while, will she be so good as to stop at my casa and tell marianna romando to come over and light the lantern on the signal-staff at an early hour? this, you know, is _my_ lighthouse, little 'gueda. this is los santos." "have i come as far as los santos head?" asked the girl. agueda looked upwards at the place where the red lantern hung against the staff. "how can a woman climb up there?" she said. "she will bring the ladder, the marianna romando," said gremo, moving a step onwards. "i do not think i know marianna romando. is she your wife, gremo?" "well, so, so," answered gremo. "but she will do very well to light the lantern all the same." agueda sat her horse, lost in thought. when she raised her eyes nothing was to be seen of gremo. an ambulating mass of bloom, some distance along on the top of the sea bank, told her that he was well on his way toward the port of entry. this was the best way, gremo considered, to put an end to discussion. agueda did not know just where the casa of the light-keeper lay. seeing that a well-worn path entered the bushes just there, she turned her horse's head and pushed into the tall undergrowth. after a few moments she came out upon a well-defined footway. her path led her through acres of mompoja trees, whose great spreading spatules shaded her from the scorching sun. she had descended a little below the hill, and once out of the fresh trade breeze, began to feel the heat. she took off her hat as she rode, and fanned herself. five or six minutes of castaño's walking brought her to a hut; this hut was placed at a point where three paths met. it stood in a sort of hollow, where the moisture from the late rains had settled upon the clay soil. the hut was thatched with yagua. it was so small that, agueda argued, there could be but one room. there was a stone before the doorway sunk deep in the mud. before the opening, where the door should be, hung a curtain of bull's hide. a long ladder stood against the house. its topmost rung was at least an entire story in height above the roof, and agueda wondered why it was needed there. the only signs of life about the place were three or four withered hens, which ran screaming, with wobbling bodies and thin necks stretched forward, at the approach of the stranger. their screams brought a yellow woman to the door. if gremo looked like a withered apple, this was his feminine counterpart. her one garment appeared to be quite out of place. it seemed as if there could be nothing improper in such a creature going about as she was created. the slits in the faded cotton gown were more suggestive than utter nakedness would have been. this person nodded at the chickens where they were disappearing in the bush. "they are as good as any watch-dog," said she. "there is no use of thieves coming here." agueda rode close. "i am not a thief," said agueda. "can you tell me where is the casa of gremo, the light-keeper?" "and where but here in this very spot?" said the piece of parchment, smiling a toothless smile and showing a fine array of gums. "but had you said the casa of marianna romando, you would have come nearer the truth." agueda had not expected the casa of which gremo spoke with such pride to look like this, or to belong to some one else. "well, then, i have come with a message from your hus--from gremo." "the señorita will get off her horse and come in? what will the señorita have? some bread, an egg--a little _ching-ching_?" the woman smiled pleasantly all the time that she was speaking. agueda had difficulty in understanding her, for the entire absence of teeth caused her lips to cling together, so that she articulated with difficulty. still she smiled. agueda shook her head at the hospitable words. "i have no time, gracias, señora. you will see that i have been wet with the showers," she said; "and i have been delayed twice already. gremo asked me to tell you that he would come to the port of entry too late to return and light the lantern. he asks that you will do it for him." for answer the woman hurriedly pulled aside the bull's-hide curtain and entered the hut. she reappeared in a moment with an old straw hat on her head. she was lifting up her skirt as she came, and tying round her waist a petticoat of some faded grey stuff. her face had changed. she smiled no longer. "it is that fat wife of the inn-keeper at the sign of the 'navío mercante.'[ ] she it is who takes my gremo from me." she entered the hut again, and this time reappeared with a coarse pair of native shoes. she seated herself in the doorway, her feet on the damp stone, and busily began to put on the shoes, her tongue keeping her fingers in countenance. "as if i did not know why my gremo goes to the port of entry! he will sit in the doorway all the day! she will give him of the pink rum! he will spend all the pesos he has made! his plants will wither! oh, yes, it is that fat posadera who has got hold of my gremo." agueda turned her horse's head. "how do i go on from here?" she asked. "where is the señorita going?" "to san isidro, but first to el--" "_aaaaiiiieee!_" said the woman, standing in the now laced shoes, arms akimbo. "so this is don beltran's little lady?" agueda flushed. "i live with my uncle, the señor adan, at san isidro." she pushed into the undergrowth. "the señora is going wrong," said the woman. "señorita," said agueda, sharply, correcting the word. "which way, then?" getting no answer, she turned again. she now saw that the woman had gone to the side of the house and was taking the long ladder from its position against the wall. she bent her back and settled it upon her shoulders. agueda looked on in astonishment while this frail creature fitted her back to so awkward a burden. marianna romando looked up sidewise from under the rungs. "i go to light the señale now," she said. "it may burn all day, for me. what cares marianna romando? government must pay. then, when it is lighted i shall hide the ladder among the mompoja trees. he did not dare to tell me that he would remain away. he knows that i do not like that fat wife of the inn-keeper. i shall lead him home by the ear at about four o'clock of the morning. there are ghosts in the mompoja patch, but they will not appear to two." all through this discourse marianna romando had not raised her voice. she smiled as if she considered the weaknesses of gremo amiable ones. she started after him as a mother would go in search of a straying child; like a guardian who would protect a weak brother from himself. "i have only this to say to you, señorita," she called after agueda, turning so that the ladder swished through the low bushes, cutting off some of the tops of the tall weeds, both before and behind her. "keep the señor well in hand. when they go away like that, no one knows whom they may be going after." agueda closed her ears. she did not wish to hear that which her senses had perforce caught. she pushed along the path that marianna romando had indicated, and in twenty minutes saw the white palings of don mateo's little plantation, el cuco. footnotes: [ ] lad. [ ] merchant ship. iv when raquel had given agueda the note and the kiss, and had seen her ride rapidly away, she closed the shutter. she made the room as dark as possible. she could not bear to have the sun shine on a girl who had written to a man to come to her succour. it could mean nothing less than marriage, and it was as if she had offered it. but what else remained for her but to appeal to don gil? if the few words that he had spoken meant anything, they meant love. if the beating of her heart, when she caught ever so distant a glimpse of him, meant anything, it meant love. she had received a note from him only a week back. she would read it again. her uncle had searched her room only yesterday for letters, and she was thankful that she had had the forethought to conceal silencio's missive where he would not discover it. he had ordered old ana to search the girl's dresses, and ana, with moist eyes and tender words, had carried out escobeda's instructions. she had found nothing, and so had told the señor escobeda. "and when does the child get a chance to receive notes from the señores?" asked ana, indignant that her charge should be suspected. it was the reflection upon herself, also, that galled her. "i guarded her mother; i can guard her, señor," said the old woman, with dignity. "do you not know that the young of our nation are fire and tow?" snarled escobeda. "i shall put it out of her power to deceive me longer." with that he had flung out of the casa and ridden away. it was then that raquel had beckoned to agueda, where she loitered under the shelter of the coffee bushes. after agueda had gone, raquel seated herself upon a little stool which had been hers from childhood. she raised one foot to her knee, took the heel in her hand, and drew off the slipper. some small pegs had pressed through and had made little indentations in the tender foot. but between the pegs and the stocking was a thick piece of paper, whose folds protected the skin. she had just removed it when the door opened, and ana entered. raquel started and seemed confused for a moment. "you frightened me, ana," said raquel. "i thought that you had gone to the fair. so i told--" "you told? and whom did you have to tell, señorita?" "i told my uncle. he was here but now. oh! dear ana, i am so tired of this hot house. i long for the woods. when do you think that he will let me go to the forest again?" ana drew the girl toward her. her lips trembled. "i am as sorry as you can be, muchachita; but what can i do? what is that paper that you hold in your hand, raquel?" raquel blushed crimson. fortunately ana's eyes were fixed upon the paper. "i had it folded in my shoe," said raquel. she threw the paper in the scrap basket as she spoke. "see, ana." she held up the slipper. "look at those pegs! they have pushed through, and my heel is really lame. i can hardly walk." raquel limped round the room to show ana what suffering was hers, keeping her back always to the scrap-basket. "if he would allow me to go to the town and buy some shoes!" said raquel--ana's espionage having created the deceit whose prophylactic she would be. "you had better put on your slipper," said the prudent ana. "you will wear out your stockings else." "but how can i put on my slipper with those pegs in the heel?" asked raquel. "you had the paper." "it was punched full of holes." "let me see it," said ana. "i threw it away," said raquel. "get me another piece of paper, for the love of god, dear ana. my uncle does not allow me even a journal. i am indeed in prison." ana arose. "i will take the scrap-basket with me," she said. "not until you have brought the paper, ana. i shall tear up some other pieces." when ana had closed the door raquel pounced upon the waste-basket. she took the folded paper from the top of the few scraps lying there. this she opened, pulling it apart with difficulty, for the pegs had punched the layers together, as if they had been sewn with a needle. she spread the paper upon her knee, but first ran to the door and called, "ana, bring a piece of the cotton wool, also, i beg of you." "that will keep her longer," said raquel, smiling. she spoke aloud as lonely creatures often do. "she must hunt for that, i know." she heard ana pulling out bureau drawers, and sat down again to read her letter. "dearest señorita," it ran. "i hear that you are unhappy. what can i do? i hear that you are going away. do not go, for the love of god, without letting me know. your faithful servant, g." "i have let you know, gil," she said. "i am not going away, but i am unhappy. i am a prisoner. i wonder if you will save me?" ana's heavy tread was heard along the corridor. raquel hastily thrust the note within the bosom of her dress. when the cotton had been adjusted and the slipper replaced, ana took up the scrap-basket. "dear ana, stay a little while. i am so lonely. don't you think he would let me sit on the veranda?" "he would let you go anywhere if you would promise not to speak to the señor silencio," said ana. "i will never promise that, ana," said raquel, with a compression of the lips. she laid her head down on ana's shoulder. "i am so lonely," she said. the tears welled over from the childish eyes. the lips quivered. "i wonder how it feels, ana, to have a mother." ana's eyes were moist, too, but she repressed any show of feeling. had not the señor escobeda ordered her to do so, and was not his will her daily rule? suddenly raquel started--her hearing made sensitive by fear. "i hear him coming, ana," she said. "you could not hear him, sweet; he has gone over to see the señor anecito rojas." "that dreadful man!" raquel shuddered. "why does he wish to see the señor anecito rojas?" "i do not know, señorita." ana shook her head pitifully. it seemed as if she might tell something if she would. suddenly she strained her arms round the girl. "raquel! raquel!" she said, "promise me that you will sometimes think of me. that you will love me if we are separated. that if you can, if you have the power, you will send for me--" "ana! ana!" raquel had risen to her feet and was crying. her face was white, her lips bloodless. "tell me what you mean. how can i send for you? where am i going that i can send for you? am i going away, ana? ana, what do you know? tell me, ana, dear--dear ana, tell me!" but ana had no time or reason to answer. there was a sound of horse's hoofs before the door, a man's heavy foot alighting upon the veranda, the throwing wide of the outer door, and escobeda's voice within the passage. "ana!" it shouted, "ana!" ana arose trembling. "i am here, señor," she said. "where is that girl, raquel?" "the señorita is also here, señor," answered ana. the door was flung open. "pack her duds," said escobeda. "she leaves this by evening." "_i--leave--here?_" raquel had arisen, and was standing supporting herself by ana's shoulder. "i suppose you understand your mother tongue. it is as i said; you leave here this evening." "oh, uncle! where--where am i to go?" "that you will find out later. pack her duds, ana." ana trembled in every limb. she arose to obey. raquel threw herself on the bare floor at escobeda's feet. "oh, uncle!" she said. "what have i done to be sent away? will you not tell me where i am going?" the girl cried in terror. she wept as a little child weeps, without restraint. "i am so young, uncle. i have no home but this. do not send me away!" escobeda looked down at the childish figure on the ground before him, but not a ray of pity entered his soul, for between raquel's face and his he saw that of silencio, whose father had been his father's enemy as well as his own. he felt sure that soon or late silencio would have the girl. he spoke his thoughts aloud. "i suppose he would even marry you to spite me," he said. "who, uncle? of whom do you speak?" "you know well enough; but i shall spoil his game. get her ready, ana; we start this afternoon." "there is a knocking at the outer door," said ana. "i will go--" "you will pack her duds," said escobeda, who was not quite sure of ana. "i will answer the summons myself." as he was passing through the doorway, raquel said, despairingly: "uncle, wait a moment. you went to the señor anecito rojas. how did you get back so soon--" "and who told you that i was going to him? yes, i did start for the house of rojas, but i met him on the way, so i was saved the trouble." "are you going to send me to him, uncle?" asked raquel. the girl's face had again become white, her eyes were staring. there was some unknown horror in store. what could it be? "send you to him? oh, no! why should i send you to him? i have a better market for you than that of rojas. he is only coming to aid me with those trusty men of his, in case your friend silencio should attempt to take you from me. he had better not attempt it. a stray shot will dispose of him very quickly." "am i to remain on the island, uncle?" "yes and no," answered escobeda. "we take the boat to-night for the government town. when we arrive, it will be as the governor says--he must see you first." raquel understood nothing of his allusions. ana cried silently as she took raquel's clothes from the drawers and folded them. "i cannot see what the governor has to do with me?" said raquel. "you will know soon enough," said escobeda. his laugh was cruel and sneering. raquel turned from escobeda with an increased feeling of that revulsion which she had never been able entirely to control. she had felt as if it were wrong not to care for her uncle, but even had he been uniformly kind, his appearance was decidedly not in his favour. she glanced at his low, squat figure, bowed legs, and thick hands. she had time to wonder why he always wore earrings--something which now struck her as more grotesque than formerly. then she thrust her hand within the bosom of her gown, raised it quickly, and slipped something within her mouth. escobeda caught the motion of raquel's arm as he raised his eyes. she backed toward the wall. he advanced toward her threateningly. he seized her small shoulder with one hand, and with a quick, rough motion he thrust the thick forefinger of the other between her lips, and ran it round inside her mouth, as a mother does in seeking a button or some foreign substance by which a child might be endangered. raquel endeavoured to swallow the paper. at first she held her teeth close together, but the strength of escobeda's finger was equal to the whole force of her little body, and after a moment's struggle silencio's note was brought to light. he tried to open it. "it is pulp! nothing but pulp!" he said, shaking the empty hand at her. raquel stood outraged and pale. what was the matter with this man? he had suddenly shown himself in a new light. "how dare you treat me so?" she gasped. "you have hurt her, señor," said ana, reproachfully. "does it pain you, sweet?" ana had run to the girl, and was wiping her lips with a soft handkerchief. a tiny speck of blood showed how less than tender had been this rough man's touch. "if it pains me? yes, all over my whole body. how dare he! anita, how dare he!" escobeda laughed. he seated his thick form in the wicker chair, which was raquel's own. it trembled with his weight. he laid the paper carefully upon his knee, and tried to smooth it. "i thought you said she received no notes from gentlemen," he roared. ana stood red-eyed and pale. "she never does, señor," she answered, stifling her sobs. "and what is that?" asked escobeda, in a grating voice. he slapped the paper with the back of his hand into the very face of ana. "do you think that i cannot read my enemy's hand--aye, and his meaning? even were it written in invisible ink. '_gil!_' do you see it? '_gil!_'" he slapped the paper again, still thrusting it under ana's nose. "there may be more than one gil in the world, señor," sniffed the shaking ana. "do not try to prevaricate, ana. you know there is not more than one gil in the world," said raquel, scornfully. ana, in danger from the second horn of her dilemma, stood convicted of both, and gasped. "there is only one gil in the world for me. that is don gil silencio-y-estrada. that is his note which you hold, uncle. it is a love letter. i have answered it this very day." raquel, now that the flood of her speech had started to flow, said all that she could imagine or devise. she said that which had no foundation in fact. she made statements which, had silencio heard them, would have lifted him to the seventh heaven of bliss. "he wants me to go away with him. he knows that i am imprisoned. he implores me to come to him. be sure," said raquel, her eyes flashing, "that the opportunity is all that i need." ana stood aghast. she had never seen escobeda defied before. all the countryside feared to anger him. what would become of the two helpless women who had been so unfortunate? escobeda was livid. his eyes rolled with rage; they seemed to turn red. he arose from the chair, leaving it creaking in every straw. he clenched his fist, and shook it at the woman and girl alternately. his ear-rings danced and trembled. he seemed to be seized with a stuttering fit. the words would not pass the barrier of his brown teeth. he jerked and stammered. "we--we--shall see. we shall s--s--see. this--this--eve--evening." raquel, her short spurt of courage fled, now stood with drooped head. escobeda's anger seemed to have left him as suddenly as it had appeared. he threw silencio's note on the floor. "ah! bah!" he said, contemptuously. "it sounds very fine. it is like hare soup: first catch your hare. silencio shall not catch you, my little hare. his horses are not fleet enough, nor his arm long enough." "all the same, i think that he will catch me," said raquel, again defiant, with a fresh burst of courage. escobeda turned on his heel. "go to the door, ana," he said, "and see who keeps up that thumping." when ana had shuffled along the passage, raquel turned to escobeda. "it may be a messenger from the señor silencio," she said. "i sent him a letter some hours ago." "and by whom, pray?" "that i will not tell you. i do not betray those who are kind to me. you told me early this morning that i was to be taken away. you will see now that i, too, have a friend." ana's steps interrupted this conversation. "well?" asked escobeda. "the messenger is--will you speak?" "it is the man rotiro from palmacristi," said ana, in a low voice. raquel gave a quick little draw of her breath inward. the sound made a joyous note in that cruel atmosphere. "it will do you no good," said escobeda. "go and tell him that i will see him presently. i will lock you up, my pretty señorita, that you send no more notes to that truhan.[ ] you have now but a few hours to make ready. put in all your finery; though, after all, your new master can give you what he will, if you please him." footnote: [ ] mountebank. v it was an unthrifty-looking place, el cuco--very small, as its name implied. how don mateo had asked any woman to marry him with no more to give her than the small plantation of el cuco, one could not imagine. the place was little more than a conuco, and don mateo, through careless ways and losses at gambling, selling a little strip of field here and some forest land there, was gradually reducing the property to the size of a native holding. the lady who had inveigled don mateo into marrying her sat upon the veranda, fat and hearty. her eyes were beginning to open to the fact that don mateo had not been quite candid with her. he had said, "my house is not very fine, señorita, but i have land; and if you will come there as my wife, we will begin to build a new casa as soon as the crops are in and paid for." the crops had never come in, as far as the señora had discovered; and how could crops be paid for before they were gathered? there had grown up within the household a very fine crop of complaints, but these don mateo smoothed over with his ready excuses and kindliness of manner. agueda leaned down to the small footpath gate to unfasten the latch. she found that the gate was standing a little way open and sunk in the mud, but that there was no room to pass through. "go round to the other side," called a voice from the veranda. a half-dozen little children, of all shades, came trooping down the path. then, as she turned to ride round the dilapidated palings, they scampered across the yard, a space covered by some sort of wild growth. they met her in a troop at the large gate, which was also sunk in the ground through the sagging of its hinges. fortunately, it had stood so widely open now for some years that entrance was quite feasible. agueda struck spur to castaño's side, and he trotted round to the veranda. they stopped at the front steps, and throwing her foot over the saddle, agueda prepared to dismount. "what do you want here?" asked a fat voice from the end of the veranda. "i should like to see aneta, señora," said agueda. "may one of the peons take my horse?" "you can go round to the back, where aneta is, then," answered the señora, without rising. "she is washing her dishes, and it is not you who shall disturb her." agueda looked up with astonishment. the last time that she had come to el cuco, aneta had sat on the veranda in the very place where the stranger was sitting now. that chair, don mateo had brought over from saltona once as a present for aneta. it was an american chair, and aneta used to sit and rock in it by the hour and sing some happy song. agueda remembered how aneta had twisted some red and yellow ribbons through the wicker work. those ribbons were replaced now by blue and pink ones. without a word agueda rode round the house. arrived at the tumble-down veranda which jutted out from the servants' quarters, she heard sounds which, taken in conjunction with the señora's words, suggested aneta's presence. when aneta heard the sound of horse's hoofs she came to the open shutter. agueda saw that her eyes were red and swollen. a faint smile of welcome overspread aneta's features, which was succeeded at once by a shamefaced look that agueda should see her in this menial position. "dear agueda!" said she; "how glad i am to see you! but this is no place for you." "i wish that you could come down to the river," said agueda. "i have so much to ask you. who is the señora on the veranda, aneta?" "do you not know then that he is married?" asked aneta, the tears beginning to flow again. "married!" exclaimed agueda, aghast. "to the señora on the veranda?" aneta nodded her head, while the salt tears dropped down on the towel with which she was slowly wiping a large platter. agueda was guilty of a slight bit of deceit in this. she had heard that don mateo was married, but it had never occurred to her that things would be so sadly changed for aneta. somehow she had expected to find her as she had always found her, seated on the veranda in the wicker chair, the red and yellow ribbons fluttering in the breeze, and in her lap the embroidery with which she had ever struggled. "can you come down by the river?" asked agueda. "i suppose that i must finish these dishes," said aneta, through her tears. "oh, agueda, you have had nothing to eat, i am sure. you have come so far. let me get you something." "yes, i have come far, aneta. i should like a little something." it did not occur to agueda to decline because of the señora's rudeness. she had never heard of any one's being refused food at any hut, rancho, or casa in the island. the stranger was always welcome to what the host possessed, poor though it might be. "i will not dismount," said agueda. "perhaps you can hand me a cup of coffee through the window." agueda rode close to the opening. aneta laid her dish down on the table, and went to the stove, from which she took the pot of the still hot coffee. she poured out a cupful, and handed it to agueda. "some sugar, please," said agueda, holding the cup back again. aneta dipped a spoon in the sugar bowl which was standing on the table in its pan of water. it was a large pan, for "there are even some ants who can swim very well," so aneta declared. agueda took the cup gratefully, and drained it as only a girl can who has ridden many miles with no midday meal. "i hoped that i should be asked to breakfast, aneta," said agueda, wistfully. she remembered the time when she had sat at the table with aneta, and partaken of a pleasant meal. "i can hand you some cassava bread through the window, agueda," said aneta, with no further explanation. she took from the cupboard a large round of the cassava and handed it to agueda. agueda broke it eagerly and ate hungrily. "that is good, aneta. some more coffee, please." aneta took up the pot to pour out a second cup. "and who told you that you might give my food away?" the voice was the fat voice of the señora. she had exerted herself sufficiently to come to the kitchen door. "pardon, señora!" said agueda. her face expressed the astonishment that she felt. she unconsciously continued to eat the round of cassava bread. "you are still eating?" agueda looked at the woman in astonishment. "does the señora mean that i shall not eat the bread?" asked she. "we do not keep a house of refreshment," said the señora. agueda handed the remainder of the cassava bread to aneta. "i see you do not, señora. come, aneta, come down to the river." aneta looked hesitatingly at the señora. "you need not mind the señora, aneta. she does not own you." at this aneta looked frightened, and the señora as angry as her double chin would allow. "if the girl leaves, she need not return," said the señora. "my work is nearly done," said aneta, with a fresh flood of tears. "crying, aneta! i am ashamed of you. come, i will help you finish your dishes." agueda rode around to the veranda pilotijo and dismounted. she tied castaño there, as is the custom, taking care that she chose the pilotijo furthest removed from the main post, where several machetes were buried with a deep blade stroke. the señora was too heavy and lazy to object to agueda's generosity. she seated herself in the doorway and watched the process of dish-washing. when the girls had finished, the worn towels wrung dry and hung on the line, aneta took from the veranda nail her old straw hat. "on further thought, you cannot go," said the señora. "i need some work done in my room." agueda put her arm round aneta. "i bought her off," she said. "come, aneta, i have so little time." at these words the señora had the spirit to rise and flap the cushion of a shuffling sole on the floor in imitation of a stamp of the foot. "you cannot go," she said. for answer the two girls strolled down toward the river, castaño's bridle over agueda's arm, aneta trembling at her new-found courage. aneta was a very pretty, pale girl, with bronze-coloured hair, although her complexion was thick and muddy, showing the faint strain of blood which made her, and would always hold her, inferior to the pure spanish or american type. her eyes were of a greenish cast, and though small, were sweet and modest. she was perhaps twenty-three at this time. it is sad to have lived one's life at the age of twenty-three. "i have so many years before me, agueda," said aneta. "why do you stay here?" asked agueda. "where have i to go?" asked aneta. "that is true," assented agueda. "my father will not have me back. he says that i should have been smart and married don mateo; but i never thought of being smart, 'gueda; i never thought of anything but how i loved him." a pang of pity pierced the heart of agueda, all the stronger because she herself was so secure. the two girls walked down toward the shining river. castaño followed along behind, nibbling and browsing until a jerk of the bridle caused him to raise his head and continue his march. the river was glancing along below the bank. low and shallow, it had settled here and there into great pools, or spread out thinly over the banks of gravel which rose between. "can we bathe, aneta?" asked agueda. "i suppose so," said aneta, mournfully. "smile, aneta, do smile. it makes me wretched to see you so sad." aneta shook her head. "what have i left, agueda?" agueda hung castaño's bridle on a limb, and seeking a sheltered spot, the two girls undressed and plunged into the water, a pool near the shore providing a basin. one may bathe there with perfect seclusion. the ford is far below, and no one has reason to come to this lonely spot. the water was cool and delicious to agueda's tired frame. "agueda," said aneta, as they were drying themselves in the sun, "will castaño carry double?" "why, aneta, i suppose he will. i never tried him." "i promised el rey to come to see him one day soon. that was weeks ago. you know that roseta has gone. the little creature is alone. if i should go there by myself the señora would say bad things about me. she would say that i had gone for some wrong purpose. god knows i have no wrong purpose in my heart." "yes, i will go with you," said agueda. "but, we must hasten. i have been away so long already. what time should you think it is, aneta?" aneta turned to the west and looked up to the sky with that critical eye which rural dwellers who possess no timepiece acquire. "perhaps three o'clock, agueda, perhaps four. not so very late." "so that i am home by six it will do," said agueda. she reproached herself that she should think of the happiness that awaited her at home while aneta was so sad. when they were again dressed, agueda mounted castaño, and riding close to an old mahogany stump, gave her hand to aneta, aiding her to spring up to the horse's flank. castaño was not over-pleased at this addition to his burden, but he made no serious demonstration, and started off toward the ford. the ford crossed, agueda guided castaño along the bank of the stream. "is this the brandon place?" asked agueda. "no," said aneta. "it is part of the silencio estate." again agueda felt the flush arise which had made her uncomfortable in the morning. "i have never been this way," said agueda, who was following aneta's directions. "i was there this morning, but i rode down the gran' camino." "you went there?" "yes; to carry a note." "to the señor?" "am i going right, aneta?" "yes," said the easily diverted aneta. "follow the little path. they live on the river bank below the hill." in a few moments a thatched roof began to show through the trees. "there it is," said aneta; "there is andres' rancho." when they arrived at the rancho they found that the door was closed. agueda rapped with her whip. "they are all away, i think," said she. "oh! then, they are not all away," piped a little voice from the inside. "take the key from the window, and i will let you open my door." agueda laughed. aneta slid off the horse, and agueda rode to the high window, from whose ledge she took a key. "my roseta, is that you?" called the child's voice. aneta looked up at agueda and shook her head with a pitying motion. the child's sorrow had effaced her own for the time. "no, el rey," she called; "it is aneta, and i bring agueda, from san isidro." "you are welcome, señoritas," piped the little voice again. by this time aneta had inserted the key in the lock and opened the door. a small, thin child was sitting on the edge of a low bed. he arose to greet them with a show of politeness which struggled against weariness. "andres and roseta are away," he said. "andres said that he would bring her if he could find her." agueda had heard of el rey, but she had never seen the child before. "i should think he would surely bring her," said she in a comforting tone. she was seeing much misery to-day. she felt reproached for being so happy herself, but she looked forward to her home-coming as recompense for it all. "would you like to come to san isidro some time, el rey?" she asked. "does roseta ever come there?" asked the child. "she has never been yet, but she may come some day," answered agueda, with that merciful deceit which keeps hope ever springing in the breast. aneta stooped down towards the floor. "have you anything to play with, el rey?" she asked. "el rey has buttons. el rey has a book that the señor at palmacristi gave him, but he is tired of those. when will roseta come?" agueda turned away. "i cannot bear it," she said. el rey looked at her curiously. "would you like to ride the pretty little horse, el rey?" the child walked slowly to the door and peered wistfully out. "el rey would like to ride; but roseta might come." "we will not go far," said agueda. "come, let me lift you up." el rey suffered himself to be lifted to the horse's back, but his eyes were ever searching the dim vista of the woodland for the form that did not appear. "i cannot enjoy it, señora," said he, politely. "el rey would enjoy the señora's kindness if roseta could see him ride." "i must go, aneta," said agueda, her eyes moist. she lifted the child down from castaño's back. he at once entered the casa. he turned in the doorway, his thin little figure occupying small space against the dark background. "adios, señoritas," said the child. "oh! will the señoritas please put the key on the window ledge?" "we cannot lock you in, el rey," said agueda. "do you mean that we are to lock you in, el rey?" asked aneta at the same time. "will the señoritas please not talk," said the child. "i cannot hear. i sit and listen all day. if the señoritas talk i cannot hear if any one comes." "but must we lock the door?" asked agueda. "is that what andres wishes?" asked aneta. "if you please, señorita; put the key on the window ledge." "i shall not lock him in," said aneta. "i cannot do it. i will stay a while, el rey," she said. aneta sat down in the doorway, her head upon her hand. she belongs not to the detail of this story. she is only one of that majority of suffering ignorant beings with whom the world is filled, who make the dark background against which happier souls shine out. agueda rode back to the ford. she galloped castaño now. at the entrance of the forest she turned and threw a kiss to aneta. the girl was still in the doorway, but el rey was not to be seen. agueda fancied him sitting on the low bed, his ear strained to catch the fall of a faraway footstep. vi the shadows were growing long when agueda cantered down the path that ran alongside of the banana walk. she crossed the potrero at a slow pace, for castaño was tired and warm. as she slowly rounded the corner of the veranda, a figure caught her eye. it was don beltran, cool and immaculate in his white linen suit. he was smoking, and seemed to be enjoying the sunset hour. "ah! are you here at last, child! i was just about to send your uncle to look for you. have you had dinner?" "not a mouthful," laughed agueda, at the remembrance of the señora at el cuco. it was cruel to laugh while aneta wept, but it was so hard not to be happy. "tell juana to bring you some dinner. there was a san coche, very good, and a pilauf of chicken. did you see don mateo?" "no, señor," said agueda, looking down. "why will you persist in calling me señor, agueda? i am beltran. say it at once--beltran!" "beltran," said agueda, with a happy smile. poor aneta! poor everybody in the world who did not have a beltran to love her! as agueda told beltran the history of her long day, he listened with interest. when she spoke of aneta's changed life, "the brute!" said beltran, "the damned brute!" while agueda was changing her dress for the dark blue skirt and white waist, beltran sat and thought upon the veranda. when she came out again, he spoke. "agueda," said he, "it is time that you and i were married." agueda blushed. "i see no cause for haste," said agueda. "it is right," said beltran, "and why should we wait? what is there to wait for? i want you for my wife. i have never seen any one who could take me from you, and there is no such person in all the world. all the same, you must be my wife." "i think the padre is away," said agueda, looking down. "he will be back before long, and then, if the river is still low, we will go to haldez some fine morning and be married. your uncle can give you away. he will be very glad, doubtless!" don beltran laughed as he spoke. he was not unconscious of uncle adan's plans, but as they happened to fall in with his own, he took them good-naturedly. "do you know, agueda," he said presently, looking steadily at her, "that you are better born than i?" "what does the señor mean?" laughed agueda. "the señor?" "well, then, señor--beltran. what do you mean by that?" "i mean what i say, agueda. your grandfather, don estevan, is a count in his own country--in old spain. that is where you get your pretty slim figure, child, your height, and your arched instep. you are descended from a long line of noble ladies, agueda. i have seen many a spanish gran' señora darker than you, my agueda. when shall our wedding-day be, child?" agueda shook her head and looked down at the little garment which she was stitching. she had no wish to bind him. that was not the way to treat a noble nature like his. agueda had no calculation in her composition. beltran could never love her better were they fifty times married. she was happy as the day. what could make her more so? "did the señor enjoy his sail across the bay?" asked agueda. "it was well enough, child. i got the draft cashed, and, strange to say, i found a letter at the post-office at saltona." "from the coffee merchant, i suppose, señor?" "no, not from the coffee merchant, señora," beltran laughed, teasingly. "guess from whom, agueda; but how should you be able to guess? it is from my uncle, agueda. my mother's brother. you know that he married in the states." "i have heard the señor say that the señor his uncle married in the es-states," said agueda, threading her fine needle with care, and making a tiny knot. beltran drew his chair close. he twitched the small garment from her hands. she uttered a slight exclamation. the needle had pricked her finger. beltran bent towards her with remorseful words, took the slender finger between his own, and put it to his lips. his other hand lay upon her shoulder. she smiled up at him with a glance of inquiry mixed with shyness. agueda had never got over her shy little manner. the pressure of his fingers upon her shoulder thrilled her. she felt as ever that dear sense of intimacy which usage had not dulled. beltran again consulted the letter which he held. "uncle nóe will arrive in a week's time," he said. "he is a very particular gentleman, is my uncle nóe. quite young to be my uncle. look at my two grey hairs, agueda." she released her hand from his, and tried to twist her short hair into a knot. it looked much more womanly so. she must try to make it grow if a new grand señor was coming to san isidro. don beltran was still consulting the letter. "he brings his child--his little daughter. now, agueda, how can we amuse the little thing?" agueda, with work dropped, finger still pressed between her small white teeth, answered, wonderingly: "a little child? let me think, señor." "ah!" "well, then, again i say beltran, if you will. we have not much." how dear and natural the plural of the personal pronoun! "we have not much, i fear. there is the little cart that the señora gave the señor when he was muchachito. that is a good little plaything. i have cleaned it well since the last flood. the water washed even into the cupboard. then there is--there is--ah, yes, the diamond cross. she will laugh, the little thing, when it flashes in the sunshine. children love brilliant things. i remember well that the little cristina, from the conuco, up there, used to love to see the sparkle of the jewels. but the little one will like the toy best." "that is not much, dear heart." "and then--and then--there may be rides on the bulls, and punting on the river in the flatboat, and the little chestnut--she can ride castaño, the little thing!" "not the chestnut; i trained him for you, agueda, child." "and why should not the little one ride him, also? we can take her into the deep woods to gather the mamey apples, and to the bushes down in the river pasture to gather the aguacate. only the little thing must be taught to keep away from the prickly branches, and--sometimes, don--beltran, we might take the child as far as haldez, if some acrobats or circus men should arrive. we have not been there since dondy-jeem walked the rope that bright sunday. oh, yes! we shall find something to amuse her, certainly. a little child! we are to have a child in the house!" it was always a happy "we" with agueda. "how old is the little thing?" "i have not heard from my uncle for many years. i do not know when he married; but he is a young man still, uncle nóe. full of affectation, speaking french in preference to spanish and english, which are equally his mother tongues--i might say his mother and father tongue--but with all his affectations, delightful." "a little child in the house! a little child in the house," murmured agueda over and over to herself. now it was all bustle at the casa. san isidro took on a holiday air. there was no more talk of marriage. not because don beltran did not think of it and wish it, but because there was no time. a room down the veranda must be beautified for the little child. she was to be placed next her father, that if she should want anything at night, he could attend her. "where shall we put the nurse?" said don beltran. "i am afraid the nurse will have to sleep in the rancho, beltran. these two rooms take all that we have." agueda looked up wistfully. "i wonder how soon she will come," she said. "the little thing! the little thing!" vii so soon as agueda had disappeared down the trocha which leads to the sea, silencio called for andres. old guillermina came with a halt and a shuffle. this was caused by her losing ever and anon that bit of shoe in which she thought it respectful to seek her master, or to obey his summons. she agreed with some modern authorities, although she had never heard of them or their theories, that contact with mother earth is more agreeable and more convenient (she did not know of the claim that it is more healthful) than encasing the foot in a piece of bull's hide or calf's skin. "where is andres?" asked don gil, impatiently. "has the señor forgotten that the andres has gone to the port of entry?" "he has not gone there," said silencio; "that i know, for i sent troncha in his place. see where he is, and let me know. i need a messenger at once." as guillermina turned her back, don gil bit his lip. "then i am helpless," he said aloud, "if andres is not here." he arose and started after guillermina, calling impatiently: "do not wait for andres; get some one, any one. i must send a message at once." while guillermina shuffled away, silencio sat himself down at his desk and wrote. he wrote hurriedly, the pen tearing across the sheet as if for a wager. as its spluttering ceased, there was a knock at the counting-house door. "entra!" called silencio, rising. it was a moist day in may. the june rains were heralded by occasional showers, an earnest of the future. the dampness was all-pervading, the stillness death-like. no sound was heard but the occasional calling of the peons to the oxen far afield. the leaves of the ceiba tree hung limp and motionless; the rompe hache[ ] had not stirred a leaf for two days past. no tender airs played caressingly against the nether side of the palm tufts and swayed them in fan-like motion. the gri-gri stood tall and grand, full of foliage at the top. its numberless little leaves were precisely outlined, each one, against the sky. one might almost fear that he were looking at a painting done by one of the artists of the early hudson river school, so distinctly was the edge of each leaf and twig drawn against its background of blue. rotiro stood and waited. then he knocked again. a step was heard approaching from an inner room. "entra!" called a voice from within, but louder than before. rotiro obeyed the permission. he entered the outer room to find don gil just issuing from the inner one--that holy of holies, where no profane foot of peon, shod or unshod, had ever penetrated. rotiro touched his forelock by way of salutation, drew his machete from its yellow leathern belt, swung it over his shoulder, and brought it round and down with a horizontal cut, slashing fiercely into the post of the doorway. it sank deep, and he left it there, quivering. silencio was moistening the flap of an envelope with his lip as rotiro entered. after a look at rotiro, don gil thought it best to light a taper, take a bit of wax from the tray and seal the note. he pressed it with the intaglio of his ring. the seal bore the crest of the silencios. when he had finished he held the note for a moment in his hand, to dry thoroughly. as he stood, he surveyed the machete of rotiro, which still trembled in the doorpost. the post was full of such gashes, indicating it as a common receptacle for bladed weapons. it served the purpose of an umbrella-stand at the north. don billy blake had said: "we don't carry umbrellas into parlours at the no'th, and i bedam if any man, black or shaded, shall bring his machett into my shanty." don billy was looked upon as an arbiter of fashion. this fashion, however, antedated don billy's advent in the island. rotiro unslung his shotgun from his shoulder and stepped inside the doorway. he leaned the gun against the inner wall. "buen' dia', seño'," he nodded. "set that gun outside, rotiro." "my e'copeta very good e'copeta, seño' don gil. it a excellent e'copeta. it is, however, as you know, not much to be trusted; it go off sometimes with little persuasion on my part, often again without much reason." "following the example of your tongue. listen! rotiro. i wish to do the talking. attend to what i say. here is a note. i wish you to take it up back of troja, to the señor escobeda." "but, seño', i thought--" "you thought! so peons think! on this subject you have no need to think. take this note up to troja, and be quick about it. i want an answer within an hour. waste no time on thoughts or words, and above all, waste no time in going or returning. see the señor escobeda. hand him the note, see what he has to say, and bring me word as soon as possible. notice how he looks, how he speaks, what--" "but the seño' may not--" "still talking? go at once! do you remember old amadeo, who was struck by lightning? i always believed that it was to quiet his tongue. it certainly had that effect. but for the one servant i have had who has been struck by lightning, i have had twenty who ought to have been. there was a prince in a foreign land who was driven crazy by his servants. he said, 'words! words! words!' i wonder very much what he would have said could he have passed a week on the plantation of palmacristi." as the devil twists scripture to suit his purpose, so silencio was not behind him in his interpretation of shakespeare, and rotiro prepared for his journey, with a full determination to utter no unnecessary word during the rest of his life. in dead silence he withdrew his machete from its gash in the doorpost, tied the letter round his neck by its cord of red silk, swung his apology for a hat upon his head, and was off. meanwhile don gil sat and waited. the hour ended as all hours, good or bad, must end. don gil kept his eyes fixed upon the clock. ah! it was five minutes past the hour now. "if i find that he has delayed one minute beyond the necessary--possibly escobeda has held him there, taken him prisoner--prisoner! in the nineteenth century! but an escobeda is ready for anything; perhaps he has--" there was a step at the doorway. "entra!" shouted don gil, before one had the time to knock, and rotiro entered. he had no time to say a word. he had not swung his arm round his head, nor settled the machete safely in the post of the door, before don gil said, impatiently: "well! well! what is it? will the man never speak? did you see the señor escobeda? open that stupid head of yours, man! say something--" rotiro was breathless. he set his gun in the corner with great deliberation. at first his words would not come; then he drew a quick breath and said: "i saw the seño' e'cobeda, don gil. he is a fine man, the seño' e'cobeda. oh! yes, he is a very fine man, the seño'!" "ah!" said don gil, dryly, "did he send me a message, this very fine man?" rotiro thrust his hand into the perpendicular slit that did duty for a legitimate opening in his shirt. he was dripping with moisture. great beads stood out upon his dark skin. he pulled the faded pink cotton from his wet body and brought to light a folded paper. this he handed to don gil. the paper was far from dry. don gil took the parcel. he broke the thread which secured it--the thread seemed much shorter than when he had knotted it earlier in the day--and discovered the letter which he sought. the letter was addressed to himself. don gil opened this missive with little difficulty. the sticky property of the flap had been impaired by its contact with the damp surroundings. don gil read the note with a frown. "caramba hombre! did you go up back of troja for this?" rotiro raised his shoulders and turned his palms outward. "as the seño' see." if rotiro had gone "up back of troja" for nothing, it was obviously the initial occasion in the history of the island. the natives, as well as the foreigners, seemed to go "up back of troja" for every article that they needed. they bought their palm boards back of troja. they bought their horses back of troja. they bought their cattle back of troja. back of troja was made the best rum that was to be had in all the island. back of troja, for some undiscovered reason, were found the best guns, the best pistols, the sharpest "colinos," smuggled ashore at the cave, doubtless, and taken in the night through dark florestas, impenetrable to officers of the law. many a wife, light of skin and slim of ankle, had come from back of troja to wed with the people nearer the sea. the region back of troja was a veritable mine, but for once the mine had refused to yield up what the would-be prospector desired. "he'll get no wife from back of troja," thought rotiro, whose own life partner, out of the bonds of wedlock, had enjoyed that distinction. "whom did you see back of troja?" "the seño' e'cobeda, seño'. the seño' e'cobeda is a ver--" "yes, yes, i know! how you natives will always persist in slipping your 's,' except when it is superfluous! how did escobeda look?" "much as usual, seño'. he is a very fi--" "was he pleasant, or did he frown?" "in truth, seño' don gil, i cannot say for one, how he look. i saw but the back of the seño' e'cobeda. he look--" "as much of a cut-throat as ever, i suppose?" "si, seño'. the seño' was seated in his oficina. he had his back to me. i saw nothing but his ear-rings and the very fine white shirt that he wore." "well, well! he read the note, and--" "he read the note, seño', and--and--he read the note, and--he read the n--" "well, well, well!" "and shall i tell the seño' all, then?" "will you continue? or shall i--" don gil's tone was threatening. "if the seño' will. he laugh, seño' don gil. he laugh very long and very loud, and then i hear a es-snarl. it es-sound like a dog. once he reach toward the wall for his 'colino.' i at once put myself outside of the casa, and behind the pilotijo. when he did not advance, i put an eye to the crack, all the es-same." "and it was then that he wrote the note?" "si, seño'; it was then that he wrote the answer and present it to me." "and said--?" "he said, oh! i assure the seño' it was nothing worthy to hear; the seño' would not--" "he said--?" there was a dangerous light in don gil's eye. "and i must tell the seño'? he said, 'here! give this to that--that--'" "that--?" "'that _truhan!_' i pray the don gil forgive me; the don gil make me--" silencio's face had flushed darkly. "continue." rotiro, embarrassed beyond measure, forgot what he had learned by fair means and what by foul, and blundered on. "he did not say whether the señorit' had go to the port of entry; he--" "and who told you to enquire whether the señorita had gone to the port of entry or not?" rotiro perceived at once that he had made a gigantic slip. when don gil next spoke, rotiro was busy watching the parjara bobo which loped along within the enclosure. the bird, stupid by name and nature alike, came so close that rotiro could almost have touched it with his hand. "do you hear my question?" rotiro started at the tones of thunder. "no one inform me, seño'. i had heard talk of it." "two fools in one enclosure! the bird is as clever as you. do not try to think, rotiro. have you never heard that peons should never try to think? leave the vacuum which nature abhors in its natural state." rotiro looked blankly at don gil, who often amused himself at the expense of the stupid. just now he was angry, and ready to say something harsh which even a wiser peon than rotiro could not understand. rotiro's vacuum was working, however, as even vacuums will. "decidedly, i have made a very grand mistake of some kind; but when a letter will not stick, it is so easy--the thing, however, is not to let him--" "rotiro!" the peon started. don gil stood facing him. his eyes were blazing. rotiro's arm twitched with the desire to reach for his machete. "if i ever find you--" don gil spoke slowly and impressively, his forefinger moving up and down in time with his words--"if ever i find you opening a letter of mine, either a letter that i send or one that i receive, i will send you to saltona, and i shall ask the alcalde to put you in the army." rotiro's knees developed a sudden weakness. he would much rather be led to the wall outside the town, turned with his face towards its cold grey stone, and have his back riddled with bullets. at least, so he thought at the moment. "the seño' will never find me opening a letter, either now or at any other time." (_nor will he. does he think that i should be so stupid as to open them before his face? or within two and a half miles of the casa de caoba?_) "very well, then. be off with you. take your gun out of my counting-house and your colino out of my doorpost, and yourself out of my sight." "the seño' don gil allow that i accommodate myself with a little ching-ching?" "always ching-ching, rotiro. bieng, bieng! tell alfredo to give you a half-glass, not of the pink rum--that is not for such as you. you remember, perhaps, what happened the last time that i gave you a ching-ching. i should have said no." "i assure the seño' that garcito romando was a worthless man. o, yes, seño', an utterly worthless man--an entirely useless man. he could not plant the suckers, he could not plant the cacao, he could not drive four bulls at a time; there was no place for garcito romando either in heaven or in hell. marianna romando was weary of him. purgatory was closed to him, and the blessed island was too good for him. he stole three dollars mex. of me once. my e'copeta did, perhaps, go off a little early, but the seño' should thank me. he has on his finca one bobo the less, and the good god knows--" rotiro was not only fluent, he was confluent. he ran his words together in the most rapid manner. don gil raised his hand as if to ward off the storm of words. "he was certainly a fool to tamper with a man whose gun shoots round the corner. come! be off with you! three fingers, and no more." footnote: [ ] literally, _hatchet breaker_. viii there are days which are crowded with events; days so bursting with happenings that a single twenty-four hours will not suffice to tell the tale. there are other days so blank and uneventful that one sighs for very weariness when one thinks of them. it is not well to wish time away, but such days are worse than useless. it is, however, of one of the former that this chapter relates. to a little community like that surrounding san isidro and palmacristi, to say nothing of troja, the day on which agueda carried the note for raquel was full of events. when escobeda went from raquel's room, slamming the door after him, the terrified girl dropped on her knees before ana. all her courage seemed to have flown. she bent her head and laid it in ana's lap, and then tears rained down and drenched ana's new silk apron. "ana," she whispered, "ana, who is there to help me?" ana sighed and sniffed, and one or two great drops rolled off her brown nose and splashed down on the back of raquel's dark head. "there is no one but you and god, ana." "holy mother! child, do not be so irreverent." "can you steal out into the corridor and down the two little steps, and into the rum room, ana, and hear what is being said?" "i am too heavy; that you know, señorita. the boards creak at the very sound of my name. i am tall, my bones are large. such persons cannot trip lightly; they tip the scales at a goodly number of pounds. holy mother! if he should catch me at it!" and ana shivered, her tears drying at once from fright. "you could very well do it if you chose. listen, ana. if he takes me away, i shall die. now i tell you truly, ana, i will never go to that government house alive; that you may as well know. get me my mother's dagger, ana." ana arose and went to a bureau drawer. the drawer squeaked as she pulled at the knobs. a far door was heard opening. "what is that?" roared escobeda. "i am packing the child's trunks, señor. how can i pack them unless i may open the drawer?" there was a sound of retreating footsteps and the closing of the door. raquel looked at ana, who was kneeling upon the floor, searching in the drawer. "ah! here it is," said ana. "but you will not use it, sweet?" "not unless i must," said raquel. she sighed. "not unless i must. i do not want to die, ana. i love my life, but there is a great horror over there." she nodded her head in the direction of the port of entry. "when that horror comes very near me, then i--" raquel made as if she would thrust the dagger within her breast. ana shuddered. "i shall not see it," she said. "but i advise it, all the same, if you must." she drew the girl up to her, and cried helplessly upon her neck. "can't you think a little for me, ana? it is hard always to think for one's self." "no," said ana, shaking her head, "i never have any fresh thoughts. i always follow." "then, dear ana, just tiptoe down and listen. it is the last thing that i shall ever ask of you, ana." ana, her eyes streaming with tears, took her slippers--those tell-tale flappers--from her feet, and went to the door. she turned the knob gently and pushed the door outward without noise. as she opened it she heard escobeda's voice, raised in angry tones. "go now! now! while he is scolding," whispered raquel. "he will not hear you. i must know what he is saying to that man. do you think it is the señor silencio's messenger?" ana nodded and put her finger to her lip. she crept noiselessly along the passage. raquel, listen as she would, heard nothing of ana's footsteps, for escobeda was still swearing so loudly as to drown every other sound. raquel went to the bureau, and took from the drawer a piece of kid. she seated herself and began to polish her weapon of defence. "of death," said raquel to herself. "if i am forced--" she peeped out, but ana had turned the corner, and was hidden from sight. ah! she must be in the rum room now, where she could both peer through the cracks and hear all that was said on either side. suddenly a far door was violently wrenched open, and raquel heard escobeda's steps coming along the corridor. where was ana, then? raquel's heart stood still. escobeda came on until he reached the door of raquel's chamber. the girl did not alter her position, and but for her flushed cheeks there was no sign of agitation. she bent her head, and rubbed the shining steel with much force. "where is that lazy ana?" raquel raised her innocent eyes to his. "did you call, uncle? well, then, she must have gone to the kitchen." "you lie," said escobeda. raquel's cheeks reddened still more. "perhaps i do, uncle. at all events, she is not here." "what have you there?" escobeda had stooped towards the girl with hand outstretched, but she had sprung to her feet in a moment, and stood at bay, the dagger held, not in a threatening attitude, but so that it could be turned towards the man at any moment. "it is my mother's dagger, uncle." "what are you doing with it?" "polishing it for my journey, uncle." "give it to me." "why should i give it to you, uncle?" "because i tell you to." raquel's hair had fallen down; she was scantily clothed. her cheeks were ablaze. she looked like a tigress brought to bay. "do you remember my mother, uncle?" "i remember your mother; what of her?" "do you know what she said to me at the last--at the last, uncle?" "i neither know nor care," said escobeda. "hand me the knife." "my mother told me," said raquel, still polishing the blade and changing its direction so that the point was held towards escobeda--"my mother told me to keep this little thing always at hand. it has always been with me. you do not know how many times i have had the thought to turn it upon you"--escobeda started and paled--"when your cruelties have been worse than usual. sometimes at night i have thought of creeping, creeping along the hall there, and going to the side of your bed--" "you murderess!" shouted escobeda. "so you would do that, would you? it is time that you came under the restraint that you will find over there in the government town. do you hear? give me the knife. it was like that she-dev--" "i can hear quite well with it in my hand," said raquel. "you may say whatever comes into your head, only about my mother. that i will not bear. speak of her gently, i warn you--i warn you--" "do you know who the man was who came to me just now?" "the señor silencio?" said raquel, breathless, her eyes flashing with a thousand lights. "no, it was not the señor silencio." raquel's eyelids drooped. "but it was the next thing to it. it was that villain, rotiro. i could have bought him, as well as silencio. a little rum and a few pesos, and he is mine body and soul. but i do not want him. i have followers in plenty--" "those who follow you for love?" said raquel, with sly malice in her tone. escobeda flashed a dark and hateful look upon her. "it makes no difference why they follow me. they are all mine, body and soul, just as you are mine, body and soul." "are you going to tell me why rotiro came here to-day?" asked raquel. "yes, that is what i came to tell you. i came purposely to tell you that. the señor silencio sent me a letter by the villain rotiro." "for me?" asked raquel, breathless. "oh, uncle! let me see it, let me--" "no, it was to me. but i will tell you its contents. i will tell you gladly. he offers you his hand in marriage." "oh, uncle!" the girl's eyes were dancing. she blushed and paled alternately; then drew a long sigh, and waited for escobeda to speak further. "from your appearance, i should judge that you wish me to accept him for you." "oh, uncle!" again the girl drew short, quick breaths. she gazed eagerly into escobeda's face. "can you think anything else? now i need not go away. now i need not be longer a burden upon you. now i shall have a home! now--i--shall--be--" the girl hesitated and dropped her voice, and then it died away in a whisper. but one meaning could be drawn from escobeda's cunning screwed-up eyes, his look of triumph, his smile of wickedness. they stood gazing at each other thus for the space of a few seconds, those seconds so fraught with dread on the one side, with malice and triumphant delight on the other. "your mother hated me, raquel. perhaps she never had the kindness to tell you that. i found her when she was dying. you remember, perhaps, when she asked you, her little girl, to withdraw for a while, that she might speak with me alone?" "i remember, uncle," said raquel, panting. "it was not to be wondered at that she preferred your father to me. she had loved me first. she was my father's ward. but when he came, with his handsome face and girlish ways, she threw me aside like a battered doll. she said that i was cruel, but she never discovered that until she fell in love with your father. she ran away with him one night when i was at the city on business for my father. the doting old man could not keep a watch upon them, but i followed their fortunes. she never knew that it was i who had him followed to the mines, where he thought he had discovered a fortune, and killed him in the cold and dark--" "are you a devil?" asked raquel. "his bones, you can see them now, raquel; they were never buried--they lie up there on the floor of the old--" the dagger slipped from raquel's fingers, and she slid to the floor. "no, i did not tell her that i should take out my vengeance upon her child. i knew my time would come. silencio's offer is of as much value as if written in the sand down there by the river, the--" ana came in at the doorway. escobeda stooped and picked up the dagger. "she will hardly need this," he said, as he stuck it in his belt. when raquel opened her eyes ana was bending over her, as usual in floods of tears, drenching the girl alternately with warm water from her tender eyes and cold water from the perron. raquel sat up and looked about her as one dazed. she clutched at the folds of her dress. the piece of kid lay in her hand. "oh, ana!" she sobbed, "he has taken it away. all that i had. my only protection." ana arose and quietly closed the door. "sweet," she said, "i have good news for you." "what is it?" asked raquel, sitting up, all interest, her dull eyes brightening. "i crept along the hall," said ana, "and when i reached the rum room i slipped in and closed the door softly, and listened through the cracks. when he came here, i slipped out to the kitchen, and there i have been ever since." "but the good news," asked raquel. "quick! ana, tell me." "he was sitting at his desk, the señor escobeda, his back to the door, so unlike any other gentleman. if they must rage, they stand up and do it. but there he sat, swearing by all the gods at something. i saw that that man rotiro from palmacristi had run out of the counting-house, and was peeping in at the door; and i listened, hoping to find out something, and i have, sweet, i have." "well! well! ana, dear ana, hasten! hasten!--" "i have found out that the señor don gil asks your hand in marriage." raquel sank down again in a heap on the floor. "is that all, ana?" she said. "all! and what more can the señorita want than to have a gentleman, rich, handsome, devoted, offer her his hand in honourable marriage?" "i only want one thing more, ana dear," said raquel, sadly, "the power to accept it." "the power to accept it?" said ana, questioningly. "is the child mad?" "he twits me with it. he says that i shall not accept him, the señor don gil. he says that i shall go in any case to the government town. he has taken away my dagger. i cannot even kill myself, ana. oh! what am i to do? gil! gil! come and save me." at this heavy steps were heard coming along the corridor. the door was burst open with a blow of escobeda's fist. "you need not scream or call upon your lover, or on anybody else. you have no one to aid you." "no one but god, and my dear ana here," said raquel. "one is about as much use as the other," said escobeda, laughing. "call as loud as you will, one is quite deaf and the other helpless." raquel rose to her feet. "will you leave my room?" she said with dignity. "i will leave your room, because i have done all that i came to do." "you have broken the child's heart, señor," said ana, with unwonted courage, "if that is what you came to do." "if i can break her spirit, that is all i care for," said escobeda. "you will never break my spirit," said raquel. she stood there so defiant, the color coming and going in her face, her splendid hair making a veil about her, that escobeda looked upon her with the discriminating eye of fresh discovery. "by heaven," he said, "you are more beautiful than ever your mother was! if i had not promised the governor--" "spare her your insults," said ana, her indignation aroused. she pushed the door against his thick figure, and shot the bolt. they heard escobeda's laugh as he flung it back at them. "what shall we do now?" asked raquel. "shall i drop from the window and run away? there must be some one who will aid me." ana approached the closely drawn jalousies. she put her long nose to a crack and peered down. the slight movement of the screen was seen from the outside. "it is you that need not look out, anita maria," came up to her in joyal's rasping voice. "this is not the front door." "he has been quick about it," said ana. "no matter, sweet, we must pack. some one must help us. when the señor silencio gets that devilish message he must do something." "what was the devilish message, ana?" asked raquel. "do not ask me, child; just hateful words, that is all." raquel put her young arms round ana's old thin shoulders. "promise me one thing, ana," she said. "promise! who am _i_ to make promises, sweet? all that i can, i will. that you must know." "when i am gone, ana"--raquel looked searchingly at ana and repeated the words solemnly--"when i am gone, promise that you will go to the señor silencio. say to him--" "but how am i to get there, sweet? i should have to wear my waist that i keep for the saints' days. i--" "get there? do you suppose if you asked me i would not find a way? my uncle escobeda will be gone. remember he will be gone, ana! there will be no one to watch you, and you talk of clothes! you will not wear them out in one afternoon, and when i am señora"--raquel halted in her voluble speech and blushed crimson--"he, my uncle, would be glad to have you go and say that he has taken me away. nothing would please him better. now, promise me that when i am gone you will go to the señor silencio, and tell him where he has taken me. tell him that i accept his offer. tell him that if he loves me, he will find a way to save me. tell him that i sent him a note by that pretty agueda from san isidro--" "you should not speak to such as she--" "she seemed sweet and good. she carried my note, ana. i must always be her friend. tell him--" a loud thud upon the door. escobeda had stolen up softly, and was chuckling to himself outside in the passage. "ana has my permission to go and tell him all about how you love him, muchacha. that will make it even more pleasant for me. i thank you for helping me carry out my plans, but for the present, ana had better pack your things, and quickly. the sun is getting over to the west, and you must start within two hours' time." raquel threw her arms round ana and strained her to her childish breast. "you will go, dear ana, you promise me, do you not? you will go?" "i will," said the weeping ana, "even if i must go in my sunday shoes." ix when the voluble rotiro had vanished round the end of the counting-house, silencio retired to his inner sanctum and closed and locked the door. the contrast between this room and the bare front office was marked. here cretonne draped the walls, its delicate white and green relieving the plain white of the woodwork. coming from the outer glare, the cool coloring was more than grateful to the senses. the large wicker chairs with which the room was furnished were painted white, their cushions being of the same pale green whose color pervaded the interior. the white tables, with their green silken cloths, the white desk, the mirrors with white enameled frames, the white porcelain lamps with green shades, all of the same exquisite tint, made the sanctum a symphony of delicate color, a bower of grateful shade. pull one of the hangings aside, ever so little, and a fortress stared you in the face--a fortress known of, at the most, to but two persons in the island. it is true that the more curious of the peons had wondered somewhat why don gil had brought down from the es-states those large sheets of iron with clamps and screws; but the native is not inquisitive as a rule, and certainly not for long. all señors do strange things, things not to be accounted for by any known rule of life, and the señor don gil was rich enough to do as he liked. what, then, was it to a hard-working peon, what a grand señor like the don gil took into his mahogany house? the man who had come down in the steamer with the sheets of iron had remained at palmacristi for a month or more. he had brought two workmen, and when he sailed for nueva yorka no one but the owner of the casa de caoba and the old guillermina knew that the inner counting-house had been completely sheathed with an iron lining, whose advent the peons had forgotten. "this is my bank," said don gil to don juan smit'. "it may become a fort some day, who knows?" answered the don juan smit', "if those rascally spaniards come over here and create another rumpus." strange to say, don gil did not resent this remark about the nation which had produced his ancestors. but, then, don gil was a revolutionist, and had fought side by side with the bravest generals of the ten years' cuban war. "it is a very secure place to detain a willing captive," smiled don gil. "well, i guess!" assented the señor don juan smit', with a very knowing wink of the eye, which proved that he had not understood his employer's meaning in the very slightest. old guillermina, who had reared don gil's mother, was the only person allowed within the counting-house. "a very fine place for the black spiders to hide," remarked guillermina, as she twitched aside the green and white hangings, and exposed the iron sheathing. "there is no place they would prefer to this." when don gil had locked the door, he seated himself and took escobeda's note from his pocket. he examined the flap of the envelope; it was badly soiled and creased. he was morally certain that rotiro had possessed himself of the contents of the letter. he had told rotiro that peons should not think, but they would think, semi-occasionally, and more than that, they would talk. when a peon was found clever enough to carry a message, he also possessed the undesirable quality of wishing to excite curiosity in others, and to make them feel what a great man he was to be trusted with the secrets of the señor. by evening the insolence of escobeda would be the common property of every man, woman, and child on the estate, and, what silencio could bear least of all, the insulting news as to the ultimate destination of raquel would be gossiped over in every palm hut and rancho far and near. all his working people would know before to-morrow the message which had been brought to him by rotiro, and it was his own rum that would loosen rotiro's tongue and aid materially in his undoing. his face grew red and dark. his brow knotted as he perused the vile letter for the fourth time. escobeda's handwriting was strong, his grammar weak, his spelling not always up to par. the letter was written in spanish, into which some native words had crept. the translation ran: "to the seÑor don gil silencio-y-estrada. "_señor_:--you are forbidden to set foot in my house. you are forbidden to try to see or speak to the señorita raquel. i do not continue the farce of saying my niece; she is not more than a distant relative of mine. but in this case, might makes right. i control her and she is forever lost to you. you refused me the trocha farm for a fair price. see now, if it would not have been better to yield. the señorita raquel starts for the port of entry this afternoon. she sails to-night for the government town. the governor desires her services. knowing the governor by repute, you may imagine what those services are." silencio struck the senseless sheet with his clenched fist. his ring tore a jagged hole in the paper, so that he had difficulty in smoothing it for re-perusal. "it pays me better to sell her to him than to give her to you." wild thoughts flew through the brain of silencio. he started up, and had almost ordered his horse. he was rich. he would offer all, everything that he possessed, to save raquel from such a fate, but he sadly resumed his seat after a moment of reflection. escobeda hated him, there had been a feud between the families since the old don gil had caused the arrest of the elder escobeda, a lawless character; and the son had made it the aim of his life to annoy and insult the family of silencio. here was a screw that he could turn round and round in the very heart of his enemy, and already the screwing process had begun. don gil took up the mutilated letter and read to the end: "we start for the coast this afternoon. do not try to rescue her. i have a force of brave men who will protect me from any number that you may bring. we have colinos and escopetes in plenty. your case is hopeless. you dare not attack me on land; you cannot attack me on the water." don gil dashed the paper on the floor and ground savagely beneath his heel the signature "rafael escobeda." "it is true," he said, shaking his head. "it is true; i am helpless!" with a perplexed face and knitted brow he went into the outer room, closed the entrance door and took a flat bar of iron from its resting-place against the wall. this he fitted into the hasps at each side of the door, which were ready to receive it. then he returned to the inner room, and secured the iron-sheathed door with two similar bars. after this was done, he looked somewhat ruefully at his handiwork. "the cage is secure," he said, "if i but had the bird." silencio opened the door which connected the office with the main part of the house. he closed and locked it behind him, and proceeded along a passage so dark that no light crept in except through the narrow slits beneath the eaves. when he had traversed this passage, he opened a further door and emerged at once into the main part of the house. here everything was open, attractive, and alluring. here spacious apartments gave upon broad verandas, whose flower boxes held blooms rare even in this garden spot of the world. here were beauty and colour and splendour and glowing life. don gil threw himself down in a hammock which stretched across a shady corner. through the opening between the pilotijos, he could see the wooded heights in the distance, those heights beyond which troja lay, troja, which held his heart and soul. what to do? to-night she would set sail for the government town in the toils of escobeda, her self-confessed betrayer and barterer--set sail for that hateful place where her worse than slavery would begin. the person to whom she was to be sold--none the less sold because the price paid did not appear on paper--was possessed of power and that might of which escobeda had spoken in his letter--that might which makes right. he could give countenance to speculators and incorporators, he could grant concessions for an equivalent; into such keeping escobeda, with his devil's calculation, was planning to deliver her--his raquel, his little sweetheart. that she loved him he knew. a word and a glance are enough, and he had received many such. a note and a rose at the last _festin_, where she had been allowed to look on for a while under the eye of her old duenna! a pressure of her hand in the crowd, a trembling word of love under her breath in answer to his fierce and fiery ones! the cause for love, its object does not know nor question. the fact is all that concerns him, and so far silencio was secure. and here was this last appeal from the helpless girl! they had started by this time perhaps. don gil looked at the ancient timepiece which had descended from old don oviedo. yes, they had started. it was now twenty minutes past six; they needed but two hours to ride to the port of entry. the steamer would not sail until between nine and ten o'clock. very shortly escobeda's party would cross the trocha, which at that point was a public highway. it ran through the palmacristi estate, and neared the casa on the south. could he not rescue her when they were so near? there were not three men within the home enclosure. the others had gone direct to their huts and ranchos from their work in the fields. he could not collect them now, and if he could, of what use a skirmish in the road? escobeda was sure to ride with a large force, and a stray shot might do injury to raquel herself. no, no! some other way must be thought of. silencio arose, passed quickly through the casa and entered the patio. he ran up the stairs which ascended from the veranda to the flat roof above. he stood upon the roof, shading his eyes with his hand, and straining his vision to catch the first sight of escobeda and his party of cut-throats. he was none too early. a cloud of dust on the near side of the cacao grove told him this, and then he heard the jingling of spurs and the sound of voices. a group of some thirty horsemen swept round the curve and came riding into full view. in their center rode a woman. she was so surrounded that by no effort of hers could she break through the determined-looking throng. one glance at those cruel faces, and silencio's heart sank like lead. the woman was gazing with appealing eyes at the casa de caoba. silencio was not near enough to distinguish her features, but her attitude was hopeless and appealing, and he knew that it was raquel the moment that he discovered her. suddenly she drew a handkerchief from her bosom and waved it above her head. there was something despairing and pitiable in her action. silencio whirled his handkerchief wildly in the air. he was beside himself! escobeda turned and struck the girl, who dropped her signal hand and drooped her head upon her breast. silencio put his hands to his mouth and shouted: "do not fear; i will save you!" he shook his clenched hand at escobeda. "you shall pay for that! by god in heaven! you shall pay for that!" yes, pay for it, but how? how? oh, god! how? he was so helpless. no one to aid him, no one to succour. at this defiance of silencio's there came an order to halt. the men faced the casa de caoba, escobeda placed his rifle to his shoulder, but as he fired, raquel quickly reached out her hand and dashed the muzzle downward. a crash of glass below stairs told silencio where the shot had found entrance. "and for that shot, also, you shall pay. aye, for twenty thousand good glass windows." glass windows are a luxury in the island. a burst of derisive laughter and a scattering flight of bullets were thrown back at him by the motley crew. they reined their horses to the right, turned a corner, and were lost in their own dust. silencio descended the stairs, how he never knew. he ran through the patio and the main rooms, and out on to the veranda, from which the path led toward the gate of the enclosure. he was beside himself. he seized his gun from the rack; he cocked it as he ran. "he said that i could not reach him upon the water; i can reach him upon the land. piombo, my horse! do not wait to saddle him, bring him at once. no, i cannot reach him upon the water--" a sound of footsteps. a head bound in a ragged cloth appeared above the flower boxes which edged the veranda, and pushed its way between the leaves. a body followed, and then a man ascended slowly to a level with don gil silencio. over his shoulder was slung a shotgun; in his leathern belt, an old one of his master's, was thrust a machete; from his hand swung a lantern with white glass slides. this man was stupid but kindly. he pattered across the veranda with bare and callous feet, and came to a halt within a few paces of don gil. there he stopped and leaned against the jamb of the open door. at night andres hung a lantern upon the _asta_ at the headland yonder, more as a star of cheer than as a warning. the red lantern on los santos, some miles further down the coast, was the beacon for and the warning to mariners. the ray from its one red sector illumined the channel until the morning sun came again to light the way. when the white pane changed the ray of red to one of white, the pilot shouted, "hard over." with a wide and foaming curve, the vessel swept round and out to sea, thus avoiding the sand spit of palmacristi. silencio's eyes fell upon the lantern in the hand of andres, and in that moment the puzzle of the hour was solved. so suddenly does the bread of necessity demand the rising of the yeast of invention. the expression of don gil's face had changed in a moment from abject gloom to radiant exultation. "_bien venido_, andres! _bien venido!_" no dearest friend could have been greeted with a more joyous note of welcome. andres raised his eyes in astonishment to the face of the young señor. he had expected to meet with guillermina's reproaches because he had forgotten to lower the lantern from the asta that morning, and had left it burning all the long day, so that now it must be refilled. here was a very different reception. he had been thinking over his excuses. he had intended to say at once how ill el rey had been all night, and how he had forgotten everything but the child; and here, instead of the scolding of the servant, he was greeted with the smiles of the master. truly, this was a strange world; one never knew what to expect. "i come for oil for the lantern, don gil. it is a very good _farol de señales_, but it is a glutton! it is never satisfied! it eats, and eats!" "like the rest of you." don gil laughed aloud. andres gazed at him with astonishment. "that blessed glutton! let us feed it, andres! give it plenty to eat to-night, of all nights. i will hoist it upon the headland myself to-night." at andres's still greater look of astonishment, "yes, yes, leave it to me. i will hoist the blessed lantern myself to-night upon my headland." "the señor must not trouble himself. it is a dull, dark night! the señor will find the _sendica_ rough and hard to climb." "what! that little path? have not i played there as a child? raced over it as a boy? i could go there blindfold. how is the little king, andres?" andres's face fell. "he is not so well, señor. that is why i forgot the lantern. he was awake in the night talking to her. i have left him for barely an hour to fill the lantern and return it again to the asta. he talks to her at night. sometimes i think she has returned. he begged me to leave the door unlocked; he thinks she may come when i am gone." andres turned away his heavy face, and brushed his sleeve across his eyes. "you shall go home early to-night, andres; as i said, i will hoist the lantern." the dull face of andres lighted up with a tender smile, a smile which glorified its homely lineaments--that smile which had always been ready to appear at the bidding of el rey. poor little el rey, who had never ceased to call, in all his waking hours for roseta, roseta who had found the charms of dondy jeem, with his tight-rope and his red trunk-hose and his spangles and his delightful wandering life, much more to be desired than the palm-board hut down on the edge of the river, with el rey to care for all day, and andres to attend when he returned at night from the sucker planting or banana cutting. "how is the sea, andres?" "it is quiet, señor, not a ripple." "and we shall have no moon?" "as the señor says, not for some weeks past have we had a moon." don gil laughed. he could laugh now, loud and long. his heart was almost light. what better tool and confidant could he procure than a peon who knew so little of times and seasons as andres? "and it is low tide at ten o'clock to-night?" "as the señor says." had don gil asked, "is the sea ink?" andres would have replied, "as the señor says." "at about what time is the red lantern lighted on los santos?" "at about six o'clock, señor. i heard old gremo say that he lights it each evening at six o'clock." "he does not live near it now?" "as the señor says. the old casa fell quite to pieces in the last hurricane, and now gremo lives at the romando cannuca." "he must start early from the conuco?" "as the señor says. at half after five. it is a long way to carry a ladder--there and back. gremo is afraid of the ghosts who infest the mompoja patch. if one but thrusts his head at you, you are lost. marianna romando says that gremo is not much of a man, but far superior to garcito romando. the few pesos that he gets for lighting the lantern keep the game cock in food." "and no one can tamper with the light, i suppose?" "as the señor says. the good god forbid! the cords by which it is lowered hang so high that no one can reach them--not even natalio, who, as all know, is a giant." "and you could not get that ladder, andres?" "as the señor says, when gremo carries it a mile away, and puts it inside the enclosure. he is a good shot, though so old. there is only one better in all the district. besides, there are ghosts between the asta and the cannuca." don gil stood for a moment lost in thought. "i suppose el rey needs you at home, andres. i should not keep--" "that is quite true; i do, very much, señor." the thin little voice came from behind the giant ceiba round which the circular end of the veranda had been built. "you here, el rey?" a slight, childish figure emerged slowly from behind the giant trunk and leaned against its corrugated bark. "el rey becomes weary staying down there in the palm hut, señor. there is nothing to do but watch the pajara bobo, and the parrots, and listen to river, going, going, going! always going! has roseta been here, señor?" don gil shook his head. he gazed sadly at the child. "when do you think she will come, señor?" "i know not, little one; perhaps to-morrow." the boy raised his hand and smoothed down his thin hair. the hand trembled like that of an old man. his cheek was sunken, his lips colourless. he lifted his large eyes to don gil's face. "they always tell me that. mañana, mañana; always mañana!" he sighed patiently, looking at the señor, as if the great gentleman could help him in his trouble. andres turned away his head. he gazed across the valley toward the hills beyond which lay troja. that was where they had gone to see dondy jeem, he and his pretty roseta--roseta, who had tossed her head and shaken the gold hoops in her ears when dondy jeem had kissed his hand to the spectators. he had turned always to the seats where roseta and andres, stupid andres--he knew that now--sat. then roseta had given el rey to the ever-willing arms of andres, and fixed her eyes on dondy jeem and watched his graceful poise, the white satin shoes descending so easily and securely upon the swaying rope, the long pole held so lightly in the strong hands. it had been before those days that roseta used to call the child her king. poor el rey! he looked a sorry enough little king to-day, a dethroned little king, with his pinched face and trembling fingers and wistful eyes, searching the world in vain for the kingdom which had been wrested from him. "how did you get out of the rancho, el rey?" "that señorita from el cuco, she let me out." "you should be in bed, muchachito." "but it is lonely, señor, in that bed. that is roseta's bed. i turn that way and this way. it is hot. i look for roseta. she is not there. a man look in at the door once; he frighten me. to-day a hairy beast came. he push back the shutter. when he was gone, i ran. i stumble, i fell over bajucos. i caught my foot in a root. that would not matter if i could find roseta. i would rather be here with the señor than at the river." el rey pushed a confiding little hand into don gil's palm. don gil sat down and took the child between his knees. "andres, do you shoot as well as of old?" "i shoot fairly well, señor." the señor laughed. he had seen andres at only the last fair, less than a year ago, shoot, at eighty yards, a mexican dollar from between the fingers of dondy jeem. the scene recurred to andres. "had it been but his heart!" he muttered, dully. and then, with a look at don gil, "there are few who cannot do one thing well, señor." "you are far too modest, andres." don gil glanced again at the lantern which andres had set down upon the veranda rail. when he had first caught sight of that lantern in andres's hand his difficulty had vanished like the morning mist. with a flash of thought, rather of many thoughts in one train, he had seen the proceedings of the evening to come mapped out like a plan of campaign. "will you do something for me, andres?" "the good god knows; anything that i can, señor. but what i should prefer would be a night when the moon shines. he could not then see me behind the old ironwood, and i could distinguish him better when there is a little light. is it the señor e'cobeda, señor?" don gil laughed again. he put el rey gently from him, and arose. he walked to the corner of the veranda and back again. andres took el rey tenderly up in his arms, the child laid his hot head on andres's shoulder. "when will roseta come?" he whispered. with the unreason and trustful selfishness of childhood, he did not see that if his heart was breaking, the heart of andres had already broken. "no, andres; it is not escobeda. i do not hire assassins, even for such a villain as he. but i need a servant as faithful and as dumb as if that were my custom. i want something done at once, andres, and i truly believe that you are the only one upon all the coloñia whom i can trust. come in here with me. no! set the child down; he will listen and repeat." "el rey will not listen at nothing, señor," said the child. he clung tightly to andres's neck. "come in, then, both of you." andres, with el rey in his arms, followed don gil across the large living-room. don gil turned as he unlocked the door at the end of the passage. "i have something to say to you," he said, "which must not be overheard." andres, the pioneer of his race, followed the señor into the spring-like privacy of the sanctum. "now don't worry your brain, andres. listen to what i shall ask of you, and go and do it. you know it has always been my theory that a peon should not try to think, and why? simply because he has no brain, andres." "as the señor says," assented andres. x when andres issued from the counting-house of palmacristi he was examining critically the trigger of a gun. that fine winchester it was which had been the wonder and delight of the natives since the señor don juan smit' had brought it down from the es-states. when the señor silencio had asked the señor don juan smit' if the gun would shoot straight, the señor don juan smit' had laughed softly, and had answered, "well, i guess!" and the señor don juan smit' had not exaggerated. "and el rey?" "el rey will go with andres, señor," answered the thin voice. "the muchachito will do as he chooses, señor." the child was following close upon his father's steps. "it is too far for him, andres. stay with me, el rey." the child looked wistfully up at andres. "andres will carry el rey. perhaps we shall find roseta at the place where andres goes to shoot." "i will carry him, señor. his weight is nothing. dear god! nothing!" andres swung the child up to his hip, where he sat astride, securely held by andres's strong arm, and descended the veranda steps. "come and tell me when it is done," silencio called after them. "si, señor. buen' noch', señor." "buen' noch', señor," echoed el rey's piping voice. "here, andres." from his height on the veranda floor don gil tossed a key to andres. "open the boat-house, and run the boat out upon the southern ways. the southern ways, do you hear? those nearest the port of entry." andres looked up wonderingly. "ah! you are trying to think. do not try. it is useless. obey! that is all." blindly faithful, andres, having caught the key, turned away with an "as the señor says," and disappeared down the camino which led toward the ocean cliff. when he reached the headland of palmacristi he suddenly diverged from the cliff path and ran hurriedly down the bank. the boat-house stood upon a safe eminence in the middle of the sand spit, with ways running down to the water on either side. andres set el rey down in the warm sand, and unlocked the boat-house door. he then pushed the boat to the end of the ways. the tide was still falling; it was nearly low water. he laid the oars ready; then he arose and looked southward along the coast. ah! there shone the signal upon los santos headland. old gremo was at his post, then. andres raised his shoulders to his ears, turned the palms of his hands outward, and said: "thy labour is of no use to-night, gremo." he then took el rey up from his nest in the warm sand, swung the child again to his hip, and remounting the bank, proceeded on his way. so soon as andres had departed don gil entered the comidor, and going to the table, struck a bell hanging above it. jorge toleto lounged to the doorway, against the side of which he propped himself. "tell piomba to go over to the bodega at once, and ask the padre to dine with me this evening. piomba has little time. tell him to be off at once." jorge toleto shuffled away, with the remnant of what in his youth had been a respectful bow. when he was gone don gil crossed the living-room, passed through two long passages, and entered a door at the end of the second. here was a sort of general storeroom. when he emerged he carried in one hand a lantern, in the other he held a flat parcel. "a new lantern will burn more brightly," he said to himself. it was growing dusk now. don gil descended the veranda stair and followed in the footsteps of andres. as he crossed the rough grass beyond the veranda, old guillermina espied him from a further window. she was engaged in opening the señor's bed for the night, searching among the snowy linen to make sure, before tucking the rose-coloured netting beneath the mattress, that no black spider had hidden itself away, to prove later an unwelcome bedfellow to her adored don gil. for your tarantula will ensconce itself in unexpected corners at times, and is at the best not quite a desirable sleepmate. "and for the love of the saints, where is our don gil departing to at this hour of the night? the dinner nearly ready, old otivo watching the san coch' to see that it does not burn! the table laid, everything fine enough for a meal for the holy apostles! aie! aie! for our don gil is one who will have it as fine for himself as for the alcade, when--pouff! off he goes, and we breaking our hearts while we wait. ay de mi! ay de mi!" the señor, unconscious that he had been observed, passed hurriedly along the camino, and shortly struck into the little path or sendica which andres had traversed but a short time before. as don gil glanced over the cliff, he saw that the sea was still; almost calm. even the usual ocean swell seemed but a wavelet, as it reached weakly up the beach, expending itself in a tiny whirl of pebbles and foam whose force was _nil_, and lapsed in a retreat more exhausted than its oncoming. a walk of ten minutes brought silencio to the headland which bounded his property on the south. it was growing so dark that he could hardly distinguish the staff upon which it had been andres's custom to hang each night his _lanterna de señales_, to send forth its white beam of cheer across the sea. when, after passing the red light of los santos head, the pilot steered for the open ocean, the remark to the captain was always the same stereotyped phrase: "ah! there is the palmacristi lantern bidding us godspeed." it is a sad thing when the habit of years must be changed. when a custom, fixed as the laws of the medes, must be broken, chaos is often the result. thus thought silencio, as he reached the foot of the _asta_. it is, however, not necessary to say that his hand was not retarded by the thought. he groped for the cords which dangled from the top, and found them. he lighted a fusee and searched for and found the red slide, which he had laid on the ground. this was all that he wanted. by feeling, almost entirely, he removed the white pane from the lantern and replaced it by the red one, which he took from its wrapping. he then lighted the lantern, passed the cords through the metal hasps, and drew the signal to the top of the staff. the cords were so arranged as to permit of no swaying of the lantern. the light was fixed, and now from the top of the staff a red beam shone southward. when don gil mounted the steps of his veranda at palmacristi a tall, thin figure arose to greet him. "ah, padre, i am glad that piomba succeeded in finding you. my dinners are lonely ones." the padre laughed in the cracked voice of an old man. "better is the stalled ox where love is, than a dinner of herbs and poverty therewith." "just enough learning to misquote," quoted don gil, laughing also, but in a preoccupied manner. "perhaps it would be better to say 'just enough appetite.' my dinners are bad enough, since plumero left me." "better to have him leave you, even if under a guard of soldiers, padre, than to let him put you where you can eat no more dinners. what was that, padre? did you hear anything?" "nothing, my boy, but jorge toleto calling us to dinner. the willing ear, you know." don gil ushered the old man into the comidor. his tall figure was bent and thin. the shabby black coat, whose seams shone with a generation's wear, flapped its tails about the legs of his scant white trousers. the good priest's figure was one in which absurdity and dignity were inextricably combined. the padre showed his years. he had never quite recovered from the attack made upon him by his trusted servant plumero, the good--plumero, who now languished in the cep' over at saltona. the savory meal was ended. the night was warm and close. "let us sit upon the veranda and enjoy our cigarillos, padre." silencio seemed unlike himself. he was nervous, ill at ease. he had no sooner seated himself than he arose and paced the long veranda, the spark of his cigarette, only, showing his whereabouts. he looked often out to sea, and often in the direction of the _lanterna de señales_, whose ray was hidden from sight by the near hill. "do you hear anything, padre? anything like a cry or a--" "no, nothing! my boy. and as i was saying, there was my poor fighting cock lying in the corner, worse maltreated than he had ever been in any garito, and when i awoke--" "that was certainly a gun. you are not rising to leave, padre; why, your cigarillo is not even half finished. i expect you to stay the night. no, no! i will take no denial. guillermina, prepare the western room for the padre martinez." "you know my weaknesses, muchacho mio. very well, then, i will." but silencio was down the steps and some feet away in the darkness, straining his ear for the sound which he knew must come. he took out his watch, and by the light of the veranda lantern noted the time. "early yet," he muttered under his breath. "pardon, my son, you spoke to--" "i was but saying that the moon is very late to--hark!" "you are restless, gil." "it is this muggy weather. there! you certainly heard something?" "nothing, gil; nothing but the nightingale yonder." a cuculla flew into the padre's face. he brushed it gently away. it returned to wander over the long wisps of grey hair which straggled over the collar of the hot, dignified coat. the padre took the cuculla in his fingers, and placed it gently upon the leaves of the bougainvillia vine. "i certainly think that the sweetest songsters i ever heard are the nightingales in this enclosure." a footstep sounded on the graveled pathway which ran close to the veranda. "buen' noch', señor." silencio started nervously. "ah! it is you, andres? buenas noches." silencio raised his hand with a warning gesture. andres's stolid face expressed as stolid acquiescence. "buen' noch', señor. we did not find her at the _asta de lanterna_, señor." "andres, take the child home; he is weary." the tone was curt, unlike the kindly don gil. it was as if he had laid his hands on andres's shoulders and were pushing him along. "i should like to remain here, señor. perhaps she may come to-night. who knows? perhaps the good god will send her. he knows that i--cannot--bear--it, i can _not_ bear--" the child's voice broke in a sob. silencio's kindly nature was touched. "take him round to guillermina, andres, and get dinner; both of you." the two disappeared in the darkness. then piombo brought a flaring eastern lamp, at which don gil relighted his often extinguished cigarette. "how still the night! how far a sound would carry on a night like this." the padre had but just uttered these words when a long, booming sound struck upon the listening as well as the unexpectant ear. silencio bounded from his chair. he caught up a cloak which was lying conveniently ready. "a steamer ashore!" he shouted. the old padre struggled to his feet. "do not come. go round to the quarters. send the men to help. it must be at the sand spit. follow me to the headland," and he was gone in the darkness. the padre wondered somewhat at silencio's suspecting at once the locality of the stranded steamer, if that were the cause of the gun of distress. as he wondered, it spoke again, and gathering his wits together, he hastened round to the quarters. silencio bounded along the camino and up the cliff pathway. his feet seemed winged. the familiar local knowledge of childhood stood him in good stead at this crucial moment. he reached the staff. it was short work to release the cord and lower the lantern, extinguish the light, replace the red slide with a white one, and hoist the darkened signal in place again. then he turned and ran quickly down the sandy bank. "now the light has simply gone out," he said to himself as he ran. his boat was where andres had left it, the rising water making it just awash. a glance seaward showed to silencio a steamer's lights. there came to him across the water bewildered shouts, the sounds of running feet, and evidences of confusion. he pushed his boat into the water, and bent to the oars. the steamer was, at the most, not more than a quarter of a mile distant. he pulled with desperation. he heard the sound of the foam as the propeller turned over, and he feared that with every revolution the vessel would back off into deep water. when he rowed alongside he was not noticed in the dark and confusion of the moment. he held his long painter in his hand, and as he climbed up over some convenient projections of the little vessel, fastened it securely. he drew himself up hurriedly to the taffrail, and slid down to deck, mixing with the crew. he looked about now for the bewitching cause of the disaster. some dark forms were standing by the companion door, and going close he discovered her whom he sought. he laid his hand on her arm to draw her away. at first she started fearfully, but even in darkness love is not blind, and she hurriedly withdrew with him to the side of the vessel. "stand here for a moment, raquel," he whispered. "i am afraid that i cannot get you over the side without aid." she stood where he placed her, and he ran forward with much bustle and noise, seeking the captain, calling him by name. "ah! the saints preserve us! is that you, señor silencio? where are we, señor? there is no light anywhere to be seen. where are we, for the love of god?" "i am afraid that you have run aground on my sand spit, señor capitan." "on your sand spit, señor! where, then, is los santos head?" "some miles further down the coast, señor capitan." "ay de mi! i knew that pilot was no good. this is the first light that we have seen, and now that has gone out. this was a red light, señor." "red light? you are dreaming, señor capitan." the captain took this rejoinder in its literal meaning. "it is true that i was dreaming, señor. i beg of you not to mention it at the port. i have suffered with a fearful toothache all day. the pilot said that he was competent; we have never had any trouble." silencio cut him short. "i am here to offer my services, señor capitan. can i be of any use? you may have a storm from the southward. to-day has been a weather-breeder. i think you have women on board. i could take them--" "gracias! gracias! my kind señor silencio. that will help me above all things." "and if the wind does not rise, señor capitan, the tide will. keep your engines backing, and there will be no harm done. i will take whom i can, and send for the others." which proves that love, if not blind, may, however, be untruthful upon occasion. how silencio got raquel over the side he never knew. some one aided him at the captain's order, but he realized at last the blessed fact that she was there beside him, and that they were gliding from the vessel's hull as fast as he could impel the boat. "some miscreant has done this," roared the captain above the noise, as he leant over the side and strained his eyes after silencio. "i beg you, señor, to look for him, and when you have caught him, hand him over to me." "i shall remember your words, señor capitan." "i will have him shot in the market-place of the port of entry, and send for all the natives to see." "i will remember your words, señor capitan, you may be sure of that, when i catch him--" but the last words of don gil were lost in the renewed efforts of the engineer to back the steamer from the sand spit. no words passed at first between raquel and her rescuer. if love is not always blind and sometimes not truthful, he is apt to be silent. raquel needed no explanation. as the boat glided through the darkness, silencio dropped the oars. he took her hands in his. his lips were pressed to hers. what question should she ask? what more did she crave to know? here were life and liberty and love, in exchange for slavery, pollution, and worse than death. when he lifted her slight form from the boat, he did not release her at once, but held her in his arms for a moment. he could hardly believe that his daring act had met with the one result for which he had hoped. "your uncle, where is he?" "escobeda? in the cabin, ill. there is a slight swell. he is always ill. i had not noticed it, the swell, on board the steamer. but he is not my uncle, señor." "i have proof of it in his own written words, dear heart. but uncle or not, he shall never separate us now." "when can they get the steamer off the sand spit, señor? i heard you say that the water is rising." "they will float off by twelve o'clock to-night, sweetheart. i hope they will forget you. but whether they do or not, they shall not have you ever again, beloved. no, never again! you are mine now." "he has none of those men with him," said raquel. "they went back to troja. but, señor, he will come back from the capital, and then--señor--then--" "we will reckon with that question when it arises, dear one. at present, let us not think of escobeda and his crew." half-way up the sandy slope they met the tall form of the padre descending. silencio said shortly what he chose. explanations were not in order, for, whatever had happened, and whatever might happen, this young girl could not remain unmarried in the house of her lover. "you must marry us this evening, padre; and we will go to the little church at haldez to-morrow," said don gil, "if that will salve your conscience." "my conscience needs no salving, my son. yours rather. perhaps, if you have anything to confess, i had better receive your confession before--" "ah, padre, what a tempter you are! so holy a man, too! no, let them do their worst. i have nothing to confess. i have won my stake; now let them come on." but he regarded the beautiful girl at his side with some uneasiness as he spoke. "you must let me give you a chime of bells, padre," said raquel. the moon was struggling forth, and silencio noticed her shy look as she raised her eyes to his. "that is, if--if the señor will allow. "bribery, bribery!" said the padre in his thin old voice. silencio put his arm round raquel, and they stepped to the edge of the cliff. with her head pressed close to his shoulder, together they watched the dancing lights upon the steamer, and listened to the hoarse orders and shouts which, mingled with the foaming spray under the vessel's stern, came to them across the water. they had forgotten the padre, for love adds another to her many bad qualities, that of ingratitude. the padre had just promised to perform for them the greatest service that it was his to give, and they had become oblivious of him, and of everything in the world but each other. they stood so, and watched the steamer for a little space, and then silencio gathered the girl to his breast. "come home! dear heart, come home!" he whispered, and she followed him down the path, her hand in his. as they neared the casa de caoba they saw that a man was sitting upon the veranda steps. he had a child in his arms. the man was sleeping heavily, the slumber of the labouring peon. as raquel came up the steps of her new home, the child raised his large eyes wistfully to hers. "when el rey saw it was a señora, el rey thought it might be roseta. when will roseta come, señor? when? when?" raquel stooped and lifted the boy tenderly from andres's nerveless arms. she asked no question. with the instinct of the motherhood lying dormant within her, she knew that here was a motherless child, and that it suffered. at that moment she loved all the world. she pressed the boy close to her heart. "stay with me, little one; i will be roseta to you." el rey raised his eyes to the sweet, dark face above him. "roseta was not gran', señora," he said--he scanned her face critically--"but she was more pretty than the señora. the señora will pardon me if i say that roseta's gown was much more handsome than the one the señora wear." at the word "señora" the young girl stooped and laid her lips upon the child's head. "it was a gown of red. it had green spots--oh, such little green spots, small, small spots. el rey used to count them. there were some little half-spots up there on the shoulder. roseta said it was where the sewing came. roseta did not have shiny drops in her ears. the señora's drops are like the bits of glass that andres shot from the top of the _asta_ to-night. he had a gun, the gun of the señor." raquel looked inquiringly at silencio. "it is true," he admitted. "at los santos?" "at los santos." "they came down in showers, señor, like little red stars." "you are a poet, el rey." "rather," said silencio, smiling down at the child, where he stood leaning against raquel, "el rey is a little story-teller. he promised not to say a word--" "it is a señora who may know everything, all things. she has the good eyes." "you are right, el rey." "the rings in roseta's ears were round. they were big and round. she used to shake them when we went to the circus, so!" the tired head shook slowly. andres stirred uneasily. he opened his dull, sad eyes and looked at el rey. he had felt the touch on the wound even in his sleep. "i often put my finger round them, so! often and often i did." raquel took the little fingers between her own. she put them between her lips and bit them playfully. her white teeth made tiny indentations in the tender skin. el rey smiled faintly, a promise, raquel hoped, of a brighter day of forgetfulness to come. silencio stood looking on. he loved to see her so, the child leaning against her knee. across the water came the sounds of shouts and hurried orders which disturbed no one. raquel stroked the thin, straight hair over and over. she ran her soft fingers down the angular little face and neck. tiny tremors of affection ran gently through the child's veins. el rey laid his head upon the knee to which she drew him. his wasted hand shook as he laid it upon hers. "you are good," said the child. "you are beautiful, you are kind, kind to el rey." his tone was patient and old and full of monotony. "but oh! the señora will pardon me? you are not roseta." there was one other person at the wedding of don gil and raquel, besides the padre, who united them, and old guillermina and andres. "who will give you away?" asked silencio. "i myself," said she. silencio laughed. "that cannot be," he said. as he spoke there was a humble knocking at the door of the salon. raquel looked up and bounded from her seat. "oh, you dear old thing!" she said. she was fondling and kissing the bony creature, who stood aghast before her, who in turn was crying and begging the saints to have mercy upon her. "and for the good god's sake, tell me how you got here, señorita, and will the señor allow me to sit down? my sunday shoes have killed me, nearly. is there anything that i could wear instead--" ana stopped abashed at the sight of so fine a man as silencio. "how did the señor rescue you, my sweet? is the señor escobeda dead, then?" ana looked about her as if she expected to see the bodies of escobeda and his followers over there on the edge of the trocha. "i have been shipwrecked, ana," said raquel, smiling down upon the old woman. "ship--the holy saints pres--and you are not even wet--and where, then, is the señor escobe--" "you seem very much worried about the señor escobeda, ana," said don gil, who at once made raquel's friend his own. "do you not hear him off there now, cursing as usual?" ana listened. she heard distant cries, and the sound of the water as it churned underneath the propeller blades. ana shrank to the size of an ant as she answered, her face blanching: "indeed! yes, i do hear the señor, señor. i have heard the señor like that, señor, many a time. and does the señor think that the señor can come here to the casa of palmacristi?" "not for some time, i think, ana," said don gil, smiling, though a faint wrinkle was discernible on his brow. "it always seems to me as if the señor escobeda could get anywhere, señor," said ana, simply. "he has only to wish, the señor, and the thing is done." "that would be bad for us," said silencio. "ana, will you give this lady to me?" "i? and what does the señor think that i have to do with it?" "is the señor escobeda a nearer relative than you are, ana?" "indeed, no! señor," said ana. "i was her mother's own cousin once removed, while the señor es--" "very well!" said silencio, "that is all that i want. come! padre, let us prepare for the wedding." xi it was two or three days after this that uncle adan came in toward sunset with a fine piece of news. "the señor knows the hacienda of palmacristi?" began uncle adan, more as a preface than as a question. don beltran laughed. he had known the hacienda of palmacristi as long as he had known anything; he had known the old don gil well, who, indeed, had been a distant relative of his own, and he had seen the young don gil grow up to manhood. beltran was ten years older than silencio. he had often envied the young fellow his independence and freedom in the way of money. he thought him hot-headed and likely to get into trouble some day, and now, from uncle adan's account, that day had arrived. he did not think it necessary to say this; adan knew it as well as he. "what has he been doing now?" asked don beltran. "only getting married, señor," answered the old capitas. "i did not dream that he would do anything so sensible," said don beltran, with a glance at agueda. agueda bent her eyes low and blushed. how dear it was of him to think of her first of all, and always in that connection. but what was the haste? he loved her, of that she was sure. he would always love her. when he was ready, she would be, but it was not a pressing matter. "the señor e'cobeda does not think it so sensible, señor don beltran." "aaaah! it was the little señorita raquel, then. wise man, wise man!"--agueda looked up suddenly--"to marry the girl of his choice. but how did he get her, adan? it was only three weeks ago that he wrote me a line, begging that i would aid him in an effort to carry her off." "and the señor answered--?" "i told him that i would come whenever he called upon me. i have no liking for escobeda. he will not sell me the lowlands between the river and the sea. he is an unpleasant neighbour, he--" "he is a devil," said adan. "i think that it must be i who made that marriage hasten as it did," said agueda, smilingly. "the señor remembers the day last week when i came home and found the señor with the letter from the señor don noé saying that he would make a visit at palmacristi with the little child? it was on that day that i carried the note from the señorita to don gil." "and that was the very day of the marriage," broke in adan, willing enough to interrupt his niece, though not his master. "it was the very day. there was a shipwreck, and somehow the young señor got the señorita from the vessel. como no, hombre! when one wants a thing he must have it if he is gran' señor. the padre was there, and he married them, and now they have to reckon with the señor e'cobeda." "where was the precious rascal all this time?" asked don beltran. "some say that he was on board the ship, señor, and that he was carried on to the government town. they say he knew nothing of the grounding of the vessel; he was always sick with the sea, that señor e'cobeda. caramba! _i_ should like to see him sick with the sea, or with the bite of a black spider, or with anything else that would kill him--that señor e'cobeda!" "i cannot see what he can do, adan," said don beltran. "if she is married, he cannot change that." adan nodded, and scratched his ankle with his machete. "married fast enough, señor don beltran. first by the padre at the hacienda, and then at the little church at haldez. i cannot see what rights he has over the young señora now. "none at all," said don beltran. "does the lad want me over there--the señor silencio?" "i have heard nothing from him, señor don beltran. juan rotiro told me many things, but the señor knows what juan rotiro is when the pink rum gets into his judgment. he says that the señor e'cobeda will soon return, and that there will be fighting, but it seems to me that the señor don gil can hold his own. como no! when he has the law on his side." "law," beltran laughed. "do you suppose rascals like escobeda care for law? besides, he has the governor on his side. he pays large sums for so-called concessions; that i know, and the governor winks both eyes very fast at anything that escobeda chooses to do. did you hear anything about his getting that band from troja together?" "caramba! yes, señor don beltran! it was spoken under the breath, and just from one peon to the other. they did not know much." don beltran arose. "i think i will ride over to palmacristi, agueda; get me my spur. would you like to come, child?" agueda shook her head, and ran into the sitting-room to hide her confusion. her face was a dull crimson as she took the spur down from the nail. "the espuela is dusty; shall brighten it, señor?" "call old juana. i will not have you soil your pretty hands, child, on my spur. the grey, pablo," he shouted toward the rambling structure that was dignified by the name of stable. "and why not come with me, agueda?" agueda bent over her stitching. "i am much too busy to-day, señor," she said. "far too busy," she thought, "to go over there, not sure of my welcome." things had changed at palmacristi, and remembering the slight inflection in silencio's tone when last she saw him, she knew that henceforth raquel was quite out of her reach. "i was good enough to take her note for her when she was señorita," thought agueda, "but i am not good enough to visit her now that she is señora." agueda's sensitive and delicate nature had evolved this feeling out of an almost imperceptible glance, a faint, evanescent colouring of tone in the inflection of silencio's voice, but it told her, as memory called it up, that the front door of palmacristi would henceforth be closed to her. she would not hamper beltran. he was thoughtless, and might suffer more from a slight to her than from one to himself; or else he might become angry and break his pleasant friendship with silencio, a friendship which had existed between the families for generations. no, she had better remain at home. again, when beltran asked her, she shook her head and smiled, though a drop of water lay near the surface of her eye, but beltran did not see, and rode away gaily, waving his hand. arrived upon the height where stood the casa de caoba, he rode the grey down to the bank, because on the calm sea he had discovered silencio and raquel, in the little skiff in which raquel had been rescued. he heard silencio say, "there is beltran; let us go in and see him." "i do not know that don beltran," said raquel. "does not the girl agueda live there, at san isidro?" "yes; do you know agueda?" as silencio spoke he waved his hand to the horseman on the bank. "bien venido," he shouted. and then to raquel, "where did you see the girl agueda?" "i have often seen her," said raquel. "she is very handsome. she looks like a young boy. she is really no darker than i am. have you forgotten that she brought my note to you that day?" "no," said silencio; "i have not forgotten it. she has perhaps more good spanish blood in her veins than either of us," continued he, as he bent to the oars. "such things are very sad," said raquel. "she is so above her station. i should like to have her come here and live with us." "that would not do at all, raquel," returned silencio, gravely. "is there anything wrong with her?" asked raquel, wonderingly. "n--no, not that i know of, but she is not of your station." "and yet you say that she has better ancestry than either you or i," argued raquel, as the boat grounded. "i am sure her uncle is a great deal more respectable than mine." silencio waved his hand to beltran. "we were looking to see if there was any sign of the yacht," he called. "i sent her round to lambrozo to be repaired. we may need her now any day. oh! i quite forgot you do not know my wife, beltran. i must introduce you." raquel bowed and walked onward to order refreshments for the visitor. "let me congratulate you," said beltran, when silencio had thrown the painter to andres, who was standing near and had scrambled up the bank. "i was surprised by your very charming news." "hardly more than i was myself." "how did you manage, gil?" "the gods were with me," answered silencio, laughing, though beltran noticed that his brow clouded over almost immediately. his laughter sounded false. "it is true that i have what i wished, beltran," he continued--"the dearest blessing that any man, were he prince or noble, could ask." ("she is not half so beautiful as my agueda," thought beltran, while nodding acquiescence.) "i have her, she is mine; but--there is escobeda still to be reckoned with." "where is he?" asked beltran. "i wish he were in hell," said silencio, fiercely. "you are not singular in that, but the result is not always the offspring of the desire. it would indeed be a blessing to send him there, but unfortunately, my boy, there is law for him in this land, though very little of it when it comes to the wrongs that you and i suffer. the question is, where is he, and when do you expect him here?" "he went on to the government town with the steamer." beltran threw his leg over the saddle and dropped to the ground, walking beside his young friend. he heard all that there was to tell. "he was very ill when the steamer ran on the sand spit that night." silencio looked narrowly at his friend. he wished to see if his share in the decoying of the steamer had been noised abroad. beltran listened without a flicker of the eyelash. "the doctor had given him something strong--a new thing down here, called, i believe, chloral." "como no!" burst forth beltran, "if they only gave him enough." "they gave him enough for my purpose," said silencio. "he was utterly stupid. was i going to awake him and ask permission to run away with his niece? caramba, beltran! i should think not! he was stupid, i imagine, all the way to the government town. when he called for the bird whose wings he thought he had clipped, behold, the little thing had flown, and with me, the dreaded enemy." don beltran laughed long and heartily. "you are a clever boy, gil; but how about the future? as you say, you have that still to reckon with." the darkening of silencio's face recalled to beltran that antiquated simile of the sweeping of a cloud across the brightness of the sun. but not all old things have lost their uses. "i know that," said silencio; "that is the worst of it. i have taken her from him to protect her, and now--and now--if--i--should fail--" "i rode over to-day for that very thing, gil, to ask if i could help. i will come over with all my people if you say so, whenever you send for me. my uncle, don noé legaspi, comes within a day or so, to stay with me at san isidro. he brings his little child, a motherless little thing, with him, but i can come all the same. i think that it was never said of my house that we deserted a friend or a kinsman in trouble." "i see what you are afraid of," said silencio. "you think he will attack me." "i do," answered beltran; "but we can stand him off, as the yankees say. you have the right to shoot if he attacks you, but i hope that it will be my bullet that takes him off, the double-dyed scoundrel!" "you will take some refreshment, beltran?" "no, it is late; my breakfast is waiting. a' dios, gil, a' dios." as they were about to part, silencio called after his friend: "i will send you word as soon as i receive the news myself. you will come at once, eh, beltran?" don beltran paused in mounting the grey, and turned his head to look at his friend. silencio's fingers were nervously opening and closing around one of the fence palings. "for myself i should not care; that you know, beltran; but for her, it would kill me to have her fall into his hands again. it would be death to me to lose her. she will die if she thinks that she can be taken from me, and by that villain. do you know what they meant to do with her, beltran? they meant--they meant--" silencio's voice sank to a whisper. his face had become white, his lips bloodless. his eyes seemed to sink back in his head and emit sparks of fire. in the compression of the mouth beltran saw the determination of certain death for escobeda should he come within range of silencio's weapon. beltran was in the saddle now. he turned and surveyed his friend with some anxiety. "be careful, gil," he said; "don't come within reach of the villain. discretion is much the better part in this matter. keep yourself under cover. they will pick you off, those rascals. send for me the night before you know that he is coming, and i will ride over with ten of my men. we can garrison at your house?" "i shall make ready for you," said silencio. "my only fear is that i shall not have warning enough." xii beltran rode down to the coast to meet his young uncle and the child. he started early in the morning, riding the black. the groom led the roan for uncle noé's use, pablo rode the spotted bull, and those peons who could be spared from the cacao planting walked over the two miles to the boat landing, to be ready to carry the luggage that the strange señor and the little girl would bring. as dulgado's fin-keel neared the shore, beltran could not distinguish the occupants, for the sail hid them from view; but when the boat rounded to alongside the company's landing, and a sprightly old gentleman got out and turned to assist a young girl to climb up to the flooring of the wharf, beltran discovered that time had not broken his rule by standing still. on the contrary, he had broken his record by outstripping in the race all nature's winners, for the young uncle had become a thin little old man, and the child a charming girl in a very pronounced stage of young ladyhood. "i should have known that my cousin could not be a little child," thought beltran, as he removed his old panama, wishing that he had worn the new one. his dress was careless, if picturesque, and he regretted that he had paid so little attention to it. notwithstanding his somewhat rough appearance, beltran raised the perfumed mass of ruffles and lace in his strong arms. he seated the girl in the chair, fastened firmly to the straw aparejo on the back of the great bull. at agueda's suggestion, he had provided a safe and comfortable seat for the little one, to whose coming agueda was looking forward with such unalloyed pleasure. the girl filled it no more completely than beltran's vision of her younger self would have done, though her billowy laces overlapped the high arms of her chair. her feet, scarce larger than those of a child, rested upon the broad, safe footboard which beltran had swung at the side of the straw saddle. her delicate face was framed in masses of fair hair--pale hair, with glints here and there like spun glass. beltran could hardly see her eyes, so shaded was her face by the broad hat, weighted down by its wealth of vari-colored roses. to many a northern man, to whom style in a woman is a desideratum, felisa would have looked like a garden-escape. she had a redundant sort of prettiness, but beltran was not critical. what if her eyes were small, her nose the veriest tilted tip, her nostrils and mouth large? the fluffy hair overhung the dark eyebrows, the red lips parted to show white little squirrel teeth, the delicate shell-like bloom on cheek and chin was adorable. it brought to beltran's memory the old farm in vermont where he had passed some summers as a lad, and the peach trees in the orchard. his environment had not provided him with a strictly critical taste. how fair she was! what a contrast to all the women to whom he had been accustomed! there was nothing like her in that swarthy land of dingy beauties. her light and airy apparel was a revelation. unconsciously beltran compared it with the plain, straight skirts and blouse waists which he saw daily, and to its sudden and undeniable advantage. he was expecting to greet a little child, and all at once there appeared upon his near horizon a goddess full-blown. he had seen nothing in his experience by which he could gauge her. she passed as the purest of coin in this land of debased currency. her father, uncle noé, bestrode the roan which eduardo juan had brought over for him. when don noé was seated, eduardo juan gave him the bridle, and took his own place among the carriers of the luggage, which was greater in quantity than don beltran had expected. eduardo juan disappeared with a sulky scowl in answer to pablo's contented grin, which said, "i have only to walk home, guide the bull, and see that the señorita does not slip, while you--" pablo waited with patient servility, rope in hand, until the señorita was safely seated in her chair. there was a good deal of sprightly conversation among the señores. there was more tightening of girths and questions as to the comfort of his guests by don beltran. then the cavalcade started, pablo leading the bull, which followed him docilely, with long strides. the animal, ignorant as are the creatures of the four-footed race, with regard to his power over its enemy, man, was obedient to the slightest twitch of the rope, to which his better judgment made him amenable. the long rope was fastened to the ring in his pink and dripping nostrils. he stretched his thick legs in long and steady strides, avoiding knowingly the deeper pools which he had heretofore aided his kind to fashion in the plastic clay of the forest path. beltran rode as near his cousin as the path would allow. it was seldom, however, that they could ride abreast. it was the southern spring, and flowers were beginning to bloom, but felisa looked in vain for the tropical varieties which one ever associates with that region. the bull almost brushed his great sides against the tree trunks which outlined the sendica. when she was close enough felisa stretched out her hand and plucked the blackened remains of a flower from the center of a tall plant. it had been scorched and dried by the sun of the summer that was passed. she thrust the withered stems into the bull's coarse hair, turned to beltran, and laughed. "if i remain long enough, there will be flowers of all colors, will there not, cousin? flowers of blue and red and orange." "you will remain, i hope, long after they have bloomed and died again," answered beltran, gallantly. they had not been riding long before felisa sent forth from her lips an apprehensive scream. beltran spurred his horse nearer. "what is it, cousin? is the _silla_ slipping?" felisa looked up from under her cloud of spun silk, and answered: "no, i am wondering how i am to get round that great tree." beltran, to whom the path was as well known as his own veranda at san isidro, had no cause to turn his eyes from the charming face at his side. "oh! the trunk of the old mahogany? that has lain across the path for years. do not be afraid, little cousin. roncador has surmounted that difficulty more times than i can remember." they were now close upon the fallen trunk. felisa closed her eyes and clutched at the bull's shaggy neck. she screamed faintly. pablo turned to the right and pulled at the leading rope, but the bull, with no apparent effort, stubborn only when he knew that he was in the right, turned to the left, and pablo perforce followed. it was a case of the leader led. when roncador had reached the point for which he had started, a bare place entirely denuded of branches, he lifted one thick foreleg over, then the other. the hind legs followed as easily, a slight humping of the great flanks, and the tree was left behind. suddenly felisa found that they were in the path again. "ze bull haave ze raight," commented pablo. "ah endeavo' taike de señorit' roun' de tre'. bull ain' come. he know de bes' nor me." don beltran leaped his horse over the tree trunk, and don noé was taken over pale and trembling, whether or no, the roan following don beltran's lead. beltran smiled openly at pablo's discomfiture, and somewhat secretly at uncle noé's fear. "a good little animal, that roan, uncle noé. how does he suit you?" uncle noé looked up and endeavoured to appear at ease, releasing his too tight clutch on the bridle. "il est rigolo, bien rigolo!" said don noé, gaily, between jerks occasioned by the liveliness of the roan. he glanced sidewise at his nephew to see if the paris argot which he had just imported had had any effect upon him. he owed beltran something for his superior horsemanship. beltran never having heard the new word, was, however, not willing to give don noé a modicum even of triumph. he was bending over, securing a buckle on his bridle. without raising his figure, he answered, "c'est vrai, mon oncle, c'est tout à fait vrai, il est très, très rigolo." "très ha ha!" added don noé. "bien ha ha!" nodded don beltran, not to be left behind. "what wretched french beltran speaks!" said don noé to his daughter, later. uncle noé belonged to that vast majority, the great army of the unemployed. he loved the gaieties of the world, the enjoyments that cities bring in their train. but sometimes nature calls a halt. nature had whispered her warning in don noé's ear, and he at once had thought of the plantation of san isidro as the place to rest from a too lavish expenditure of various sorts. he had come to this remote place for a purpose, but he yawned as they rode along. beltran, proud of the beauties of san isidro, pointed out its chief features as they proceeded. he turned, and said, still in french, to please uncle noé, and perhaps to show him that even at san isidro all were not savages: "there is much to be proud of, uncle noé. it is not a small place, when one knows it all." "c'est vrai," again acquiesced uncle noé. "a la campagne il y a toujours beaucoup d'espace, beaucoup de tranquillité, beaucoup de verdure, et--" the rest of the sentence was lost on beltran, but was whispered in the pink ear of felisa, who laughed merrily. "at what is my cousin laughing?" asked beltran, turning, with a pleased smile. uncle noé did not answer. the words with which he had finished his sentence were, "_et beaucoup d'ennui_." "you wanted to come," said felisa, still laughing. "did you ever see such a god-forsaken place?" returned her father. "i had really forgotten how bad it was. look at those ragged grooms. imagine them in the champs elysées!" "there can be no question of the champs elysées. how stupid you are, papa." "and down in this valley! just think of putting a house--i say, beltran, who ever thought of putting your house down here in the valley?" "it was my mother's wish," said beltran. "i suppose that it was a mistake, but the river was further away in those days. it has changed its course somewhat, and encroached upon the casa, but we have never had any serious trouble from it. i shall build a house on the hill next year. the foundations are already laid." don beltran had said this for some years past. "not that i think that i shall ever need it. when we have floods, the water makes but a shallow lake. it is soon gone." as they entered the broad camino, felisa saw a man coming toward them. he was mounted upon a fine stallion; the glossy coat of the animal shone in the sun. the rider wore an apology for a hunting costume, which was old and frayed with use. the gun, slung carelessly across his shoulder, had the appearance of a friend who could be depended upon at short notice, and who had spent a long life in the service of his owner. the stock was indented and scratched, but polished as we polish with loving hands the mahogany table which belonged to our great-grandmother. the barrel shone with the faithfulness of excellent steel whose good qualities have been appreciated and cared for. the man was short and dark. as he passed he removed his old panama with a sweep. beltran gave him a surly half-nod of recognition, so curt as to awaken surprise in the mind of felisa. the contrast between the greetings of the two men was so great that her slits of eyes noticed and compared them. "who is that man, cousin?" "don matéo geredo." "why do you not speak to him?" "i nodded," said beltran. "you did not return his salute. i am sure it was a very gracious one, cousin. why did you not return his--" "because he is a brute," said beltran, shortly. felisa had not been oblivious of the glance of admiration observable in the man's eyes as he passed her by. "jealous so soon," she thought, with that vanity which is ever the food of small minds. aloud she said, "he seems to have a pleasant face, cousin." "so others have thought," said beltran, with an air which said that the subject was quite worn out, threadbare. then, changing his tone, "see, there is the casa! welcome to the plantation, my little cousin." and thus chatting, they drew up at the steps of san isidro. agueda came joyfully out to meet them. ah! what was this? where was the little child of whom she and beltran had talked so much? agueda had carefully dusted the little red cart. she had fastened a yellow ribbon in the place from which the tongue had long ago been wrenched by beltran himself. the cart stood ready in the corner of the veranda, but agueda did not bring it forward. she caught sight of a glitter of bracelets and rings against a snow-white skin, as felisa was lifted down from the aparejo in her cousin's arms. her lips moved unconsciously. "the diamonds, not the playthings," was her verdict. as agueda came forward, the surprise that she felt was shown in her eyes. she bowed gravely to the señorita, who condescended to her graciously. "shall i show the señorita to her room?" asked agueda of beltran. with that wonderful adaptability which is the inalienable inheritance of the american woman, agueda had accepted in a moment the change from the expected child to the present señorita. it is true that agueda's mother, nada, had been but a pretty, delicate octoroon, but agueda's father had been a white gentleman (god save the mark!) from a northern state, and nada's father a titled gentleman of old spain. from these proud progenitors and the delicate women of their families had agueda inherited the natural reserve, the refinement and delicacy which were so obvious to all with whom she came in contact. she inherited them just as certainly as if nada had been a white woman of the purest descent, just as certainly as if the gentle nada had been united in wedlock to the despoiler of her love and youth and life, george waldon, for there ran in agueda's veins a heritage of good old blood, which had made the daughters of the house of waldon famous as pure and beautiful types of womanhood. as agueda asked her hospitable question, beltran's square shoulders were turned toward her. he was busying himself with the strap of the aparejo. agueda, who knew him as her own soul, perceived an embarrassed air, even in the turn of his head. "if you please," said beltran, without looking toward her. the señorita loitered. she asked don beltran for her bag. he lifted the small silver-mounted thing from the pommel of his saddle and handed it to felisa with a smile. he seemed to look down at her indulgently, as if humouring a child. agueda noticed the glittering monogram as it flashed in the sun. beltran's hand touched felisa's. a gentle pink suffused her features. agueda caught the sudden glance which shot from beltran's eyes to those of his cousin. a sickening throb pulsed upward in her throat. she shivered as if a cold wind--something that she had seldom felt in that tropic land--had blown across her shoulders. suddenly aneta came into her thoughts, aneta of el cuco. her lips grew white and thin. it is moments like these, with their premonitions, which streak the hair with grey. agueda did not look at beltran again. she drew her breath sharply, and said: "if the señorita permit, i will show her the way." "in a moment, my good girl," said felisa, carelessly, and lingered behind, bending above the flower boxes which lined the veranda's edge, flowers which agueda had planted and tended. "what a pretty servant you have, cousin," said felisa. beltran started. "servant? oh, you mean agueda. she--she--is scarcely a servant, agueda; she keeps my house for me." felisa turned and gazed after agueda. the girl had walked the length of the broad veranda and stood waiting opposite a door, lithe and upright. she looked back, her face grave and serious. she was taller by several inches than felisa. her figure, slender as felisa's own, was clothed in a pale blue cotton gown, fresh and clean, though faded with frequent washings, a spotless collar and cuffs setting off the statuesque throat and the shapely hands. felisa tick-tacked down the long veranda, her ruffles and billowy laces bouncing with her important little body. she uttered a subdued scream of surprise as she reached the open doorway and caught sight of the fresh, cool-looking room, with its white furniture and bare floors, its general air of luxurious simplicity. the wooden shutter in the wall opposite the door was flung wide, and one was conscious of a tender tone of yellow green, caused by the rays of sunlight shining through and over the broad banana leaves. great lilac and yellow pods hung from the shafts of greenery; some of the large oval leaves had fallen upon the veranda. felisa noted them when she crossed the room to inquire further into her surroundings. a ragged black was sitting on the veranda edge, swinging his legs over the six feet of space. "hand me that leaf," said felisa. the boy arose at once, and picking up the lilac leaf of the banana flower, held it out to her with a bow and the words in spanish, "as the señorita wishes." felisa took the leaf, but threw it down at once. she had expected to find a soft thing which would crumple in her hand. the leaf was hard and tough as leather. she could no more crush or break it with her small fingers than if it had been made of india-rubber, which, but for its color, it strongly resembled. she turned and looked at agueda. "and do you have no curtains at the windows?" "we have no curtains, and windows we do not have, either," answered agueda. "the señorita can see that there are wooden shutters at the windows. no one has windows on this side of the island." the tone was perhaps slightly defiant. it was as if agueda had said, "what! finding fault so soon?" "eet haave glaass obe' at dé ceety; ah see eet w'en ah obe' deyah." felisa started. the voice came from the corner of the room, which was concealed by the open door. she peered into the shadow, and faced the shriveled bit of brown flesh known as juana. felisa laughed, as much at the words as at the speaker. "señ'it' t'ink ah don' haave--yaas-been aat de ceety. ah been aat ceety. eet haave, yaas, peepul." the tone implied millions. felisa was standing in front of the dressing-table, taking the second long silver pin out of her hat. "what does she say?" she asked through the hatpin which she held horizontally between her teeth. she removed the open straw, and ran the pins, one after the other, through the crown. "she says that they have the glass--that is, the windows--at the city." still staring at juana, felisa seated herself upon the small white bed. agueda pushed back the rose-coloured netting which hung balloon-like from the ceiling. a freshly knotted ribbon gathered its folds and held them together, thus keeping the interior free from the intrusion of annoying or dangerous insects. felisa reached down with one plump hand, and drew the ruffled skirt upward, disclosing a short little foot, which she held out toward agueda. agueda did not move. she looked at felisa with a slight arch of the eyebrows, and moved toward the door. juana hobbled up. "de li'l laidy wan' shoe off? ole juana taake. dat ain' 'gueda business. don be'tra' don' laike haave 'gueda do de waak." "and why not, i should like to know?" juana chuckled down in the confines of her black and wrinkled throat. agueda went out to the veranda. she stood looking over toward the river, her arm round the pilotijo, her head leant against it. her thoughts were apprehensive ones. she paid no heed to juana's words. "she don be'tra' li'l laidy, 'gueda is. she ain' no suvvan,[ ] ain' 'gueda. she 'ousekeep', 'gueda." by this time juana, with stiff and knotted fingers, had unlaced the low shoes. she took the small feet in her hand, and twisted them round, and felisa with them, to a lying posture upon the low couch. footnote: [ ] servant. xiii the casa at san isidro had verandas running on either side of its long row of rooms. this row began with the kitchen, store and sleeping rooms, and ended with the comidor and sitting-room. the verandas ran the entire ninety feet in a straight line until they reached the comidor. there they turned at right angles, making thus an outer and an inner corner. these angles enclosed the dining and living rooms. the inner veranda was a sheltered nook when the rain swept up from the savannas down by the sea, the outer one a haven of delightful coolness when the sun glowed in the west and threw its scorching beams, hot and melting, into the inner corner. here were the steps leading down the very slight incline into the yard and flower garden. here, to this inner corner, were the bulls and horses driven or led, for mounting or dismounting; here the trunks and boxes of visitors were carried up and into the house; and this was what was happening now. agueda looked on listlessly as felisa's large trunk and basket trunk and don noé's various boxes and portmanteaus were deposited with reproachful thumps upon the floor. the peons who had carried them, shining with moisture, dripping streams of water, wiped their brows with hardened forefingers, and snapped the drops from nature's laboratory off on to the ground. they had carried the luggage slung upon poles across country. for this duty six or eight of them were required, for there was no cart road the way that they must come, as the broad camino ran neither to the boat landing, nor extended to the plantation of san isidro. the men stood awkwardly about. one could see that they were expectant of a few centavos in payment for this unusual labour. don noé kept himself religiously secluded upon the corner of the outer veranda. he well knew that the luggage had arrived. the struggle up the steps, the shuffle of men's feet, the scraping sort of hobble from callous soles, reached his ear. the heavy setting down of boxes shook the uncarpeted bare house, but don noé was consciously oblivious of all this. he had come to pay a long visit, and thus redeem a depleted bank account. should he begin at the first hour to throw away money among these shiftless peons? beltran had doubtless plenty of them. such menial work came within the rule of the general demand. to be sure, he had brought many small boxes and portmanteaus. don noé thought it a sure sign of a gentleman to travel with all the small pieces that he and a porter or two could carry between them. a good-sized trunk would easily have held don noé's wardrobe, but there was a certain amount of style in staggering out of a car or off a steamer, loaded down with a parcel of canes, fishing-rods, and a gun-case, while the weary servant, who did not care a fig for glory, stumbled along behind with portmanteaus, bags, and hat boxes. it is quite true, as felisa sometimes reminded don noé, that he had never caught a fish or shot a bird. style, however, is a _sine qua non_, and reputation, however falsely obtained, if the methods are not exposed, stands by a man his whole life long. self-valuation had uncle noé. from his own account, he was a very remarkable man. and as he usually talked to those who knew nothing of his past, they accepted his statements, perforce, as the truth. the dripping peons hung about the steps. their shirts clung to their shoulders, but those the sun would dry. don noé sat quiet as a mouse upon the angle of the outer veranda. agueda came toward the lingerers. "it is you that need not wait, eduardo juan, nor you, garcia garcito. the don beltran will see that you get some reward." "a ching-ching?" suggested the foremost, slyly. "i suppose so," said agueda, wearily. she retraced her steps along the veranda, the men trooping after. past all the long length of the sleeping-rooms went agueda, until she reached the storeroom. the door of this she opened with a key which hung with the bunch at her waist. she entered, and beckoned to garcia garcito to follow. "lift down the demijohn, you, garcia garcito, and you, trompa, go to juana for a glass." garcia garcito entered, and raising his brawny arms to the shelf overhead, grasped the demijohn and set it upon the table. trompa returned with the glass. agueda measured out a drink of the rum for each as the glass was emptied by his predecessor. the men took it gratefully. each as his turn came, approached the filter standing in the comer, watered his dram, and drank it off, some with a "bieng," others--those of the better class--with a bow to agueda, and a "gracia." eduardo juan, more careless than the rest, snapped the drops from his drained glass upon the spotless floor, instead of from the edge of the veranda to the grass, as the others had done. "eduardo juan, you know very well that that rudeness is not allowed here. go and ask juana for a cloth that is damp, that you may wipe those spots." eduardo juan smiled sheepishly, and loped off to the wash-house. he returned with the damp cloth, got down upon his knees, and rubbed the floor vigorously. "de señora 'gueda maake de eduardo juan pay well for his impertinences," laughed the peons. "bastante! bastante!" said agueda. eduardo juan obeyed as if agueda were the house mistress. such had been don beltran's wish, and the peons were aware of it. then eduardo juan jumped to the ground, and followed the other peons where they had disappeared in the direction of the stables. when he no longer heard the scuffle of feet, don noé tiptoed down the veranda, and entered the room which had been assigned to him. he aroused felisa from a waking doze on that borderland where she hovered between dreams and actuality. she was again seated upon the aparejo. the bull was plunging through the forest, or with long strides crossing some prone giant of the woods. beltran was near; his kind eyes gazed into hers. his arm was outstretched to steady her shaking chair. his voice was saying in protecting tones, "do not be afraid, little cousin; you are quite safe." a pleasurable languor stole through felisa's frame, a supreme happiness pervaded her being. she felt that she had reached a safe haven, one of security and rest. her father had never troubled himself very much about her wishes. she had been routed out of this town, that city, according to his whims and the shortness or length of his purse. a dreamy thought floated through her brain that he could not easily leave this place, so difficult of access, more difficult of egress; so hospitable, so free! the sound of don noé's short feet stamping about in the adjoining room aroused felisa from her lethargy. the absence of a carpet made itself obvious, even when an intruder tried to conceal the knowledge of his presence. felisa now heard, in addition to the noise of tramping feet, the voice of don noé, fiercely swearing, and scarcely under his breath. "ten thousand damns," was what he said, and then emphasized it with the sentence, "ten thousand double damns." this being repeated several times, the number mounted rapidly into the billions. ah! this was delightful! don noé discomfited! she would, like a dutiful daughter, discover the reason. felisa sprang from her bed, a plump little figure, and ran quickly to the partition which separated her father's room from her own. this partition did not run up all the way to the roof. it stopped short at the eaves, so that through the open angle between the tops of the partition boards and the peak of the roof one heard every sound made in an adjoining room. she placed her eye to a crack, of which there were many. the boards had sprung apart in some places, and numerous peep-holes were thus accorded to the investigating. a scene of confusion met felisa's gaze. all of don noé's portmanteaus were open and gaping wide. they were strewn about the floor, alternately with his three hat boxes, the covers of which had been unstrapped and thrown back. from each one shaking masses of bright and vari-colored flowers revealed themselves. "that dam' girl!" said don noé, under his breath. felisa chuckled. her only wonder was that by replacing her father's belongings with her own, and transporting her numerous gay shade hats thus sumptuously, her methods had not been discovered before. at each change of consequence, from boat to train, from horseback to carriage, don noé had suggested unpacking a change of headgear for himself. felisa had, with much prudent forethought, flattened an old panama and laid within it a travelling cap. these, with filial care, she had placed in the top of her own small steamer trunk. with one excuse or another, she had beguiled don noé into using them during the entire trip. at tampa it had been a secret joy to her to see the poor man struggling out of the train laden with the hat boxes in which her own gorgeous plumage reposed uninjured. in crossing to the island, in taking the train to the little town where the small steamer was waiting to carry them to their goal, and again, during their debarkation and stowing away in the little schooner which carried them across the bay to the spot where don beltran was to meet them, she had seen with supreme satisfaction the care with which her millinery was looked after, while don noé's assortment of hats was crowded into a small space in her own saratoga. "i knew it, i knew it," whispered the chuckling felisa. and then, aloud, "what's the matter, dad?" don noé answered not. he was impatiently and without discrimination hauling and jerking the clothes from an open portmanteau. each shirt, pair of trousers, necktie, or waistcoat was raised in air, and slapped fiercely down on the floor with an oath. don noé was not a nice old man, and his daughter relished his discomfiture. "oh, damn!" he said, for the twentieth time, as he failed of jerking a garment from the confines of a tray, and sat down with precision in an open hat box. some pretty pink roses thrust their heads reproachfully upward between his knees. there was discernible, from the front, a wicked look of triumph in don noé's small eyes. he revelled in the feeling that he was sinking, sinking down upon a bed of soft and yielding straw. "so i say," concurred felisa, as the last exclamation left don noé's lips. she sprang away from the partition and flew out of the doorway, along the veranda, and into her father's room. "get up at once!" she said. "dad, do you hear? get up at once. that is my very best, my fascinator! get up! do you hear me?" she stamped her stockinged foot upon the bare floor. the pain of it made her the more angry. don noé sank still further, smiling and helpless. "get up at once!" two of the peons had returned along the outer veranda. they still hoped to receive a reward for their work of the morning. they lounged in at the shutter opening, and looked on with a pleased grin. the disordered room spoke loudly of don noé's rage; the crushed flowers and the stamp of the foot, of the señorita's fury. felisa raised her eyes to the ebony faces framed between the lintels. she could not help but note their picturesque background, the yellow green of the great banana spatules, through which the tropic sunshine filtered. "come in here, you wretches, both of you! how dare you laugh!" eduardo juan thrust a bony hand inside and unbuttoned the lower half door. he pushed through, and paladrez followed him. they entered with a shuffle, and stood gazing at don noé. he, in turn, grinned at them. he was paying felisa double--aye, treble-fold--for packing his hats in some close quarter, where, as yet, he knew not. perhaps she had left them behind. a crack of the hat box! he was sinking lower. "if you don't care for my best hat, dad, i should think you would not wish to ruin your own hat box." then, turning to eduardo juan, "pull him out at once!" don noé, certain that he had done all the damage possible, stretched out appealing hands. the men seized upon those aristocratic members with their grimy paws, and pulled and tugged his arms nearly out of their sockets. they got him partly to his feet, the box and flowers rising with him. felisa saw that there was no chance of resurrection for the hat, the ludicrous side of the situation overcame her, and she laughed unrestrainedly. "knock it off, confound you!" screamed don noé, in a sudden access of rage. felisa's return of good temper made him furious. she danced round him, taunting and jibing. "the biter bit," she sang, "the biter bit." "take something, anything, knock it off!" shouted don noé again. palandrez, with a wrench, tore off the cover of the hat box and released the prisoner. "you've ruined my hat!" "you've ruined my hat box!" screamed father and daughter in unison. he shook his fist in her face. "get out of my room, every man jack of you!" the gentle peons fled, a shower of garments, boots, and brushes following them. the room looked like the wreck of all propriety and reserve. "don't you think you've made spectacle enough of yourself?" asked felisa, and with this parting fling she flew from her father's presence, and fell almost into the arms of don beltran, chance having thus favoured him. he held her close for a moment before he released her. she was pink and panting from these two contrasting experiences. "he is often like that." she spoke fast to cover her embarrassment. "did you ever know him before, cousin? if you did, i wonder that you asked us here." beltran smiled. he did not say that the visit had been self-proposed on don noé's part. his smile contracted somewhat as a heavy walking-shoe flew out through the open doorway and knocked the panama from his head. as beltran stooped and recovered the hat, felisa glanced at him shamefacedly. she noticed the wet rings of hair, streaked faintly with early grey, which the panama had pressed close to his forehead. "i remember hearing that uncle noé was a young man with a temper," he said. "the family called it moods." he recalled this word from the vanishing point of the dim vista which memory flashed back to him at the moment. as beltran spoke he glanced apprehensively at the open square in the palm-board exterior of the casa. "let us run away," he said, smiling down at the girl. "until he is sane again," agreed felisa. she plunged into her room and caught up the discarded shoes; then springing from veranda to the short turf below, she ran with beltran gaily toward the river. a bottle of ink shot out through the opening, and broke upon the place where they had stood. "he is a lunatic at times," said felisa, with a heightened colour. there was a drop upon her eyelash which beltran suddenly wished that he dared have the courage to kiss away. "i shall hurt my feet," she said, stopping suddenly. she dropped the shoes upon the ground, thrust her feet into them, and started again to run, her hand in beltran's. the sun was scorching. he took his broad panama from his head and placed it upon hers. it fell to her pretty pink ears. she laughed, his laughter chimed with hers, and thus, like two happy children, they disappeared within the grove which fringed the river bank. agueda saw them as they crossed the hot, white trocha. she saw them as they entered the grove. "and that is the little child," she said aloud, "the little child." then, with a sudden painful tightening at the heart, "i wonder if he knew." so quickly does the appearance of deceit excite distrust which has no foundation to build upon. beltran had known no more certainly than agueda herself the age of this unknown cousin. he was guiltless of all premeditation, but to say that he was not conscious of an unmistakable joy when he found this charming young girl at the landing, and knew that she would live under the same roof with him for an indefinite period, would be to say that which is not true. beltran was a victim of circumstances. he had not desired a change. he had not asked for it, yet when it came he accepted it, welcomed it perhaps. had the choice between the known and the imagined been given him, he would have sought nothing better than his, until now, happy environment. "it is fate," thought beltran. when the cousins reached the river, beltran parted the branches for felisa, and she slipped out of the white heat into a soft-toned viridescence of shade. a path ran downward to the river shore. it was cut parallel with the water's flow. the path was overshadowed by thick branches. mangoes, mamey trees, and mahoganies were there. the tall palm crowned all in its stately way. the young palms spread and pushed fan-like across the path, in intimate relation now with human kind. the time would come when no one would be able to lay a finger tip upon their stiff and glossy sprays, when their lofty tufts would look down from a vantage point of eighty or a hundred feet upon the heads of succeeding generations. felisa ran down the sloping path and seated herself, all fluff and laces, upon the slope of the bank. she sank into a bed of dry leaves, through which the fresh green of new-born plants was springing. "not there, not there!" cried beltran, sharply. "you never know what is underneath those foot-deep leaves. come down here, little cousin. i have a bench at the washing-stone." they descended still lower. her hand was still in the one by which he had raised her from the bank. "you have closed the bench quite off from the river, cousin, with those hateful wires. i cannot get at the water or even at the broad stone there." felisa spoke petulantly. beltran gazed down into the pretty face. the eyes, though not large, held the dancing light of youth. the upturned little nose and the broad mouth would not serve to make a handsome older woman, but the red lips pouted over white and even teeth, a rose flush tinted the ear and cheek, colourless curly tendrils escaped from under the large hat. felisa's clothes, that most important factor in a man's first attraction toward a woman, were new and strange, and of a fashion that beltran knew must be a symptom of modernity. he was utterly unconscious that a certain fascination lay in those wonderful great figures of colour sprawling over a gauzy ground of white. he would have denied that the ribbon knot at the waist, and its counterpart upon the left shoulder, had any particular charm for him, or that the delicate aroma of the lavender of an old-fashioned bureau, which emanated from those filmy ruffles with every motion of the restless little body, had anything to do with his being so drawn toward her. felisa seated herself and stretched out her feet, encased in a black silk mystery of open work and embroidery. he knelt and tied the silken laces. when he had finished this absorbing task he bent suddenly lower and pressed his lips to the instep above. felisa withdrew it quickly, blushing. she knew nothing of such vigourous love-making as this. the northern birds were more wary. "my hat," she said, "please get me one." beltran turned and ran up the path. "i did not dream that i should like him so much," said felisa softly, as she gazed after him. beltran ran swiftly to the casa and bounded up on to the veranda. felisa's door reached, he hesitated. agueda stood within the room, holding a hand-glass before her face. she was gazing at her reflection. at the well-known step she started. what hopes arose within her breast! he was coming back, the first moment that he was free, to tell her that she must not mind his attentions to his cousin, that they were necessary. she would meet him with a smile, she would convince him that that hateful jealousy, which had been tearing at her vitals for the past hour or two, had no part within her being. ah! after all her suspicion of him, she was still his first thought! she started and dropped the glass. she turned toward him, a smile of welcome parting her lips. beltran hardly looked at agueda. "a hat! a bonnet, anything!" he said. "give me something quickly!" she took from the table the gay hat in which felisa had arrived, and placed it in his outstretched hand, but she did not look at him again. he almost snatched it from her. was not felisa waiting bareheaded down there by the river? he sprang to the ground and hastened across the trocha. after he had entered the grove, he buried his face among the flowers, which exhaled that faint, evanescent fragrance which already spoke to him of her. agueda sighed and placed the silver-backed mirror upon the table. had one asked her what she had been searching for in its honest depths, she could hardly have told. perhaps she had been wondering whether with such aids to beauty as felisa had, she would not be as attractive. perhaps looking to see if she had grown less sweet, less lovable in these few short hours. "juana," she called. "juana!" the old crone hobbled forth quickly from the kitchen at agueda's sharp tone. it was new to her. "make this room tidy," ordered agueda. juana wondered at the harsh note in agueda's voice. the girl herself was unconscious that she had spoken differently than she had been wont to do, but she was filled with a defiant feeling, a fear that now the others would not treat her with the respect which don beltran had always demanded of them. that new pain was accountable. at the sharp note in her voice, juana had looked inquiringly, but agueda raised a haughty head and passed along the veranda to her own room. felisa heard beltran returning. her quick ear noted every movement, from the hurried run across the potrero and the trocha to his pushing back with impatient hand the low-sweeping branches and his hasty footfall down the path. she wondered if this new blossoming in her heart were love? she had never felt so since those first early days of adolescence, when as a young girl her trust had been deceived, ensnared, entrapped, and left fluttering with wounded wings. should she love him? was it worth her while? her first word was a complaint. experience had taught her that complaisance is a girl's worst enemy. "why did you place those wires there, cousin?" for answer beltran came close and looked down upon her shining head. suddenly he took her in his arms and kissed her. she struggled, for she was really somewhat indignant. "and may not cousins kiss?" asked beltran. "those wires were placed there to prevent the little child whom we--i--expected from falling into the river. you are scarce larger than the little child--whom we--i--pictured, but oh! how infinitely more sweet!" he twisted one long brown finger in the ring of hair which strayed downward nearly to her eyes. felisa withdrew her head with a quick motion. she was experiencing a mixture of feelings. she had come here to san isidro with a purpose, and now, within two short hours of her arrival, she found that her purpose marched with her desires. don noé had said, "felisa, do you remember your cousin beltran, your mother's nephew?" "no, papa, how could i remember him? i never saw him. i have seldom heard of him." "ah, yes, i know," returned don noé, with the sudden awakening of the semi-centenarian to the fact that he is communing with a second generation. "well, that wretched old grandfather of yours, old balatrez, cut your mother off because she married _me_!" "had he seen the hat boxes?" asked felisa, who had a humour of her own. "don't be impertinent. all that fine property has gone to beltran, just because your mother married _me_! she was sister to beltran's mother, your aunt, as you know. now, felisa, i intend to have that fortune back." "how, papa? do you intend to call upon my cousin to stand and deliver?" "i intend you to do that, felisa." "i am tired of being poor, too, papa." felisa considered a shrinkage from eighteen to eight new gowns a summer a distinct sign of poverty. when don noé drew in his horns as to expenditures, the young foreign attaché who had all but proposed to him for the hand of felisa relaxed his attentions. felisa had hoped to be a countess, but a title is no guarantee of perennial or even annual bread and butter, and those indispensable articles some one must provide. at the close of don noé's remarks, which were too extended to be repeated, felisa had said, "i am quite ready for your cousin-hunt, papa." a feeling akin to shame swept through her as she sat there and recalled this conversation, and realized what this new intimacy with beltran meant to her--what it might mean in the days to come, for that he loved her at once and irrevocably her vanity gave her no chance to doubt, and she knew now that she was beginning to find this impetuous lover more than attractive. one who knew felisa thoroughly would have said that she was beginning to care for him as much as it was in her nature to care for any one but herself. xiv agueda saw all the plans which they had made together for the coming of the little child carried out by beltran alone. she could not accompany don beltran and his cousin upon their different expeditions; she could not go as an equal, she would not go as an inferior. besides which, there was never any question as to her joining them. the bull rides, the search for mamey apples, the gathering of the aguacate pears, all of which she had suggested, were taken part in by two only; so was the lingering upon the river, until agueda shuddered to think of the miasmata which arise after nightfall and envelop the unwary in their unseen though no less deadly clutches. the walks in the moonlight, ending in a lingering beneath the old mahogany tree for a few last confidences before the return to the home-light of the casa, left no place for a third member, because of the close intimacy which naturally was part and parcel of the whole. all had come about as agueda had planned, with the exception that she herself was missing from plain, hill, and river. she had heard beltran say: "yes, i will take you down to the potrero, little girl, to gather the aguacates, but you must not approach the bushes, for the thorns would sting your tender hands." agueda recalled the day when she had suggested this as one of the cautious pleasures open to the little thing for whom they two were looking; but she, agueda, who was to have been the central figure, she, the one to whose forethought had been entrusted the planning and carrying out of these small amusements, was excluded. as the days passed by, beltran and agueda seldom met, except in the presence of others. she addressed him now in the third person, as "if the don beltran allow," or "if the don beltran wishes." when by chance the two stumbled upon one another, neither could get out of the way quickly enough. it was on a day when she was forced to speak to him as to the disposition of some furniture, that her utter dejection and spiritless tone appealed to him. as he glanced at her, he noticed for the first time how large her eyes were, what hollows showed beneath them, how shrunken and thin was her cheek. "what is it, agueda? you treat me as a culprit." "no, oh, no!" she shook her head sadly; then threw off the feeling apparently with a quick turn of the head. "the señor is within his rights." beltran's heart was touched. he drew near to her, and laid his arm about her shoulder, as he had not done now for a long time. she stooped her fine height, and drew her shoulder out from under his arm. she had no right now to feel that answering thrill; he was hers no longer. a sob, which she had tried to smother in her throat, struck him remorsefully. "they will soon be gone, agueda; then all will be as before." "nothing can ever be as before, señor. i see it now, either for you or for me." the wall within which she had encased herself, that dignity which silence under wrong gives to the oppressed, once broken, the flood of her words poured forth. the terrible sense of injustice overwhelmed and broke down her well-maintained reserve. she looked up at beltran with reproach in her eyes, interrogation shining from their depths. "why could you not have told me, warned me, cautioned me? ah, nada! nada knew." her helplessness overcame her. beltran had been her salvation, her teacher, her reliance. she felt wrecked, lost; she was drifting rudderless upon an ocean whose shores she could not discern. where could she turn? her only prop and stay withdrawn, what was there to count upon? "i do not know the world, beltran. my people never know the world. i have never known any world but this--but this." she stretched out her despairing arms to the grey square which she had called home. "ah! nada, dear nada, you knew, you knew! i never dreamt that she meant you, beltran, you!" hark! it was felisa's voice calling to him. soon she would be here. she would see them; she would suspect. beltran shrugged his shoulders, he pursed out his lips. the agueda whom he had known was ever smiling, ever ready to be bent to his will. this girl was complaining, reproachful; besides which, her looks were going. how could he ever have thought her even pretty? he contrasted her in a flash with the little white thing, all soft filmy lawn and laces, and turned away to rejoin that other sweeter creature who had never given him a discontented look. it had come to this then! her misery could wring from him nothing more than a careless shrug of the shoulders! she stood gazing afar off at the hillside, where the bulls were toiling upward with their loads of suckers for the planting. some fields were yet being cleared, and the thin lines of smoke arose and poured straight upward in the still atmosphere. a faint odor of burning bark filled the air. near by the banana leaves drooped motionless. there were no sounds except the occasional stamp of a hoof in the stable. the silence was phenomenal. suddenly a shrill voice broke the stillness. "cousin, are you coming?" a welcome summons! he would go to the hills with felisa, as he had promised. she should see the fields "avita"-ed. he would forget agueda's reproaches in the light of felisa's smiles. he shook his tall frame, as if to throw off something which had settled like a cloud upon him; he hurried along the veranda with a quick stride. the excursion to-day was to be to the palm grove upon the hill. uncle noé was to be one of the party. the peons were to burn the great comahen nest, for in this remote quarter of the world such simple duties made amusement for the chance guest at the coloñia. agueda had prepared a dainty basket over-night. the old indented spoons, the forks with twisted and bent tines, but bearing the glory and pride of the balatrez family in the crest upon the handle, were laid in the bottom of the basket. nothing was forgotten, from the old señora's silver coffee pot, carefully wrapped in a soft cloth, to the worn napkins on the top with the crest in the corner, which was wearing thin and pulling away from the foundation linen. the coffee, planted, raised, picked, dried, roasted, and ground upon the plantation of san isidro, was ready for the making; the cassava bread was toasted ready for heating at the woodland fire; the thick cream into which it was to be dipped was poured into the well-scoured can; the fresh-laid eggs were safely packed in a small basket; the mamey apples and the guavas would be picked by the peons upon the ground, and the san-coche was still bubbling in the oven. juana, like one of shakespeare's witches, bent over the fragrant stew, and ever, when no one was looking, she put the pewter spoon to her withered and critical lips. where is the cook who does not taste in secret? palandrez would start an hour hence, taking the fast little roan, to get to the hill in time to serve the san-coche hot and savory. castaño, the horse which it had been don beltran's pleasure to break for agueda, stood at the foot of the veranda steps. agueda's saddle was upon its back; no other would fit castaño. indeed, there was no other. but there was no sentiment to agueda about the lady's saddle. she had always ridden like the boy that she looked. agueda walked with dragging step to her solitary chamber; she would not remain to witness felisa's hateful affectations. she could bear it no longer; she could be neither generous nor charitable. she had seen and heard so much of felisa's clinging to beltran's arm, her little cries of fear, beltran's soothing responses, that her heart was sick. she closed her door to shut out the sounds, and threw herself into her low sewing chair by the window. they would be gone presently, and then she would wander forth in an opposite direction, down by the river perhaps, or over to--where? where could she go? a large pile of linen lay in the basket. she had not touched it of late. ah, no! there was no one now to make the duty a pastime, no one to come in with ringing step, and lay upon the welcoming shoulder a kindly hand--no one to twitch the tiresome sewing impatiently from her grasp, and bid her come away, to the river or to the potrero; no one to stoop and kiss the roughened finger. it was as if she had emerged into a strange and horrible land, a land of dreams whose name is nightmare, and had left behind her in that other dim world all that had been most dear. she could not awake, no matter how hard she tried. she sat looking dully out to where the flecks of sunshine touched here and there the tropic shadows. she saw nothing. nature was no longer a book whose every leaf held some new beauty, each page printed with ink from the great mother's alembic, telling a tale of joy that never palls. suddenly agueda turned from the scene and clasped her hands over her eyes, for into her landscape had passed two figures. she had thought that they would go by the river path, but they were passing along the winding way which ran through the banana walk, one seated delicate and graceful upon the accustomed chestnut, shrinking somewhat and swaying a little as if in fear, the other bent close to her and gazing into her eyes as if he could never look his fill. the old story, her story, the part of heroine played by a fresher, newer actress, the leading personality unchanged. they made a picture as they rode, one which an artist would love to paint; the flanks of the brave grey side by side with the little chestnut, the handsome lover leaning toward the pretty bundle of summer draperies, the red parasol held in his hand and shading her form from the sun making the one bit of brilliant colour in the picture. it was worthy of vibert, but agueda had never heard of vibert, and the picturesqueness of the scene did not appeal to her. "this way?" questioned the high voice. "it is the longest way, cousin, so you said this morning." "yes," was beltran's answer. how plainly she heard it as the breeze blew toward the casa. "the longest way to others, but--" he bent his head and spoke lower. one had to imagine the rest. agueda closed the shutter and threw herself upon the bed, as if she could as easily forget the picture as she could shut out the shrill voice of felisa. the day passed, as such days do, like an eternity. at noon-time a stranger rode down the hill toward the casa. he brought a letter for don beltran. "the señor is up in the woods," said agueda. "i will give it to him when he returns." "it is from the señor silencio. he hopes that the señor will read it at once. the message admits of no delay." "do you know the palm grove up on the far hill, on the other side of the grand camino?" "i think that i might find it," said andres, for it was he, "but i have matters of importance at home. my little boy--el rey--" andres turned away his head. stupid andres! only one thing could make him turn away his head. "are you, then, the father of that little el rey?" andres nodded. "give me the letter," said agueda. "i will send it to the palm grove." not waiting to see andres depart, agueda hurried to the home potrero. there uncle adan was keeping tally at the sucker pile. "uncle adan," she said, "is there a man who can take a message to the señor?" "i cannot spare another peon, agueda--that the good god knows. what with garcia garcito and the palandrez off all the morning at the palm grove, and eduardo juan hurrying away but a half-hour ago with the san-coche, i am very short of hands. what is it that you want? do not load the little white bull so heavily, anito; it is these heavy weights that take the life out of them. what is it that you want, agueda, child?" "it is a message for the señor, uncle adan. it comes from the señor silencio. it may be of importance." "very well, then; it is i who cannot go. the señor should be at home sometimes, like other señors. since these visitors came i cannot get a word with him." "the señor is not always away, uncle adan," protested agueda, faintly. "it is true that he is not always away," said uncle adan, tossing a sprouted sucker into a waste pile, "but his head is, and that is as bad. he seems to take no interest in the coloñia nowadays, and i am doing much for which i have no warrant." agueda recalled the many times when she had seen her uncle approach beltran with some request to make, or project to unfold, and his shrug of the shoulders, and the answer, "don't bother me now, adan, there's a good fellow; some other time--some other time." agueda stood with her eyes downcast. she knew it all but too well. every word of uncle adan's struck at her heart like a knife. "but the señor must have the letter, uncle adan," she persisted. "very well, then, child, carry it yourself. there is no one else to go." "is there anything that i can ride, uncle adan?" "caramba! muchacha! castaño, certainly. can you saddle him your--or, no! i forgot. no, agueda; there is nothing." "the brown bull? the letter may be important." "the brown bull has gone to the port of entry for tobacco for the señor don noé. no, there is nothing, child; you must walk if you will go. for me, i would leave the letter on the table in the señor's room. that would be best." agueda went quickly back to the house. she took the old straw from its peg in her closet, put it upon her head without one glance at the little mirror on the wall, and ran quickly down the veranda steps. the way seemed long to her. she was not feeling strong; an unaccustomed weight dragged upon her health and spirits. all at once she saw, as if a picture had been held up to her view, that future which must be hers, toward which she was so quickly hastening. a few months--ah, god! was it, then, to be with her as with all those others whom she had held in partial contempt--a pitying contempt, it is true, but none the less contempt. the distance seemed long to her. time had been when she would have thought a run over to the palm grove a mere nothing, but now every step was a penance to both body and mind. when agueda reached the hill, she walked slowly. the day was hot, as tropical days in the valley are apt to be. she moved languidly up the hill. arrived at the top, there was nothing to reward her gaze but the form of don noé, asleep under a tree; palandrez sitting by, waving a large palm branch to keep the insects away. at a little distance the dying embers of the picnic fire paled in the sun. the place was otherwise bare of people or servants. under the shade of some coffee bushes stood the grey and the chestnut, but of their riders nothing was to be seen. when palandrez saw agueda coming he put his finger on his lip. she approached him and held out the letter. he made a half motion to rise, but did not spring to his feet, as he formerly would have done at the approach of the house mistress. "i have a letter for the señor, palandrez," said agueda. "i wish that you take it to him at once." "it is i that would oblige the señorita," answered palandrez, sinking back hastily into his lounging attitude, when he saw that action was required of him, "but i was ordered by the señor don beltran to stay here, and not leave the don noé, unless, indeed, an earthquake should come." "but it is a letter of importance," urged agueda. "you must take it for me, palandrez." "and am i to obey the señor or the señorita?" asked palandrez, in a half-defiant, half-impudent tone. for answer agueda turned away. she had thought of offering to keep the buzzing insects from don noé's bald head, but her spirit revolted at the thought of this menial service, and perhaps a slight curiosity as to where the main actors in the drama had gone, and how they were employing themselves, caused her to resolve to find beltran herself. "where is the don beltran?" she asked of palandrez. "i have not seen them this half-hour, señorita. when the feast was over the old don laid himself down to sleep, and the don beltran and the new señorita disappeared very suddenly. they went down there, in the direction of the little brook." palandrez waved his hand toward the further slope of the hill, and again returned to the duty of keeping don noé asleep, so long as he himself could remain awake. as agueda began to descend the slope she heard a complaining voice. she turned. palandrez had stolen away to the edge of the hill. he had left don noé sleeping with the branch stuck upright beside him in the soft earth of the hilltop. the breeze waved the branch. "so," had thought palandrez, "it will do as well as if i was there fanning el viejo." but all in a moment the branch had fallen across don noé's face, and he had awakened with a start. he belaboured palandrez well with his sharp old tongue. "i will tell your master, the señor. yes, i will tell him the very moment that i see him." palandrez bowed his tattered form and scraped his horny sole upon the ground, and exclaimed, with volubility: "it was but muchachado,[ ] señor. i have the honour to assure the señor that it was but muchachado, no more, no less." palandrez, in fear of what his own particular señor would say of his treatment of the señorita felisa's father, returned hurriedly to his fanning, and don noé, pretending to sleep, and weary with resting, kept one eye open, so to speak, to catch him again at his muchachado. agueda descended the hill. when she came to the brook, she saw an old log across which some one must have lately travelled, for it was splashed with wet, and there were footmarks in the clay on the shore. she crossed, and walked quickly along the further plain, and soon heard the distant sound of voices, felisa's high treble mingled with don beltran's deeper, pleasant tones. the beauty of his voice had never been so marked as now, when the thin soprano of felisa set it off by contrast. following the sound of the voices, agueda again ascended a slight rise, and before long saw in the distance the light frills of felisa's gown showing through the trees. she knew the pastime well enough, the pastime which caused felisa to sit upon a level with agueda's head, and to wave up and down as if in a swing or high-poised american chair. she knew well, before she came near them, that beltran had given felisa the pleasure that had often been hers; that he had bent an elastic young tree over to the ground; that among its branches he had made a safe seat for felisa, and that he was letting it spring upward, and again pressing it back to earth with regular motion, so that felisa might ride the tree in semblance of castaño's back; only beltran was closer to her than he could be were they on horseback, and felisa's nervous little screams and cries gave him reason to hold her securely and to reassure her in that ever kind and musical voice. when felisa saw agueda coming along the path bordered with young palms, she said, "here comes that girl of yours, cousin, that agueda! what can she want?" beltran turned with some surprise. agueda had never dogged his footsteps before. she had left him to work his own will, independent of her claims--claims which had no foundation, in fact. all at once he remembered those claims imagined, and he wondered if at last she had come to denounce him before felisa. as agueda came onward, hurrying toward them, beltran ceased his motion of the tree, and leaned against its trunk, touching felisa familiarly as he did so. it was as if he arrayed himself with her against agueda. the two seemed one in spirit. beltran's voice, as he questioned agueda, showed some irritation, but its musical note, a physical thing, which he could not control if he would, was still there. "why have you come here? what do you want with me?" he did not use her name. agueda stopped and leaned against a tree. she put her hand within the bosom of her dress, brought forth the letter in its double paper, tied round with a little green cord, and held it out to beltran. she did not speak. "very well, bring it to me," he said. he could not let go his hold on the tree, for fear of harm coming to felisa, and he saw no reason why agueda, having come thus far, should not cover the few steps that remained between himself and her. she pushed herself away from the tree with her hand, as if she needed such impetus, and walking unevenly, she came near to beltran and laid the letter in his hand. "the messenger said that it was important. it was andres who brought it," said agueda. "ah! from silencio," said beltran, awkwardly breaking the seal, because of the necessity of holding the tree in place. he perused the short note in silence. when he raised his eyes from the page, agueda had turned and was walking away through the vista of young palms. her weary and dispirited air struck him somewhat with remorse. "agueda," he called, "stop at the hill yonder and get some coffee and rest yourself." his words did not stay her. she turned her head, shook it gravely, and then walked onward. footnote: [ ] a boyish trick. xv don gil silencio and the señora sat within the shady corner of the veranda. in front of the señora stood a small wicker table. upon the table was an old silver teapot, battered in the side, whose lid had difficulty in shutting. this relic of the past had been brought from england by the old señora when she returned from the refuge she had obtained there, in one of her periodical escapes from old don oviedo. the old señora had brought back with her the fashion of afternoon tea; also some of the leaves from which that decoction is made. the teapot, as well as the traditionary fashion of tea at five o'clock, had been left as legacies to her grandson, but of the good english tea there remained not the smallest grain of dust. the old señora had been prodigal of her tea. she had on great occasions used more than a saltspoonful of the precious leaves at a drawing, and every one knows that at that rate even two pounds of tea will not last forever. they had been married now for two weeks, the señor don gil and the señora, and for the first time in her young life the señora was happy. sad to have reached the age of seventeen and not to have passed one happy day, hardly a happy hour! now the girl was like a bird let loose, but the señor, for a bridegroom, seemed somewhat distrait and dejected. as he sipped his weak decoction he often raised his eyes to the wooded heights beyond which troja lay. "what is the matter, gil? is not the tea good?" "as good as the hay from the old potrera, dear heart. and cold? one would imagine that we possessed our own ice-machine." the señora looked at don gil questioningly. his face was serious. she smiled. these were virtues, then! the señora did not know much about the english decoction. "be careful, raquel. that aged lizard will fall into the teapot else; he might get a chill. chills are fatal to lizards." don gil was smiling now. raquel closed the lid with a loud bang. the lizard scampered up the allemanda vine, where it hid behind one of the yellow velvet flowers. "but you seem so absent in mind, gil. what is it all about? you look so often up the broad camino. do you expect any--any one--gil?" don gil dropped over his eyes those long and purling lashes which, since his adolescence, had been the pride and despair of every belle within the radius of twenty miles. "you do expect some one, gil; no welcome guest. that i can see. oh! gil. it is my un--it is escobeda whom you expect." don gil did not look up. "i think it is quite likely that he will come," he said. "i may as well tell you, raquel; the steamer arrived this morning. he must have waited there over a steamer." had silencio voiced his conviction, he would have added, "escobeda's vengeance may be slow, but it is sure as well." the señora's face was colourless, her frightened eyes were raised anxiously to his. her lips hardly formed the word that told him of her fear. "when?" she asked. "any day now. but do not look so worried, dear heart. i think that we need not fear escobeda." "but he will kill us, gil. he will burn the casa." "no. he might try to crush some poor and defenceless peon, but hardly the owner of palmacristi. still, all things are possible, all cruelties and barbarities, with a man like escobeda. his followers are a lawless set of rascals." "and he will dare to attack us here, in our home?" the señora's hands trembled as she moved the cups here and there upon the table. "an englishman says, 'my house is my castle.' if i cannot say that; i can say, 'my house is my fort.' i will try to show you that it is, when the time comes, but look up! raquel. smile! dear one. i know that my wife is not a coward." with an assumption of carelessness, the señora took a lump of sugar from the bowl and held it out to the penitent lizard. it came haltingly down the stem of the vine, stretching out its pointed nose to see what new and unaccustomed dainties were to be offered it. "he has sent you a message, gil?" "who, escobeda? yes, child. he sent me a letter under a flag of truce, as it were. the letter was written at the government town." "and he sent it--" "back by the last steamer, raquel. his people are not allowed to enter our home enclosure, as you know. i allowed one of the peons to take the letter. he brought it to the trocha. any one can come there. it is public land." raquel dropped the sugar; it rolled away. "gil, gil!" she said, "you terrify me. what shall we do?" she arose and went close to him and laid her hands upon his shoulders. "escobeda! with his cruel ways, and more cruel followers--" "he is spanish." "so are we, gil, we are spanish, too." "yes, child, with the leaven of the west intermingled in our veins, its customs, and its manners." "gil, dearest, i can never tell you what i suffered in that house. what fear! what overpowering dread! whenever one of those lawless men so much as looked at me i trembled for the moment to come. and no one knows, gil, what would have hap--happened unless he--had been reserving--me for--for a fate--worse than--" her face was dyed with shame; she broke off, and threw herself upon her husband's breast. her words became incoherent in a flood of tears. silencio held his young wife close to his heart, he pressed his lips upon her wet eyelids, upon her disordered hair. he soothed her as a brave man must, forgetting his own anxiety in her terror. "my peons are armed, raquel. they are well instructed. they are, i think, faithful, as much so, at least, as good treatment can make them. even must they be bribed, they shall be. i have more money than escobeda, raquel. even were you his daughter, you are still my wife. he could not touch you. as it is, he has no claim upon you. i am not afraid of him. he may do his worst, i am secure." "and i?" "child! are not you the first with me? but for you i should go out single-handed and try to shoot the coward down. but should i fail--and he is as good a shot as the island boasts--raquel, who would care for you? i have thought it all out, child. my bullets are as good as escobeda's; they shoot as straight, but i hope i have a better way; i have been preparing for your coming a long time, dear heart, and my grandfather before me." raquel looked up from her hiding-place on his breast. "your grandfather, gil, for me?" silencio smiled down upon the upraised eyes. "yes, for you, raquel, had he but known it. come! child, come! dry your tears! rest easy! you are safe." as silencio spoke he shivered. "your tea has gone to my nerves." he took the pretty pink teacup from the veranda rail, where he had placed it, and set it upon the table. he looked critically at the remains of the pale yellow decoction. "really, raquel, if you continue to give me such strong drinks, i shall have to eschew tea altogether." "i am so sorry. i put in very little, gil." silencio had brought a smile to her face. there is bravery in success of this kind, bringing a smile to the face of a beloved and helpless creature when a man's heart is failing him for fear. "let us walk round to the counting-house," he said. he laid his arm about her shoulder, and together they strolled slowly to the side veranda, traversed its lengths, and descended the steps. they walked along the narrow path which led to the counting-house, and turned in at the enclosure. at the door they halted. silencio took a heavy key from his pocket. contrary to custom, he had kept the outer door locked for the past fortnight. "our don gil is getting very grand with his lockings up, and his lockings up," grumbled anicito juan. "there were no lockings up, the good god knows, in the days of the old señor." "and the good god also knows there were no lazy peons in the days of the old señor to pry and to talk and to forget what they owe the family. when did the peon see meat in the days of the old señor? when, i ask? when did you see fowl in a pot, except for the señores? and now the best of sugar, and bull for the san-coche twice a week. and peons of the most useless can complain of such a master! oh! ta-la!" a storm of words from the family champion, guillermina, fell as heavily upon the complainant as a volley of blows from a man. anicito juan ducked his head as if a hurricane were upon him, and rushed away to cover. silencio tapped with his key upon the trunk of the dead palm tree which arose grand and straight opposite its mate at the side of the doorway. "now watch, raquel," he said. the tall trunk had sent back an answering echo from its hollow tube. then there was a strange stir within the tree. raquel looked upward. numberless black beaks and heads protruded from the holes which penetrated the sides of the tall stem from the bottom to the top, as if to say, "here is an inquisitive stranger. let us look out, and see if we wish to be at home." raquel laughed gleefully. she took the key from her husband's fingers, crossed the path, and tapped violently upon the barkless trunk of the second palm tree. as many more heads were thrust outward as in the first instance. some of the birds left their nests in the dead tree, flew a little way off, and alighted upon living branches, to watch for further developments about the shell where they had made their homes. others cried and chattered as they flew round and round the palm, fearing they knew not what. raquel watched them until they were quiet, then tapped the tree again. as often as she knocked upon the trunk the birds repeated their manoeuvres. she laughed with delight at the result of each recurring invasion of the domestic quiet of the carpenter birds. so engaged was raquel that she did not perceive the entrance of a man into the small enclosure of the counting-house, nor did she see silencio walk to the gate with the stranger. the two stood there talking hurriedly, the sound of their voices quite drowned by the cries of the birds. as raquel wearied of teasing the birds, she dropped her eyes to earth to seek some other amusement. a man was just disappearing round the corner of the paling. silencio had turned and was coming back to her along the path which led from the gate to the door of the counting-house. she met him with smiles, her lips parted, her face flushed. "who was that, gil--that man? i did not see him come." "you have seen him go, dear heart. is not that enough?" silencio spoke with an effort. his face was paler than it had been; raquel's face grew serious. his anxiety was reflected in her face, as the sign of a storm in the sky is mirrored in the calm surface of a pool. "tell me the truth, gil. you have had a message from escobeda?" "not exactly a message, raquel. that was one of my men. a spy, we should call him in warfare." "and he brings you news?" "yes, he brings me news." "what news, gil? what news? i am horribly afraid. if he should take me, gil! oh! my god! gil, dear gil! do not let him take me!" she threw herself against his breast, white and trembling. this was a horror too deep for tears. silencio smiled, though the arm which surrounded her trembled. "he shall never take you from me, never! i am not afraid of that. but your fears unman me! try to believe what i say, child. he shall never take you from me. come! let us go in." he took the key from her hand, and unlocked and opened the outer door of the counting-house. he pushed her gently into the room, and followed her, closing and locking the door behind him. then he opened the door of the second room, and ushered her into this safe retreat. while he was fastening the door of this room, raquel was gazing about her with astonishment. her colour had returned; silencio's positive words had entirely reassured her. "i never knew of this pretty room, gil. why did you never tell me of it?" "i have hardly become accustomed to your being here, raquel. there is much yet to learn about palmacristi. wait until i show you--" silencio broke off with a gay laugh. "what! what will you show me, gil? ah! that delicate shade of green against this fresh, pure white! a little boudoir for me! how good you are to me! you have kept it as a surprise?" silencio laughed again as she ran hither and thither examining this cool retreat. he wondered if she would discover the real nature of those walls. but the delicacy of raquel prevented her from touching the hangings, or examining the articles in the room except with her eyes. "i spoke to you of my fortress, dear heart." "oh! are you going to show me your fortress? come! come! let us go!" she took him by the arm and urged him to the further door. "we need not go to seek it, child; it is here." silencio drew back the innocent-looking hangings and disclosed the steel plates which the señor don juan smit' had brought down from the es-states and had set in place. silencio tapped the wall with his finger. "it is bullet-proof," he said. at the sight of this formidable-looking wall raquel's colour vanished, as if it were a menace and not a protection, but not for long. her cheek flushed again. she laughed aloud, her eyes sparkled. she was like a little child with a new toy, as she ran about and examined into the secrets of this innocent-looking fortress. "gil! gil!" she cried, "what a charming prison! how delightful it will be to hear escobeda's bullets rattling on the outside while we sit calmly here drinking our tea." "perhaps we can find something even more attractive in the way of refreshment." silencio had not forgotten the cup which had neither inebriated nor cheered. "i see now that you have no windows. at first i wondered. how long should we be safe here? could he break in the door?" silencio bit his lip. "not the outer door. and the door leading into the house--well, even escobeda would hardly--i may as well tell you the truth, raquel. sit down there, child, and listen." the young wife perched herself upon the tall stool that stood before the white desk, her lips parted in a delicious smile. the rose behind her ear fell forward. she took it in her fingers, kissed it, and leaping lightly from her seat, ran to silencio and thrust it through the buttonhole of his coat. then she ran back and perched herself again upon her stool. "go on," she said, "i am ready." and then, womanlike, not waiting for him to speak, she asked the question, "is he coming to-night, gil?" "i only wish that he would, for the darkness is our best friend. escobeda expects an ambush, and my men are ready for it, but he will be here bright and early to-morrow. but be tranquil, i have sent for beltran, raquel. he will surely come. he never deserted a friend yet." "how many men can he muster, gil?" anxiously asked raquel. "ten or twelve, perhaps. the fact that we are the attacked party, the men to hold the fortress, is in our favour. i still hope that the coco will arrive in time. i hardly think that escobeda will dare to use absolute violence--certainly not when he sees the force that i can gather at palmacristi, and recognises the moral force of beltran's being on my side." "oh, gil! why did you not send for the yacht before this?" raquel descended from her perch and crossed the floor to where silencio stood. "child! i had sent her away to lambroso to prepare for just such a moment as this. it was the very day that your note came. she should be repaired by now. i cannot think what keeps her. i am sure that the repairs were not so very formidable." "do you think that escobeda could have stopped the coco, delayed her--?" "no, hardly, though he may have seen the yacht over there. but after all, raquel, we may as well go to the root of the matter now as later. it may be as well that the yacht is not here. if we should run away, we might have the fight to make all over again. however, we must act for the best when the time comes. have no fear, raquel, have no fear." but as don gil looked down at the little creature at his side, a horrible fear surged up within his own heart, and rose to his throat and nearly choked him. she still raised her eyes anxiously to his. "and your friend, your relative, that don beltran. you are sure that we may trust him, gil?" "beltran?" silencio laughed. "i wish that i were as sure of heaven as of beltran's faithfulness. he will be here, never fear. he never deserted a friend yet. if you awake in the night at the sound of horses' hoofs, that will be beltran coming over the hill; do not think of escobeda. go to sleep, and rest in perfect security. if you must think at all, let your thoughts be of my perfect faith in my friend, who will arrive before it is light. i wish that i were as sure of heaven." xvi when felisa had seen agueda disappear below the hillside she turned to beltran. "what is it, cousin?" asked felisa, leaning heavily upon his shoulder. he put his arm round her. "you must get down, little lady. i have a summons from a friend; i must go home at once." "but if i choose not to go home?" said felisa, pouting. "all the same, we must go," said beltran. "but if i will not go?" "then i shall have to carry you. you must go, felisa, and i must, at once." for answer felisa leant over and looked into the eyes that were so near her own. she laid her arm round beltran's shoulders, the faint fragrance that had no name, but was rather a memory of carefully cared for _lingerie_, was wafted across his nostrils for the hundredth time. one could not imagine felisa without that evanescent thing that was part of her and yet had no place in her contrivance, hardly any place in her consciousness. beltran took her in his arms and lifted her to the ground. the tree, released, sprang in air. "ah! there goes my stirrup. you must get it for me, beltran." the gay scarf, having been utilized as a stirrup, had been left to shake and shiver high above them, with the tremors of the tree, which was endeavouring to straighten its bent bark and wood to their normal upright position. "i can send for that; we must not wait," said beltran. "send for it, indeed! do you know that i got the scarf in naples, cousin?--that a princess pallavicini gave it to me? send for it, indeed! do you think that i would have one of your grimy peons lay his black finger upon that scarf? you pulled the tree down before, bend it down again." for answer, beltran leaped in air, trying to seize the scarf. he failed to reach it. then he climbed the tree, and soon his weight had bent the slight young sapling to earth again. felisa sat underneath a ceiba, watching beltran's efforts. at each failure she laughed aloud. she was obviously regretful when finally he released the scarf and handed it to her. beltran urged haste with felisa, but by one pretext or another she delayed him. "sit down under this tree, and tell me what is in that letter, cousin." beltran stood before her. "it is from my old friend, silencio; he needs me--" "i cannot hear, cousin; that mocking-bird sings so loud. sit down here and tell me--" "it is from my friend, silen--" "i cannot hear, cousin. you must sit here by me, and tell me all about it." beltran threw himself upon the ground with a sigh. she forced his head to her knee, and played with the rings of his hair. "now tell me, cousin, and then i shall decide the question for you." beltran lay in bliss. delilah had him within her grasp; still there was firmness in the tone which said: "i have already decided the question, sweet. i promised him that i would go to him when he should need me. the time has come, and i must go to-night." "and leave me?" said felisa, her delicate face clouding under this news. "and what shall i do if we are attacked while you are away?" "there is no question of your being attacked, little cousin. silencio has an enemy, escobeda, who, he thinks, will attack him to-morrow at daylight. in fact, felisa, you may as well hear the entire story. then you will understand why i must go. silencio is a sort of cousin of mine. he has married the niece of as great a villain as ever went unhung, and he, the uncle, escobeda, will attack silencio to recover his niece. he is clearly without the law, for silencio is married as fast as the padre can make him. but there may be sharp work; there is no time to get government aid, and i doubt if under the circumstances it would be forthcoming. so i must go to silencio's help." beltran made a motion as if to rise. felisa now clasped her fingers round his throat. it was the first time that she had voluntarily made such a demonstration, and beltran's pulses quickened under her touch. he relaxed his efforts, turned his face over in her lap, and kissed the folds of her dress. "vida mia, vida mia! you will not keep me," he murmured through a mass of lace and muslin. "indeed, that will i! do you suppose that i am going to remain at that lonely casa of yours, quaking in every limb, dreading the sound of each footstep, while you are away protecting some one else? no, indeed! you had no right to ask us here, if you meant to go away and leave us to your cut-throat peons. i will not stay without you." "but my peons are not cut-throats, felisa. they will guard you as their own lives, if i tell them that i must be gone." "do you mean to go alone?" "no, i mean to take half a dozen good men with me, and leave the rest at san isidro. there is no cause to protect you, felisa, little cousin; but should you need protection, you shall have it." "i shall not need it, for i will not let you leave me, beltran. suppose that dreadful man, escobeda, as you call him, becomes angry at seeing you on the side of your friend, and starts without your knowledge, and comes to san isidro. he might take me away in the place of that niece of his, to force you to get the señor silencio to give his niece back to him." "what nonsense are you conjuring up, felisa, child! that is too absurd! escobeda's quarrel is with silencio, not with me. do not fear, little one." "and did i not hear you say that this señor escobeda hated your father, and also hated you?" "yes, i did say that," admitted beltran, reluctantly, as he struggled to rise without hurting her; "but he will be very careful how he quarrels openly with me. my friends in the government are as powerful as his own." "well, you cannot go," said felisa, decisively, "and let that end the matter." they went homeward slowly, much as they had come, felisa delaying beltran by some new pretext at every step. she kept a watchful eye upon him, to see that he did not drop her bridle rein and canter away at the cross roads. when they reached the picnic ground they found that uncle noé had departed, and beltran must, perforce, see his cousin safely within the precincts of san isidro. she did not leave the veranda after dismounting, but seated herself upon the top step, which was now shaded from the sun, and watched every movement of master and servants. beltran had disappeared within doors, but he could not leave the place on foot. after a while he emerged from his room; behind him hobbled old juana, carrying a small portmanteau. as he came toward the steps, felisa arose and stood in his way. "why do you go to-night?" she said. "because he needs me at daybreak." "i need you more." felisa looked out from under the fringe of pale sunshine. "you will not leave me, beltran--cousin?" "it is only for a few hours, dear child." "is this silencio more to you than i am, then, beltran?" "good god! no, child, but i shall return before you have had your dip in the river." "i do not like to be left here alone, cousin. i want you--" "i _must_ go, and at once, felisa. silencio depends upon me. good by, good by! you will see me at breakfast." felisa arose. the time for pleading was past. "you shall _not_ go," said she, holding his sleeve with her small fingers. "i must!" he pulled the sleeve gently away. she clasped it again persistently. then she said, resolutely and with emphasis, "so sure as you do, i take the first steamer for home." "you would not do that?" "that is my firm intention." "but silencio needs me." "i need you more." felisa withdrew her small hands from his sleeve and started down the veranda, toward her room. her little shoes tick-tacked as she walked. he called after her, "where are you going?" "to pack my trunks," said felisa, "if you can spare that girl of yours--that agueda--to help me." a throb of joy flew upward in the heart of agueda, whose nervous ear was awake now to all sounds. "do you really mean it, felisa?" "i certainly do mean it," answered felisa. "if you go away from me now, i will take the first steamer home. to-morrow, if one sails." "and suppose that i refuse you the horses, the conveyance, the servants--" felisa turned and looked scornfully at beltran. "i suppose that you are a gentleman first of all," she said. "you could not refuse." "no, i could not." "and you will remain?" beltran dropped his head on his breast. "i will remain," he said. beltran drew his breath sharply inward. "it is the first time," he added. "the first time?" she looked at him questioningly. "did i speak aloud? yes, the first time, felisa, that i was ever false to a friend. he counts on me; i promised--" "men friends, i suppose. what about women? i count on you, you have promised _me_--" agueda threw herself face downward on her bed and stopped her ears with deep buried fingers. xvii silencio passed the night in wakeful watching and planning. raquel slept the innocent sleep of a careless child. gil had promised that all would come out well. she trusted him. very early in the morning the scouts whom silencio had placed along the boundaries of his estate were called in, and collected within the patio of the casa. the outer shutters of the windows were closed and bolted; the two or three glass windows, which spoke of the innovation which civilization brings in its train, were protected by their heavy squares of plank. the doors were locked, and the casa at palmacristi was made ready for a siege. silencio awakened raquel as the first streak of dawn crept up from the horizon. over there to the eastward trembled and paled that opalescent harbinger which told her that day was breaking. she looked up with a child's questioning eyes. "it is time, sweetheart. now listen, raquel. pack a little bag, and be ready for a journey." raquel pouted. "cannot guillermina pack my bag?" "no, not even guillermina may pack your bag. when it is ready, set it just inside your door. if you do not need it, so much the better. you may open your windows toward the sea, but not those that look toward troja." silencio flung wide the heavy shutter as he spoke. raquel glanced out to sea. "oh, gil! where is the coco?" "i wish i knew. she should be here." "are we to go on board, gil?" "unfortunately, even should she arrive now, she is a half-hour too late. now hasten, i will give you fifteen minutes, no more." "we might have gone out in the boat, gil. oh! why did you not call me?" silencio pointed along the path to the right. some of escobeda's men, armed with machetes and shotguns, stood just at the edge of the forest, where at any moment they could seek protection behind the trees. they looked like ghosts in the early dawn. "and where is your friend, beltran?" silencio shook his head. "he cannot have received my message," he said. "and are the men of palmacristi too great cowards to fight those wretches?" silencio started as if he had been struck. he did not answer for a moment; then he said slowly: "raquel, do you know what we should be doing were you not here?--i and my men?" he spoke coldly. raquel had never heard these tones before. "we should be out there hunting those rascals to the death, no matter how they outnumber us; but i dare not trust you between this and the shore. my scouts tell me that they have kept up picket duty all night. escobeda expected the coco back this morning; at all events, he was ready for our escape in that way. the orders of those men are to take you at any cost. should i be killed, your protection would be gone. i am a coward, but for you only, raquel, for you only." the young wife looked down. the colour mounted to her eyes. she drew closer to her husband, but for once he did not respond readily to her advances. he was hurt to the core. "get yourself ready at once," he said. "i will give you fifteen minutes, no more. we have wasted much time already." raquel hardly waited for silencio to close the door. she began to dress at once, her trembling fingers refusing to tie strings or push the buttons through the proper holes. as she hurriedly put on her everyday costume, she glanced out of the window to see if in the offing she could discover the coco. the little yacht was at that very moment hastening with all speed toward her master, but a point of land on the north hid her completely from raquel's view. "although he will not own it, he evidently intends to carry me away in the yacht." raquel smiled. "so much the better; it will be another honeymoon." when silencio left raquel, he ran out to the patio. on the way thither he met old guillermina with a tray on which was her mistress's coffee. upon the table in the patio veranda--that used by the servants--a hasty meal was laid. silencio broke a piece of cassava bread and drank the cup of coffee which was poured out for him, and as he drank he glanced upward. andres was standing on the low roof, on the inner side of the chimney of stone which carried off the kitchen smoke. he turned and looked down at don gil. "the señor escobeda approaches along the gran' camino, señor." silencio set down his cup and ran up the escalera. he walked out to the edge of the roof, and shaded his eyes with his hand. "yes, andres; it is true. and i see that he has some gentlemen with him." he turned and called down to the patio. "ask guillermina if her mistress has had her coffee." as he faced about a shot rang out. the bullet whistled near his head. "go down, señor, for the love of god!" said andres. the company of horsemen were riding at a quick pace, and were now within hearing. silencio waved his arm defiantly. "ah! then it is you, señor escobeda! i see whom you have with you. is that you, pedro geredo? is that you, marcoz absalon? you two will have something to answer for when i report this outrage at the government town." escobeda had ridden near to the enclosure. his head was shaking with rage. his earrings glittered in the morning sun, his bloodshot eyes flashed fire. he raised his rifle and aimed it at silencio. "you know what i have come for, señor. send my niece out to me, and we shall retire at once." "how dare you take that name upon your lips?" silencio was livid with rage. another shot was fired. this time it ploughed its way through silencio's sleeve. "shall i kill him, señor?" andres brought his escopeta to his shoulder; he aimed directly at escobeda. "i can kill him without trouble, señor, and avoid further argument. it is as the señor says!" silencio looked anxiously seaward. no sign of the coco! "not until i give the word, andres." and then to escobeda, "i defy you! i defy you!" shots began to fall upon the casa from the guns of escobeda's impudent followers. escobeda leaped his horse into the enclosure; his men followed suit. silencio saw them ride in lawless insolence along the side of the building, and then heard the hollow ring of the horses' hoofs upon the veranda. he ran down the escalera. the mob were battering at the front door with the butt ends of their muskets. raquel appeared in the patio, pale and terrified. "gil! gil!" she cried, "they are coming in! they will take me!" "coward! come out and fight," was the cry from the outside. "i am a coward for you, dear." he seized her wrists. "to the counting-house!" he whispered, "to the counting-house!" as they ran she asked, "is there any sign of the coco?" "none," answered silencio; "but we could not reach her now." together they flew through the hallways, across the chambers, where the blows were sounding loud upon the wooden wall of the house, upon the shutters, and the doors. they ran down the far passage and reached the counting-house door. silencio stumbled over something near the sill. "ah! your bag," he said. "i told guillermina to set it there." he opened the door with the key held ready, and together they entered. silencio tore the rug from the middle of the room, and disclosed to raquel's amazed eyes a door sunken in the floor. he raised it by its heavy ring. a cold blast of air flowed upward into the warm interior. raquel had thought the room cool before; now she shivered as if with a chill. silencio pushed her gently toward the opening. "go down," he said. raquel gazed downward at the black depths. "i cannot go alone, gil." she shuddered. "turn round, dear heart; put your feet on the rungs of the ladder, so! ah! what was that?" silencio glanced anxiously toward the open doorway. a heavy cracking of the stout house-door showed to what lengths escobeda and his followers were prepared to venture. "go, go! at the bottom is a lantern; light it if you can, while i close the trap-door." raquel shrank at the mouth of this black opening, which seemed to yawn for them. the damp smell of mould, the cold, the gloom, were sudden and dreadful reminders of the tomb which this might become. she imagined it a charnel house. she dreaded to descend for fear that she should place her feet upon a corpse, or lay her fingers on the fleshless bones of a skeleton. "courage, my heart! courage! go down! do not delay." at the kindness of his tone, raquel, taking courage, began to descend. terrible thoughts filled her mind. what if escobeda and his men should discover their retreat, and cut off escape at their destination? what that destination was she knew not. her eyes tried vainly to pierce the mysterious gloom. it was as if she looked into the blackness of a cavern. she turned and gazed for a moment back into the homelike interior which she was leaving, perhaps for all time. the loud blows upon the house-door were the accompaniment of her terrified thoughts. raquel descended nervously, her trembling limbs almost refusing to support her. she reached the bottom of the ladder, and by the aid of the dim light from above, she found the lantern and the matches, which silencio's thoughtful premonition had placed there, ready for her coming. as she lighted the lantern she heard a terrific crash. silencio, with a last glance at the open door of the counting-house, which he had forgotten to close, now lowered the trap-door, and joined raquel in the dark passage. he stood and listened for a moment. he heard a footstep on the floor above, and taking raquel's hand in his, together they sped along the path which he hoped would lead her to safety. "oh, child!" he said, in sharp, panting words, as they breathlessly pursued the obscure way, "for the first time i have given you proof of my love." raquel turned to look at him. she saw his dark face revealed fitfully by the flashes of the lantern swinging from his hand. "here am i flying from that villain, when i ache to seize him by the throat and choke the very breath of life out of him. here am i running away, _running away!_--do you hear me, raquel?--while they, behind there, are calling me coward. but should he take you--" raquel stumbled and almost fell at these dreadful words. "gil, gil, dearest! do not speak of it; perhaps he is coming even now behind us." at the dreadful suspicion she fell against the wall, dragging him with her. she clung to him in terror, impeding his progress. "this is not the time to give way, raquel." silencio spoke sternly. "call all your will to your aid now. run ahead of me, while i stand a moment here." raquel gathered all her resolution, and without further question fled again upon her way. silencio waited a moment, facing the steps which they had just descended, and listened intently. but all that he heard was the sound of raquel's flying feet. when he was convinced that no one was following them, he turned again and ran quickly after raquel. he easily gained upon her. "i hear nothing, raquel. do not be so frightened." at these words the changeable child again regained confidence. "you have heard of a man building better than he knew," he said. he waved the lantern toward the sides of the tunnel. "there were wild tales of smuggling in the old days--" the colour had returned to raquel's cheek. she laughed a little as she asked: "did your grandfather smuggle, gil?" "he was no better and no worse than other men; who knows what--we will talk later of that. come!" he took her hand in his, and again together they fled along the passage. as no sound of pursuing feet came to their ears, confidence began to return. they were like two children running a race. silencio laughed aloud, and as they got further from the entrance to the passage he whistled, he sang, he shouted! the sound of his laughter chilled the heart of raquel with fear. "gil," she pleaded, "they will hear you. they will know where we have gone." she laid her fingers on his lips as they ran, and he playfully bit them, as he had seen her close her teeth upon el rey's. the passage was a long one. raquel thought that it would never end. "have we come more than two miles, gil?" she asked. raquel was not used to breathless flights in the dark. silencio laughed. "poor little girl! does it seem so long, then? when we have reached the further end we shall have come just three hundred feet." at last, at last! the further door was reached. silencio unlocked it and pushed it open. this was rendered somewhat difficult by the sand which had been blown about the entrance since last he had brushed it away. a little patient work, and the two squeezed themselves through the narrow opening. "hark! i hear footsteps," whispered raquel, her face pale with renewed terror. silencio stood still and listened. "you are right," he said; "they are behind us. take the lantern and hold it for me close to the keyhole." he began pushing the door into place. she took the light from him and held it as he directed. "hold it steady, child. steady!--do not tremble so! i must see! i _must!_ steady!" raquel's hand shook as if with a palsy. the footsteps came nearer. to her they sounded from out the darkness like the approach of death. "hasten!" she whispered, "hasten!" she held the lantern against the frame of the solid door and pressed her shoulder against it, that her nervousness should not agitate the flame, whispering "hasten!" the while to silencio, whose trembling fingers almost refused to do this most necessary work. at last, with a bang and a sharp twist of the key, the heavy door was closed and locked. "do you see an iron bar anywhere, raquel, in the bushes there on the left?" she ran to the side of the tunnel, which still arched above them here. silencio was close to her, and at once laid his hand upon the strong piece of metal. he sprang back to the door, and slipped the bar into the rust-worn but still faithful hasps. then he turned, seized her hand again, and led her hurriedly along between the high banks. it was still dark where they stood, so overgrown was the deep cut, but silencio knew the way. he took the lantern from raquel's hand, extinguished it, and set it upon the ground. "we shall need this no more," he said. the trees and vines growing from the embankment, which nearly closed overhead, were interwoven like a green basket-work, and almost shut out the daylight. silencio took raquel's hand in his and led her along the narrow path. the light became stronger with every step. suddenly raquel stopped short. "what was that, gil?" "what, dearest?" "that! do you not hear it? it sounds like a knocking behind us." silencio stood still for a moment, listening to the sounds. "yes," he said at last, "i do hear it. it is some of those villains pursuing us. hasten, raquel. when they find the door is closed, they will return to the casa to cut off our retreat." raquel found time to say: "and the poor servants left behind, will they--" "they are safe, child. you are the quarry they seek. escobeda does not exchange shots to no purpose." a few more steps, and silencio parted the thicket ahead. raquel passed through in obedience to his commanding nod, and emerged into the blinding glare of a tropical morning. beneath her feet was the hot, fine sand of the seashore. a few yards away a small boat was resting, her stern just washed by the ripples. raquel turned and looked backward. the mass of trees and vines hid the bank from view, the bank in its turn concealed the casa. as she stood thus she heard again a slow knocking, but much fainter than before. it was like the distant sound of heavy blows. "thank god! they are knocking still," said silencio. "run to the boat, child, quickly." raquel shrank with fear. "they will see me from the house," she said. "you cannot see the beach from the casa; have you forgotten? run, run! for the boat! the boat!" obeying him, she sped across the sand to the little skiff. "the middle seat!" he cried. he followed her as swiftly, and with all his strength pushed the light weight out from the shore, springing in as the bow parted with the beach. the thrust outward brought them within sight of the house. for a moment they were not discovered, and he had shipped the oars and was rowing rapidly toward the open sea before they were seen. it required a moment for the miscreants to appreciate the fact that the two whom they had thought hidden in the house had escaped in some unknown way. then a cry of rage went up from many throats, and one man raised his rifle to his shoulder, but the peon next him threw up the muzzle, and the shot flew harmless in the air. it is one thing to fire at the bidding of a master, on whose shoulders will rest all the blame, and quite another to aim deliberately at a person who is quite within his rights--you peon, he gran' señor. escobeda was nowhere to be seen. there was no one to give an order, to take responsibility. the force was demoralized. the men formed in a small group, and watched the little skiff as it shot out to sea, impelled by the powerful arm and will of silencio. as he rowed silencio strained his eyes northward, and perceived what was not as yet visible from the shore. he saw the coco just rounding the further point--distant, it is true, but safety for raquel lay in her black and shining hull. when old guillermina saw don gil and the señora retreat from the patio and cross the large chamber, she knew at once their errand. had she not lived here since the days of the old don oviedo? what tales could she not have told of the secret passage to the sea! but her lips were sealed. pride of family, the family of her master, was the padlock which kept them silent. how many lips have been glued loyally together for that same reason! as guillermina crossed the large chamber she heard the blows raining upon the outer shutters and the large door. she heard escobeda's voice calling, "open! open!" as he pounded the stout planking with the butt end of his rifle. the firing had ceased. even had it not, guillermina knew well that the shots were not aimed at her. she had withstood a siege in the old don oviedo's time, and again in the time of the old don gil, and from the moment that silencio had brought his young wife home she had expected a third raid upon the casa. guillermina walked in a leisurely manner. she passed through the intervening passages, and found the counting-house door open. this she had hardly expected. she joyously entered the room and closed the door. then her native lassitude gave way to a haste to which her unaccustomed members almost refused their service. she quickly drew the rug over the sunken trap-door, smoothed the edges, and rearranged the room, so that it appeared as if it had not lately been entered. it was her step overhead which don gil and raquel had heard at first, and which had caused them so much uneasiness. as guillermina turned to leave the room, she heard a crash. escobeda, having failed to break in the great entrance door, had, with the aid of some of his men, pried off a shutter. the band came pouring into the house and ran through all the rooms, seeking for the flown birds. as guillermina opened the door of the counting-house to come out, key in hand, she met escobeda upon the threshold. his face was livid. he held his machete over his head as if to strike. "so this is their hiding-place," he screamed in her ear. he rushed past her, and entered the counting-house. its quiet seclusion and peaceful appearance filled him with astonishment, and caused him to stop short. but he was not deceived for long. he tore away the green hangings, hoping to find a door. instead a wall of iron stared him in the face. he ran all round the room, feeling of the panels or plates, but nowhere could he discover the opening which he sought. each plate was firmly screwed and riveted to its neighbour. he turned and shook his fist in guillermina's face. "you shall tell me where they have gone," he howled, in fury, and then poured forth a volley of oaths and obscenities, such as no one but a spaniard could have combined in so few sentences. guillermina faced him, her hands on her fat hips. "the señor should not excite himself. it is bad to excite oneself. there was the woodcutter over at la floresta--" "to hell with the woodcutter! where is that truhan?" then escobeda began to curse guillermina. he cursed her until he foamed at the mouth, his gold earrings shaking in his ears, his eyes bloodshot, his lips sending flecks of foam upon her gown. he cursed her father and her mother, her grandfather and her grandmother, her great-grandfather and great-grandmother, which was quite a superfluity in the way of cursing, as guillermina had no proof positive that she had ever possessed more than one parent. he cursed her brothers and sisters, her aunts, her uncles, her cousins, her nephews and nieces. "the señor wastes some very good breath," remarked guillermina in a perfectly imperturbable manner. "i have none of those people." escobeda turned on her in renewed frenzy. the vile words rolled out of his mouth like a stream over high rocks. he took a fresh breath and cursed anew. as he had begun with her ancestors, so he continued with her descendants, the children whom she had borne, and those whom she was likely to bear. "the good god save us!" ejaculated old guillermina. and still escobeda cursed on, his fury now falling upon her relationships in all their ramifications, and in all their branches. "ay de mi! the gracious señor wastes his time. if the gracious señor should rest a little, he could start with a fresh breath." as guillermina spoke, she rearranged the curtain folds, smoothed and shook the silken pillows, and laid them straight and in place. she kept her station as near the middle of the sunken door as possible. again he thundered at her the question as to where the fugitives had found refuge. guillermina, brave outwardly, was trembling inwardly for the safety of her beloved don gil. the young señora was all very well, she might grow to care for her in time, but her little gil, whom she had taken from the doctor's arms, whom she had nursed on her knee with her own little antonio, who lay under the trees on the hillside yonder--she must gain time. "does not the señor know that the señor don gil silencio-y-estrada and the little señora have gone to heaven?" escobeda stopped short in his vituperation. "dead? he was afraid, then! he killed her." escobeda laughed cruelly. "if i have lost her, so has he." "ay, ay, they have flown away, flown to heaven, the señores. the good god cares for his own. i wonder now who cares for the señor escobeda!" with the scream of a wild beast he flew at her, and she, fearing positive injury, sprang aside. escobeda's spur caught in the rug and tore it from its place on the floor. he stumbled and fell, pulling the green and white carpet after him. concealment was no longer possible; the trap-door was laid bare. with a fiendish cry of delight he flew at the ring in the sunken door. "to hell! to hell!" he shouted. "that is where they have gone; not to heaven, but to hell." escobeda had heard rumours all his life of the secret passage to the sea--the passage which had never been located by the curious. at last the mystery was solved. he raised the door, and without a word to guillermina, plunged into the black depths. the absence of a light was lost sight of by him in his unreasoning rage. almost before his fingers had disappeared from view, guillermina had lowered the trap-door into its place in the most gentle manner. if one is performing a good action, it is best to make as little noise about it as possible. as she fitted the great iron bar across the opening, there came a knocking upon the under side of the iron square. "give me a light! a light! you she-devil! a light, i say." guillermina went softly to the door of the counting-house and closed it to prevent intrusion. she could hear escobeda's followers running riotously all over the casa. her time would be short, that she knew. she knelt down on the floor and put her lips close to the crack in the trap-door. "and he would curse my mother, would the señor! and my little antonio, who lies buried on the hill yonder." "a light!" he shouted, "a light! she-devil, a light, i say!" "may the señor see no light till he sees the flames of hell," answered guillermina. "the señor must pardon me, but that is my respectful wish." she smoothed the innocent-looking carpet in place, replaced the chairs, and went out, locking the door after her. "let us hope," said she quietly, "that my muchacho has barred the door at the further end of the passage." looking for a wide crack, she found it, and dropped the key through it. this is why the disused passage is always called escobeda's walk. sometimes, when don gil and the little señora sit and sip the straw-coloured tea at five o'clock of an afternoon, the teapot, grown more battered and dingy, the lid fitting less securely than of yore, the señora sets down her cup, and taking little raquel upon her knee, holds her close to her heart, and says: "do you hear that knocking, gil? there is certainly a rapping on the counting-house floor." "i hear nothing," answers silencio, as he gives a large lump of sugar to the grandson of the brown lizard. and for that matter, there is an ancient proverb which says that "none are so deaf as those who will not hear." xviii uncle adan had been taken ill. he was suffering from the exhalations of the swamp land through which he must travel to clear the river field. he had that and the cacao patch both on his mind. there was a general air of carelessness about the plantation of san isidro which had never obtained before since agueda's memory of the place. the peons and workmen lounged about the outhouses and stables, lazily doing the work that was absolutely needed, but there was no one to give orders, and there was no one who seemed to long for them. it appeared to be a general holiday. uncle adan lay and groaned in his bed at the further end of the veranda, and wondered if the cacao seed had spoiled, or if it would hold good for another day. when agueda begged him to get some sleep, or to take his quinine in preparation for the chill that must come, he only turned his face to the wall and groaned that the place was going to rack and ruin since those northerners had come down to the island. "i have seen the señor plant the cacao," said agueda. "he had the palandrez and the troncha and the garcia-garcito with him. he ordered, and they worked. i went with them sometimes." agueda sighed as she remembered those happy days. uncle adan turned his aching bones over, so that he could raise his weary eyes to agueda's. "that is all true," he said. "the señor can plant, no colono better. but one cannot plant the cacao and play the guitar at one and the same time." agueda hung her head as if the blame of right belonged to her. "you act as if i blamed you, and i do," said uncle adan, shivering in the preliminary throes of his hourly chill. "you who have influence over the señor! you should exert it at once. the place is going to rack and ruin, i tell you!" agueda turned and went out of the door. she was tired of the subject. there was no use in arguing with uncle adan, either with regard to the quinine or the visitors. she went to her own room, and took her hat from the peg. when again she came out upon the veranda, she had a long stick in one hand and a pail in the other. then she visited the kitchen. "juana," she said, "fill this pail with water and tell pablo and eduardo juan that i need them at once." she waited while this message was sent to the recalcitrant peons, who lounged lazily toward the house at her summons. "de señorit' send fo' me?" asked pablo. "i sent for both of you," said agueda. "why have you done no cacao planting to-day?" "ain' got no messages," replied pablo, who seemed to have taken upon himself the rôle of general responder. "you know very well that it is the messages that make no difference. bring your machetes, both of you," ordered agueda, "and come with me to the hill patch." for answer the peons drew their machetes lazily from their sheaths. "i knew that you had them, of course. come, then! i am going to the field. where is the cacao, pablo?" "wheah ah leff 'em," answered pablo. "and where is that?" "in de hill patch, seño'it'." "and did some one, perhaps, mix the wood ashes with them?" pablo turned to eduardo juan, open-mouthed, as if to say, "did you?" agueda also turned to eduardo juan. "well! well!" she exclaimed impatiently, "were the wood ashes mixed, then, with the cacao seeds?" eduardo juan shifted from one foot to the other, looked away at the river, and said, "ah did not ogsarve." "you did not observe. oh, dear! oh, dear! why can you never do as the señor tells you? what will become of the plantation if you do not obey what the señor tells you?" "seño' ain' say nuttin'," said eduardo juan, with a sly smile. agueda looked away. "i am not speaking of the señor. i mean the señor adan," said she. "you know that he has charge of all; that he had charge long before--come, then! let us go." as agueda descended the steps of the veranda, she heard beltran's voice calling to her. she turned and looked back. don beltran was standing in the open door of the salon. his pleasant smile seemed to say that he had just been indulging in agreeable words, agreeable thoughts. "agueda," said beltran, "bring my mother's cross here, will you? i want to show it to my cousin." agueda turned and came slowly up the steps again. she went at once to her own room and opened the drawer where the diamonds lay in their ancient case of velvet and leather. the key which opened this drawer hung with the household bunch at her waist. the drawer had not been opened for some time, and the key grated rustily in the lock. agueda opened the drawer, took the familiar thing in her hand, and returning along the veranda, handed it to beltran. then she ran quickly down the steps to join the waiting peons. but felisa's appreciative scream as the case was opened reached her, as well as the words which followed. "and you let that girl take charge of such a magnificent thing as that! why, cousin, it must mean a fortune." "who? agueda?" said beltran. "i would trust agueda with all that i possess. agueda knew my mother. she was here in my mother's time." the motherly instinct, which is in the ascendant with most women, arose within the heart of agueda. "come, palandrez, come, eduardo juan," said she. they could hardly keep pace with her. if there was no one else to work for him while he dallied with his pretty cousin, she would see that his interests did not suffer. "why, then, do you not go up there in the cool of the evening, palandrez? you could get an hour's work done easily after the sun goes behind the little rancho hill." "it is scairt up deyah," said palandrez. "de ghos' ob de ole señora waak an' he waak. ain' no one offer deyah suvvices up on de hill when it git 'long 'bout daak." agueda went swiftly toward the hill patch, the peons sulkily following her. they did not wish to obey, but they did not dare to rebel. arrived at her destination, she turned to pablo, who was in advance of eduardo juan. "where, then, is the pail of seed, pablo?" pablo, without answer, began to send his eyes roaming over and across the field. eduardo juan, preferring to think that it was no business of his, leaned against a tree-trunk and let his eyes rest on the ground at his feet. as these two broken reeds seemed of no practical use, agueda began to skirt the field, and soon she came upon the pail, hidden behind a stump. "here it is, eduardo juan," she called. "begin to dig your holes, you and pablo, and i will--_oh!_" this despairing exclamation closed the sentence, and ended all hope of work for the day. agueda saw, as she spoke, that the pail swarmed with ants. she pushed her stick down among the shiny brown seed, and discovered no preventive in the form of the necessary wood ashes. the seed was spoiled. "it is no use, pablo," she said. "come and see these ants, you that take no interest in the good of the señor." she turned and walked dejectedly down the hill. pablo turned to eduardo juan. he laughed under his breath. "de seño' taike no intrus' in hees own good." "seed come from palmacristi; mighty hard git seed dis time o' yeah," answered eduardo juan, with a hopeful chuckle. if no more seed were to be had, then no more planting could be done. later in the evening, as agueda went toward the kitchen, she passed by felisa's doorway. a glimpse was forced upon her of the interior of the pretty room and its occupant. felisa was seated before the mirror. she had donned a gown the like of which agueda had never seen. the waist did not come all the way up to the throat, but was cut out in a sort of hollow, before and behind, for agueda saw the shoulders which were toward her, quite bare of covering, and in the mirror she caught the reflection of maidenly charms which in her small world were not a part of daily exhibit. agueda stopped suddenly. "oh, señorita!" she exclaimed under her breath. "does the señorita know that her door is open? let me close it, and the shutter on the other side. i will run round there in a minute. some one might see the señorita; people may be passing along the veranda at any moment." felisa gave a shrill and merry laugh. "people might see! why, my good girl, don't you know that is just why we wear such gowns, that people may see? come and fasten this thing. isn't it lovely against my neck?" agueda could not but admit to her secret soul that it was lovely against felisa's neck. but she coloured as she entered and closed the door carefully behind her. she had seen nothing like this, except in those abandoned picture papers that came sometimes from the states, or from france, to don beltran, and then, as often as not, she hid them that she might not see him looking at them. she could not bear to have him look at them. she felt-- "open the door, that's a good girl! there! are you sure that the catch is secure? these beauties were my aunt's. see how they become me. i would not lose them for the world. oh! had i only had them before." "are--are--they--has the señor given them perhaps--to--to--" "well, not exactly, agueda, good girl; but some day, who knows--there!" felisa made a pirouette and sank in a low curtsey on the bare floor, showing just the point of a pink satin toe. "see how they glitter, even in the light of these candles. imagine them in a ball-room--agueda, and me in them! now i must go and show my cousin. open the door. do you not hear--open the--" "the señorita is never going to show herself to the señor in such a gown as that! what will the señor say? the señorita will never--" but felisa had pushed past agueda, and was half-way down the veranda. the thoughts that flashed through agueda's mind were natural ones. she had honestly done her best to keep the señorita from disgracing herself in the señor's eyes, but she would have her way. she had gone to her own destruction. there was a quickening of agueda's pulses. ah! now he would turn to her again. he could not bear any sign of immodesty in a woman. he had often said to agueda that that was her chief charm, her modesty. he had called her "little prude," and laughed when she blushed. was it to be wondered at that agueda rejoiced at felisa's coming defeat, at her imminent discomfiture, the moment that beltran should see her? she stood in the doorway of felisa's room, watching the fairy-like figure as it lightly danced like a will-o'-the-wisp down the dark veranda's length, flashing out like a firefly as it passed an opening where there was a light within, going out in the darkness between the doors, still keeping up its resemblance to the _ignis fatuus_. before felisa reached the salon beltran came out to discover why his charmer had absented herself for so long a time. agueda caught the look in his eyes, as he stood, almost aghast at the meretricious loveliness of the little creature before him. he gazed and gazed at her. was it in disgust? alas! no. poor agueda! rapture shone from his eyes. he opened his arms. but felisa eluded him and danced round the corner of the veranda. "you pretty thing! you pretty, you lovely, you adorable thing!" she heard beltran exclaim, as utterly fascinated, he followed the small siren in her tantalizing flight. xix that succession of events designated as time passed rapidly or slowly, as was the fate of the beneficiary or the sufferer from its flight or its delay. in some cases the milestones seemed leagues apart, in others but a short foot of space separated them. to beltran the hours of the night dragged slowly by, when, as was often the case, he lay half awake in a delirious dream of joy, longing for dawn to break the gloom that he might come again within the magic of that presence which had changed the entire world for him. to agueda the hours of the night flew on wings. as she heard the crowing of the near and distant cocks answering each other from coloñia or river patch, or conuco, she sighed to herself. "it is nearly four o'clock, soon it will be five, then six, and the next stroke, oh, god! seven!" for then would the cheery voice which could no longer wait call from the veranda, "how are you this morning, little cousin?" and the answer from that dainty interior would be, "quite well, cousin beltran, if the cocks could be persuaded not to roost directly under the floor of my room, and keep me awake half the night." then agueda must attend to the early breakfast. trays must be sent to the rooms of the visitors, and for two hours would the señor impatiently pace the veranda or the home enclosure, awaiting the reappearance of his goddess. there was no sign of the wearing effect of sleeplessness on the shell-like face when that important little lady appeared upon the veranda, clothed in some wonderful arrangement of diaphanous material, which was to beltran's vision as the stage manager's dream of the unattainable in costume. with the joyous greeting there was offered a jasmine or allemanda flower or bougainvellia bracht for the girdle bouquet, which often beltran assisted in arranging, as was a cousin's right; and in return, if felisa was very good-natured, there followed the placing of a corresponding bud or blossom in beltran's buttonhole by those small, plump fingers, loaded down with their wealth of shining rings. it was at this time that agueda received a shock which, as a preliminary to her final fate, more than all conveyed to her mind how things were going. it was early morning. juana had brought to agueda's room the fresh linen piled high in the old yellow basket. together they laid the articles on chairs and table, selecting from the pile those that needed a few stitches. agueda sat herself down by the window to mend. she took up her needle and threaded it, then let her hands fall in her lap, as had become her custom of late. her head was turned to the grove outside, and her gaze rested among the leaves and penetrated their vistas without perceiving anything in grove or trocha. she had heard beltran moving about in his room, but he had thrown the door wide and gone whistling down the veranda toward that latest goal of his hopes. she heard the gay greeting, and the distant faint response, then a laugh at some sally of fun. agueda looked wearily at the pile of starched cleanliness, and took up her work again. how hateful the drudgery seemed! before this--in other days--time was--when-- it was a homely bit of sewing, a shirt of the señor's, which needed buttons. this recalled to agueda that the last week's linen had been neglected by her. it had been put away as it came from juana's hands. with sudden decision she determined now to face the inevitable, to accept the world as it had become to her, all in a moment, as it were. agueda arose and dropped the linen from her lap to the floor. she had never been taught careful ways. all that she knew of such things had come to her by intuition, and her action showed the dominant strain of her blood--not the exactness of a trained servant, but the carelessness of a petted child of fortune. she stepped over the white mass at her feet and went to the door that led from her room to beltran's. she walked as one who has come to a sudden determination. of late she had not been there, except to perform some such service as the present moment demanded. she seized the knob in her hand, and turned it round, pressing the weight of her young body against the door. instead of bursting hurriedly into the room, as was her wont, she found the door unyielding. again she tried it, twisting the knob this way and that. she was about to call upon one of the men to come to her aid, as the door had stuck fast, when suddenly she stopped, standing where the exertion had left her. her colour fled, her lips grew bloodless, she leaned dizzy and sick against the door. on the floor, at her feet, she had caught sight of a small shaving that had pushed itself through the crack underneath. she put her hand to her side as if a physical pain had seized her. she ran to the door of her room which opened upon the outer and more secluded veranda. passing through this, she walked with trembling steps to the doorway of beltran's room. she could hear his gay badinage down at the end of the house, where she knew that felisa was sipping her chocolate inside her room, while he called impatiently to know when she would be ready for the excursion of the day. agueda entered beltran's room and walked swiftly to the communicating door. ah! it was as she had feared. some shavings upon the floor, and a new bolt, put there she knew not when, perhaps when she was up in the field on the previous day, attested to the verity of her suspicion. what did beltran fear? that, remembering the old-time love and confidence, she should take advantage of it and of her near proximity, and when all the coloñia slept, go to him and endeavour to recall those past days, try to rekindle the love so nearly dead? nearly dead! it must be quite so, when he could remind her thus cruelly, if silently, that a new order of things now reigned at san isidro. agueda appreciated, now perhaps for the first time fully, that her life had changed, that she had become now as the nadas and the anetas of this world. she closed her lips firmly as this thought came to her. well, if it were so, she must bear it. like aneta, she had not been "smart," but unlike the anetas of this life, she would learn something from her misfortune, and be henceforth self-respecting, so far as this great and overwhelming blow would allow. never again should beltran feel that he had the right to bestow upon her a touch or a caress, however delicate, however gentle. they were separated now for good and all. she saw it as she had never seen it before. all along she had been hoping against hope. she had constantly remembered beltran's words that first week of felisa's stay: "they will be going home soon, and then all will be as before." she saw now that beltran had deceived himself, even while he was deceiving her. he could not turn them out, as he had once said to her, but he had now no wish to turn them out, nor did they wish to go. he was lost to her, but even so, with the memory of what had been, beltran should respect her. he should find that, as she was not his chattel, she would not be his plaything while he made love to that other respectable girl, who would tolerate no advances which were not preceded by a ceremony and the blessing of the church. foolish, foolish agueda! had she been "smart," she might have welcomed felisa as her cousin, instead of appearing as the slighted thing she now felt herself to be. and then, again, her soul rebelled at such a view of the case. his wife! what humiliation were hers to be beltran's wife, and see what she saw now every day, the proof of his love for this fair-haired cousin of his, while she, his wife, looked on helpless. then, indeed, would she have been in his power. now she was free--free from him, free to respect herself, even in her shame. as felisa has been likened to a garden escape in point of looks, so might one liken agueda to a garden escape in point of what people designate as morals. agueda had never heard of morals as such. she had had no teaching, only the one warning which nada had given her, and that, she considered, she had followed to the letter. agueda had stood intrenched within a garden whose soil was virtue. she did not gaze with curiosity, nor did she care to look, over the palings into the lane which ran just outside. she stood tall and splendid as a young hollyhock, welcoming the sun and the dew that heaven sent down upon her proud young head. but though fate had surrounded her with this environment, whose security she had never questioned, her inheritance had placed her near the palings. those other great white flowers that stood in the middle of the garden could never come to disaster. but agueda, unwittingly, had been thrust to the wall. love's hand had pushed itself between the palings of the fence that surrounded her garden and had bent the proud stalk and drawn it through into the outer lane. while beltran showed his love for her, she did not feel that she had escaped from her secure stand inside. her roots were strong and embedded in the soil of virtue, and wanton love would never find a place within her thoughts or feelings. she did not realise the loss of dignity. "all for love," had been her text and creed. the remedy, if remedy were needed, had been close at hand. it had been offered her. she had only to stretch out her hand and take it, and draw back within her garden, showing no bruise or wound, but happy in that she could still rear herself straight and proud among the company of uninjured stalks. but though the remedy had been at hand, agueda had not grasped it with due haste. unmindful of self, she had allowed the opportunity to escape her, and now she could not spring back among those other blooms whose freshness had never been tarnished. alas! she found herself still in the muddy lane. she had been plucked and worn and tossed down into the rut along the roadside, where she must forever lie, limp and faded. what boots it to dwell upon the sufferings of a breaking heart? hearts must ache and break, just as souls must be born and die, for thus fate plans, and the world goes on the same. things went on the same at the plantation of san isidro. don noé made no motion to leave it, and felisa was happier than she had ever been, and so for once was in accord with her father. beltran dreaded from day to day the signal for their departure, but it did not come. uncle adan moved among all these happenings with a soul not above cacao seed and banana suckers. he kept tally at the wagon-train or in the field, and if he thought of agueda at all it was with a shrug of the shoulders and the passing reflection: "she is as the women of her race have been. it is their fate." for she was surely of that race, though only tradition and not appearance was witness to the fact. as for agueda, no one about her could say what she felt or thought. she remained by herself. what she must see, that she saw. that which she could keep from knowing, she dulled her mind to receive, and refused to understand or to accept. she endeavoured to become callous to all impressions. one would have said that she did not care, that her passing fancy for beltran, as well as his for her, had died a natural death. and yet, so contradictory is woman's nature, when placed in such straits as those which now overwhelmed her, that sometimes a fierce curiosity awoke within her, and then she would pass, to all appearance on some household errand bent, within the near neighbourhood of beltran and his cousin. they, grown careless, as custom encourages, always gave her something to weep over. then for a time she avoided them, only to return again to her foolish habit of inquiry. agueda grew deathly in pallor, and thin and weary looking. her face had lost its brightness. gaze where she would, she saw nothing upon her horizon but dark and lowering clouds. sometimes she opened her drawer to look for a moment at the sewing, discarded now these many weeks, but she did no more than glance at it. "it will not be needed," she said to herself, with prophetic determination. she might have said with mildred: "i was so young. i loved him so. i had no mother. god forgot me, and i fell." as for pardon, agueda did not think of that. consciously she had committed no sin. not that she ever argued the matter out with herself. she would never have thought of continuing mildred's plaint, and saying, "there may be pardon yet," although she felt, if she did not give expression to the feeling in words, "all's doubt beyond. surely, the bitterness of death is past." there could be no "blot on the escutcheon" of agueda. she had no escutcheon, as had browning's heroine, though perhaps some drops of blood as proud coursed through her veins. she was not introspective. she did not reason nor argue with herself about beltran's treatment of her. it was only that suddenly the light had become darkness, the sun had grown black and cold. there was no more joy in life, everything had finished for her. truly, the bitterness of death was past. xx there came an evening when there were mutterings up among the hills. the lightning pranked gayly about the low-hanging clouds. occasionally a report among the far-distant peaks broke the phenomenal stillness. felisa lounged within the hammock which swung across the veranda corner. it was very dark, the only lights being those gratuitous ones displayed by the cucullas as they flew or walked about by twos or threes. at each succeeding flash of lightning felisa showed increased nervousness. her hand sought beltran's, and he took it in his and held it close. "see, felisa! i will get the guitar, and we will sing. we have not sung of late." felisa clasped her hands across her eyes and burst into tears. beltran was kneeling at her feet in an instant. "what is it, my heart? what is it? do not sob so." "i am afraid, afraid!" sobbed felisa. "all is so mysterious. there are queer noises in the ground! hear those hissing, rushing sounds! cousin! cousin! what is it?" "you are nervous, little one. we often have such storms in the mountains. it may not come this way at all. see, here is the guitar." he patted the small fingers lying within his own, then stretched out his hand for the guitar, hanging near. he swept his fingers across the strings. "what shall we sing?" he asked, with a smile in his voice. volatile as a child, believing that which she wished to believe, felisa sat upright at the first strain of music. she laughed, though the drops still stood upon her cheeks, and hummed the first line of "la verbena de la paloma." "i will be susana," she said, "and you shall be julian. come now, begin! 'y á los toros de carabanchel,'" she hummed. the faint light from the lantern hanging in the comidor showed to felisa the look in beltran's eyes as he bent toward her. "i do not like you, my little susana," he said, bending close to her shoulder, "because you flout me, and flirt with me, and break my poor heart all to little bits. still, we will sing together once more." "once more? why do you say once more, cousin?" asked felisa, apprehensively. a shadow had settled again over her face. "did i? i do not know. come now, begin." his voice was lowered almost to a whisper, as he sang the first lines of the seductive, monotonous little spanish air. the accompaniment thrilled softly from the well-tuned strings. "donde vas con mantón manila, donde vas con vestido chiné," he sang. her high soprano answered him: "a lucirme y á ver la verbena, y á meterme en la cama después." beltran resumed: "porqué no has venido conmigo cuando tanto te lo supliqué." "'lo sup--li--que,'" he repeated, with slow emphasis. felisa laughed, shook her head coquettishly, and answered as the song goes. then, "'quien es ese chico tan guapo,'" sang julian. "who is he, little felisa? is there any whom i need fear?" he dropped his hand from the strings, and seized the small one so near his own. "i know a great many young men, cousin, but i will not own that there is a guapo among them. and this i tell you now, that i shall go to la verbena with whom i will, if ever i return to sunny spain." "y a los toros de carabanchel," she sang again defiantly, her thin head-notes rising high and clear. was there no memory in beltran's mind for the contralto voice which had sung the song so often on that very spot--a voice so incomparably sweeter that he who had heard the one must wonder how beltran could tolerate the other. agueda was seated half-way down the veranda alone. she could not sit with them, nor did she wish to, nor was she accustomed to companionship with the serving class. she endeavoured to deafen her ears to the sound of their voices. she would have gone to her own room and closed the door, but it was nearer their seclusion than where she sat at present, and then--the air of the room was stifling on this sultry night. she glanced down toward the river, where the dark water rolled on through savannas to the great bay--a sea in itself. she could distinguish nothing; all was black in that blackest of nights. she dared not go forth, for she felt that the storm must soon burst. she sat, her head drooped dejectedly, her hands lying idly in her lap. uncle adan joined her, the lantern in his hand showing her dimly his short, dark form. the manager looked sourly at his niece, and cast an angry glance in the direction of the two at the corner of the casa. he had suddenly awakened to the fact that agueda's kingdom was slipping from her grasp, and if from hers, then from his also. should this northern señorita come to be mistress here at san isidro, what hold had he, or even agueda herself, over its master? he spoke almost roughly to agueda. "go you and join them," he said. "go where by right you belong." agueda did not look at him. she shook her head, and drooped it on her breast. a sudden flash of lightning made the place as bright as day. uncle adan caught a glimpse of that at the further corner which made him rage inwardly. "did you see that?" he whispered. "no," said agueda. "i see nothing." "i have no patience with you," said uncle adan. he could have shaken her, he was so angry. "had you remained with them, as is your right, some things would not have happened." he left her and went hurriedly toward the stables. presently he returned. agueda was aware of his presence only when he touched her. "the storm will be here before long," he said. "can you get him away without her? anything to be rid of those northern interlopers." "what do you mean?" "call him away, draw him off. tell him to come to the rancho--that i wish to see him about preparations as to their safety. get him away on any pretext. leave the others here with no one to--" "it is not necessarily a flood," said the girl, with a strange, new, wicked hope springing up within her heart. "it will be a flood," said uncle adan. "it is breaking even now at point galizza." for answer agueda arose. "good girl! you are going, then, to tell him--" "yes, to tell him--" "call him away! i will saddle the horses. i will have the grey at the back steps in five minutes. tell him that don silencio has need of him." "if the don silencio's own letter would not--" "the grey can carry double. you can ride with him. i will go ahead. the flood is coming. it is near. i know the signs." agueda drew away from the hand which uncle adan laid upon her wrist. "let me go, uncle," she said. uncle adan released her. "the flood will last but a day or two," he whispered in her ear, "but it will be a deep one. all the signs point to that. we have never had such a one; but after--agueda, after--there will be no one to interfere with you--with me, if--" agueda allowed him to push her on toward the end of the veranda, where the two were still singing in a desultory way. "i shall warn them," she said. "him!" said uncle adan, in a tone of dictation. "i shall warn them," again said agueda, as if she had not spoken before. "fool!" shouted uncle adan, as he dashed down the veranda steps and ran toward the stables. "and the forest answered 'fool!'" agueda heard hurrying footsteps from the inner side of the veranda. men were running toward the stables. she drew near to beltran. the faint light of the lantern in the comidor told her where the two forms still sat, though it showed her little else. she laid her hand upon his shoulder, but she laid it also upon a smaller, softer one than her own. the hand was suddenly withdrawn, as felisa gave an apprehensive little scream. "what do you want?" asked beltran impatiently, who felt the warring of two souls through those antagonistic fingers. "you must come at once," said agueda, with decision. "the storm will soon burst." "nonsense! we have had many sultry nights like this. where do you get your information?" "my uncle adan says that the storm will soon burst. he has gone to saddle the horses." felisa gave a cry of fear. beltran turned with rage upon agueda. a flash of lightning showed her the anger blazing in his eyes. it also disclosed to her gaze felisa cowering close to him. "how dare you come here frightening the child? your uncle has his reasons, doubtless, for what he says. as for me, i am perfectly convinced that there will be no storm--that is, no flood." "i beg of you, come!" urged agueda. "oh, cousin! what will become of us? why does that girl fear the storm so?" "there will be no storm, vida mia, and if there is, has not the casa stood these many years? agueda knows that as well as i." agueda withdrew a little, she stood irresolute. she heard the sound of horses' feet, she heard uncle adan calling to her. she heard don noé calling to eduardo juan to bring a light, and not be so damned long about it. old juana called, "'gueda, 'gueda, honey! come! deyse deat' in de air! 'gueda!" there was a sudden rush of hoofs across the potrero, and then the despairing wail from palandrez, "dey has stampeded!" she heard without hearing. she remembered afterward, during that last night that she was to inhabit the casa, that all these sounds had passed across almost unheeding ears. she ran again to don beltran. "come! come, beltran, dear beltran," she said. "the river is upon us!" she wrung her hands helplessly. it seemed to her as if beltran had lost his power of reasoning. "how dare she call you beltran?" said felisa. there came a crash which almost drowned the sound of her voice, then a scream from felisa, intense and shrill. agueda heard beltran's voice, first in anger, then soothing the terrified girl again, shouting for horses, and above it all, she heard the water topple over the embankment, and the swash of the waves against the foundations of the casa. she ran hurriedly and brought the lantern which hung within the comidor. when felisa opened her eyes, and looked around her at the waste of waters, she shrieked again. "how dare you bring that light? put it out!" ordered beltran. "we must see to get to the roof," answered agueda, with determination. "the roof! the water is not deep. see, felisa, it is only a foot deep. the grey can carry you and me with safety." "does not the señor know that the horses have stampeded?" said agueda. "our only hope of safety now lies upon the roof. we must get to the roof. see how the water is already getting deeper." and now, agueda, her listlessness gone, ran into the casa and seized upon what she knew was necessary for a night in the open air. beltran followed her into the hall. he laid his hand upon her shoulder, and shook her angrily. his judgment seemed to have deserted him. "why did you not warn us?" he said. "was it a part of your plan to--to--" "my plan!" said agueda. "have i not begged you? i could have gone--uncle adan told me--" beltran seized the lantern and ran out and along the veranda to where felisa stood clinging to the pilotijo. she was crying wildly. as beltran approached, the light of his lantern revealed to felisa more fully the horror of her surroundings. a fierce wind had arisen in a moment, and was beating and threshing the trees, flail-like, downward upon the encroaching river. felisa turned upon beltran in fury. she pointed with tragic earnestness to the waters which now surrounded the casa, and which had assumed the proportions of a lake. a thin stream was reaching, reaching over from the edge of the veranda; its searching point wetted her shoe. "you should have told me that such things happen in this barbarous place! you pretend to love me, and to keep me with you, you keep me ignorant of my danger, and now i must die. i must be drowned far away from my home in a savage land, all because you pretend that you love me! oh, god! i am so young to die! so young to die!" beltran enfolded the girl in his arms. "you shall not die. there is no danger of dying. we will go up on the roof. see! here are the steps. you will behold a wonderful sight to-night. you will laugh at your fears to-morrow." beltran urged her toward the ladder as he spoke. "agueda and i have spent more than one night up there, have we not, agueda? she will tell you that there is nothing to fear. agueda, tell my cousin that there is nothing to fear." "i did not know what there was to fear," said agueda in a low voice. felisa was crying bitterly, as beltran aided her up the lower steps of the ladder. agueda followed beltran and felisa. she carried some heavy wraps, and struggled up the steep incline unaided. arrived upon the roof, she found the cousins standing together, beltran's arm cast protectingly round the trembling girl, her eyes hid against his breast. "my cousin is nervous," said he, in a half apologetic tone; for though his intimacy with felisa had passed the highest water-mark, where cousinship ends and love begins, he had not obtruded his actions or words upon agueda's notice. but now as he felt the shaking of felisa's young form against his own, suddenly he seemed to throw off all reserve. "vida mia!" he said. "vida mia! look up, speak to me. do look. see that faint light in the east! the moon will soon rise. it is a beautiful sight. the water will go down in a few hours. you will laugh at your fears to-morrow, child. these floods do not last long, do they, agueda? when was the last one? do you remember, agueda?" "yes, i remember," answered agueda. "come, then, and tell her. you can comfort her if you tell her how little there is to fear." "i do not think that i shall comfort her," said agueda. she glanced at the refuge behind the chimney, and then back at beltran. "it was one long year ago," she said. he turned away. "come, felisa," he said. "there is shelter from this wind behind the old chiminea." he guided her along the slight slope of the roof. the wind was rising higher with every moment. it howled down from the hills; it bent and slashed at the treetops; it caught felisa's filmy gauzes and whirled them upward and about her head. beltran half turned to agueda. "give me the cloak," he said. he took it from her and enveloped felisa in it, then led her to the safe shelter of the broad old chimney. behind it was a figure upon his knees. it was don noé. he was praying with the fervour of the death-bed repenter. felisa, with a return of her flippant manner, laughed shrilly. "the truly pious are also unselfish, papa. give us a little shelter from this searching wind." "oh, do not! do not! if i move, i shall fall! you will push me off!" and don noé continued petitioning heaven in his own behalf. agueda was left standing in the centre of the roof. palandrez and eduardo juan, who had followed the señores to this their only refuge, were lying flat upon their faces. they held a lantern between them--a doubtful blessing, in that it illumined with faint ray the gloom and horror below, but it told so little that the possibility seemed more dreadful than the reality was at the moment. "lay down, seño'it' 'gueda," called eduardo juan. "lay yo' body down." a sudden gust of wind forced agueda to run. she guided herself to the chimney, and was held against it. her garments fluttered round its corners, striking beltran in the face with sharp slaps and cracks. she could not intrude upon that shelter. her place was now upon the hither side. she threw herself flat upon her face, as palandrez had suggested, her head above the ridge pole, her feet extended down the slight incline, and clutched at a staple in the roof, placed securely there for just such a night as this. there were no stars; there was no moon. yet it must rise soon. suddenly the lantern was overturned and its light extinguished, making more ominous the sound of water rising, rising, rising! it lapped and played about the pilotijos. it must be half-way up the veranda posts by now. it eddied round the corners of the casa. it forced its way through the weak places. one could hear it tearing and ripping at unstable portions of the house, as it flowed through the interior. grinding noises were heard, as great roots and trunks of trees were borne and swayed by the flood against the walls. they piled themselves up at the southern end, remaining thus for a short, unsteady moment, and then, overpowered by the rush and force of water, they parted company, some to hasten along on one side of the casa, and some on the other. xxi suddenly agueda was conscious of something creeping against her foot. it was cold! good god! it was wet! the sole of her shoe was soaked; the river had reached even there. she heard the licking of those hungry lips which were ready to drink in the helpless souls stranded at their mercy. this was indeed a sudden rising! then there was no hope. she wondered how long it would be before beltran would learn the fact, and what he would do when the truth came to him. she drew herself up by the iron staple and curled her body half way round the chimney. her ear touched the ruffles of felisa's gown. she heard a tender voice speaking much as it had to her a year ago. "come closer," it said. "do not fear. i am here." "beltran!" she called. "beltran!" "who calls me?" came his voice from out the blackness. "you, agueda?" "yes, it is i, agueda. the river is rising very high. it has come up quickly. i felt it against my foot. can you not try to catch some tree or branch?" "oh, god! oh, god! save me!" it was felisa's voice. "why did i ever come to this accursed island? why, oh, why? how dared you tell me that i was safe! safe with you? oh, my god! safe with you! are you greater than god? if he cannot save me, can you?" as felisa shrieked these words, which were almost drowned by the sound of the swiftly rushing waters, she raised her small fist and struck at beltran. the jewels on her fingers cut his lip. his musical voice, patient and still tender, answered as if to a naughty child. "careful! you will throw yourself off! agueda, why must you come here frightening my cousin? when the moon rises she will see the falseness of your story." as if to convict him out of his own mouth, the moon suddenly shone through a rift in the black clouds which edged the horizon. it discovered to agueda felisa clasped to a resting-place that was her own by right. it showed her beltran holding the little form in his arms, as once he had held her own. it showed her beltran covering the blonde head with passionate kisses, as once he had covered her darker one. agueda clutched the chimney for support. death was no worse than this. felisa opened her trembling lids and gazed abroad on the expanse of waters. wail after wail issued from her white lips and mingled with the wind that blew wantonly the tendrils of her hair. she struck beltran in the face again, she pushed him from her with the fury of a maniac. great trees and branches were pounding against the roof. the peons had climbed to the highest point, and now, as a trunk came tearing down toward them, with a pitying glance at those they left behind, and a chuckle at their own presence of mind, they caught at it, and were whirled away to death or to succour. don noé, ever on the watch, with face thin and fierce, with nostrils extended and eyes wild and staring, peered round the chimney where he hung in prayerful terror. his resolution was made in one of those sudden moments of decision that come to the weakest. watching his chance, he sprang and clutched at the giant as it came bobbing and wobbling by, and in company with palandrez and eduardo juan, he floated away from his late companions. agueda, left alone upon her side of the roof, crouched, looking ever toward the south, searching for a cask, a boat, a tree, a plank, a piece of household furniture, anything by which she might hold and save her life and beltran's. not felisa's; that she could not do, even though beltran loved her. until now agueda had thought that she longed for death; but the instinct of self-preservation is strong, and she could hardly comprehend her newly awakened desire to seize upon some sort of floating thing which might mean safety for herself. she stood gazing over the broad expanse of water. it had become a sea. the face of nature was changed. the position of the river bank was discernible only from the waving line of branches which testified where their trunks stood. there were one or two oases whose tops showed still above the surface of the stretching, reaching flood. agueda thought that she could discern some one in a treetop near the hill rancho. she wondered if it could be uncle adan. she thought that she heard a shout. she tried to answer, but the weak sound of her voice was forced back into her throat. it would not carry against the force of the wind. no other land nearer than the heights of palmacristi was to be seen. the horses and cattle must have perished. it had indeed become, as uncle adan had warned her, a greater flood than the country had ever known. to add to the unspeakable gloom of the scene, the clouds parted wider and allowed the moon to sparkle more fully upon the boiling water below and the trees and branches as they rolled and hastened onward. as agueda stood and gazed up the stream, suddenly, from out the perspective of the moon-flecked tide, a little craft came sailing down--a tiny thing that seemed to have been set upon the waste of waters by some pitying hand. she watched it with eager eyes, as it floated onward. her body swayed unconsciously with each change in its course or pointing of its bow to right, to left, as if she feared that it would escape her anxious hand. fate drifted it exactly across the thatch at the south end of the roof. on it came, and was driven to her very feet. here was succour! here was help! she could save herself, unwatched, unknown, of those others behind the shelter there, and float away to the chance of rescue. agueda stepped ankle-deep in the water, and stooping, held in frenzied clutch this gift of the gods. "the little duck boat of felipe," she exclaimed, as she drew it toward her. "the little duck boat of felipe!" beltran had arisen as he heard the boat grate against the roof. he stepped cautiously out from behind the chimney, felisa leaning upon him. agueda raised her eyes to them. she shook as if with a chill. she was drawing the boat nearer, and battling with the flood to keep her treasure in hand. "agueda," called beltran. "take her with you. her weight is slight." felisa raised her head from his shoulder, and cast a terrified look about her. beltran looked at agueda, and then down at felisa. "she will save you," he said. "i will not go without you, beltran," sobbed felisa. "i dare not go without you. oh! come with me! that girl of yours, that agueda, i dare not go with her! she hates me! she will kill me!" when beltran had said, "she will save you," agueda had begun to draw the skiff nearer to him. she moved with great care, that the flood might not wrench from her this treasure trove. "it is true that i hate you," said agueda, in a hard, cold voice, as she brought the boat to felisa's feet, "but i will not kill you." she pushed the tiny craft nearer to felisa. "take your place," said she. "i will hold it steady." "i will not go without you," again shrieked felisa, turning to beltran. "i dare not go without you. oh, agueda! dear agueda! you do not care to live. what have you to live for? while i--" "true," said agueda. "will the señorita take her place?" felisa still held to beltran's hand. "i will not go alone," she said. "come with me, dear love! come with me; i cannot live without you." "there is not room for all," said beltran, glancing, as he spoke, at agueda. "at least, felisa, we can die together." ever changeable, and suddenly angered at this, felisa again struck at beltran, and tried with her small strength to thrust him aside, so that his footing was imperilled. agueda turned pale as she saw his danger. beltran laughed nervously, and seized with firmer grasp the staple buried in the mortar. "and do you think that will compensate me?" screamed felisa. "do you think that i shall welcome death because i may die in your company? i tell you, i will not die. i love all the pleasant things of life--i love myself, my pretty self. i am meant for life and love and warmth, not cold and death. there is not a human being who could reconcile me to death. oh, my god! and such a death!" felisa screamed hysterically. she sobbed and choked, and amid her shrieks were heard the disjointed words, "i--will--_not_--die!" in her frenzy the fastening at her throat gave way, and agueda caught sight of the diamond pendant at her neck. agueda, with her eyes on beltran, nodded her head toward the boat, as if to say, "do as she asks." when she spoke, she said: "i will hold it steady, as steady as i can." felisa cast another horrified look around her upon the moonlit, shoreless sea. "oh, god!" she sobbed, as holding frantically to beltran's hand, she stepped into the boat. she drew him toward her, so that he could with difficulty resist the impelling of her hand. beltran tried to release his fingers from the grasp of felisa. he turned to agueda, and motioned toward the one hope of succour. she shook her head. "i cannot hold it long," she said. "beltran! beltran!" sobbed felisa. the boat pulled and jerked like a race horse. even felisa's slight weight made a marked difference in its buoyancy. agueda's position was made the more unstable by her skirt, which fluttered in the wind. "i can hold it but a second more," she said. she was still stooping, holding the boat in as firm a grasp as her footing would allow. beltran stood irresolute, wavering. "i cannot leave you here, agueda, to die perhaps--for--her--for me." "i died long weeks ago," she muttered, more to herself than to him, and motioned again with her head toward the boat. the water was rushing past them. it was ankle-deep now. agueda steadied herself more firmly against the chimney. felisa, shivering with fright, stretched out her arms appealingly to beltran, her cheeks streaming with tears. beltran glanced at agueda, with a look that was half beseeching, half apologetic, as if to forestall the contempt which he knew that she must feel for him, and--stepped into the boat. his weight tore it from agueda's grasp. it began to float away, but before it had passed a span from where agueda stood alone, he turned and shouted, "come! agueda, come! throw yourself in, i can save you!" ah! that was all that she cared to hear. it was the old voice. it sank into her heart and gave her peace. for in that flash of sudden and overwhelming remorse which is stronger than death, beltran had seen that which he had not noticed before, the sad change in her girlish figure. felisa clung to him, threatening to upset the skiff. he thrust her from him. "come!" again he shouted, "come!" he stretched out his arms to agueda, but as the words left his lips he was whirled from her presence. in that supreme moment beltran caught the motion of her lips. "my love!" they seemed to say, and still holding to the staple with one hand, she raised the other toward him, in good-by perhaps--perhaps in blessing. agueda kept her gaze fixed upon the little speck, shrinking involuntarily when she saw some great trunk endanger its buoyancy. the boat was drifting swiftly along in the waters now, and in that mad rush to the sea beltran strained his eyes ever backward to catch the faint motion of that fluttering garment in its wave of farewell. printed by r. r. donnelley and sons company at the lakeside press, chicago, ill.